Dare Starting a Fight

[Tolu Loa'Tasi]

The nameless village that lies under the old Fortress Ghoran was one small and insignificant settlement in a region littered with dozens of more impressive towns and cities. The only thing notable about the tiny town consisting mainly of farmland and craftsmen was the large Ghoran Dam it rested under, diverting water to it and all the surrounding hamlets while also subtly reminding all of those residing within how miniscule they were in the grand scheme of things. Still, so long as their meagerly expected yield of goods didn't dip or falter, few ever paid a thought to the nameless little village.

That is what made it an ideal place for the Uragan Orcs to assert themselves without much of a fight.

Any who had lived in the meager town were gone. Either they'd fled at the sight of them, dozens in number with steel and malice on full display, or they'd heeded the sound of the horns that preceded the bloody attack. Those who'd been foolish enough to stay and fight lay dead, clogging the waterway that transported water from the dam and through the city. This unimportant cluster of buildings had been evicted of it's tenants, and the new proprietor was named Loa'Tasi.

Tolu sat his massive frame down atop an overturned wagon stained with blood and caked in ash, planting the blade of his axe into the ground as he wiped viscera from his face with the back of his hand. To the Warchief, this had been the boring part of the job; These folk weren't equipped to handle an Orcish invasion, and there was never going to be a decent fight to be found here. It was a slaughter, nothing more.

His clan may have enjoyed the bloodshed, but the empty feeling of the town now, the only sounds of rowdiness and revelry from the Uragans as they looted and destroyed whatever they pleased left him feeling unsatisfied.

"So what's gubberin' ya, Warchief?"

A low growl rumbled from Tolu's throat. Why couldn't Drakk act like his brothers and enjoy himself? There was a reason he'd been christened 'The Nose' by the tribe, and it wasn't for his excellent sense of smell.

We abaet um' good! Alls dead! Shul' be happy, yeah?" The Warchief's eyes didn't waver to look at Drakk, staring only forward, towards the road leading into town. "This piddly town is not my bounty, Drakk." Like so many, he looked but failed to see. But see he would, all in a matter of time. "It ain't? So... what wus the poin' of ilkin' them then?"

Tolu only briefly allowed his attention to divert, raising a massive finger to point toward the clogged and polluted waterway.

"Do you know how many settlements depend on this water, Drakk?" The Nose, of course, blubbered for a moment and shook his head with that befuddled look about his face. Loa' Tasi smiled, the happiest he'd felt since dawn as the possibilities ran through his thick skull at a mile a minute.

"Neither do I. But I'd bet those that do notice what we've done here. They'll smell death. They'll send help."

Drakk let out a cackle, his lesser mind finally catching onto the idea his Chief was chasing. The wagon they sat on whined and lurched as the Orc bounced with violent glee. "And ehn they do...!"

"I'll finally get the fight I've been aching for."

 

[Horoth Chainbreaker]

It took him a while to get across the valley and see the sorry state of the town.

The locals had called it Ghoran's Rest for the habit of soldiers of the Fortress to seek leisure in the alleys and taverns there. Simple pleasures for simple folk, living more or less honest lives.
The details of such places did not interest Horoth as he plodded along the weakened stream that was once a river, what water was there was spoiled and the dead wild things that he'd seen upon the way were the proof of that.
The fortress loomed and cast its mighty shadow over the land, leaving all in darkness.
Horoth did not believe in omens but he could not deny the chill that touched his skin as the sun hid behind the mountains as if afraid to bear witness to what was about to come.

The armour he wore was sparce as was his way. Having tried to fit into the safer and wider plate of his fellows in the Knights of Anathaeum but he only felt like a crab in it, waiting to be deshelled and eaten.
The most solid piece was his helmet which he wore at his hip with a buckle shield and short sword, his net hung over his shoulder on the many pronged spear, which itself looked more a fishing tool than an implement of war. His arm wore spiked guards to the shoulder strapped along his chest which was bare and inviting to a blade. From his neck his fighting fists, studded leather which fit his hands and could make marmalade of meat and bone when applied.

He had come ready for a fight. A hope that only grew as he approached the gates and realised that long before he saw who occupied them his presence was known. He did not know how long they watched him but one betrayed his presence by startling a warble of bush birds who drew Horoth's eyes to them only for a moment. Luck.

Without breaking stride Horoth kept to his march, he knew his purpose and it was not to pick fights with unlucky scouts. Horoth was going to seek out the leader.

At last he stood at the gate and looked up to the guard posts there, figures looked down on him. Orcs with eyes of fire and weapons of every make and design that could stir fear. Horoth planted his spear in the ground, let the net waft like a flag and called out.

"WARCHIEF!"

His voice, deep and loud echoed through the broken streets and carried far into the town.

"FACE ME! FACE ONE WHO KNOWS HOW TO FIGHT OR HAVE YOU NOT YET TIRED OF BOASTING OVER THE CORPSES OF FARMHANDS AND CHILDREN AND CALLING YOURSELF A CONQUERER?"

Words spurned his heart with anger, even from outside the limits of the town he could smell the rot on the wind.

"PERHAPS YOU HAVE TIRED..."

Horoth continued as he picked up his helmet to don it.

"... PERHAPS YOU HAVE SPENT YOUR ENERGIES ON WEAKLINGS AND NEED TO SUCKLE ON MILKSWEETS IN YOUR COT UNTIL DAWN? SHALL I RETURN THEN?"

So many died and for nothing.

"YOU BETRAY YOURSELF COWARD. YOU SHAME YOURSELF WITH THIS BRUTALITY!"

There, that should just about do it. If all went well only one more need die before this was over. If not, then this Horde would meet more than him in the weeks to come.

@Tolu Loa'Tasi

 

[Tolu Loa'Tasi]

Oh, he liked this one.

The Knight's bellowing taunts had quickly drawn the attention of the rest of the clan, and a gaggle of green flesh poured into the village square. Hungry, bored, and violent eyes all met the haunting helmet of Horoth as he donned it so boldly before them. Grumbling murmurs seemed to vibrate the air around the Warchief. Who would get to go first? Would they all tear him apart at once? How would they decide who got his shiny bits?

Tolu smiled, that hideous, toothy smirk of an Ork looking at his supper as he stood.

"Listen to him squawk, brothers! Hear him as he calls for me, pleads for my steel!

The Uragans grow louder, shouting celebratory vulgarities in support of their leader as he raises his massive arms in the air to rile them further. "They look upon this, the work that we've done, and send us one man! One man, who thinks himself worthy of a battle with your Warchief!"

Rising from the town comes a chant, a chorus of voices ascending like smoke from a raging inferno as the Orcish horde calls out in rhythm like some perverted hymn of the profane. Stomping feet against the dusty roads kicked up a fog and provided a steady drumbeat that may as well have been the ticking of a clock, counting down to a display of unmitigated bloodlust on both ends.

"TASI-LOA-TOLU!"

"TASI-LOA-TOLU!"

"And your Warchief is GENEROUS! There would be no shame in bringing help, Human! I am not a giant to be felled with a stone, or a wall to be broken at its weakest point!" The towering Chief lumbered forward as he spoke now toward Horoth, the chanting horde under his command spreading like a parting sea to make way for him. I am PURE Orkin! Son of the Uruk and holder of its blood! I am your END!"

"TASI-LOA-TOLU!"

"TASI-LOA-TOLU!"

Now The Orc stood before him, unobstructed, reeking of death and hatred. If Horoth's armor was sparse, Tolu's was minimal; A billowing coat made of fur and skins hung off of his broad shoulders, and an iron belt wrapped around his waist with the symbol of the Uragans emblazoned on its face, but there would be nothing more but the incredibly dense muscles that comprised him to stand against Horoth's weapons.

Somehow, it didn't seem that Loa'Tasi was too concerned about that.

Reaching to his back, Tolu retrieved his own weapon of destruction: A behemoth mace, forged from shimmering steel and topped with the broken and jagged skull of his own father. With a roar, he brought his fury down into the dirt between them, the impact causing the very earth to shudder as the chants of the Orkin came to a close.

"ALUUUU!"

"You who would challenge me..." Loa'Tasi sneered as he brought his mace up from the ground and readied it at his side, every goliath muscle in his body tensing with the thrill of imminent battle. "Your name, so I may remember it when you are ash beneath me."

@Horoth Chainbreaker

 

[Horoth Chainbreaker]

It took Horoth back to his days in the pits.

These Orkin thought themselves powerful, savage, intimidating.

They played at being unlike other peoples but they were so like humans he thought it would be funny if it was not so desperately childish of them to kill just to seem different.

Like those humans they chanted and brayed, hurled insults and cheered their champion with no understanding of the comfort that such noise brought. If they really wanted to intimidate him they would have watched with silent eyes and let the big one come.

Part of being a gladiator was being a showman, performing to the crowd and this one, this one who thought himself mighty and so easily identified with a few taunts wanted to perform at being a leader. At being the strongest, a need born from fear that he was not enough.

Horoth almost pitied him even as he spoke, quietly, knowing the others would need to strain to hear his words.

"I am Horoth Chainbreaker, Field Sworn Knight of Anathaeum, once Champion of the fighting pits of Gromm which now lay buried and masterless by my hand, I am son to rod and lash who reared me and unlike this ground Boy..."
A scuff of dirt flittered away from his sandaled foot.
"I hit back!"

His own build was shorter but not leaner, compact as he was Horoth wagered the Orc was his stronger but probably not by much. The lack of armour helped but still, the very size of the younger man made it clear that he was not in for an easy fight. Perhaps that was why they sent him and not one of the others.
In the pits you did not know who you were fighting until you saw them and getting their measure was vital to victory, to living. This one did not hide his strength, the small crater on the road was proof of that, how he strutted like a buck made it plain. This one had earned confidence by never tasting real defeat.
To break him Horoth needed to make him doubt, just for a moment would do but it wouldn't be easy to shake such a pillar of self certainty.

He rolled his shoulder and drew his short sword, slid his hand into the buckler and stood ready. His raging heart calmed by the cold of his purpose. His hands now where they were meant to be, his feet apart and stable his eye everywhere and nowhere as if looking at some horizon in his own mind taking in the whole image.

He sought that place, that place where training led but did not arrive at, where intuition met fate. Confidence, that helped you believe you could win but there was a deeper feeling, a knowing one could reach and it had never failed him. He sensed for it, felt it close by wavering on the edge of awareness.

"You are not my end!"


@Tolu Loa'Tasi