Orsimer C0DA pt. II

The stone walls trembled from the maelstrom of flames and ice, fog billowed from lightning striking snow. The smell of seared flesh filled the nostrils of Minash as he ran through the puddles of blood to protect his Kinsmen. He encountered one of the necromages resurrecting the fallen of both sides.

     Blood boiled the eyes of the young Orc, he bellowed at the mage and destroyed his concentration. Without warning the corpses of the Orcs fell upon the mage, apparent that they had entered their rage on the cusp of death and it lingered in their bones. The mage was ripped apart by the by the animated, his cries for mercy echoed throughout the stone halls of Nova Orsinium. Minash got glimpses of Gortwog in the fray protecting the city as well, as true an Orc as any. His armor rended from the ethereal blades and ice spikes. Minash joined beside I'm, bashing the nearest spell caster on the bridge of the nose with the rim of his shield. He ducked has one of the ghostly axes cleaved the air he had just been. Minash brought his axe into the bottom of the chin of his assailant, causing him to gurgle on his blood as Minash kicked him from the walls.

     Gortwog leapt from the battlements that housed the exterior bells, preparing to strike against those who attacked his city in a sacred time, even if it meant with his bare hands. Minash slid down the sloping walls on his shield, picking up a Warhammer from a fallen Orc, it felt as if a house was in his hands, the hammer crushed heads, shattered ribs, and made bodies tattered. He couldn't stop, everything wearing robes was a target, everything with hands full of the light of magic would be crushed. Minash had lost himself in combat, a child of war now and forever. The last thing he could remember was Burgulg's broken body and hands pulling him away and phrases in Orsimerii about destroying the past to prepare for the future.

  The sun danced into the room through gossamer curtains, Minash laid shirtless in bed with his bandages around his midsection. He had been in his first battle at 15 years of age, he was forged in manhood by the flames of war. It had been a week since that night, the Priests had tended to his wounds and left him to sleep. He stirred from his rest and sat straight up, stricken with panic at his sudden recountance of the events during the battle.    "Burlgurg! Burlgurg?! I need you in here," he bellowed as loud as he could. Kruugz stumbled into the room solemnly. His eyes held a sadness to that of an Orc breaking his clan shield.   "Minash, I...you... He's dead. You crushed him with the hammer of Malacath as he stopped you from killing the mage with the staff," Kruugz struggled to say the words, as if the grief had made a barrier for his words to pass, "but there is some good news."

           Looking at the wall taken aback by these words he signalled for Kruugz to continue as he dressed. Kruugz only told him to go speak to Gortwog. The clothing left for him was priest robes adorned with armor, like the kind Kruugz wore but it wasn't damaged and the lines were noticeable. The helmet sported goat horns that dropped down to the temples and curved forward. Minash gazed at himself in the mirror he had looked into every day growing up. He no longer recognized himself, his left tusk had broken off and had been made into a necklace draped onto the chair in his room. He placed it around his neck as he walked out of the room with the robes billowing out around his feet.

   Climbing up the steps to Gortwog's residence he was praised for his bravery in battle. The now considered adult Minash opened the study door to see Gortwog standing in the window.

  "Ahh, Minash, I assume that Kruugz filled you in on the bad news. There is a light in the dark cloud, first, you're now both a warrior and a priest, you were able to use Volendrung," he gestured to the massive hammer laying atop the desk, "showing you have a connection to Malacath, also you were raised by Burlgurg so you know our teachings the best."

   Minash couldn't help but wince at the sound of his adoptive father's name, Gortwog didn't seem to notice and continued.

  "Also, you have inspired a lot of us in town, myself included, no one has doubts of you being a son of Trinimac now. We will bring back the old contests of strength and endurance to better ourselves should this happen again we will be better prepared."

    So Minash was now both a letter of blood and preacher of Trinimac, his supposed father. Tomorrow he would coronate the new trials with prayer and then commence to challenge full grown Warriors in bare knuckle combat, is there a better way to celebrate killing nearly a hundred mages?

      Later that day Minash was given his own residence just down the hill from Gortwog. He was to speak to the leader of the mage coven who had attacked them not long after night fall as part of his new status. A disgruntled Minash slouches forward in the courtyard, in simple clothes and his dread locks cut off so he could hide his hair under a traveling hood. He couldn't help but think about how he had so easily slipped into the rage, how he had wielded a hammer Gortwog would not even put his hands on. If he was a son of Trinimac did that mean he was close to Malacath, or could he simply be an imposter as had been said? Why was he the one to deal with the stresses of a whole people looking up to him? As strange as it may seem, since having everyone look up to him he felt a strange sense of power, not much, but it was as if he could feel all the blood moving in every vessel. Minash rose to his feet, extinguished the torches and set out on his way to interrogate the head of the coven.