Hamnish moves closer to the bodies. There's no movement; no signs of life among the beheaded corpses. The rank smell that tends to linger in orc armor is well accompanied by the stench of the beginnings of decay---nothing a Redgard steed is unfamiliar with. The bodies of the butchered halflings look likewise like many tragic victims of orc raids, their jagged wounds and crushed, mangled limbs consistent with the serrated vardatches and bone-crushing strength of the orcs. The ravaged corpses of the four wolf-like animals bear similar signs of orcish violence. Mangled, clotted wounds cover their thick fur. Moved by a sudden suspicion, Hamnish uses the flat of his sword blade to touch their eyes. One of the animals' eyes blinks in response.
"Three... days." The orc's eyes are closed, and his attention seems to be fading fast. The beaming sun and exposure on his festering wounds probably doesn't help his ability to count, but the orc's guess is consistent with what Hamnish observes of the camp and state of decay of the slaughtered.
And yet the hounds still lived? And the orc still lived... Hamnish felt that he was missing some important piece of this situation. "Where would your former comrades take the hostages?", asked Hamnish. "Which direction?"
The orc doesn't reply. His eyes are closed and his head bowed down against his chest, the weight of his slumped body straining against the ties that bind him to the buried tent poles. Three days of exposure and dehydration are likely taking their toll.
But as Hamnish looks past the orc, he can see the answer to his question in a trail of trampled grass that winds north out of the destroyed camp. Hamnish recognizes the characteristic lack of finesse of traveling orcs.
"Perhaps I am like you." mumbles Hamnish, more to himself than to the orc. He unstops his water skin and goes over to the orc. "Some water?" he asks. Getting no response, Hamnish figures he should make the orc more comfortable. So he stoppers the water skin and, approaching the orc, pulls put his knife. "I am going to cut you down from these stakes." As Hamnish saws through the ropes holding the orc upright, he takes advantage of his closeness to checks the orc's wounds more closely. [Medicine roll: 14]
Hamnish cuts the ropes loose and lowers the orc to the ground. The orc slumps limply and makes no indication of protest or awareness as Hamnish lays him out. Hamnish can see that the orc's lips are dry, his eyes sunken in, his skin dry and papery. Dehydration. Bruises mottle his arms and head, and the long, shallow cuts across his chest are not deep, but are red and swollen--infected after three days of exposure. Lack of hydration and the evil of the untreated wounds are swiftly taking its toll on the orc.
Hamnish lifts the orc's head and tries to wet his lips from his waterskin. The water runs over the orc's mouth and then into it, and reflexively, he coughs, then coughs again. He swallows the water and stirs, but doesn't wake up.
Hamnish concentrates on getting water into the orc. He suspects that his decision of what to do next will depend on what information he can coax from the badly hurt warrior. Realizing that he wants the orc to live, Hamnish looks to his Can he be saved? If so, would he help Hamnish? He looks over at the still unmoving yet still alive hounds. Very little of this makes sense. He must talk further with the orc, and so redoubles his healing efforts. Reaching into his backpack, Hamnish pulls out his precious herbal satchel, and carefully tends to the orcs wounds.
The orc swallows all the water offered, and as his wounds are tended and his body recuperates from its extreme position, the revitalizing herbs seem to bring relaxation and strength back into his limbs. After a few minutes, Hamnish's ministrations seem to have accomplished their purpose, and the orc's eyes flutter open. Suspicion, but mostly, surprise, flickers across his face as he sees Hamnish there, and carefully he sits up, testing his arms and legs. "Thank you," he says, after a minute, in Orcish, looking at his salved wounds and realizing that Hamnish has worked to revive him. The impression that Hamnish has is very odd---never has he seen an orc act so subdued, or ever seen or heard one express gratitude when not demanded to by a superior. He has never before seen an orc that was not blinded and carried by rage and bloodlust, barely controlled even when they lay down to rest.
"My patrol was searching for insurgent camps, but we happened to stumble on the halfling nomads whose camp this was," he says. "We raided them for slaves and fresh meat. The Shadow's wrath is in our dreams and drives us to the brutal acts my comrades perpetuate. Izrador has left nothing of my people but bloodthirsty killers who cannot even grow our own food. Rage and hatred are all I have ever known. But I know now who to direct it towards. I cut down one of my fellow orcs here while he tortured a wounded halfling. The rest of my patrol beat me unconscious in seconds. That is the last I remember. It was a foolhardy act. But Izrador will not use my fury for his own ends any more."
If allowed, the orc slowly pushes himself to his feet. He makes no violent gestures and so far has not acted threateningly.
The orc begins to move about the camp. "There are a few orcs who believe that the orcs are not Izrador's Chosen at all... that we are only slaves to his will, to be discarded and sacrificed when we are no longer needed for his purposes. They call themselves the Followers of the White Mother. They don't gather together, or preach. No one knows who or where they are. I don't think there are very many. But I first heard these teachings from an old orc in the Wounded Mother warren, far north. I am... or was, until three days ago... a member of the Blood Mother Tribe. No longer. But I am still a Follower, because of what I believe about Izrador."
As he speaks, he slowly gathers items from the broken and discarded camp, picking them up, setting them down, tucking them under his arms to take with him. A tent pole, a canteen, rope, a section of tent cloth. He stops to eye the bodies of his fallen comrades.
Hamnish can tell that the rage and the hatred of this orc is not gone. Like every other orc, he was fanatically, magically bred to it. But he has chosen to turn his fury on the one who gave it to him---Izrador.
Hope is a rare feeling in the subjugated races of Erenland. Always desperate, always fearful and oppressed in every way imaginable, there is little to inspire beyond the intense hatred of Izrador and his minions. Yet listening to the orc speak, Hamnish felt a lightening in his heart. Izrador's power and control was not absolute! Even just one orc out of their numerous armies turning away from Izrador proves that.
Hamnish turned to the orc. "What are your plans, now, after...this?"
"I'm going to try and catch up with my companions," the orc says. "My life is over now, but maybe I can stop a few more acts of cruelty to the halfling slaves before I go."
Having finished perusing the camp and gathering his odd supplies, the orc turns to the beaten down swordgrass trail, and takes off at a lope heading north along it. Hamnish never ceases to be amazed at how quickly orcs can run, and he knows from experience too that they can keep up the pace for a long time. Although he also knows that with halfling slaves, boro, and goods in tow, these orcs will be moving much more slowly than a legion alone would be able to travel. Their injured companion might just be able to catch up with them.
"Would you allow me as a companion on your quest?", Hamnish asked. "I have certain skills that could prove useful, and..." Hamnish paused, "I desire to avenge these dead and perhaps save some of the slaves."
The orc pauses in mid-lope. "If you want to, then get your horse, and come with me. They have a long head start." Then he takes off again along the orc-trail of smashed and uprooted sword grass, the anger glittering in his eyes, not minded to wait.
Hamnish hurries to gather his wits and his horse, then gets in the saddle. Although he seems to be ignoring his original quest, Hamnish feels that this direction is where he is meant to go. With a quick flip of the reins, Hamnish speeds after the orc. As Hamnish rides to catch up with the orc, he hopes to be able to find out more of the orc's tale. After all, he tells himself, it's good to know something of the person who could well be protecting your back.
The orc easily keeps pace with the long distance trot of Hamnish's horse, and the two make record time pounding across the flattened trail of sword grass left by the orcs. He is not very talkative, but he eventually gives his name---Sardric. They continue to run long into the night, when Hamnish begins to feel weary, and to think about looking for a water source for his mount. Sardric seems as though he will keep going, but seems to recognize his own need for rest when Hamnish slows.
Please roll Survival to find water for your horse and a safe spot to camp for the night.
"Sardric!", said Hamnish, pulling to the orc's side. "My mount is beginning to flag. Pushing him much further will cause injury. Myself, I am quickly becoming less useful as the miles pass." The orc slowed his steed to a walk. "We should find a safe spot to rest, for the horses as well as ourselves.", said Sardric. "What looks good to you?"
Hamnish stops to rest and let his steed graze, and, following the divet of one of the valleys, finds a seep of water where he can fill his waterskin and let his horse drink. Sardric stops when Hamnish does, but strays out of sight to make his own camp, as if not wanting to trust his fortunes to the company of a human wildlander. Hamnish rises early to continue his trek.
The band of orcs has a three-day head start, but the fast loping pace of Sardric, and the steady long trot of Hamnish's steed, allow the two of them to make good progress catching up with the trampled trail. Every 15 or 20 miles, they encounter the remains of a camp. Based on the location of the camps and the time at which Hamnish estimates the patrol to have camped, it seems that they have been resting during the day, and traveling at night. Each camp is recognizable by a wide flattened circle of sword grass, the heavy hoofprints and manure piles of laden boro, the remains of a fire, and usually a scattered pile of grisly halfling bones. The orcs are eating their captives along the way.
Grimly, Hamnish wonders how many halflings will be left to save when they catch up to their quarry. But, searching for clues in the deserted campsites, he once finds something like a small token, a string of clear gemstone beads, tassled with a braided clump of grey fur or hair. It lays just to the side of the fire pit, which is no longer warm, but recent enough that the ashes have not scattered in the wind.
Four days pass, and at around noon on the fifth day, Hamnish sees the next camp, about 300 yards away, atop a small rise. This one is occupied. They've caught up to their quarry! Hamnish can see the dark, hulking figures of the orcs, most of them scattered around a flattened circle of sword grass, asleep, but there are a handful of them awake and standing guard. A mass of large animals is gathered 20 yards to one side of the camp circle. Hamnish recognizes a herd of boro, laden with packs, although he can't quite count them at this distance.
Sardric ducks low below the sword grass, getting out of sight. Hamnish is astride his horse, with an easy vantage point above the grass to see the camp. However, it is also likely he could be spotted. What does Hamnish do next?
Hamnish drops off his horse, and quickly leads it away from orcish eyes. After hobbling the horse aways from the camp, Hamnish creeps back to confer with Sardric. "I would like to save however many halflings are left." he murmured to the orc. "Do you have any idea how we might do that?" "Would stampeding the pack animals help?"
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Hamnish:
Hamnish moves closer to the bodies. There's no movement; no signs of life among the beheaded corpses. The rank smell that tends to linger in orc armor is well accompanied by the stench of the beginnings of decay---nothing a Redgard steed is unfamiliar with. The bodies of the butchered halflings look likewise like many tragic victims of orc raids, their jagged wounds and crushed, mangled limbs consistent with the serrated vardatches and bone-crushing strength of the orcs. The ravaged corpses of the four wolf-like animals bear similar signs of orcish violence. Mangled, clotted wounds cover their thick fur. Moved by a sudden suspicion, Hamnish uses the flat of his sword blade to touch their eyes. One of the animals' eyes blinks in response.
Hamnish turned back to the wounded orc. "How long ago did this - he gestures around him - slaughter happen?"
Hamnish:
"Three... days." The orc's eyes are closed, and his attention seems to be fading fast. The beaming sun and exposure on his festering wounds probably doesn't help his ability to count, but the orc's guess is consistent with what Hamnish observes of the camp and state of decay of the slaughtered.
And yet the hounds still lived? And the orc still lived...
Hamnish felt that he was missing some important piece of this situation.
"Where would your former comrades take the hostages?", asked Hamnish. "Which direction?"
Hamnish:
The orc doesn't reply. His eyes are closed and his head bowed down against his chest, the weight of his slumped body straining against the ties that bind him to the buried tent poles. Three days of exposure and dehydration are likely taking their toll.
But as Hamnish looks past the orc, he can see the answer to his question in a trail of trampled grass that winds north out of the destroyed camp. Hamnish recognizes the characteristic lack of finesse of traveling orcs.
"Perhaps I am like you." mumbles Hamnish, more to himself than to the orc.
He unstops his water skin and goes over to the orc. "Some water?" he asks. Getting no response, Hamnish figures he should make the orc more comfortable.
So he stoppers the water skin and, approaching the orc, pulls put his knife. "I am going to cut you down from these stakes."
As Hamnish saws through the ropes holding the orc upright, he takes advantage of his closeness to checks the orc's wounds more closely.
[Medicine roll: 14]
Hamnish:
Hamnish cuts the ropes loose and lowers the orc to the ground. The orc slumps limply and makes no indication of protest or awareness as Hamnish lays him out. Hamnish can see that the orc's lips are dry, his eyes sunken in, his skin dry and papery. Dehydration. Bruises mottle his arms and head, and the long, shallow cuts across his chest are not deep, but are red and swollen--infected after three days of exposure. Lack of hydration and the evil of the untreated wounds are swiftly taking its toll on the orc.
Hamnish lifts the orc's head and tries to wet his lips from his waterskin. The water runs over the orc's mouth and then into it, and reflexively, he coughs, then coughs again. He swallows the water and stirs, but doesn't wake up.
Hamnish concentrates on getting water into the orc. He suspects that his decision of what to do next will depend on what information he can coax from the badly hurt warrior. Realizing that he wants the orc to live, Hamnish looks to his Can he be saved? If so, would he help Hamnish? He looks over at the still unmoving yet still alive hounds. Very little of this makes sense. He must talk further with the orc, and so redoubles his healing efforts. Reaching into his backpack, Hamnish pulls out his precious herbal satchel, and carefully tends to the orcs wounds.
[Medicine roll: 19]
Hamnish:
The orc swallows all the water offered, and as his wounds are tended and his body recuperates from its extreme position, the revitalizing herbs seem to bring relaxation and strength back into his limbs. After a few minutes, Hamnish's ministrations seem to have accomplished their purpose, and the orc's eyes flutter open. Suspicion, but mostly, surprise, flickers across his face as he sees Hamnish there, and carefully he sits up, testing his arms and legs. "Thank you," he says, after a minute, in Orcish, looking at his salved wounds and realizing that Hamnish has worked to revive him. The impression that Hamnish has is very odd---never has he seen an orc act so subdued, or ever seen or heard one express gratitude when not demanded to by a superior. He has never before seen an orc that was not blinded and carried by rage and bloodlust, barely controlled even when they lay down to rest.
"My patrol was searching for insurgent camps, but we happened to stumble on the halfling nomads whose camp this was," he says. "We raided them for slaves and fresh meat. The Shadow's wrath is in our dreams and drives us to the brutal acts my comrades perpetuate. Izrador has left nothing of my people but bloodthirsty killers who cannot even grow our own food. Rage and hatred are all I have ever known. But I know now who to direct it towards. I cut down one of my fellow orcs here while he tortured a wounded halfling. The rest of my patrol beat me unconscious in seconds. That is the last I remember. It was a foolhardy act. But Izrador will not use my fury for his own ends any more."
If allowed, the orc slowly pushes himself to his feet. He makes no violent gestures and so far has not acted threateningly.
"But why", Hamnish asked. "What freed you from the rage and hatred? What changed?"
[Roll Insight: 21]
Hamnish:
The orc begins to move about the camp. "There are a few orcs who believe that the orcs are not Izrador's Chosen at all... that we are only slaves to his will, to be discarded and sacrificed when we are no longer needed for his purposes. They call themselves the Followers of the White Mother. They don't gather together, or preach. No one knows who or where they are. I don't think there are very many. But I first heard these teachings from an old orc in the Wounded Mother warren, far north. I am... or was, until three days ago... a member of the Blood Mother Tribe. No longer. But I am still a Follower, because of what I believe about Izrador."
As he speaks, he slowly gathers items from the broken and discarded camp, picking them up, setting them down, tucking them under his arms to take with him. A tent pole, a canteen, rope, a section of tent cloth. He stops to eye the bodies of his fallen comrades.
Hamnish can tell that the rage and the hatred of this orc is not gone. Like every other orc, he was fanatically, magically bred to it. But he has chosen to turn his fury on the one who gave it to him---Izrador.
Hope is a rare feeling in the subjugated races of Erenland. Always desperate, always fearful and oppressed in every way imaginable, there is little to inspire beyond the intense hatred of Izrador and his minions. Yet listening to the orc speak, Hamnish felt a lightening in his heart. Izrador's power and control was not absolute! Even just one orc out of their numerous armies turning away from Izrador proves that.
Hamnish turned to the orc. "What are your plans, now, after...this?"
Hamnish:
"I'm going to try and catch up with my companions," the orc says. "My life is over now, but maybe I can stop a few more acts of cruelty to the halfling slaves before I go."
Having finished perusing the camp and gathering his odd supplies, the orc turns to the beaten down swordgrass trail, and takes off at a lope heading north along it. Hamnish never ceases to be amazed at how quickly orcs can run, and he knows from experience too that they can keep up the pace for a long time. Although he also knows that with halfling slaves, boro, and goods in tow, these orcs will be moving much more slowly than a legion alone would be able to travel. Their injured companion might just be able to catch up with them.
"Would you allow me as a companion on your quest?", Hamnish asked. "I have certain skills that could prove useful, and..." Hamnish paused, "I desire to avenge these dead and perhaps save some of the slaves."
[Roll Persuasion: 11]
Hamnish:
The orc pauses in mid-lope. "If you want to, then get your horse, and come with me. They have a long head start." Then he takes off again along the orc-trail of smashed and uprooted sword grass, the anger glittering in his eyes, not minded to wait.
Hamnish hurries to gather his wits and his horse, then gets in the saddle. Although he seems to be ignoring his original quest, Hamnish feels that this direction is where he is meant to go. With a quick flip of the reins, Hamnish speeds after the orc.
As Hamnish rides to catch up with the orc, he hopes to be able to find out more of the orc's tale. After all, he tells himself, it's good to know something of the person who could well be protecting your back.
Hamnish:
The orc easily keeps pace with the long distance trot of Hamnish's horse, and the two make record time pounding across the flattened trail of sword grass left by the orcs. He is not very talkative, but he eventually gives his name---Sardric. They continue to run long into the night, when Hamnish begins to feel weary, and to think about looking for a water source for his mount. Sardric seems as though he will keep going, but seems to recognize his own need for rest when Hamnish slows.
Please roll Survival to find water for your horse and a safe spot to camp for the night.
"Sardric!", said Hamnish, pulling to the orc's side. "My mount is beginning to flag. Pushing him much further will cause injury. Myself, I am quickly becoming less useful as the miles pass."
The orc slowed his steed to a walk.
"We should find a safe spot to rest, for the horses as well as ourselves.", said Sardric. "What looks good to you?"
[Role: Survival: 24]
Hamnish:
Hamnish stops to rest and let his steed graze, and, following the divet of one of the valleys, finds a seep of water where he can fill his waterskin and let his horse drink. Sardric stops when Hamnish does, but strays out of sight to make his own camp, as if not wanting to trust his fortunes to the company of a human wildlander. Hamnish rises early to continue his trek.
The band of orcs has a three-day head start, but the fast loping pace of Sardric, and the steady long trot of Hamnish's steed, allow the two of them to make good progress catching up with the trampled trail. Every 15 or 20 miles, they encounter the remains of a camp. Based on the location of the camps and the time at which Hamnish estimates the patrol to have camped, it seems that they have been resting during the day, and traveling at night. Each camp is recognizable by a wide flattened circle of sword grass, the heavy hoofprints and manure piles of laden boro, the remains of a fire, and usually a scattered pile of grisly halfling bones. The orcs are eating their captives along the way.
Grimly, Hamnish wonders how many halflings will be left to save when they catch up to their quarry. But, searching for clues in the deserted campsites, he once finds something like a small token, a string of clear gemstone beads, tassled with a braided clump of grey fur or hair. It lays just to the side of the fire pit, which is no longer warm, but recent enough that the ashes have not scattered in the wind.
Four days pass, and at around noon on the fifth day, Hamnish sees the next camp, about 300 yards away, atop a small rise. This one is occupied. They've caught up to their quarry! Hamnish can see the dark, hulking figures of the orcs, most of them scattered around a flattened circle of sword grass, asleep, but there are a handful of them awake and standing guard. A mass of large animals is gathered 20 yards to one side of the camp circle. Hamnish recognizes a herd of boro, laden with packs, although he can't quite count them at this distance.
Sardric ducks low below the sword grass, getting out of sight. Hamnish is astride his horse, with an easy vantage point above the grass to see the camp. However, it is also likely he could be spotted. What does Hamnish do next?
Hamnish drops off his horse, and quickly leads it away from orcish eyes. After hobbling the horse aways from the camp, Hamnish creeps back to confer with Sardric.
"I would like to save however many halflings are left." he murmured to the orc. "Do you have any idea how we might do that?" "Would stampeding the pack animals help?"