The Uprisal, Parts 1-3

PART 1

An Ogre stood at the very peak of an enormous mountain. Looking down, he saw the forest of Loren and the lands of Bretonnia stretched out before him. And on the brink of his vision, at the very edge of the horizon, was the ocean. The Great Ocean he had heard so many stories about.
A crow squawked somewhere in the distance, and the Ogre began his climb back down the mountain again. His trousers, nearly black with filth, were torn and bloodied by the time he had reached the cave, home of the Razor's Edge tribe.
”Ar, yer back from yer mountain-climbin' now, aye Garuug?” Said another Ogre, greeting him.
”Yeh. I ‘az seen da Bretonni land from up der. Now lets see about some food, aye? Climbin' is hungry work.” Garuug answered, patting his belly.
They walked into the cave side-by-side, walking down a narrow tunnel until they came to the main, cavernous hall, home to most of the Razor's Edge tribe. Many pathways led in and out of the hall, leading to the Tyrants' personal chambers and the living areas of the more important Ogres.
Many Ogres lounged around in the main hall, ordering their Gnoblars around and having private competitions of strength, betting chunks of meat on the outcomes. One such competition, which had two of the largest Ogres in an arm-wrestling match, quickly escalated into a fight.
”I beat yer! Me Gnoblar sez he saw yer hand touch da ground! Tell ‘im, Gussy!”
”Yer! Ma big bossy beat yer fair ‘n' skware! He win!” Said the Gnoblar in his annoying, high-pitched voice. He was jumping up and down as he pointed at his boss.
”Ma hand neva touched da ground! It waz close ter it, but that's cause I was lettin' yer! But yeh di'nt beat me, so don't say yer did!” The other Ogre bellowed, raising his fists.
”Yer a damned fool, Arog!” The first Ogre said, launching himself at Arog.
The ensuing fight was short but brutal. Arog threw the other Ogre into the wall, before sitting on his ribs and punching him in the head.
”Oy!” A voice boomed out, echoing in the cave. Arog stopped punching, staring over to the new Ogre. It was the Tyrant - clad in full body armour and carrying a huge battle-axe. “Why do you think it iz necessary fer yer ter make all dis racket n wake me up? Git off him, you maggot.” He said, striding over to Arog and pulling him away.
”We ‘az got real fights comin' up. We iz goin ter fight the Bretonnis and tha tree-elves soon enuf, and I don't want half me boyz dead before then! So yer all needz ta calm down. Get ready ladz, cos tamorrow weze are goin ta war!”

*****

The sun was sinking below the horizon when Rene Volt, second-born son of the great Duke Gilraen, sat in his castle, reading a long and tedious scroll of parchment. It was written by the Lord Cerdic of Gisoreux, reporting about finance and other such things. The only interesting thing was that there was a tribe of Ogres in the Grey Mountains. This was unheard of in Bretonnia - since when did Ogres join together in tribes? They could not trust the faerie folk either, they would not help the Bretonnians. But for now the Ogres were not doing anything at this stage. He pulled out a blank piece of parchment, dipped his quill in a bottle of ink, and began writing.