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Old 07-09-2010, 03:07 AM
Raulaun Raulaun is offline
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Default The Orc with Witt (Fan-Fic Comp)

The Orc with Witt, a dawn of fantasy tale.


There lived a young orc in the sprawling, war-like city Brussleheim, his name was Raulaun the Witty. Not exactly smart, but not exactly dim-witted either, the young orc shown through the ranks as years went by and wars kindled. He was a great archer, at only 19 able to shoot the fruit off a tree from a great distance. The dense jungles that surrounded Brussleheim provided great cover to the outside world, but great perils aswell. Magical parasites, Moskrilyms, large mosquitos roughly three inches wide with a blue, glowing body could suck the soul out of any orc, resulting in an otherwise satisfying meal for the hounds. Capturing one of these in a clay jar, the young orc studied it carefully, putting thin netting over the top of the jar so it couldnt escape. It was an odd night, his parents were late from the weekend festivities of Orkschnoppes, the seasonal celebration of booze. The silent cabin began to feel lonely despite the harsh laughter outside.


BANG! BANG! The door to the cabin burst open, shards of wood flying in various directions. A tall orc adorned in glistening chainmail with a vibrant orange cape marched into the cabin. "Where is it, damn!" The orc sneered, screaming in rage as he toppled the pantry cabinet, clay pottery and dishes breaking on the floor and scattering everywhere. "Where, is, my, BOOK!" The orc roared, a female orc behind in tow, the boys mother. "You best look harder, Dahz, lest the roaches get to it before you do, in a thousand years! Ha!" The orc boasted despite being roped to the tall, muscular warlord standing in the middle of the cabin. The muscles on the brute's back began to ripple. "What... Did you say?" He said, holding back immeasurable fury for just the right moment. "You heard me! Too stupid to recognize your own hand!" A roar immediately followed, accompanied by yet another crash of clay pottery as Dahz smashed his fist into the side of the table, smashing it, sending debris everywhere- a mistake, the jar containing the lethal Moskirym shattered, a buzzing sound filling the air as it flew onto the large, burly brute's shoulder and drove it's sucker into his arm. Dahz screamed in agony as his face began to contort and his features deteriorate. In his rage he smashed in the face of the poor boys mother, killing her instantly. The warlord fell to his knees and slumped forward, dead.


The commotion in the cabin had attracted the attention of a crowd of orcs who stared dimwittedly through the doorway at the heap that lay, dead. Raulaun emerged, a blatant expression of care-for-nothing on his face, silently reminiscing about what had just happened as he realized what was now happening. He had killed warlord Dahz, which meant he had won the shamanistic right as warlord. Staring at the crowd, he relieved the corpse of it's ceremonial crown and placed it on his head. "There will be change." He said, loudly and affirmatively, which drove the crowd silent despite the occasional hic or drunk rant, he continued on. "We will light the world ablaze with our power, cleanse the evil spirits of those against us and lastly, kill anyone that stands in our way!" With passion, he roared: "Are you with me!?" causing a roar mimicry in return. "We are with YOU!" They roared, chanting it over and over like a mindless pack.


Several summers had passed since his ascension, and several sacred fires had been lit in turn for each year he had graced the world with his presence. Enjoying himself, he grew fat off wild boar and rich fruit. This was interrupted by a noisome typhoon aswell as a peace treaty from a neighoring orcish tribe. Thinking about it carefully, he took a quill and some ink and wrote a message, handing it to the dripping, cold deliverywoman as she saluted and walked out to deliver it. "Hmph! Pitiful vermin.." He scowled. "We will show them what it means to be of true orcish heritage!" He picked up his tribal staff of war and shoved it into the air. "We will crush EVERYONE, in our way!" He roared under the tent, thunder coinciding with his demands, spurring the nation into yet another clash for religious supremacy.


The morning was brisk and cold- not where he was standing. He was in the middle of a sea of torches, pikes, bows, axes, swords, shields and brethren. They were all marching towards war. A thick chant of marching songs kept heads from rolling. They had left the boundaries of the forest less than a week ago and were hell-bent on pillaging the neighoring orc tribe Nizhulu as they marched along the banks of Dal Dreg. Nizhulu started as a fishing village, growing strong from a good supply of food. Now, it was a bustling city filled with orcs and even the occasional human slave. Raulaun stood on a hill overlooking the city as he looked down upon it, his men waiting for the word. The ramparts were packed with archery, this would be a tough fight. He turned around, facing his army. "Ah gandagh!" He shouted. "We will terredd them all, leave no survivors!" Turning around, he pointed his sword at the city below. "HARRAGEN!" He roared as troops rushed past him, roaring with him. "HARREGEN! Terredd them all, no survivors!" They roared as every soul had rushed down the hill and Raulaun began his decent.

Last edited by Raulaun : 07-18-2010 at 02:52 AM.
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