Page 1 of 1

Words of Goth - Craft of the Pit

Posted: Sat Jun 16, 2018 4:18 pm
by Slunko
From the shadows...
We uruk are born to darkness and we will die in it. But we never die alone.

First memories of weakness. Hiding in the tunnels, at home in them, like a mole among wolves, one wrong move means death. A small shadow skitters and stalks a larger outline. It is stronger, but the small Shadow is at home. A rock in hand and with a silent footstep, the small Shadow stalks.

Years pass in fear, through sweat and blood, by way of the Orc. It is not a life worth protecting. It is not a life worth living. It is a life in its truest form, in a form only the Orc know. It is suffering and it is anguish. From the dangerous shadows onto the searing heat of the open plains.
Years pass and tunnels are replaced by rocky crags. Every moment in the scorching sun is agony and it is blinding. Every moment could be the last. The Shadow hopes it were, but death never comes. Life does not know such kindness.

A rock in hand in the scorching sun, the Shadow stalks a larger shape. A shape speaking ill words and uttered spell. A rock in hand, the Shadow strikes.
Moments are all that is given. Loot of fallen prey, food, tinkets, weapons,...
a grimoire. It catches the Shadow’s eye. Written in blood red ink upon the pages of man-skin. It bears a contorted face stretched across the cover in an eternal rictus scream. It whispers and speaks to the Shadow.

"…the Shadow died that day."

"And from the shadow stood one, that would be the Eye of Ruin. I was born that day."

"That is why the whispers of my past mean nothing, fiend.
That is why your knowledge of what once was stands for naught.
You are bound, fiend, and you will give me what is yours."

"I will take it, and grow strong!"
"I will take all, and drink deep of the forbidden lore!"

"I am not as the men you barter with, whimpering their pleas and offering their trade. I am Orc and I will take what I am owed by right of might, and you are naught but a slave, bound now to my whim!"

[I turn to the yong shadow behind me.]
"Learn of this, Haknazo. Learn from your Goth."
"Learn of the strong in the Craft of the Pit, and see why you never ask. You demand!"
"See why you never bargain, you take!"
"You are not a man merchant of words and deals, you are Uruk, and we take!"

Words of Goth - Craft of the Pit

Posted: Mon Jun 18, 2018 4:14 pm
by Slunko
Is this all? Is this all the "Greatest Race among All" can aspire to? Some wooden shacks and drying meat? Pyres of bone and stench of decay? [I scoff at the mere thought of it.]

Change is coming. I can feel it in my aching bones. I can smell it in the burning of braziers that honour our Dark Gods. And if these fools refuse to see it, I will make them. The Eye of Ruin will shine upon them and enlighten their fogged minds. [I turn to regard the broken figure, cowering in the shadows.] Go, fetch the summoning grimoire. We've work to do.


Re: Words of Goth - Craft of the Pit

Posted: Wed Jun 20, 2018 2:50 am
by Slunko
The eye of the Gods. Their message to us. There is none, that may deny it's importance. But what is the message? Is it to wage war? Is it to slaughter our foes? Did the Gods really see fit to tell us what we already know and do by such a mighty sign? I think not. There is more to this divine rock than a simple call to war. It is touching, how it riles the Orc and stirs them to violence. I have longed to once more hear the drums of war in the distance. But... I do not think this is is a simple demand for blood. The future is uncertain and we must be ready for it.

"You there! Girl!" [I bark at my servant scribe. I know her name. I knew it since I first took her. But names are Earned among the Uruk. For now... she is a girl. No more than a tool.] "Girl! Tell me again of Candlekeep and the scrolls hidden within. Tell me again the legends of the Comet!"

Re: Words of Goth - Craft of the Pit

Posted: Tue Jun 26, 2018 2:21 am
by Slunko
I keep an eye on the human girl more often than I should. The Gods speak clearly on the matter. If she is weak, she will die. She is human, thus she is weak. But I keep hoping that this broken excuse for life would start showing at least some semblance of understanding. She has the gifts. Spells come easy to her, and so does recall and remembering of planar lore. Yet she... doesn't seem to care enough about any of it. She will study if ordered for fear of pain. She will conjure, be it slowly, for fear of death, but she does not understand the blessings she has.

Shadow orc wanted to kill her. He demands to know why I keep the human. Clearly, the only answer to such an inquiry was violence for it's implied suggestion, but I did wonder about the question, in silent contemplation after I've made the Shadow retreat from my fury.

"It was jealousy, my villainous upstart." [I murmur to the winds.] If we were in a softer culture I would have spoken it aloud. It was jealousy at the ease with which she grasps and recalls the arcane lore, at the ease of spellwork. It was jealousy at how she walks about unmasked and unburnt by the evil fiery eye of the Gods. It was... resentment and rage at how she simply does not value the gifts she has. It was rage at how she and all their kind let their weakness and decadency poison the gifts their soft and kind gods gave them. At how they all cast such blessings away in their ungrateful ignorance.
It was jealousy of their ignorance I think.


...I must speak with the Auspex. Perhaps he can make her hear the song of the Gods through pain. But how do I demand such of them, without being branded a heretic. I already place my reputation in danger for this experiment. Perhaps I should simply let it die.

Re: Words of Goth - Craft of the Pit

Posted: Wed Jul 11, 2018 3:03 am
by Slunko
Hiexel, beech, elm... common trees.
Spider, satyr, strige, qucikling, korred, pixie... common pests.
Cloakwood... an uncommon forest.


[Days spent in contemplation, burning through my last prisoners, some used as offerings to the otherworldly patrons, as I barter for lore, some questioned and let go with allotted and often suicidally difficult tasks.]
What makes this forest immune to the touch of flame. What makes the tiny winged humans there so... ...ungodly potent. What kind of a feybreed is that.
[Another human broken at my displeasure at his ignorance and tossed into the kennels.]
One still shows promise. He knows more than he lets on, even as he feints ignorance before the Warchief. He failed to smell deceit on him. Good. This one will do.
[I let the tall, black-haired mage go. I promise him a name of power should he succeed. It is not the Uruk way. We should simply take... But I grow to learn that some things cannot be simply taken.]

I should be spreading torment and misery across the coast of swords by order of the Warchief. I should be making lesser races tremble in fear. Yet, I spend my days in contemplation, prodding at prisoners and learning. A question gnaws at my mind of late...
...Am I growing wise or weak in my older years.

Re: Words of Goth - Craft of the Pit

Posted: Sat Jul 14, 2018 5:21 am
by Slunko


" did not say order or did not demand anything from me, am not under yours anymore." the girl replied in a dry tone.

She was not useful to him anymore. She was useful to others. Valued by others. Could do things he could not. Resentment at what she was overtook and he lashed out. A bolt of acid, potent enough to fall much greater targets than the frail human girl.

"You will learn to behave, or you will be used as fodder for the pit!" he bellowed in frustration as he grabbed her by the hair, force feeding her a curative potion before dragging her onto a sacrificial slab.
Turning her head enough to reveal the Mark of Ruin upon her neck he bellowed at her:
"Do you not know the mark you bear, girl?! You belong to me. You live for me, because when I am no longer here, you will have a chance to claim all that was mine!"

"Just a quill to be used on scrolls, a vial to contain knowledge, a gate to others, an eye to observe where others can't. A vessel to be turned and used. Freed only to be used by another." the girl seems resigned. She no longer cares if she lives or dies, or so it seems to the orc.

"What is it you actually wish for, girl?" the orc asks slowly.
"The Weave that binds one, the nature weaving into existence to those that can tap into it. Few understand, even less harness it. The true, hostile an dangerous, but fruitful to those that can grasp the truth, hunger to exist within it. I want to study old lore, magic and history of what once was. I want to know who I was before I became this shadow of my old self, this nameless girl."

The orc considers... I... consider. She has so much knowledge. Such understanding... And such spirit. She was left to learn from the Uruk and now she refuses to bow, even to save her life. She is more Uruk than I, in some ways, perhaps. The Eye of Ruin knows how to bow. How to lie and scheme. We survived hatered for our weakness, for our magical gifts. We prosper in it. She can never be one of us. Her spirit is unbowing. She doesn't bend, which means she will break... She will never be one of us, which means she is a foe. An obstacle between us and our goals.

[Fingers clutch tightly around the hilt of a dagger, gently placed over the girl's heart.] She does not struggle. I think she understands, in the end at least. The dagger slides deep and she gives off a sigh. I free her truly this moment. Not the empty gesture it was before.

A bellow of sorrow echoes across the crater. I have not felt this bitter loss in an age. May it be the farewell cry that carries her spirit towards whichever god may claim her. I silently hope it is not one of our gods. I resent the love I held for this failed expriment of mine.

[Thank you, Valkira, for this shared experience.]

Re: Words of Goth - Craft of the Pit

Posted: Fri Sep 14, 2018 3:25 pm
by Slunko
Things a carefully placed rumour does. What things hate can do. What blooms from it.

Tradition. Tradition makes empires endure. Without knowing who we are, we crumble, we grow weak.


Insults among the Uruk must be answered in blood and pain, or there is only weakness and fall. And so I do. Diplomacy is what I try for the greater good, just this once. No knife in the dark. No attacks from the shadows. We settle this before the Warchief's council.

Accusations are made, of lies spoken, but nothing of greater significance. Something small, simply to be quashed. But the accursed Shadow Orc Gerfrex answered with lies, evasive words. The worm lacks the spine to admit to his own words. I had thought nothing of this issue. I had thought we were to exchange debts of skulls and it'd be done with it. But the lies... Those who spoke against him were right. He is a venomous snake among our midst, poisoning the well of the Clans.

I demand a
Rritual of Blood. I demand we settle this as Uruk. By blood and death and violence. That is our most sacred of right. That makes us strong.

...that right is denied. That is the moment where my faith in the Clans breaks. Words of diplomacy are spoken in defence of a liar working against us all. Warchief shows great weakness and spits on our tradition. This is the moment where I lost everything. My life was for the greater good of the clans. My life was meant for it. And I now realise that the clans I lived for no longer exist.

Anything from this moment on is cast to the winds. I agree to this farce of a fight to first blood. I enter the ring and show the Clans what it means to be
Eye of Ruin. Within the Baleful Eye, all die. Any who walk by fall, the Shadow Orc falls...
I bring down my plated heel, breaking the fallen one's jaw.
"You will NEVER..." I slam the foot down again, cracking the bone of his nose "AGAIN... disrespect me..." and again, the boot slams down, caving in what bloody mess remains of his face "you worthless..." And again, for good measure "PUG!"

As dust settles, the guards close in around me. I have broken Warchief's word. I have held by our tradition when he did not.
For the first time among the Uruk I remove my helmet. Face revealed is scarred, burned, malformed. I spread my arms wide, roaring in triumph:
"This is what makes us STRONG! This is what makes us URUK!"

I am met with silence. "You are gone Dar'gul… No longer the Goth. You show more vile than words this day... You work against the clan." the Warchief sais. What weakness. What venom.
I look the figure I had once respected in the eye, spitting on the ground between us.

"You are weak filth who pisses on what makes us Uruk. Go bed pink skin kings if you want to play diplomacy and deny us who we are."
With that I welcome my exile and slip into the shadows. Their best trackers could not find me. Their scent is masked by ash and brimstone. I am Goth Dar'gul and they are worms, unworthy of my service.


In the coming days, many loyal to the old ways depart the Horde. Priests of the Gods who saw fault with Khar's actions now turn their support to Grimnail in this troubled time. Warriors and Magi who Dar'gul trained depart with him. The Horde weakens before the coming conflict, buying the Sword Coast another handful of peaceful nights.