An Orogs journey

[satan]

For many years he had served the city, first as a soldier of the Deep Legion, and eventually as a high ranking elder. The Legion had taken him in when he was lost, spiritually, mentally, and even physically as the endless tunnels and caves of the underdark eventually landed him in Andunor. A lost and tribeless Orog, exiled from his home.

His tribe lived in a section of the upperdark so high up it was no more than a deep cave, high in the mountains known as the spine of the world. Like most Orog tribes, they had enslaved and subjected many tribes of surface Orc, who did most of their raiding for them. Looting and pillaging villages and caravans for miles around, these tribes would bring tribute to the these Orogs, known to the outside world as the Shattered Bone. From time to time they would venture out themselves, mostly to subjugate more Orcblood tribes, and when they did he would usually be among them.

He had a name, this Orog Warrior of massive size and girth, as it had not yet been taken. For many years he ventured with these raiding parties of Orogs, sating his unending thirst for blood and battle as the years ticked by. In this time he became a competent warrior, felling countless warriors among the women and children he slaughtered. It was all the same to him. Blood was blood, but he especially savored the rare times they would strike at a human settlement, without an exception always ending in a complete massacre littered with atrocities too grim to name. This was how Gruumsh intended things to be.

As time went on he became confident in his prowess for battle, and truthfully because of his sheer size, massive even by the standards of an Orog, standing a head taller than most, he had become feared among his peers. His confidence led to his folly, as he challenged the Chieftain, a legendary Orog named Maak, to a battle to the death to see who was fit to lead the tribe.

Maak was legendary because he was a swordsman of no equal. Time and time again the massive Orogs gigantic weapon was deflected and dodged by Maak, over the course of a minute until his sword found the massive Orogs insides. Not a fatal wound, but enough take his fight away. Yet instead of killing him, Maak invoked Kah-shaak(the rite of exile) in a rare showing of Orog mercy.

The rite was simple. He was stripped of all property, of all ties. Those that knew him were to turn their backs, to even speak to him meant death. His name was stricken from the oral telling of history, and taken even from him. To speak it meant ultimate dishonor.

So as was the custom, he took the name of his weapon. He was now Flail.

When he met Arak, he was a shell of his former self. Weakened, without purpose, and without honor. Arak, the Warchief took him in, shed his blood so that Flail might again have a tribe, and purpose, and so it was, for many years. In that time he helped strengthen the Legion by killing those that would undermine it, and convincing those that were tribeless as he was to join this new family, this Army. In this time he rose to be second only to the Warchief himself, as he worked to strengthen his new home, this 'Andunor', that he had blindly found after many months of wandering in the darkness.

In this time his martial prowess rose to new levels, becoming a far more fearsome warrior than ever before. One day, after many years, and much preparation, he felt he was ready to once again try to claim what was his.

The Shattered Bone, his name, and his history.

With determination, he hastily scrawled a note and pinned it to the public board that he was leaving for the Spine. And without a word to anyone, he did so. He would claim what was his, and return it all to the Legion. He would surprise the Warchief by marching a tribe of Warriors to the city to take on the black and red uniform he had grown so comfortable in. To strengthen the Legion, and to strengthen Andunor.

Sadly, it would not come to pass.

"Grushkul!"

It echoed throughout the cave. A gruff voice, Orcen but not orcen, an angry tone, full of hatred.

It had been many years since Flail had heard that name, his true name. Turning, he laid eyes on a halfblood warrior, sporting an enormous sword engulfed in flames. He differed from most halfbloods in that he seemed to be of orog lineage. The hatred in his blue eyes was unmistakable. How did he know my name, Flail wondered. Was this someone from his past? This halfblood looked far too young to have known him when he still was sworn to the Shattered Bone, a warrior of no more than twenty.

Again he spoke "Look into my eyes, do you not recognize me?" But before Flail could look, he launched into an attack. He lunged with an overhead swing that Flail barely sidestepped, countering with a lateral swing of his flail, which whistled by the halfbloods head, missing by inches. Back and forth they went, these two skilled warriors, inflicting grazing wounds but unable to land a blow to end it, for over an hour. Back and forth, parry for parry, dodge for dodge, wound for wound. Silently, unspeaking, with only the sound of battle itself breaking the silence.

This halfblood warrior was not only Flails equal, but more, as the eventual blow came, and the sword penetrated Flails ribs though the seam of his armor. Flail knew this was the end.

As this blue eyed halfblood Orog scowled down at him, he spoke for the last time.

"I am Krom, and I am your son. You raped my mother and caused me to be, and for this you will now die"