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The perpetual storms that blackened the skies of the Reapers domain were silent this day. Silent, but not absent. The foul wind whipped through the ranks of the Shattered Knuckle clan. They were lined up, every man, woman, and child of the orcish clan, armed to the teeth and in their best ceremonial garb. A foul smelling and acting mob they were nonetheless proud to be the vanguard of the attacking force. As the sun rose a thin weak light filtered through the roiling clouds brightening the valley enough to make using their night vision unfeasible.
An ebon figure was spotted then, descending through the storm on the back of a horse that ran through the skies, flames leaping from its feet at every step.
Many of the dark servants cowered an unanticipated fear building to terror as the living nightmare descended into their midst. Ukelukiok the chieftain of the Shattered Knuckle clan stepped forward to await his master's arrival.
A few minutes passed and the clattering of hooves filled the silent valley as the Reaper landed his mount. In a single bound the vile knight was on the ground striding towards the orcish chieftain. A hollow voice rang out from the Reaper, the fearsome visage of his helm causing the words to echo dully even as the left his mouth. "Your clan has been awarded great honor, such that every member will be part of the initial strike and share the danger, and glory equally." A roar filled the valley as the clan broke out into cheers excitedly proclaiming the glory that would soon be theirs. After waiting for the cheering to quiet Reaper continued "An honor that shall be made doubly great by your noble decision to leave your armor and weapons here for those who will follow." Reaper paused for the applause that started then quickly died as the orcs realized what had just been said. A few voices cried out against the injustice and squads of man-wolves rushed in quickly to devour the dissenters.
Order was quickly restored and the Orcs began the march through the mountains, well informed that the wolf-men would be scouring the mountains for deserters, and that the best hope for survival the unarmed and armorless orcs faced was to bravely face and deal death at the hands of the hated dwarves.
The march through the mountains was brutal, the storms blasted dozens of orcs over the cliff faces while stragglers were picked off by hungry beasts dispatched to keep the orcs marching. Icy winds, frozen feet and starving children all faced the orcs. For a week they marched, until they were prepared for the confrontation with the dwarves. Starving, frostbitten, dying of exposure, they were ready as the Reaper had planned.
The battle was bloody and short, of the one thousand five hundred and thirty seven orcs that marched that day all were slaughtered, most before the gates of the dwarf lords who had barred their hold long ago, but several hundred also threw themselves off of the narrow cliffs, rather than wait to be slaughtered, and more ran, hoping to luck to escape the brutal efficiency of the wolf-weres, they were not so lucky as they had hoped.
A single goblin, a miserable creature ill-treated most severely by the orcs, had been dispatched as a standard bearer and returned, the spells warding him had returned him when the Orcs were destroyed. The banner of their tribe was hung at the gates of Reapers keep, and the story quickly spread that the Reaper would not tolerate disorder, shirking of duty, or complacence in his army, and the directed genocide of an entire clan who had been the most severe perpetrators of those crimes was a shockingly effective reminder. Reaper chuckled as order was restored to his troops and sent word that soon, very soon, the time would come to expand the kingdom. The training and tasks proceeded without further complication as the orcs and goblins worked to bring their skill to a level that would be deemed acceptable by the Reaper.
[ 06-28-2005, 02:34 PM: Message edited by: Morgeruat ]
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