The Gray Bear Exodus

[cmosier]

An old orc woman looks down at the four assembled before her. She assesses each member before turning around and taking a seat on the cold earth.

“I have seen the path. The White Crow flies west, and so shall the Gray Bear follow. I have seen a land abundant with rain and fertile soil. The peoples there are hostile to our kind, more so than the Harthgroth as of late. The Drellnoth will not have an easy time, but we go as settlers, not conquerors.”

The four who stood by, waiting for the Spirit Mother to stop speaking before adding their own words.

“Regardless, what you’re suggesting, with respect Spirit Mother, is madness. You are sending a boy, one whose main charge has been keeping our horses healthy. He has seen little battle.”

The Spirit Mother shakes her head without turning around.

“You doubt your own flesh, Kinsh? Your son is a capable healer and knows the creatures of the earth and the plants that grown in her well. The Spirits of the Land shall guide Durusk well. He isn’t going alone. Two will accompany him.”

“Yes, neither are warriors! You send one of Scout Commander Drokk’s wind worshipers. At least he knows how to fire a bow; I’ve no idea why you send one of the Guardian’s hermits.”

“Your concern is noted, and shall not go unheard, Kinsh. We will send warriors and berserkers shortly after they arrive. Their main purpose is to gather information not to further the Lord of Battles’ cause; though his axe is in everything it seems. My faith is with the Spirits of the Land. I ask you at least have faith in me.”

Kinish bows his head.

“It will be as you say, Spirit Mother. I ask that I give him a gift, one of the horsemen’s blades. I believe the druids of the Earth Spirits are allowed to use such. The Lord of Battles is fickle and I worry for my son’s safety”

The old orc nods her head.

“Very well, the rest they gather on their journey. Does the council find this fair?”

“Aye.”

“Aye.”

“Aye.”

“Aye.”

A sigh of relief escapes the Spirit Mother’s lips.

“Very well. May the Spirits of the Land guide them to safety, and the Lord of Battles prevail when safety hides itself.”

[gbbishop]

“So the Spirit Mother wants me to go trapsin’ off into… Phah! The spirits don’t even know where! Phah!” The old hermit grumbled aloud with none but himself to listen. Over his considerable time on the earth the hermit had acquired many names. It suited him just fine it gave him some one to talk to.

“So where we going Gruk?” Ol’Gru said in a mock serious voice.

“Well Gru, gunna find ‘the lands of the rains’ and some such.” Holding his hand up in quote like gesture and talking in as shrill a voice as the grizzled old orc could manage. “Phah!”

Ol’Gru Gruk huffed a heavy exhale. Though he thought little of the Spirit Mums decision to send him, he could read the signs and see the omens and it would be disastrous to deny the Mums request. All this of course would not stop Gruk complaining. For that would happen only in the event the Gru no longer drew air into his lungs.

[Illway]

The Outcast and the Hog

The red haze faded from behind the burly orc's eyes, which then widened slightly in recognition. He stared steadily at the orc crouched on the ground in front of him, listening to his opponent's labored breath and noting the rattle in his own. A cloud of steam rose from them and from the fresh blood on the ground, vanishing a moment later in cold night air.

Threshblade lowered the blade of his scythe to the ground and leaned heavily on it. The haft was slick with his opponent's blood.

"Well met, outcast." The crouching orc, who had had his eyes keenly fixed on Threshblade, dropped his head momentarily and let out a puff of air. The archer set down a sturdy horn bow and stood shakily. His right arm twitched uselessly at his side, and his hide armor was stained black by the steady flow of blood from his shoulder. He felt lucky that Threshblade had not connected properly, and the scythe had only bit through his collarbone. He had seen it do much worse.

"Well met, Hog" he said, and gripped the stout orc's forearm in greeting. "Careful now," he cautioned, "somebody shot you." Threshblade looked down recognized the signature fire-blackened shafts sticking into the thick plating of his armor.

"Hmph. They used your arrows," said Threshblade. He was surprised he hadn't noticed the arrows earlier; they were each as long as his arm and thick as saplings. One pierced straight through his upper arm, one was lodged into the bone above his knee, and two more protruded from his chest. With a grunt, he dragged off his helmet and put more of his weight on his scythe as the pain finally washed over him.

"We need to move, Goretusk," he said. "We need a healer, and the next patrol comes across you..."

Threshblade let the sentence go unfinished. He quickly snapped off the hafts of the three embedded arrows, gritted his teeth, and pulled the fourth out of the back of his arm. Goretusk nodded in agreement and retrieved his bow, and the two began picking their way across the rugged hilltops.

For some time, the only sounds were the crunch of loose stone under their feet and the soft patting of dripping blood, punctuated occasionally by the caw of crows. Despite their injuries, the walk was easy for the two. They had walked these hills many times, and Goretusk was glad to be back in the lands of his youth. After several hours, Threshblade slowed and half-turned towards his wounded friend.

"Why are you in our lands, outcast? You aren't a Blood Fist anymore." Goretusk slowed to a stop and looked pointedly at Threshblade.

"I came for you, Hog."

Threshblade stopped as well and turned fully around, gripping his scythe. He said nothing.

"The Drellnoth are sending me west. The Spirit Mother believes our time in this land has come to an end. She wishes to find richer soil to settle."

"I thought your ... people ... did not conquer," Threshblade scoffed.

"You thought right," Goretusk sighed, somewhat wearily. Threshblade spit on the ground. "We go not as conquerors, we go as travellers." The two allowed the silence to rest for a time.

"You never should have left, Goretusk," Threshblade finally said, "You do not belong with them." He stared determinedly at his feet and clenched his hands on his scythe. Goretusk sighed again and smiled.

"One day you will fall in love, Threshblade the Hog," said Goretusk. "Then, perhaps, you will understand."

Overhead, the stars had begun to fade. On the horizon beyond the wooded hills, the unforgiving black of night had relaxed into a gentle blue. Morning was approaching.

"Hog, the Drellnoth want me to travel across the world with a child and an old man, to set up an outpost. These people have deep wisdom and can tap into forces that I will never understand, and I believe them when they say this land will not be the home of orcs for long. I can lead these two safely across the mountains to the land they seek, but the Drellnoth do not know the ways of conquest, Hog. They do not know battle, they do not know violence. Not like the Blood Fists know it. Not like you know it. They believe a tribe of orcs can move into a new land and be greeted peacefully, and I fear for them if they are wrong. No, Hog, to succeed, we need your thresher." Goretusk looked around, somewhat uncomfortably. He was not used to pleading.

"Without it, our best hope can be no more than survival."

Threshblade swept his scythe idly in one hand and beheaded a nearby thistle. Goretooth had mentioned nothing of pay, had made no offers of gold or goods or women. He had mentioned only conquest, battle, and violence. That was his offer - come with me, and conquer. Come, and forge a new clan. Escape the petty infighting of this backward corner of the world, and taste what true war is. It was the only offer he had made, and it was the only one that Threshblade would have accepted.

That night, their wounds were well tended to. The Blood Fist Clan had skilled healers; they were a violent people. As was the custom of the Blood Fists, once Goretusk had been fed and his wounds mended, he was ignored. If he had merely left the clan to go on his own, he could have bought his way back in with riches, soldiers, or slaves. But he had left to join another clan, and for that he was exiled and shunned. As the sun began to rise, Threshblade told the Clan Chieftan of his plans.

They left the next evening, while it was still light out and the rest of the tribe had not yet woken for the night. As Threshblade followed Goretusk towards the dying sun, he realized with a grim satisfaction that only death or glory would reunite him with his tribesmen. Whichever would find him, the thought, he was eager to meet it.

[Illway]

The Outcast and the Hog, part I

The red haze faded from behind the burly orc's eyes, which then widened slightly in recognition. He stared steadily at the orc crouched on the sloping ground in front of him, listening to his opponent's labored breath and noting a rattle in his own. A cloud of steam rose from them and from the fresh blood on the ground, vanishing a moment later in cold night air.

Threshblade lowered the blade of his scythe to the ground and leaned heavily on it. The haft was slick with his opponent's blood.

"Well met, outcast." The crouching orc, who had had his eyes keenly fixed on Threshblade, dropped his head momentarily and let out a puff of air. The archer set down a sturdy horn bow and stood shakily. His right arm twitched uselessly at his side, and his hide armor was stained black by a steady flow of blood from his shoulder. He felt lucky that Threshblade had not connected properly, and the scythe had only bit through his collarbone. He had seen it do much worse.

"Well met, Hog" he said, and gripped the stout orc's forearm with his good hand in greeting. "Careful now," he cautioned, "somebody shot you." Threshblade looked down recognized the signature fire-blackened shafts sticking into the thick plating of his armor.

"Hmph," he grunted, "And they used your arrows."

[Illway]

The Outcast and the Hog, part II

Threshblade was surprised he hadn't noticed the arrows earlier; they were each as long as his arm and thick as saplings. One was pierced straight through his upper arm, one was lodged into the bone above his kneecap, and two more protruded from his chest. With a grunt, he dragged off his masked helmet and leaned more heavily on his scythe as the pain finally washed over him.

"We need to move, Goretusk," he said. "We need a healer, and if the next patrol happens to see you..."

Threshblade let the sentiment go unfinished. With thick hands, he quickly snapped off the hafts of the three embedded arrows, gritted his teeth, and pulled the fourth out of the back of his arm. Goretusk nodded in agreement and retrieved his bow. Threshblade donned his helm again as the two began picking their way across the rugged hilltops.

For some time, the only sounds were the crunch of loose stone under their feet and the soft patting of dripping blood, punctuated occasionally by the caw of a crow that seemed to be following them. Despite their injuries, the walk was easy for the two. They had walked these hills many times before, and Goretusk was glad to be back in the lands of his youth. After several hours, Threshblade slowed and half-turned towards his wounded friend.

"Why are you in our lands, outcast? You aren't a Blood Fist anymore." Goretusk slowed to a stop and looked pointedly at Threshblade.

"I came for you, Hog."

Threshblade stopped as well and turned fully around, gripping his scythe. He said nothing.

[Illway]

The Outcast and the Hog, part III

"The Drellnoth are sending me west. The Spirit Mother believes our time in this land has come to an end. She wishes to find richer soil to settle."

"I thought your ... people ... did not conquer," Threshblade scoffed.

"You thought right," Goretusk sighed, somewhat wearily. Threshblade spit on the ground. "We go not as conquerors, we go as travellers." The two allowed the silence to rest for a time.

"You never should have left, Goretusk," Threshblade finally said. "You do not belong with them." He stared determinedly at his feet and clenched his hands on his scythe. Goretusk sighed again and smiled.

"One day you will fall in love, Threshblade the Hog," said Goretusk. "Then, perhaps, you will understand."

Overhead, the stars had begun to fade. On the horizon beyond the wooded hills, the unforgiving black of night had relaxed into a gentle blue. Morning was approaching.

"Hog, the Drellnoth want me to travel across the world with a child and an old man, to set up an outpost. These people have deep wisdom and can tap into forces that I will never understand, and I believe them when they say this land will not be the home of orcs for long. I can lead these two safely across the mountains to the land they seek, but the Drellnoth do not know the ways of conquest, Hog. They do not know battle, they do not know violence. Not like the Blood Fists know it. Not like you know it. They believe a tribe of orcs can move into a new land and be greeted peacefully, and I fear for them if they are wrong. No, Hog, to succeed, we need your thresher." Goretusk looked around, agitated. He was not used to pleading.

"Without it, our best hope can be no more than survival."

[Illway]

The Outcast and the Hog, part IV

Threshblade swept his scythe idly in one hand and beheaded a nearby thistle. Goretooth had mentioned nothing of paying him, had made no offers of gold or goods or women. He had mentioned only conquest, battle, and violence. That was his offer - come with me, and conquer. Come, and forge a new clan. Escape the petty infighting of this backward corner of the world, and taste what true war is. It was the only offer he had made, and it was the only one that Threshblade would have accepted.

That night, their wounds were well tended to. The Blood Fist Clan had skilled healers; they were a violent people. As was the custom of the Blood Fists, once Goretusk had been fed and his wounds mended, he was ignored. If he had merely left the clan to go his own way, he could have bought back the good graces of the tribe with riches, soldiers, or slaves. But he left to join another clan, a grievous insult to the tribe of his ancestors, and one for which he had been exiled and shunned.

As the sun began to rise, Threshblade told his Clan Chieftan of his journey. The next evening, while it was still light out and the rest of the tribe had not yet woken for the night, Threshblade followed Goretusk out of his ancestral lands and headed towards the dying sun. He realized with a grim satisfaction that only death or glory would reunite him with his tribesmen, and he was eager to meet it.