10 Oct 2011
Hey guys! After reading all the fluff in the new book I have gotten dozens of ideas for short stories and tales. I am going to try making a collection of short stories following a new tribe, The Bloody Fists.
Todays chapter is just a starting point, character introduction etc. But I hope to build it into an ongoing series if I can (I say this because having a baby has taken up a LOT of my time.)
Here is the first chapter of our story: Bloody Dawn
Muscle and fat stuck between his jagged, misshaped teeth. Blood sprayed up into his face with every failing heartbeat. A victorious roar could be heard from those who sided with him. And his father, formerly his tribes tyrant, now a bleeding, ruined mess, lay dying below his slowly gnawing teeth.
Tarrak Trollgut, his name soon to be extended, taking up his fathers mantle, chewed on his dying fathers meat, having beaten him in bloody combat and taking rulership of the tribe. But this had not been an ordinary battle for dominance, nor had the duel been an honorable, guts out, battle. No, this had been a bloody uprising, a civil war within the tribe. Tarrak pondered only a little on his hostile actions as he leaned in for another bite of his fathers flesh.
Behind him, those that banded to his side roared in victory, and those that stayed under his fathers rule either begged for their lives or fled into the mountains. Either way, they didnt have long to live, as Tarraks allies cut down those that remained, while the mountains would finish off the others. Of them, Skeg Tenheads, the tribes butcher, waded through the blood red snow and approached Tarrak, but was still cautious to avoid his jaws and ire.
Tribemates! Our new Tyrant, Tarrak Trollguts The Bloodyhanded!
The cheering quieted at the long winded speech of the butcher. Many stared at him with hunger and hatred, but none dared challenge the butcher, none but the new Tyrant. With a throaty belch, blood dripping down his many chins, Tarrak finally looked up from his fathers corps. You honour me only after you hid in your cave. You are a coward like the others.
Skeg looked at the Tyrant, unflinching in his gaze, and with an air of wisdom that could best be summed up by an ogre. Though a butcher follows his Tyrant, he listens to the Great Maw. The Maw would have you prove yourself worthy in order for any butcher to follow you.
Excuses the young Tyrant bellowed. If that would be true, where is our Slaughtermaster to proclaim me? Why send his lowly pupil?
What could almost appear to be a grin cracked across the butchers face. Not all butchers follow the Maws true path reaching behind his back, Skeg pulled the head of the tribes former Slaughtermaster from a rusty hook. It still dripped dark ichor from where its neck used to be. Some butchers follow what they believe will give them more power. The old master refused to follow you, thinking you weak. Skeg took a bite out of his former tutors face, only his well trained gut could digest the tainted blood of the Slaughtermaster, darkened after decades of eating that which should be inedible. He still chewed the fat and grissle as Skeg bowed to Tarrak. You have proven yourself to the Maw, you have proven yourself to me.
Another blood-filled belch came from Tarrak, followed by a small chuckle. From what you say, you could just be following me for your own lust of power The butcher remained low, taking another chunk of the Slaughtermasters deformed face. It matters not! You will follow or die.
The rest of his ogres had closed in around their new tyrant, their deed of killing done. The tribes gnoblars, who had remained largely neutral in the coup (for a gnoblar never gets in the way of an ogre, especially one looking to fight), they scurried behind, grabbing what loot they could from the bodies of dead. Some laughed as they picked away or gnawed at former masters, believing themselves free and moving on to a better life. Though this was largely untrue as all ogres treated their gnoblars the same, poorly.
Tarrak took another chew into his fathers neck, teeth ripping and cutting as his bloody fist pulled at the cadavers head. With a heave, Tarrak removed his fathers head from its body, spine, blood and meat dangling below. He lifted to Dead Tyrants head above his and roared in triumph. The other ogres let their voices go in agreement and set about eating the dead. Gnoblars leapt and ran out of their way, their short chance of looting finished, as the feast began.
Days later, as the bodies of the dead turned into piles of bones, and the blood red snow was covered in another layer of white, almost no traces of the tiny revolution remained. During the days of feasting, Tarraks younger brother, Tarroal, had asked the question of what he planned to do next. Tarrak had only grunted as he continued to finish eating their father, but pondered this in the days that followed. Due to the infighting, Tarraks tribe had dwindled to little more then a marauding warband, hardly what one would call a full fledged tribe. Tarrak could only think of how he needed more numbers, for the tribe of the Bloody Handed to grow, but he needed to think of a way how, and though Tarrak was rather smart for an ogre, this still proved to be a difficult task.
As the morning sun crept over the mountain peaks, its light revealed that all the meat, and even some of the bones, had been picked clean by the tribe. The victory feast was over, and Tarrak emerged from his former fathers hut. A cloak of fur that had been patched together from a pack of sabertusks draped across his back, its ruddy yellow fur almost shining in the dawn light. He held in his hand the sword formerly used by his father, its keen edge had been known to cut through armour with ease, and despite its misuse and lack of care, had remained sharp over the decades. The former Slaughtermaster had claimed it a magical weapon, but it didnt matter to Tarrak if it was magical or not, so long as it continued cut down his pray.
The new tyrant bellowed loudly, the echo of his voice reverberating off the mountains and cliff faces around them. Nearby sabertusks, wild gnoblars and other creatures fled from the noise. The tribe, however, was roused from their sleep. It was one of the few ways to wake an ogre after going into a near coma from over eating.
The Bloody Fists arose and left their huts, tents, and other crudely built structures. Many of them carried weapons previously used by the fallen, self elevating themselves to hire ranks as they put on armour or equipped weapons that previously wasnt theirs. If it wasnt for the coup, another Tyrant would punish those who did this, but Tarrak allowed this. He knew that those who were truly worthy of being called ironguts would rise to the rank, and those that were not would die fighting or be beaten into submission from another more worthy.
With the feast done, many had already known it would be time to pack up and move again, having made their gnoblars pack up for them the night before. Many still scrambled, tired and sweating, as they tried to organise their masters new equipment, pack up, all while trying snag a few shiny toys for themselves. Some of the gnoblars who had lost their masters found shade and safety with a new boss, glad to do their work if it meant not being eaten. Others, however, still followed the tribe, but gathered together into their own little group. They talked of how they were free and no longer needed an ogre to protect them, but still kept their distance and happened to remain silent whenever an ogre was around.
As the tribe packed up and prepared to move, Tarrak was joined by his most trusted ogres. These were his personal bodyguard and strongest fighters, and the first to join his side when he incited rebellion. Jaharra carried the units standard, though now the tribe had adopted it as the tribes banner. It was a ragged creation stitched together from defeated armies banners and skins of great monsters Tarrak and his guard had defeated. Though it looked like a mismatch of colours and cultures, in the center the cloth had been dyed with blood to resemble the tribes symbol, a Bloody Fist.
Beside Tarrak stood the leader of his bodyguard, and his smaller brother, Torroal. Though the Bloody Fist tribe was notorious for rebellion and family infighting, Tarrak was far from the first kill his father for leadership. He knew he could trust his brother. Well, trust him as far as he could throw him, and Tarrak could toss his smaller brother rather far. The runt may be fast for an ogre, but was still small and weak. A good beating every now and then put the youngster in his place.
When the tribe was gathered and their belongings taken down and stowed behind the rhinoxs, Tarrak signaled the move north east. Tarrak needed ogres, and in order to get ogres to join him, he needed to get his and his tribes name to be heard throughout the mountains. Deep in the Hissing Pits he would make his name known.
Todays chapter is just a starting point, character introduction etc. But I hope to build it into an ongoing series if I can (I say this because having a baby has taken up a LOT of my time.)
Here is the first chapter of our story: Bloody Dawn
Muscle and fat stuck between his jagged, misshaped teeth. Blood sprayed up into his face with every failing heartbeat. A victorious roar could be heard from those who sided with him. And his father, formerly his tribes tyrant, now a bleeding, ruined mess, lay dying below his slowly gnawing teeth.
Tarrak Trollgut, his name soon to be extended, taking up his fathers mantle, chewed on his dying fathers meat, having beaten him in bloody combat and taking rulership of the tribe. But this had not been an ordinary battle for dominance, nor had the duel been an honorable, guts out, battle. No, this had been a bloody uprising, a civil war within the tribe. Tarrak pondered only a little on his hostile actions as he leaned in for another bite of his fathers flesh.
Behind him, those that banded to his side roared in victory, and those that stayed under his fathers rule either begged for their lives or fled into the mountains. Either way, they didnt have long to live, as Tarraks allies cut down those that remained, while the mountains would finish off the others. Of them, Skeg Tenheads, the tribes butcher, waded through the blood red snow and approached Tarrak, but was still cautious to avoid his jaws and ire.
Tribemates! Our new Tyrant, Tarrak Trollguts The Bloodyhanded!
The cheering quieted at the long winded speech of the butcher. Many stared at him with hunger and hatred, but none dared challenge the butcher, none but the new Tyrant. With a throaty belch, blood dripping down his many chins, Tarrak finally looked up from his fathers corps. You honour me only after you hid in your cave. You are a coward like the others.
Skeg looked at the Tyrant, unflinching in his gaze, and with an air of wisdom that could best be summed up by an ogre. Though a butcher follows his Tyrant, he listens to the Great Maw. The Maw would have you prove yourself worthy in order for any butcher to follow you.
Excuses the young Tyrant bellowed. If that would be true, where is our Slaughtermaster to proclaim me? Why send his lowly pupil?
What could almost appear to be a grin cracked across the butchers face. Not all butchers follow the Maws true path reaching behind his back, Skeg pulled the head of the tribes former Slaughtermaster from a rusty hook. It still dripped dark ichor from where its neck used to be. Some butchers follow what they believe will give them more power. The old master refused to follow you, thinking you weak. Skeg took a bite out of his former tutors face, only his well trained gut could digest the tainted blood of the Slaughtermaster, darkened after decades of eating that which should be inedible. He still chewed the fat and grissle as Skeg bowed to Tarrak. You have proven yourself to the Maw, you have proven yourself to me.
Another blood-filled belch came from Tarrak, followed by a small chuckle. From what you say, you could just be following me for your own lust of power The butcher remained low, taking another chunk of the Slaughtermasters deformed face. It matters not! You will follow or die.
The rest of his ogres had closed in around their new tyrant, their deed of killing done. The tribes gnoblars, who had remained largely neutral in the coup (for a gnoblar never gets in the way of an ogre, especially one looking to fight), they scurried behind, grabbing what loot they could from the bodies of dead. Some laughed as they picked away or gnawed at former masters, believing themselves free and moving on to a better life. Though this was largely untrue as all ogres treated their gnoblars the same, poorly.
Tarrak took another chew into his fathers neck, teeth ripping and cutting as his bloody fist pulled at the cadavers head. With a heave, Tarrak removed his fathers head from its body, spine, blood and meat dangling below. He lifted to Dead Tyrants head above his and roared in triumph. The other ogres let their voices go in agreement and set about eating the dead. Gnoblars leapt and ran out of their way, their short chance of looting finished, as the feast began.
Days later, as the bodies of the dead turned into piles of bones, and the blood red snow was covered in another layer of white, almost no traces of the tiny revolution remained. During the days of feasting, Tarraks younger brother, Tarroal, had asked the question of what he planned to do next. Tarrak had only grunted as he continued to finish eating their father, but pondered this in the days that followed. Due to the infighting, Tarraks tribe had dwindled to little more then a marauding warband, hardly what one would call a full fledged tribe. Tarrak could only think of how he needed more numbers, for the tribe of the Bloody Handed to grow, but he needed to think of a way how, and though Tarrak was rather smart for an ogre, this still proved to be a difficult task.
As the morning sun crept over the mountain peaks, its light revealed that all the meat, and even some of the bones, had been picked clean by the tribe. The victory feast was over, and Tarrak emerged from his former fathers hut. A cloak of fur that had been patched together from a pack of sabertusks draped across his back, its ruddy yellow fur almost shining in the dawn light. He held in his hand the sword formerly used by his father, its keen edge had been known to cut through armour with ease, and despite its misuse and lack of care, had remained sharp over the decades. The former Slaughtermaster had claimed it a magical weapon, but it didnt matter to Tarrak if it was magical or not, so long as it continued cut down his pray.
The new tyrant bellowed loudly, the echo of his voice reverberating off the mountains and cliff faces around them. Nearby sabertusks, wild gnoblars and other creatures fled from the noise. The tribe, however, was roused from their sleep. It was one of the few ways to wake an ogre after going into a near coma from over eating.
The Bloody Fists arose and left their huts, tents, and other crudely built structures. Many of them carried weapons previously used by the fallen, self elevating themselves to hire ranks as they put on armour or equipped weapons that previously wasnt theirs. If it wasnt for the coup, another Tyrant would punish those who did this, but Tarrak allowed this. He knew that those who were truly worthy of being called ironguts would rise to the rank, and those that were not would die fighting or be beaten into submission from another more worthy.
With the feast done, many had already known it would be time to pack up and move again, having made their gnoblars pack up for them the night before. Many still scrambled, tired and sweating, as they tried to organise their masters new equipment, pack up, all while trying snag a few shiny toys for themselves. Some of the gnoblars who had lost their masters found shade and safety with a new boss, glad to do their work if it meant not being eaten. Others, however, still followed the tribe, but gathered together into their own little group. They talked of how they were free and no longer needed an ogre to protect them, but still kept their distance and happened to remain silent whenever an ogre was around.
As the tribe packed up and prepared to move, Tarrak was joined by his most trusted ogres. These were his personal bodyguard and strongest fighters, and the first to join his side when he incited rebellion. Jaharra carried the units standard, though now the tribe had adopted it as the tribes banner. It was a ragged creation stitched together from defeated armies banners and skins of great monsters Tarrak and his guard had defeated. Though it looked like a mismatch of colours and cultures, in the center the cloth had been dyed with blood to resemble the tribes symbol, a Bloody Fist.
Beside Tarrak stood the leader of his bodyguard, and his smaller brother, Torroal. Though the Bloody Fist tribe was notorious for rebellion and family infighting, Tarrak was far from the first kill his father for leadership. He knew he could trust his brother. Well, trust him as far as he could throw him, and Tarrak could toss his smaller brother rather far. The runt may be fast for an ogre, but was still small and weak. A good beating every now and then put the youngster in his place.
When the tribe was gathered and their belongings taken down and stowed behind the rhinoxs, Tarrak signaled the move north east. Tarrak needed ogres, and in order to get ogres to join him, he needed to get his and his tribes name to be heard throughout the mountains. Deep in the Hissing Pits he would make his name known.
Gnoblar big game trophy rack:
Manticore Lord of Change Beastlord
Chaos Lord Warsphinx Bray Shaman
Manticore Lord of Change Beastlord
Chaos Lord Warsphinx Bray Shaman