The Big Ol' Battle [Ready for BoT]

[Deeza]

The Big Ol' Battle

The Account of An Orcish Old-Timer, as transcribed by Gorl gro-Burza

Hello? Is this thing working? Well will you look at that--the stuff I'm saying's just appearing on the page! Fascinating stuff, this writing. I can read well enough you see, that's how as I know that what I'm saying's what Gorl gro-Burza here's actually writing down, but I never quite got the hang of the actual doings of it. It's the fingers I reckon. You see, young Gorl here's got thin elfy fingers, no offense, so he's much more at home with all this than me, 'cos mine barely even fit around a spoon or anything smaller than a small tree-branch. Of course, they say that the reason why he's like that is because his grandmother did an elf once... not that I've got anything against that, mind, 'cos as I say, if an elf can do an orc without getting' hisself snapped in half then good luck to him! No-one said anything at the time, 'cos everyone was too busy laughing at his tec'nical grandfather behind 'is back, 'cos even though he'd nutted enough of 'er other suitors to earn 'er favor, he obviously wasn't quite as tough below the belt, or else she wouldn't 'ave strayed. Of course, mebbe the reason they said that was because Gorl's father was an utter bastard, both lit'rally and and fig'ratively... And I'm going to stop right there, because Gorl gro-Burza's looking up at me kind of funny. I've got nothing against him personally, mind. Sure, with those elfy-fingers he's a dab hand with a dagger and all, which isn't a proper orcish weapon; but then again he's stuck more folk with that than I've squashed with my hammer, so I can't argue with that. Fine lad. And great at the writing. He's not looking at me like that anyone. All right. Moving on.

Anyways, the reason I'm transcribing this rec-cord is that some of the brass-balled scrawny types – that's Redguard to you, by the way, as opposed to the smug blotchy types and tall poncy types - that's Imperials and Bretons to you. Anyways, word's been going round that some of the brass-balled scrawny types are mouthing off that they won the Battle of the Pissing Orc. An' seeing as I'm just about the only one left alive who was actually there, I reckon I know better. 'Cos it wasn't like that at all.

What happened was this. We'd been at peace for quite a while, and as you can imagine quite a lot of us weren't too happy about that. It was boring, and fighting each other gets a bit old after a while. So Rorbit and a few of the rest of the gang, mis'self included, figured we'd slip over the border into the dry lands and go and throw rocks at some big ol' desert freak-monster 'til it got mad and decided to fight us. Good plan, we thought, a few days out of the old country does wonders for the constitution. We took plenty of booze, and after a few days we were down in some deserty-valley type place, I wouldn't know the name, look it up, but there was a big statue thing there. And it was real ugly, the face of that thing. So, we were all feeling a bit hungry, and sat down to eat what was left of a few desert lizards we'd clubbed the day before. But Rorbit said he was feeling like taking a piss, so he went over behind the statue, 'cos that was a nice and shady place to do your business.

It was then that we saw on the slopes of the valley three brass-balled scrawny types, with another higher up riding a camel, I think they call it. They were all staring at the spectacle of Rorbit pissing against their big ol' statue, and we all found it pretty funny I can tell you.
“Morning b'ers,â€Â￾ Rorbit called, cheerfully, not meaning anything by it, 'cos to tell the truth he wasn't in either the position or disposed of the inclination to have a fight. But of course they didn't see it that way, and were mighty offended. They called to the one up on the camel and he sped away into the distance, to get backup we reckoned, while the rest of them came up on Rorbit quick as you like and lopped his head off. Now that didn't sit too well with us, as you can imagine, so we diced them up nice and small. We sent someone back up north as well straight away, to drum up the rest of the gang, 'cos we figured a lot more of the brass-balled scrawny types would be here in a few days, and there was no way we were going to let anyone lop the head off of one of our mates without a fight, the big way. So we waited their by the statue, and burned ol' Rorbit, and made sure we pissed against it whenever we felt the urge.

It wasn't too long before a big load of the brass-balled scrawny types showed up on the horizon. But we were lucky, 'cos our mate had done his job well, and he'd brought down most of the rest of the gang an' a few others besides. An' the Big Warlord gro-Yutz hisself came down too, 'cos he'd got drunk with poor ol' Rorbit once upon a time and they'd won a bar-room brawl together, and that's a bond about as strong as an orc can make, so he had no choice really, now his buddy had been killed.

So we squared up at opposite ends of the valley, with that big ugly statue-thing right in the middle. Of course, they tried to send out a few sneakers to get round behind us, but we were wise to that one and had a few lads lying in wait and they made short work of them. They were a scabrous crowd, I have to say. Not that I've got anything against brass-balled scrawny types personally, mind you, they're damn good fighters, and a darn sight better than many of the weakling soft-orcs you'll see lounging about these days. An' no Gorl, I don't mean you, 'cos you've stuck more folk that I have, so you're all right, hear me? Anyways, we were all lined up there, and gro-Yutz was our boss, 'cos he was the hardest out of all of us. So he went out up front and stood there waiting for their boss to show his face. It wasn't long in coming. Their rabble parted and this tall git strode out, simply dressed by their standards, most of 'em being ridiculously ornate, and carrying nothing but a sword. He moved like a bloody dancer, I swear to you, he sort of glided across the sand. So he drew his sword and gro-Yutz unsheathed his two-sided axe. We orcs like to keep par-lay short and sweet, as I'm sure you well know.

So the gang charged, and so did they, and to be honest I don't remember too much about the rest because I was caught up in the blood-rage. Fortunately we had a shaman with us who was able to hang out up on the valley slopes and count reliably, which is the only thing they're good for after all, seeing as they're no good at fighting. From him I was reliably informed later that I mashed up ten real good, and came close to two more if someone else hadn't beaten me to it. Quite a few of the gang got diced up as well, but a good time was had by all, as we hadn't had a real fight like that in years. I found misself close to gro-Yutz as he smacked down some goon with a spear, which finally cleared the path between him and their boss, who was dancing away with that sword of his so fast that I swear it made some godsawful shrieking noise in the air as he went. He caught sight of gro-Yutz at once, and he challenged in a clear voice and politely, as I recall, which in the middle of a battle was good going on his part. Of course gro-Yutz called him a grandfatherf'er, at which the sword-dancer finally got all angry, shouting off about us defiling the place of one of their sniveling little desert gods. I was close enough to hear gro-Yutz snark back something about orc piss being wonderful for cleaning polished surfaces, and that we'd be happy to do it for them more often, 'cos they'd let that statue of theirs get real dirty. The sword-dancer jumped up and down like a flea in an oven, let me tell you, 'cos that one had obviously really struck a raw nerve. He jumped all around gro-Yutz a few times for no reason at all, just to show him how much like a grasshopper he was, then they fought.

The dancing fool disarmed him in a couple o' seconds flat, I kid you not, so gro-Yutz went after him with his bare hands, which truth be told was the way he preferred it given the choice. The git was dancing all around him, with nary so much as a second stayed in one place. Damn hard to land a punch under the circumstances, but gro-Yutz did it. I saw teeth flying through the air, an' the dancer spat blood and roared back at him, pretty good even for an orc, his roar would have been, it was that good. So then he leapt forward an' he skewered ol' gro-Yutz straight through the middle with that sword of his. But that alone ain't enough to stop an orc who's angry enough, and gro-Yutz was pissed. He grabbed the sword-dancer's arm and pulled him closer, and I could see the sword sticking about a foot from his back as he did it. Then he grabbed the git in a death-grip and crushed the life out of him as they both dropped dead together.

An' at that point everyone else stopped, and took a good, long look at each other. For the first and only time in my life I could see exactly what the brass-balled scrawny types were thinking. Whatever we did, there was no way anyone was possibly going to one-up that fight, however hard we tried. There wasn't really much point in carrying on. In the end we gathered up all the stiffs and we chucked them on a great big pyre, all nice and proper, and then we all went back home exhausted.

So, all in all, not the best day for us, but we had a good fight, and there's precious few of that kind that you'll run across these days. So don't you ever go thinking that we lost, no matter what the brass-balled scrawny types say – 'cos now you know the truth and it wasn't like that. It's just too hard to pull off a follow-up to a brawl like that, so everyone left out of wounded pride.

[Nanu]

5.B.SKCYHRHF.
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