The Anecdotes of
the Awakening of the Ancients
Part I

(8 mar 2005)
Chapter 1
The Destruction of the City in Moon Shade Woods

The snap of the fire was like the crack of the bones of men, broken by axe and horn. The amber glare moved like autumn leaves in storm-wind. The flame itself rose like a mighty giant, adding its roar to the voices of his herd to the heavens above, a call of triumph to the Mudone: dark heart of the wood, shaper of victory.

It is Magwa, Warlord of the Herd of the Gargling Bog, who brings these elflings to the fires. Their city burns for the Mudone, their bodies blackend in the fires and filling the bellies of the beasts. The Moon Shade Woods will shade the pale-ones no longer! The trees belong to the beastmen! Are we not men? Five-finger men as the pale-ones are. Yet better than they. The strength of the trees, the heart of the beasts. Most blessed by the Mudone, the shaper, are the followers of Magwa.

Magwa leaped to the base of a crumbled tower, dragging his squirming burden with him by the hair, and surveyed his host. They danced around the fires of what had been the homes of pale-ones. They raised chunks of the flesh in the air and bellowed. His beastmen deserved this celebration. They had marched since this morning, crossing the Tanith river under cover of morning fog. The city had lay sleeping, then awoke by warhorns. The giants tore open the city gates, and the beastmen poured forth like a flood of death. Ambushers slipped in through the Eastern gates, causing panic among the defenders. It was short work, and the last defenders were cut down while pleading for mercy, for so useless is this breed even for slave-work.

Magwa wrenched the captive elf prince to his feet by his long hair and dangled him over the edge of the ruined tower, above the throng of his warriors. The pale-one’s face glowed with the light of the flames, his terror bursting forth from his eyes. Magwa leaned close to the prince’s face, hot breath misting in the night air.

“This is what awaits your kind and all those who stain the lands of the Shaper. For you nothing awaits but death.”
Magwa burst out a thunderous battle call, echoing across broken rocks and trees. His herd returned the call raising weapons and flesh into the air, chanting “Magwa! Magwa!” The Elf screamed as he was hurled to the beastmen below. His slender body instantly broken, torn, soon lost in a sea of fur and horn. The Mudone provides for Magwa. Magwa provides for the herd.

(14 mar 2005)
Chapter 2
The Boast the Butcher and the Border

The amber glow of the council fire gave shape to the shadows of the ancestors swaying and circling around the gathering of braves. Magwa, Warlord of the Gargling Bog held sway here and sat elevated on the carved rock in the position of honor. But now it was Ungluk, the Speaker-of-the-Law who spoke before the herd, the ancestors and the Shaper.

“It is not an easy path, the way of the law! An insult! A Challenge! This has been issued from the Crafter-King of the Writhing-ones, the pleasure pigs of the North. A Challenge must be answered. For that is the ways of the ancestors. That is the way of the herd. To strike against a rival’s call or be cast down. That is the way of the Shaper.”

At this the fire rose and the ancestors around them shifted and bowed in approval, Magwa rose before his nation and dipped his horns in respect toward the Shaman.

“The Speaker-of-the-Law is wise and speaks for the will of the Shaper! The pleasure pigs of the north boast that they shall crush us! Is this so? The will of the Shaper says no! The heart of Magwa says no! The fire in your eyes says no! What says the voice of the herd?”

A thunderous roar broke the night air and echoed across the wooded swampland. Magwa strode to the fire and thrust his great hand into the flames, grasping a blackend log and held it aloft.

“We shall not be crushed! It is we who shall crush the ruters and writhers! We march tonight across woods and strike their city! Tonight we go to war!”

He threw the burning brand into the fire, and smeared the soot down his face. The raiders did likewise, to show the face of the ancestors upon their own.

Tirelessly they ran across the many leagues, the moon following them, joining their battle march. Like a rushing wind, the beastmen ran between trees and leaped over fallen trunks.

By morning they were crossing the fields worked by the servants of the Pleasurefolk. These they slaughtered as they worked, but out of the city gates thundered several chariots, armored men on horseback, demons upon demonsteeds and warhounds. But they soon fell, blasted by the energies of the Shaper. Raiding parties circled around entrapping others, bringing the defenders down. The Knights of Pleasure crashed into the herd lead by Magwa and almost broke them, but Magwa demanded them to hold, reminding them of their recent victories against the Paleones. Cormoran the Giant charged into the knights to aid his warlord, killing all but their champion, who he left for Magwa.

Magwa grabbed the reins of the steed with one hand and launched himself up in a graceful arc to stand upon the saddle of the Knight behind him. In confusion, the champion looked up in time to see the point of Magwa’s sword enter the vision slit of his helm, thrust down to find his heart. The field was Magwa’s.

Magwa surveyed his new lands. The lands he would keep to add to the hunting grounds of his people. The city he would burn in answer to the Crafter-King’s impetuous boast.

The fire rose black and angry into the sky. A giant of a column of rolling dark smoke that would be a clear sign to the Warlord in the north to stay clear of the lands of the warherd of Magwa and to mind his tongue lest it be fed to his boars.

Yet Magwa was not unreasonable. He had taken the boaster’s land, and burnt his people in the fires. But from enemies new respect can be forged, from blood flowing, wounds may heal. A border was drawn from this land, across the bountiful hunting grounds of the Moon Shade Woods. These rich lands would be his peoples’ now. The Gnome Mountains and the lands to the north would be left for the Pleasureking. They had shed blood for the pact and Magwa was pleased.

(21 mar 2005)
Chapter 3
The Trial of Nachalanz

For Nachalanz, blood-kin of Magwa, Warlord of the Gargling Bog, Scourge of Men, this sun-rise brought forth his first command of a true warherd. This moon-rise would bring him honor or death. Since the days when he was only the size of an Ungor, Nachalanz had led raids into the lands of the settlement of mankind, on the edge of the foul woods, bordering the Gargling Bog. His axe had drunk deep from many throats since those days. Now with a mighty warherd under his command,, he would not simply raid, he would conquer.

Nachalanz, like his kin Magwa, was marked by the shaper and had come to trust in these powers. He brought with him two shamans to aid him with these powers, Targon, the speaker-of-the-law, wise in the ways of his people, and Karthdon, pathmaker-of-the-dead. His warherd was large: scores of beastmen, many mudgumps brought forth by the speaker-of-the-law, warboars, and Bennedonner the giant and his two oxigors. Perhaps he lacked some of the brute strength of the Warherd of Magwa, but after a life of commanding raids, Nachalanz had an appreciation for subtlety.

There had been rumors that those of mankind who dwelt in the foul woods had turned their devotions to an aspect of the shaper. Perhaps the mortal Warlord of the Wyrm Spine Mountains had helped in their shaping. If so, perhaps they might be spared, then again, perhaps not.

By late morning, the trees began to thicken, shade grew more complete, and the paths became less clear. But Nachalanz knew these trails like the grains that flowed down the length of his axe handle. Soon they would reach the clearing. Two raiding parties were sent in opposite directions, into the thick of the woods to circle around. Once it would have been him to lead the chosen braves through the dark and thick to spring upon the enemy, but today it is he, Nachalanz who shapes the battle to come, and lead from the center.

The defenders of the mankind were formidable, but they were no match for the Warherd of Nachalanz. The chariot was broken apart by the will of the Shaper. The name of the Shaper, Mud-One of the Bog, could be heard bubbling out of the center of the churning mudgumps. “Ah barlumph blarp bargangarg…” the mudspeak brought forth the mud beneath the feet of the soldiers of Mankind, and dragged them below to consume them. The iron ones, encased in metal, those most feared of the mankind could not stand long before the charge of Bennedonner and his Oxigor.

The town, now his, Nachalanz strode into the Hall of their prince. With their warriors defeated, the soft beings surrendered their town and begged for mercy. These folk had farms and animals, craftsmen and wealth. Nachalanz walked slowly down the carpeted hall toward the prince, sitting in his throne, leaving behind mud and blood to mark his progress. The prince drained out of his seat and quivered on his knees before the mighty Nachalanz.

“Please, take what you will, but let me and my people live.” Pleaded the Prince.

Nachalanz took his seat in the throne and leaned down to the prince, his red eyes alight with glory.

“Indeed, petty man-prince. I shall take what I want. A dozen cattle you shall roast for my warriors tonight! This town is now the town of Nachalanz who speaks for the Great Magwa, Scourge of Mankind and Warlord of the Herd. When we leave you may sit in this throne for Nachalanz, but do not forget who’s throne it truly is, or it shall be more than your cattle which roast in our fires.”

(28 mar 2005)
Chapter 4
The Misfortune of Tina

Dear Penthouse,
I own a small company dealing in computer products. My receptionist had quit on me, so I ran an ad in the newspaper for a part-time evening receptionist. I finally hired Tina, a pretty and plump twenty-year-old. Her breasts are big, but so are her stomach and buttocks.

That first week, she made many mistakes, so I decided to fire her. I called her into my office on Friday night and told her that she was fired due to her bad performance. She begged me not to fire her and started carrying on terribly. I told her to stop but she wouldn't listen . . .

(4 apr 2005)
Chapter 5
The Honor of Nachalanz

It was half a Moon since Nachalanz and his mighty Warherd had left the town of the mankind which now bore his banner. His host had marched across the meadow north of the Foul Woods and claimed the southern edge of this forest for the Nation. Just to the south, lay another town of mankind in the rich marshlands of the Stinking Swamp. His scouts had followed the trails of the grim-pale folk who delight in the pain of others. Their kingdom had spread slowly, cautiously north. Undoubtedly they wanted this town and its fertile swamps for themselves, but let them be cautious! For they face Nachalanz, if they dare!

As the Warherd crossed the swamp, the grim pale-ones were nowhere to be seen. His sport would have to come from those who guarded the town. So be it. The two raiding parties were sent around to ambush those who might cower in reserve. The bulk of his force, swollen with confidence after the last victory on the fields of the mankind, strode forward to bring doom to those who would not run.

Nachalanz saw little in the way of defenders here, but numbers could belay strength. A chariot, a favorite of the host of the mankind, and iron encased warriors, many on foot and less on horse. Nachalanz grinned. How the warriors of mankind loved to wrap themselves in iron. The protection it afforded was a boon, and he himself wore his own as a token of office, but he never forgot that he acquired it from blood-right after battle. No reliance of armor could match the strength of heart and horn.

Nachalanz raised his axe high and bellowed the roar of combat. The Warherd pressed forward upon the doomed. Few fell at first from the energies of the Mud-One, Shaper of life and lives. And those who watched those who fell, seemed to delight in their compatriots’ passing. They giggled and laughed as pale-one maidens. They may not be concerned for dying, but die they would. Those who stood jibbering and taunting from behind their wall became target of the dark shaman Karthdon, pathmaker-of-the-dead. Shadows seemed to solidify and snake around and through the armor of the warriors, and one after another collapsed to the ground, iron now empty as the shadowy smoke drifted listlessly out of the armor.

The iron horse warriors of the mankind unwisely turned to face a raiding party that had infiltrated behind their lines. They turned in time to face the attack, and one of their number was cut down from his horse. The raiders turned and fled and in revenge the knights charged a pack of warboars, who being trained for this, turned and ran to the safety of the swamps. The horse warriors could not enjoy their victory for long as the mighty Bennedonner swung his giant arm in a surprising backhand, sending several broken knights flying from their horses. The knights were the ones to run now, but unable to outpace the giant’s momentum, they were crushed in his path.

The townsfolk, enraptured in their cult of pleasure, cared little for the destruction of their host or their doomed town. The lady who ruled here threw herself before Nachalanz, pressed her hands into the spikes of his armor and began licking the rivulets of her blood as it mixed with the battle splatter of the field.

“Yes my lord”, she crooned, “the town is yours. You have given us much elation in slaughter today.”

These folk were near worthless, yet apparently easy to control. It would be a kindness to burn them all, and remove them from the world, but Nachalanz was not noted for his kindness, and it would be more to his honor for his banner to fly above another town.

Nachalanz swung his open hand and knocked her sprawling across the floor away from him.

“Ohhh, Thank you my lord” was all the wretched creature would say.

(7 apr 2005)
Chapter 6
Sand and Blood

Ungluk, Speaker-of-the-Law, and First-to-be-heard before the council-fire of the ancestors, crouched before the oxigor, bound and held by the strength of many warriors. Ungluk raised his fist high, the jagged, twisted blade glinted in the slim shards of moonlight which pierced the foliage above. The nation was thick with silence as the blade slammed down, slicing the burly neck of the great beast -- the night erupted in a single piercing death cry. The blade he drove in, working deep into the meat until his arm was buried up to the elbow. An audible snap told that he had cut the spinal cord from the skull, and soon the rest of the flesh was sawed through.

In dark-speech, Ungluk chanted the incantation of sight as his blade carved the facial flesh from the skull. Hefting the massive skull to the sky with both arms he beseeched the ancestors for their sight to reveal the truth which plagued the lands. He placed the skull in the fire which popped and spit as Ungor acolytes danced the entwining dance of the fates along the outer circle of the elders.

Breathing in the smoke from the fire, Ungluk finished his chant and slowly placed his hands in the fire and removed the blackened skull. Bracing the skull against his chest, he dug his fingers into the large spinal hole and for many moments nothing happened. Then, with a crack like thunder the skull burst in two. The elders gasped as from the skull poured forth not brains, but a tide of sand. The sand streamed out creating an improbable sized pile, not unlike a pyramid.

“The sand of the ancients is spreading” intoned Ungluk, "and soon shall cover the earth."

Many amber eyes were fixed upon the large pile of sand. Part disbelief, part fear, was reflected there.

" Great must our effort be, great must our sacrifice be, for great our peril will be. Great Magwa, Warlord of the Nation of the Gargling Bog, will you bring forth the amulet of the ancients?" asked the Speaker-of-the-Law.

Elders and warriors parted as the towering Warlord strode toward the Shaman and the sand. Around his neck, Magwa wore a bright gold and lapis beetle, large as his clenched fist.

Taking the amulet from the Warlord’s hand, the Speaker-of-the-Law muttered “Yes, this was crafted by the ancients of the mankind… my lord, stretch forth your hand.” At this, a near-silent click came from the amulet and a single silver spike appeared at its base. With this, the Shaman drove the spike into the forearm of the Warlord. An exhale of mist into the night air was the only perceivable reaction the great Magwa gave.

As the blood beats quickened and spilled upon the sand, the pyramid of sand began to shimmer as sun upon a wind-beaten lake. The sand and blood were lost in the glimmering, water-like image. Soon it was obvious. The pyramid of sand began to shrink and a pool of water spread out in all directions, until finally only water, seeping into the rich earth, was all that was left.

“Sand and Blood!” bellowed Magwa, Scourge of the Mankind. “We march tonight over woods and fields! For Sand and Blood!”

(continued in Tales 2)

[ Tales1 ][ Tales2 ][ Rules ][ Maps ]

Comments & Suggestions: pharaoh@fighting-hellfish.com