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[Tir'Og]

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The day had started out innocently enough for the Nel' Garok Captin, awaking from a sodden evening of drinking and fighting he sucked at the skinned knuckles and tender patches of his face and tried to remeber who he'd gotten into a fight with. No blood on his tunik, a thin gruel of brains and gore on his mace.
Good, looks like he won.
Abesentmidedly picking off strips of half dried skin from the spikes, he answered a minor equipmet query from Gak Thrakka with a shrug. Gak, nothing but a young runt in the Clan, was to unskilled to be of use as a fighter in Tirs dayplan. Mores the pity, some reenforcments mioght be good for pushnaget once... Tir'Og was bitter his riads hadden't attracted more of a following. It seems most Orcs were content to sit back in thier lands and wait for the humans to coem to them.
Not Tir'Og.

A good runt knows his place though and Gaks' place at the moment was trainning. The former runt basher knew this well and left him to continue his quest for streght and skill with a nod and a swing of his meatly hand. The latter missing his head by inches as he scampered away in fear. The thought of giving a word of encouragement or kindness din;t even begin to enter Tir'Og's head. If Orcs gave thier runts an easy time of it, how could they stand agaisnt the multaude of hostile races out to destroy them for simply being Orcs?

The Orange kilted Orc briefly considered taking Gak along as a meatshield and temporary diversion. It was likely he might need to bug out quickly from his decided tarhget but decided against taking the rutn with him. The diversion would be a little to temperal for Tir'Og to count on much of a head start if his day went south in a hurry. Tir'Og was nothing if not a mean son of a wench and he got away with being a mean son of a wench by his planning and suprising mannor of getting away with horrific crimes.

Tir'Og felt happy as he plotted.
Thinking about what he was about to do made the Orc grin wide, exposing a row of yellowed and damaged teeth. When some people feel happy they want to sing, or dance. Paint a picture or write a poem. Elves, it's been said must be in a constent state of happiness as they're always prancing around and hugging trees and whatnot.
When Tir'Og felt happy he wanted to fight. He enjoyed fighting, and he enjoyed hurting things who fought back. Hurt 'em until they bleed and begged and coulden't fight back anymore. Then he enjoyed putting the boots to them.
Tir'Og was bored and so decided to go to Yew.
And that ment trouble.
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So here he is sitting in front of the Abby eyeing up the compatitionon. "Oh look an Orc" one of the Army members deigned to offer. "Oh an JU muzt beh da SMERT wun!" Tir'Og shot back with sarcasm layed thick on his tounge. It's best to be direct in one's hostility after all. It makes things less complicated. Dan, this humies' name was, the Orc remebered from previous raids. Tir' had fought him before and knew the touch of his blows. That is to say, the two had crossed weapons in the past and each knew the metel of the other. At least Tir did, he was instinctually aware of his enemies strengths and weaknesses. Like any good warrior he sought to limit the one and exploit the other. Tir' was confident so far, and was rather pleased at the thought of busting Dans' head open this eve. Grudges are not in the Orciosh nature, but the joy of fighting a worthy enemy is. Tir'Og liked the Army boys, oft he'd traded blows with thier commander and had respexct for the half oger that lead them.
Not to say he woulden't jump at a chance to bust Arlin's head too!

Maybe later, better size the situation up first.
It's always best to know who your fighting against, it makes things easyer in the long run and greatly incresses one's chance of limiting thier grey robe collection. Getting killed did lessons one chance of winning the fight after all.

Guards on both sides of the door as usual, that seemed like thier regualar posting. Something to be aware of in case of hidden enmies. He quickly took note of one of them. Tir'Og grinned.

As it was, A Skullie named DravenBlackheart was lecturing the guards, (three of them- spears and black tin, Tir noted) about following orders and his own indevidualistic ideals. Blab blab blab, " I look out for me" Blab blab blab "master" something about his own good?
Whatever, not important to the large gobliniod. Tir'Og kept a close eye on the darkmasked man and half a hand on his mace though. If a fight started suddenly he wanted both his eyes open on a possible ally in need of help and a swift swing if he needed to defened himself. Peaceful as the conversation seemed, for all the highbrow talk on Entrapy and big words Tir'Og didn't even try to decode he knew the time between the realisation of a sneak attack and his own death might be the time it takes for a spear to explore ones living flesh. Not that'd he'd have said it so sucetly mind you. Not that he'd have even understode the word. To Orcs war and violence were things to be enjoyed, not studied or thought about. They came as naturally to them as breathing, walking and goign for they eyes does. It was a natural to the orcs as freash loam in the earth, rot in the swamp and the belief in evil to the seneite races of the world.
Orcs simply love to fight..

As it was Tir's lust for martial entertainment wasen't to be found at the doorsteps of the abby. With a parting word to the guards about woolie livestoke or somehting (Tir'Og really didn't care), Draven spoke the human warcry and recalled away to Tir'Ogs disapointment. He didn't understand all the big words but at least it might've led to a language his mace spoke fluently. Now the odds dropped swifly out of his favour. Three or more to one? Tir'Og was an Orc but he was no fool. Glancing around with his deepset and flat red eyes he judged the situation less then adequte. With a snear and an offer to the "duel" of Masik. The disapointed Orc turned and rode south throgu hthe swamppland that is Yew, Trammel.

"Diz funnie" Tir thought as his mount plodded throguh th reeking bile that is claimed by so many human guilds. "Da Grishopolish am nub lik diz". Naming the Orcish home city on the flip side of the great scismem he glanced around brifely. Even to his low standerds it failed to mesure up. "Dem weelie mak butharog mezz ub diz plece." Indeed, this seemed to be the sticky side of the coin. This demi-land piece of realestate, fought over by so many, is prehaps the one place in all of Sorsica to look worse in Trammel then in Fellucia. Sure, in Fellucia there are bones and body parts littering the soil, but at least they have soil and not the fetid green bog that slinks norht to the sea. Besides, the stink of flowers makes Orcs sneeze...

The wasen't the only difrence Tir'Og noted on his tripsy down (un)main(tained) street Yew. The people reacted to him diffrently here. Back in his hometown the serfs woulden't even look up from thier fields when an entire warband of Orcs rode by swigning mascabre trophies, waving banners and screaming warcries to thier dark gods. One of the first things a human in Orc subjegated land needed to learn was what to ignore. No doubt the humans here were scared of him, a solitary warrior no less! Although, to thier credit, the surviaval instinct of the Plebicain did seem to be finely tuned here. He was heavily armed, and big.. and green.
Orcs stand slightly larger then a large man, on average. Dense of body as well as mind, Orcs were built like the preverbial brick rubbish house, with marginally better smell. Heavy boned features, a thick browridge and fleashy jowles these creatures are blessed wit ha natural helmet, complet with chisled tusks for gouging. Even thier heads are bald for better heat regulatio nand hide a domeshaped plate to better defelct downward blows. Slabes of muscles layer slabes of muscles and contribute to the odd sloping ait of the greenskins an are only prevented from bing miuscle bound brutes by the curious bow on thier limbs. They are bodies made to deal out punishment, recive it back and deal a bit more out for good measure. Cerinally no Orc would win a pole vaultign contest, but pity the elvean bruiser who got mixed into a boxing match. There is a smell about them, a coppery stench of blood and pain, a musk that sinks into the pores and unsetles man and beast. Pyscolgical warfare, or simply unwashed ringmail? Orcs like to think it a bit of both.

The number of pureblood humans in this town was much higher he noted, with some amusment. The number of half Orcs in Grishopolish grew everyday. So many years after the occupation most were concived willingly by now as human femals compeated for Orcish favour and the prizes they brought. More then one of them bore scratchmarks and bruises from other femmys who wanted the attention of a Stormreaver more. The humanist faction must just love that! Human women fighting like animals to be treated like wenches by a lessor race. Tir'Og thought about such matters rarly, but when he did it never failed to bring a smile to his lips and a stiring in his groin. Maybe he'd swing by Sofie da fems place after this raid, a few gold coins or a simple living plant could buy him an hour or more of her company. And she was always so eager to please, especilly when he brought her the tiny white flowers she enjoyed so much.

Presently Tir'Og came to a small hovel on the far side of town, privet even the hut was cut off and away fro mthe town proper by a field and severa large trees. Annothe glaring difrence betwix this tow nand it's mirror, this hove lwas occupied. The edge of a town is never a safe place to live whe nOrcs are about in in hte mood for games. The nuildign was hidden i nthe mannor of a hunters cottage, indeed it might;ve searved as a ranger hut many years ago. Partily suink int othe ground and far enough fro mthe regions center to be spared the bulk of the marsh makign blight spell. Resembelign nothing more the na mound of moulding hay and eather turfs Tir'Og knew there were people inside. He could smell em'.
Reaching for his skinning knmife he dismounted as a bad smile slowly played across his lips...

The scene before him was sureal in it's own way, a dark morbid way in itself. A calm autom day interupted by the invite of death and pain to the canvess traced in peaceful village life. It's enough to make Van Goth weep, his murals so violated by a sadistic brute with a rapists leer and a set of flat red eyes. The two workers froze as the massive warrior strode into the room swinging his mace like a two gold piece wench. The plug knocjked out of the barrle of molassis landed in the thick mud with a sastifsying plup. The pink skinned senite beings stoode open mouthed at the invasion and the gobliniod emntered the humble dwelling. The Orc looked at the duo of frozen expesions that greated him with a grin and a playful wag of his mace. Tir'Og strode into the rough dwelling like he owned it, and them, by right of force.
Somewhere in the distcane a dog barked.
It seems he did own them.
Soon enough the screams started.
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For the last time Tir'Og! "Dat toopid humie dezerbed id" is NOT grounds for justafiable homacide.
-Judge, Yew Court