Orkil bowed with
a flourish as the tavern erupted into applause. Thaleod ul Anlyn1 was always a popular tale in elven
cities such as this one. Even better, he was now skilled enough in the main
elven language that he was able to sing the entire tale without any laughter
from his audience.
With a pleased
smile, Orkil descended the stairs to the side of the stage as a young elven
lady headed up. Taking a seat at the bar, Orkil ordered a glass of middling
quality wine and listened to the soft voice of the elven lady as she sang Alarhad Gyer Gharia2, an old
song of bittersweet love. A little gloomy after his tale of valor, but a good
song none the less.
“So minstrel,
where does a goat herder learn old elvish tales?” a soft, yet masculine voice
to Orkil’s left inquired.
Orkil turned to
face the questioner. An elf male, perhaps a little ways into his second century
if Orkil was reading the man’s features and stance correctly. But in any-case,
it was a valid question.
Adjusting his
stool so that he faced the stranger without bending his back, Orkil took a sip
of his newly arrived wine before providing his answer, “When I was with my
clan, Hiz’rych Kopjad3, I was the student of the clan’s historian.
So many wonderful stories, so much history, yet they only covered a small part
of the history of the lands we traveled. I needed to see more, learn more, hear
more. So with great regret, I aided my teacher in finding a replacement before
I left the clan. I first heard Thaleod ul
Anlyn about two years ago, and I am pleased to say that my telling of it
has greatly improved. Why, had this been my first telling I imagine I would
have been run out of town for using Thuleod4
instead of Thaleod.”
The elven man raised an eyebrow before
allowing a small, amused smile.
“Still, all
things considered I have been lucky. Not all half-breeds are given the chance
to rise as high as I was,” Orkil conceded, his mind going back to the
historian’s smoky tent.
“Half-breed? You
look to be full orc, if a little on the thin side,” the elf observed.
Hiding back a
smile, Orkil got the sense that he’d get to share some of his older tales with
his audience after all. Still, before he could do that he had to give the man
an explanation to the question he left unasked.
“My mother was
human and my father was the clan chief. She was part of a large group of
bandits that the clan had been having trouble with. While the clan primarily
lives off of spear-fishing, dairy and red meat are still key aspects of the
clan’s diet. Fed up with the clan’s livestock being poached, the then clan
chief, my grandfather, ordered the clan’s warriors to hunt down the bandits.
“To make a long
story short, mostly because it was all that I was ever told, the bandits lost
and by ancient clan law the lives of the survivors belonged to the clan’s
warriors. Each warrior got to pick one survivor, the one with the most kills got
first pick while the one with the least got last. My father was third to pick,
and he picked my mother.
“By the laws of
most nations, it would be slavery. However, no one is going to mess with a full
clan of orcs over some bandits. In any case, my father eventually was wed to an
orc woman from the Uilij Laqhain5 clan. I was born about six months
after the wedding, and my half-sister was born about a month after me.”
“So you’re the
son of a slave? How’d you end up the student of the historian?”
“Because of the
different attitudes towards slavery. In orc clans, slaves always become such
because they fought against the clan and lost. The penalty for such is a
forfeit life. If you die in battle against the clan, then the penalty is paid.
If you survive, then your life is no longer your own but the clan’s. However,
the penalty ends with you. Any children you have are not part of that, and are
not subject to the same restrictions."
Pausing for a moment, Orkil took a sip of wine before continuing, “That’s how it
works in theory, in practice it doesn’t always turn out that way. In my case, I
was bullied as a small child but not for being borok rogdenor, slave-borne, but because I lost every athletic
competition I was in.”
“So you were
bullied because you were weaker, not because your mother was a slave?”
“Exactly, in the
Santolg Danuji6 clan I would have been a slave in all but name, in
the Uilij Laqhain clan I would have been treated as a member of the chieftain’s
family without the possibility of being his heir, and in the Tanlu nuj Merykh7
clan I’d probably be dead fighting hobgoblins and my corpse raised to keep
fighting.”
The elf’s eyes
widened in horror before shivering in revulsion. Orkil knew how he felt, but
decided now was the time to see if he’d get to tell an orc story.
“Perhaps I should
tell another story, maybe one from my old clan?”
“Please,” the elf
said before realizing what he was agreeing to.
“Wonderful! I
think I should start at the beginning, the very beginning. If you will give me
a moment to prepare my vocals and magic, I’ll be able to both show and
narrate,” Orkil said with a grin as he finished his glass of wine and made his
way back to the stage.
As he reached the
steps leading to the stage, the elven lady who sang after him was coming down.
With a roguish smile, be bowed and placed a kiss upon her hand before
whispering, “A moving performance my lady, may I hear more of your splendid
talent later?”
A rosy blush
dusted her cheeks, as she stammered slightly before nodding. With a whispered
room number, she dashed back to her table as Orkil ascended the stairs to the
stage.
Turning to face
the tavern, Orkil mentally translated the story he was planning to tell as he
addressed the audience, “I beg your forgiveness for coming up here twice in one
evening, but a curious fellow asked me to tell a tale from beyond the city’s
walls. I thought about performing a rendition of Gor Sikadzas Elvek8, but then I remembered where I was.”
Drunken laughter
filled the tavern, and Orkil’s grin grew wider, “So instead I decided to share
with you the first story I learned: Svelk-Rozgum9.”
With that, Orkil
began to stomp his right heel on the stage to provide a rhythm; at the same
time, he brought his hands up while chanting in an ancient orc language that
only the clan elders and historians knew. As the audience watched him, the
stomps began to sound like a heartbeat, and they could almost see more than a
dozen figures in battle armor so fine, so detailed, that no mortal hand could
have crafted them. The beat drew them in, and the images pulled their thoughts
away from the waking world to a time long since past.
Long ago, before time
had settled into the flow it is now; before rain, sun, or snow; before elf,
human, dwarf, goblin, or orc; before fire or iron, the gods were at war. Not at
war with demons, for demons had not yet raged; not at war with devils, for
devils had not yet corrupted; not at war with each other, for they had not yet
split. They warred against Caraavran, a beast the likes of which mortal minds
can barely comprehend.
Caraavran had no set
form, instead shifting new appendages, be they arms, legs, claws, tentacles,
wings, or tails, when doing so suited the moment in battle. His size was such
that no one living or dead had ever seen its entire form.
The gods were unable
to slay Caraavran in outright battle, so they gathered to devise a new
strategy. Moros, the mightiest warrior amongst them, suggested dismembering the
beast. Zarth suggested killing it before it knew they were there. For ages and
ages they argued, each unable to agree on a plan. Then Erb, the Father of the
Gods, spoke after having remained silent until that point.
“We will kill Caraavran, and this is how. Moros, my daughter, you shall
lead your brothers and sisters into battle. When it grows new limbs you will
sever them. When it grows new eyes you will blind them. When it grows new maws,
you will break them. Aelma and I shall deliver the killing blow.”
None, not even Zarth
who hated Erb with a passion unmatched before or since, dared argue. The gods
set out, preparing themselves for the battle to come. Aelma and Erb watched as
their children fought Caraavran with a zeal beyond their previous battles. They
knew that this would be the day that Caraavran fell.
The battle raged for an
age, the gods never tiring, Caraavran never slowing, Aelma and Erb never
attacking. Doubt began to creep into the minds of the gods. Would their parents
ever strike? What were they waiting for? Was there some plan that they had not
been told about?
Despite their doubt,
the gods did not let up, but neither did Caraavran. One had to give, and like
every battle before, it was not Caraavran. Gulaman, the youngest of the gods,
over extended his blade and a maw ringed in tentacles lashed out and swallowed
the young god whole. His siblings roared in agony, but their roar was dwarfed
by that of Caraavran.
As Caraavran killed
their son, Aelma and Erb struck. Their combined magic was enough to kill the
beast, but not when it was actively defending against them. Their children were
the distraction so that Caraavran would take his attention off of them, and be
unable to defend against their might.
Outraged, the gods
turned to their parents to demand an explanation. They could have saved
Gulaman, but didn’t. It surely was within their power to do so, so why didn’t
they. Aelma, grief-stricken Aelma, was the one to explain. Her and Erb’s powers
combined was barely enough to kill Caraavran, if they had used any to save
Gulaman, then what they had left would not have been able to kill the beast.
The trick of drawing its attention away from them would not work twice, and if
they wasted the chance Gulaman gave them then Caraavran would never be defeated.
Some of their children
accepted this, some did so reluctantly, others however did not accept their
parent’s reasoning. One, Shynkar, declared that one day, he would take all that
Aelma and Erb cherished from them before cutting them down. Hearing this, Erb’s
eyes narrowed, searching his son to determine how much truth there was in his
declaration. Upon reaching his conclusion, Erb spoke.
“If that is your decision, then this is mine. Should you not renounce
your vendetta then you will be stripped of your power and cast out from my
House. You will dwell with vermin and corpses, and shall never again know my
favor or love.”
Shynkar’s response was
to attack Erb with all of his might. Even having spent most of his energy
killing Caraavran, Erb simply batted aside his furious son. Wrapping Shynkar in
tendrils of darkness deeper than the inside of a coffin on a moonless night,
Erb drained Shynkar of his power. Leaving him weaker than a newborn, yet still
immortal. Punishment complete, Erb turned to the rest of his family, eyes
conveying a warning: ‘Cross me and I will do to you what I did to my son.’
The gods uneasily set
to work. When the war against Caraavran began, they had made plans for the
beast’s death. Though their number was lesser by two, they still set about the
plan as best they were able.
From Caraavran’s two
remaining eyes, the gods crafted the moons. One, large and bright and silver,
Maidanaa took as her home. The other, small and bloodshot and filled with
hidden power, Lyc claimed for his own.
The stomach, Aelma
placed in the sky and used her power to make Gulaman’s body shine as bright as
her love for him, and as painfully as her grief for letting him die. She swore
to care for her son’s remains until such time as she could forgive herself. There
she remains to this day, tending the sun.
From Caraavran’s flesh
and bone, the gods formed the land and mountains. From his blood, they formed
the oceans. Taking Caraavran’s hairs, the gods created plantlife. Using his
remaining organs, the gods ground them together and used the meat to fashion
all the myriad of animals that roam the world today.
Still their work
seemed incomplete. Again, the gods met to determine what was missing. Unlike
the last such gathering, this gathering was peaceful, and was soon resolved.
From the scattered remains of Caraavran’s thoughts, the gods fashioned the
mortal races. Some they made big, some small. Some they made wise, some
foolhardy. Some they made mighty, some weak.
Then, just when they
thought their work finished, the gods noticed a presence upon the world that
they did not create. Investigating these entities, the gods soon realized what
had happened. These spirits, each linked to a feature of the world, or an animal,
or a plant, were fragments of Caraavran’s soul. The gods spoke to these new
spirits, and were relieved to learn that while the spirits were part of
Caraavran, they were too small to be a concern.
With that, Orkil dispelled the illusionary pictures and heel
stomping. Taking a moment to catch his breath, a winning grin spread across his
face as the tavern broke into a thunderous applause. There were times when he
loved his life.
1.) An elven ballad whose title roughly
translates to The Ballad of Silver-Steel, it is a tale of elven heroes
defeating a dragon in silver plated armor.
2.) An elven love song, the
title roughly translates to Lament of Lost Love.
3.) One of the four remaining
orc clans, Hiz’rych Kopjad loosely translates to Swift Spears.
4.) Thuleod is a crude elven
word, not quite a curse but not something used in formal settings.
5.) The largest of the remaining
orc clans, Uilij Laqhain loosely translates to Weeping Pit, after the tradition
of the clan chief’s heir of removing his left eye to gain visions of the
future.
6.) Another of the remaining orc
clans, Santolg Danuji could be translated to Shadow Dancers, but with a strong
note of reverence.
7.) The smallest of the
remaining orc clans, Tanlu nuj Merykh translates to Dancing Dead. The clan
turned to necromancy and animating the dead so as to defend themselves from the
legions of the hobgoblin nation.
8.) A dwarven drinking song
basically saying that elves have their noses so far up in the air that they can
tickle the armpits of giants.
9.) An orc myth, the name
translates to World-Birth.
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If you like my work and want to support me, check out my homebrew race book here.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If you like my work and want to support me, check out my homebrew race book here.
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