"By Grabthar's Hammer" (Open to Orcs)

[Kaelon]

In the early weeks of Winter in the Fifteenth Year after the Aetherfracture, the Orckish Hordes had executed a retalliatory incursion into Western Sherian, punishing the ambitious adventurers who had undertaken punitive expeditions into traditionally Orckish lands. Following a general mobilization of forces and supplies in the Autumn, the First Days of Winter witnessed a conflagration of skirmishes that threatened to engulf the entire Empire in war. Forces from as far away as Arakmat had already been sent en route to bolster the Imperial Legions, who were holding their positions along the Central Corridor of the Sherian. And as the Orcs began to entrench outside of ruined city of Narim and in the wilderness outside of the hamlet of Hiems, inhabitants of the province began a general evacuation and migration to the East and the North, towards Taralon and Prime, beyond the warzone.

And yet, there was a deep sense of anxiety among the Orcs, who had never occupied territory and who had only moved into lands for tactical advances; for the Orcs, their culture was paramount to any snivveling political or brutishly military concerns. Perhaps it was fitting that the first grumblings threatening the unity of the Orckon Murtag, the supreme Plague which bound together the Hordes, came to a front on the evening of the Sixth Night of the Incursion. Arguments could be heard in the encampments outside of Hiems, in the foothills of the mountainside, within the ruins, and they all had the same tenor.

Where were the legions? Why were the Shatauz of one of the major Ushtar embarking on pillaging and sacking raids, rather than stay united with the Murtag? Had the Imperials fled, or were they merely regrouping for a more desperate response? Where was the Honor in fighting for land that the Orcs had no claim or right to? As the Shamans attempted to scry to the Earth Spirits, seeking upon the guidance of the land to inspire the Orckish Plague, a general unsettling of tension and nausea brushed over the Orckish camps, and as they fell asleep on the Sixth Night, many of the Orcs experienced a disturbing dream.

Flashes of Light. Terrible Stazi in the Skies, Wooden Birds with Tarbam. The Mudbrick Mounds of Ire, Heart of Orckon, abandoned and neglected by the Bolgs and Warriors who followed them out of their sanctuary and into the lands of the soft-skins. The Flowering Tree of Orckon, outside the Caves of the Shamans, was withering and then on Fire. The Great Hall of the Orcs was reduced to rubble. And a terrible plague of death and despair overtaking the city. Bones, Humans and Orcs, conjoined and melding together, suddenly animated and walking; an Army of Undead born from Cauldrons. Darkness. Death.

As Orcs would awaken from this nightmare, safe and sound in their warcamps, some would begin to rock and moan, others would weep and shudder; they were all weak, and would have perished anyways in the conflict. The strong, those who led the Horde, they grew concerned, defiant, dismissive. They knew then and there that their Culture was somehow threatened -- by this incursion, by this war, or perhaps by time itself -- and that Ire, Heart of Orckon, and the seat of Orckish Civilization was at risk. The preoccupation gripped the encampment outside of Hiems particularly fiercely, and the advancement would have come to a complete halt on the Sixth Day of battle. It was almost so extreme, that many Orcs did not even notice the approach of unexpected visitors.

They walked into the camp slowly, approaching the perimeter passively and deliberately. Three of them, all of them wearing armor, but only two of them seemingly soldiers, their golden greaves and shining pauldrons matching their sparkling breastplates and long kite-shields; the one in between them wore ornate robes marked with runes. Their distinctive, long feathered wings were unsettling to Orcs, though Shamans and Leaders suspected them to either be Sky Elves or Fae-Folk. A tremendous sense of bewilderment set over the camp -- Why were they here? What did they want? Did these strange foreigners have anything to do with the horrible nightmares that afflicted the Hordes? When the robed woman spoke, her voice was authoritative but filled with a deep ferocity that inspired submission and obedience, a powerful strength to be heeded and feared.

"We will speak to whoever is in charge here," she said. "We are here to deliver a message and an offer. We speak for the Covenant of Sky and Land, for the Realm, and the Kingdom of Aelyria." As none of the elders immediately stepped forward, it was clear that some Orcs, somewhere, had to step forth to speak for the Murtag, or at least their own interested Ushtar. These visitors... they meant business.

[Grik Doomhammer]

The last cycle had been a blur to the dark skinned orc. He had been taken in by the banners of war that flew over the stronghold of Orckon. There he made himself part of the horde of orcs who would seek revenge against the puny soft skins. He had trained his muscles, learned the weapons for his rank, and most of all he had tempered his boiling blood. The training had taught him to use his training with the anger that rushed through him. To be more than a berserker to be a true honorable warrior for his people.

He had already earned several gifts for his work and dedication. Though they were but small tokens to most of Telath, for him they were badges of honor. From the mount he received as a Rog for the Shatroful Onreinn, to the various orc forged weapons that lay beside him. To him they were tokens that would be used to slay the true beasts of Sherin, the lying humans and their metal clad warriors. With them he would grow as a warrior and be forged into a leader that his people would need. His group was allowed rest at mid brightening, and under an aged tree he leaned drifting in and out of sleep.

Then there was the dream. The darkening scare that woke him a final time, sitting straight up from a true fear. Was it an omen, was it some trickery from the human mages? The young orc did not know. It was worse than the dreams he had as a small whelp of where his mother's group was raided by huge marauding orc warriors and their ogre companions. Those kept him from sleeping for weak and what lead him to pick up his first axe to protect himself.

This scare was something more, for now he was a true Orc. He had traveled more than an era with a large mob, and had long made his first raid and with it kill. Though not yet a seasoned warrior that is what he long for and why followed his leaders. But he was far from the home of Orckon, and to him it seemed as if that home was in need of him. Of all of the orcs that were gathered with him, and spread out through the country side. He stood and strapped back on his sturdy dwarven battle axe, and left his shield and spear with his mount. He needed to walk and clear his head from the terrors that still lingered.

Other orcs seemed dazed and affected from something similar as well. He walked by the weak as they rocked themselves like they were whelps that coddled with their mothers. They should be ashamed acting like that. Lost in thought once more he continued through the bodies, and past those who stood as dazed as he felt. There was something wrong, something more than just a simple darkening terror. As he walked he felt something new sweep over the camp and further he moved towards it. There was a slight murmur, a whisper in the most orcish sense that drew him from his own reverie and to the origin of the commotion.

The large orc known as Grik Doomhammer soon moved past the quite words that spoke of Sky Elves and Fae-Folk. What would creatures like that want from the strong warriors that were orcs. He stood tall and was surprised by what he saw. The creatures were majestic, they were armed as if sent by the gods. Girk felt like he was witnessing something that few orcs had ever seen, and in that awe he felt he knew few would ever witness in the future. Truthfully Grik was a simple Lughorn Ushtar, preparing to become Sapat. To be a true warrior in the eyes of his Gothmog Ushtar. When he heard the female speak he was struck, by the strength and power that she held with just words and her presence. That was what Grik longed for.

But his time was not yet called upon. He had to serve and work his way through the ranks. To crush the weak, orcs and humans, to become the Boss of his own group. His dark black eyes stared at the trio, he did not allow himself to be struck dumb but squared his shoulders as much he could with his slouched orcish frame. He wanted to see how his leaders stood before these bird people of Aelyria.

[Kaelon]

After waiting for what appeared to be an interminable period of time, an uncomfortable silence fell over the Orckish camp. The female Aelyrian spoke once again, this time raising an eyebrow in disbelief. "Are we to understand there is no one here at all who speaks for your people?" The Aelyrian Woman shrugged, her emerald eyes shimmering against her bronzed blonde hair. "We ask again, who will speak for Orckishkind, and who will receive our message and offer?" Her patience was growing thin.

[Kaelon]

After no response had come for a seemingly endless passage of time, the Aelyrian Woman frowned, and turning to the guard on her right, she muttered a phrase that the Orcs, while hearing it, could not understand their meaning. "Stultes!" The Woman produced from her cloaked tunic a simple scroll, and unfurled it in front of the camp. When she spoke next, her voice seemed to echo and radiate with extreme power and authority, but also a hint of frustration.

"This Land belongs to the People of Aelyria," she said, with commanding presence. "And the Orcs are in abrogation of the Treaty of Concordance executed between Her Imperial Majesty Empress Alyssa Chrysinaria and Horde Chieftain Grabthar of the Fifth Clan. Pursuant to Title Four, Article Three of the Treaty, we are hereby terminating your territorial autonomy. You have one skyphase -- three of your candlemarks -- to withdraw from Orckon and prepare for ... mediation."

The Aelyrian was furious in her tone, and her voice rippled across the Sherian countryside. She would have hoped to speak with an Orckish leader, but in the absence of their command, she knew she had no choice but to warn the entire Orckish Army that had gathered. Turning to the other guard on her left, she muttered once again in her language, and then placing a hand over her broach cloak-clasp, the three Aelyrians dematerialized in a stream of blue sparkling light. A sharp wind could be felt overhead above the Orckish Encampment, leaving the bewildered orcs to ponder the meaning of this outburst.