Jagged Fang's Way; Spinerippa Hill [Location/Home]

[Jhagor Spinerippa]

The grunt pads on Jagged Fang Way bent on a dark path; hungry fangs and tombstone eyes searching every face for a strangers scent, prowling on the passerby. Three rough clans dominated this spot, knee-capping and hard-necking the trenches with a scatter of low-end throat-slitters running havoc under the wings of this neighborhood. Most of the shanty homes were thatched or piled together in quickshift stone crops. Burning barrels, the smell of cooked meat-- dog, rat, livestock, hobbit, man, another orc-- whatever it took to get fed, abandoned wagons, unseen perimeters, with hidden crossbows and secret knives. Home was just up the hill.
Tangled up in a network of stone corridoors and overgrown mountain timber, where roots grew thick like kraken legs, a cluster of thatched huts circling a stone two story hive-shaped stronghold dotted the foothills. Two small farms and a worthog ranch supported the community. Most of the huts had that splash of red and black paint haphazardly smeared on their homes, representing the banner of a punctured fist closed around an skull and spine, hung on a lazy flag from the stronghold turret; Spinerippa crew. Orcs tight like a fist, only rushing with motherfethers willing to kill for clan, never hesitant. No option in this warlord nation.

One of the low huts dripped off to the bottom of the hillside, where an overlook from some rocky ledge afforded the beast called Jhagor some elbow space; a brother of the Spinerippa clan, young and inexperienced, but already like a fire: to be treated with distance and respect. His domicile is carved like a mine shaft, and timber frames the entrance and patio; an awning made from thatch and debris, with a stone corridoor that dips down into the face of that rock ledge. In dark mountains cold stone and pitch-black, running fathoms deep, wrap a home in the abyss. The stench of meat, some decay, straw, old ale and sweat linger on damp air. Water trickles in the back, branching the first cavern alcove with a rushing stream. Khardran swallows the home, where networks of caves sprawl all over, leading to Orcus knows where. Always sleeping with an axe, ready for unexpected vistors to pass through his niche of the mountain.
One burlap sack, some straw bundles, pack and travel gear, and weapons: an essential household ensemble for Orckon folk. Oh, and one chest that appears dismally empty. Home sweet fething home is never to be taken lightly.