 Earlier in the week, all of Britannia was introduced to Dudagog, an orc. At the time this story seemed like nothing more than mere fancy, but this story is getting more real all the time. Here now is the original report issued by the Britannian News Network:
A sore eye encrusted with blood, received as a “blessing” for questioning the elder shaman during the previous night’s war council, was a minor irritant in a long line of irritants that Dudagog had learned to accept. Although it had been only twenty cycles of the day fire since the shaman council had rolled the bones and driven the tribe to move, Dudagog could barely remember the logs and bone piles he called home. He could remember the rich hunting ground though. Always fresh deer and hummies to munch on, and the strength of a combined tribe of hundreds had made life as good as it gets for an old, fat orc. In his younger days Dudagog would have perhaps enjoyed this nomadic lifestyle, but age had given Dudagog a wisdom that only comes through corpulence; hunting is good, but sitting down for a meal is better. Thus when Dudagog had questioned the shaman about the wisdom of his training the young orcins to hunt with the new long way killer, the shaman elder chastised him with a swift staff to his eye. Dudagog was not stupid enough to retaliate in kind, as the shamans had been known to cause the air around an orc to burn as hot as the home of a lava lizzie.
This morning Dudagog was up earlier than he would have wished for. The day fire was barely awake and it irritated Dudagog that he should share anything in common with that wretched ball of torment. The shamans demanded that training start early and end late so the clans would be prepared. What was it that they should be prepared for? This unseen danger to the clans could certainly be no worse than roaming about the land in search of prospects for new orcish conquest. What did orcs need of more places? What orcs needed, they took. The Disway Datway clan of ettins had been good partners for the orcs, and now they were far away from their large allies. Dudagog might not be a shaman, but leaving that alliance was a bad idea to his way of thinking. Of course, his way of thinking was usually, “Hungry, want eat.” “You in my way.” “Tired, want sleep.” “You still here? You still in way.” And so on.
Sharpening his axe was something Dudagog only did when he was nervous. His whetstone, fresh when he left home, was now barely a nub. The time of training would not be for a while yet, and Dudagog discovered that his axe sharpening had made him thirsty. Of course, it had made him hungry too, but even eating made him hungry, and it was a state he had grown accustomed to. Since being thirsty was something he could correct, Dudagog decided to travel to a nearby stream and have a drink. Beer would have been better. Even stale beer would have been better, but Dudagog was not permitted to drink before training. The decision made, his brain finally motivated his legs to carry him to the stream.
Dudagog was startled to find what must have been one of his pupils already in the stream. This gave Dudagog pause. He seemed to recall orcs disliking water for drinking, and disliking it far more for bathing. No orc could stand water long enough to even fathom the concept of swimming, not that fathoming concepts was a particularly strong orcish skill either. Dudagog, in what was to be one of the quickest decisions in his life not involving food or food-like substances, decided the skinny fool had fallen in the stream. In an effort to be helpful, to himself of course, Dudagog felt that ordering the fool out of the stream was the quickest way of removing the distraction to an otherwise bleak morning.
Dudagog was somewhat shocked when the wretch did not acknowledge his orders. If orcs liked anything less than bathing, it was being shocked. Clearly this was turning out to be a bad morning, and Dudagog had just about had enough irritants to last a lifetime. Or so he thought. Dudagog had three more episodes of being shocked before his life came to an abrupt end. Throwing the whetstone at the fool in the water seemed like a good idea. It was when the skinny orc caught the whetstone that shocked Dudagog for the second to the last time. That shock was immediately followed by the rather gruesome sight of the orc reaching into the fold of skin under its neck and ripping the skin off its face while its body was surrounded by a green light. What was not surprising in any way was the immediate turn of Dudagog on his heels to presumably warn the clan, but in reality to simply run away from this magical orc. The final surprise of Dudagog’s life came just as his right leg had gained some forward progress. His whetstone halted his progress as it came hurling back at him and caved in the back of his head. The cut across his throat was not the way he had hoped his thirst would be quenched, but he did not have to worry about the problem for long, as the morning ended for him far sooner than for any other beast in the land.
Earlier today, the Britannian News Network issued a followup report:
Sitting high on a tree branch, the orc scout Milug peered through the branches at the city in the distance. As he watched the humies milling about, completely unaware of his presence as they bought and sold their wares, he could not suppress a scowl. Already he missed his fort near the human city of Cove. He missed the comfort of his hut, the daily brawls, and the occasional forays into the woods looking for prey. Even more strongly, he missed the smell of charred meat in the cookpots and the hoots of laughter as yet another orc mage inevitably earned a beating from one of the lords after setting something ablaze while practicing his arcane arts.
His only instructions had been, "watch city, no bash humies, report back what humies do, no bash humies, wait ‘til we tell you what do next, no bash humies." Milug hated instructions, especially when they involved "no bashing". And his orc lord had said "no bashing" three times, which meant Milug could not pretend to have forgotten the commands. "Orc Lord too smart," Milug thought. Subconsciously rubbing the bump on his head, Milug remembered well the last time he had disobeyed his lord's orders. Orc lords could hit really hard when they were mad. Milug didn't like being hit. He much preferred doing the hitting. But it had been over a week now, with still no word from the fort with an explanation as to why he was here. Milug was becoming impatient, as were the others.
The sudden sound of a tree falling shook him from his orcish musings, and he looked down to see another orc, wielding a rather nasty looking ax, dragging a tree into the clearing. They had decided to risk building a small encampment near the town, but far enough into the woods to not be noticed by most. Of course, any humies who did venture too close were more than welcome... after all, the orcs did need something to put in their cookpots!
Reluctantly turning his attention to the city once again, he spied a small band of adventurers exiting the city. He let out a long and low rasping sound to signal those around him to remain silent. The other orcs immediately ceased their chopping and hid behind the trees. Milug readied his long way killer, almost hoping the humies would spot him.
"Not Milug's fault if humies walk into camp," he thought with a grin. Milug considered making some "accidental" noise, but thought better of it as he again rubbed the bump on his head. The rest of the orcs gripped their axes tightly, only the strong threats from their lords keeping them from attacking the humies. Growing more impatient by the minute, the orcs waited quietly until the humies were gone before resuming their work.
As the orcish scout was about to continue his spying on the city, another orc called up to him in the guttural orcish language. Milug recognized it as the latest news from the fort, and grinned for the first time in days as he looked at the city again. The news was as he had hoped.
It would not be long.
Truly disturbing news.. if it can be considered news at all. Who wrote these articles? How did they get such detailed information about the orcs actions? Indeed, some scholars have pointed out some inconsistencies with what they know of orc culture and the orc culture as depicted in these articles. How then can we consider these stories to be factual?
While nobody has stepped forward and explained our unanswered questions, there are certain thintgs that seem to make the articles more credible. Firstly, the sudden rise in Human - Orc agression. Secondly, the dramatic increase in orc population as of late, and Thirdly, the discovery that some orcs have begun to carry magical orcish masks.
True or not, attention has certainly been drawn toward the orcs. Several Scholars in the school of Anthropology have indicated to us that if these articles are in fact true, than an invasion or attack on a human city is imminent. They also tell us that one of the more "civilized" Orc Clans, the Bloodrock clan would most probably not join the other clans in such an assault.
Royal spokespersons advise caution for all citizens, come what may.
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Yesterday, the Britannian Affairs Committee met in informal session at the Trinsic Town Hall. The Topic: what is to become of Trinsic?
It was close after midnight when Raticker looked up from the scrolls spread out over a marble table deep in the bowels of Empath Abby. Few knew these chambers even existed, much less have access to them. However, as a prominent member of The Cult of the Black Dragon, Lord Raticker was able to bully his way down. It also helped one of his best friends was a lifetime researcher here. Mooley was the best. A breeze brushed passed Raticker's brow, cooling the small droplets of sweat which had formed.
*Looks around throughout the new guild house*