Helga Great-Wyrm, Fire in the Dark

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(( These are the various thoughts and musings of Helga. None are written down due to her illiteracy, so this is more of a set of her thoughts than anything else. Any crits or comments welcomed, PM me. Even if they're insulting. I have thick skin, go nuts.))



History

In the merciless northern mountains, little takes priority over survival. Food is scarce, threat is high, and resources are low. The barbarian tribes of Uthgar and their ancestral enemies, the orcs, devote all their spare resources to fighting each other. The Great Wyrm, despite being champions of Good in the Uthgar, are no exception. However, a crueller evil than the brutishness of the orcs exists.

Thayans came to the mountains, bringing with them their magic and their power, enslaving the orcs and humans they took for cruel experiments and labour. The savageness of the Uthgar and orcs was a challenge, but divided they would fall. The cunning mages would create three-way battles, in which their victory would be guaranteed as both orc and Uthgar would be attempting to kill both the slavers and their ancestral foe.

A few days into the brutal attacks by the Thayan forces, a small group of Uthgar would walk to the orc camp, and enter, without their weapons.

A fragile alliance would be formed between enemies against this new evil that threatened the lives of both. That night, priests gathered in their temples, wrapped in prayer to their Gods and ancestors.

The next day, the weathers grew worse. A fierce blizzard would scour the mountains, groups of Thayans having to devote spells not to their own defense, but to protect themselves against an elemental force the orcs and Uthgardt had lived with for their entire lives.

At the break of dawn, wardrums thundered across the mountain ranges. The greatest shamans of both race bought an avalanche against the camp as both orc and human charged down the slopes towards the resting Thayans. The Thayans mounted a strong resistance, but they were expecting a fight against forces that would battle themselves. What they found was the denizens of the mountains, united against them in a desperate fight for everything they had.

Many warriors would fall to the magics, but the hordes of orc and man would continue to pour in. After the protective abjurations were torn down by the combined forces of shamanic magics, warriors would pour into the camp. As each Thayan was struck with the crude weapons of the Uthgar, their own last-resort protective spells would spark into life, tearing them away from their mountains and back to the closest Enclave, far at the foot of the mountains.

Eventually, the last of the Thayans was struck, vanishing in a flash of teleportation magic. The mountains had been taken back, for the time being. The dead warriors were taken, buried alongside each other, and a mass festival held in the honour of their sacrifice. The power of the victory was such that the orcs and humans would, for the while, be allies.

After some time, a neutral camp was founded, next to the burial sites of both orc and Uthgar, who had died side-by-side. Humans and orc would work together, even the parties who resisted and were disguisted by the ancestral war being ended, in the name of the honoured fallen.

It wouldn't be long until an Uthgar and an orc, would fall in love. Two hunters and skinners, the Uthgar man and the Orcish woman. At first, meeting at hunting grounds. Then, by the fire at the neutral camp, to dry and treat the skins. Then eventually, in each others tents.

Around a year after the war against the Thayans, the halfblood would be born. Though the sanctity of the neutral camp would be respected, neither the Uthgar camp, nor the Orcish caves would be safe for the child. In the time since the battle, alliances were getting forgotten, the great moment of victory having become lost to the ages. Those who despised their enemy were returning, on each side.

The halfblood would remain in the neutral camp. By her father, she was given her first name. Helga, of the Great Wyrm tribe. Her mother imparted the orcish name of Fire in the Dark, a name that spoke of both hope and safety, but also of the way her life was to be: Alone.

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Character Profiles


Father: Hertan Great-Wyrm

An Uthgardt hunter seen somewhat as a sign of a bloodline growing weak, giving those who disliked the alliance all the more reason to despise his actions. Hertan was the great-grandson of Draget, a hero amongst his people. Legends were told of Draget, Wyrmtouched hero of the mountains, by both orc tribes who feared his name, and the Uthgardt who revered him as a champion. They told of a man descended from the Great Wyrm itself, whose immovable dedication to Uthgar and the Great Wyrms ways led the beast God itself to grant him it's draconic powers. Of a man whose skin itself was toughened to the rigid toughness of scales, whose strength was such that he could tear rocks from the very mountains and throw them against oncoming orcs, and who could invoke the breath of the dragon itself.

By comparison, Hertan was a simple hunter. Rarely even encountering orcish enemies before the alliance, his life was mainly filled by hunting rothe and crafting their hides into leathers for the warriors, some of whom deemed his actions womans work, and a pathetic shame upon his ancestor.

Despite his meagre ability in combat, Hertan would teach Helga best he could, to fight, to be strong, and to follow the Great Wyrm. In a way, he hoped she could be the hero he never was. But in his heart, he also knew that without the power to defend herself, she wouldn't last until adulthood.

Currently dishonoured in his tribe, who will only aid him enough for his life, due to the shame bought about him by his failures and daughter.

Mother: Ak'thra Mountainspear

The life of an orcish woman is tough. The males of the clan are quick to establish themselves into authority, where they fight amongst each other for more of it. The women are relegated to tasks to keep the clan alive and healthy, and Ak'thra was no exception.

The savage madness inherant in most orcs had slowly begun to die out in the Mountainspears, their climate and environment giving little mercy for those who were not prepared to focus on surviving rather than bloodlust.

Ak'thra was a little wiser than most orcs for this, and quickly set herself to becoming a huntswoman. Such kept her away from her clan, and from the males who would not hesitate to make her life harder than it was. Along with a few other orcish women, they would hunt the creatures of the mountains for food. And it was this that bought her to meet Hertan.

Seeing in him another who had taken a path that gave him time away from his people who for one reason or another, saw him as weak, they formed a slowly growing friendship over the times they met in hunts.

To her daughter, she would teach her own values. Independance, being strong enough to depend on yourself when those around you will show nothing but hate. Finding trust where you can, but not in any who did not warrant it.

Currently believed to be dead, though is possibly a Thayan slave.

Teacher : Terragt

An aged, white-haired druid of the mountains. Few speak of his age, but there are those in the tribe who were born when he was old, and yet he still survives. Perhaps defying his life expectancy, or not aging, as the druids of the land do. Most assumed he would pass on soon, but most had done that for many, many years.

Easily spotted in his appearance by his strangely bright golden eyes that stand out against his weary, wrinkled face, and the many white tendrils of his beard. Though he does not openly worship the Great Wyrm, he remains within the tribe as a shaman and protector, and though no dispute has ever been raised between them, the leaders of the tribe all know that Terragt holds far more sway over the men of the camp than any of their cheiftains.

In her fathers absence, Terragt was the only protector of Helga, having taken an interest in her survival. He taught what lessons he could to her, and is the prime reason she acts in service of the Viridale Keepers.

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Appearance

An eight-foot tall half-orc woman, her body coated in thick, heavy muscle. Her face is a melding of strong human features with the brutish face of an orc, though the overall appearance is less disguisting than most. However, any trace of being able to get along at a dinner party is quickly quashed by the modifications that have been done to this face.

Each side of the head is shaven, leaving only long strands of greenish-brown hair falling from the center, which are more often than not pulled to a point with some kind of black wax, resulting in a long mohican that gives a predatorial look to it's wearer. As if this wasn't enough, each side of the shaven head revealed by this hair bears a tribal, stylised tatoo of a dragon, both sides meeting in the center. Though it's hard to tell from the style of the art, it seems they are both in some kind of combat, and though both tatooes are black, one appears to have the facial features of a golden dragon, the other of a red.

The armour worn by the woman appears to be mostly salvaged from scraps of other armours, patched together resulting in a functioning suit around the same weight and coverage as fullplate. The weapon slung across her back is a large, sawtoothed warblade.

She carries a large carrying sack across her back, roughly held in place by a thick leather band. Tied to this pack for easy access are a large selection of pots, each with a line of colour painted on them.

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The Soulguard.

The one who finds the corpse of the fallen warrior is the one who the soul will trust, my child. The only one. And so they must take their duty to guard the soul, whilst it comes to rest, that Uthgar might open the way for the it to go to His halls.

Light a fire. Keep it burning, in the snow and rain, so that Uthgar can find it easily. Live up to the name your mother gave you, maybe? And let none but you stay with the dead, for the soul of the dead will only trust you. Other people will frighten them away, and Uthgar will not be able to find them.

Hold your sword always. Give prayer to Uthgar through the night. Give faith to the Great Wyrm, and it will give you it's strength.

Tonight is your first guarding of a soul. But it will not be your last.


Any who would come across the sight would call it an odd one at the least...

A cold night in the Sundren hills, punctuated by the yelps of goblins. Dark, save for a lone campfire bought together on a rocky overhang. The flickering light of the fire illuminates the massive rock behind it, on which a grand tribal painting of a dragon, kneeling in a protective stance, has been drawn with clear dedication and passion, each line a bold strike of fresh, vibrant colour.

Against this, a silhouette. A lone, massive figure, towering to nearly eight feet in height. Leaning upon a massive, serrated warblade, and watching the fireplace with the same protective aura of the painted dragon.

The campfires and graves were littered with the corpses of goblins. A few had decided to try and rob the corpses. Then a larger group had attacked all together, in the failure of the first two. After that, a few pikes had been placed away from the campfire with goblin skulls on them. The attacks had stopped shortly after.

She stands as her father taught her. With no slouch, and with respect for the two corpses lying in the shallow grave beneath the watch of the dragon. She knew not who they were, or how they had lived. But they had died that day. And their souls must be protected, before they left for the next life.

As the sun rose the next morning, the graves were still, undisturbed through their night. The fire was allowed to burn out, and the beast who had stood watch was gone.

The dragon remained.

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The Painting

A bare rock face, lit up by a crackling fire. Six pots of the paints she made from crushed berries. A pile of armour plating lying to the side. Nobody around to disturb her.

Moving easily in the leathers, she lets free a side of her that had to be hidden at home. The orcs saw it as a sign of weakness, the humans, as an insult.

The halfblood girl saw it as freedom.

Covering both hands in oily black paint, she ran her large hands over the rockface, covering it to create her dark background of the night. The edges where the painting finished and the rockface resumed were rough and ragged, left open with no effort to a border.

Washing her hands in the stream, she sighed, approaching the canvas once more. Two circles of red were drawn near the center in some of the crimson paint. Dipping two fingers in a pot of rich golden paste, she drew lines over and over, the blackness still visible between them. Eventually, they formed what could have been an elongated, lizardlike face, with tendrils hanging from the chin in a slight beard. The eyes were centered in the two circles of red, giving them a powerful glow.

The body was formed, still of basic lines, that bore little resemblance to the real form of what she painted, but at the same time, bought the mental image of what it was clear as day to any looking at it.

The image of the Great Wyrm was eventually finished. Two grand wings spread past even the canvas of the dark, bursting from the bounds of the painting in all their splendor. The dragon standing in determined defense.

The massive shadow of the figure seemed to almost dance as it blocked the flickering light of the fire, paint pots now scattered across the area. But the beast, and the artist within it, was not done yet.

A circle of rocks were drawn in front of the grand dragon, seemingly small and weak in comparison. A few brown lines of logs were then added to it. And finally, with heavy strikes and swinging lines of colour, a roaring fire was burst from the center of it, central to the whole painting, a powerful focus, and yet still paling in comparison to the grandness of the dragon standing guard over it.

The Great Wyrm, and the Fire in the Dark.

Beneath this monument to her ancestral totem, the figure slept. And dreamed of flying.

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The Dragontouched

As she watched the woman leave, the one with the link to the great wyrms, she remembered the words of the crueller few of the Uthgardt warriors, berating her father, for his weakness, and for her existence.

Your bloodline has just gotten weaker and weaker over the years, Hertan. Draget would be ashamed of you. He had the strength to be favoured of the Great Wyrm! He tore boulders from the mountain itself, and hurled them across the peaks at the very orcs you find it so easy to take to your bed tent.

She remembered the touch of the silver-haired human on her shoulder. She had felt it, even through her armour.

He strode across battlefields, the rocks and throwing axes of our damned ancestral enemy glancing off his skin, which bore the scales of the great beast itself. You? You can barely kill a rothe, and need a bow to do that!

She watched the skin of the woman, clearly visible thanks to her revealing clothes. There was no mistaking the scales that lay against it, glinting in the light of the fire, tough and resilient.

Draget was a hero! The son of the Wyrm itself! So great that he did not breath air, like us! It was fire that filled his lungs! Raging fire! And you... The only thing you've bought forth is your filthblood daughter, who spends her days dreaming that she'll ever be called a warrior. Not whilst I draw breath, Hertan. Not whilst Uthgardt tradition is honoured. She'll hide in her filthblood camp, and one day, she'll wander over here and not have you to protect her...

But this woman did not breathe fire, but ice.... Her heart was cold. It made little sense to the filthblood girl, who had always feared the magics like those the woman wielded. If her heart was cold, why did she act so freely? Whilst she, Helga, was nearly at despair for her unanswered prayers to the Wyrm God, this girl had developed them naturally, and seemed to find them rather novel, but not greatly significant. It made her furious, and desperate at the same time. Why did a dragon favour this girl, and for what reason? Why was her breath of ice, and not fire, like Dragets?

She'll never be Uthgardt. She'll never be anything but a filthblood.

And how could she be taught, if the one she wanted to teach her didn't know herself?

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The First Spell

She had finally found the other dragon-souled one. The silver woman, who called herself Anzhela. She feared her. The woman regularly sat with people, speaking to them, all knowing her gift, but few seeming to understand the significance of it.

She spoke to her, by her camp, and by the painting. She told her of Draget, the dragon-souled hero. His son, who was a great warrior. His son, who was a war archer, not mighty enough to fight in the front lines of a battle. And of his son... Hertan. The man who did the womans job of hunting cows. And his daughter... The useless filthblood who should never have been born. Her.

The girl told her that before the changes had begun, she'd first developed her own magic, again without any training. Everything seemed to come to this one with no effort, whilst the halfblood devoted herself with mad passion, and found no response.

The knowledge burned at her heart, making anger rise inside her. She had roared at the image of her God, demanding to know why he had forsaken her. Had her father lied when he said that Uthgar cares not what you have, but how you devote it to him?

As the dragon-souled woman effortlessly conjured a ward simply to stop the rain, the filthblood tore her gauntlets from her arms, the wounds she'd sustained fighting off gnolls on her last guarding of a soul still fresh.

She concentrated upon it to the point where her face was red, straining to the point where she almost passed out, seething with a raw fury of emotions, despair, desperation, and refusal to accept that she had been abandoned.

The fire flared, and her vision went black.

She was vaguely aware of her arm moving, fingers turning gestures she had no idea of. Through the numbness, she noticed her mouth opening, her throat twinging slightly as words in an alien tongue poured out.

When she regained control of her conciousness, she was still standing, hand held over where the injury once was. In the dull haze before shock set in, she removed the hand. The wound was gone, her dusky green skin covering the gash in a faint scar.

As realisation of her act dawned, she fell to her knees. Spasms of shock racked her body, as for a few bleak moments she was unsure of what anything meant. She looked up, into the eyes of a dragon. Rain trickled down her face, and mixed with her tears. She was what she had always been taught to fear, and yet for now, she was not afraid.

It was a minor sign... But a sign nonetheless.

The fire was awakened, and burned high and proud that night, blazing long into the dawn.

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The Civilised Monsters

The she-beast was confused. She put it down to her own slowness of thought that she was unable to understand the people of the cities.

She remembers back to the orc camps, where she'd sit under the protection of her mother, staying out of sight and out of mind.

The males would have disagreements. Over anything. Food. Power. Thoughts. Faith. They were common. Orcs were hot-blooded. When they had these disagreements, they would call a challenge. It would almost always be accepted. The two would go to the center of the camp and brutally punch each other until one hit the floor and was unable to stand.

After the argument, the winner would let the loser up, and they would accept defeat until the next fight. Such was the clans way. Unarmed combat was a common sight.

But nothing could have prepared her for what she had seen from the beings who thought themselves civilised. Who called orcs savage beasts, and lived in their houses of iron and stone, thinking themselves the noble, intelligent kings of the lands.

At a campfire outside an inn, just north of the shrine to the Wyrm where the filthblood girl was taught. One of the mages who flaunted their power like toys (this was another oddity to the girl... All the things she treated as serious concepts... Magic, life, death... Were wielded at a fancy and on whim) was being chased by a midget.

Some conversations were struck up. Another man called upon the earth to pin down the girl (Again, she was at a loss. She had met one who commanded such power in her life... A wise old man of the Uthgardt tribe, who was honoured with the title of Druid. His respect for the land was harder than the stone he walked upon, bare-footed. And yet the title and magics were bore by people who the girl saw bore no resemblance to the druids she knew). For this she cast one of her spells at him. The girl had no idea what it had done.

The man who wielded the power of the earth then threatened the girl with death, and told her to run for her life. The hin then started saying something to the man.

Then all hell broke loose.

People were tearing at each other with spells and sword, without mercy. Before long an unholy swirling storm had been conjured, raining acid and lighting upon everyone at the campfire. A few onlookers stepped backed, panicked and confused, as the area descended into chaos. The beast girl was frightened for her life, readying herself to flee.

When the storm faded, there were three corpses. Dead. The argument had been settled, not by fistfights, but by brutal murder by magic.

She had thought herself a savage, and a beast. She had born the titles with acceptance of her status, and some manner of pride in them.

But nothing could have prepared her for the murderous madness of city-humans. How could a people who had created such great camps of iron and steel also be capable of such random destruction?

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The Shadowdancer

She had been told to practise the magic, by the dragonsoul. And so she would, and would do it in tribute to the Great Wyrm, as she did everything.

She stood at her shrine, armour lying in a pile, wearing her basic rothe leathers. A roaring fire blazed behind her, casting her silhouette against the rockface next to the dragon as it seemed to watch her in patient thought.

She drew her tarnished warblade from it's straps on her back, and cast it to one side, along with her armour. It was a tool of battle. Not important to her.

With great care, she dropped a hand to the handle of the second blade, the gift from the dragonsoul. With the respect and reverence of one holding a sacred object, she drew the weapon forth. The crossguard was of jagged shards of amber material, light glinting beautifully from it in the dark, the blade forged of cold iron, shaped into the appearance of a tongue of flame.

She placed both hands around the grip, and raised it above her head. Her silhouette copying her exactly, only standing a full thirty feet tall against the rockface, by the image of the Great Wyrm.

The beast-girl danced in the firelight. It was more an expression of freedom than any kind of controlled movement, the blade swinging long, heavy curves in the air. As if in some kind of combat, her arms moved freely, going wherever the emotion took them. Her movements were thrown against the wall in her shadow as it spun with her, jumping back and forth across the wall as the flames flickered, growing and shrinking as she moved closer or further from the blaze.

And as her heart was free in tribute to her God, the magic rose, once again. But this time, it did not cleanse her injuries, for she had none. Instead, as the words of unkown draconic spilled forth from her mouth, her free hand twisting in arcane gestures she had never learned, the magic surged through her.

And she turned, and saw the world through different eyes.

The magic in everything around her, visibly flickering in the air, like tendrils of lazy golden smoke. She turned to the fire, and could feel it's source, a connection to other planes. She turned to the trees, and could see the life pulsing, as if with a beating heart.

She turned to the crude golden lines on the wall that comprimised her caveman painting.

And she saw the Great Wyrm.

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Memories I: Terragt

The existence of a half-orc is not one that gives easily to friends. But the ones who could take that title were all the more strongly remembered for it. A man who finds friends everywhere he goes will forget them after a week, but one who is likely to find only a handful over the course of their life will take the memories to the grave.

One of these few friends was the human Uthgardt, Terragt. An old man, who had not been strong even in his youth. But he revered the mountains, protecting them. He was a slow thinker, but his words carried such clear wisdom that were he in the cities, he would have been considered a great philosopher, his words passed down as that of a sage.

As it was, he was born to the mountains, and perhaps it was because he had not lived in the cities that he bore this wisdom.

He had sheltered the girl when none else would, and perhaps without his care, the girl would not have lived. People called Terragt a druid, though this carried different meaning to what it did in the city, clearly. Helga remembered only seeing Terragt use magics once or twice, solving most problems with thoughts deeper than the oceans floor, whilst druids in these lower lands would flaunt their power at a whim, and bore none of Terragt's wisdom. One of them even seemed to revere a spoon more than the land.

He had taught her lessons of life, that she remembered to this day. Mostly of the Wyrm, it's teachings, and how to apply them to every day life.

The old, dry-faced, rough-skinned man with long, ragged hair that was left uncut, and normally unwashed. To city-humans, he'd look like a mad, homeless beggar. To Helga, he was the best teacher she could wish for. And though even when she was a mere 12 years old, she towered over his hunched figure, she never stopped looking up to him.

The flames of the camp flickered as the two sat by it. The large, strong halfblood girl, a four-foot sword strapped to her back and plates of metal tied crudely to her shoulders looked like the protector of the old, frail human, though nothing was further from the truth.

Across the fire, hateful glances would be cast at her from the more jaded and spiteful of the Uthgardt humans. Though the girl was strong, the men were more so, and outnumbered her. The only thing that stayed their hands was the presence of the old man next to her.

He'd sit a while, crushing some kind of moss in a bowl with a rock, for one of his many herbal remedies. She knew better than to ask him questions, for his answers always raised more. So she tried a simple statement.

'The Wyrm tells us to be strong, Terragt. To protect those too weak to protect themselves. But I am strong, and you are not.'

Terragt stopped his grinding, and set the bowl down. He remained that way for almost a full minute, to the point where the girl was worried she'd insulted her only guardian. Finally, he spoke.

'You do not know what strength is, Helga'. He was one of the few in her youth who would ever call her by her name. Her parents called her daughter, and the rest would call her filthblood. 'A man with great muscles can lift a rothe, maybe. He can carry the Rothe to his tribe. But you have seen how I hunt, yes?'

The girl nodded. She had. Whilst the men of the tribe would compete to see who could drag a Rothe corpse up the mountain, then collapse from exhaustion, Terragt had headed out on a single hunt, and had come back with not one, but six live Rothe following him. Three females, two males, and a calf. From the camp, he had fed the rothe from his small garden and gathered mountain grass. And they had bred, and produced more rothe. And as the old ones would grow old, they would be slain. The females were kept for their poor-tasting but highly nourishing milk. The calves were raised into adults, and the cycle would continue.

'The men... Can bring back one rothe in a single trip, but...' She stalled, trying to remember what the words meant. 'But you... Bought back many?'

The old man nodded, a very thin smile passing his wrinkled lips. 'Yes. In one trip, I bought back... It is fifteen rothe, I think, now?'

Helga nodded. She had counted. Seven dead and used for the tribe, and eight still alive.

'So you would call a man who single-handedly bought the tribe fifteen rothe, in one trip, weak?'

'No, Terragt.'

'Then where is strength found?'

'In....' she strained her mind, as she always had to around the teacher. 'In what comes of your action?'

He nodded thoughtfully. 'Close enough.'

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The Gifts of the Wyrm

'Let the magic guide you'. The words of the dragonsouls mate.

And they rang true, to the beast girl. The magic would only come when her emotions were at their highest. She tried to create them on a whim, but it was like trying to lift the heaviest of rocks, without even trying. It just didn't occur.

But when she was lost in her devotion, destroying the greatest evil she could bring her strength against, aiding those who she could, and in any time of great need, the magic would answer her call. Each spell, however minor, a signpost from the Great Wyrm, confirming her efforts.

She'd bought on her magic a few times, now. When the fires she lit to guard the bodies of the dead she found were worn down by rain, the Wyrm had answered, and as the strong, firm sense of completing her duty had held her tall, it bought forth a light, shining above the grave and its guardian.

And when her allies fell in combat, the magic ran free from her hands, clotting their wounds and stabilising them just enough to keep them alive.

It was a thought she forced into the back of her mind that kept returning, however. These magics were things she'd once feared, hated even. The more she used them, the more commonplace they seemed. And though the mate of the dragonsoul said to continue, what if she did, and eventually because as the people by the fire? Creating magics on a whim, as jokes and toys to play with, and horrible weapons of destruction when these jokes went amiss?

She promised herself she'd never let it get that way. Her gifts were from the Great Wyrm, and she would not squander them as so many did. They meant so much more to her. Her guidance, where she had little else to go by. Pinpoints of light in the dark and featureless landscape of her search.

Fires in the dark.

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The Dreams of a Dragonsoul

In Uthgardt tradition, dreams carry a huge significance within it's peoples when they are away from their ancestral lands. Each one carries a totem with them to bring them these dreams, as guidance and messages.

But to Helga, it had only bought the same two dreams. One of flying, clear over the mountains, when she'd felt she'd had a good day doing the work of the Wyrm. The other, when she'd dwelled on her predicaments and been frustrated by things, was of Draget, her great-great-grandfather.

She'd never see him in these dreams, but she knew he was there. He spoke a language she'd never heard before, but she understood what the words meant as if they were a message simply relayed to her soul, bypassing her brain.

But this night was different. As she slept under the watch of the Great Wyrm, the familiar grey mists of sleep washed into her mind.

She was lying on the floor, and didn't bother to get up. She recognised the dream, hazily. There was no mountains, no feeling of freedom, so it only meant it was the other one. Clearly her thoughts had been heavier that day than she'd realised.

'Rise, Helga. Rise, Aho'thahg.'

This was new. She knew the voice as Dragets, one she had never heard, spoken by an ancestor she had never met. He wasn't there, as always, only his voice.

But a hand placed itself on her shoulder. She remembered the hand clearest of him, strong, with brawlers knuckles, the back of it plated with golden scales hard as bone. Suddenly, she was not lying, but standing. The hand turned her to face it's owner.

A blurry form, vague and distorted, but enough to make out features. Golden skin. A strong warriors body, with a four-stranded blond beard tied together. Blue, Uthgardt eyes.

'You wish to be a hero of our people.'

This was the first time he'd spoken to her, with a question nonetheless. Normally came insults, claims of her failure and the shame she bought to her tribe and him.

'...I do.'

'This would mean more than you can imagine'.

'...'

'The tribes are at war once again, as was always so. If you are their hero, they could have peace with the orc, as they did in your childhood....'

The figure seemed to consider his words, then spoke again.

'You are my blood. It brings me shame to see it mixed with that of orc. But it would bring me more shame to see it meaningless and without pride. Be our clans hero. Bring vengeance upon those who the Great Wyrm would have it. How our people respond, is up to them.'

It removed it's hand, and placed it against it's chest, by it's heart. The hand grew blurrier as it moved away, a faint outline as it reached the golden Draget. A snap was heard, some hard thing being removed.

The hand returned, and held out some golden object. A scale. Thick and strong like bone, but flexible at the same time. As her hand gripped it, closed over it, Draget moved her hands upwards, towards her heart.

The scale was pressed against it. A heat that burned as a painless fire. She was briefly aware of the feeling of the scale disappearing into her skin, towards her heart.

She woke, calmly. The golden image of the great wyrm was watching her as she opened her eyes.

She smiled to herself, then rose, for another day of the Dragons work.

[Root]

'The world knows nothing but balance. Without it, it would tip too far, and the cycle would collapse. For every death, a birth. For every blizzard in the mountains, a forest fire in the lowlands.' - Terragt, Mountain Druid.

Another dream followed the message from Terragt, a mirror of it in many ways. In this dream, she was flying.

She often dreamed of flying above the mountains, a vague sensation of true freedom. For a while, this dream progressed as usual, soaring high above the mountains. A lingering feeling in the back of her mind was that something was off, but it went unnoticed for now.

As the dream-flight drew over a peak, her home camp was visible. In the waking world, the camp no longer existed, but to her, it was still home.

She soon came to notice that she wasn't flying, as usual, but riding upon a beast that was carrying her through the air.

She looked down at her mount.

Crimson-red scales glinted like blood-soaked rubies beneath her. Recognition soon dawning, she looked up to see the terrifying neck ridges of the Red Dragon she road as the two massive webbed wings rose up each side of her.

The camp was getting closer. The dragon was drawing breath.

She pulled herself up the back of the dragon, trying to pull it away, steer it, excersize some control over the beast, but to no ends. She could just hear the faint screams of the people in the camp beneath her as they too noticed the red dragon she rode.

The wyrm let loose it's breath, searing torrents of flame pouring over the wooden camp, turning snow to steam, cooking the barbarian villagers alive. So much death, so much pain. Screams of agony from below her, ones that some repressed part of her orc blood had always enjoyed hearing.

The flames grew higher, so high she could feel them against herself. The dragon landed in the center of the burning village, spreading it's wings and calling in proud victory. The flames were now agonising against her own skin, causing her to grip it in pain as it burned her.

She awoke, having rolled over dangerously close to her campfire in her fitful sleep. Her skin was sore and burnt as she rolled away, shaking in fear and confusion as she pulled her arms around her knees, sitting staring at the fire.

Dreams always had meaning. Why she had been sent this one she did not know, but it scared her more than any battle.

[Root]

A Thousand Deaths

'YOU WILL SAY GRUUMSH IS STRONGEST GOD!'

'No! I follow Uthgar! The Great Wyrm! I will follow your lead, I will fight with you, but I would die a thousand deaths before I let any take my faith from me!'

'HERETIC! FOLLOWER OF WEAK GOD! ENEMY OF THE GRISTLEFIST!'

Blood had been spilled.

She had sought aid from the orcs of the lands. Though they followed one-eye, every orc in their heart valued their own freedom highly. Those who would make slaves of orcs were one of the worst enemies they knew, and in this she hoped she could turn them against the slavers of the lands.

But these orcs were more than the mountain ones. Stronger, and far more zealous in the ways of Gruumsh. They sought to kill humans and elves, for their own sake.

She gave them her respect, as she must. Orc females are low, and half-bloods are even lower, leaving her at the bottom of the chain. They demanded more.

She tried to be open, but there was one thing she would not give an inch of freedom on, and that was her faith.

They'd labelled her a heretic, a weakling, and tried to kill her. The cheiftain was still wearing only leathers. He fell to three of her vicious blows, landing many of his own but nevertheless coming off the worse. His lackey, a priest of Gruumsh, bought down one-eyes wrath on her, draining her of strength with black magics. He wore metal armour, but his devotion to priesthood had made him weak in true combat, and a few heavy blows were enough to fell him.

The strikes had been too much for the cieftain, who was dead before he hit the floor. Quite a while before he hit the floor, in fact. Ur'Grak had fought madly, way past the normal limits of when he should have fallen down and called it a loss. She had felled ogres in single sweeps of her warblade, and yet he had taken three solid strikes before falling. He was driven, and she'd been lucky.

The priest, however, fell sooner. She grabbed him and refused him an easy death, snarling a warning at him. That she would not be their enemy unless they made her one. That she would keep her faith, and the same fate would come to any who tried to take it from her.

The priest was defiant to the end, spitting the name of a Heretic at her through the blood in his mouth. She considered killing them both, but left him alive. The orcs had their place here. They just needed to learn fast.

The priest would be able to tend to his chief. She left him lying inches from death, and headed away from their hills.

A blow to his pride. It might be enough to punch sense into them. To make them realise their need for allies. Or they might not.

Time would tell.

[Root]

Red, Gold, and Green.

In a dream of some years past, the half-beast girl sat in a dark corner of the orc tribal camp. Though for the most part, the small tribe had adopted the Cave Mother as it's only God, some loyal to the ways of Gruumsh yet remained, demanding their presence through intimidation and strength.

It was one of those loyalists that this day barked over the fire, speaking in the Orc tongue of the people's greatest legend. The legend of the Red Orc.

"Skin of Red! Breath of Fire! Strength as much as Baghtru Himself!

Greatest of our people! No mercy or weakness, no sleep, no fear!

The Red Orc of legend, walks these mountains still! Hunting out traitors to the ways of Gruumsh, destroying them all!"

The tribe stirred slightly, somewhat discomforted. They all knew of the legend, and in the views of the Orcs of Gruumsh, they were all traitors. Those who broke off from the larger camps to the south to survive alone, away from the wars they were forced to be a part of.

The speaking orc growled, then looked satisfied by the hint of fear struck into the rest of the tribe, no challenger yet standing to his words.

"....Drek to the Red Orc."

The camp fell into a stony silence as all faces turned to the hated, despised half-blood in the corner. Her mother stood next to her, trying to shield the creature in a vague attempt to pretend it was not her child that had spoken these words, but to no success.

The monsterous orc roared, slamming across the dirt towards the child, battering her mother out of the way with a single fiece backhand.

"YOU ARE NOT EVEN WORTHY TO SPEAK HIS NAME, DREKBLOOD!"

"I speak one far greater. DRAGET." The girl stood.

To her full height.

This came as a slight suprise to the orc. The girl, now nineteen, rose over him like as forming tower. For years she had been the one standing against him, and been struck down again and again. But every day, she had trained, fought, and focused herself. Though barely full-grown, she was an intimidating sight. She dipped her hand into a small pot on her belt, and moved it to her head, clamping all of her greasy green-brown hair and pulling it upwards, forming it into a single blade down her forehead.

"Will teach you better than to speak at all, then!" roared the orc, undeterred, throwing a fist to her face. She reeled sideways, back towards the fire, staggering forwards and onto all fours. The orc began to laugh, considering himself to have won another easy victory, before she pounched, launching herself through the air with an echoing roar, feet slamming into the brutes chest and knocking him off balance, hands gripping his shoulders tight as he fell to the floor, forehead smashing into his as it connected with the dirt.

The orc stood once more, dazed now. The victor was clear.

The orc camp stirred. This was the first time any had stood up against one of the loyalists. It was not the way of the Cave Mother... Such was of obidience to the strong. If one was strong, they became the master. Protecting the weak was unheard of.

The tension died quickly, as the orc, unable to think of his options, scarpered back to the tents.

In two years time, he would gain the determination to come for her to kill, with a pack of the loyalists. She would barely survive, and be exiled from her camp and home by their order.

Were it not for this happening, she would have died to the Thayan assault.