Apostles of Doom

Zargvarst El Crooked Stick, D’Orc Squad Leader, inhaled the fresh scent of dew on tall grass as he watched the first light of Fierd begin to peek over the eastern horizon. “Ah, nothing like the butt crack of dawn!” he exclaimed with joy.

“It has been four thousand, two hundred, forty-two years and three quarter months since last I stood upon these planes preparing for battle against the so-called Los Alfar,” Zargvarst told the others. He shook his head in wonder. “One forgets the smell, the anticipation.”

He turned to those behind him, readying themselves and their mounts. “Of course, there is no battle today, but still, we start on adventure!”

“Perhaps soon we can do battle with the treacherous Los Alfar,” Kirak Doth Far suggested. This was Kirak’s second trip to Astlan. Kirak, Didar An Sep, Nagh Felwraith and Zerg Fel Far had all previously hunted with Tal Gor and his tribe; they had been overjoyed to be selected to return.

Tal Gor surveyed their party. Zargvarst was first generation, born here on the Orcan Plains during the Desolation forty-nine hundred years ago. Having been ascended at the Doomalogue in Astlan, he knew where it was. He was accompanied by four of the twenty D’Orcs that had hunted with him. On the orc side, Tal Gor was bringing his oldest brother and only sister, Bor Tal and Soon An; his brother Fel Nor was staying behind to continue his work with the tribe. Lob Smasher, the youngest of the tribe’s elders by several years, Fed Tal from the hunting party and Elgrid Rage Wracker, one of their best warriors, were joining them as well.

They had five D’Orcs, six orcs, and ten D’Wargs; one D’Warg for each orc and four to carry supplies and equipment. All D’Wargs were fully barded for battle. The orcs and D’Orcs were also bringing their full battle regalia, but for travel were not fully armored. They would be fully armed and armored when they approached other tribes or when they were in hostile territory. They wanted to present as impressive a front as possible to the other tribes to better to make their case.

Tal Gor gripped his shaman staff tightly. He’d installed his summoning stone and bound the staff to himself, along with its mana pool. The bindings had taken him a bit of time, given that he’d never seriously tried to do such rituals on something he planned to actually use.

He looked towards Schwarzenfürze, who seemed quite happy to be getting out of camp. She didn’t like sitting still, nor did anyone in the tribe like her sitting still. Apparently, when well fed, sitting still caused problems with her digestion. The results were, predictably, extremely unpleasant.

He had been nervous about carrying his valuable staff on D’Wargback thousands of feet off the ground; fortunately, the harness had both a holding cup and a long but detachable tether between the harness and staff, along with a wrist strap for him to use. Dropping a sword or scythe that was replaceable was one thing, but a magical staff crafted by Völund the Smith? It was, frankly, worth more than his life.

“Are we ready?” Zargvarst asked.

The others variously announced their readiness. Tal Gor affirmed, “Aye,” and his watching family and the other tribe members saluted them. Tal Gor mounted Schwarzenfürze, settling comfortably into the saddle. His butt was finally getting worn in after the hours of flying back from Murgatory and a few practice sessions trying to use his staff as a weapon from D’Wargback.

“Set.”

“Mounted!”

“Let’s go!”

The confirmations that everyone was ready came one by one. As soon as everyone had acknowledged their readiness, including growls from the D’Wargs carrying supplies, Zargvarst lowered his hand, signaling their launch. The D’Wargs started running down the cleared space on the plain, flapping their wings and rising into the air one after the other, the D’Orcs launched themselves straight up. The assembled tribe cheered as they all took to the air and got into formation.

Tal Gor and the rest of the orcs waved down to their families and friends below, and then they were off, heading north. Fierd was now fully above the horizon to their right. Tal Gor grinned. He loved flying; it would be so cool to have wings like a D’Orc. Who knew, maybe if he served Lord Tommus faithfully and brought victory and glory to the Doompire, he might someday be ascended to D’Orchood. He knew from talking to drunken D’Orcs at the celebration that they wanted to add to their ranks.

It was, of course, pure hubris to think that he, a crippled, barely trained shaman, could ever aspire to the ranks of the greatest orc legends, but looking at his staff and suppressing a grin, he seemed to have made a good start. He just needed to not screw up. That was the thing; he had never really been a success at anything. His greatest success had been in contacting Lord Tommus and that had been pure coincidence, not any skill of his own. Hell, he hadn’t even discovered his totem yet.