Apostles of Doom

“They weren’t kidding about the head smashing,” Fer-Rog said to Rupert as they stood at the edge of the dance floor of the Head Smashers Lounge. They were watching people, mostly orcs, dancing to very loud music in the weird tavern. The dance seemed to involve periodically smashing one’s head into either the person one was dancing with or some random person nearby. If both smashers had large tusks, they generally smashed tusk to tusk; otherwise forehead to forehead.

The music was something someone had called Death Tribal Voodoo; in terms of rhythm, or lack thereof, it wasn’t that different than D’Orc Metal, except there were no lightning guitars or similar instruments. The instruments were mostly various types of drums, gongs, bells and similar devices, along with some more traditional-looking stringed instruments.

“Why aren’t you drinking?” a large orc appearing about their age suddenly asked them as he guzzled down a very large mug of glargh. He was practically shouting over the loud music.

Rupert shrugged and looked at Fer-Rog. “I guess we should; we paid for them when we came in.”

Fer-Rog nodded and looked at the curious orc. “We just didn’t think of it.”

The orc looked at them in disbelief. “It’s glargh! How do you not think of glargh?”

Rupert shrugged. “It doesn’t do a lot for us.”

“What do you mean? Is that a brag about how much you can drink?” The orc was clearly a bit drunk already.

Fer-Rog shrugged. “Not exactly. It’s just a fact.”

“Does that make any sense to you?” the orc asked a friend of his, who had walked up with a large mug of his own.

“Nope. Sounds like he’s calling you a lightweight,” the large orc’s friend said.

“That’s rich, considering these two are both scrawny!” the large orc said.

“We are apprentice shamans,” Fer-Rog said.

“Scroll trollers…” the large orc’s friend said, shaking his head dismissively.

“What’s your horde name?” the large orc asked.

“Olafa,” Fer-Rog replied.

“Ha! Olafa are lightweights! I doubt Olafa scroll trollers can drink more than one mug of glargh before passing out!” the large orc said.

“Is that a challenge?” Rupert said with a wide grin.

“Of course it is!”

“Accepted,” Rupert said. “I am Rugog; this is Rog.” He gestured to Fer-Rog.

“Aggfred,” the large orc said.

“Snoggnord,” the large orc’s friend said.

“Let’s go to the bar,” Rupert said.

Fer-Rog nodded and led the way to the bar. “I wish they had cookies…” he said to Rupert.

Chapter 131

Mount Doom: DOA + 9, Early First Period

Tom entered the library to spend some time with his thoughts. He had just come from the DCC and ensuring that the Oorstemothians and their friends were still making their way out of Doom’s lands. Their ship was quite interesting; it did indeed look like a very large, flying nuclear submarine, but with three conning towers: a large main tower in the center and two smaller towers on each end. It was not clear to Tom what the point of those end towers was, but he assumed there was a good one.

The question was, just how crazy did one have to be in order to think that sending a ship to arrest a demon in the Abyss was a good idea? As crazy as wizards like Lenamare were, he was pretty sure they were still wise enough not to pursue a demon into the Abyss. Why Tiernon’s people would join them was another mystery. Why was it that all of his opponents seemed completely irrational?

“Oh, hello!” Antefalken said as he exited an aisle carrying two large books.

“There you are!” Tom said with a grin. “I haven’t seen you since I dropped you off here.”

“That’s because I haven’t left, nor did I sleep last night. This place is just too much! I could spend centuries in here,” Antefalken said.

“But then who would hear your ballads?” Tom asked, smiling.

“Well, given that most of my audience is immortal… not sure it’s a problem,” The bard replied.

“I think Damien would be a bit put out,” Tom reminded him.

“Not if he saw this place! He’d forgive me — he’d be here by my side. And it’s actually quite cool in here, so he could spend a few centuries with me.”

Tom nodded and had a sudden thought. “Have you seen the paintings of Orcus?”

Antefalken shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Follow me. I want your opinion,” Tom said, gesturing for Antefalken to follow him.

The bard set his books down on a study table and came over to join Tom, and they proceeded down the aisle leading to the portrait room.

“In the room we are about to enter are portraits of Orcus in his various forms. He apparently used the paintings as references to remember the different forms,” Tom told Antefalken.

“Yes, that’s pretty standard,” the bard agreed.

They entered the room and Tom gestured to the main painting of Orcus.

Antefalken whistled. “Well, that’s not at all what I thought he’d look like.” He twisted his neck to stare at Tom for a minute and then back at the picture. “You do know there is an odd resemblance, yes?”