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Post by Varis/G'Lorth/Sundilar on May 3, 2018 8:47:38 GMT
In another part of the Orc camp, a man is being whipped. He stands shirtless, wrists bound to a heavy wooden stake as blow after blow flays the skin from his back. The prisoners around him look away from his clenched jaw, from the eye that twitches with each lash, from the blood that pools on the dusty earth. They don't know what he did to deserve such punishment. Probably nothing. Varis merely grits his teeth and counts the blows. He will not cry out. He will not. He spits blood from bruised lips, watching it mingle with the ash and dust that coats the ground. He thinks of his sister, feeling the sweat and smoke sting his back. He continues to count.
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Post by Deleted on May 3, 2018 9:14:00 GMT
** Jeez. This was a level of realism I was not ready for at 10:15 on a Thursday morning **
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Post by Dvärgar / Gara on May 3, 2018 9:38:16 GMT
In a further away part of the prisoners procession there stands a Dwarf, muscular, scarred, but most of all drowning in sorrow in and rage. For his companion for the first time in months is not close by. His body is mainly unharmed, as every whip lash and jab from a spear seemed to cause a divine spark to harm his tormentors. The sorrow and rage were rising. In an attempt to keep him docile, the orcs had surrounded him with his friends and allies, for every time he misbehaved, each of them was whipped. The sorrow and rage were rising. As he walked he saw men and women of all races drag themselves through the mud, covered in chains and ropes, stumbling sometimes to not get back up. The sorrow and rage were rising...
But then he felt something, not something material, but something that touched his heart, it radiated through his body like heat and by the time it reached his skin it felt like the light brush of wolf fur...
The sorrow was gone but the rage, the rage was swelling to a mighty wave, waiting to be unleashed with a howl when the time was right...
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Post by Sunday on May 3, 2018 11:00:18 GMT
In another part of the Orc camp, a man is being whipped. He stands shirtless, wrists bound to a heavy wooden stake as blow after blow flays the skin from his back. The prisoners around him look away from his clenched jaw, from the eye that twitches with each lash, from the blood that pools on the dusty earth. They don't know what he did to deserve such punishment. Probably nothing. Varis merely grits his teeth and counts the blows. He will not cry out. He will not. He spits blood from bruised lips, watching it mingle with the ash and dust that coats the ground. He thinks of his sister, feeling the sweat and smoke sting his back. He continues to count. Through a haze of pain, you see one of the Orcs standing guard by the whipping post looking at you; he’s smiling genially. He whispers something in curiously high-pitched Orcish. You look back confused. He rolls his purple-irised eyes and repeats it under his breath in common: "Oh boy! You sure have got yourself into a little pickle there, haven't you?!" Another lash hits you from behind. Your vision blurs in momentary agony. When it clears again, the Orc with the purple eyes is gone. |
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Post by Tugark (Retired) on May 3, 2018 17:49:55 GMT
Tugark was separated from the others fairly soon after capture. The last anyone saw of him he was making a nuisance of himself for his captors. Smaller than his green-skinned kin, filled with seething rage of his orcish heritage, and the guile of his human heritage. He knew he would not be held back, or kept down.
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Post by Varis/G'Lorth/Sundilar on May 3, 2018 18:45:49 GMT
Through a haze of pain, you see one of the Orcs standing guard by the whipping post looking at you; he’s smiling genially. He whispers something in curiously high-pitched Orcish. You look back confused. He rolls his purple-irised eyes and repeats it under his breath in common: "Oh boy! You sure have got yourself into a little pickle there, haven't you?!" Another lash hits you from behind. Your vision blurs in momentary agony. When it clears again, the Orc with the purple eyes is gone. A woman sits, huddled in fear near the whipping post. Innured to the sounds of torment and the casual violence that surround her, she nevertheless starts as a strange sounds reaches her ears. It sounds at first like an animal coughing, but with a chill of fear she realises it is coming from the half elven man being whipped. He - no, surely not. But yes. Varis Nailo, Paladin of Tyr, is laughing. As she watches in horror, he throws back his head and roars with bitter, edged mirth. Then the whip cracks again and the laughter is replaced by a stream of words in a language the woman doesn't understand, but is fairly sure aren't polite. Shuddering, she wraps her arms around her knees and burries her face in her shawl. Somehow, despite all that has happened, all the death and destruction she has witnessed, the warrior's cracked laughter is by far the most disturbing thing she has seen. |
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Post by Barden [Ollie] on May 3, 2018 19:49:32 GMT
A bloody splash across my face blinds me, I pull up the rag around my neck, it's also soaked, but clears the blood from my eyes, and the scene before me reasserts itself. That blood belonged to the smiley blonde Eladrin boy, his head now cleaved by an orcish axe across that young face. Just shock in the only eye I can see as his body tumbles down the small hill of other bodies, orcish and Eladrin, I am balanced on top of. The axe wielder, grim and determined behind a black leather eye patch, also registers shock as my hammer, with force and weight, finds its home on his helm, immediately caving into his skull. I shriek a cry of fear and rage, that face was more blotchy than the other orc faces I had rendered lifeless that day. I remember the eyepatch must have been leather, it was shiny. The orc follows the Eladrin boy down the hill of bodies in front of me.
I hear and smell the death around me. I see below and yonder before me only orcish heads, helms and steel, surging forwards. I turn for a second looking at my sides: two or three Eladrin a few feet away, longswords ringing in irregular rhythm as blows from many blades fall upon them. The orcs are crowding us, now climbing, now leaping like rabid beasts on all fours up to me. An Eladrin falls under hacking blades and axes, a spray of blood, a cry of loss at life's end. My hope has fled, my own death calls, how dare these lowest scum take the lives of those so brave! My hammer is now held in both hands, it weighs heavily, only fending off scimitar and axe, I'm unable to strike a blow. I feel one knee descend into the limbs and corpses beneath me. I call Her name for my final strength: has the Mother abandoned me? A bigger bastard orc shoves others aside, and the blows cease. In a split second, he spins his greataxe and shoves the butt into my nose. Inner crunch of bone, then more pain, pain, I am in red darkness.
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Post by The Sergeant / Alisha on May 3, 2018 19:51:19 GMT
As dawn breaks the next morning. The sergeant awakes as a woman next to him, a commander whose name has left him in the past days of horror, is lifted by an orc whose lower lip is missing. The elven woman had covered herself in the shit of her comrades to hide her gender and her race. Her disguise lasted two mornings.
All around the sergeant watches as every elf and every woman is taken. The elves to butcher. The women the mate. Or so he heard the Orcs say.
He heard something else. Something more surprising: To the southern woods a band of Daring survivors were see. Lead by a redheaded woman. With her were men, a horde of undead orcs and soldiers, and a "Huloest". The Sergent does not know the word. But this Huloest rips Orcs apart like bread. Or so this white faced orc says.
The Sergent whispers to those around him, "Summon your strength. All is not lost."
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Post by Deleted on May 3, 2018 20:47:06 GMT
(Guys, can I just say: this is fucking quality writing all round. I feel like I’m in that crush in the Battle of the Bastards episode from Game Of Thrones. But worse. Obviously disaster and horror motivates D&D players. Amazing stuff.)
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Post by Dvärgar / Gara on May 4, 2018 9:25:13 GMT
As the sun sets, Dvärgar is kneeling in prayer and imploration, many of the prisoners surrounding him do the same, begging one god or another for redemption, rescue or paradise. For once he does not try and preach the power of Trithereon, he is focused on his task. Suddenly all around him gasp as a large white wolf appears before him, she licks his face, listening intently to him mumble to her in mix of Dwarvish and animalistic growls, their bond, since Granny fused their life force,s is stronger than ever a Paladin of Trithereon has been to one of Nemoud's bretheren, since Trithereon and Nemoud themselve's formed a pack.
Dvärgar lays a kiss on Lykas brow, and with a whimper she disappears...
Some of the prisoners around Dvärgar let out sighs of disapointment, but the Dwarf himself is as a statue, his whole body tense, a slight glow emanating from his fingers, beads of sweat forming on his skin. The orcs notice.
Pushing prisoners aside one of the captors, comes up to Dvärgar, screaming in common for him to stop. No response.
He beats him with a club, but with each strike a silver light seems to flash and the orc felt the same pain. No response.
Standing back the orc grabs a young woman from the prisoners and screams "Puny dwarf, stop or I kill girl" in simplistic, but un-misinterpret-able common. No response.
The sweat continues to gather, it's now mixed with blood. With every pant that escapes his lips, the mist seems redder, as if the power running through him was boiling his body. The light starts waning, he snarls, both his fists slam into the ground, his eyes snap open burning with a divine glow, his skin glows again brighter than ever, blood is dripping from his ears, his nose, his eyes, it splatters form his mouth at every snarling breath, the orc backs away screaming for help.
Suddenly the wolf appears again, howling a heart wrenching cry, full of sorrow and grief, she nudges him, pushing him back up to his knees, the light fades, his breathing calms but is still shallow, he stares aheadwith the look of those blinded by light.
Dvärgar reached out his hands, stroking Lyka fondly, petting her like a young boy would pet a old dog, she is eternal after all, a gift of his god. "There there girl, there is nothing to fear" he mumbles in Dwarvish "just need a rest...". She starts to lick his face, but he pushes her away "go you can't be here, I'll call you soon".
With a whimper and one last lick she fades, leaving Dvärgar to collapse on his back, a look of peace on his blood, sweat, mud and spittle stained face. His last words before passing out into the oblivion of sleep were these, bellowed at the top of his voice for all to hear.
"DARING KNOWS OF OUR PLIGHT, THEY KNOW WHERE WE ARE, THEY TALK ALREADY OF RESCUE. KEEP FAITH, STAY ALIVE, STAY STRONG. DARING KNOWS OF OUR PLIGHT"
And upon those words he was out, the last of Trithereons light leaving his body, hoping that someone would consider carrying him a bit once the march continued...
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Post by Varis/G'Lorth/Sundilar on May 4, 2018 16:31:54 GMT
The woman in front of Varis stumbles, exhaustion and the merciless heat of the afternoon sun taking her legs from under her. She tries to rise but the
weight of the last few days, the horror and privation rob her of the strength to lift herself. She looks up at him as he continues to shuffle forward, the black iron chain around his ankles turning his usual loping stride to an invalid hobble.
"Please." He sees the cracks in the flesh around her mouth, the flies already settling on her face. Her left arm is an angry, swollen red around the hole left by an Orcish arrow. The wound leaks pale fluid. It won't be long before the rot sets in. Bad way to go. He's seen soldiers who could break stones with their knuckles weep like babes as the 'green set in.
"I can't help you." He turns to shuffle onwards, the sun beating hot on the naked ruin of his back, but she musters the strength to grab at his hand, tugging him round.
She catches his eye, like flint on steel. A moment passes between them. In the distance one of their captor’s bellows. He's holding up the line. They'll whip him again for this.
"Please" she says again.
Varis nods. He walks over to her, his torn, callused hands strangely gentle as he places one on her chin, the other on the back of her neck. The chain joining them is tight. She looks up at him.
"Thank you, sir."
With a smooth, practised motion he twists, feeling as much as hearing the muffled crack, then lays her body gently on the ground, closing her eyes for the final time. He notices the bloody stumps where she had carved the points from her own ears, trying to avoid the brutality that had been visited on most of the Elven prisoners. No matter now. They could harm her no longer.
There is another brutish shout, closer now. He straitens and rejoins the seemingly endless line of prisoners shuffling northwest from the ruins of Daring toward the looming mountains of central Kantas.
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Post by Varis/G'Lorth/Sundilar on May 6, 2018 19:07:10 GMT
Fire flickers from a hundred crude torches driven into the lip of the fighting pit, casting shadows and filling the room with a choking pall of acrid smoke. The walls are lined with jagged wooden stakes, many stained with blood and a few sporting more visceral monumnets to those who have died on the hard packed earth. The roar of the Orc's savage debauchery almost drowns the moans of the man being dragged through an iron gate on the other side of the pit. It's hot in here - different from the scorching heat of the forced march from Daring. This is a wet heat, an animal heat. Varis wipes his brow with his forearm, frowning for a moment as it comes away red with fresh blood. Not his, he remembers, though how long that will hold true he cannot say. He drops to one knee, grabbing a handfull of dirt from the floor of the fighting pit and rubbing it between his fingers. There is no sentimentality in the act - it will soak some of the blood, stop the haft of the crude axe they have given him from slipping in his grip.
Suddenly he notices the great chamber has gone silent. He looks up to find the bestial faces of his captors all turned toward a lone figure who stands on the edge of the pit, above and opposite him. The hulking female is naked, painted in crude reds and whites, and festooned with fetishes and bone trinkets. Her fingers end in wicked looking talons, and she speaks in a voice at once shrill and gravelly.
"So, this is the one who slew the mighty Demon-Kissed. It has the stink of the Seldarine about it. And yet it lives?"
A burly warrior steps forward, a fine silver goblet of Daring origin dwarfed in it's huge fist.
"None have bested it in the pit, ancient one."
"Then perhaps one of you should challenge the creature. Or do you fear this Elven half-breed?"
The warrior stiffens, it's eyes glittering in the torchlight. Before it can respond, the female speaks again.
"It seems none of you wish to risk your own hides to protect the tribe. No matter. This one the Cave Mother will see to."
Nervous mutters circle the room, and Varis watches a great shadow approach the gate in the far wall. As the iron bars are hoisted up on thick chains, the creature ambles out into the torchlight. An enormous cave bear, teeth like daggers and a bloody red stripe painted down it's spine regards him with baleful eyes. He breathes in, then out as the creature noses the air, a rumbling growl emerging from it's huge jaws. He closes his eyes briefly, turning his face up to where the sky is hidden by crudely carved stone. Gripping the haft of the axe, he stands to meet the avalanch of death that rushes across the arena. Those watching closely see a slight smile twitch the corner of his mouth before vanishing as man and beast colide.
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Post by Tugark (Retired) on May 7, 2018 8:44:48 GMT
Utter exhaustion rests on Tugark's face, as his body slouches in the corner of this tent, wrapped in chains. He fights back at his captors, tormentors and torturers when he can, but right now there is nothing in him but despair.
Through the tent opening an orc drags in another prisoner, a farmhand. Too old to be called a boy, inexperienced enough to yet be called a man. The farmhand is thrown towards Tugark as the orc demands, through bellows of laughter, "the boy for your dinner!"
As the farmhand tries to scramble away, Tugark wraps his arms and legs around him and squeezes without hesitation. In his mind Tugark assures himself that the boy wasn't fit to survive this camp and that his actions was an escape from this hell. A gift no one would be giving Tugark.
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Post by Tugark (Retired) on May 7, 2018 9:56:27 GMT
This would happen several more times over the course of their capture. Each time the meal was held back longer, and each time the meal was that much more rewarding.
Tugark knew he was being conditioned against the people of Daring Heights, but there was little he could do to fight it. Each time he rationalized it less and gave in.
It was in his blood, and his kin knew best, he was Orcish after all...
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Post by Deleted on May 8, 2018 10:06:12 GMT
Utter exhaustion rests on Tugark's face, as his body slouches in the corner of this tent, wrapped in chains. He fights back at his captors, tormentors and torturers when he can, but right now there is nothing in him but despair. Through the tent opening an orc drags in another prisoner, a farmhand. Too old to be called a boy, inexperienced enough to yet be called a man. The farmhand is thrown towards Tugark as the orc demands, through bellows of laughter, "the boy for your dinner!" As the farmhand tries to scramble away, Tugark wraps his arms and legs around him and squeezes without hesitation. In his mind Tugark assures himself that the boy wasn't fit to survive this camp and that his actions was an escape from this hell. A gift no one would be giving Tugark. 'kin hell..... |
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