Winter. Northwest Farque.
The next day, and in the afternoon. Sir Morcin the undead avenger informs Tamric Drubine the field commander. That an airship is approaching the town.
The young field commander along with Saanea the witch, as well as Shur Kee the monk head out to the south side of town, where airships put in.
They're joined by sir Morcin himself, and a fair few of the townsfolk. As they only really get visitors twice a year. Once in the first month of winter. And again just before the start of summer.
As the small town, not far from the northern border. Is the center of the training grounds for this region's intake of army recruits.
Along with the others heading to the south side of town, is sir Percavellé Lé Dic.
And seeing that his bitter rival the nobleman from the kingdom of Druvic is following everyone else.
Dorc da Orc who was just going to find something to drink. Decides to follow after the former paladin.
The ship comes down, and settles on the ground that still has a light dusting of snow on it from the fall a couple of nights ago.
A group of teenagers disembark, all around thirteen and fourteen years old. Who are the recruits to be selected for training in this region of the lands Farque.
There's about thirty of them who make their way off the twin masted sloop. Which has spent the last week collecting them from their towns and villages, here in the northwest of the lands Farque.
Also disembarking is a figure in sleeveless leather armour, who has a sword strapped to his back. And wears a full steel helm at odds with the rest of his leather armour.
Just like sir Morcin the avenger, he isn't alive. He's undead.
Dargarven the undead scout waves to those waiting as the new recruits line up. And as the crew start to unload the cargo that's also been brought to the small town just twenty miles south of the northern border.
The undead scout makes his way over to Tamric Drubine the field commander, and the others watching the new recruits.
Sir Percavellé Lé Dic quickly grows bored with the conversation between the young field commander, and the scout who has just arrived in town.
The heavily armoured knight from the kingdom of Druvic would of wandered away already. If it wasn't for the fact that his bitter rival Dorc da Orc is still hanging around. Interested in the conversation between Tamric Drubine and the scout Dargarven.
Not knowing that the large ork is just as bored as he is. And the only reason the ork warleader is staying around, is because Dargarven said something to him in the totally incomprehensible language of the orks.
And because the weaponsmith from the ork tribe of orks is all of a sudden interested in something that's being unloaded from the twin masted sloop that's just arrived.
For his part, Dorkindle stands there blinking in surprise. As he sees a number of barrels in one of the cargo nets, that's being hoisted down from the nearby airship.
As he sniffs to make sure, a grin appears on the broad, green, feral looking face of the large ork.
As he smells something he hasn't smelled in a long, long time.
Winter wine, that deadly liquor to anyone else, made by orks. Which isn't wine at all.
Which the warleader of the ork race hasn't had a taste of in nearly quarter of a century. When he was sent into exile from the Ork Range.
His homeland, and the homeland of all orks. Which is in the southern polar region of the world.
"Huh?" says a distracted Dorc da Orc, who turns to the right, where Dargarven the undead scout says to him in the ork language "Where you staying cunt?".
"Oh ah" says the large ork, who isn't actually staying anywhere in town, he just sleeps whenever, usually outside on the ground. As it's winter now, and much more to his liking.
"At fucken Tam's place" says Dorkindle, who more often than not, ends up sleeping behind the house that field commander Drubine lives in with Saanea the witch.
Dargarven who has taken off his full helm, says "I'll have the fucking shit sent up" gesturing at the barrels of winter wine that's being unloaded from the airship with the other cargo.
"And we'll have a fucking drink or two" adds the undead scout, who after a slight pause continues with "There's something we need to discuss too cunt".
The big, burly ork from the frozen bottom of the world frowns as he wonders what the scout could mean.
Then he grins as he watches the barrels in the cargo net, being placed on the ground. And the crew start taking them out of the netting.
While nearby, his bitter rival, the knight sir Percavellé Lé Dic frowns as he wonders what the ork general and the scout were talking about in the language of the orks.
A little while later, and after the new recruits are shown to the four large homes, in the northeast corner of town, that are essentially barracks. And are told to settle in, as their training will begin early tomorrow morning.
Dargarven the undead scout joins field commander Drubine and others in the home the young field commander shares with Saanea the witch.
"Prepared are you?" asks Dargarven after he takes a seat in one of the chairs in the main, or front room of the house the nobleborn teenager originally from the kingdom of Sarcrin shares with the witch from the Maldin Hills.
"Prepared as I'll ever be" replies Tamric Drubine.
The undead scout who has been speaking with sir Morcin by way of the mindspeech of the undead, ever since the sloop came within sight of town.
Nods his head, and says "You won't believe it, but training others, especially youngsters, is actually a lot more difficult than commanding in battle".
"Tis true, alas" says sir Percavellé Lé Dic who has just entered the room, and sits down too.
"I never really did like the training of apprentices and squires" adds the nobleborn knight from the kingdom of Druvic.
Who spent too long in his opinion, on training others when he was based at the headquarters of the order of the Knights of Saint Mar-che, in the city of Leeabra, the capital of the kingdom of Druvic.
"So i gather you're looking forward to it?" asks Tamric Drubine with a sideways look at the former paladin.
"I am now" states the former earl of Lé Dic, who is only interested in helping the young field commander train the new recruits.
Because the nobleborn teenager from the feudal kingdom of Sarcrin told him that Dorc da Orc would be helping him too.
No way is the heavily armoured knight going to allow his bitter rival the ork warleader train these youngsters who have just arrived in town this afternoon.
That big smelly green oaf will ruin these young folk for sure, if i, the great sir Percavellé isn't around to look after things, wot, the nobleman from the kingdom of Druvic thinks to himself.
Who then looks over at Shur Kee, sitting near the fire, with the magical cat that belongs to the witch, Saanea in his lap.
The former paladin, shakes his head as he looks at the short, statured monk and the familiar that belongs to the spellcaster from the Maldin Hills.
Sir Percavellé Lé Dic, or Percy as he's more commonly called by those who know him well.
Is just about to say something else, when he looks into what's essentially the kitchen, where Dorc da Orc has just come in through the backdoor.
The knight, who is both ordered and landed. As he belongs to the order of the Knights of Saint Mar-che. And he was first knighted before he became the earl of Lé Dic, and joined his knightly order.
Sourly smiles at the sight of his bitter rival. Who well over fifteen years ago when they first met. They were on opposite sides of a war, where they did their best to kill one another.
The former paladin, ignores Dorc da Orc who says "Hey cunt it's here".
"I'll join you in a little bit" replies Dargarven the undead scout, who then continues on in orkish, which Percy is glad he doesn't understand.
As it's a disgusting sounding language to his ears. Which consists more of growls and grunts, than any words that he can distinguish.
The ork warleader grunts, then nods. Then after a glare directed at his bitter rival, the former earl of Lé Dic.
The big, burly ork from the southern polar region of the world, then turns and heads back through the backroom, come kitchen, and heads out the backdoor.
The nobleborn knight from the kingdom of Druvic, is now even more determined not to let his bitter rival, the ork general.
Have too much influence over the new recruits, who begin their training early tomorrow morning.
Says to field commander Drubine "I shall be ready first thing in the morning to train these youngsters" who briefly pauses before adding in a disapproving tone of voice "Unlike the smelly green beast, who know doubt will still be asleep, or hungover".
"Are you having those two help train them?" asks a surprised sounding Dargarven the scout in the elven language.
"Ah yeah" says Tamric Drubine who more often than not is called Tam by those who know him well.
The nobleborn teenager who is the son and former heir of a previous Knight of castle Drubine, which is located in the forested north of the kingdom of Sarcrin.
Who like the undead scout, is speaking in the elven language, says "You think it a mistake?" followed by "I'm letting them because it'll keep the two of them out of trouble, and i can keep an eye on them".
Dargarven glances at sir Morcin, who is quietly chatting with Saanea the witch, and after something silently passes between the two of them, the undead scout shrugs then says in elven "It probably is a mistake".
He briefly pauses before continuing with "But like you said, it'll keep them out of trouble".
"Well probably not entirely" says the young field commander who is a senior officer in the armies of Farque, who then dryly adds "This is Dorc and Percy we're talking about".
Sir Percavellé Lé Dic frowns as the conversation between young Tam and the newly arrived Dargarven is in elven.
Then he nods when they start speaking in the common language again.
The former paladin, who behind the chair he's sitting on, lies one of the most holy relics of his order. A large footman's sized shield. Which happens to be the Shield of Saint Mar-che.
Which he likes to tell people he was gifted it by his order just over fifteen years ago.
But which infact he actually stole from the previous custodian of it. When Dorc da Orc along with some of the others in the group, attacked the headquarters of Saint Mar-che in the city of Leeabra, as well as other places in the capital city of the kingdom of Druvic.
Which lead to a civil war in the kingdom that lasted more than half a decade.
Butts in the conversation as much as he can, suggesting what he should do in the training of the new recruits.
And also telling field commander Drubine, what Dorc da Orc should do, which should be nothing in the opinion of the nobleborn knight who hails from the kingdom of Druvic.
A little while later, as Saanea the witch and Tamric Drubine prepare dinner.
Dargarven the undead scout makes his way outside, to behind the house that the young field commander shares with the spellcaster from the Maldin Hills.
Dargarven who like all the undead of Farque, does what he can to help the living of the lands, though doesn't actually tell them what to do, unless there's a threat to their lord's lands.
Finds Dorc da Orc has already broached one of the barrels lined up against the back wall of the house, and is drinking from it.
The large ork, who surprisingly isn't actually drinking straight from the barrel, but is actually dipping a tankard in it, to get what the orks call winter wine.
Grunts and says "Hey cunt" followed by "Gotta make it fucken last".
Dargarven nods, and with the tankard he brought outside with him, dips it into the clear looking liquid in the large barrel, and gets some of the winter wine too.
The undead scout, who can never really get drunk again, can still enjoy alcohol, even orkish winter wine, which is pretty much lethal to the living, or anyone not an ork.
Dargarven who is glad it's the one form of alcohol that orks make, that isn't fermented with their own urine.
Like always is surprised at how good it actually tastes when he takes a sip.
Then he nods, and says "From the Ork Range" in response to the ork warleader asking him "Where you get this shit from?".
Dorc da Orc, or Dorkindle which is his given name, blinks in surprise when Dargarven, who he doesn't know is undead, tells him "I was down there in the summertime".
After a moment's silence, the big, burly ork from the southern polar region of the world, asks "What the fuck were you doing down there?".
"Taking your annual supply load down there" says Dargarven, who said that in the common language, as that's near impossible to say in the ork language.
He continues in common with "Went down their with Kreece and Sephiryn, and some of their children" followed by "I went to pick up something for my brother Arveem".
Blinking as he tries to figure things out, the ork weaponsmith asks the first thing that pops into his head "What you fucken get?".
"It ended up being what you call a main battlesword" says Dargarven, who switches to the ork language, as he continues with "Got it from your friend, that cunt No Legs".
Grinning at the mention of one of his best friends, No Legs Munga. The weaponsmith from the wolf tribe of orks asks the undead scout to tell him all about his trip in the summer to the southern polar region of the world.
Dargarven and Dorkindle chat throughout the rest of the afternoon and into the early evening, drinking winter wine, as the undead being tells the ork general about his journey to the Ork Range back in the summertime.
As the scout who died four hundred and fifty years ago sums up his journey to the southern polar region, and a grinning Dorc da Orc drinks another tankard of the winter wine.
Dargarven tells him "There was something else i wanted to tell you about concerning your tribe".
"Oh what's that cunt?" asks the large ork.
"They've got a new matriarch in charge of the tribe" says the undead scout.
He actually said that in orkish, which was "The fucking fuckers got a new cunty cunt". Which is a little difficult to translate.
Sitting there, blinking in surprise, as he never thought his tribe would ever pick a new matriarch after he killed his mother, the last matriarch a little over a quarter century ago.
And the last time he saw his friends No Legs Munga, and Onka Donka the shaman about fifteen years ago, when they came north into the Southlands.
They told him, no one had bothered to pick a new matriarch for the wolf tribe.
He asks the undead scout "Fucken who?" as he wonders who the new matriarch of the wolf tribe of orks is.
"Brang" replies Dargarven.
Dorc da Orc stares at the undead scout for a few moments, then he mutters "Krom".
The ork general downs the tankard of winter wine he's holding, then drops the empty tankard, and picks up the barrel next to him, and starts drinking straight from it . . . . . .
No comments:
Post a Comment