The Green Tide Approaches [Arcanum]

by **The Nuclear Fist** » Wed Jan 11, 2012 6:21 pm

In 3720 BC, a foul scurge upon the Earth was born of bloodshed and black magics: The Black Orcs. At this time, the High Orcs were badly pressed by the war's many bloodbaths, and many a mage turned to alchemical experimentation, hoping to create something to bring the Orcs to prestige. The sum of these terrible actions was a strange batch of Orcish blood, infused with the encoded essence of many thousands of mighty High Orc warriors, as well as the essence of thousands of differing specimens of fungus and moss. Many an eager necromancer took portions of this strange concoction, casting it into a divine wind, spreading over the ancestral Orcish homeland. They had hoped to create a race of obediant warriors, but they had failed. Instead, the concoction bred forth many twisted forms, Orcish in appearance, but a deep, blackened green, many sizes larger and far less intelligent than their 'True' Orc cousins. These creatures were believed by many High Orcs to be demonic spectres, a cruel twist of fate in an already terrible situation. They turned against not only their would be masters, but against all that lived. The death of one of these creatures, given of the name of 'Black' Orcs, brought forth only more of them. They were a plague. But they were new, and were not yet in large enough numbers to truly pose a threat. And they were subdued, forced deep within the heart of Asia, turning the once lush steppes of the High Orc's ancestral home into a brutal, wartorn desert. With this plague subdued and turned upon itself, the world moved on. Thousands of years later, in the year 990 BC, the Black Orcs unwittingly took advantage of the chaos caused by the Age of Storms. They grew in both numbers and power, and began raiding far outside their typical hunting grounds. Massive warparties of Black Orcs formed, and partook in what was known to them as the WAAAGH, or Green Tide, as the civilized world would think of it.

By 910 BC, the Orcs had only increased in power, and had struck deep within the eastern border of the Elvish states, rocking them to the core and shaking their social foundations. But this would not be the only time the Black Orcs struck into the Elvish lands, nor would it be the first time the beasts changed the course of history. In 510 AD, the Black Orcs solidified into a cohesive horde, led by the Warmonger Grok Rokpuncha. He led what is referred to by Black Orc historians as 'Da Big WAAAGH'. The Green Tide traveled westward, leaving a trail of massacre and absolute destruction in its wake. The WAAAGH shatters what remains of the Rhoman Empire, and struck deep within Elvish lands. By 515, the last Rhoman outpost, known as Fontus, is besieged by the Rokpuncha's forces. After a long, brutal battle, the human forces were pushed back, and the city was razed unto but ashes and shattered ruins. It is rumoured that the burning ruins are clogged with corpses, that blood stains the ground for as far as the eye can see. This would be only the beginning of what awaited the world. By 559, the Orcish fleet reaches the Throat, overpowering and pushing back the superior human fleet. Many were lost during that battle, and it was said that for every human ship there ten Orcish ones. In 523, the Green Tide reached the city of Rhome, rapidly battering it down and overtaking it, tearing it to pieces in an orgy of merciless slaughter and bloodshed. By 559, the combined forces of Feldland and Estgloria hold Annaduin, despite many Orcish blows. But two weeks later, Rokpuncha's forces flank the the human legions, engaging them in brutal battle and ultimately being victorious. However, a great blow was dealt to the WAAAGH, as Rokpuncha was killed in battle by the King of Estgloria, despite slaying the King as well. This ignites a vicious power struggle amongst the Black Orc hierarchy that lasts until 572, when Blakfinga Buzgob takes helm of the Green Tide, leading it along the Long Sea's northern shore, devastating Estgloria and modern day Vansamble. In 580, the WAAAGH reaches the Sea of Grass and turns back, razing the remnants of many important cities for the second time. In 600, the city of Rhome is sacked by the Green Tide once more, ending the final chapter of the Rhoman Empire, its emperor slain by Northmen raiders trailing Buzgob's hordes.

In the summer of the year 602, the Orcish hordes meet the forces of the Elvish kingdoms along the eastern border, although the Elves initially beat back the Orcs. But after several years of brutal fighting, the Elvish forces are shattered, allowing the Green Tide to drive deeper into Elvish lands. In 612, the greatest single warband of the WAAAGH engages the Elvish forces in the razing of the golden Elvish city of Alta Arta. Many lives are lost on both sides, but the city is taken by greenskin hands and crushed. Buzgob and the High King Velicalaco are said to meet in battle, with both succumbing to their wounds and dying. With their last truly great Warmonger killed, the WAAAGH grinds down and takes many losses, until the last of the Black Orc spawning pits are purged in a great fire by 700, leaving massive tracts of land incinerated. The final chapter of a long and bloody tome is written, and the book of the WAAAGH is finished, much to everyone's joy. This is believed to by all to be the last instance where the Black Orcs would gain the strength to do something so horrible, so brutal. But a millenia later, an Orc is spawned in the heart of Black Orc territory. This boy rapidly sails Black Orc ranks, killing anyone who opposes him or challenges his authority as the biggest and the strongest of the Black Orcs. By 1850, he had taken the position of absolutely authority, the biggest and the strongest of the Black Orc warlords. Tens of millions of Boyz fell under his command, and the Black Orc tribes fell in line, until all Black Orcs were Corpzegrinda'z Boyz. Many rumours had begun to flood outside Orcish territory of another Green Tide, but those rumours were dismissed. But the Black Orcs were growing bold, and were striking deep outside their ancestral raiding grounds, proping territories, yet not truly raiding them. As if they were merely testing their enemies, as one would dip their toes into a pool.

Warmonger Grimzkull Corpzegrinda'z Warcamp

Deep within the heart of Orc country, great black stormclouds gathered over the steppes, foretelling the upcoming storm that flooded a large minority of Orc country, that time of year. Once, many centuries ago, the land the Orcs now inhabited was lush and beautiful, albeit being incredibly flat and treeless, save for those forests near rivers and the mountains to the northeast. But, like all other things touched by the Orcs, the steppes were rendered hostile and barren, the vast majority of ancestral Orcish land reduced to nothing but endless desert. The Orcky steppes were once home to thousands of diverse animals, but now, only the vultures and the Orcky warhogs can survive. But, this was the perfect place for the housing of the Green Menace, the harsh goblet which housed the Green Tide, only every once in a great while spilling over in a great warparty, the Green Tide sweeping over all of the Old World, a trail of suffering and massacre in its wake.

Currently, the heart of Orc country was housing nearly the entirety of Corpzegrinda'z Tribe, numbering some 150 million Orcs. They formed a mammoth, green, amorphous blob, deep into the horizon. In the centre, stood a makeshift ziggurat, made from the loot of hundreds of successful raids, towering into the sky. The very top and very bottom of the ziggurat was constructed of massive golden statues from the nations to the west, vandalised and transformed into idols of the Twin Gods, although no one was aware which was which. Many fights had erupted from that argument. Atop the massive ziggurat, Grimzkull Corpzegrinda's yurt occupied a half of it, the notorious Warmonger feasting on roasted warhog and drinking barrels of glug. As the sun rested heavily upon the horizon, slipping beneath, Corpzegrinda lumbered forth from his tent, the ziggurat trembling as he did so. Corpzegrinda was a hulking behemoth, at over six metres tall and weighing almost one and a half tons. His scarred body was clothed in gore-splattered armour, the skulls of his enemies impaled upon the spikes on his shoulder armour, two more dangling on chains from his codpiece. His tusks were as long as machetes, his red, beady eyes staring out from under a massive helmet.

He raised his fist, silencing the Orcs below. A nearbye Orcling shaman held a staff to his throat, magic coursing through his voicebox, amplifying his voice a thousand fold. "Da Orcz is da biggus' 'n da strongus'," Grimzkull shouted, his voice the likeness of the Devil himself. At this, the Orcs below cheered loudly, the sound deafening. After several minutes, Corpzegrinda raised his fist again, silencing the tide below. "We'z bin wait'n long enough! Ev'ry day, da Boyz get stronguh and stronguh! Lizen up, ya gitz! Lon time uhgo, da Boyz waz led by Rokpuncha, bezt Orc in da whole wurld. The Boyz smash'd da un-orckies far 'n wide! You know whuh we gunna dooz? We gunna go onna WAAAGH! We'z gonna sockit to dem un-Orckiez. We'z gonna bring down da wrafful choppa uff da Twin Godz on da un-Orckiez! Dey gonna know, dat we'uh comin' for ya, un-Orckiez! We'uh commin'ta chop 'n slash 'n burn ya down," yelled Corpzegrinda. However, in a crowd of 150 million Orcs, not even the most powerful of mages could amplify his voice enough to let everyone hear it. In order to deal with this, hundreds of rickety towers were hastily constructed before the big speech, each one fitted with a shaman and the loudest Orc in that area. Although the quality of Corpzegrinda's speech degraded as the distance grew, the general point of a WAAAGH was understood.

Corpzegrinda flailed his massive arms, working the boyz below into a frenzy. Deafening, Orckish bellows could be heard far and wide as the Orcs celebrated their news, thousands climbing the ziggurat to join their Warmonger, still tens of millions below swarming into their gargantuan warcamp, heavily drinking and eating in jubilee, preparing for the day soon to come, when the Orcs would ravage the Old World once more, storming outwards from their ancestral steppes, to raze all nations to the ground, smothering all that is not Orc in the Green Tide, those fleeing from the Tide meeting the sharp pain of bayonets in their backs. The ground would tremble beneath their feet, their enemies' ears would bleed at the deafening sounds of their Orckish warcries. And those who would fight would only serve to excite and anger the Orcs, suffering their psychotic wrath doubly so. But, even now, word had begun to spread throughout the civilised nations of the Old World, rumours haunting dusty taverns like a malignant, devilish spectre, sowing seeds of brutal fear and morbid anticipation. It would happen, as it had happened more than 1,300 years previously. From common beggars in Taurminas, to serfs in Pzovonod, to even the Holy Empire's Phope and the Sultan themselves, the rumours of the second coming of the Green Tide oozing into their ears, icy claws gripping the primal fear in the beast's cortex of their brains. But, even as the dawn approached, many regarded the rumours as hogwash and heresay, merely the delusions of the mad. After all, the Orcs were disorganized and weak, were they not? They could never truly face the might of the civilised world, could they?

Many days had passed since that speech, and Corpzegrinda sat in anticipation in his throne, surrounded by dozens of the Black Orc's greatest mages and shamans. Each had a wooden collar around their neck, glimmering Orcish runes carved in it. A single length of rope connected the shamans' and mages' collars to the gauntlets worn by Grimzkull Corpzegrinda, tendrils of magic flowing back and forth. This was his war cabinet, the way he would take charge of and lead the WAAAGH without the threat of being prematurely killed. He knew he would not be able to last forever atop this ziggurat, and that he would eventually need to follow the largest section of the WAAAGH to maintain control. But for right now, he could control the entirety of the WAAAGH from his fortress. Each mage and shaman wielded immense power, and were to be used to 'influence' the decisions of the myriad of Warbosses and Warlords that were leading their sections of the Green Tide. He would not have complete control, but Corpzegrinda would wield enough power to keep them going in the general path he wanted them to go. This was the key to maintaining the WAAAGH's stability. As long as he could use magic to keep the chain of command intact, the WAAAGH was ironclad, only being able to be defeated by the deaths of every subordinate Orc. The method of killing the leading Warmonger and Warlords was no longer a viable strategy, and Corpzegrinda was going to exploit that to the fullest extent. Already, the Green Tide had mobilised, moving its numbers into place to spring a two-pronged attack. The larger force would go West, striking Ihtisam, hopefully being able to use surprise and momentum to quickly break through it. The Sultanate would hopefully just be getting ready to defend, and the WAAAGH would be able to strike it with enough force to crush it before any stiff resistance could be met. From there on the Southern WAAAGH would move up through the low countries until it met Elvish lands. The smaller force would strike the eastern border of the Circle Sea League, and would hopefully be large and powerful enough to shatter it before the CSL could solidify enough to pose a threat. Afterwards, it would move up through the high countries until it met Elvish lands. If all things went as was accordingly planned, both sections of the WAAAGH would hit Elvish lands around the same time, and would be able to simply overrun it. However, once the CSL, Ihtisam, and the Sultanate were out of the way, the WAAAGH would be able to depend on a steady stream of reinforcements from the spawning pits that would be set up along their rivers and the shores of the Circle Sea, as well as those coming from the Black Orc's homeland itself.

Corpzegrinda's voice bellowed with laughter at the prospect, a thirst for blood stronger than all but the best of Black Orcs. With a flick of his wrist, he set the WAAAGH into motion. The Southern Horde, numbering 150 million strong, raged across the borders into Ihtisam, preparing to take them on and overrun them. The Northern Horde, numbering 30 million strong, began to roar into the southeastern border of the Circle Sea League, preparing to do all it could to rapidly overwhelm and crush the nation, and thus secure the northern section of the Circle Sea. Patchwork paddleboats, made of strongest wood with large pieces of metal fixed to the sides, sailed on the rivers into Ihtisam. They were packed with as many guns as they could carry, and worked as floating gunships, with dozens of smaller boats flanking them on all sides. The Orcish fleet, despite being ragtag and primitive, was incredibly massive. Rivers clogged with their ships. Corpzegrinda had done it. He had begun the WAAAGH. The holiest aspect of Orc religion was underway, with him serving as the prophet of the Orc gods, the prophet of the WAAAGH. The prospect made his mouth water.

Along the Ihtisam Border

Warlord Gazthrak Bonerippa rode atop his massive warhog, surrounded on all side by endless waves of his Boyz. Since he had been the one who provided the WAAAGH with advanced weaponry, he had been promoted to Warlord, and now stood 5.48 metres tall and weighed just over 1.2 tons, making him the second most powerful Black Orc, and rightfully giving him control over the Southern Horde, numbering 150 million strong. They had penetrated the border with Ihtisam at dawn, the desert heat already beating down on them. But as they crossed the border at full speed, they prepared for battle, endless waves of eager Boyz firing wildly in anticipation. Bonerippa had been told that Ihtisam had a large amount of Desert Orcs, and that Ihtisam was so un-Orcky that they weren't even bowing down to their rightful Orc masters, and were even enslaving them. That enraged the Boyz more than anything, and every single Orc in the Southern Horde hungered for human blood. The front lines of the Southern Horde, which had struck into the border before Bonerippa's force, was approaching slowly but surely, preparing to engage the human enemy in full force as soon as they were encountered. But the Desert Orcs that populated large swathes of the eastern parts of Ihtisam were a wildcard. Bonerippa's plan was to try and recruit them into the WAAAGH. If he could, he could use the fact that they'd been so mistreated by the humans that they'd gladly fight for the WAAAGH. With a suddenly combined force of local subjects and foreign invaders, Ihtisam would hopefully fall to Bonerippa rapidly. Cannons and mortars rained cannonballs and mortar shells upon the western land, the Boyz not terribly paying attention as to whether they were hitting anything. The Boyz fired their weapons in massive volleys westward, worked into a blind frenzy, caring not if they hit anyone or not. Riverboats plotted up the river westward, clogging the waters. Their guns went off constantly, their targets being simply whatever they managed to hit.

(OOC: I know the actual battle post is shite, but I don't really know what I'm rushing into, so I did the best I could wing. Feel free to post as you see fit.)

Along the Circle Sea League border

Warlord Dakrakka Blakfizt was an imposing figure at 4.97 metres, weighing just under a ton. He wore armour scarred with hundreds of battles, and yet he still was not big or strong enough to head the Southern Horde. That fact burned and festered in his mind like an inflamed cyst, effectively forcing his hand into leading the Northern Horde. He took the helm of the Horde with bruised pride, wielding 30 million Black Orcs. He rode his warhog in the centre of the horde, using his mages to direct them upwards, into the southeastern border of the Circle Sea League. The excited Boyz rained mortar and cannonfire unto the lands of the CSL they were facing, firing their muskets and blunderbusses, not paying attention as to whether they were actually hitting something. This was a common trend amongst Black Orcs. The CSL lacked any locals that could be recruited into the WAAAGH, but the political climate of the CSL itself would hopefully work into Blakfizt's favour. It was made of squabbling city-states, whose bloodily byzantine politics kept them busy warring amongst themselves. They were loosely connected and rather disliked each other, and it was Blakfizt's belief that if he could properly make use of this disunity, the Northern Horde could rapidly overwhelm and crush the CSL before they could organize into a cohesive fighting force. That would be necessary to securing the Circle Sea. If it could be secured, an Orcish fleet could be rapidly constructed and used to navally assault the rest of the continent, as well as moving in supplies and reinforcements. If all went well enough, he'd be able to secure the shores and produce spawning puts to help bolster his forces, as well as provide support to the Southern Horde via navally engaging Ihtisam from the north. But that was for another day. As of right now, he simply needed to win this first battle. And as he commanded his Boyz to rain gunfire down on the CSL, he was confident he'd be able to do just so.

by **Avenio** » Sun Jan 15, 2012 3:15 am

5 miles outside northeast of Fort Marcian, Emirate of Asqelon

The day dawned hot and muggy, as it was wont to in the Blooming Hills, and as the sun rose over the orcish mountains to the east, it brought with it the promise of yet hotter hours to come, with little respite until it retreated once more in the evening. The coming of spring in the Hills brought with it some solace in the form of the return of life to the rocky hillocks, however; throughout the land, blossoms emerged from the brown undergrowth, sprinkling it with bright flashes of orange and yellow and red, and filling the air with the warm spice of the desert.

It was these mornings that Anthemius liked best when he was out on patrol; its beauty almost made up for the sheer hostility of the land. He and a cohort of fifty other men were stationed on the crest of one of the largest hills in the area, encamped within the grounds of an ancient, crumbling watchtower that sat overlooking the border regions of the Emirate. Their stated purpose, as outlined by their frumpy commander back at Fort Marcian, was to watch for any and all orc or Ihtisami incursions across the border, and, if an incursion was seen, to light a signal fire as soon as possible so as to inform the relevant authorities. A vital enough purpose, if such incursions actually happened outside of the ancient tales and the bards' songs.

The League had been at peace with Ihtisam for almost two centuries now, and were in fact valuable trade partners with most of the League; a steady stream of caravans flowed through the pass that their keep loomed over, taking the shortcut around the Varlai Mountains through orcish lands to League territory. The orcs too were at the very least placid; reports indicated some kind of disturbance within the Deathly Kingdom, and raids or skirmishes with greenskin war parties had dropped off for almost five years now. The position of border patrol, once a vital part of the Emirate's defense, dwindled into uselessness, and now had become a position for lazy commanders to drop off troublesome soldiers in, far away from even the modest comforts of the great sandstone Forts.

Anthemius didn't even know what he had done to warrant such treatment; the first night shivering beside the brushwood fire he had dwelled for hours in silence upon the thought as the others strummed away on the oud and drunk the cheap, strong Vansablois brandy they had purchased off of a trader passing through the valley, straining to think of any slight he might have made against the ancient commander or his ambitious, hawk-eyed lieutenant. Eventually, however, he settled upon the sin of success; being a high-born Pentapolitan, he was well placed to threaten the positions of the commanders, and as such he was quickly and quietly shuffled off to this position in the wilderness to rot. After this realization, he had consigned himself to his fate and made the most of his position; by the end of that week, he had joined the others in song and revelry.

Now, some five weeks later, that joy had begun to blow away like the dust. Supplies from the Fort had became few and far between, and the traders that normally filled the valley and even shared their fire on rare occasions suddenly stopped, as if something had halted them at their source. The men were sullen and hungry, resorting to going out and hunting the occasional goat to supplement meager supplies of grain and salted fish.

Things would have to change, and soon, or else they might desert outright and make for the cluster of towns further in the valley and thence to any one of many ports-of-call in Asqelon and beyond. An action, he noted darkly, which would ruin any prospects of him continuing his career as a military commander, just as his superiors doubtlessly hoped.

As all this flowed through his head like the dark torrents of the Pograni, he was at least consoled by the beauty of the vista in front of him, and the fragrance of the pot of porridge, fruit and cinnamon that bubbled away behind him. His thoughts began to drift away for a moment, before and oddity caught his eye. Far off in the hills to the east, a dark blot of smoke rose in front of the rising sun, casting a red glow over the sun as the smoke climbed. He rose to his feet and squinted; it looked to be the creation of a brushfire of some sort, but at this distance, he could not tell. He turned back to the circle of sleeping rolls that surrounded the fire and walked over to the nearest, jabbing at the sleeping man within with his foot.

"Qahad you lazy bastard, on your feet. I have need of you." He commanded, just loud enough to arouse his comrade.

The man squirmed under the sheepskin blanket, mumbling something in Ihtisami before rubbing his eyes. "God's blood Captain... why'd you wake me up?"

Anthemius stepped back and allowed the man to stretch. "I have need of your talents. Now get up."

Qahad rose slowly, casting off the blanket and slowly raising himself to his feet. He was, as with most Asqeloni, of Ihitsami descent, and had the thick, curly black hair, dark complexion and olive eyes of his countrymen, but, as the descendant of the hill tribesmen that straddled the borders of the League, he had a much more useful quality; he had learned the ancient arcane arts of his tribe's hedge seers.

He whistled loudly, and, almost on cue, a hawk of massive proportions swooped down and landed on his shoulders, the bloodied remains of a marmot in its beak. It was an Arazi screamer, one of the largest and deadliest birds of prey in the world, and, more importantly, one of the most intelligent; the tribes of the area had used them to hunt for centuries, allowing them to stalk and kill game as large as goats from miles away. Over time, the bond became stronger and stronger between man and beast, until magics had developed that allowed the seers to swap souls and command the birds themselves, soaring over the hills in the hawks' own bodies.

Qahad made a clicking noise with his teeth, which directed the raptor's attention to him, and, for a long moment, they locked eyes together, neither blinking, neither moving a muscle. With a flash, Qahad's eyes clouded over and turned bright yellow, and the hawk's flashed a brilliant green. With one fast motion of its head, it swallowed the marmot whole and turned its gaze directly towards Anthemius, its piercing emerald eyes boring into him.

He pointed towards the fires in the distance. "See that cloud of smoke? I need to to fly over there and find out what's causing it. Understand?"

The bird bobbed its head in approximation of a nod and leapt upward, flapping its wings before catching a breeze and gliding off into the morning air. Anthemius lead Qahad's body, which began chirping and clicking as its new occupant flexed and explored its new body, over to a log and sat it down, allowing it to revel in the marvel of opposable thumbs.

As the other men stirred around him, Anthemius gazed outward at the plume of smoke, watching as it grew larger and began to flow towards the camp, shrouding the valley in a grey-red pallor. What seemed to be an eternity passed before a gasp erupted behind him, and he wheeled around. Qahad had slid off the log and was breathing heavily, his eyes reverting back to their natural green.

"Well?" Anthemius asked, a tinge of anxiety entering his voice unbidden. "What did you see?"

Qahad stared at him, terror filling his face and sweat rolling down his face.

"Orcs, sir. Millions of them."

Palace of the Emir, Royal District, Asqelon

The ancient marble walls of the Palace echoed with the sounds of mailed boots and shouting men, with courtiers and soldiers dodging in and out of the storied peristyle of the main courtyard, tramping over the orange blossoms that had begun to fall from the courtyard's stately, gnarled orange trees. It was between those trees that the Emir, Absalon El-Faroukh, had erected a long palmwood table and festooned with maps and parchment, with generals crowded about it. In the midst of it all, the Emir lorded over proceedings, garbed in a long embroidered silk robe upon which his greying black beard rested, all crowned with a kingly turban of the finest linen.

The Emir tugged anxiously at his beard, sweat beading his forehead. "How in God's name did they get this close without us noticing? We're supposed to have patrols scouring that entire region of godsforsaken desert, how did a bloody million of them sneak past them?!"

He glared around the room as generals lowered their eyes in embarrassment. It had been an open secret that the border posts were hideously undermanned and subject to rampant political cronyism, often meted down from the highest level.

The emir swore. "Spineless women, the lot of you!" He shook his head and reached for the gleaming porcelain goblet at his side, taking a deep swig of the rich Athrysian summerwine. The Emir's growing fondness of drink had also been an open secret at court, albeit one that was carefully hidden from the Emir's ears. He sighed, still glancing from person to person. "Since I can't seem to get a confession out of any of you lot, we should figure out what we should do about this bloody catastrophe. Anyone got any ideas?"

A bearded old soldier in Pharnacian silks cleared his throat. "Er, well, Your Grace, there is little we can do at this juncture. The, ah, majority of our forces are stationed along the border with Ambaron in anticipation of this season's campaign in the Midlands. Most are not currently mobilized, and it would take some time to mobilize them properly to march to the border provinces. Not to mention the, er, pressing issue of the Ambaronii forces moving in from the Sun Coast and preparing to flank our positions along our border."

The emir swore again. "Do whatever it takes to get the Ambaronii off our backs. Offer them gold, land, my own wives, anything, just get them to sign a thrice-damned accord." He turned to the commander of the western provinces, a yellow-haired Arosian mercenary fop with more feathers in his cap than brains. "And you. Do whatever it takes to get those lazy parasites of yours mobilized and ready to march within a fortnight." The man nodded quickly, slightly startled by the attention given to him. He turned back to the bearded soldier. "Send pigeons to any city that might listen and warn them of what's happening. At the very least we can arrange for a court to be paraded around in when the orcs burn our kingdom to the ground."

El-Faroukh snapped his fingers and a serving boy appeared at his elbows, a pitcher of iced wine in hand to refill his goblet. "Now." He said before taking another drink. "What sort of forces do we have in the east, and how many of the greenskins are there?"

The emir's vizier, a fat and pampered Pentapolitan eunuch named Panychus, answered. "At the moment, Your Grace, we have approximately thirty-five thousand troops stationed in the affected provinces, mainly stationed in and around Forts Marcian and Pelagio." He inhaled, the beads in his extravagant robe jingling slightly. "Sadly, we do not know the exact strength of the orcs, due in large part to the, ah..." He glanced around at the other generals. "Lack of proper surveillance in the area."

The emir smirked. Even during the veritable apocalypse, when orcs threatened to overrun civilization itself, the vizier still saw fit to take pot-shots at his political opponents, he thought darkly. Some things never change.

The vizier continued, his beady eyes darting about. "Our most recent estimates suggest that the orcs number in the millions at least, armed to the teeth and with a powerful warlord in command. Whether this is truly an Orcmarch in the scale of the invasions of old is not yet certain, but their numbers overwhelm anything the League could muster at the present time."

The eunuch continued. "At the moment, they appear to be funneled into the mountain passes that lead from orcish territory, and appear to be simply following one of the ancient caravan routes that used to service the Sultanate's easternmost reaches."

El-Faroukh's brows raised. "And where do these routes lead?"

The vizier's forehead began to sweat. "H-here, Your Grace." He blinked, then added. "Though they do have to pass through the narrow pass overshadowed by Fort Marcian here." He pointed a bejeweled and lavender-scented finger towards a point on a map of the eastern marches.

The old soldier stroked his beard thoughtfully. "That pass is easily defensible by the fort; there are no clear approaches to the walls, and the path itself is narrow and lined by cliffs. It would be a death trap for any army passing through it." He turned to the emir. "If we bring as many troops as we can there and set up as many artillery positions and firing posts as possible, even block the canyon with debris if possible, we could halt the orcs for several days at least."

El-Faroukh nodded. "Enough time to get more reinforcements out of the west to bolster the defenses. Do whatever you need to get it done."

The vizier bowed to the emir and waddled off to make the arrangements as the emir took one last sip of wine. "We may have some hope yet."

Fort Marcian, Emirate of Asqelon

The Fort already reeked of fear by the time Anthemius reached the gates. Soldiers milled anxiously about the dusty sandstone ramparts, conversing nervously amongst themselves and donning coats of plate and mail as befit their station, sharpening swords or oiling muskets in the shaded corners of the scorching main yard. He and his comrades had abandoned their watch soon after they had sent a pigeon warning the Fort of the incoming orcs, riding hard for several hours to reach the clifftop fortress just before sundown, where they assumed preparations would be fully underway to lead the defense against the greenskin horde. What appeared before them, however, betrayed nothing so much as organized chaos, of the momentum of leaderless men carrying on orders thoughtlessly and anxiously.

He dismounted from his horse and led it to the stables, where a stablehand was busy donning a rusted hauberk, a spear at his side. "Hello there!" He called out. "What's going on here? Where is the commander?"

The stablehand, little more than a boy, looked up from his oversized armour. "My apologies, milord. The commander, he, uh..." He hesitated. "He left some time ago. Him and all the other higher-ups told us to suit up and prepare for the defense, and then just rode off without us." The boy hefted the spear and fiddled with it nervously. "They say that they was a bunch of cowards and that they abandoned us, milord. There ain't no one to command us." He sniffed. "They say we're going to die. They say... the orcs are going to do things to us. Terrible things. I don't want to die, milord..."

Anthemius deflated visibly. "God's blood..." He swore. "Who's left in command?"

"No-one, milord. There ain't no-one left to command us. Just a few mercenary captains, but they don't care about anyone but themselves, and they don't know how to lead all of us." He laughed sadly. "Odds are, it's just you left, milord."

Anthemius ran a hand through his hair as the world spun around him. He had wanted a command of his own one day, but he didn't mean to get it by default...

"A-alright." He said, trying to regain as much officer-like composure as possible. "You seem like a bright enough lad. I'm making you my lieutenant." He cocked his head slightly. "What was your name, again?"

The boy's eyes widened. "Err, my name's Setebos...Thank-you, milord..."

He smiled. "I'm not a noble, Lieutenant. 'Sir' will suffice. Gather what men you see fit and start seeing about the preparations for a siege; assess how much food and water we have, and have a contingent begin preparing barricades and defenses. I'll see to preparing the artillery positions and drilling the gunnery crews. We don't have much time, so make haste."

Setebos nodded. "Yessir."

As the sun set behind the Blooming Hills, the vanguard of the League took shape, standing firm in the smoke-filled sunset against whatever the gods would throw at them, prepared to meet their end.

by **The Nuclear Fist** » Wed Jan 18, 2012 4:17 pm

Fort Marcian, Emirate of Asqelon

The endless ranks of the Northern Horde had grown restless. It had been several days since the humans had taken note of the Black Orcs, far longer than Blakfizt had assumed. To Blakfizt's astonishment, the humans had not met the Horde with an army, but had instead let them march through. That angered him far more than the injustice of being put in command of the lesser Horde. It seemed as if the Twin Gods had chosen to bless Bonerippa with all the luck, sticking the far more devout Blakfizt with an enemy that wouldn't even meet them head on! The Boyz were getting jumpy, and several fights had broken out. In desperation, Blakfizt had sent out a scouting party of his most trusted Orclings to look around for a propper scrap, and after a few hours of running around, Blakfizt had been informed of the location of a fort some forty miles from where the frontlines were currently. As fast as he could muster, he rallied the Boyz and sent them running at full speed, towing artillery and mortars and equipment. Many of them chose to ride their warhogs, making up the Black Orc equivelant of cavalry. An hour or so after the sun had fallen, the Orcs had reached the rocky pass, Fort Marcian in the distance. The cavalry charged at full speeds, many archers taking aim and firing their massive arrows in the general direction of the stony fortress. Even more fired their muskets and blunderbusses, creating a virtual wall of lead balls, aimed in the very general direction.

"Aw right, ya gitz! Dare'z ware da humiez iz. We'z gonna get 'em! We'z gonna get 'em gud!" Blakfizt's words echoed far louder than the chants and roars of the Boyz, likely reaching the ears of those inside Fort Marcian. Those Boyz mounted atop their warhogs, the cavalry, poured forth from the rocky path, coming out of the cliff's pass in a virtual wave, firing musketballs and arrows and crossbow bolts at the fortress in a virtual rain, not much paying attention to what was being fired back. The idea was to have the cavalry come at the fortress in waves, taking shots at the fortress and hopefully drawing attention away from the slow ooze of green that passed from the gorge. Slowly but surely, thousands more Black Orcs poured out of the gorge in a virtual sea of green, raining musketfire at the Fortress in unorganized volleys. Several artillery and mortar crews had made it from the gorge, and their Orcling crews began to load shells into their respective pieces and prepare it, taking aim one after another shortly after. Thick clouds of smoke began to fill the battlefield as artillery and mortars went off, one after another. The Orclings were aiming at the fortress, but due to the inaccuracy of Orc weapons, most were likely to hit around it. However, due to so many firing at once, Blakfizt hoped to hit the fortress with one or two actual shots. Volley cannons took aim, black smoke clogging the lungs of the crews as many thunderclaps arrived at once, letting loose a torrent of shells in a rain upon the fortress. Or, at least, that was the intended effect. By and large, the general hope of the Orcs was to land a few good shots on the fortress, or manage to create so many explosions and craters near it to give the fortress a terrifying quake.

As the Green Tide spilled forth from the gorge, many unusually dressed Orcs spilled forth. They wore helmets made of skulls and horns, their bodies clothed in leather loincloths and strapd, shoulder armour made of hardened leather and massive jawbones filled with jagged teeth. They carried massive staffs, engraved with stone runes and topped with skulls and jewels. These were the feared Orc mages of lore, known for their brutally savage magics and their reputation of violence, even amongst the Black Orcs. They raised their staffs, crackling rays of sickly green light. One after another, they threw large balls of green, magical energy at the fortress. They would act like bombs, violently exploding like a shell filled with acid upon coming into contact with something. Bursts of green energy pierced the thick cloud of smoke of the battlefield, as the mages sporadically hurled their arcane magics at the fortress. This was an all out assault, the goal being to rapidly overwhelm and the initial force of the fortress and smash down the walls. If they could gain even a single entrance, they could swarm in and liquidate the humans before any substantial losses could be racked up on the Northern Horde's side. The thought of human blood made Blakfizt drool. His fists were clenched as he shouted encouragements and orders, saliva dripping from his gaping maw.

by **Avenio** » Sun Jan 22, 2012 1:22 am

Fort Marcian, Emirate of Asqelon

As the sun set over the dusty hills, the final preparations for the defense of the Fort were underway. As the setting sun cast a deep, blood-red glow across the warm sandstone of the ancient outpost's walls, men scurried about, fulfilling their final tasks; some gathered food and munitions for a long night of terrible bloodshed, while others snuck in and out of the clandestine whorehouse that had long occupied the under-used cellar of the mess hall, capitalizing on their last few hours in whatever way they could afford before the prostitutes packed up shop themselves and stole out a side entrance. Others still sat at their posts, nursing wineskins or crude bottles of ale, and some few even knelt in prayer to whatever gods they kept, some asking for glorious victory, others for a swift and merciful death.

It was among this scene of despair that Anthemius found himself, striding alone amongst the soldiery, comforting those he could. It was heartening to know that the soldiers, his soldiers, now, had largely remained stoic in the face of their certain doom; few enough had fled the fighting, and most had decided to fight for their lands and families now, rather than be executed dishonourably as a traitor or run down by the orcs months from now regardless. By hook or by crook, they were determined to be immortal, if only through the lips of song and tale. It made him proud to be their commander, if only by circumstance.

As he took his position on the West Wall and donned what mail and plate he could scrounge from the armory, he heard the first signs of his foe. Far in the distance, past the Abraxas River that snaked through the steep-sided valley, he could see smoke rising from the gorges that fed into the valley bottom, and a deep bass rumbling could be felt throughout the fortress, rattling unfastened metal and ceramics, tensing the soldiers on the watch.

When the orcs emerged from the haze of their fires, it was almost beautiful, he had to admit; the setting sun cast their green skin in deep contrast with the glowing orange of the clay cliffs, and the swirling smoke danced about them as they poured over the hills, screeching and yelling as they went. Such majesty did not last long, however; seconds after the orcs began to emerge from the gloom, the first whistling musket shots and crossbow bolts began to impact the walls of the keep, pinging and whizzing as they went. As the orcs crossed the river and began slogging up the hill, the first of the orcs' cannonfire and magic began to rain down on the keep; beginning with the flash of muzzles across the gorge, great gouts of dirt and clay began to spray upwards all around the keep, as the orcish fire arced outwards and hit the surrounding hillside, while the demonic magic slammed into the walls, crackling as its acidic spray melted the uppermost layer of the sandstone into a suitably green-black layer of glass. As the bombardment continued, the orcs seemed to correct for their aim; the first cannonballs began to impact the sides of the fort, crashing into the sandstone walls at great speed, some few even cracking the ancient stone itself.

That was Anthemius' cue. Drawing his sword and raising it above him, he signaled to his lieutenant, who let loose a defiant staccato on a trumpet in brief protest of the screaming horde of lime-green death that surged towards them. All along the walls, soldiers took position, aimed and fired at the oncoming orcs, letting loose a rain of arrows, musketballs and ballista bolts fired from emplacements along the walls. Seconds later, the Fort's own battery of cannons fired in response to the orcs, half aimed at where orcish gun batteries were assumed to be placed on the opposite ridge, half at the Green Tide itself.

Lastly, the final defenses of the Fort swung into play; from atop Shadewatch Tower, the Fort's small contingent of battlemages began to rain fire and death down upon the oncoming orcs, tossing fireballs and jars of wildfire¹ down upon the orcs' heads, taking special care to aim for the gaudily-dressed orcish shamans.

Anthemius himself took a brief respite behind a battlement, prayed noiselessly to the gods, and joined the fray, at peace with himself and the world.

by **The Nuclear Fist** » Sun Jan 22, 2012 11:19 pm

The Black Orcs had begun to storm up the hill in a virtual ocean of green, as if the Fort Marcian was some sort of armoured knight, standing atop an island being reclaimed by the sea. They fired their blunderbusses, their crossbows and ballistas and bows upwards, hurling a virtual rain at the tips of Marcian's walls, albeit not terrible accurately. However, they flew in thick waves, the general idea being that there were so many that eventually some would hit their targets. However, as this went on, the humans began to fire back, cutting down the advancing Black Orcs in droves. Everywhere it seemed there was a Boy hit too many times, his corpse collapsing and sliding down the hill, suddenly releasing a massive, green cloud of spores. And yet, even as casualities began to mount, the Black Orcs advanced. It seemed as if two Orcs took the place of every dead Orc, charging up with psycotic vigour. They kept up the rain of bolts and arrows and musketballs, even as they were cut down. Their will could not be broken, their hunger for human flesh ironclad. One Orc, even with his legs blown off and bleeding to death, continued to pull himself up the hill, firing a pistol up at the Fortress. When its single round was spent, he'd unholster one of the others every Boy kept strung across their chest, often numbering up to fifteen. The wildfire burned down many an Orc, sending him to death. And even as they burned, they refused to put out their flames, wipped into a bloodfrenzy that caused them to throw everything they had at the Fortress, even as Death's icy claws dragged them to the beyond, their cloud of death spores spouting out.

The gun batteries, those artillery cannons and standard cannons, were too far away and too mobile to be terribly effected by the human batteries' shellings. A few, here and there, were knocked out, the place they were suddenly smoldering craters, filled with green gore and spores. But there were many more, and it seemed that a new one came every few minutes or so from the gorge, lobbing shells and cannonballs at Marcian. However, many of the mortars had much shorter range, and had to be dragged far closer to have any chance of slugging Marcian. A large minority of them had begun to be taken out by the shellings. However, the shellings were hitting the Green Tide head on, beyond the hill. It was unlikely that the humans would risk their own skins by throwing shells right on the hill, and thus many of them were hitting the parts of the Horde not close to it, still on the flat ground. Bursts of fire and smoke mixed with the churned earth as shells struck the ground, exploding. Dozens of Black Orcs were dying left and right, yet still more poured out from beyond gorge, an endless wave. The artillery and cannon crews never the less kept up with it, hurling shell after shell and cannonball after cannonball at the Fortress. Some would probably hit, many more would miss. But then something strange began to happen. Massive contraptions of iron and wood began to come forth from the gorge. Siege catapults, carrying all manner of loads. Many had piles of burning wood, others had piles of burning scrap metal or piles of regular scrap metal. Still others were loaded with corpses, many of which were swarmed with pests and flies, and had clearly been dead for some time. Many were Orc corpses, still many others were human. At one point, the Horde must have ran into a graveyard, and dug up the corpses. As the catapults began to file from the gorge and spread out, they flung their load, filling the sky with burning wood and metal, regular metal, and rotting, diseased corpses. The accuracy was not terrible well off, but the catapult crews were made up of well-trained Orclings, and it was hoped by many an Orcling, and even Blakfizt himself, that enough of burning wood and slag and corpses make it over the walls and into the fortress. If they could do that, the humans would suddenly find themselves side being pelted by burning wood and smoldering, iron rain, as well as many a corpse.

"Aw'right, ya skrappy gitz! Run up dare and help da Boyz!" Blakfizt's command thundered over the sound of war. With that command, the Orclings began to separate and swarm out from the rest of the Horde. They were smaller, most no more than waist-high on the regular Boyz. But they ran faster, and carried finer crafted muskets, some even carrying musket-rifles. But more importantly, the Orclings actually aimed, and were relatively accurate, for a Greenskin. As they charged, they raised their muskets and musket-rifles, aiming high up at those humans at the tops of the walls, and let loose many a volley of musketballs hurling towards the tips of Marcian's walls. If the regular Orcs had been a tidal wave, than the Orclings were a tsunami. They began to flood the hill, not even seeming to notice as they took significant casualities, either from the battlemages or the arrows and bolts and muskets. They just kept coming, firing at the tops of the wall with all the passion of a religious zealot. "Geddup tuh da gate 'n smakkit down!" Blakfizt screamed his order, once again booming over the constant thunder of war. The Orclings gave no signal that they understood or even heard his order, but yet they began to charge forward, heading towards the gate of Fort Marcian, some even taking pause from firing at the humans on the wall to firing at the gate. Many of the surviving mortar groups began to turn their attention away from the walls, already being besieged by countless artillery and cannon crews and mages, to focus on the gate, lobbing many a mortar shell at it. Of course, being Orc mortars, many of them failed to even get close to hitting the gate. But being there so many, it was likely that a few would aim true, finding their target and exploding on or near the gate.

Several of the mages had been struck with the wildfire, burning to death. But the majority had thrown their staffs into the air, using their magics to shield themselves from the fire. Yet, they continued to hurl their sickly green, magical orcs at the walls, many focusing where the artillery shells and cannonballs had put cracks in the sandstone, others focusing where the acidic contents of the spheres had exploded on the walls. But as they began to close the distance, a few mages began to hurl their orbs at the gate, hoping to use their magics break down the gate with the combined force of mortar crews and the running Orclings. But it was strange. As many of them fired, they seemed to perspirate, the sweat glowing a faintly green colour. Their bellies began to expand, and they began to grimace. It was almost as if they were becoming sick, as if they had the flu. Suddenly, one after another, they spread their massive jaws wide, a massive pillar of sickly green, flaming, acidic vomit heading towards the walls, ready to impact it. This was the fabled Black Orc arcane vomit¹ of lore, a byproduct of the magics they used. Each one took several seconds to recover after spewing forth this vomit, afterwards resuming hurling their magical orbs at the walls. It was a truly a sight to see, this battle. For generations onwards, the ancestors of those who fought in this battle would tell of it.

by **Avenio** » Wed Feb 01, 2012 1:20 am

Fort Marcian, Emirate of Asqelon

Slowly but surely, the defenders of Fort Marcian lost momentum. For every moment the soldiers atop the wall were able to lean over the battlements and take a shot at the lumbering tide, another five were spent cowering behind the sandstone as shot and arrows pitted the stout walls like clay during a rainstorm. Anthemius himself dashed frantically along the walls and between barricades, shouting encouragement and giving orders, ensuring that the supply of musket balls, gunpowder and arrows kept up. He was getting tired, however, and his breath came to him in ever more ragged gasps. The men around him were tired too, and becoming more and more frightened as well, as the entire world seemed to become enveloped by a sea of murderous green. Morale began to plummet as the assault wore down upon the defenders, never ceasing, intensifying with every second, infiltrating their minds and bodies like the great ravaging sandstorms of the east. The men, brave as they were, would never hold for the night, Anthemius realized as he climbed up the well-worn stairs up to the battlements. Something would need to change, and soon, if they were to hold the fort.

That something, however, came in a terrifying and unexpected form. A hideous crack erupted forth from the upper levels of the Fort, and Anthemius watched in horror as several successive orcish cannon shots connected full-on with the Shadewatch Tower, shattering its ancient, carved facade, and in one roaring, cracking motion, it collapsed forward, sending dozens of tonnes of sandstone rolling down the hill into the orcish horde, and with it, the Fort's entire complement of mages, presumably dead in the collapse. The West Wall itself cracked and shifted as a result of the fall, and for one hideously long instant, Anthemius feared that it too would slide into the abyss, but it held, crippled but still in one piece. He ran to the battlements to survey the damage, but was instantly blinded by a tremendous flash of light and a horrific stench as the spray of the arcane vomit splattered over the lip of the wall, sizzling as it burned its way through the sandstone bricks as well as an unfortunate soldier, who screamed in agony as the orcish alchemy fused the tin of his helm to his skull.

The gradual loss of momentum and the slow dissolution of morale that had begun to eat away at his men became a torrent, and panicking men dropped their weapons in dismay, cowering behind the battlements for cover from the storm of musket balls. Seizing the moment, he drew his sword and held it aloft, its fine Pentapolitan steel glinting in the setting sun's blood-red light. Drawing upon his own dwindling reserves of breath and courage, he shouted, fighting against the storm with every syllable;

"Courage, men! We stand here as the vanguard of all we hold dear, of civilization, of humanity itself! We stand in defiance of the coming darkness, which threatens to swallow the light of the world! For every orc we kill, for every moment we hold back the tide, for every munition they spend, we save the lives of those we love, in the homes we cherish! And if we may die today in the defense, we will be remembered for all time for our glorious sacrifice, and we can die and join our ancestors in the beyond knowing that we met our end with honour, bravery and most of all, delight in the fact that we can take these ugly monsters with us! Once more men, with me! For the old gods and new, for king and country, for honour and glory! Once more!"

Almost as if on cue, a massive explosion and gout of flame erupted from beneath the crumbled tower, as a mage, doubtlessly crippled and dying from the collapse, ended his own life in fire and blood, consuming his life in a haze of magic and creating a blast of heat powerful enough to turn his sandstone tomb into a brief, shimmering and expanding wall of flying glass.

The men rallied at the sight, clashing their armaments together and echoing his "Once more" in glorious unity, before turning back to their grim task, with at least a momentarily-renewed fervour. It was then that the orcs chose to begin hurling corpses and debris at the wall, which rained down amongst the men and buildings. Many of the corpses, which were evidently very old, simply exploded upon contact with a hard surface, while others still merely landed in a pile of gore and bones, mixing with the hail of wall fragments, rocks and other missiles.

The grand, heavy forward gate took the heaviest bombardment, with cannonfire and the blows of orcs mixing with missiles from the newly-placed siege machines, racking its metal surface as it almost writhed with each blow, creaking and groaning under the strain. From above the gate itself, in the stoutly-walled gatehouse, defenders began putting the aptly-named murder-holes to good use, pouring boiling oil and sprays of wildfire down on the seething wall of orcs and orclings in addition to the intermittent showering of arrows and musket-fire.

As the sun finally sank beneath the hills, the grim determination of the fort calcified, and the defenders fought ever-onward, ready to face their end.

The Green Tide Approaches [Arcanum]

The Green Tide Approaches [Arcanum]

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