Iron Tusk in the Hive Ward

[*Azulfae]

Through the hive runs a Night Hag squeeling with delight as she is chased by Vorgazar. Finally he catches her and puts the hag over his shoulder before dissapearing into the Iron Tusk trade house. From within great cheers are heard from many orcs and what procedes can only be described as the sounds of a filthy orc and hag sexy party.

As the night goes on dark shapes on broomsticks fly over an eerie green sky above hive as more and more of the coven turn up to share their sisters fun.

For the residents nearby it is a long and disturbing night and even when the morning comes it is not over for the streets around the orc residence are littered with the remains of broken beer barrels, absinthe bottles and the boney and fly covered remains of consumed carcasses from the aberttoire.

Shortly before dawn a clumsy ogrillion launches from the upstairs window of the orc house on a hag's broomstick and crashes into the Slags nearby and Layla is seen turning up to her herb stall walking even more bow legged than normal, with a dishevelled look about her.

[*Azulfae]

The Warchief sits upon a large iron chair at the back of a dusky room. The dim smokey air created by escaped fumes from the smoking room of the abbertoire. A wonderful smell of smoked ham and other procured meats filled the orcish dwelling in the hive ward.

Around him his most elite, the Tus'Kors shared tales of their latest battles with the storm giants and elementals on Arborea with orcish audiences of women and children and other planar grunts and workers of the tribe in Sigil.

There was much merriment and festivity in the orc dwelling that night but the Warchief sat silent staring unfocussed across the hall.

Images flashed through his head of filthy acts of boshnagz with a succubus and then his mind shifted to another occasion with a drow. Great memories but something was not right... something stunk.

His ego told him it was his power and success had them all over him but something inside his gut fermented a dark sense of suspicion. Both women of races far more crafty and intelligent than he, both women playing different roles in messy conflicts between various women of Sigil.

The petty disputes of women never bothered him before but women in Sigil were not as unimportant as women back home on Nishrek. He wondered what his weakness for a nice rack and a good set of hips was getting him into.

One thing the Warchief did not like the idea of was getting used. Especially by the weaker sex.

His human side spoke to him of paranoia and careful plays in this game but deep inside his orcish part sung only it's usual answer to the concept of fear or confusion. 'Kill everyone!'

The Warchief leaned back in his chair and rubbed over his bald head with both hands.

Dealing with women was out of his league.

[*Azulfae]

Many cycles ago...

Asleep in a comfortable bed of exotic animal skins from across the planes, the Iron Tusk  Warchief Vorgazar lay with his hands cupped behind his head, masses of dirty tangled armpit hair stretching out and airing his filthy orc scent around him.

Vorgazar dreamed of torment and war, of undersigil and lost opportunities, he dreamed of Hildmor dÂ’Kridis in prison, a once powerful gangland overlord.

The Warchief had it good, he had his tribe and he had land on the great cube of Nishrek. What more could an orc Warchief of Gruumsh want? He wanted what he’d always wanted. I wanted the planes, he wanted exploration and discovery, battles with new creatures and to prove himself again and again in the face of horror and increadible odds. Most of all he wanted, “Some fookin respeck!” Respect was like a drug to the half-orc.

In his dream he began to see a boat sailing on an ocean. A great sail boat rising on the waves and cruising with speed and weight through the dark starlit ocean. He did not know where this ocean was or what plane but the sky looked much like the sky over Nishrek and the ocean was oily and almost resembled the metallic iron that the land was made from.

He watched as it sailed through the night. At some point the dream changed and a strange sense of urgency came over him. The ship was in trouble. There was a fire, one of the great sails was alight and the ship was sinking to one side as if going over into the water.

Vorgazar watched in his dreams omnipotency. Out of the dark sky, from the smoke drifting from the burning sails, began to form a skeleton like figure that loomed over the boat and reached down with bone fingers wrapping them around the ship.

Vorgazar could feel his heart thumping with terror and excitement as the skeletal figure lifted the ship from the water and crushed it in itÂ’s hands. The face of the skull was evil and menacing with beady pins of red light glowing within. It leaned forward silently, immense and handed towards him the broken sail ship, a look of glee about the skull face.

Vorgazar awoke with a start. He held his chest and sat up a bit then lay back again. “Fook!” is all he could manage to say to himself with the relief that he was awake.

As he began to relax once more he felt a tremble through the cave. Not abnormal for Nishrek with great iron cuboids drifing through Acheron and occasionally slamming into the planetoid cube they lived within. This rumble was different though. It continued to build and build and then slowly fade.

Vorgazar jumped from his bed and ran naked through the caverns and tunnels. Orc troops and generals stared in amasement at the Warchief as he knocked past them all throwing some foolish orcs out of his way for obstructing it.

As he reached the surface he looked out into the dark skies of Acheron and saw the firey trail left above. There was a thunderous boom far away. And an illumination to the sky in that direction.
Many heavily armoured orcs stood about looking to the sky. Vorgazar scrambled up to the rim of the great crater the Iron TuskÂ’s stronghold was built within and looked out across the flat edge of the cube.

Far away on the edge of his territory or possibly into that of the Bonefist Clan he saw a glow and a shape jutting from the flat horizon. A massive spelljammer wedged into the side of Nishrek.

“GET MINE FOOKIN ARMOUR! RAISE A FOOKIN ARMY, WE MOVIN OUT! FOOKIN NOWZ!”

The TusÂ’Kor burst into action grabbing weapons and arming themselves for battle. Donkey arrived with VorgazarÂ’s armour and greataxe and began to strap it onto the Warchief. All around the TusÂ’Kor began to gather ready for a battle. Chanting and yells echoed from the crater.

From the surface of Nishrek the rim of the crater looked as normal then suddenly like ants from a nest stirred and angry the orcs poured in the thousands and moved like a river across the surface towards the burning wreck in the distance.

[*Azulfae]

The spelljammer wreckage jutted from the surface like a blade stuck in a corpse. It was some kind of gothic looking battle ship. Solar sails lay smashed on the surface all around it and from its broken hull, large boxes of cargo lay strewn across the surface.

From the side of the ship a blast of vapour erupted and then soon after a large panel fell from the ship to the ground below. Inside appeared the remains of a crew formed entirely from a species of Orc known as the Scro. They wore studded and pikey leather armour uniforms and appeared to be armed with hand held cannons and strange exotic weaponary alien to the orcs of Nishrek. The scro descended using ropes to the ground below. Several wore strange goggles with mechanoid apparatus attached and odd contraptions all over them, most others appeared like a mottly crew of pirates and plan hopping warriors.

As they climbed down and began to gather on the surface one of the spelljammer pilots stripped the armour from another scro and began trying to deal with his wounds. The others stood nearby as the pilot tried to save the captain. Blood stained the scroÂ’s hands and healing kits. The Captain stirred for a moment and choked up blood and saliva all over himself.

He reached up and pulled off his eyepatch then pulled from within a crystalline orb that had been sat in his eye socket. He tried to hand it to the pilot but went limp and died before he could say anything.

The pilot picked up the crystal orb and patted the captain on the chest as if to assure him that heÂ’d got the orb in his dying moments.

“Well look at dis!”
came a gruff voice from nearby. The surviving scro numbered a few dozen. They raised their weapons and quickly turned to see who addressed them.

As they looked around there stood a contingent of orcs all in black and dirty white armour with the tribal mark of a white clenched fist on their armour and banners.

“Bunch of fookin sailorz come to port in Bonefist territory. Dat meanz all dis belongs to us nowz.”

The orc commander stood with several hundred other orcs behind him and more slowly approaching from all around to gather on the location. He has one tusk missing but overcompensated for by the remaining one being massive and pointing right up to beneath his eye.

The scro crew started to move into a battle line forming an arc infront of the pilots and other skilled crew members.

The deep voice of the pilot, rattling yet of good pronounciation growled out the views of the spelljammer crew on the subject.

“You stupid Acheron orcs couldn’t use the toilet on this ship let alone fly it and we’ll die before we fly the Spear for you.”

“The Spear?”

“The Spear of Dukagsh. That is our ship!” The scro all nodded and looked from one to the other assuring each other of their pride on the name of the ship.”

The Bone fist orcs chuckled and laughed taunting the scro. Their commander stepped forwards and drew two falchions from his back before spitting at the line infront of him.

“I reckon it lookz just fine where it is, maybe me and da boyz here will take it as a fort and start our own tribe.”

Without waiting one of the scro fired his cannon at an orc that had moved out of the mob towards him. Very quickly negotiations broke down and electrical bolts and energy blasted out over the Bonefist orcs as they charged in cutting down the scro with their large iron weapons. From all around more orcs came in and the scro started to fall dispite their superior weaponary.

What the bonefist had not noticed in the fray of battle was the enormous force surging in behind them. By the time they felt the tremble through the ground and turned to see red hand banners decend upon them it was too late.

At the tip of the charge was an insanely large half-orc Warchief slicing bodies asunder with his greataxe.

The Bonefist were taken apart and destroyed with ease until only a few remained. Vorgazar held one of the orcs by the back of the neck and walked with him over to the remaining scro, now barely a dozen collapsed and gathering themselves around their dead. The Warchief pointed to the dead captain and a bloody handprint on his shirt from when the pilot had patted him on the ches tin his dying moments.

“Youz fookin see dat. Dats a red fookin hand. I take killin dese fookers as a personal disrespeck and deckerationz of war by your tribe. Youz fookin crawl back to youz chief and tell hims da Iron Tusk is taked dis area and da ship as ourz. Any fook wants a bit of it dems can come and fookin try. Try and die.”

Vorgazar threw the orc away sending him running away from the army and back to his tribe. As the other few bonefist orcs got up to follow Vorgazar interrupted their escape. “Fookin excuse me! Who da fook said youz fookerz is can goed anywhere? Somebody fookin cut dems up for me before I makes minself look uncivilize infront of my scro friendz here.”

As the Tus’Kor ogrillions hacked the screaming orcs to pieces Vorgaar lean’t down to one of the remaining scro and offered a hand of friendship. “

Vorgazar Warchief of da Iron Tusk, also of Sigil, nice to fookin meet youz.”

The remaining scro stared back wondering if this was a better or worse situation to be in, hesitating to offer such friendliness in return.

“Vorgazar’s expression changed to a frown as he straightened and looked down now more intimidating than friendly.

“Scuse me but a little fookin respeck would be fookin nice, I just save youz sorry fookin lives and offering to help sort youz all out, now if youz not want to shake mine fookin hand youz can shake mine fookin rhonkus instead!”

Vorgazar turned to Donkey and tossed him some bags of coin. “Take dese fookers, get dems off to Sigil and clean dems up. When dems sort dem shyte out help dem wif whutever dems want to get der ship fixed up.”

He turned to some other Ogrillions and directed them to start fortifying the ship and the location to hold it against the army of Bonefist that would likely pour in, in the next few hours and try and take the ship.

[*Azulfae]

Vorgazar sits at the bar of the foul old spirit inn, swirling the dregs of a pint. Behind him a small group of non orcan humanoids whisper with each other about "The Spear." After they have left an orc comes down from upstairs and stands at the bar next to Vorgazar. His armour is strange looking and his face battle worn. He rolls a strange crystal orb along the bar and stops it with his hand the moment Vorgazar turns to look at it.

The Warchief nods to the scro pilot and slides some coin across the bar to the bartender to pay for his drink.