Slay The Orks (Open, Past-Tech Character)

[Wandering Argonians]

The Disclaimer:

This is a pretty simple, fun, and mostly plot-less PAST TECH RP sent in the distant past of my nation, in a long-forgotten colony under siege from a relentless Ork WAAAGH moving across the land.

If you're looking to participate, simply write yourself in if you have the skill, and if you don't then please abstain from doing so until you check with me. There are light fantasy elements in play here, but magic is extremely uncommon and talented mages are rare. Argonians for the most part aren't arcanely adept, with the exception of a few shamans.

I expect you to be able to spell correcty (within reason), and use correct grammar. I also expect decent-length postings with at least a little bit of detail as to what you're doing.

Your opponents are the standard green-skinned Ork and their great many Goblin allies, all armed with a variety of crude weaponry and some clever Goblin creations.

Your allies are a motley group of Argonian hunters, warriors, craftsmen, and government officials. All have differing opinions about how to handle the grave threat before them, and they don't always agree. All also have differing opinions and views on different races, so don't exactly expect a hero's welcome when you arrive in the village.

The story follows next...

[Wandering Argonians]

OOC: Sorry for the delay. After typing for two hours, auto-log-off kicked in and I lost my posting.

IC:

For the past three days the rain had been a torrential downpour, turning the fields on the plains below the small Argonian village of Hillcrest into a slurry mess of twisted bodies and rubble where homesteads and farms had once stood.

Opposite the steeply-sloping hill sat the encampment of Warlord Hed-Stompa, the latest in a long line of increasingly brutal and violent Orkish warlords on the long and thousand-strong WAAAGH march from the Orkish lands far to the east. Thus far, it seemed that Hed-Stompa was the most successful of the seventeen-plus different leaders this particular campaign had had throughout its four-year duration, since he'd stayed in command for the better part of three years through force of will and his barbaric practice of crushing the still-living heads of those who opposed him beneath his massive metal boots.

Directly across from the Ork encampment, about a mile distant and up a very steep hill, stood the wooden-walled Argonian village of Hillcrest. Hillcrest, until about a month ago, had been little more than a breadbasket settlement, providing large amounts of grain to the main Argonian homeland far to the west, since the swamps of the Black Marsh lacked the vast amount of rolling grassland to support anything but rice-paddies, its proximity to the coast allowing for successful fishing ventures but little else in the way of food production. While the Elder Council, the ruling governmental body of the Argonian people, was very hesitant to allow its subjects to leave the marshes, it was becoming clear that they could not hope to sustain a larger population than they already had without an alternative source of food. Reluctant to initiate trade with outsiders, colonization was their only remaining option.

To ensure effective management of such a settlement, they had placed a veteran warrior and scout in the position of village cheiftan, Solomon Vek. Solomon, while an effective leader, had one glaring flaw in the eyes of the Elder Council: He was a christian, and didn't worship the gods of the Argonian Pantheon. Such a belief had kept him out of the prestigious warrior cults in the past despite his prowess as a hunter, and those on the Council feared that by not getting rid of him as soon as possible he might be the first to be accepted and thereby taint those ancient organizations with barely-tolerated heresy. To that effect, Solomon had been sent eastward to establish a farming community and keep his blasphemous beliefs to himself. This was a common means of dealing with influential troublemakers, in fact the patron ancestor of the Longhunter Cult, Tellian Havas, had been dealt with in a similar manner.

The Elder Council was nothing if not cunning, however, and dispatched a member of another warrior-cult to keep an eye on Solomon. The Shadowscale Cult revered the Argonian god of death, a diety known as Sithis, and while considered heretical by the presiding religious body, the Shamanhood, the Elder Council tolerated their ways because of the effective assassins the Shadowscales provided. Despite the backing of the ruling body, Shadowscale cultists were highly unpopular, and only seen in those outlying villages where they had been dispatched to observe, and if needed, execute the ruling offical in the name of the Council they served.

The village itself was surrounded by a high wooden wall, and contained within enough food and water stores to last for several months yet, but things remained grim. No wall, wooden or otherwise, would repel an Orkish WAAAGH for long. Solomon had been aware of the dangers involved with settling a community outside the insulating thickness of his homeland, and had therefore enlisted the aide of several skilled individuals. The main village building was known as the Council House, named so because of the resemblance to the much larger building that housed the actual Elder Council back in the homeland. For now, it served as a command center of sorts. Within stood a large, round wooden table. It was late in the afternoon, though by virtue of the thick clouds it looked closer to dusk outside. The expanse within was lit by a single oil-lamp hanging from the ceiling, and by a slowly-rolling fire along the back wall in a large and sturdy stone hearth.

Solomon himself stood slightly hunched over the aforementioned table, studying a weathered map of the surrounding area intently. On the map there stood a collection of pebbles, one pebble per ten supposed Orks, situated in an arc where they were encamped not more than a mile away. The village was shown as a lonely wooden square...

"Staring at the problem and wishing for it to go away isn't going to solve it..."

Solomon looked up from his musings, a glare of veiled anger in his blue eyes, his ear-fins narrowing in an expression of annoyance...

"When I want your opinion I will ask for it, assassin..."

The comment was directed to the not-quite visible form sitting rather lounge-like in a large leather chair just outside the light cast by both the lamp and the fire. The Shadowscale assassin known as Geth snorted softly in contempt at the chieftain's remark...

"And if your superiors had asked for my opinion you'd have been dead by now..."

A booming baritone sounded from the other Argonian at the table, a massive specimen standing nearly seven feet tall and constructed from a solid three-hundred or so pounds of muscle. Zen Morkath was Solomon's right hand, a peace-keeper borrowed from the esteemed and ancient Morkath clan, or the 'Cult-less' as their warrior brethren referred to them, since they did not revere any diety or patron ancestor. The Morkath were, however, legendary for their battle-skills and their massive size...

"Do not test my patience shadow-walker, I am keenly aware of what your presence here represents but the moment I consider you a threat you will be dealt with accordingly..."

There was a low hiss from Geth's direction, but he was quiet for now. Zen knew how to throw insults, and the biggest insult an enemy could suffer was to be ignored. Geth was aware of this, and simply bided his time. His ways were not Morkath's ways, they involved much more subtlety than brute force...

"Make yourself useful and go fetch the Shaman. His wisdom will be more useful than your verbal barbs..."

Geth rose from his seat like an ethereal specter of death before stepping into the light cast by the lamp. Unlike most Argonians in the village, Geth's scales had an oddly ashen, if not gunmetal hue to them as opposed to the typical green like Solomon and Zen. His clothing seemed to absorb the very light directed at it, so dark was its color. The cuirass of black leather on his chest would have appeared ornately engraved on closer inspection, adorned with runes displaying his reverance for the Argonian death-god and his chosen cult. A row of three throwing knives made of a dark metal sat on either side of the cuirass, on top of Geth's ribs. Another row of the same number sat on either hip, and a pair of larger blades intended for close combat sat in parallel at the small of his back. On his back was a quiver matching the color and construction of his cuirass, holding arrows made from blackwood and fletched with raven's feathers. The heads themselves were of the same metal as his knives. The bow hanging on the quiver was also made from hard but supple blackwood, and would require a strength to pull it that didn't match Geth's relative size.

The assassin stood as tall as Solomon, roughly six feet, but was of leaner build. Solomon himself was a stocky sort, like most Argonian males who followed the warrior path. He stared at the man who may one day try to take his life with a mixture of contempt and command. He was the chieftain, and Geth would do well to remember it. It did not, however, keep Geth from flinging one last insult...

"Your office dictates that I follow your commands, within reason. It does not, however, keep me from opening your pet's throat for his insolence. Keep him on a short leash, lest I put him down..."

A war-cry was bellowed from Zen's throat as he drew the equally-massive battle-blade from his back and swung the five feet of cold and unforgiving steel at roughly Geth's neck level, an attack that would surely have removed the assassin's head from his shoulders had he not simply vanished before the blade struck. He seemed to reappear behind Zen, moving like a waterfall, fluid and powerful. A sharp kick to the back of the knee threw Zen off balance, dropping him to a knee as Geth hammered a kick to the kidneys with his opposite foot and using the massive back of his opponent as a stepping-stone, launched himself upwards to come down again with a powerful heel-axe to the top of Zen's head. The blow didn't have the intended effect, however. Zen still stared back at the assassin with a confused look in his eyes, at least until Geth hit him again with a stronger rotating kick that sent the larger warrior to the floor in an unconcious heap.

Solomon's hand drifted to the sword hanging from his belt, a beautifully-crafted katana-like blade from the legendary Longtail-clan warrior-craftsmen. Geth simply smiled...

"Heed this warning. It will not happen again..."

Before Solomon could respond, Geth was gone again. As he moved to check on his fallen friend, the door to the Council House opened, and in walked another of his allies, a Longhunter scout named Vektor Kast. When Vektor saw the prone form of the largest of the village's warriors, he ran to assist the cheiftan...

"What happened here?"

"Zen attempted to solve our assassin problem, but it seems it's a bigger issue than we originally thought. Zen should be fine, but frankly I'm surprised that Geth didn't break his leg on Zen's thick skull..."

"True. If he will survive, leave him for now. I bring news..."

The two Argonians allowed the third to rest for now, there was little they could do for him until the Shaman arrived. Vektor brought news of his scouting runs around the Orkish camp...

"They are stronger than we expected, but seem loosely loyal to the largest, strongest Ork in the camp. He appears to maintain his prowess by killing any who oppose him. I've watched him stomp a few to death actually. The horde itself is a large group of smaller groups who dress similarly and fight for status, which is why the entire horde hasn't rushed us yet. From what I observed, the leader has instituted a new rule where his authority can't be challenged until someone from one of the smaller groups proves themselves worthy by destroying our village..."

"And how did you learn this, Vektor? From watching?"

"Yes, chieftain. They talk a lot with their hands, and there was a lot of encompassing gestures to the others, then a lot of pointing at himself, and then a lot more angry pointing in the direction of the village. I did not, however, learn why they've simply stopped and established a permanent camp so close to our village and haven't tried to over-run it yet..."

"It is puzzling. With a horde that size we'd need help from the homeland to destroy it..."

"Provided the assassin doesn't destroy you first, chieftain. I do not trust him, if he's not going to help with the defense then I suggest we deal with him ourselves..."

Solomon was silent for a moment, considering the options he had. They could try that, but judging by how handily Geth had taken down their best fighter he doubted they could do it alone and survive...

"As appealing as that sounds, it would only end in our demise I fear..."

"Then perhaps we should ask the Shaman to send word to the Gray Watch?"

Solomon's head swiveled suddenly to look at his head scout. The Gray Watch were the third and final warrior-cult in Argonian culture. They worshipped the supreme diety Makaal, and acted as body-guards for the Elder Council. A a group of devout warrior-monks, they were also entrusted with rooting out heresey and corruption amongst the Shamanhood and those outside the Shadowscales who revered Sithis, Makaal's arch-enemy...

"We will have to ask him once he gets here..."

As if on que, the doors opened once more, allowing the hunched form of Shaman Seethis to enter followed almost immediately by the dark shadow Solomon had to assume was Geth. Once out of the pouring rain, the Shaman stopped, and slowly turned to look in the assassin's general direction...

"You may leave now, dark one. I wish you gone from my presence..."

Geth, arrogant as he was, could do or say little. Even one such as he did not want to incur the wrath of the entire Argonian pantheon by slaying a Shaman. Sithis himself frowned on such actions, and to turn your back on the death-god was to invite your own demise. Geth vanished again before the door had swung closed...

"That one disturbs me. His connection to the death-god is very strong. Chieftan, I bid you blessings from Makaal, the All-Father, though I know you do not revere him..."

Solomon smiled at the ancient Argonian moving towards him...

"I simply know him by a different name, Shaman Seethis. Please, join us..."

"If you would be so kind, I would prefer to speak while seated by the fire. This storm is hard on my old bones, and the warmth would be welcome..."

"Gladly. Your wisdom is worth a far more lavish price. But first, the assassin has dealt Zen a heavy blow, and he has slept for some time now. Can you help him?"

"Certainly..."

The old Argonian Shaman shuffled across the dirt floor, supporting himself on the tall blackwood staff he carried as a symbol of his office. The staff itself was heavily inlaid with symbols, which seemed to reflect light where the blackwood seemed to absorb it. During its construction, the carved-away pieces were saved, and then burned to ash before being mixed with blessed pure water from the marshes and rubbed into the etchings. It was symbolic of life and death, an integral part of being a village Shaman. Shaman Seethis was present at every birth, every funeral, and every wedding.

As he approached the unconcious form of Zen Morkath, the runes on the face of the staff began to glow with a pale white light. Standing over the uncouncious warrior, the Shaman drove the butt of his staff down hard between the shoulder-blades of his intended target, and Zen gasped as he awoke, the channeled energies from the Shaman himself shocking him into coherence. Aside from being the spiritual leader of the village, Shaman Seethis was a powerful arcane master. Despite his advanced age he was more than capable of defeating an opponent many times larger and many times stronger.

Zen got to his feet, blood-rage in his eyes until Solomon calmed him down. The four Argonians then moved to the hearth area, where the Shaman seated himself in a large chair and pulled the great fur covering closer around himself. An ornate head-dress made from the skull of an Ork and the feathers of many brightly-colored birds sat on his head, matching the dark blue robe he wore via the bright-colored threads that made up beautiful patterns on his garment...

"Now, young Solomon, I assume you sent for me for reasons greater than the healing of our friend?"

"Indeed, Shaman. While the Ork threat is a grave one, I fear Geth may be a larger concern at the moment. We would like for you to send word to the Gray Watch and request a warrior-monk to deal with him..."

The Shaman was quiet for a moment, as if lost in thought...

"While I do not like asking for the attention of the Gray Watch, I have already sent for what you seek. I sent the request the moment I sensed the darkness of that one's soul. Even with the blessings of the Elder Council, the Gray Watch will have no qualms about dealing with him. I have met his kind before, but never have the seethed evil like Geth does..."

He fell silent for a moment, enjoying the heat from the fire...

"Help will arrive shortly. Makaal does not neglect his faithful in their time of need, and aid unlooked-for will come. Now please leave me. I must meditate and pray, and seek clairification from the All-Father..."

While cryptic, Solomon got the message. Help would soon arrive against the threats both outside and inside the village. The other three Argonians departed from the hearth, returning to the table...

"Aid unlooked-for? The old one is vague. We would need an army, or at the very least a formidable alliance of warriors to combat a horde that size..."

Vektor nodded in agreement with Zen's statement...

"You have my bow at your command, chieftain..."

"And my blade. May we die honorable deaths and fall amidst a sea of Orkish blood!"

Solomon was glad to see that Zen was eager for battle, but one man, no matter how powerful and willing, could slay a thousand Orks alone...

[Dastardly Stench]

I hate rain, thought the undemon. I hate rain and I hate cold and I really hate mud so thick I can't find a good place to get into the air from. He wrapped his cloak a little more tightly around his folded, batlike wings again with a wince. Then, he smiled.

I love Orcs, though. They're so big, fat and dumb I can trick 'em out of just about anything! There was a small fire pit in front of him and--don't ask how--a fire burning in it, with a small piece of a plow animal of now-indeterminable species roasting on a spit set up over it. There had been a party of about four Orcs sitting around it a few minutes ago, but a wild goose inexplicably appeared and the Orcs somehow got lost trying to chase it down and eat it. Then, it just disappeared as if it had never existed in the first place, leaving them to find their way back to...well, they had pretty much forgotten how to get there. Ah, well, the turned demon thought, they probably haven't heard that pun, either.

In a moment, the former demon's foot-and-a-half long tongue had extended into the still-roasting piece of meat, pumped digestive juices into it and left it almost completely hollow. If they caught him, at least he'd die well-fed, and at least he didn't have to put up with cold food again, either. These Orcs were just plain amazing! Marvel had been scavenging their camp for almost two weeks, and they hadn't caught on to a single one of his illusions yet!

There was a soft rustling in the grass behind him...and to his left..and his right...and in front of him. Maybe the Orcs had caught on after all! As the demon retracted his tongue, he could hear at least seven of them stomping through the underbrush...and, considering that there had only been about three in the original party (and even less if you went by IQ), he guessed that they'd finally wised up and set what, to them, would pass for a trap. Judging by the fact that he heard the clanking of wood and metal--as in big, ugly blunt instruments to pat him on the head with while they told him what a good boy he was--he figured that the odds of him surviving the next five minutes were just about impossible to one.

"So," one of the Orcs said from the back of the pack, "wot we 'ave 'ere?" Language was obviously not his strong point--but there was a glint of intelligence in his beady little eyes that warned Marvel not to underestimate him. And since the undemon couldn't dazzle them with his brilliance, he decided to baffle them with his bull. He stood up and faced the ring leader.

"Rotten meat disposal service," he said. "Brraaaaaap!" Despite themselves, several of the Orcs in the pack got off a few short snickers.

"'En wuy duzzen't we just dispoze of you?" the Orc asked. "Bad meat drauuuughs floys, y' know."

And that gave Marvel an idea.

"You're so right!" he exclaimed, and, suddenly, a huge swarm of flies descended on the camp. Of course, flies don't fly at night, so they were obviously not real--but it was the next best thing. In moments, all the Orcs in the posse were batting the little buggers away--all except one. That would be the ring leader, the one with the glint in his eyes. And now, he was staring straight at the poor, semi-defenseless former demon.

"Thot ya moyt try som'm loik 'at," it said, "so I warded m'self. Any last words, ya noisy li'l git?" it asked, bringing its warhammer to the ready.

Marvel didn't have any time to spare, so he decided to pull out all the stops, and hit the Orc with a TRANSMORGIFY spell. he really didn't care what it turned into, as long as it wasn't an Orc when all was said and done. He raised his hand and quickly chanted the spell:

Am'baht Lahm'baht Clod'deh ZUM!

...and, just as he finished, the edge of the warhammer caught his outstretched finger.

To say that the spell failed was putting it mildly. Instead of going forward into the Orc, it went straight backward--into the remains of the meat and the spit it was roasting on. In a moment, it wasn't a spit any more...it was a small load of fireworks...and it fell straight into the fire. And all that Marvel had time for was a quick,

"Oh Sh--"

BOOM!

Marvel had never been able to conjure explosives before, so he figured that this was a battle half won. The good thing was that it was hot. Heat was Marvel's thing. He could be burned at the stake and survive (not that he would find it particularly pleasant). The bad thing was that it had all kinds of tiny little stuff in it moving at real high speeds, and a lot of it ended up embedded in...

"That was my best rain cloak," he said with a hiss as he popped his wings, extended the barb on his tail and regarded old beady eyes--whom he had inadvertently shielded from the bulk of the blast--with a new hostility. It probably couldn't hear him, though. He couldn't hear himself. It really didn't matter, though. Orcs never back down from a fight. They're big and dumb and slow, and more often than not, anybody with ten minutes of training can flatten them wholesale (except for a few of the better models)--but they never get the hint! So, without really thinking, Marvel did what came naturally, he struck with his tail spine, right at its beady little eyes.

Which was about the time it dropped its hammer and pulled a gladeus out of nowhere (actually, a concealed pocket in its robes), sliced through the tail and popped the venom gland. Hurt like hell. Prevented the spine from penetrating, too, so all that the Orc ended up with was a spray of venom and demon blood all over its face. This must have been one of the better models.

It took the demon all he had not to black out, go berserk and get himself killed. As it was, he was so mad that he would have to make a statement of power there and then anyway. Throwing caution to the wind, as the Orc covered its now very painful and useless eyes, he leaped up onto its body, pinned its arms down and brought his tongue to bear on its neck, where there was a big, throbbing artery and a gap in its armor. In a moment, he'd killed himself an Orc...with puke. He left it there like that. Orc meat was too sour even for his tastes--and he was not a picky eater. Then, as it staggered back, he landed touch down, turned, and ran as fast as he could off into the dark, rainy night. Somehow, he actually managed to get into the air and fly away, leaving a pile of dead and injured Orcs behind him.

At least he was somewhat well-fed, even if the experience had left a bad taste in his mouth.

An hour later, as he tried vainly to pull the last few bits of dust from the tattered remains of his former cloak--he'd have to let the venomous barb on his tail grow back at its own pace--the turned demon could think only one thought...

Hell's Bells, I hate rain. Now he was going to have to seek shelter. There was a town nearby. If he was lucky, he could pass himself off as one of whatever species lived there long enough to barter for another cloak. Devil only knew what would happen if he tried to speak with them in his natural form. He'd heard that there were Followers of the Way about, and they tended to take one look at him and bring out the pitch forks and torches. This wasn't exactly his idea of a fun way to spend a vacation. So...he slinked forward and looked around for what he should look like in town.

OOC: Slight variant on your "no magic" thingie. He USES magic, but he's a bumbler and the spells fail more often than not (except for illusion spells, which don't alter reality anyway). It keeps it fun.

[Parina]

Somewhere Nearby
"Back to your pits, you green-skinned curs!"

The cry from the armored knight was followed by the sound of broadsword connecting with flesh and bone, and the sickening squelch that comes as the blade is pulled from the wound. An Ork fell, his head now cleaved in half.

More Orks surrounded the knight, but they were forced back by his blade and the armored hooves of his mount, which crushed the skulls of any green-skin dumb enough to come within stomping range.

After a few minutes, the Orks lay dead. The knight rode on, for while this had just been a party of foragers, there were usually more Orks behind them.

Soon he saw a village in the distance, and beyond that the characteristic banners and shoddy construction of an Ork camp. This was where those scavengers had come from.

Spurring his horse onwards, he decided to approach the village, and offer his services. Perhaps this village could use an extra blade.

[Wandering Argonians]

OOC: There was never a ban on magic, just attempting to curtail the allure of the fantasy god-mod.

The character itself is rather novel, and certainly what I was looking for in terms of creativity.

IC:

In the Ork encampment, a similar council of war was being held. Warlord Hed-Stompa was rather furious with a subordinate of his, a slightly smaller Ork who went by the title of Leg-Crusha...

"Yooze don't gets ta tell me where or when me an' my boyz gets ta stop!"

Leg-Crusha's 'boyz', a twenty-strong pack of particularly brutish Orks dressed in stolen and tight-fitting human clothing mixed in with makeshift armor pieces, all snarled in agreement. Apparently there was an issue with where the Warlord had chosen to make his camp, and how long they had been in one place...

"I's da War-Lawd, Leg-Crusha. I's makes da rulez. You wants ta make da rulez, ya gotz ta take dat village from dem scaley-skins!"

"I knows dat! What I wants ta know is why we's stopped 'ere! We needs ta rush 'em! Kill 'em all an' get a movin'!"

Hed-Stompa, a powerful specimen of Ork over seven feet in height with enough mental capacity to formulate complicated battle-plans and scheme his way into power, decided to play off of his species' innate superstition...

"Cuz dis is where Big Boss Humungus got hisself kilt by dem scaly-skins long time ago. Diz 'ere land is cursed. Humungus did like ya wants ta, all rushin' in wit lotsa boyz and got an arra (arrow) right 'tween 'is eyes he did!"

As he spoke, Hed-Stompa jabbed Leg-Crusha between the eyes with a meaty green finger with enough force to drive the other Ork back a few steps...

"Big Boss Humungus fought all dem humies back 'atta way an' beat 'em all! What makes ya tink ya can do betta eh? Yous just a lousy git who tinks he knows more than ole Hed-Stompa. Well I's da War-Lawd 'ere, an' if ya wanna be da War-Lawd, ya git yer whiney arse up dat hill an' kill dem scaly-skins fer me. Then ya can take a shot at me title!"

Hed-Stompa was well aware that the village would eventually fall to a continued siege, but he'd fought the 'scaly-skins' before and was wary of the Argonian prowess as hunters. They'd caught those in the fields off-guard, slaughtering them before they could withdraw to the village's walls and the safety afforded by expertly-aimed arrows. The mostly-intact farm houses would provide cover for an advance, but only in limited numbers. If he hoped to continue his WAAAGH for another four years, he'd need to rally other Ork groups to his banner. That would take time, however, and he'd rightly assumed the cunning Argonian leadership would most likely attempt to kill him personally and rob the horde of whatever effective leadership they had. Even if they succeeded, the village itself would probably be destroyed in the process, but without a powerful leader the WAAAGH would lose steam and simply mill about in the general area until a larger Argonian force arrived from their homeland to drive the Orks back to their lands far in the east.

It had, in fact, been the fate that fell Big Boss Humungus, the Ork Warlord mentioned by Hed-Stompa earlier. Charging at the head of his WAAAGH horde, an Argonian hunter had placed an arrow right between his eyes, aiming as he had been for the narrow gap in the massive Ork's thick metal helmet that allowed him to see. His brain rendered useless, Humungus' body had fallen where it stood and his horde was beaten back by a combined party of Morkath berserkers and the warrior-craftsmen of the Longtail clan, as skilled with their artwork blades as they were with the hammers that forged them.

Obviously, Hed-Stompa did not want to share this fate, and although a rather smart Ork, he was still an Ork and rather prone to superstitious thoughts. This was as far as any Ork had ever taken a WAAAGH towards Argonian lands, and last time there hadn't been a village in the way. He did, however, have a company of goblins at his disposal, and within their ranks they had a rather useful combination of brilliant siege engineers and cruel assassins he could take advantage of. The issue lay not with his troops, but with the Argonian warrior mentality. He would have to kill every single male over the age of ten to secure victory, and by doing so would arouse the anger of the females who would willingly protect their young with their own lives. Hed-Stompa had simply resolved to burn the wooden village to the ground and save himself the trouble, but to do so the rain had to let up and the wood had to dry, and even then they had to get within range of the village proper.

That presented the biggest issue. Hed-Stompa had scouts of his own, particularly crafty Orks who'd been taking a look at the village. They'd told him they'd seen a really big Argonian with a really big sword walking about, as well as one with a long tail working in the village smithy. Neither was a good sign. They'd also said they'd observed a dark-colored one once, but Hed-Stompa dismissed that as a product of their over-active imaginations. Dark-colored 'scaly-skins' were usually really bad news, but nothing his troops couldn't handle in a stand-up fight, or so Hed-Stompa thought.

For now, he was content to let his rivals and their trouble-makers talk themselves into a suicide mission and kill two birds with one stone...

[Wandering Argonians]

Solomon's ears pricked up at the faint explosion in the distance. Odd, but not surprising considering the Orkish fondness for explosives...

"Vektor, go check that out. I want to know if our friends across the fields are celebrating or attempting to set us ablaze with some unknown goblin trickery..."

"As you command, chieftain..."

Solomon looked at Zen, watching the warrior briefly lean on his impressive weapon of choice...

"And you I'd like to check on Shakesh Longtail in the forge, see if he needs any assistance with the repairs to the weapon stores..."

"It shall be done..."

While Vektor ascended the wall surrounding the village, Zen entered the sweltering heat of the village smithy. Solomon was no fool, he'd wanted to make sure his defenders would have the best equipment avaliable, and as such had requested a forgemaster from the Longtail clan to oversee blade-making for his settlement.

From his post on the wall, Vektor thought he saw something rise up from the fields and take flight, but he dismissed it as a trick of the rain. It seemed to have picked up a bit, water running in slim riverlets down his leather cuirass. Vektor was originally from the coasts, evidenced by his powerful physique honed from years spent beneath the waves hunting for shellfish and hauling nets of fish into his outrigger canoe. He'd taken up the bow in his youth against slavers, and joined the Longhunter Cult shortly after he'd come of age. The physical conditioning they'd put him through was second to none, and the mindset he'd gained from the training made sure he never allowed himself to become soft. He could still swim for days at a time, send an arrow a thousand paces accurately, and kill with a single blow from his heavy knife if needed. While he was far away from the oceans and beaches he called home, he knew his duty was here against an ancestral enemy of his people. He only hoped Makaal had indeed heard their calls for help, or perhaps even Solomon's 'God' might even send some aide of his own, Vektor had never been too picky when it came to aide.

The faint wooshing of wings drew him back to reality, and despite casting a few looks around the muddy village below his wall-top perch, he could find nothing. There was a faint scent of ozone and burned cloth on the air, but it was mostly over-ran by the overpowering smell of falling water and dirt slurry, and he attributed the scent to his position near the hearth in the Council House. Speaking of the hearth, it didn't sound half bad at the moment. He could find no evidence of a massing Ork attack, nor anything out of the ordinary for that matter. Hopping down from the wall, Vektor walked slowly back towards the central building where the Chieftain was expecting his report.

Vektor could have sworn he'd seen something slipping between the village huts, but could not get a solid look at it. Already chilled from the rain, he continued on to the Council House, trusting the guards walking the walls with throwing-spears and bows to keep watch while the more expeirenced warriors decided how to deal with the oddly-static green-skinned horde squatting not more than a mile away...

[Dastardly Stench]

OOC @ WA:

Be careful whom you allude to. They might consider it an invitation.

IC:

The head honcho was named "Solomon," and his chief toady was "Vektor." They had a reasonable excuse for a smithy, and they were trying to crank out weapons, which the dank air was not helping them to do. And if all those Orks chose to rush the place, all those weapons would end up in very, very bad hands. The Orks didn't seem to know this, though...which was the group's only saving virtue right then. Security through obscurity--what a wonderful concept.

The place also had a priest or two, and even an altar to a High God of All Things Good and Pure...

...and Marvel found himself in that altar that evening, remembering recent events.

Lord, I come to you a humble demon, a demon who is trying to walk the path of light, but one who has a long, long way to go before he is worthy. Last night, I valued my property over another's life. I stole and I deceived and I killed...and I find that, in order to live, I must now deceive again.

I ask your forgiveness for the things that I have done, and those that I am now and for the foreseeable future will be forced to do. I thank you for the blessing that has allowed me to survive, and ask your continued blessing as I try to return to the Path of Light, and for your guidance in my travels. OH, and a little bit of the ol' grub wouldn't be so bad, either--flying really kicks up my metabolism, as I'm sure you already know!

It wasn't that long afterward that Soloman's people found what seemed a ragtag ex-farmhand, pretty beat up and soaked to the bone (something had all but destroyed a thick cloak that he had kept with him) but alive and, with a little care, in good enough shape that he could probably do some work with only a minimum of coaxing. No one knew how he did it, but he managed to slip past all the guards and get into the local chapel. It looked as though he had passed out while praying. He looked like one of them, right down to the different colors of the scales that ran over his body. Though weak, he managed to let them know that he went by the name of "Marvel."

His plan was simple: work, procure what he needed, leave. Nobody gets hurt, nothing gets broken. Maybe slice new orifices for an Ork or two if things got boring. Nobody important gets hurt, nothing important gets broken.

[Trivval]

The forest was creaking and groaning like a pub during a regiments night off - groaning of the Soldiers on the floor, and the creaking of the floor boards from the next floor up. The wind picked up and the trees swayed in time of the beat of the rain. Moss and vines crawled up the sides of the trees as red and yellow capped mushrooms grew over a fallen log. Birds chirped like trumpets as the Deer darted through the trees. Somewhere water flowed as the creekbed got filled with the water not guzzled by the forest-whole. Shadows flickered as the sun covered it self in clouds, not ready to show its beauty to the world. While some flickered others darted, moving in time with the wind, changing from tree to log to bush. Not just one, mind you, many - but not as you would notice it. They were spaced, on adverage 10 metres apart, barely leaving depressions as they moved.

The 7^th Highland Pathfinders were on a move again, cut off from their forces across the border.

Shadow stopped, holding a hand in the air, his green and gray cloak wrapping itself around his thin frame. He held two fingers to his shoulder and a fist to his arm, then patted his head. Instantly two other shadows converged on his position. Shadow pushed back his cowl, rubbing his fingers through his white hair and scratching the side of his head. He pulled up the cowl as the figures stopped behind a log waiting for him.
The first spoke, "Sergeant, what is it?"
Tage reached for the ground and pulled up a bit of metal. "Orks," he said, "They came through here a while ago, sir."
"Yes," grunted the second as he turned to the first, "Should we continue on, Lieutenant?"
"Mmm," nodded the Lieutenant, scratching his head above his left ear - a tell tale sign of trouble. "I don't know, CSM," his city accent giving a pang to his words.
Shadow looked at both of the men infront of him. The Sergeant Major, veteran of many conflicts, not a part of his body not scarred. His mind would be right on task. The Lieutenant, veteran of 3 border clashes, blue hair of Officership - but in this case Weathyness. He was like neither of them.

Darkskinned, White Hair, Red eyes, slightly pointed ears. All the marks of a Zanian - one of the few tribes of Highlanders not demolished by either the Hions, or the many other people that invade the Tri-Vil area. Both men infront of him were of his current oppressors - the Hions, a White skinned, blue eyed race of people from the plains near the coast of the Asitatic Sea. Sergeant Shadow grunted with both acceptance and laughter. Soon the Orks or the Demons or the Scale-Skinned would occupy us. It wont matter, anyway. He sighed, Soon I'll be dead, or Captured. Which is as good as dead.

"Any thoughts, Sergeant?"

This snapped him back to the present, rather than thinking about ritual suicide or a Poison Pill in his back pocket. "Well we are cut off from Home by the orks. To our east is the Scaled Homeland. To our south are the Marshes. The best chance we would have is moving North to see if we could round their army."
"Mmmm," mused the Lieutenant. "We will probably find their Waaagh, or what ever. Their Campaign for territory." he said Waaaargh like one not used to the orks, that which as a Hion, he was not.
"Sir, 'Waaaargh'," pronouncing it as it should be, full throated and gutteral, "is their term for Jihad. its a Holy War. They wont stop until they find what ever object is important to them."
The Sergeant Major Laughed, "Who would have guessed. Holy war."
Bloody anyone who had lived right next door to them, rather than fighting Humans all the time.
"I suggest we move north, sirs. We'll either find their Waaaargh or some Scalies. Out of the two I would prefer the Argonians. They atleast have some decency, intelligence, and arn't as violent as the Orks. Even if they are Millimetres apart." This got a smirk from both officers.
"North it is then, Sergeant," said the Lieutenant as if it was all his Idea. He motioned with his hand, and they drifted apart, moving forward in flitters.

Well at least the Hions are doing half decent at moving in cover. thought Shadow, as he passed over a log.

---

No longer was the beat a tabboo of rain, but rather that of drums. Roars echoed into the sky as the sun setted over the moutains of Home.

Sergeant Shadow stood just int he tree line looking down at the sight before him. He turned to his Corporal, "It was a 50/50 chance of Orks or Scales, but I didn't expect both."
The Corporal nodded looking at the scale of the orkish camp. "Thats got to be a Ork Horde in its Hundreds. Perhaps Thousands."
Trooper Dayunell nodded, "Plus Thrice the goblins and other minions."
Corporal Centrino looked towards the pallisided town on the otherside of the panorama before him. Smoke drifted lazily as fires were built up for the night. "And thats a lot of scales."
"Yeah." said Shadow, stepping back further into the trees. "The Lieutenant decided that we should stay back."
"Pfft. Someones going to find us sooner or later," retorted the Corporal as they turned to walk back to the prospect of a cold dinner... again.

OOC: Hey, I havent RPed in a while, so it might be a bit rusty. My Company will probably get cut down to about 30ish we we get attacked by someone. I'ma assuming it will happen.

[Wandering Argonians]

OOC: You are more than welcome to invite others if you wish.

IC:

Zen's trip to the forge was a short one, but the heat within was still welcome after the trek through the sheeting rain. The village forgemaster, Shakesh Longtail, was also quite old, older perhaps than the Shaman, but no one questioned his age or his ability with the well-worn forge hammer and anvil in his workshop. The steady pinging of steel on hot steel was oddly soothing to the silent giant, and Morkath debated asking Shakesh to forge him a master-crafted version of his own battle-blade when the Orkish incursion had been dealt with.

He noticed a furrow on the older Argonian's brow, then at the stack of short blades and spear-heads rising nearly to the height of he who had made them. It dawned on Zen that it wasn't that Shakesh was over-worked, but he was, in fact, being rushed. The Longtail were notoriously long-lived for some reason, and their older forgemasters may take many years to craft a single blade of unparalleled excellence and balance. Their long life spans gave them the patience and foresight to complete such a project. Solomon's own blade had been a six-year affair, but it balanced perfectly and had an edge capable of executing a fatal cut before the nerves of the target even registered the pain of the attack.

Shakesh's own blades, a matched pair of shorter swords, sat horizontally on wooden pegs on the back wall, above a spartan cot where the tireless craftsman slept for short periods. The weapons radiated lethal beauty, and stood in stark contrast to the undignified stack of plain steel in the middle of the room. While undoubtedly well-made, they lacked the ornate engravings, inlays, and careful polishing of typical Longtail craftsmanship. The short swords were sharp, true, but simple leather bindings wrapped the bare steel grips in place of the usual shark-skin for sure grip during prolonged and bloody battles...

"If you would, start stacking those short swords on that table over there while I finish up this last batch..."

Zen looked up to see Shakesh still hammering away, but pointing out the table with his prehensile tail. By the time Zen had done as asked, Shakesh was already quenching the blades in oil and wiping his hands on a dirty rag...

"Thank you, Zen. Did Solomon send you?"

"He did indeed. How are things in the forge?"

"Aside from the rushing, spectacular, but look at these things! Utter rubbish. I'm almost ashamed to say that I made them..."

To illustrate his point, Shakesh attempted to balance one of the plain blades across that back of his hand. It wobbled slightly, but otherwise remained in place...

"Now for my usual work..."

Rotating his hand so that the blade across it landed point-first in the dirt, Shakesh drew an ornate knife from his belt behind his blacksmith apron, and deftly spun it around to lay across the back of his hand like he'd done the other. Oddly, it wobbled once and then stabilized to remain motionless until the forgemaster made it vanish again with a flick of his wrist...

"You see? Garbage. Blasted Orks, rushing my work..."

To be honest, Zen didn't see much of a difference. A blade was a blade in his mind, he used it to cleave his enemies into smaller pieces. Granted, he liked bigger and heavier weapons, but that was a given considering his size...

"By the way, that assassin stopped by earlier. Arrogant, that one. Did I ever tell you I have a son in that same order?"

Zen snapped around to look more intently at the blacksmith...

"What?"

"Yes, my oldest. He's a Grandmaster now I think. A sad day when we had to give him up, but he seems to have done well for himself. Don't let Geth fool you, they're not all bad, and not all of them are such devout followers of Sithis. Geth is a rare exception, and if they've sent one of his particular temperment and skill out here the Elder Council must be rather afraid of Solomon. Those of his faith aren't usually given such 'special' attention..."

[Dastardly Stench]

Marvel stifled a belch. Lizard men can't belch--it was one of the peculiarities of their physiology. If he belched now, after having eaten just outside the smithy, half the town would be privy to the fact that his appearance was just an illusion. Not good.

Of course, this also meant that, if someone sneaked some seltzer into one of their drinks and they didn't catch it in time, KAPOP! No more lizard man. Today was not Marvel's day to poison the folks he was bartering with, however, so they were in no danger--at lease, none from him.

The smithy was very much like a dozen or so of the forges where Marvel had served during his time with the Underworld Infantry, but there were two very significant differences. Nobody was chained to any of the anvils, and the foremen didn't have whips here. In fact, there were no foremen at all. The smith and his coworkers did it all of their own volition!

As Marvel walked in, the forge master, Shakesh, stood talking with an administrative type named Zen.

"...Geth is a rare exception, and if they've sent one of his particular temperament and skill out here the Elder Council must be rather afraid of Solomon. Those of his faith aren't usually given such 'special' attention..."

Marvel hadn't seen this Geth, but, from what he had heard, that didn't surprise him. The guy was supposed to value life so little that he told elaborate, bragging stories about how he'd victimized...his victims. Of course, the tales grew taller as they went down the line, but, from what he'd heard, Marve was pretty sure that the guy was an assassin and that he had some kind of combat magic under his belt. Marvel had decided to avoid that one at any cost. If he could cast illusion spells, he might be able to sense magic the way that Marvel could. He could blow Marvel's cover in an instant.

Marvel wasn't in the forge to chase rumors, however. He had some skills that he wanted to barter, and this was as good a place as any to start using them. Never in his most fantastic dreams had Marvel ever dreamed that all those lashes he had taken would one day have some redeeming value, but that day was today.

"Excuse me," he said. "I heard that you're looking for some help around here. I'd like to offer my services."

Shakesh, who was very old and very tall, eyed the not-quite-demon with suspicion.

"Forgive me," he said, "but it will take more than a mere offer--."

"Then let me demon-strate my skills," Marvel replied--and, before Shakesh could stop him, he had a metal rod on a pair of tongs--correctly hung--in the furnace and was working the bellows. "You could use a little more cole on the fire," he said.

Shakesh's hand was on his shoulder by then. "My little friend,--," he began.

And Marvel's hand was gently atop his then. "My big friend," he said, "I know I may seem a bit abrupt, but I'm frightened. There are thousands of Orks out there, and they've got a host of goblins and trolls and maybe a few ogres coming in to join their little party. I know that I lack your skill with a hammer, and always will, but I don't want to end up on their party menu. So just let me forge one blade for you--just one. If you don't like it, I'll be out of your way so fast that you'll wonder what stirred up the breeze--but, if you like it, I can work the night shift. There's no way that you can lose. What do you say?"

The old master smiled. "Who would I be to refuse such an offer? Let me see what you can do."

In a moment, Marvel was back at the forge. He heated the metal to a proper, red heat, careful to make it just far enough to be malleable but not to get it too close to the tongs. Then, he took it over to the anvil and, with careful skill, lengthened it. Another quick heating, and he brought it back and folded the metal over onto itself. Shakesh's eyes had long since lit up. After carefully relinking the two sides so that there were no air bubbles, Marvel quenched the metal, reinforcing the new crystal lattice, then re-heated and carefully formed the blade. This was not easy. There was a lot of sulfer in the steel, making it very brittle, and the work had already hardened it. Still, he was able to get the blade consistent and balanced on the first try. He gave it a straight body and a fine, curved tip. Then, he quenched it again.

"The folding technique," he explained, "strengthens the metal. That way, I can give it finer features without worrying about the blade shattering in combat. I would've folded it more, but there's so much sulfer in that stuff that it would crack under the strain."

"I know," Shakesh said, "but I am impressed that you know, and also that you can tell the composition of the metal from working with it. Where did you learn this craft, my little friend?"

"I was once a soldier in a very bad place," Marvel replied. "If you'll pardon my saying so, I don't want to talk about it."

"It must have been a bad place indeed," Shakesh replied.

You have no idea.

-----------

OOC: Forgive me using one of your characters, WA. Marvel is 243 years old. He was in the Underworld Infantry for a long time, and then transferred to the Diplomatic Corps (yes, he was a Diplomat from Hell). He picked up many skills along the way, including Smithy, many languages and music (he can play a lyre). He also has a way with dragons.

Of course, it shouldn't take Geth long to realize that one of these things is not like the others (and it should take Solomon even less time), so I hope for Marvel's sake that he's in a good mood when he does.

[Trivval]

Shadows stomach growled, a rumbling sound much like thunder. He sighed. Cold rations was hard, but it was even harder when there wasn't enough to go around. What made it worse was the rain falling like a blanket turning everything into mud. Its going to be a bitch to sleep anywhere tonight. Next to him a young kid sat down, barely 18 summers the boy was a veteran of many border clashes. He was light skinned - lighter than Shadow anyhow - with dark red eyes, his sky tattooed with the blue of the Warrior. At the sight of the Tattoos, Shadow absently scratched where the metallic was entered later. Another sign of the occupation. At 23 summers Shadow could remember when the occupation entered his village. He was 6 at the time. It had spread through Tri-Vil like a cancer through a dying dog. Mercilessly they murdered men women and children, castrating the men and dragging the women from their childs, taking them to water down the Highland blood. He was 12 when the Mettalic came in. It was some kind of substance that kicked in when you were around 45. It made you Sterile as well as weakened your muscles - a shackle to stop the birth of Full Highland children, and stop any Resistance that may rise up. Traditionally the highlanders were Fodder... that is why they are good survivors.

The kid gestured at the half cracker in Shadows hand, eyebrows rising as if to say, "You gonna eat that?" Shadow passed the cracker over, and the kid scoffed it down, the flakes barely hitting the side of his throat.
"We need to get some food," said the Kid.
Shadow nodded, agreeing, "Mhm."
On the other side of the log a older man laughed, "I would eat an Ork if they weren't so toxic."
"Yeah," nodded a Trooper, laughing, "Or one of their goblins..."

Shadow started. Goblins, he thought. Then it hit him - why didn't the camp seem right the first time he saw it? It was too small. The goblin horde that followed the Orks around would have to be somewhere. And they like the rain... and their good tree scirmishers...

Oh shit.

Shadow sprung off the log and dashed towards the Lieutenant in his circle of Hion troops. "Sir! Sir...!"
The Lieutenant looked up, disturbed from his joke. "What, Sergeant."
"The camp... I said it was too small, now I know why. Their Goblin Horde --"
"Goblin Horde, Sergeant?" asked the City Boy, confused.
"The goblins, they are hangers on of the Orks. Fodder, you could say, sir."
"what about them?"
"They weren't in sight. And since they like forests I'd imagine they would be..." Shadow trailed off, as the Sergeant Major nodded.
"We are right inside their territory, no?" asked the SM.
"Aye, sir. We are."
The Lieutenant looked doubtfull. "Goblins? Small green blokes?" He Laughed, "They wouldn't attack us! We're the Pathfinders!"
Shadow Shook his head and said, "To them, we're just food."
A Hion Trooper barked, "Still, I could kick one further than from Ione to Wurry."
The SM was still on the point, "But we're in their Territory, right?"
"Aye sir."
"Shi---"

He was cut off by a small roar, which then was repeated by hundreds of voices.

Shit.

[Parina]

OOC-Here's the kind of armor I'm talking about

The knight rode for some time before the village was anything but a speck on the horizon. He had drastically miscalculated the distance, and he kicked himself for not doing some scavenging before moving from his camp. His stomach would be empty soon, and his armor grew hot as he rode.

However, he would be at the village soon. he only hoped the clank of his chain mail didn't arouse any more Ork scavengers, at least not until he was within the safety of whatever archers were mounted on the village walls.

OOC-Sorry, don't have that much time to post. He should be close to the village, but probably not visible to the naked eye

[Trivval]

The bows hummed and twanged as The pathfinders moved away from their last camp. Shadow turned and ran from his last position as his comrade's arrows flew overhead. Next to him a Pathfinder by a tree got hit in the chest by a Goblin Arrow, blood spraying out against the green foliage. Shadow diverted his cource and picked up the dead mans quiver and ripped off his Claw. His body may die, but the spirit will travel back to the homeland. Well. As long as I get back there with these Claws, he thought looking down to the 8 Claws in his hand, each engraved with the Owners Soul Name. Shadow looked up and saw his men holding ahead. "Lets Go!" yelled a Corporal slightly ahead, turning to face the rest of the Unit "Lets get out of here before --" Something dark came out of the trees, occasionally glinting. The Corporal fell, the last words of his sentance dying in his throat. From his back protruded a Ork War Axe. Shadow looked down into the trees and saw some large orks rushing towards them.

Shit.

"Run! For the Open ground!" yelled Shadow, seeing a open space in the direction they were heading. One of the Troopers went to grab the Corporals Claw and quiver but as he got to him the Corporal grabbed his arm.
"He's still alive!" shouted the Trooper, trying to support the Corporal. Shadow rushed up and grabbed the Corporals Arm and slung it over his shoulder and then grabbed the man in a Medic Hold, hte Trooper did the same.
Shadow started running saying, "Bloody hell. I thought you were a goner."
The Corporal gave Shadow a Bloody Smile. "Can't get rid of me that easy, Sarge."
"Well don't Fraking die on us Now, Corp," said the Trooper as we burst out into the clearing.

Shit.

They did a semi-circle apearing ~15km closer towards the Village... But not as far from the ork camp as Shadow would have liked. "Run for the Scales! Only Hope!" Shadow said, looking back to see the Lieutenant cut down by a really large ork.

Fuck.

[Dastardly Stench]

Marvel was just getting out of his shift at the forge when he heard some kind of commotion coming from outside the camp. Mixed in with the cry of the melee was the sound of metal against metal. Demonic hearing--Marvel could smell and hear almost as well as the average dog--allowed him certain advantages. He also knew the Orks pretty well from having lived in these parts for a while--they generally didn't war with each other right on the enemy's doorstep. No, this had to be something else.

He slunk into the shadows, got a running start and hit the air. It would have seemed impossible if he hadn't been careful to ensure that he hadn't been watched. He hadn't changed form. To the outside world, it looked as if one of the lizard man had just popped into the air.

It took him only a short time to get to the source of the commotion and find out what it was. Worst case scenario--a group of foragers had run into a scouting party, and, before they knew it, the bad guys called in reinforcements and tried--almost successfully--to set up an ambush.

Now, the few that remained were facing half a battalion of hardened troops--and they weren't going to make it out of there without some serious help. Marvel decided that he would provide it, in the form of a few little illusions.

Of course, the difficult one would be redirecting the party. For that, he'd have to replicate them exactly in place and maintain their gestures as he sent the illusion on a false path. If it wasn't perfect, the Orks wouldn't go for it--and there's always the small problem that, when an illusion starts to take hold, the image wavers just a little. For those who have seen it before, it's a dead giveaway.

So...first, a diversion. It would have to be something that no Ork would ignore--something that got the brutish creature's every instinct focused on it. If a large creature issued a challenge, they would all respond to it.

So that's just what happened. A huge, bipedal reptile popped out of the woods and roared at them. And it worked--none of the Orks thought for a moment that something that big would have problems in the small confines between the trees of a forest. So, when they turned toward the new threat was when Marvel instantiated the second illusion. It seemed that he'd gotten away with it. The reptile vanished back into the woods. This drew some but not all of the battle group. Then, the small party seemed to stop, as if it was going to make a stand. One of them made some strange gesture, and the volley of arrows that came down on them seemed to go right through them. Cries of "magic" and "curse" came from the Orkish host, and they crept cautiously at first rather than charging the group headlong. Still, once they started, their violent tendencies kicked in. They poured in from every angle, and, when they got to the center, started hacking. Of course, their enemy simply disappeared, and a couple of them hacked at each other, setting off a few scrums among the Orks and Goblins, but none of that did them any good.

Marvel didn't really have time to see whether the party made it to within the protective range of the town's archers or not. He had to get back. He would be missed. He was invisible when he landed, and didn't show himself again until he was within the confines of the makeshift dwelling that they had given him. Hopefully, nobody noticed what was going on. Hopefully, he'd have a chance to meet the acquaintance of these newcomers. Hopefully, they wouldn't be out to kill the whole town.

[Wandering Argonians]

OOC: Not a problem. Shakesh is actually the father of one of my main characters, and several more last names are common to a few of my current lesser-used characters as well. Geth has no magical aptitude in the conventional sense, but we'll get into that later. The Shaman would be the only individual who could 'sense' magical aptitude. Marvel's unusual name would be his only real give-away at this point.

Tirvval, I'm looking for one to two characters per player at most, not a force commitment of thirty men. Wouldn't be much fun if we could simply have the cavalry ride in already, eh?

IC:

Shakesh had not seen such metal-working skill in quite some time. The Longtail-Clan trademark was a very similar blade to the one this 'Marvel' had worked up. He himself felt just a little silly, standing as he was next to a table full of sub-standard blades and having a farm-hand waltz in and demonstrate such skill in the forge. The folding of metal was definitely an advanced technique, also used in Longtail blades. A specially-made fuel, which Shakesh had next to none of out in this remote outpost, produced a carborizing flame to strengthen the steel, and a mirror-sheen polish ensure blood simply wouldn't adhere to the weapon's surface and seemed to cut the air effortlessly. Their smooth cutting action had led to the name of 'Silk-Sword', which was much easier to say than 'Modified Argonian-Designed Katana-Like Sword'.

Zen simply watched in amazement, then rushed outside to the clamor of battle. Vektor had returned to the walls, with Geth in tow. Both had arrows knocked, ready to fire, as did the seven other hunters with them on the ramparts. Solomon was already at the gates, pulling them open when Zen arrived and lent a considerable hand. All able-bodied males were filing through Shakesh's forge, getting issued newly-forged blades and spears for defense of the village, while many of the females readied bows and arrows of their own. The Shaman stood watch in the Council House, with several of the females and those too young or sick to do battle.

Solomon, in his role as chieftain, was the martial commander of the village's hunters, who doubled as warriors since the word 'hunter' served a dual role in the Argonian dialect in the sense of 'Hunter of Game' and 'Hunter of Foes'. Any man who could fell a deer with a well-aimed arrow could fell an Ork just as easily. As the commander, he led from the front. Silk-sword in hand, and followed by the immense shape of Zen Morkath, the two of them left to investigate the rukus. He had complete faith in his archers, and Zen's behemoth blade hadn't tasted Ork in some time now. He assumed it'd be hungry.

Orks were battling something, and the two Argonians stopped short to observe. They were out of range of the arrows from the village, and Solomon didn't like the thought of dying in an ambush. In the distance it looked like something had stumbled too close to the Orkish camp...

[Wandering Argonians]

Leg-Crusha and his boys had headed off to conquer the Argonian village on their own, so Leg-Crusha could dispute Hed-Stompa's claim to the Warlord title. They hadn't, however, expected to run into a platoon of human troops...

"See? Deez humies dies easy like der rest of 'em!"

The large Ork laughed as he hacked what looked like an officer to death with the crude blade he carried. Little more than a length of sheet metal smaller on one end and wrapped with leather cords, with what could have been called an edge on one side, it was closer to a club than a sword. In Leg-Crusha's hands, however, it was more than capable of carving a man in two with enough force.

Something large and Argonian-like bellowed from the tree-line, and Leg-Crusha stopped in his tracks...

"Wot's dat?"

"No clue, boss..."

"We's gonna kill it, an' take it back ta Hed-Stompa an' show 'im who's da real War-Lawd. Get 'em!"

The Orks for the most part charged, and there were mixed cries of disappointment and rage when it vanished, only to be replaced by a distant group of new foes. These new foes appeared well-equipped, however, and rained arrows down on the Orkish pack. Despite screams of anger and many of them hiding behind one another, the arrows simply disappeared back into the ground as they fell...

"Wot da? Deeze humies 'ave some sorta spooky tricks! Charge 'em!"

Orkish blood-rage took over, and they advanced to kill these new foes. Unfortunately, they were just figments of their tiny minds. Leg-Crusha stopped swinging when his blade buried itself in the head of a fellow Ork...

"Stop it! Stop it ya stoopid gits! Deese humies tricked us again! Dey pay for dat!"

Looking around, all there was to be found were the bodies of the human patrol his group had killed. Furious, Leg-Crusha threw his weapon to the ground...

"Fetchin' humies! Dey's gone!"

[Dastardly Stench]

Decisions have consequences, and Marvel's decisions were no exception. His demon physique gave him a variable metabolism--it stayed slow to conserve energy when he did most tasks, but fired up when he needed it for things like...flying. Of course, he was a high-performance flier, and the rigors of prolonged flight quickly tired him. So, between that and the exertion of some relatively complicated illusions, it was a very tired and very hungry demon that fell into the makeshift cot in his quarters. He was so tired, in fact, that he couldn't shift immediately from invisibility to his illusionary form. It didn't last long, but, for just a moment, the ruddy red skin and spined tail of a Red Gargoyle Demon appeared on the cot before shifting to the lizard-man form that others in town were familiar with.

Marvel could only hope that no one had seen him. Damage control is a bitch.

And then he heard the call to arms. Seems the Orks hadn't taken very kindly to his meddling. He'd probably provoked the attack that he was getting. Yep, decisions have consequences. Now, it was his turn to pass that little witticism along to them. He'd learned to forge blades in the Underworld Infantry--he was surprised that he still remembered as much as he did--but that wasn't the only skill that he learned. They'd beaten some combat magic into him. He was never as good with fireballs and concussion waves as other demons, but he could still use them, such as his powers were, if he had to. He just hoped that he wouldn't have to. He was tired, and his combat magic was very, very rusty, and he'd have to hide it from the rest of the town if he was to have any chance of keeping his cover. Not a good mix.

Exhausted, he stood up and started walking to the front lines.

[Trivval]

ooc: I did say that I was going to kill most of them off. A Company for me is usually around 80. Pathfinders around 30. if you don't mind, 10 can Survive although 4-6 of them will have grevious wounds and will stick around in a building with our Coy Medic. 1 will stay guard and It'll be mostly Shadow doing stuff, with the Trooper Dayunell.

IC post later.

[Wandering Argonians]

OOC: That would be fine.

IC:

Vektor scanned the skies once more as the faint sound of flapping reached his ears. The rain hadn't let up, and there wasn't a bird in the sky...

Solomon and Zen had moved ever-closer to the battle site. They could see something moving in the distance, what looked like humans running for their lives and dragging wounded between some of them. The Orks, however, were nowhere in sight, and that worried Solomon more than the presence of humans. While not the brightest of creatures, they had the cunning to organize an ambush. If they had Goblins along, that complicated the matter. Goblins were much smarter, and knew the virtues of the classic near-far ambush tactic. Despite the pair's skill as warriors, and the reach advantage afforded by Zen's massive battle-blade, they'd still be easy prey for archers.

As they humans drew closer, both men unsheathed their respective weapons. Neither were overly trustful of the 'soft-skins', but they weren't usually hostile either. A good distance behind them, several Orks broke free of the tree line and made a bee-line to pursure the wounded humans. At their current rate of travel, the humans would reach Solomon and Zen before the Orks got dangerously close. If they withdrew to the relative safety of the village's archers, the Orks would over-run the humans in short order...

"Were you wanting to go back empty-handed?"

"I'd rather my blade tasted Ork first, Chieftain. I'd also rather we didn't allow humans into the village..."

"Noted, but they're in rough shape. Perhaps we can fufil one of your wishes, then. The big one chasing them looks like an under-boss like Vektor was talking about, the ones in charge of their smaller groups that make up the horde. Maybe if we kill him, the rest will flee?"

"And how will we do that? They outnumber us five to one!"

"Portray yourself as the Chieftain. The Orks respected size and strength, and will assume we do, too. Goad him into single combat with the promise of great respect from his fellows if he defeats you..."

"I'll do it. It'll be nice to finally take the fight to these bastards..."

"I'm glad you're excited..."

[Dastardly Stench]

They had Goblins with them. This was a bad thing. Not only were Goblins smarter than Orks, they were also far more fanatical. That is why they were often used as suicide bombers. That is why Marvel could hear them chanting their little chants of, "We carry explosives," and, "Boom! You're gone," even over the pitch and cry of the village as the lizard men tried to defend themselves. As Marvel watched, a very large tree fell from the woods beyond the walls. This, he wagered, would be more of a shield than a battering ram, but could be used for both.

Marvel would have loved to have some explosives to use himself, but there simply weren't any available. The townsfolk didn't know how to make them, and Marvel didn't have time to show them. You don't just dig up salt peter in the middle of a battlefield.

If that war engine got started up, the village wasn't going to be able to repel it with the technology available to them. It was time to get serious.

The village was walled. There were some left-over boulders from its construction still lying around. There was a wheeled cart in the forge that was used to move large shipments of iron, and there was some lumber in a nearby shed used to keep the town hall from rotting away in the rainy weather. Marvel had all the things he needed to improvise a Trebuchet Catapult. He would just have to get it working in time to keep the walls from coming down. Maybe he could even shut down a war engine or two while he was at it.

[Trivval]

Shadow flet the weight of his Corporal on his shoulders as he stumbled towards the Scales town. Shadow looked around him at the limping men and stared. There were 11 of them, including him. They had lost around 2/3 of their original company. Shadow looked around and saw most of his men carried wounds, and then yelled at one of the Troopers in front of him. "Jion! Take the Corporal. Klatch! You help him. Three man hold!" They both had wounds to their chest and legs, but the Healing Magic of Medicae Oron gave them enough strength... for a limited time. As the troopers came to him, Shadwo dropped the weight of the Corporal and slid his bow from his back. "Run. Go to the wall. Even if they wont let you in the orks wont be dumb enough to get close to their archers..."

I hope.

Dayunell took off with the other Troopers as they half carried half dragged the Corporal towards the wall. Many of the others had already made it and were yelling up at the Scales to let them in. Shadow looked around grimly, and then back at the Orks. He slid a arrow out of his quiver and ran back towards the wall, turning half way their and lining up the bigest ugliest ork-mother he could see. With 14 years of practice he aimed true and loosed his arrow. By the time it had left the bow, he had another two in his hand and swung the bow towards another target and fired, three times more he fired before the first reached the peak of its flight. He turned and ran towards the wall.

---

Dayunell ran towarsd the wall, the Corp's weight not as heavy now that there was three of them holding him. "Damn, I feel happy that they imposed a weight restriction. I don't think we could have taken much more weight."
Corporal Turner was by no means a fat person, his 80kg's was a muscle. At 160cm he wasn't overly tall... but then again no one was in the unit. Pathfinders were generally small. Dayunell stumbled and almost fell before Medicae Oron held his shoulder. At 48 Summers he was the oldest person in the Unit, but he was still as spritly as someone in their 20th year. Partly because of magic, mostly because of his diet, according to him. "How are you going, son?"
Dayunell panted as he put down the Corp. "Awight, sir," He then nodded towards the Wall, "Are we getting in?"
"I have no idea."
Dayunell turned to the wall and saw some figures, he cupped his hands and yelled up to them, "Sirs, Can you let us in?! We have some badly wounded soldiers and I don't know how long they will last out here!" Dayunell turned to a hand on his shoulder, it was the Sergeant.
"You did well, Mate," He said, before calapsing on the ground.

Medicae Oron saw Shadow calapse. Crap. Not another one. Oron grabbed the Sergeant and rolled him over, his hands came up with blood. "He's been bleeding for a while," he said to Dayunell, and began tearing off Shadows green-gray motteled clothes. His body was covered in wounds, and an Arrowhead protruded from the side of his chest. Oron checked him over before snapping off the arrow head and pulling it out. The blood began to flow before the Moss was placed on the wound.
"Hathca Kio Mathca," His hands began to glow as he mutted the spell under his breath, and the moss melded into his flesh. Before the spell ended, he saw something. His eyes grew wide before Dayunell shaked his shoulder.
"The Corps regained consciousness, sir."

[Wandering Argonians]

The humans scooted past them without so much as a word, loosing a few arrows at the pursuing Orks. It wasn't an all-out assault like Solomon had feared, but there were still Orks coming towards them. The two Argonians held their ground, standing almost nonchalantly in the path of the green-skinned foes.

At about fifteen paces, the Orks halted, and the biggest tromped towards them, and arrow lodged in his shoulder from one of the human archers. Oddly, he seemed not to notice...

"Wot's you two scaly-skins doin' out 'ere, eh?"

Zen chuckled, leaning on his impressive sword...

"Waiting for you. You in charge?"

"O'course I's in charge. Give us one reason why we shouldn't crush ya right 'ere an' now..."

"Because we came to offer you a challenge. I'm the chief of the village you're laying siege to, and I don't much like it. Single combat, you and me..."

"Hear 'im boyz? Dis 'ere scaly-skin tinks he can kill me! Ha!"

"If you're so confident, raise your blade..."

"Alright. I's be takin' dat purty blade a'yours when I's done wit ya..."

"You're welcome to try..."

Zen spun the large blade up from the ground, testing Leg-Crusha's defenses with a quick strike. The Ork deflected it deftly, for a big green beast. The two were about evenly matched in terms of sheer size, which Leg-Crusha found odd. Argonians he'd fought hadn't been this big, and if he was this big then he HAD to be the village boss. His Orkish mind couldn't process such information and arrive at any other outcome that seemed logical to him.

Now was not the time for deep Orkish thought, however. There was a large, beefy Argonian swinging a five-foot flat-bladed behemoth blade at him from seemingly every angle. Zen was a masterful warrior, familiar with Ork 'tactics' and what passed for training within such a primitive culture.

Leg-Crusha's crude blade twanged off of the surface of Zen's steel as he deflected another powerful blow, seemlessly transitioning into a horizontal slash across the Ork's abdomen. It drew blood, and an angry snarl from Leg-Crusha, who swung violently at Zen's head. The big Argonian side-stepped, cracking the Ork in the face with a pommel-strike before heaving the blade in an over-handed stroke that cleanly beheaded his opponent and ended the War-Lord dreams of one Leg-Crusha the Ork in violent fashion. Without pausing, Zen swung again at about neck-level with a thundering war-cry and removed the heads of two of Leg-Crusha's troops.

Solomon took this as his que, and his blade flashed forth with a slight singing of metal on metal, his cut carrying through to open an Ork's throat. Solomon rotated, driving the blade backwards into the guts of the final Ork warrior, yanking the blade free and again turning to finish his victim with a downward slash across the neck. The other four Orks decided now was a good time to run, and commenced to flee. To them, this land was cursed. Their leader decapitated and four of their fellows killed in short order, survival instinct took over...

"That went a lot better than I thought it would..."

"Indeed it did..."

Solomon ran the flat of his blade between his fingers to make sure the thick Orkish blood was clear of his blade before returning it to its sheath. Adrenaline surged in his veins, and his breathing picked up a bit. They'd gotten lucky to be able to kill five of the beasts on their own, and those others would most likely be back with more of their friends. At a jogging pace, Zen and Solomon headed back to the village to find the humans beating on the village gate, with Vektor shouting down at them from the top of the wooden wall...

"You cannot come in until the Chieftain returns! I am sorry!"

Next to Vektor stood the shadowy figure of Geth...

"Filthy soft-skinned heathens..."

Geth raised his bow, drawing an arrow and taking aim. Vektor firmly pushed his aim aside, and Geth glared at him with death in his eyes. Now was not the time, however. If Geth was killed, he'd be unable to fufil his mission, and Geth always completed his mission. Vektor also wouldn't be as easy to catch off-guard as Zen had been...

"It's alright, Vektor. Let the humans in!"

Solomon was shouting as he ran up to the gate, and the humans were allowed inside under the watchful guard of several of the village males, who eyed them with suspicion. For many, it was the first time they'd seen a human before. They were allowed into the mostly-empty Council House under the care of the Shaman. While unfamiliar with human anatomy, his poultices of herbs would be useful.

Solomon had Zen go locate this new farm-hand known as Marvel, while he met with the leader of this human element...

"I am Solomon Vek, village Chieftain. What are you doing here?"

[Dastardly Stench]

The Trebuche was ready for a test fire. It wouldn't have been done in time, but Marvel had used a Double Time spell on himself.* Somehow, it had worked, and the turned demon had managed to get the contraption together.

A Trebuche uses a swinging extension to build momentum and increase its firing range. It can't necessarily launch something as high as a standard catapult of the same size, but it can launch it significantly farther. Marvel had moved it into a clearing, loaded it with a good-sized boulder and set the spring. This was set on minimum distance--he only wanted to test the joining rods to make sure the thing wouldn't shatter the first time someone tried to use it. A quick tug on the rope that served as a makeshift trigger and...whap! The boulder went up into the air, bounced off of the edge of the cart and jarred the thing so hard that its back wheels popped off the ground for a moment.

Maybe he should set it a little farther next time.

Hell's Bells, Marvel was tired. He hadn't put in this many hours of extended effort in what seemed like a century--and possibly even was. Wiping the sweat from his brow, and hoping that no one would notice that (Lizard Men don't sweat, they discharge heat through their mouths), he walked around and inspected the damage.

The front bar was bent, but none of the joins were broken. The catapult should have held for another shot or two. Next step would be to determine its range--but that was something that Marvel couldn't do alone.

And that was when the one named Zen rounded a corner and, recognizing Marvel, started heading straight toward he of the unseen red skin. Maybe life wasn't entirely out to get the undemon after all. Popping back into normal time, Marvel decided it was time to take his little creation public--and hope that Zen didn't mind that the demon-no-more had commandeered half the village to build it...and that Zen didn't notice that the demon-no-more had built something that complex in an impossibly short time...and was sweating from the effort. (The rain would help with the latter.)

Left for future discussion was the lax security that had allowed Marvel free access to all of those materials...but Marvel sincerely doubted that he himself would ever bring the subject up.

-----------

OOC:

* That's Haste Self for D&D aficionados.

[Trivval]

ooc: sorry for the No posting. Schools got a crappy tight surf control.
ic:

Shadow's eyes opened moments after Oron's spell. He was conscious... barely. His chest hurt where the moss and skin were molding together creating anything that was lost in the hole the arrow left. But this wasn't the worst of it - Sweat fever would come upon him soon, and he would be as hot as he was cold now. The gates opened at the order of a tall scales... well taller than Shadow anyway.
Shadow croaked, "Dayunell, come help me up mate."
Dayunell turned from the gates and his eyes went wide as he saw the Sergeant struggling to sit up. By all rights he should be out for another hour. He moved and grabbed the Sergeants shoulder and helped him up. "You 'right, sarge?"
"I'd be better with some dry clothes," grunted Shadow limping with aid towards the gate. "You go help One of the others, I'll be fine."
Dayunell frowned, "No, sarge. I'm staying with you. Everyone else is fine."
"Hrmpf," frowned Shadow, not being bothered to argue. Dayunell looked around seeing eveyone was doing fine. Most of the 11 people left were carrying wounds, him, Oron and a Trooper called Jaston. They all shuffled in, cold, wet, sore, and all carrying their comrades Claws. They were surrounded by Scales, and one directed them to a large building close to the center of the village.

Inside it was mostly empty, but no one cared. Everyone rushed towards the Fire and Shadow got off Dayunell's arm and walked to a chair much to big for him and sat down. Dayunell looked aroundd and saw the Scale that led them here leaning against his black staff. Shadow looked up and saw a Scale, the same one that ordered the gates to be opened.

"I am Solomon Vek, village Chieftain. What are you doing here?"
Shadow stood shakidly and gave an awkward salute, "Sergeant Tage Shadow, 7^th Highland Pathfinder Company, Now Officer Commanding. We apologise for intruding, but we got stuck on this side of the White Teeth," Shadow sighed, "Then our officer lead us straight into an ambush. You found us soon after." Shadow coughed, legs feeling weak, "Chieftain, may I a seat? Also, could I trouble you for some food and water for my men?" He coughed again, "And perhaps some water for myself, sir?"

OOC:
Comment about my PT/FanT nation -
Tri-Vil, the Three Villages, named for the Capital villages of the Three clan. Currently occupied by the Hions, or Plainsmen, the Highland Clans have been occupied by pretty much every nation surrounding them. They are often, when in their individual units, using the Blue war paint over their face. Tattoos surround their bodies dedicating Rank, Age, Kills, Married, Family death, Clan history. They are dark skinned, Red (FanT)/Dark Brown eyes and Slightly pointed ears. They are often regarded as excellant Hunters and Trackers but have some good craftsmen. They are often regarded to come from the fey line of Elves.

The Hash, High Roughs, Clan of the Northern Slopes and High Valley. Largest Clan, Colors are Blue and Green.
The Jujts, or Teeth, Clan of the High Hills and Eastern Slope. Second largest Clan, Colors are Blue and Red.
The Claj, or Darkness, Clan of the Moutains. Smallest Clan with fewer than 3000 people. Colors are Blue and Gray.

Gods: They have the Gods of Elements.
Frushr, god of Fire, Vengance and War.
Wrtal, godess of Water, Ice, and Life.
Ershal, God of Earth, and death.
Whral, Godess of Air, Moutains and Spirits.
Each Highlander goes to the moutains at their 16th Winter and stay their until they get their soul name and god-diety or they Die.

[Dastardly Stench]

"And that's how it works. Nothing to it, really. The rocks should go through whatever the Orks use as a shield, though--as long as they last."

Zen seemed impressed. Marvel hoped that he wasn't holding back any suspicions. The last thing he needed was an all-expense-paid trip to the local dungeon. Marvel wiped the sweat from his brow again, before the salt could get into his eyes, and uttered something like, "oh, the rain," under his breath. He hoped now, also, that Lizard Men don't like rain.

He was drenched, cold, tired and quite hungry. In The Old Place, they said that no good deed goes unpunished. Maybe there was something to that now. All he wanted was food and rest and shelter. Why, oh why, was that too much to ask around here?