The Insights of A Runaway Shaman

[Unholy Carp]

ooc: So I've been making up my character's backstory as I've been wandering about. It's a mixture of cruelty and comedy. It's childish and crude. I had a rather fun time writing it, though I expect it should be torture for everyone else.

So far, I've got three posts worth of stuff that I'm going to dump on here. If I get bored enough at work again, I may fire off some more.

I. Duty.


There is, amidst the series of snarling curses of orc-speech, usually some distillable meaning that a listener can take away. It may tend to be easier to gather coherence from the likes of an accomplished clan leader and warrior of the field. Regardless, it isn't always easy to hear. It is especially difficult when the orc is seated at a battered dining table, spitting out chunks of food as he decides to speak in the middle of chewing, "You are too smart, shaman."

The half-orc seated to his right raised his massive brow and responded after swallowing his food, "Too smart, chieftain?"

"You think about what you are doing. I see it when you perform the rituals. The doubt," the orc waved a hand mock in mock dismissal with a look of disdain on his face, "The lack of respect for tradition. It is unbecoming of an orc."

"If you are questioning my ability, sir, I--"

"Your ability is without question!" the chieftain answered, slapping his palm on the table. This action created a hairline fracture in one of the table's legs that would end up causing it to collapse when a fat boar would be placed upon it during an impromptu feast. This, in turn, would cause the beheading of the finest goblin cook that the orc-band would ever see. The details of this future escaped both subjects, and the orc-chief continued speaking, "There is no doubt that the spirits speak to you, through you. Most clans cannot boast a true shaman of your caliber!"

The half orc nodded calmly. "You honor me, chieftain."

"Yet you do not honor the clan! Ability? Undeniable. Performance?" He paused, allowing time for the other to recollect his various missteps, "Questionable, at best."

"If you are speaking of my putting a stop to the three days of bloodletting before taking the Rites of Atonement, I'm not taking it back." the shaman shook his head in emphasis, "An orc should be at full battle strength at all times."

"The tradition of the bloodletting ritual was established purge the weak, shaman." Sneered the chief, who then let out a sigh, "Let us attack this topic at another flank: do you believe in He-Who-Watches?"

"The power of the Revered One-Eyed-Lord is undeniable," recited the shaman, "It is he that teaches us that through strength, the orc peoples may dominate the weak."

The chief grunted and pressed his query, "But do you believe in His Plan?"

Quite a few things ran through the half-orc's mind as he bowed his head to think. Images of battles taking place in every corner of the Realms: discordant, rarely with any purpose, save for the maneuvers of exceptionally cunning clan chieftains. Pursuit of grudges passed down to the orc-kin with no meaning beyond the will of the gods. Temporary triumphs with no surviving record, known to him only as vague whispers from lost souls. The diplomacy of the axe; the aspirations to universal misery. There were also some amusing memories of goblin hurling competitions, but these were overtaken by an attempt to grasp the greater picture of Gruumsh's Plan for the orc-peoples.

For the shaman, the room grew dim, he reached out to the spirits, silently begging for one to step forward with an answer. Is there a plan?

No answer came. He carefully considered what he would say next. The corners of his lips curled upward, "I believe I may understand the nature of His plan better than you."

The warrior stirred silently, a chill running over him at the shaman's words. The moment passed quickly and he stood, picking the greataxe that was propped against his massive chair, and said, "Good! I expect that this epiphany will have you carrying out tonight's sacrifice of the captured human maiden with the zeal and vigor that you have been lacking!"

The chieftain slowly lifted his axe, carefully measuring the shaman for an efficient killing stroke. He offered the half-orc a crooked, yellow-brown toothed grin, "I would hate to give your task to a young acolyte."

Orcish politics is rarely subtle.

[Unholy Carp]

II. Sacrifice.


Human sacrifice can really suck the life out of you, even if you don't happen to be the human.

The ritual went off perfectly, complete with black clouds, thunder, and hopeful orcs merrily painting their faces with the blood of their helpless and recently deceased enemy. The shaman reported that the spirits were roused to a screaming fury, one that should travel with the orcs into their next conquest. Gruumsh is pleased. Victory will come.

Drunken revelry ensued. Fistfights broke out everywhere. Piles of writhing, wrestling, punching orc-forms were everywhere. It was beyond a good party for the orcs--it was a veritable orgy of green-on-green orcy violence.

The shaman left them to it, and retired to his hut. Perhaps he would attempt to choke down some food.

No sooner did he sit down to attempt just that then came bursting into his hut a grinning she-orc. Her hips were seemingly too wide for a ring of three orcs to join hands around (if any orc were so inclined). She was lean and muscular, scarred and calloused, with cruel hands and a malicious glint in her eye. She was the image of orcish beauty.

"Blurgh," the shaman greeted her, "For a moment I thought it was the avatar of Luthic darkening my door. To what do I owe the honor?"

"Gruulkuk," she returned, leaning against the door and averting her eyes, "You were cruel, powerful; like to He-Who-Never-Sleeps. Will you?"

He stared for a moment, in a feeble attempt to avert where this was headed, "It was my intent to res--"

In a shout that was lost in the din of celebrating orcs outside, Blurgh screamed, "YOU WILL NOT THIS NIGHT!"

Without further warning, she was upon him. Tearing, pawing, clawing, slapping, biting--also chewing. It's best not to go into too many details of orc-love. Not that love was even remotely involved.

Blessedly, she was gone when he awoke in the afternoon. The shaman drew upon the spirits to dull the ache of the bruises, bite marks and strained joints. As he channeled the power, the room again went dim, and there came rushing to him a vision of a possible future.

Tall and grim, he saw himself. Wearing a furry cloak and loincloth dyed in blood. Painted on his skin in a similar rusty brown were illustrations, depicting dead creatures of all kinds. Powerful he appeared, with a necklace of polished skulls hanging on his chest. Hateful spirits surrounded him. Harmless wraiths of screaming children, existing outside the perceptions of those not awake to them, trailed behind him. Their hatred, their anger--it meant nothing to him. How could it, really? His own hatred outshone theirs.


As the vision faded, Gruulkuk drew in a gasp of air and brought a hand to his sore head, "That's it," the shaman grunted, "I quit."

[Unholy Carp]

III. Honor?

Orcs are a simple people, and while they delight in random acts of cruelty and violence, it can be rather rare for one to truly surprise you.

"Wait, you know about what happened with me and Blurgh?" asked a rather shocked Gruulkuk, checking who brought a hand to his neck to note that it was, indeed, still in place, "I know she is yours, and I didn't mean anything by--that is to say, it isn't that I would think her undesirable, just--"

The chieftain walked up to Gruulkuk and slapped him on the shoulder, "Of course I know! It was I who asked her to go with you." The chieftain grinned grotesquely, "She said that she could tell it was your first, but you kept on like a seasoned warrior. Well done, shaman! Well done!"

A great many things could have been said at this point. The gods know, a great many things were running through the half-orc's mind. Gruulkuk opened his mouth and eloquently answered, "..."

"You do your work right, you get rights to the spoils of society," the chieftain replied, "Consider it a taste of things to come if you keep performing at your best."

"My resolve is strengthened by your words," said the half-orc dryly, with a polite frown.

The chieftain beamed, insofar as an orc can. "An additional reward should be coming your way, shaman. The talks with the hill-giant clan on the next mountain have completed. Your idea to fool them into a pact of non-aggression has borne fruit: they would trade enchanted weapons too small for their use for gold and gems." The chieftain grinned, "Gold and gems that we will return to ourselves using those arms, at our leisure."

Briefly, a shadow passed over the half-orc's eyes. He looked to the chieftain and nodded, "I would like to inspect the weapons, before they are distributed to your champions and lieutenants," Gruulkuk stated.

"Then it will be so," said the chieftain, who added with a grin, "Aiming to save the finest for yourself, eh? Smart move."

"We can call it a blessing from the orc-gods," suggested Gruulkuk, "So pleased were they with the sacrifice."

"Good thinking!" said the chief, clapping the half-orc on the shoulder, "Morale seemed to take an unexpected hit after I had to behead the cook last night..."




Why am I doing this? thought Gruulkuk as he hurried along in the darkness, carrying a bundle of the finest weapons from the trade deal with the giants under his arm, This is foolish. This is foolish.

Time was running out. He would be discovered. Yet here he found himself, before the hut with the "Special prisoner." He was here, though. He sighed, opened the hut, and stepped in.

"If you aren't here to feed me," she said without looking up, "I hope you're here to kill--" She looked up. "Oh," she said, "It's you. I can see that you aren't carrying food. And I'm not in the mood to be tortured. Could you come back tomorrow?"

The half-orc frowned at the chained pixie. She had been found collapsed and near death during an expedition to harvest and defile a forest not far from the growing borders of the orc-camp. It was at Gruulkuk's insistence that she wasn't mashed to dust on the spot. Instead, she would spend months being interrogated by the shaman. She was not grateful for the mercy. Her name was Daisy.

"I will not be here tomorrow, little one, and I will not return," the half-orc told her.

She closed her eyes and turned her face away, "Make it quick, then!"

He smirked, "I... I think I mean to set you free."

She fixed a doubtful gaze on him. "You're becoming a more subtle torturer," she said dryly.

"I mean it!" Gruulkuk said earnestly, "I've come to three realizations: first, that orcs will always be strong but plagued with stupidity and purposelessness--"

"Rather insightful for orc-kin," she blurted.

Undaunted, he continued, "Second, living as an orc is miserable."

"Imagine how much worse it is being a captive audience to a prattling half-orc," she muttered, and then smiled brightly at the cross look her would-be liberator gave her, "Um. What was the last thing?"

"Well," the half-orc shrugged, shifting his bundle of weapons, "I can choose to run away and not be without resources."

"I do have a fondness for runaways," the pixie sighed wistfully after a pause, "I once convinced a halfling girl to run away into the woods with me. You've got to get them young, when they're at their most curious. I was going to adopt her, train her to be a mighty woodland warrior--then you came along. I wonder what happened to her."

"She's dead."

"Oh," the pixie sighed, "Still, I do have a fondness for runaways."

The recently retired shaman furrowed his massive brow in confusion, "I'm not going to run away with you."

"I wasn't asking," the pixie said with a roll of her eyes.

"As long as we're clear."

"We are."

"Good."

"Good!"

"So..." the half-orc shifted awkwardly.

"You were going to release me?" she pulled at her chains, "Maybe before the camp realizes you're running off with a bunch of enchanted somethingorothers?"

"Oh, right," and he did.

"Now," she said as she winked from sight once her bonds were released, "Tell me why I shouldn't rip off your ear and take it home as a trophy?"

The half orc shrugged, and said with a smirk, "Because I don't need to *see* you in order to kill you with a thought?"

"Fair enough," the invisible pixie muttered, tugging at Gruulkuk's ear and whispering, "If I see you again, know that you will die," before flying off to freedom.

"Fair enough," repeated the retired orc shaman, who soon thereafter walked out of camp without molestation, thanks to some guards who had the good sense to sleep on duty.

[Unholy Carp]

Holiday Spirit

Most cultures have some sort of winter solstice celebration to up morale during the darkest, coldest part of the year. In the Brown Tusk tribe, this festival was called The Day of Desolation and Undying Hatred. Or, more simply, the shortened Desolation Day. All members of the tribe are expected to attend as soon as they are old enough to drink.

Gruulkuk, all of eight years old and not yet knowing that the voices he would tend to hear in his head didn't actually mean he had some sort of disease, was attending his first Desolation Day celebration. Wide eyed the half-orc was, asking questions that couldn't be answered and were either the subject of anger on the part of the orcs, or simply ignored. Eventually, he caught on to the unwelcomeness of his questions and wandered to an empty spot near the door, watched the orcs sing their uncouth songs and drink themselves into legendary stupors.

He hadn't been resting near the entryway to this year's designated Hatred Hut for long when one of the orcs noticed Gruulkuk standing alone. The big fellow shouted as he loped up to the half-orc, "I see you is stand beneath mage's toe, halfbreed."

The young halfbreed got as far as, "What does that mea--" before his question was interrupted by a fist. His next memory was awakening the following morning, his head swimming in the spirit of the season.







It should be noted that the tradition of punching someone you don't like when you catch them beneath the mage's toe does not require the toe of an actual mage. While it does bring a certain measure of honor and prestige upon one's house to have such a thing, any human, demihuman, or goblinoid toe is an acceptable substitute to allow you to further flatten the noses of guests and neighbors as soon as they cross your threshold.

[Unholy Carp]

Orcish Education



At ten years old, Gruulkuk the half-orc first came upon a curious item, discarded amongst the spoils of a raided merchant caravan. From three sides it appeared to be a wooden box, one that could be opened by unfolding it. There were hundreds of tattooed rectangular yellow leaves within.

After examining the object for a while, he brought it to one of the orc warriors who brought it back from the caravan raid. Waving it in front of the warrior, Gruulkuk asked, simply, "What's this?"

The orc frowned, at distaste for both the halfbreed and the fact that it asked a question. Questions usually meant trouble for an orc if they couldn't be smashed, hacked, stabbed, and made to scream. The warrior cursed his luck, spat, and answered, "S'called a book, pup."

"Oh," said Gruulkuk, looking down at the object in his hand and repeating the orcish word for 'book.' Looking back up at the warrior he asked, "What's it for?"

"Unless you consort with the tree-monkeys and their fairy cousins..." the orc drifted off and shrugged. "Not much. Maybe for swabbing after you squat, if you're into that sort of thing."

The half-orc's face wrinkled, "You're not?"

"Hells no!" the warrior replied, "When you fight, you gotta overpower your opponent in any way you can!"

As the wind suddenly shifted, it dawned on Gruulkuk that some questions are best asked while standing upwind from experts.

[Unholy Carp]

ooc: I found this half-written on my desktop at work. Not sure how it got there.

Orcish Education II
or
Upwind from an Expert

After his encounter with the warrior and the book, Gruulkuk soon found himself shuddering in front of the shaman's hut, vainly clutching at his book for warmth.

Gruulkuk's predecessor in the position of shaman was rumored to summon terrible powers to do the work of keeping the Brown Tusk clan healthy and terrifying to their enemies. Occasionally someone would manage to survive the shaman's treatments and would come out of the hut with tales of pale, eyeless, glowing, slender horrors flaying them alive. Or of oozing demons infusing them with just enough power to live on in return for devouring some length of their entrails.

The truth of the matter was this: a prestidigitation cantrip, a knowledge of hallucinogens, and creative use of a serrated knife can really get you ahead in politics. It helps if you're surrounded by superstitious, uneducated savages, but isn't strictly necessary.

Of course, the half-orc knew none of this, else he'd have no reason to be shivering. His soul nearly jumped out of his body when he heard a gruff, "Come in, fool!" From within the hut. Instead he jumped, tripped, and fell through the front door.

"Halfbreed," the shaman spat with a sneer, "What brings you here?"

The young half-orc held out his book in answer, and the shaman snorted, "Yes, I can see your parcel. What of it?"

"Well, um," Gruulkuk shifted his weight nervously from one foot to the other, opening the thing up and tracing his finger along a line of strange symbols, "What is... what is it for?"

"Teaching. Disseminating knowledge and wisdom to those who have weak oral tradition," answered the shaman, holding out his hand. "Here. Let me see it."

As denying the wish of a shaman could only end in being cursed, Gruulkuk handed the item over. The shaman opened it to a random page. His eyes went in and out of focus. He turned the book to view it from several angles. He even went so far as to bring the book up to his tongue in order to taste the ink.

Gruulkuk blinked. A realization dawned on him. "You don't know how to read!" He stated.

The shaman's hand darted to the large serrated knife at his hip, and he opened his mouth to make an accusation of the half-orc.

"...that language." Gruulkuk blurted, "Obviously, it's written in some obscure dialect of a long-dead human language."

The shaman started growling lowly. The young half-orc decided to not press his luck further, snatch up the book, and bolt out the door.