Tales from the Blizzardous peak

Here is my first topic that will explain all the storyes of my tribe, characters and other background.

However, I don't have much free time, so the stories will be entered by parts.
And here's the first.

The great Migration
A tale of hunger and pain
Part1.
The caravans clattered and resounded in the depths of the valleys as a great convoy crossed the Mountains of mourn through the silver road into far Cathay. 50 Caravans filled with ivory, weapons, gun powder, silk, livestock and most importantly; gold. As the great path grew ever longer before them, the Bretonian horsemen who were charged with defending the cargo, grew wearier and cold, but they knew they could not let their guard down, for rumors told of many caravans that had ventured the journey never to be seen again. Whispers of a mighty peril grew louder in the old world as less was the contact with the eastern empire.

As the convoy advanced, Sir Heathwel II saw a strange figure in the mist at the side of the road. Small and stinky, the creature glared at the caravan as they approached, it's great ears erect and focused on the lord. Heathwel ignored the small green skin and it's prodigious nose, and lead the caravan to continue on it's path. As the caravan passed by, the creature turned to the mountains and gave loud screech, the sound resounding through the peaks. One of the horsemen, taunted the goblinoid with it's horse, to which the creature started to run into the rocks, and disappeared in an instant.

The air stood still after the sound of the creature, and the men dismissed the event, continuing on their journey, but they were then surprised by another sound, far louder than the previous. A loud bellow that shook the earth and scared the horses. The mere sound made rocks crumble down the mountains, and the men desperately tried to save their ears from the pain as the cry echoed in their helmets. Heathwel turned to the providence of the sound, and witnessed a mighty creature atop the hills pointing a great sword at the caravan, and as it screamed to the top of it's lungs, dozens of creatures larger than horses began to run down the mountains towards the convoy. The caravans stopped as they watched in fear the coming of the fat creatures, and the horsemen swiftly organised themselves into ranks, lances pointed forward, and began to charge their powerful steeds with no fear of the enemy, and as they were about to hit their target, the front line of the creatures rose canons held on their very hands, and fired a volley of metal and death unto the horsemen. Confused and with his company destroyed, Heathwel had not a second to blink before the creatures came charging towards him, waving clubs and canons like one would wave a child's doll. The mace landed hard on the head of LightSteed; His most beloved horse, and it fell crashing on the hard soil as its brain melted withing it's skull. Even with his most priced steed defeated, and his men poorly trying to fend off the creatures, Heathwel was not the man to give up on a battle, and he rose from the floor, drawing his long sword, and began to battle the ferocious beasts. With the skill worthy of a Bretonian lord, he sliced the throats of many of the bulking creatures as they came in un-ending numbers. Yet every kill made the man more and more tired, until suddenly, as his sword pierced the thick skin of one of the creatures, he felt a sharp and intense pain pierce into his stomach. Stepping away, he removed his helmet to see what had hit him, to find one of the small creatures hanging from a spear stuck under his ribs. The green skin giggled loudly as it shook the spear within his entrails, and the pain it caused was too much to bear. He screamed in pain and dropped to his knees, as he presenced the caravan being ravished by the mighty beasts. Out of the dust, an even larger foe approached the defeated hero, wearing several skulls adorning his body, and a massive weapon fit only for the greatest statues raised high above his head. The last words to come from the mouth of the Breton were the whisper of the name of his lady, interrupted by the sound of a cracking skull.

This is just a little prelude before the actual story. Hope you enjoyed it. 

Part2.
It had happened again. Despite all the explaining, warning and threatening, the Wheelgut tribe had once more raided a convoy that headed for Cathay, and as the Gnoblar spies delivered the news to the great overtyrant, Greasuss Goldtooth saw his patience run out. It was time to take action, as should have been done long before. The Wheelguts; one of the mightiest tribes neighboring the Gooldtooths, would cease their destruction of caravans, or cease to exist.

A summoning was sent to Glots the Wheel biter; tyrant of the wheelgut tribe, to attend a meeting with Greasuss Goldtooth himself, to discuss matters of urgency. Glots entered the chambres of the overtyrant ready to oppose his power, aware but ignorant of the consequences it could bring.
Goldtooth spoke;
 - Three times have I told yah dat the curvans ain' gonn'be tuchd if I d'not said so - Three times! And yah just keep pushin' me keendness, and your men keep to take the stuff foar thei'sulfs! Me pashence has rum ou' Glots, and I don' think there ain' nothin' you can say to make me feel I shuld give you 'nother chance!
 - We've 'ad this cunvrsation a bunch'a times Goldtooth, and still you can't get it! We live of those curvans! we 'ave prosperd 'cause of 'em, and I won't have no self calld 'king' tell me dat mah people have ta starve 'cuz ye wan'a make profi' from 'em punny humens, ratha' dan killing 'em and taking da suns yourself!
 - You'd better watch yer wurds Tyrant, 'less you wan'a suffer the fury of da Goldtooths!
 - If yer fury was so big, why huven't seen i' before!? Why 'ave yer bulls never 'ad cross 'nto the lands of the Whellguts!? Or r weh a match fer ya? I'm outta here! 'n if you wan'a try and deestroy us, give it yer best shot!
And with those daring words, Glots walked out of the halls and headed back to his home tribe, unafraid of his oncoming doom.

After two weeks of the meeting, Glots finally realized the mistakes he had made, as he stood before an army of a thousand ogres, all eager to battle and pillage, and Greasuss himself at the front line of his army. The Tyrant tried his very best to keep safe his home, bringing any ogre that could hold a weapon to bear the marking of the Wheelguts, and fight for their land. But the Goldtooths where to powerful an enemy to stand, and within one day, the tribe had been torn asunder. One small group of ogres and ogresses had been rounded up in the tribes maw-pit, with a crowd of angry followers of greasus spiting insults and taunts at the helpless few. Goldtooth himself rose from his throne and approached the remainder of the Wheelbiters, and with a loud voice he declared;
 - Ye are the few left of 'em Wheelbiters. I'm gun'a let yah walk away from 'ere with nay 'arm done to any of ya. And any tribe dat looks at dese dat bear the mark of tha Wheelgut's gun'a say: 'em are the last of the Wheelguts, the tribe that thunk they could stand up to the Goldtooths.
And with these cruel words, the army split, forming a narrow passage for the defeated tribe to leave, and as they spat and insulted them, they hurried along this corridor of brutes, and out into the night.
Thus began the great migration of the Wheelgut tribe, ever into the north.