21 Jul 2006
With a loud clang from his rhinestone encrusted Gutplate, Da King slumped to the ground, exhausted. So this is how it ends he said to himself, coughing thick smoke-riddled blood and mucus into his mighty sideburns before finally losing consciousness
The camera of the minds eye starts to spin, flying upwards, looking down on the jump-suited body of the prone ogre Tyrant. First his proud quiff dissolves from sight, then the still, sequined form becomes a mere speck, the view expanding to reveal a scorched valley, jets of flame reach to the sky from the hungry mouths of the ring of volcanoes, whose high escarpments surround this once quiet realm. The remains of a burning ogre stronghold belches thick black smoke into the shimmering heat-haze, the stench of smouldering flesh and fur intermingles with the harsh reek of sulphur. Today Death came to the Crimson Spined Mountains
Death had followed Da King from the moment he had drawn his first breathe. Starting with his would-be sibling; Da King had come into this world with one chubby claw clenched around his stillborn brothers umbilical cord. His mother then died shortly after, her lifeblood dripping from the gaping maw from whence he had come. The tribe Butcher barely had time to cast his prophesy before succumbing to Da Kings curse. After the birth of each male child, a tribal Butcher would mix the afterbirth with wild sacred mushrooms and devour the foul mixture. This would send him into a trancelike state where he could commune with the Gods and learn the childs path through life, and then give him his name. The Butcher screamed and gibbered madly, pointed to the mewling child and cried, The child has been touched by the Great Maw, blood is his birthright
The name, tell us the name, someone called.
The Butcher had dropped to his knees; the power of the intoxicating offal and mushrooms was drawing the very life from his bosom. The child, will have a name he panted, He will be known as Gark The Butcher choked and toppled forward, the crunch of breaking cartilage as his bulbous nose smacked into the ground was the only sound, as the startled onlookers froze in fear and confusion.
He didnt speak the name?
Ha! Gark will do fine!
For now
Images swim through Da Kings closed eyes; snap-shots of his life vying for attention. Childhood memories, battles he had won, brothers he had lost, wives and feasts all flitted through his unconscious mind, until a firm picture settled in place, the day he earned his name, his true name
The first day of the Great Maw Feast was dawning. All of the tribes un-blooded youngsters were arrayed in their finest war-gear, ready for their initiation, for today they would earn the right to call themselves Bulls. Each whelp would venture out into the wild mountains, the swathes of green forest, or deep into the desert. For 2 nights they would wander, seeking great foes to conquer, bringing their fresh scalps or skulls back to the camp as trophies. Some would not survive, but this way the tribe singled out the weak. Some would prove themselves with feats of incredible violence, and earn themselves a place alongside the Ironguts. Some, however, would become legend
Fifty-three whelps had set forth, and come the evening of the last day of the trial, only thirty-seven had returned. The victorious whelps quaffed ogre beer whilst regaling any who would listen of tales of slaughter. Their trophies were counted and their wounds plastered with the foul-smelling herbs and mud
The strongest whelp would be awarded a prize of beer, armour, and be sent to train with the elite fighting forces of the tribe. This year the greatest haul belonged to Krazahk, the Ironguts had counted no less than twelve wolf pelts, eight goblin scalps and four dwarfish beards. The Irongut leader grabbed Krazahk and walked him to the centre of the stronghold, Bring beer for our new Maneater in training! he roared.
Before the onlookers had a chance to respond, a solitary ogre appeared at the gates
Stay! You have yet to count my kills brothers.
The hushed crowd turned to face the newcomer, Gark? Youre late.
As would you be, were you forced to carry this
Gark turned aside to reveal his burden, four Elven cloaks, within each was wrapped the decapitated heads of an entire Elf Warband. Weakling Elves with their cowards weapons, I snatched their bows from them with my bare hands and snapped their necks.
Gark then pulled his belt from about his waist, and revealed a string of Troll hands tied to the worn leather. These were a mightier prey, so I caved the head of each in with a mighty stone!
With such kills it was obvious who the real champion of this Feast would be Gark. The Ironguts carried him high upon their shoulders, across to the tribal elders.
You have proved yourself worthy Gark, croaked the aging Slaughtermaster, Thou shalt have a new name
Arise, Elvish Prey-Slayer, Da King of Rock n Trolls
The camera of the minds eye starts to spin, flying upwards, looking down on the jump-suited body of the prone ogre Tyrant. First his proud quiff dissolves from sight, then the still, sequined form becomes a mere speck, the view expanding to reveal a scorched valley, jets of flame reach to the sky from the hungry mouths of the ring of volcanoes, whose high escarpments surround this once quiet realm. The remains of a burning ogre stronghold belches thick black smoke into the shimmering heat-haze, the stench of smouldering flesh and fur intermingles with the harsh reek of sulphur. Today Death came to the Crimson Spined Mountains
Death had followed Da King from the moment he had drawn his first breathe. Starting with his would-be sibling; Da King had come into this world with one chubby claw clenched around his stillborn brothers umbilical cord. His mother then died shortly after, her lifeblood dripping from the gaping maw from whence he had come. The tribe Butcher barely had time to cast his prophesy before succumbing to Da Kings curse. After the birth of each male child, a tribal Butcher would mix the afterbirth with wild sacred mushrooms and devour the foul mixture. This would send him into a trancelike state where he could commune with the Gods and learn the childs path through life, and then give him his name. The Butcher screamed and gibbered madly, pointed to the mewling child and cried, The child has been touched by the Great Maw, blood is his birthright
The name, tell us the name, someone called.
The Butcher had dropped to his knees; the power of the intoxicating offal and mushrooms was drawing the very life from his bosom. The child, will have a name he panted, He will be known as Gark The Butcher choked and toppled forward, the crunch of breaking cartilage as his bulbous nose smacked into the ground was the only sound, as the startled onlookers froze in fear and confusion.
He didnt speak the name?
Ha! Gark will do fine!
For now
Images swim through Da Kings closed eyes; snap-shots of his life vying for attention. Childhood memories, battles he had won, brothers he had lost, wives and feasts all flitted through his unconscious mind, until a firm picture settled in place, the day he earned his name, his true name
The first day of the Great Maw Feast was dawning. All of the tribes un-blooded youngsters were arrayed in their finest war-gear, ready for their initiation, for today they would earn the right to call themselves Bulls. Each whelp would venture out into the wild mountains, the swathes of green forest, or deep into the desert. For 2 nights they would wander, seeking great foes to conquer, bringing their fresh scalps or skulls back to the camp as trophies. Some would not survive, but this way the tribe singled out the weak. Some would prove themselves with feats of incredible violence, and earn themselves a place alongside the Ironguts. Some, however, would become legend
Fifty-three whelps had set forth, and come the evening of the last day of the trial, only thirty-seven had returned. The victorious whelps quaffed ogre beer whilst regaling any who would listen of tales of slaughter. Their trophies were counted and their wounds plastered with the foul-smelling herbs and mud
The strongest whelp would be awarded a prize of beer, armour, and be sent to train with the elite fighting forces of the tribe. This year the greatest haul belonged to Krazahk, the Ironguts had counted no less than twelve wolf pelts, eight goblin scalps and four dwarfish beards. The Irongut leader grabbed Krazahk and walked him to the centre of the stronghold, Bring beer for our new Maneater in training! he roared.
Before the onlookers had a chance to respond, a solitary ogre appeared at the gates
Stay! You have yet to count my kills brothers.
The hushed crowd turned to face the newcomer, Gark? Youre late.
As would you be, were you forced to carry this
Gark turned aside to reveal his burden, four Elven cloaks, within each was wrapped the decapitated heads of an entire Elf Warband. Weakling Elves with their cowards weapons, I snatched their bows from them with my bare hands and snapped their necks.
Gark then pulled his belt from about his waist, and revealed a string of Troll hands tied to the worn leather. These were a mightier prey, so I caved the head of each in with a mighty stone!
With such kills it was obvious who the real champion of this Feast would be Gark. The Ironguts carried him high upon their shoulders, across to the tribal elders.
You have proved yourself worthy Gark, croaked the aging Slaughtermaster, Thou shalt have a new name
Arise, Elvish Prey-Slayer, Da King of Rock n Trolls
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