The Whelpgobbler Tribe- Part The First

Here's the first installment of my multi-post chronicle of the Whelpgobbler tribe. I'll hopefully have more installments later this week, and some pics to follow soon.

I have to admit I'm not an expert on the minutia of the Warhammer world, so if I contradict something or have some details wrong, please (gently) let me know and I'll modify as necessary. Also, constructive criticism and suggestions are welcome, although just telling me it's crap is unnecessary. Thanks in advance.

The Whelpgobbler Tribe
Their Early History:

Around eighty years ago, several ogres were on a hunting expedition in the Mountains of Mourn when they came across an unusual sight. A Tilean explorer, dressed in the finest silks and wielding a flimsy rapier, stood in a clearing among the boulders. Before him were two huge sabretusks, snarling as they steadily approached the lone figure. The ogres stood back, expecting to watch a bit of fun as the gaudily dressed humie was torn limb from limb by the massive felines. To their utter amazement, the man swiftly dispatched both beasts with a flurry of lightning- fast strikes. The Ogres were so impressed with the man's ability that the boulder they threw at him to crush his skull was the best they had on hand.

As they slowly and respectfully roasted the man's corpse, the ogres discussed at great length what magic powers the man must have had to move so quickly and fearlessly. They first speculated that his rapier must have been enchanted, until Gognaff accidentally bent it in two whilst picking his teeth with it. They then wondered if the man's boots had given him speed beyond that of a normal human, and in hopes of gaining some of his power they ate them, but to no avail. Finally, the ogres reached what to them was the only logical conclusion: the man's fine silk pantaloons, embroidered with whirling patterns of richly colored thread, must have given him supernatural powers in battle. The ogres divided up the cloth, which they crudely stitched to their own pants, and the cult of the Fancy Pants was born.

From that day forth, the group of ogres sought out the fanciest cloth they could get their hands on to fashion trousers before battle. Wherever they went, they spread tales of how their fancy pants had brought them victory after victory in battle. Although they were initially despised by their brethren and mocked endlessly for their cleanliness and their fancy-pants ways, the cult slowly grew in numbers. Each time the ogres formed up for battle before their tyrant, Gazz-ah-Foo the Intolerant, more and more of them were decked out in garishly colored trousers.

As the ogres had no idea how to make cloth themselves, most of their material came from raids on merchant caravans winding their way back to the old world from Cathay. For a few years this worked out fine for all involved, as the majority of the ogres could care less what happened to the bolts of fabric they found in so many ruined wagons after a successful raid, and if the Fancy Pantists claimed the useless cloth as their share of the booty, so be it. It was only after the tribe was absorbed into the Overtyranny of Greasus Goldtooth that trouble began.

The overtyrant struck a deal with several major caravans, accepting a hefty bribe in exchange for his protection as they passed through the Mountains of Mourn. To make it clear to his dim-witted subject tribes which wagons were under his protection, Goldtooth had the caravan master drape his wagons in brightly colored tarps. This, of course, was too much for the Cultists to resist, as their increasing numbers had fueled an almost insatiable demand for fancy cloth. The first caravan that came through under the arrangement found itself under attack by a horde of wild-eyed Ogres in brightly colored pantaloons, battling the Ogres of the Goldtooth tribe who were guarding the wagons.

This first attack was a complete success on the part of the Pantists, routing the overtyrants' suprised guards and seizing a great deal of cloth. To the Whelpgobblers, the battle will be forever remembered as "The One Where They Didn't Think We Would Attack And We Did". That night, a great many fancy pants were made, and the celebratory hooting lasted long into the night.

Enraged at the disobedience of his subjects, Greasus ordered a massive assault on the Pantists a few days later. In the battle known now to the Whelpgobblers as "the One Where We Forgot They Might Get Us Back", the cult of the fancy pants was crushed, and its' few surviving adherents fled into the wilderness.

next installment: The Wandering Years

Ok, not exactly an enthusiastic response, but I guess I'll keep posting anyway. Here, for your reading pleasure, is:


The History of the Whelpgobbler Tribe

Part the Second

The Wandering Years:
Led by a fierce bruiser known as Chundo Thunderbulk, a band of former cultists made their way west, following the Silk Road through the Howling Wastes and into the Worlds Edge Mountains. Here they settled temporarily and declared themselves a new tribe, with Chundo as their first Tyrant. They gave themselves the unfortunate name of the BrightBritches Tribe, and set about raiding caravans along the Silver Road Pass. Gradually, other former Pantists drifted in to strengthen the ranks, and the tribe grew modestly for a few years. But a series of unfortunate misunderstandings with a local Dwarven community spiralled out of control under the belligerent leadership of the Tyrant Chundo, who committed the final faux-pas when he ate a dwarven diplomat (in fairness to the late tyrant, it should be noted that he had never eaten dwarf before, and most Ogre gourmets agree that, although a bit gamey, it really is delicious). The battle that soon followed became known as "The One where Chundo Got Blowed Up", and like it's predecessor it turned out to be a complete rout of the disorganized, poorly led Ogres. Chundo gave the battle it's name when he charged a mercenary cannon emplacement- all that was ever found of him was a scrap of embroidery from his favorite pants. Once again, the defeated stragglers fled west, eventually finding themselves in the lush, fertile fields of the southern empire.

The tribe re-formed under the leadership of a new Tyrant, Firkin Fak-Thubba Kathump, who at the time was known as "Firkin the Nicknameless". Although not a devout pantist himself, Firkin understood the importance his underlings placed on their Fancy Pants, and he made sure to acknowledge those troopers whose trousers were particularly garish after every battle. For the first few years, the tribe under Firkin neither faltered nor prospered, and it seemed as though he would be just one in a long line of unexceptional leaders.

Coming when I feel like it: Firkin and his Big Think

Hey there, Grumbleputty!

Just found this thread this morning, and wanted to say I think it's great!    I really like the way you write, and the comic touches are good fun.  The Fancy Pants idea is quite unusual, but the way you've told it makes it seem very plausible!

Seriously, good work here dude.  Keep it up!

You write really well. Have you considered condensing the history into an overview and submitting it for the fluff compilation?

In order to bring it in line with the GW tone a little more, you could consider either:
1. Changing terminology a bit (Fancy Pants, Pantists, etc doesn't quite fit with the darkly savage Ogre theme) or
2. Fictionalise the author. ie: have the history being written by some Imperial Scholar, whose idea of the realities of this tribe is somewhat removed from actual reality.

History is full of tribal beliefs in clothing that brings luck, terrifies the enemy, etc in batte, and the idea that an Ogre tribe would embrace this idea of wearing garish pants has the potential to produce a dark, twisted, gruesome, and most of all characterful army.

First, Thanks Groghog and Eyrough- I was hoping to create something worthy of consideration for the fluff compilation- should I post it under the sticky in the Feeding Grounds, post it here or send it directly to Groghog?

The feedback on the tone is very helpful and greatly appreciated- I'll tweak things a bit more the actual submission to the fluff compilation. The idea of writing it in the voice of an Imperial scholar of dubious authority sounds like a lot of fun! In all honesty, I guess I pushed it a little towards the silly side. This next chapter is probably why I instinctively did that- the core theme behind my army would be pretty dark without some absurdity to lighten it up.

Here then, is:

The History of the Whelpgobbler Tribe

Part the Third

Firkin and his Big Think

The events that transformed the remnants of the BrightBritches tribe from an unspectacular bunch of thugs into the legendary terrors they are today took place almost seven years ago, after a raid on a small Imperial farming village near Blackfire Pass. Seeking to seize the farmer's late summer harvest for themselves, Firkin and his band stormed out of the mountains into the lush fields below, bellowing war shouts and brandishing their weapons. Disorganized and without any plan save to steal what food and fancy cloth they could grab and return to the hills, they were decisively routed by a well-led militia mustered to defend the town.

Fleeing back to their mountainous lair with the Militia in full pursuit, one of the gnoblar trapper gangs came upon a young human girl, who had stumbled into a net trap they had set up the previous day. Not willing to pass up a potential meal, they simply carried the child with them as they continued to flee back to their shanties. There is little doubt that, if things had gone according to the gnoblar's plans, the child would have simply been a small appetizer for one of the Ogres. Although it was lucky for the little girl that things didn't work out that way, in the long run it turned out pretty badly for everyone else in the region.

Unbeknownst to the gnoblars, the child they had kidnapped was the village headman's youngest daughter, who had been sneaking through the woods in hopes of watching her father in battle when she ran afoul of the gnoblar's snare. The headman, upon learning of his daughter's capture, called off his pursuing militia and withdrew to the village. Thinking the Ogres had intentionally targeted his child, he assumed she was being held for ransom in return for the food and cloth the ogres had initially sought. Most scholars now agree that the headman was giving the ogres far too much credit. In any event, soon the finests fabrics they could gather and most of the village's recent harvest was bundled onto carts, and the headman and his loyal militia headed off to the ogres' lair.

The next morning, Firkin and his demoralized ogres awoke to see a line of gift-laden carts snaking it's way up the trail to his encampment. Completely unaware that the gnoblars had taken a child, let alone who the child belonged to, Firkin could only stare in wonder as the villagers unrolled many bolts of colorful fabric and began to lay out a feast. The headman, quaking in fear, approached the stunned Tyrant and asked if, now that the Ogres had the ransom they demanded, they could please give his little daughter back. A quick search through the gnoblar shanties soon turned up the girl, terrified and filthy but otherwise unharmed. The grateful headman took his daughter and his troops and returned to the village, leaving the bewildered ogres behind.

The Butchers of the tribe immediately declared it a miracle, doubtless a sign from the maw that their fancy-pants ways were pleasing to it's gullet. For his part, Firkin's tiny speck of brain was working furiously, trying to figure out how an obvious and overwhelming defeat had become the tribe's greatest victory. It was only when he gave the battle it's name, "The One Where They Kinda Sorta Beat Us But We Took A Whelp And They Did What We Wanted Anyway" , that he came as close as any Ogre could to comprehending what had happened.

This was Firkin's Big Think, and it changed the fate of the tribe forever. Firkin announced a new policy- whenever an Ogre of his tribe needed something, the Gnoblars would seek out a human to provide it, and steal that person's child to bring back to the tribe. Their human would then be given a simple choice: they could provide a service to the ogre tribe, or see their offspring served on a platter to the Ogre Tyrant himself. In a fit of inspiration, Firkin renamed his tribe the Whelpgobblers to drive home the point.


Next (and I think final) installment: The Whelpgobblers Today

Just make a post on the Feeding Grounds thread with a link to this thread, should be fine. Otherwise, you can combine all of the parts into a single post and put it in the Fluff Comp Thread.

Looking forward to the final part.

Ok, so I thought I was done, but now I've found a bit more inspiration, and I've started on some background for the individual characters and units. I'm not sure when I'll get them finished (feedback is a great source of inspiration  :wink: ).

So anyway, here is the latest installment:

The History of the Whelpgobbler Tribe

Part the Fourth

The Whelpgobblers Today

Since then, the tribe have terrorized small communities in the southern end of the Empire. Whenever an Ogre decides he needs something- say, a new pair of Fancy Pants, or a good toenail-trimming, or perhaps just every scrap of food some poor fellow can get his hands on, they simply scrawl a quick ransom note and dispatch some gnoblars. The gnoblars then scurry down to one of the villages nearby and single out a person likely to do whatever their master needs. In the dead of night, the stealthy gnoblars sneak in and seize as many of their's target's children as they can, leaving behind the ransom note.

It should be said that, unlike many of his kind, Firkin is an ogre of his word, and if the task is completed in a reasonable time, the victim's child is will be found the next morning outside the village, shaken and perhaps a bit smellier than before but otherwise none the worse for wear. However, as the tribe's name makes abundantly clear, those who fail to carry out the ogres' demands will find a note tacked outside their home within a few days, scrawled in a scrawl-gnoblar's shaky hand, describing in great detail the hearty feast served to Firkin, the main ingredient of which hardly needs mentioning.

Battle Attire and Tactics

The Whelpgobblers place great reverence in their Fancy Pants, brightly colored and well-laundered trousers they ritually don before battle. Great respect is paid to an ogre who emerges from battle spattered in blood from head to toe, and to emphasize this they march to battle freshly scrubbed and in the cleanest clothes they can find. Although like any ogre they find the prospect of a bath a miserable proposition, it's a burden they're willing to bear for a special occasion such as battle. Nearby villages dread the days leading up to a battle, for it means the hours ahead will see many children seized, to be ransomed for countless pairs of freshly-sewn Fancy Pants, food for a gut-enlarging pre-battle feast and an endless line of filthy ogres clutching large sponges, waiting expectantly for baths.

As the tribe has grown over the last few years, the gnoblar kidnapping raids have travelled further and further out from the tribe's lair near Blackfire Pass. Using hidden trails through the Black Mountains, the gnoblars have struck all along the southern edge of the Old World, with mixed results. A raid on a small town in Sylvania led to the "One Where How Come Nobody Noticed The Whelps Had Pointy Teeth", a disasterous defeat for the Whelpgobblers with reprecussions that continue to this very day. An attempt by Brettonian knights to resists the demands of the Whelpgobblers resulted in the "One Where The Humies In Clanky Skins Made A Great Crunchy Sound When We Hit Them", which the Ogres have yet to stop laughing about.

As one might well imagine, the unsavory practices of the Whelpgobblers have attracted frequent attention by authorities, who tend to take a dim view of such large-scale kidnappings. There have been dozens of punitive attacks and rescue missions launched against the Ogres, both by armies of the Empire and from hired mercenary armies. Of particular concern has been a series of raids by a Dark Elven force, which seems capable of thrashing the Whelpgobblers and stealing their stolen hostages with impunity.  Firkin considers the protection of his young prisoners an important obligation, and he tolerates no mistreatment of the whelps from within his own ranks, let alone from a bunch of pointy-eared sadists.

In battle, the Whelpgobblers are ruthless and devious, placing great reliance on their Gnoblars to hinder enemy troops. lately they have been breaking into small units of three or four ogres, in an attempt to minimize damage from armies that rely on shooting, such as their Dark Elf adversaries. The few gorgers the tribe has produced over the years often flock to the battle site, lending their horrific talents to the melee. Firkin's gnoblars have built their own variation of the legendary scraplauncher, which is also used to devastating effect. They haven't had a great deal of success recently, but Firkin may have hit on a solution with the new gnoblar elite army he has trained, combining captured crossbows with pikes even the largest of his gnoblars can barely lift. It remains to be seen how well his gnoblar elite will serve in battle.

 The Whelpgobblers have been known to use kidnapped children to force local militias to serve with them in battle as well. While sometimes the local human villages are more than happy to lend their support against a common enemy, there have been a few instances where local villagers have been forced to fight against the very Imperial armies sent to free their captive offspring- a difficult choice to say the least.

Well, I'll say it again Grumbleputty, great work!  The rest of the story certainly lived up to the first two parts, and I really like the commentary on the tribe today.  The "forcing militia to fight against their would-be saviours" is a great twist, very appropriate and in keeping with the 'dark' aspects of Ogre Kingdoms.  IMHO, that alone makes it worthy of a serious Fluff Comp entry!

Well done dude

Thanks man, I was hoping for a little feedback! The whole forcing militia thing is my little way of justifying any DOW units I decide to bring in later,although I might add a house rule that, if I lose my standard, the DOW units might switch sides! That would probably get me creamed, but it fits the fluff.  I'm planning to make a cage to hang from the standard pole with some kids inside when I get more ambitious.

Thanks again!

P.S.- Eyerough, I see you live in Scotland- I spent a week there once, and I absolutely loved it (I'm sipping coffee out of my souvenier Loch Ness Monster mug as I type this!). I'm completely and utterly jealous.

Excellent work.

Stuff like the militia DOW units is exactly the sort of stuff that might set a 'typical' Whelpgobbler army apart from, say, a Goldtooth army.

P.S.- Eyerough, I see you live in Scotland- I spent a week there once, and I absolutely loved it (I'm sipping coffee out of my souvenier Loch Ness Monster mug as I type this!). I'm completely and utterly jealous.

That's great dude!  Loch Ness is really nice, I live on the coast a couple hours' drive east of there.  But I bet you ain't jealous of our weather!  Especially not earlier this month, when we had constant blizzards for the best part of a fortnight.  I had a foot of snow in my back garden - my cat couldn't go out in case he got buried in it!

I love the name of the tribe.

Richie

Thanks, Richie- I've been writing a bit again lately, so hopefully early next week I'll have more Whelpgobblery goodness for y'all.

Well, at long last here's some more on my OK army, the dreaded Whelpgobblers. This segment details a few of the notable members of the tribe and some special rules that could apply to them. May the loyal devotees of the Maw-Pit Sagas (both of you   ) enjoy it.

These special rules have not been playtested, so they might not work. I've tried to keep them balanced, and whenever necessary I've erred on the side of making them a bit more unpredictable.  

Anyway, here they are:

Noteworthy Individuals and Units of the Whelpgobblers Tribe

Whelpgobbler Firkin Beastkiller Fak-Thubba Kathump, Who Had a Big Think One Time
   The reigning tyrant of the Whelpgobblers, Firkin is the originator of the Whelpgobbler's foul kidnapping practice. He invariably marches into battle surrounded by his Irongut cronies, clad in heavy armor and wielding his brace of pistols, usually to little effect. Thanks to his Big Think, the Whelpgobblers look on him with a sort of superstitious awe. This has only served to feed his massive ego, and Firkin now views himself as the herald of an Ogre renaissance, bringing enlightenment and culture to Ogrekind. The fact that the rest of the world views him as a bullying kidnapper and thug in surprisingly nice pants bothers him not in the least.

Slaughtermaster Zarko Maloderous
   Remarkably unpleasant even by Ogre standards, Zarko Maloderous is the uncontested master of Gut Magic and the culinary arts among the whelpgobblers. Zarko was a maneater wandering the empire when, spurred into action by sheer boredom, he helped fend off an Orc war party in the wilderness outside Nuln, and inadvertantly saved the life of a minor nobleman. Asked what he would like as a reward, he chose enrollment in a cooking school. As a result, he is in all likelihood the only Ogre in history to have studied cooking in the empire's finest culinary institute, the Academe Farfuffe in Nuln.

   Zarko joined the whelpgobblers a few years ago, and his talents have revolutionized Ogre cuisine. His most famous dishes include Braised Whelp Toes in Pasta, Toddler Tartare and Jellied Kid Kidneys with Chives and Anchovies. His recipes are widely distributed by scrawl gnoblars throughout the human settlements of the area, which seems to help inspire local villagers to follow the whelpgobblers' demands when their children are "guests" of the tribe.

Big Ma Kinderhaggis, Who Makes Things Go Boom
   Truth be told, Big Ma has very little interest in Gut Magic. Her magical talents were developed almost by accident, a by-product of her determination to master the Bangstick she looted from a battlefield several years back. She spent so many hours focusing her dim mind on the magic wand, determined to summon some sort of magical effect, that her mental pathways literally attuned themselves to the magical energies of the maw. As a result she gained some talent in gut magic, which she really doesn't care much about. The important thing is, she can use the bangstick, which she proves whenever she gets the chance.

Skagjaw the  Astonishingly Grizzled
   Skagjaw is a hunter who occasionally turns up at the gates of the Whelpgobbler's stronghold, dragging some enormous carcass. He wants nothing to do with whelp catching himself, considering it far beneath his abilities as a hunter to snare a child. Truth be told he takes a very dim view of the Whelpgobblers, and would just as soon see a tribe of "real" ogres move into the region. But in the meantime, he'll grudgingly inhabit the fringes of Whelpgobbler society.

   Skagjaw's bond with his sabretusks goes somewhat deeper than that of his fellows. His sabretusks have fully accepted him as their master, and obey him without a trace of hesitation.

   If Skagjaw's sabretusks are called upon to take a leadership test while acting independently of him, if they roll above their leadership but below his, they will flee directly back to Skagjaw and rejoin him. If they roll above Skagjaw, they will flee off the table as usual.

Ramshackle the Giant
   One of the most terror-inducing yet pitiable sights on the battlefield is Ramshackle, the Whelpgobblers' massive slave-giant. Captured a few years ago by a would-be rival to tyrant Firkin, the late Ogspong Giantbreaker, Ramshackle became Firkin's property after the unsuccessful coup. Now practically forgotten by the Whelpgobbler leadership, he has become the plaything of the gnoblars. In battle, Ramshackle stumbles forward with a small gnoblar shanty town attached to his back by hooks and straps, with the jeering greenskins clambering to fling sharp bits of metal down upon their foes.

   Ramshackle is crewed by five gnoblars, who can throw sharp stuff in an 8' radius (use the gnoblar trapper statline). The gnoblars on his back are treated as chariot riders for targetting purposes. The gnoblars each suffer a strength 2 hit whenever Ramshackle jumps up and down, and a strength 6 hit if he should fall over. As the gnoblars help control him during battle, Ramshackle's leadership drops by 1 for every crew gnoblar that is killed.

Gruffy's Gnoblar Elite
   Gruffy and his band of crossbow and pike-toting brethren are a battle-hardened mercenary crew who claim to have learned their impressive combat abilities in far-off Cathay. While their claims are dubious at best, no one can deny that Gruffy and his band boast martial skills that far surpass the average gnoblar. They worked as freelancers in Tilea for several years before they were hired by some would-be nobleman to join in an assault on the Whelpgobblers. Somewhere in the midst of the combat, Gruffy decided that Firkin and his crew had a good thing going, and switched sides in mid-battle. Since then they have aided the whelpgobblers several times, although always demanding a hefty payment in gold.

   Gruffy and his gnoblar elite are purchased as a Dogs or War choice, counting as Pirazzo's Lost Legion.

Pongo Guthollow's  Cannonback Cavalry
   Pongo was once a leadbelcher, and was widely regarded as one of the best the Whelpgobblers had. When a misfire took off his right arm, he simply had his gnoblars strap a new cannon to his left arm and he marched back into battle. When he accidentally fired that cannon into his own left foot, Pongo found himself running out of options. Determined not to stop using his beloved cannons, he found inspiration in the scraplaunching contraptions built by the tribe's gnoblars. With gnoblar help, he hoisted two massive cannons onto the back of a sickly old Rhinox and lashed them there securely. He was thus able to ride into battle, blasting away at his foes with his beloved cannons.

   Pongo, his Rhinox cannon and a crew are purchased as a Dogs of War choice, counting as Bronzino's Galloping Guns with the a few differences. First, Pongo cannon seperate from his unit as Bronzino can- they all must move as a single unit. Secondly, use the Rhinox stat line from the scraplauncher in place of the warhorse. Finally, whenever the cannon is fired, the unit must take a leadership test or the Rhinox will be startled and will bolt- use a d6 to determine distance and the scatter die to determine direction. If a direct hit is rolled on the scatter dice, the unit acts as though it failed a panic test, immediately trying to flee off the board.

The Whelpsnatch Brigade
   The Whelpgobblers have only recently begun using rhinox cavalry, and prefer to use them is small, lightning-fast kidnapping raids when the Whelpgobblers need a lot of favors in a hurry. As rhinoxen are hard to acquire in the Black Mountains, Firkin won't risk them in smaller battles over territorial disputes and such- only if Firkinburg itself were threatened would he call upon them in battle.

   The Whelpsnatch Brigade use the rules for Rhinox Cavalry published in White Dwarf magazine.

The Grumm Brothers, Who Just Show Up
   Being among the first Ogre tribes to settle in the area around Blackfire Pass, the Whelpgobblers have very few gorgers living in the caves below them. The whelpgobblers themselves have only seen three whelps born without guts, all three brothers by the name of Grumm. The trio were tossed into an old dwarven mine shaft and forgotten, until years later two of the brothers began to appear wandering the outskirts of the settlement. The fate of the third grumm brother remains unknown.

   The Grumm brothers are not confined to the catacombs below the Whelpgobblers' settlement, and are a bit more likely to show up at a battle than the gorgers of other tribes. To reflect this, the first gorger can be taken as a special choice, while the second and every additional gorger will be a rare choice as normal.


Groddo's Kidcatchers
   Groddo and his gang are descended from the very gang of trappers that caught the child who inspired the big think, and they enjoy a great deal of respect among the other gnoblars. They are masters of the art (if it can be called such) of kidnapping children.  Through stealth, trickery and carefully laid traps, they ensure that whenever an Ogre needs something done he has a whelp to ransom for it.

   It should be pointed out that, in a fair fight, a typical gnoblar and a child of seven or eight are about evenly matched, and Groddo's Kitcatchers frequently return from raids bruised, battered and empty handed. It should also be noted that a gnoblar would absolutely never harm a child- to their ogre masters, harming a whelp is an act of disrespect (towards the Ogre) equivalent to stomping on the Ogre's food, and results in the most devious, painful and untimately fatal punishments the Ogres can devise. The child, obviously, need have no such restraint when facing a gnoblar.


Firkinburg, the Whelpgobbler stronghold.

   A year or so after his Big Think, Firkin saw his tribe prospering like never before. His Ogres were fat and content, decked out in astonishing trousers as terrified villagers scurried to satisfy their every need. Even the gnoblars, spared from the drudgery of menial tasks by the Ogre's ransom demands, began to develop guts of their own. Firkin realized that his Big Think was the beginning of nothing short of a Whelpgobbler renaissance.

               He decided his tribe needed to build a permanent city, one which he believed could rival the great cities of the Southern Empire. This city, to be named after Firkin himself, was intended to serve as a cultural beacon for all Ogrekind, to come share in the glory of the Big Think and to know the ways of the Fancy Pants.

              Selecting a mist-shrouded valley in the Black mountains, he planted the Whelpgobbler flag and declared the founding of the great city of Firkinburg. After that, he disappeared into his tent for months, emerging only to demand more blank sheets of paper and endless pots of ink. When he finally emerged, he announced that the planning of Firkinburg was complete, and construction could begin immediately.

   A week later, the great Marienburg architect Thaddus Grubaugh awoke to find his young son missing from his bed- in the child's place were several dozen pages of semi-intelligible instructions and a set of crude plans for a walled city. In Luccini, master Tilean stonecarver Aldo Chipparello's infant daughter disappeared from her crib- in her place, a large chunk of marble, a chisel and a profile drawing of Firkus. The small Brettonian town of Camambrut, known for it's hearty laborers, saw most of it's youth disappear in a single night, each replaced with a map to the site where Firkinburg would soon stand. All over the old world, skilled craftsmen and laborers of all sorts were summoned by the hundreds to help Firkus realize his great vision.

   Toiling for three years, the desperate builders constructed Firkinburg to Firkin's exact specifications, wearily returning to their homes with their children in tow when their tasks were complete. The result was a city that almost defies descriptions, built with the finest materials and the utmost craftsmanship, precisely following the drawings of a megalomaniacal imbecile who barely knew which end of the quill to dip into the ink. Firkin demanded that his drawings be followed precisely, so there are few straight lines in the entire city, and no two walls meet at a right angle. The city was designed without regard for practical or aesthetic concerns, so if Firkus forgot to draw a door into a building, it was built without an entrance. Even Firkin's own palace ends abruptly, it's southern face open to the elements, simply because that is the point where Firkin ran out of paper.

   Having been built without regard for structural support, the first buildings began to crumble weeks after their completion. It was not unusual to see a crew of laborers riding desperately away from the city, their newly-freed children in tow, with the sounds of their recently finished work falling to the ground echoing behind them. Even the ceremony to mark the city's completion was marred by a massive arch crumbling on top of a visiting dignitary from Tilea. Throughout the southern Empire, Firkinburg is known by a more common name: Firkus' Fiasco. Yet either unaware of the ridicule or perhaps too proud to admit failure, Firkus rules from Firkinburg to this very day- even as his city falls to ruin around him.

Just got a chance to read this.
Great work man.
Keep it up.

Ana

Is that a haiku?

hmmm...


thanks for the feedback
was afraid no one was reading
will now write more crap

Excellent work! I like anything so off the wall and yet seems to fit dispite itself. I give you a big thumbs up!