Glade 1st, 4508¤
The sounds of hooves against cobble could be heard resounding throughout the fields. A large caravan was migrating from Sheorlund to Vestria and the Men of Majesty, a local band of mercenaries to Vestria, were there to protect the goods and people from the Krish onslaught. The Krish were a race of green skinned, evil minded people set to conquest the world for whatever reasons evil people do. Known for their serrated ears, lean bodies, and dauntless sensibility they were in for a long fight if the caravan was caught unawares. They had made it from Sheorlund and were well within Vestria now without a single hang up, this didn’t bode well for Vrak as each moment spent not in battle meant the battle was coming, sure enough.
“Getting worse.”
Said one man to a young Podvrak.
“What do you mean?”
Podvrak asked.
“The Krish haven’t let up in this area for seasons, so I’ve heard. We’re likely going to have to fight.”
“Hmmmm…”
Replied Podvrak thoughtfully. He was eighty-five years old today, his birthday, and felt young, spry, and hopeful for the future. No scars marred his body yet, save a few light ones on his chest and back, unknown to all but the most observant. His hair was a golden blonde, not a single streak of grey, and he held himself with a constant smile, at complete ease despite the looming threat of battle. Strapped to his back was his trusted ally and constant companion, Weaver the great hammer. This day Podvrak wore a full set of raiment proclaiming him to be a Man of Majesty. It was made of hard steel and covered as much of his large, bovine body that it could; a chest piece, pauldrons, and a waistcoat made from the same steel. His legs had no shoes, exposing his hoofed feet, and he wore a simple pair of hard leather breeches. Emblazoned on the chest was a torch and sword crossed, representing the Men of Majesty coat of arms, a light in the darkness and the power to strike darkness down.
Vestria was the most beautiful place Podvrak had been to yet, despite its war torn culture constantly at battle with Krish and an evil God. The rolling hills laid out before him made him want to sniff every bed of wildflowers they passed, it enticed his romantic side. Eighty-five years spent alone, maidenless. He was lonely despite his outwardly happy and friendly appeal. Companionship was what he craved deep in his soul. Although, being a giant bull-man he was hard pressed to find anyone truly interested in him. Early in his years a few girls would tease and flirt, but when it came time to do the deed all would reject him. At his core Podvrak was a stoic man, but this still hurt him deeply, a pain he dared not show. To most in the Men of Majesty, the bachelor Vrak was something of a joke– they would tease him for his virginity and offer to buy him prostitutes, which he would deny each time. They knew as brothers do his secret pain and through the teasing tried to help, but Vrak would not be so cheap. He would find his maiden someday and they would be wed. He deeply wanted to love.
A rock to the back of his exposed head drew away the thoughts of romance. Rubbing the assaulted spot he turned around to see Mugrock grinning.
“Fine day to split some heads.”
Mugrock told Vrak, to which Vrak grinned back– silently agreeing. Leader of the Men of Majesty the young Mugrock was Vrak’s very best friend, out of all people none understood the inner machinations of the bull’s mind like this Orkhai.
“Spoken like a true Ork, my friend.”
Vrak replied, still rubbing the sore spot.
“Like a Man of Majesty!”
Mugrock countered. Taking pace with Vrak’s heavy steps they walked side-by-side along a wagon, in the distance a great stone ruin could be seen. Bones of a forgotten age, the ruins of the ancient Radenor people who worshiped the old Gods in full. These ancient villages, cities, and outposts were a common staple in Vestria and Radenor at large, and the perfect place for Krish to hole up to wait for an ambush. Vrak pointed to the ruin in the distance, asking Mugrock.
“Boss, you want to split the group and go check that out?”
Mugrock put a hand to his chin and decided,
“Bring the fight to them? Why not? Might as well check it out and see what we can loot in any case. Let’s get this over with so we can make it to the village and celebrate your day, maybe we’ll even find you a wench!”
Mugrock was teasing him and Vrak didn’t respond, but was admittedly excited to celebrate his birthday. They were headed to the village of Adela, supposedly a middling size village and an exporter of milk, cheese, and grain. The caravan was here to set up trade with the village and the contract for the Men of Majesty stopped dry when they made it there, once this contract was up they would be moving on to find other people to help. In other words, this gave them time to wind down from the harshness of their trade and let loose for a few weeks, something every mercenary needed. Mugrock called out,
“Alright Men! Group A is coming with me, we’re headed to the ruin!”
The caravan kept moving forward as Vrak and the rest of Group A, fifteen men strong, waded through the waist high meadow of wild wheat and flowers headed straight to the ruin which grew larger and larger as they approached. Light smoke could now be seen coming from the ruin, the Krish were surely there. With a sign from Mugrock, all except a few fell to their bellies in the grass to hide and crawl forward as the reconnaissance team headed forward outright on silk-like, silent feet. Vrak was one on his belly, waiting in ambush for the fight to start as he was never one for sneaking, due to his sheer size. The growl of a war cry and a horn could be heard, those hiding in the grass all leapt to their feet and cried in return, raising their weapons running straight for the ruin. Clambering over the side of the ruined wall Vrak was met with the sight of battle. The green skinned, greasy, dirty Krish were apparently asleep and none the wiser of the caravan passing them– Very few had their armor on and more were scrambling to assemble their armor in order to fight. Bed rolls were strewn all over the ruin, now covered in blood from their master’s throats and bellies.
‘Too easy.’
Vrak thought to himself as he crushed an unarmored Krish's head with Weaver, growling in his great, deep war cry. The Krish lay dead and Vrak took the necklace from the corpse for spoils, though a tainted object from the vile Krish wasn’t likely to fetch a high price. Usually Vrak thought it bad taste to fight a man who was unarmored, but he spared no sympathy for the Krish. Disorganized and frantic fighting from their enemy gave way to an easy battle for the Men of Majesty. Mugrock used his teeth to rip a Krish throat and drank the blood, sending all Krish around him fleeing and screaming in their goblin-like way as Mugrock chewed the Krish’s throat and ate his bones.
‘Absolutely savage.’
Thought Vrak shaking his head at his Orkhai friend. While Vrak was distracted watching Mugrock fight, another fully armored Krish struck Vrak in an ambush with a club to the head, the same spot Mugrock had struck before with a stone, sending Vrak spiraling to the ground. That hurt. Nearly as tall as Vrak and girthy as a man, head to toe in his full Krish armor, his adversary was ready to battle more so than his ill fated companions who lay dead around him. Unfortunately for his adversary, the club was no match for Vrak’s armor, denting it slightly but unable to pierce the steel as he wailed on Vrak’s back. The first few strikes made Vrak unable to get up, each blow sending him back to the ground as he tried to get his bearings. Floundering, Vrak was momentarily scared as another blow to the head from the dauntless Krish could be deadly. Luckily another Man of Majesty came to his aid, buying Vrak time to get to his feet. Locked in deadly combat the other Man was unable to kill the Krish and was also knocked off his feet to the ground.
Vrak felt the tinges of his rage build but wasn’t enraged fully. Vrak’s teeth began to chatter as he chuffed out hot air and gripped Weaver until the palms of his hands hurt. A low growl was starting from his throat completely unwillfully on Vrak’s part as he and the Krish adversary circled each other with their blunt weapons. All around him the sounds of Krish dying could be heard, the gathered men were thinning them out nicely. As the growl reached its crescendo, the rage building, Vrak’s eyes popped out and became veiny-red. He roared and swung Weaver with all his might, his reach with Weaver greater than the short club his adversary wielded. Unphased by Vrak’s war cry, the Krish licked the blood leaking down his face from his temple where Weaver struck, not daunted in the least by the blow. A normal man would be felled by such a swing but the Krish were blessed with stamina and pain tolerance like no others, though Vrak knew by the sound he had cracked the man’s skull.
TBC
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