Interlude - Ork Times.

Summer. The Southern Polar Region. The Ork Range.

There's a howling wind blowing and it's snowing across the southern tip of the Ork Range, the home of the Wolf tribe of orks.
The temperature is well below freezing. Which makes it pretty warm for the frozen bottom of the world as it's the middle of summer, and the hated sun is in the sky all day, and all night.
In the main town of the Wolf tribe, well town is too generous of a word, it's a village more than anything else.
One of the most respected members of the tribe, is admiring his latest creation.
The tribe's blacksmith and weapons maker No Legs Munga looks down the length of the blade he's just finished.
It's a main battlesword for one of the warriors in the tribe, and No Legs, he's called that because he's got no legs. Grunts in satisfaction at the work he's done.
The blacksmith, who is in his mid fifties, approaching his middle years. Which is kind of rare, considering the majority of orks die at a young age.
More out of stupidity than anything else. Though their high mortality rate is also caused by that one thing they like to do just about more than anything else in life, and that's killing one another.
Puts the battlesword onto a rack, where it will wait for it's new owner. The weapons maker hasn't decided who'll he will give it to, he hasn't made up his mind about that yet.
On his low wheeled cart, No Legs Munga rolls himself outside of his smithy.
And enjoys the howling wind and snow that's blowing through the village today.
It's too warm in his smithy, and the freezing temperatures outside is a relief to the ork blacksmith.
Though it being summer, it's still too warm for Munga's liking, and every other ork across the southern polar region.
Who are only really comfortable in the middle of winter. Down here at the frozen bottom of the world.
The weapons maker trundles around to the side of his smithy, then ducks down as a large clump of shit comes flying his way.
It passes by him, and he roars at a pair of orklings, who laugh and swear at him, as they run away through the swirling snow.
The two youngster, about five and six years old, head off towards the poo pond in the middle of the village.
"Little fucken cunts" mutters No Legs Munga as he sourly watches the fleeing orklings.
Then he bursts out laughing as one youngster falls over, tripping the other one up. And they break out into a fight, beating the crap out of one another, pummeling one another with fists, elbows, knees and heads.
The ork blacksmith grunts as he watches the orklings, as they remind him that he's still searching for an apprentice.
But so far, here in the main village, and across the rest of the Wolf tribe's range, he's yet to find anyone else with the spark.
The same spark that he has within him, the Fire of Krom. Which allows him to shape metal into any weapon he wants.
It's why he's so respected in the tribe, as he's the one in such a war like people, who makes their weapons.
"I'll never find the right fucken cunt to 'prentice" mutters No Legs Munga, who got his name after he fought a trio of trolls up in the mountains in the very north of the Ork Range.
The mountain range that separates the ork race from the rest of the world.
A good thing it does to. As no one really wants orks out of their homeland.
It helps that can't really survive in the warmer climes to the north of the southern polar region of the world.
Their bodies, and their mental capacity, or that should be lack of capacity. Doesn't allow them to survive for very long outside of their homeland.
Unless they're a truly unique ork, who though never comfortable, adapts to living outside the Ork Range. Like one of No Legs Munga's best friends, Dorc da Orc.
"Crazy fucker" murmurs the ork blacksmith as he remembers his friend Dorkindle, then he looks uphill here in the village. To the largest house in the settlement.
Which until recently had stood empty for more than two decades.
As it was the home of the large weaponsmith, and his mother, the former matriarch of the tribe, who he murdered, though fully justified, as she was doing her best to kill Dorc at the time.
Now there's a new occupant in the large house, as the tribe for the first time in nearly twenty five years, has a new matriarch.
The tribal elders decided it was time to have a new leader of the Wolf tribe, so a new matriarch was picked.
Well that's what the tribal elders would like to say. But in reality, a handful of the female orks thought their should be a new matriarch.
And one of them stepped forward, as she was the one who decided the tribe needed a new matriarch after all these years.
And since no one is going to argue with a handful of the female members of the tribe.
For the simple reason, female orks maybe smaller, and not as strong as their male counterparts, and not as mentally deranged as them too.
They're a whole lot more dangerous than the male of the species. With one notable exception.
That exception is mentioned a little later, when one of the warriors comes around to deliver Munga a barrel of winter wine, and half a giant seal for a warhammer he made for the warrior.
As they stand outside the blacksmith's rather dilapidated looking house, which is next to his smithy, the most structurally sound, and most well maintained building in the entire settlement.
Krang the warrior says "Oh some of the other fucken cunts have found the cunt" as they admire the rather plump, not to mention smelly looking half a giant seal carcass that Krang has dragged over.
"Oh?" says No Legs Munga "Where they fucken find the cunt?" adds the weapons maker.
"Down on a fucken beach" says Krang who like all orks, is big, burly, muscular and quite mentally unstable.
"The sick fucken cunt" murmurs the blacksmith.
Krang grunts in agreement, then says "The crazy fucker must of rolled off one of the fucken cliffs down there" he then adds "The silly shithead".
"He dead?" asks No Legs Munga, half in hope, and half in dread, that the answer will be yes.
"Nah" is the rather disappointed sounding reply from the big, burly warrior "The crazy cunt is alive" followed by "He say he fucken coming back here, who knows when fucken the shit stack will get here".
No Legs Munga rolls his eyes, and wonders when the person in question will show up. As he tends to be fairly dramatic in his appearances at times.
Infact he turns up in dramatic fashion just a few moments later.
For though the day is windy and snowing. There's no other adverse weather about.
Until there's some lightning forking through the clouds above the main village of the Wolf tribe of orks. Shooting back and forth across the sky.
"Fuck this, I'm fucken outta of here" mutters Krang who waves goodbye to the blacksmith and hurries away.
Infact the big, burly warrior basically runs away.
No Legs Munga as he sits there on his wheeled trolley, sourly smiles as he watches Krang run away.
The ork weapons maker looks around as the lightning continues to crisscross in the cloudy summer sky.
And he sees that everyone who was nearby, are hurrying away too. Either into their homes, or just as far as possible away from Munga's home and smithy.
Suddenly a bolt of lightning hits the ground not far from the blacksmith's home and workshop.
It's one continuous bolt of lightning, which causes No Legs to look away. Though not before he sees a figure standing there within the thick bolt of lightning that is connected between the ground and the sky.
The weapons maker looks back, and with the lightning now gone, he sees a familiar figure standing there, looking bewildered and frankly drunk like he always is.
The ork, fairly lean, just under seven hundred pounds in weight, and standing a few inches seven foot tall, stands there in a hoodless cloak. A cloak is a colour that you'll never see in the southern polar region of the world. It's a cloak that's bright purple in colour. Which the wearer wears with pride.
"Hey Onka Donka" says No Legs Munga who leaves off the traditional cunt one says after you say someone's name in greeting.
"Hey Munga cunt" replies Onka Donka the shaman.
"Ooohhh seal" says the powerful practitioner of magic when he spots the seal carcass.
The ork shaman, who is the tribe's holy figure. As he's the link to their god Krom. Which also makes him the most mentally unstable person in the entire tribe.
And in a race where everyone is mentally deranged, that's saying a lot.
The powerful ork spellcaster also happens to be Munga's best friend, though that's not necessarily a good thing.
As things tend to blow up around Onka Donka. Hilltops, glaciers, flow ice out on the ocean. You name it, it explodes when Onka is in one of his moods.
Now the mood the ork shaman is in, has to do with what he sees. The half of the giant seal, and the barrel of winter wine, which is just fermented ork piss that's highly alcoholic.
And he moves towards them. Causing No Legs to sourly smile, as he was looking forward to eating the seal and drinking the winter wine.
Suddenly Onka Donka falls forward, and lands on top of the seal carcass.
The shaman is fast asleep, though that doesn't stop him from eating in his sleep. As he lies there on top of the giant seal, chewing on it as he does so.
No Legs rolls his eyes, and sighs as he looks at his best friend. Who should of died years ago. As ork shamans don't usually last that long in their positions.
They often die young, or least not that long into their vocation as the holy figure for their particular tribe.
Onka Donka, who has been the Wolf tribe's shaman for more than quarter of a century. Even though he's in his mid forties. Give or take a few years in either direction. As the shaman himself doesn't exactly know how old he is.
Onka who became the tribe's shaman fairly young, as the previous shaman who No Legs recalls being fairly old, blew himself up in a nasty explosion.
Is always amazed that his friend the shaman is still alive, and is relatively in one piece. As Onka Donka due to his position as shaman, is always in a perpetual state of drunkenness.
For the simple reason, being drunk helps Onka to maintain his vast stores of power. And makes the absolutely insane spellcaster, just a tiny bit more stable.
So much so, that he doesn't randomly blow himself up. And more importantly for the rest of the tribe, not blow them up or their village.
No Legs sighs, then the blacksmith rolls himself and his trolley over to the sleeping shaman.
Munga, who lost his legs in a fight against three trolls, is still incredibly strong. And he hauls the sleeping Onka off the seal carcass, and drags the shaman over to the snow drift up against the side of his smithy and house.
No Legs stuffs Onka Donka into the pile of snow, which is the shaman's usual sleeping spot when he's in the village.
The weapons maker then rolls himself on his cart back to the seal carcass and the barrel of winter wine.
He sighs as he looks at the barrel as he was hoping to drink that himself, but he better not. Best to leave that for Onka Donka when he wakes up.
The ork blacksmith, then starts dragging the seal carcass towards his house, and inside.
Though not before one more glance up the hill in the village, to Dorc da Orc's house, where the new matriarch now lives.
The next morning, and No Legs Munga is up early, the day is fine and clear, much to the disgust of the ork weapons maker.
As the sun which never sets at this time of the year, is rising higher into the sky this summer's day in the southern polar region of the world.
As he makes his way outside on his low wheeled cart, No Legs is surprised to find Onka Donka up and awake.
Sitting on the snow drift beside the house and smithy, sipping from the barrel of winter wine that Munga left out for him.
After greeting the shaman, who he's glad to see is drinking, as it will keep the metal fucker at least somewhat coherent and stable.
The ork blacksmith says to him "Fucken sun getting higher in the fucken sky already, me hate this fucken time of the year".
Onka Donka who sits there on the snow, naked beneath his bright purple cloak, grunts in agreement.
Then the ork shaman, who takes his job seriously as the spiritual guide of the tribe, says "Could be fucken worse cunt".
Onka Donka continues with "We could be up fucken north out of the fucken Ork Range like we did that summer".
No Legs Munga, winces at the memory of that. Though admittedly when that summer a number of years ago he and Onka spent out of the Ork Range became tolerable when the shaman figured out a spell to keep them both cold in the hot summer that happens outside of the southern polar region of the world.
Then the ork weapons maker grins as he remembers what they got up to at that time.
He looks over at Onka, and finds the most mentally deranged member of the Wolf tribe of orks grinning too, as he's thinking the same thing.
The two of them share a look, then burst into laughter as they remember that summer a number of years ago, that they spent with their best friend Dorc da Orc, as they traveled around parts of the Southlands.
Then with a shake of his head, No Legs glances up the hill in the village, then says "Fuck".
"What?" asks Onka Donka who has gone back to drinking from the barrel of winter wine.
"The matriarch" says the ork blacksmith.
"She fucken dead 'member" says the ork shaman who continues with "That fat fuck Dorc killed his mums years ago".
"Not that mean bitch" says Munga, who then adds "But the fucken new one".
Onka Donka grunts as he vaguely recalls that the tribe now has a new matriarch, who he as shaman eventually approved of.
Onka then shrugs his shoulders, and says "So?".
"She fucken coming down here" mutters the weapons maker.
The ork shaman shrugs his shoulders, and continues drinking the winter wine.
No Legs Munga sourly smiles as he looks over at Onka, as the shaman doesn't have to worry about the matriarch.
As even the leader of the tribe is cautious around the mentally unstable shaman.
Fuck me, hope she not coming to see me about fucken somethin', No Legs thinks to himself, who then sourly smiles once more as he sees the matriarch heading straight for his house and smithy.
Munga sighs as he waits, as he knows it's no use rolling away on his low wheeled trolley.
If the matriarch wants to talk to him, then she will talk to him.
"Munga cunt" says the matriarch of the wolf tribe of orks.
"Hey Brang" says No Legs Munga to the matriarch.
The ork female who was always attracted to Dorc da Orc when they were orklings, who has never mated, and has never had orklings of her own.
The new matriarch who has taken up residence in the da Orc home. Though she has kept out of Dorkindle's room and adjoining workshop. Infact she hasn't set foot in them at all.
Stares at the blacksmith sitting on his low trolley, and says "Where's that no good fucken".
Munga quickly nods away to his right, Brang falls silent and looks that way and spots Onka Donka sitting on the snow drift, drinking from the barrel of winter wine, paying no attention to the two of them.
The matriarch looks at the shaman in a disapproving manner, but she doesn't say anything. For even she's cautious around the extremely powerful spellcaster who is the tribe's spiritual guide.
Brang then looks back at No Legs Munga, and says to him "Some of the cunts who were fighting the fucken Bear tribe up north have just come back".
The tribe's new matriarch continues with "They fucken spotted one of them flying fucking things".
"Ship" says No Legs, who then adds "They called ships".
Brang grunts, then mutters "Whateve's" before she continues with "Heading this fucken way".
After glancing over at Onka Donka who she is glad to see is drinking, hopefully into a stupor.
Brang the matriarch of the Wolf tribe of oaks says to No Legs Munga "Should be here fucken later today" . . . . . .