The Black Leaf

[Iconoclast]

The Tanarukk of the Black Leaf Tribe

The shaman’s dream was unfolding. The clouds marched steadily across an otherwise clear night sky. Illuminated by the New Moon, a cloud took on the shape of the rat. It was the sign he had been waiting for. Just as in the dream, the Tanarukk shaman began the ritual, spearing the bull again and again, blood spraying as the shackled beast wailed and thrashed in vain. An orgiastic blood frenzy broke out upon the Tanarukk, the demon-blooded orcs of the Nether Mountain tribe of The Black Leaf. A thick, murky mists then, as the shaman had seen in the dream that had haunted him, billowed out through the bull’s nostrils with its last, dying breath.


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A blood-red armored and horn-helmed orc god approached the throne upon the dais and knelt.

Gruumsh, seated with a great iron spear laid across his lap, a perched torch burning at his side, spoke in a deep voice. “Lieutenant, report.”

Illneval spoke, “A strange, unknown presence has come and gone within the Nether Mountains.”

The orc god, clad in dull black plated armor stained by centuries of blood, leaned forward upon his iron throne, his one eye narrowing. Illneval continued.

“Scouts report of an unnatural mists in the swamp lands of The Black Leaf. A First Born and two Fifth Born have been taken.”

In a rush of fury Gruumsh rose from his throne with his mighty spear in hand.

“Who?!  Which of the gods would dare transgress upon my domain! The Tanarukk are mine!?!”

Illneval lowered his head. Gruumsh gnashed his teeth, grabbed his torch, and ascended to the zenith of Nishrek.  There, The One Eye pointed his spear towards that which confounded him.  A wall of mists swirled spherically within the black void between the worlds. But the god’s eye could not penetrate it. It was there that this unknown power had come, and it was from there that this audacious power had dared take what belonged to Gruumsh: The Tanarukk of The Black Leaf.

[shadymerchant]

A Day Like Any Other


The rain descended gently upon the dirt lanes of the Black Leaf Tribe. The collection of thatched houses, numbering no more than perhaps twenty, stood encircled by tall trees. Those trees with their broad green canopies, often blocking out all sunlight,  stood mired in hip deep water. The small island rose abruptly in the middle of the swamp. Like the head of one of its alligator inhabitants, it broke the surface as if merely coming up for air. The fetid, rotting smell of death and decay rolled over the the small patch of land with the drifting of its many mist banks, but its inhabitants were not bothered. They had called it home for countless generations. They would die to defend it if need be, but few of the other tribes seemed interested in its taking.

Behind one of the houses, its back facing the circling swamp, stood Shota. He watched with a keen interest the drama unfolding before him. Several other boys knelt upon the soggy bank, holding down between them another boy. This one, smaller, lay on his stomach as his face was pressed into a puddle. His legs kicked feebly in an effort to free himself, but he did not have the strength to resist so many. The boys holding him watched the back of his head with an avid fascination, as if enamored with the proof of their own strength. Shota stood with his arms crossed, a look of smug satisfaction upon his face. The drowning boy, Yurgoth, was fourth born. One of those who would be trained in the ways of of the God Shaman Yurtrus. Yurgoth had proven himself particularly weak, and thus, it was only right that he be made to suffer. Shota had directed the other boys to tormenting Yurgoth for the past week, and once already they had dragged him here to drink the swamp water.  On that occasion, in which had shamed himself by losing control of his bowels, Shota had directed the other boys to release him. This time, he was not so sure he would be so merciful. After all, he was pathetic even for a fourth born. Surely he would not be missed. More, it would show that Shota himself was one to be feared. Feared and respected. They should not remove the tongue of one with so much promise. He frowned, momentarily distracted from the scene infront of him, and tried to push back the thoughts of the approaching ceremony. Yurgoth, still in the puddle,  seemed to find some reservoir of strength. His kicking, which had gradually slowed, suddenly turned to wild, crazed commotion. Shota took no notice.


He was fifth born. The eyes and ears of the Black Leaf. They were the first to see danger and bring warning. They were the first into enemy lands, carrying with them all that could be learned of the Black Leaf when they did so. It was a sacred station, often spoken of by the higher ranked fifth's as an honor proceeding that of the duties of the First's. Of course, every sect believed itself to be the most important amongst them, but who could deny the sacrifice of the fifth's? To serve meant having ones tongue ripped out, forever stripped of the ability to speak the secrets of the Tribe if captured. Limited, too, from giving away ones position with foolish chatter. The scouts of the Black Leaf were never to be heard by their enemies, and only seen by those already on their way into death. The second ritual, less practical, would be the closing of ones right eye until they had made their first kill for the Tribe. The eyelid would be sown shut, and the markings of Shargaas placed upon it. A temporary condition, and one that motivated the fifth's to a frenzied blood lust by the time of their fifteenth name day.

Shota knew that his own sixth name day approached. He could not be sure of the exact night, but he had worked it out to what he felt was a reasonable estimation. He had two days to show the Tribe that he did not belong in the fifth. He was too intelligent, and too good with words. He was in command of his peers, was he not? He directed them to whatever battle he desired. To alter ones place in the Tribe was unheard of, but he would be the first. He would become one of the First Born, to direct the warfare of the Tribe.

He focused his attention back to the scene infront of him. Yurgoth, to Shota's dismay, lay upon his back. He was eagerly gasping for the air that now filled his lungs. The other boys had apparently released him, and now knelt in dirt looking at Shota with the guilty eyes of those who had failed in a sacred duty. They did not have what it took to change their path's within the tribe. He glowered at them, looking from face to face, and pondered his next move. First, he would have them finish this job. He could not be distracted.

"Again."

Yurgoth made a feeble attempt to resist their hands, but too much of his strength was gone. He barely struggled at all the next time.

[Iconoclast]

Crime & Creation





Tanarukk children with budding horns thrashed, kicked, and punched one another in a mayhem of play. Abruptly, as the aged shaman emerged from his thatched hut, spear in hand, they ceased their violent games. His horns showed his age; horns like a rams, rising up through a coarse mane of peppered gray hair. An eye patch covered his right eye, as with all shamans of The One Eye. The demon-orc blooded children circled him and squatted in obedient silence. Leaning on his black, barbed spear, Gruumsh’s shaman, one of the keepers of the truth, an orator of the Black Leaf Tribe, began:



In the beginning, there was only darkness and chaos. No light. No sound. No mountains, no swamps, no lands, no sun nor moon, nor races of orc, dwarf, elf, nor of man.  From the first flames that fueled the forge of Gruumsh’s mighty spear came the light of day. The sun, placed high above for all beings to share.  Into the dark of Shargaas’ night, the sparks from Ilneval’s anvil made the stars. Never had such splendid gifts been given so freely.  From Gruumsh’s gift of light, the gods could now give shape to the world and its many things. From the chaos, the races were molded into their god’s likeness, just as arrow heads are shaped from stone and bone, and swords and spears from the metals and hammers upon the forge. A place was needed for the world’s many tribes, and so it was that mountains, swamps, streams, fields, and forests were created to be divided among them all.  All of the gods met and drew lots for the parts of the world in which their people would dwell. The human gods drew the lot that allowed humans to dwell where they pleased. The elven gods drew the green forests, the dwarven gods drew the high mountains, the gnomish gods the rocky, sunlit hills, and the halfing gods picked the lot that gave them the fields and meadows. Then the assembled gods turned to the orcish gods and laughed loud and long.

"All the lots are taken!" they said tauntingly. "Where will your people dwell, One-Eye? There is no place left!"

There was silence upon the world then, as Gruumsh, The One-Eye, lifted his great iron spear and stretched it over the world. The shaft blotted the sun over a great part of the lands as he spoke:

"No! You Lie! You have rigged the drawing of the lots, hoping to cheat me and my followers. But One-Eye never sleeps. One-Eye sees all. There is a place for orcs and tanarukk to dwell…here!" he bellowed, and his spear pierced the Nether Mountains, opening a mighty rift and chasms. "And here!" and the spearhead split the hills and made them shake and covered them in dust. "And here!" and the black spear gouged the meadows and made them bare.

"There!" roared He-Who-Watches triumphantly, and his voice carried to the ends of the world. "There is where the orcs and tanarukk shall survive! There they will thrive, and multiply, and grow stronger, and a day will come when they cover the world, and they will slay all of your collective peoples! Tanarukk and orc shall inherit the world you sought to cheat me of!"






(Citation: A few sentences were taken or revised from source material)

[Iconoclast]

Conquest & Retribution



The Barovian villagers of Vallaki welcomed the tanarukk with open arms, as Radu hoisted the dead weight of the unconscious “caliban” up to the abandoned well’s ledge.  He had no idea what it was nor did he care. (Nor did his hammer’s head which was introduced to the tanarukk’s own) He knew what it wasn’t, and that was more than enough to send it plummeting with a shove down into the sewage underworld to feed the rats.


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The red-eyed and horned, demon-blooded orc placed the palm sized figurines upon the sewer floor within her tent in the Drain. Each ivory figurine represented one of the gods within the orc pantheon. Squatting, she reverently addressed the chief of the pantheon. The ivory orc figurine of Gruumsh possessed a singular eye center-forehead, a torch in hand, a spear in the other, standing upon the back of a dire rat that served as the figurine’s base.

“One Eye. Another land, another world, in which the gods have cheated you. Dainty elves! Haughty as ever! Lay claim to the southern woods!  Vile humans! Everywhere! Their war-hungry laws deny your people land, light, air, and the hot blood in our veins!  Dwarves! Hollow out mountains for their greedy own!  Even mangy ogre and hobgoblin carve out meager homes!  But no orc!  No tribes of tanarukk!! And our foes are many. Beyond measure. In numbers and might. Yet here we are. The true-blooded. The gifted. Your tanarukk of The Black Leaf. And The One Eye’s purpose becomes clear to me. To breed, to swell, and to bleed this world! For whatever other purpose could there be, but to prepare for conquest and retribution."

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Patron God of the First Born



Red smoldering eyes burn within the dingy darkness of the tent. The tanarukk reverently addresses an ivory orc figurine painted in red armor brandishing a serrated sword, the sword pointing outward, as if from a commanding view of the battlefield. Illneval, Gruumsh’s Lieutenant, whose shamans are the principle teachers of the First Born.

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“Horde Leader, I beseech you and The One Eye. Send us a true shaman! The wisdom inherent in your teachings, on the highest art of war, is not lost upon me. But I am no shaman, and our foes are great and many, and the battlefield is vast and largely unknown, with strange lands, peoples, factions, and powers.


The chief of the Drain, Old Gretch Jarskin, intends to give The Black Leaf audience. To what end, unknown. But he is but one of many powers that has taken interests. A most powerful benefactor, god-like, has given us weapons, treasures, and coin to feed the insatiable beasts of our needs. In return, I have given him our eyes and ears. A day may come when he may demand more!  With a wolf at his side, he revealed a most strange face, and many a strange thing we see here in the Drain. He is powerful and wealthy beyond measure and we are now in his debt.


An alliance, brokered by a tiefling has been made with Shaman Pain and her flock. I have received council from the Fifth Born, and we will prepare a rite of initiation for Sevik. For Grog, the half-breed, as well, should he prove worthy. Though it is a pity that Sevik’s blood is weakened by his human lineage, he demonstrates that his better nature holds dominance. He has clearly chosen the greater aspect of his blood, and thus he shall be rewarded. He may be courting both the Black Leaf and Meleth’s flock, but he will never be one of her laity. Should he choose wisely, his power will grow with our own. 


Shaman Pain has the power to breathe spirit back into the dead!  Such an ally is needed. But she is brazen, too much so. Flagellating herself in the village outskirts, a filthy guard confronted her. While I took pleasure in her defiance of the village law, it was unwise for her to attempt to slay the man alone, resulting in her throat being slit ear to ear. Outlanders tried to persuade the guard to lock the shaman’s corpse up in the citadel, but to her good fortune, he dropped her corpse into the sewer’s well, where I awaited. Nyx, a village merchant both resourceful and open to trade, found a shaman powerful enough to restore Meleth to form. Nyx shows an interests in Meleth beyond mere coin, it seems.


The Shaman’s flock expands, but with such quick growth comes unruliness. Some wag their tongue foolishly. Pain is quick to her eager whip, as is the shaman’s apprentice, Chimera. When her own sister misspoke against the “demon-kin,” without qualm, she applied a white-hot blade to her sister’s lips, lips shaped as her own!  Her face is now a twisted, scarred parody of Chimera’s own.  Does she now hold her sister in contempt!  No!  She relishes in the pain. Sable is another. She remarked how superior a sword’s hilt is to the whip’s handle, perhaps indicating a doubt she harbors. So long as they remain an asset and not too great a risk, our alliance will hold. The Shaman still has her sights on a despicable little elf and she seemed eager for our war band to charge after. That is Bahgtru’s way, to charge foes without forethought and method. For this task, we must first ascertain what this elf is capable of, who her allies are, what her daily habits consists of. Fifth Born Morgle and Shota scout. I will not expose The Black Leaf too soon to our foes. As is taught by the true shamans of Illneval, we will study the foe and the battlefield before we seize the initiative with a blow that is both exact and bold."

[shadymerchant]

Aftermath

He lay naked upon the stone tablet within the darkness of the hut, his beating heart the only sound to fill the night. At three feet and a hundred pounds, he was not of the size to cover the whole of its smooth, gray surface. The hut, made of thousands of thin sticks and moss, was pitch black. He did not know the hour. Even if it was the height of noon, no light would reach into this place. Occasionally, if he drew together what remained of his fragile conscious state, he would find himself wracked with shivers. He could not bring clarity upon this situation, not yet. His mouth opened, as it has a hundred times in aftermath of the ritual, but no sound emerged.

He had failed. They, the elder's of the fifth born, had taken him on what had been the afternoon prior. He had been wrong in his calculations. Time had not been on his side. Still, he had tried to tell them. It was a shameful thing to balk at the ritual, but he had been in a panic. The elder's had no patience for one who balked. Gormalth, the fifth born whose own feats had become legendary among the tribe, proceeded to hit him until he had lost consciousness. When he had awoken, it was to find himself stripped and placed upon the very tablet he now lay, surrounded by every elder of the fifth sect. They began the ritual.

The Tannarukk child opened his remaining eye, though he could not see, and attempted to move what had been the muscle that was his tongue. Blinding pain shot through him, forcing the eye shut, and he felt his conscious flee once again. No, he was not yet ready.


Growth


Shota crept through the darkness of the forest, silent as a breeze. The trained reflexes of a scout guided his every motion, stopping him from completing any step that denoted the strain upon a branch, or the force that might overturn a rock. At ten years he was hardly amongst the best within the Fifth, but he learned quickly, and few had proven so driven. He was determined to win the game this night. The Fifth Born were said to never rest while their duties called upon them, and chief among those was the patrol of the outer perimeter of the Black Leaf's territory. Of course, being a festering swamp, this did not often result in sovereign violation. They had, therefore, created their own system of challenges. Every night three of the Fifth Born would be tasked with perimeter guard, and the objective became finding their own comrades. To find one was a reward of one point, and to go without being found within two hours was met with two points. This night he would patrol with Ganath, a Fifth Born female of eighteen years, and Rog, a male of thirteen. It was well known that Ganath was among the best of the Fifth Born scouts when it came to patrol, having only been found a handful of times in the last two years. Still, he had spent the last month questioning all of those she had found, trying to find a pattern, and he thought he had one. He would find Ganath this night. She would speak of his skill.


Ganath One-Arm


Ganath slipped quietly through the dense undergrowth of the Nether Mountains, the night around her a cacophony of noise that ensured no notice would be taken of a Black Leaf scout. The orders that she had received earlier ran through her mind, each word dissected, repeated, and studied for potential flaws. The First Born that led this force was no fool, however, and she could find none.

Swertha, the First Born of nineteen years, towered over the rest of the force before her. She was tall amongst the Tannarukk, broad and muscular, and it was the lamentation of many of the Second Born's that she would produce for them a child of unparallelled strength within the Tribe. She stood now upon a rock, drenched by the downpour of the mountain rains, speaking to those who she had chosen to follow her. Were it not for their orc vision, she would be but a red eyed wraith within the darkness, but their kind was well adapted to the absence of light. Occasionally her oiled blade would lift, pointing to one of them in particular, and a command would be given.

Her first command, they all knew, but the First Born were often eager to make their name with battles. This one seemed more ambitious than most. They would cross out of Black Leaf land, through the Grass Snake's lands, and into the steep hills that were controlled by the Bloody Rain tribe. They would strike at them covertly, disguised as the Grass Snake warriors, and stir them up enough to cause the Grass Snake's trouble. Then, once safely ensconced back in their lands, they would strike at the Grass Snake's while they were busy defending the opposite border of their land. It was well known within the Black Leaf tribe that the Grass Snake's had grown bold over the past winter, pushing into Black Leaf territory and taking that which did not belong to them. They also bred like rabbits, and it would not hurt to cull their numbers.




Now dressed and painted in the manner of a Grass Snake, Ganath moved with the grace that would have given lie to her disguise if any had the senses to catch her. The Bloody Rain certainly did not. The giant Tannarukk of the Bloody Rain tribe had not made their name through subtlety. Rather, they were amongst the fiercest of the Nether Mountain tribes, carving out their hold upon the mountain side through sheer, bloody attrition. They did not often breed, even taking slaves to swell their small numbers, but what they lacked in force they made up for in skill. It was said one Bloody Rain Tannarukk were worth warriors of any other tribe. A handful were known to succeed against twenty to thirty armed opponents in a pitched battle. Swertha, luckily, had no intention of engaging them in such a fashion. Instead Ganath had been sent to find one of their patrols, and having succeeded in that, she now moved in the very direction they did. Roughly a mile now stood between them. She stopped as she came upon her next goal.

Before her stretched a small body of water, perhaps no wider than than feet in diameter. The small pond was surrounded by rocks, some of them with the telltale scorch marks of a campfire. This was a place the Bloody Rain stopped often, one they would prepare their food before bedding down for the night, perhaps. More importantly, it was the place they would quench their thirst. Kneeling in the mud at the circle of the pond, Ganath carefully removed a small pouch at her side. Within it was the ground up powder of the Purple Spot root, that which could kill a small animal if fed but a pinch. On this night she had a pound, but its effects would be somewhat deluded by the body of water. Still, they believed it was enough to put each of the Bloody Rain's patrol into a deep sleep. Enough to make them helpless as they died. Ganath finished pouring out the sack before going about removing the signs of her presence. That concluded, she retreated back into the growth of the forest.

It was not long before she could hear the clanking of the Bloody Rain's heavy armor. They did not have reason to hide, she knew, but she winced at their disregard. Four of them emerged from the trail into the camp ground. A female and a male, perhaps both of nine feet in height led the way. Tradition said that they would be brother and sister. The sword and the shield. When one died, death would soon follow the other. Behind them came a third Tannarukk, and at that ones side a small, female elf. The bedraggled creature moved as if a daze, her gaze never leaving the ground. One of their slaves no doubt, but there would be no mercy for that one. She would be left alive, with enough life to speak atleast, so that she could relate what happened to those that found her. The Boody Rain warriors set to making the camp, as well as their dinner, and within the hour they were upon their bedrolls.

Ganath watched it all from the thick leaf canopy of one of the forest trees. A hard rain had just begun descending from the sky, threatening to obscure even her vision. She was used to such things though. In the quiet pelting of the rain she moved out from her cover, silently crossing the ground to within a foot of the first Tannnarukk warrior. In the darkness and the rain she could just make out the first male to have entered the camp. The one sleeping beside him was presumably the sister. They stretched out in a line in such a fashion, with the female elf apparently joining the mass that was the third warrior. Just so. The god's had favored her this night. She took another step towards the male as she drew her knife. She would would thrust it through his eye while her hand descended upon his mouth. She was now standing over him, staring down at his rain pelted face. With the intake of a deep breath, she lunged. Her knife came down upon the warrior's face, pushing its way through his eyelid, but to her astonishment she found herself straining to push it further. Around her wrist was wrapped the hand of the Bloody Rain warrior. She had not seen him move, but she could feel the hand upon her like an iron shackle. She saw his eyes now, staring up at her, and a cruel smile formed at his lips. He had caught himself a slave. Perhaps she be killed merely for daring to cross them. A slow death that would be, she was sure.

The warrior made no sound when he moved to his feet, impossibly quick for his size, and Ganath found herself stumbling back a step. He had released her. More, he had drawn his blade as he came to his feet. Looking down, she could see that her escape had not been without its price. Where her arm had been was now merey a protruding stump. The warrior, she could see, still hand it in his other hand. He had cut off her arm. Could she continue as a scout with one arm? Would they force her out of the Black Leaf if she could not perform? Would she be scorned by the males? She was not aware of her body moving forward as she was assailed by these thoughts. Her body knew, even if her mind didn't, that now was not a time for thought. The warrior's eyebrows rose, clearly surprised, and he made a halfhearted swing at her with his blade. A clumsy, uncoordinated strike. Confusion mired his face. Perhaps he had drunk from the pond. She ducked beneath the blade, leapt into the air, and wrapped her legs around the Tannarukk's waist. Her hand drove upwards, her spare dagger in its grip, and drove its way into the giant's neck. Again and again she repeated the motion, thrusting through his skin atleast half a dozen times before they hit the ground. Her momentum had carried them backwards, collapsing them directly beside the female warrior. Ganath clenched her teeth, attempting to take control of her breathing, and stared with wide eyes at the female. Her knife was still lodged in the warriors throat, her hand awash in his hot blood. It ran out to soak his chest, a welcome warmth beneath the night's cold rain.

She knew that what had seemed like an eternity to her could only have been moments, and as her heartbeat slowed she could see that the mission was not blown. The others still slept. She struggled momentarily, trying to figure out the best way to rise without the use of both arms, and succeeded after allocating the motion to her legs. She now stared down at the female.  She moved stepped over her, setting her sight upon the other two. Her arm lay forgotten within the cold, bloody grip of the first warrior. She didn't need it. Tomorrow there would be war between the Bloody Rain and the Grass Snake.

[Iconoclast]

Mangled Feet & The Cave Mother




The cold wind howled as a whirl of dead leaves and first snow bombarded the tanarukk’s tent as she warmed up to a bottle of whisky. Another winter arrives for the tanarukk of the Black Leaf in the land of Barovia. With the recent establishment of their woodland camp, secure, hidden off the beaten path, the visits to the Drain became fewer, limited to supply runs: crates of whisky, opium from Hazlan, scrolls for Sevik, a variety of magical arrows for Shota, along with bags of foraged plants, molds, and shrooms that Morgle could work miracles with. She was growing impatient with Baldy, the Hazlan woman who was hoping that the Black Leaf would be a key player for an aspiring slave trade. Engaging in the slave trade in a world still widely unknown to the tanarukk was an endeavor that the Black Leaf weren’t yet convinced would be worth the risk.  It would, in the least, be an option on the table if it came to it.  It could be an effective means to remove some obstacles while getting paid handsomely. Swertha was more interested in the woman’s hooka, however, a powerful device; Swertha insisted upon having one for the tribe and now. Other offers had been made. Old Janos, it was whispered into her ears by one of Cezar’s caliban, would try to use the tanarukk as fodder on the front lines in his own war against the Grey Wizard and her elf.  Cezar, puffing on his rich cigars, offered the Black Leaf a seat at his table. But the Black Leaf are not without their own bloody purpose, a sacred one at that. Any pacts or alliances would have to be considered with great care and crafted in such a manner so as to feed their great beast, without putting its neck too far out into the field, before it was matured and ready. 


Snow was not the only arrival this day. She knelt before her shrine and poured whisky into a ceremonial bowl placed before a host of ivory figurines shaped into the likeness of the orc pantheon, adorned by various skulls taken from ogre chiefs, desert trolls, humans, and dire bear’s, symbols of the Black Leaf’s growing prowess.


With reverence, she addressed the gods:


“I prayed for the deliverance of a shaman, dreamed of a mangled footed arrival, and so it has come to pass, the coming of Torngarsuk, a Fourth Born. Even here, in this human infested world in which orc-kind have been denied, your power reaches. I give you praise. The shaman will be protected, his council invaluable, and as his magic grows strong, so will the Black Leaf.


Her red smoldering eyes turned to Luthric, the orc goddess of fertility, who gave Gruumsh his son, Bahgtru.


“Cave Mother, for our tribe to swell, Rudd and I must soon take seed, the strongest of seed, to give birth to the army we are destined to become so that we can fulfill our sacred purpose in this world that has denied orc-kind of a place at the table. Rudd’s wide hips are destined to give birth to many at a time! She should be the first of many mothers to come! I await your sign! I await a mate with worthy seed that I will take as my own, as I please, when I please, as your wisdom dictates!”

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[See below]

[Iconoclast]

Praise for the Plague



The troll’s throaty, painful cry filled the sky; a siren’s call to the ravenous vultures overhead.  The bright sun was a white-hot furnace in Har’akir. While the duergar and drow clung to what little shade could be found nearby, the tanarukk relished and thrived in the glaring, bright heat. Upon the baking sand, swirling large bird-shaped shadows circled the horned tanarukk; the maimed troll lied helplessly at her armored feet. Swertha, the Firstborn, did not often give thanks to Yutris, but with the rise of plague in the lands of Barovia, there was good cause and cheer. Her mighty barbed spear in hand, Troll-bane, she lifted it high overhead, her voice boisterous and booming so as to be heard by the gods.


“Lord of Maggots!  I, Firstborn of the Black Leaf, give you due tribute!  Praise for the plague that delivers retribution upon the filthy villagers! May their village walls become their tomb! White Hands, Lord of the Towards, make a grave so vast that as a beast it will swallow our foes whole!  Let the humans, the elves, the dwarves, suffer plague and death behind their sheltered walls and homes, while we, the Black Leaf, roam the wilds bold!”


 Gripping the shaft of the barbed spear with both hands, she straddled the captive troll. Her prayer’s amen but the piercing of the troll’s heart through bone.  

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Whisky Womb of Fire




To the misfits’ astonishment, the horned, red-eyed orc, bare-claw handed, hoisted the scalding black cauldron of bubbling stew overhead, compliments of Biter’s putrid culinary prowess, and poured it into her hungry, gaping mouth, which is a beast in its own right. Dropping the cauldron to the sewer floor with a loud clamor, Swertha’s eyelids closed, standing motionless and quiet.  They watched, holding their breath, caliban, tielfing, misfits all, wide-eyed, waiting, until abruptly, a horrendous belch erupted with raunchy laughter.  “I can eat anything!!” she boasted, pounding her brawny, armored breast.

Hallot, a Barovian beast of a caliban, looked to what remained within the hot cauldron’s bubbling stew. Perhaps feeling compelled to represent the native caliban of the Drain, not to be outdone by an outlandish freak, the caliban gripped the sides of cauldron.  Grimacing, his flesh burning, the caliban poured the scalding stew down a raw throat, then roared “Mushrooms!?!?’ in disgust, throwing the cauldron across the room, sending Mad Doc scampering away with high pitched curses.

Big Bronkus, Crawler, and the motley crew of the Black Leaf roared in howling laughter.  But Hallot, the caliban, stood taller in their eyes. He rose to the challenge.  But would he rise to them all?   

Swertha roared, “Trial by fire! Trial by fire!! Trial by FIRE!!!”  The contest was on. One of the tielfings grinned as he flipped through familiar pages of his spellbook, until finding the necessary incantation. The book snapped shut as he stood before the brimstoned tanarukk. The tielfing’s archaic words rippled the damp, sewer air with bizarre utterances.  For a jolting second, all the heat seemed to seep out from the air and the surrounding bodies. Then, placing his palm upon her forehead, between the horns, she instantly combusted into an enormous inferno of fire.   

She roared with ferocious laughter as flames engulfed her. Wide-eyed, the other denizens watched on in disbelief.  Swertha’s red eyes burned with an equal intensity. Then, the flames dissipated into the hot, smoldering air. The misfits all exchanged looks, for there was not a hint of the slightest of burns upon her coarse, green skin.  Together, they all shouted “Trial by fire! Trial by fire!!” Their voices echoing beyond the Drain and into the dark, dank sewer tunnels. A Vallaki garda on patrol on the streets above, would curse the depths below and move on.

Attention shifted to Hallot, the caliban. Shaking his head adamantly, “No!” he rumbled, “Fire burns!”  But another stepped forward, without prompting. Rozlin, the winged tielfing, who’s fettered wings could not soar, but sure did burn, as she combusted into flames at Sevik’s touch. But she burned beautifully in their eyes. Scorched, lit feathers fluttered upon waves of heat, floating into the darkness of the Drain.  Hunger swelled, as well, as she and then others, each became engulfed in fire.  Flesh roasting, until a crisp crumbling to the ground. And there was Swertha, of the Black Leaf, approving, baptizing each flaming roast in turn with bottles of whisky, howling with cruel delight.  “This is making me awfully hungry!!” she’d shout between uncontrollable fits of snorting laughter.   

Beyond the Drain’s door, drifting past Gol’s nose, rats and sewer beast lifted their whiskered noses, as the scent of cooked flesh drifted down dark and dreary tunnels. A blood frenzy had been ignited.

All but one goose remained uncooked.  Hallot. The caliban.  Reluctance overcome, refusing to be outdone, the brute came to stand before the burned and singed Sevik.  “Trial by fire!!” the raw throated caliban roared, and burned he did, until he was withering and roasting under a blanket of fire, as the Black Leaf, misfits of the Drain, howled on in frenzied approval, with each having been born from a whisky womb of fire.

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Time Without Measure



Within the thick, pervasive mists, there was neither sunrise nor sunset. How long had the tanarukk been wandering like this? She had no way of knowing.  In the beginning, she measured out her time by whisky and opium, but by now, she had run out of each. In their stead, her horned brow was furrowed and lined by a near total loss of faith.

Illneval, the One Eye’s lieutenant, had sent her and her scouts to this world, destined to conquer. So she had insisted upon their unintended, queer arrival to this land. What other reason could there be? The evidence was everywhere she looked: Barovia, Invidia, Dementileu, Hazlan, Har’akir….. there were no signs of orc or tanarukk tribes anywhere to be found. The lands were infested with humans, elves, dwarves, and other such monstrosities, while the orc had been denied a rightful place. But that would change; it must. A shaman had a dream, he told her, and in that dream, she, Swertha, First of the Black Leaf, led Illneval’s vanguard into conquest. From her great womb, she would give rise to a mighty tribe, and the constellation of stars in the night would tell her story forevermore.

But that seemed long, long ago. Utterly alone and without reprieve, seamless day upon endless day, she gnawed and chewed upon her discontent. Where are my promised armies? Where is a male with a seed worthy of my great womb?  

Increasingly, she felt abandoned and forsaken.  Whenever her mind took notice of her self-pity, she became disgusted and enraged with herself. She’d thrash her own breast, just to bleed, to feel something, anything, other than the relentless ache within her forlorn heart. She’d charge heedlessly into the mists around her, in a rage, praying that the some foul beast worthy of her bite might face her and deliver an end to the pointlessness of it all—this life without child, tribe, or kingdom.

To die with honor, was all the hope she could muster, as the tanarukk wandered on, and on, and on, plunging heedlessly through the mists and grey.

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Perfect Bloody Form



Not much had changed in the Drain in the eyes of the Black Leaf.  Some things forever remain the same. To reach the Drain, the tanarukk –always- had to trudge through the shit of the villagers. This –always- inspired the most creative of curses: “Always reeks of Yutru’s scabby, hairy ass!” Hoth –always- had the next worst batch of weak beer (even the gnats, notorious for ‘death by beer’ found it entirely uninteresting.) And yet, despite the sewery Drain’s dingy qualities, the Black Leaf suffered it because there was not a single bar in the whole wide world of mists that would suffer the All-Girth of the Black Leaf for long.

Only the surface of things changed—some of the faces, the names--but in essence, the dirty game was in perfect bloody form.  The forever scheming and ambitious Skinny was no longer the back room’s public face; another conniver, certainly, would take his place. Whenever a vacuum opens up, there is a mad scramble for positioning, while Resker “Knives” sits in the back room, biting coin after coin with his crooked, yellow teeth, waiting to see who’ll rise from the carnage. While the tiefling Cassandra had left the Drain, the tielfing Thaius Black had emerged from Resker’s backroom with a pleased smile. It wasn’t the rising up that bothered the All-Girth, it was the required stooping and bending of knee.  If pride is a sin, as the Ezrites says, Swertha, the All-Girth of the Black Leaf, was a Sinner with a capital ‘S’.

“Why you’s not come works for me?” Knives had asked for the second time. The offer was not all together without appeal. There could be certain advantages to holding some semblance of power in the Drain. It is also true that the Black Leaf derive some pleasure from the game. “There are more ways than one to feed our Beast,” the All-Girth had been known to say. But for Illneval’s Firstborn, to bend knee and submit to another who did not worship the orc gods? “These knees be too proud to bend and kneel upon a sewer floor,” was her answer to Resker Knives. When she knelt, it was always outside in the wilds, paying homage to The One Eye and the Horde Learder, upon the troll-blooded sands or high upon the rugged mountains. An alliance was forged instead, and a dingy room to lease. And when the Drain was imploding, at war with itself, with its various factions, the Black Leaf remained a neutral force—wild and free to come and go as they please, always tending to the feasting of the Black Leaf’s Beast. Over the years, many of the cults or factions within the Drain had come and gone, their names eventually swallowed whole by the stew, or their skulls mounted upon spikes—a message written in the language of the dead.

The Black Leaf played the game, as well as outcasts might, being foreigners without established ties and gods deaf to their plight, but she was not playing for the same precise prize. They’d rather form alliances with all worthy sides, and play upon a much larger board than grow fat or bored in the sewers of villagers that they abhorred.

It had been many months since any Black Leaf had visited the Drain. And though it is questionable as to whether the tanarukk or orc have any word for ‘friend’ in their native tongue, there was some inkling of pleasure to find the broad-shouldered barkeep Hoth on duty, with Nevazut sitting upon a lopsided stool. Nevazut was an old timer, and in caliban years, he was nearly as old as they come, given the short life expectancy of most twists. Swertha attributed this to him being one of the smartest of his kind. While caliban like Skinny were desperate to be feared and held in high esteem, Nevazut was sly and patient, lurking behind the scenes. It was Nevazut who had whispered caution in her ears, back when Old Janos was seeking alliance with Black Leaf, trying to turn the ferocious tanarukk towards his nemesis, the Grey Witch. And his council, as it panned out, had been wise.

The tiefling, Thaius Black, was a curious matter. The All-Girth could barely tolerate the feather in his hat and the tielfing’s chosen attire, but he was a smooth talker, with some talent, he claimed, for magic, with two daggers upon his hip. The way the tielfing spoke vaguely reminded her of Sevik, who’s dealings with a foul hag had led him to ruin. Had Sevik heeded the All-Girth’s warning not to deal with the hag, aside from ripping out her black heart, he’d be wielding –big magic- and power at her side.

“So Firstborn,” Black began as Hoth set the tielfing’s drink down, “do you wish to continue your lease in the Drain.” She approached him, her snout sniffing, searching for what truths, lies, or powers hid beneath his red skin. She spit into her hairy palm, he spit into his, and they shook on it, with a hefty exchange of coin. Resker would have something else to chew upon, with crooked, yellow teeth, and the game would play on in perfect bloody form.  

[Iconoclast]

All But The Orc



The Vistani wagon lurched into motion, an extra beast of burden put to work to handle the heavy load within. “I should double the rate next time,” he muttered. A powerful odor of brimstone and old sweat assaulted the Vistani man’s nostrils, forcing him to tie his kerchief as a shield around his nose. He lit a stick of sage for good measure, before shifting his full attention to the mistway ahead.  

“Tell me, if you will, All-Girth.  What happened to the Black Leaf?” The tiefling shifted in his robes, his staff resting in the corner near, perhaps a little nervous that his inquiry might upset his newly acquired travel companion.

Her red eyes sparked to life in his direction, an angry glow within the shadows of the vardo’s dark interior. As if sensing that the magi meant no insult to the implication that the Black Leaf’s summit to power had come and gone, the burning glow of the tanarukk’s eyes began to fade and cool.  She drew back the window’s curtain to behold a wall of impenetrable fog, staring into the obscurity of the world that had ensnared her, where the past, present, and future all swirled together at once.

“When the All-Girth stood no taller than a pimply faced runt, the elder shaman of the Black Leaf, told the First-Born the story of how our world had come to be, and why the Black Leaf had been forced into ever-lasting war.  In the beginning, there was only darkness and chaos. No light. No sound. No mountains, no swamps, no lands, no sun nor moon, nor races of orc, dwarf, elf, nor of man.

From the first flames that fueled the forge of the One Eye’s mighty spear came the light of day. The sun, placed high above for all beings to share.  Into the dark of Shargaas’ night, the sparks from Ilneval’s anvil made the stars. Never had such splendid gifts been given so freely.  From the One Eye’s gift of light, the gods could now give shape to the world and its many things.

From the chaos, the races were molded into their god’s likeness, just as arrow heads are shaped from stone and bone, and swords and spears from the metals and hammers upon the forge. A place was needed for the world’s many tribes, and so it was that mountains, swamps, streams, fields, and forests were created to be divided among them all.  All of the gods met and drew lots for the parts of the world in which their people would dwell. The human gods drew the lot that allowed humans to dwell where they pleased. The elven gods drew the green forests, the dwarven gods drew the high mountains, the gnomish gods the rocky, sunlit hills, and the halfing gods picked the lot that gave them the fields and meadows. Then the assembled gods turned to the orcish gods and laughed loud and long.

"All the lots are taken!" they jeered, arrogantly. "Where will your people dwell, One-Eye? There is no place left!"

There was silence upon the world then, as The One-Eye lifted his great iron spear and stretched it over the world. The shaft blotted the sun over a great part of the lands as he spoke:

"No! You Lie! You have rigged the drawing of the lots, hoping to cheat me and my followers. But One-Eye never sleeps. One-Eye sees all. There is a place for orcs and tanarukk to dwell…here!" he bellowed, and his spear pierced the Nether Mountains, opening a mighty rift and chasms. "And here!" and the spearhead split the hills and made them shake and covered them in dust. "And here!" and the black spear gouged the meadows and made them bare.

"There!" roared He-Who-Watches triumphantly, and his voice carried to the ends of the world. "There is where the orcs and tanarukk shall survive! There they will thrive, and multiply, and grow stronger, and a day will come when they cover the world, and they will slay all of your collective peoples! Tanarukk and orc shall inherit the world you sought to cheat me of!"

Swertha, the All-Girth, shifted her attention from the window to the tiefling, a thick aura of nostalgia, loss, and pride in the brimstone air.

“When the Black Leaf came to discover themselves in the misty lands of Barovia, the Black Leaf searched high and low, from mountain top to mountain top, from valleys to the depths below, but no place for the orc and tanarukk had been found. Humans!  Dwarves!  Halflings! And despicable elves!  Even the mangy ogres!  All had been given a place under the sun and the moon, a place to dwell, a place to thrive and call home!  

Beyond the borders of Barovia, the Black Leaf did scour and search!  But land after land, island after island, the heavy burden of truth weighed upon the All-Girth and her tribe:  All but the Orc had been given a place in this mist-cursed world. One by one, the leaves of the Black Leaf had been scattered and blown away into the Mists, until the All-Girth found herself wandering the Mists alone.”

The wagon came to an abrupt stop, with the Vistani man, kerchief over his nose, holding a burning stick of sage, urged the two outlanders to be on their way. The sullen, morose tanarukk grunted as she heaved herself up and out into the night air, the tiefling right behind, his staff gently glowing as stars sparkled overhead. Turning to him, she spoke, “One of our shamans had a dream…..a vision….but that is a tale for another day.”

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As large, hairy and horned beasts are apt to do, the tanarukk rubbed up against the rough bark of the tree, reducing the noble tree to a scratch-pad. While paladins were scouring the hot sands of Har’akir seeking powerful lich to slay, the All-Girth was battling a powerful itch. And when it was not the incessant itch that was frustrating her, it was her loins. When in heat, she’d ram her large, sharp horns into the bark of the tree, rutting, as stag and other horned beasts do.

In any bawdy tavern in any village throughout the Core, you might hear, “I’d not bed you even if you were the last man alive.” For the All-Girth, this was quite literally the case. She had come across only one tanarukk male within the last few years. Shota and Morgle, the two mute tanarukk scouts who had arrived with her, she presumed dead or lost forever in the mists. There was to her knowledge only one living male tanarukk still living in this god forsaken world. And she had already taken him, at her whim, taking his seed into her womb where she prayed a shaman’s dream would come true: that she’d give birth to a mighty army, and tanarukk would swarm the land. That would be something—to populate this cursed world with her offspring.

But the seed did not take, and she cursed the gods for forsaking her yet again. She’d consider taking the seed of a mighty orc, but even the orc-bloods were impure, for the race of orc had been denied a place in this mist-cursed world. The occasional half-orc could be found, but it would take an exceptional half-breed to tempt the All-Girth to honor their seed in her mighty womb. She was a pariah, even among miscreants. Moody and sullen with unrelenting frustration, killing, the thrill of riding that razor’s edge between life and death was her only salvation from the boredom that slays the spirit and mind of meaningless days.

[Iconoclast]

Loss in the mists

Swertha, the Mighty All-Girth, Firstborn of the Black Leaf Tribe

Loss in the mists

The wizened, white-horned shaman’s vision, god of Orc, the One-Eye

Loss in the mists

Hot-blooded tanarukk, once too big and bold, too bold and big to die

Loss in the mists

A putrid, proud pariah, a mangy menace, now no home, no hope, nor tribe

Loss in the mists

Glory gone forever--no Shota, no Morgle, no future for the Black Leaf Tribe

Loss in the mists

Glory gone forever--a shaman’s prophecy, lavish and full as an elvish lie

Loss in the mists

Bitter and battered, unhallowed blood-lust, unanswered silence of a long dead drum

Lost in the mists is the All-Girth

And boredom’s beast is what she’s found,

As tasteless as a Ghastrian feast, fresh meat’s misery

The lonely pariah is bound.

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Her Best Days Behind Her



She had not been invited, but nonetheless, the brooding, horned tannaruk filed into the Vistani wagon along with the rest of a large company of warriors who were setting off to find adventure in the dangerous, beautiful land of Hazlan. Her presence in the small quarters of the wagon could hardly go unnoticed--quite the opposite. There was nothing inconspicuous about the towering, demon-blooded she-orc. The distinctive odor of brimstone and her massive, flea-infested, black-furred girth was an immediate assault upon the senses of those already crammed tightly into the vardo. While the once proud leader of the Black Leaf Tribe used to care more for her hygiene, at least up to orcish standard, in the last year she had let herself go.  With no tribe or home, she had become what she detested: a putrid pariah. There had been a time, in which very few would risk agitating the All-Girth, or dare lay hands upon her, but today, it would become painfully obvious to her, that that time had passed and gone.

Humans clad in steel, enchanted armor exchanged annoyed looks as the uninvited orc invaded their space and sensibility. Just as the Vistani driver announced that they were about to depart, one of the humans stepped towards the All-Girth and yelled,

“You’re NOT –wanted- here, ORC! Your kind have No Place among men! Eat shit and die, orc-bitch!”

And just as the wagon lurched into motion, the warrior shoved the once mighty Firstborn of the Black Leaf Tribe out the back, sending her tumbling to the ground with a heavy, indignant thud. Celebratory laughter erupted from the wagon as it drove off. A few bystanders left at the camp gawked as she shoved herself back to her feet in a hurry, as if afraid of being subjected to further public ridicule. She hurled a half-drunk whisky bottle through the misty air towards the wagon, just as the mists swallowed the wagon up from sight. The bottle shattered against a tree, its contents lost, leaving her with not only no company, but nothing to drink, other than the bitterness of sobering time and space.

Sullen and filled to the brim with disdain for the cards that life in the mists continued to deal her, she found a good tree to scratch up against, for the fleas, unlike her previous company, continued to find her agreeable.

She didn’t remember thinking about it at all, but as night approached, she found herself heading in the direction of Vallaki, where her unfortunate beginning in this world had begun. While she had always detested the Caliban for choosing to dwell within the Drain, in the sewer-filth of the human villagers that abhorred them, the hard truth remained that it was the only bar in the Demiplane of Dread that would not only tolerate her kind, but even welcome it. With very little else to lose in life, the mangy, pariah, with her best days behind her, took to Old Svalich road to take up company with those willing to suffer it. The Drain.

[Iconoclast]

Eberath, the Tiefling



The loud, ridiculing laughter of the men who had publically shamed the All-Girth could still be heard echoing within the surrounding mists, as the pride-wounded tanarukk squatted against a sullen tree, left to wallow in bitter and lonely anger. That was when a raven fell dead from the sky overheard, landing with a blood-feathered thud upon her horned head. A small scroll, a parchment, was tied with twine to the bird’s corpse, couriered by an unseen envoy.  Upon closer inspection, the parchment was beset by small tears and rips as if clutched in the claws of a small creature.  The faint stench of brimstone emanated from the rolled parchment. The tanarukk unrolled it and began to read:

All-Girth,

I pray that this correspondence will reach you in time.  Given the penchant for my courier’s sense of mischief, I remain cautiously optimistic that this missive will be properly secured within your clawed grasp.  While it is beyond my stratum to make such requests, given I once devoted fealty to the Black Leaf one long-passed, bitter cold Barovian winter, I beseech the mighty and venerable All-Girth to grant me the privilege of an audience. 

I wish to entreat you with the promise of purpose, the allure of satiating your bloodlust and sirens’ call of the opportunity for both victory and vengeance.  Long have many heavily booted feet trod across these lands, unobstructed in their path of dictating their moral objections, righteous indignations and sermons of lineages of purity.  Those of us with noetic aptitude, of which I am keenly aware that you possess given the spark of intellect behind those red-rimmed and blood-shot eyes, are aware of the inherent advantageous traits that make us of a fiendish lineage superior to those of the mundane. 

I digress and will move towards the subject matter at hand.  I seek a simple task, one of which you will find amicable and will appeal to your intrinsic nature.  I gather all that are in accordance towards a common purpose.  We should sweep upon these lands like a scourge; decimating and cleansing the infestation that serves as a blight against the will of those with the strength to enforce their impetus.  Plans have already been set into motion and allies are being gathered.  The vile, revered and feared All-Girth should stand at the forefront of any such movement should it be of significance.  I would see that our enemies last fleeting breaths and lucid thoughts are of remembrance of the stench of brimstone, the deep eviscerating wounds of steel upon flesh and the sounds of howling laughter that continue to haunt my own dream state since I met a similar end to your wicked and unyielding blades.

Let no man question the sovereignty and strength that our intrinsic nature provides us.   We will serve as testament to such as we lay waste to those who would stand in our way and leave only a wake of blood and visceral carnage.   I will await your arrival in the Drain with bated breath.

-E

Towering at the bar, just a week after honoring the Bookworm’s summons, Hoth placed another cheap bottle of whisky before the mangy tannaruk. The usual assembly of misfits and miscreants were present, and everyone talking about how the sell-sword known as the Gray Wolf had slain The Mystic within the Drain. She had been absent when the killing took place. Would she have intervened on his behalf?  Perhaps. Perhaps not. But now, it mattered not. 

She loathed lingering below the village that abhorred her, and so she had taken to the fresh air of the night, where the stench of villager piss and shit did not constantly serve to remind her of just how low the once mighty Firstborn had fallen. She had been absent for but a few hours, and within that small window of time, the esteemed magi had been slaughtered. 

She looked over the letter again, finding it strange how the tiefling’s words seemed so alive, she could hear his cunning voice in her ear, even though he was dead and gone. Oh, how the tiefling knew just what to say to her and how to say it. “Plans have already been set into motion and allies are being gathered…..We will serve as testament to such as we lay waste to those who would stand in our way and leave only a wake of blood and visceral carnage.”

And so there she stood across from Hoth, flea-infested, with no glory, with no purpose, with a belly full of bad whisky, and a belly stuffed full of empty promises, as the tiefling’s once proud, infernal blood now stained and made its bold claim upon the Drain’s sewer floor, as if to say to all, “I, Eberath, The Mystic, the Bookworm, was here.” 

[Iconoclast]

With One Good Seed


It wasn’t every day that the hairy, horned tanarukk received mail. Not every year, for that matter. The last letter had been from the renowned Bookworm: Eberath. And the glory and riches that had been promised never came to fruition: not even close. The All-Girth had come to expect the worst from everyone and in everything, so long as she remained a prisoner of the mists. None of Swertha’s countless sacrifices to the orc gods did a lick of good for her here.

Other tanarukk of the Black Leaf had arrived with the All-Giirth, giving her a sense of purpose, and for a time their ranks swelled with all sorts of other miscreants and outcasts from the Drain: tieflings, fey’ri, drow, duergar, caliban.  But one by one, over the years, each was either lost or murdered by “civilized” society.  It was as if all the murderous gods of the mists and their peoples conspired to exterminate them all. Eventually, there was but one pariah of the Black Leaf left: the All-Girth.

“The greedy gods here have denied the orc blooded a place in this cursed world, just as the gods of man and elf had tried to cheat the One Eye back home!” she’s been heard bemoaning too many times at Hoth’s bar.

What the infernal blooded orc desired above all was to escape and return to the Nether Mountains, to reunite with the Black Leaf tribe. There was glory and fortune there for her. Here? None.

Her next best hope (and this hope, itself, a dying creature on its last leg) is that her patron god, Illneval, will send her a tanarukk mate, or at least a full-blooded orc, who’s seed she would take into her womb, so that she could give birth to a litter of tanarukk, who would in turn give birth to their own, until the All-Girth’s children would one day swarm the Balinok Mountains and make it their own. From the mountains, they could then raid the same villages and cities that had sought to snuff the last of the tanarukk out. Nothing would make her prouder and more delighted than to see the likes of Radu fleeing in outright terror. She still remembered her first day in the mistslands, and it was Radu and his bald-headed twin, his hammer, that served as Vallaki's warm welcome, as she was dumped down into the well, left to die in a pool  of her own warm blood.

All this, could be achieved, if but for one good tanarukk man. One good seed.

But it had been many years since she came across any tanarukk, and the last one, Padduk, his seed was too weak, leaving her womb as barren as the sands of Har’akir. But as some know, Har'akir is not nearly as barren as it might first appear.

Hoth handed the moody, cankerous tanarukk a crumbled up parchment. Her red, infernal eyes narrowed to read the words that greet her:

All-Girth,

The reputation of the Black Leaf still echoes in the Drain and beyond, and there's a need for mute muscle of late. It pays well, and is far beyond the current mess called the Drain. What say you?

She read the signature, and then remembered the face that belonged to the letter’s author. She knew the author as a real fighter, one who had earned her respect. Staring at the empty whisky bottles that littered the bar top, she wadded the parchment up, lit the edge on fire, and then tossed the wad of burning paper into her razor-jawed mouth.

A puff of smoke billowed from her hairy nostrils as she laughed.

A half hour later, carrying her bags of treasure and weapons, she left the Drain, once again, not bothering with any formalities.

To the south of Vallaki, as peasants worked the spring fields, sowing seeds of their own, they were alarmed at what they first mistook as a rampaging bull, running on all fours, with mighty horns. Then the “hairy, horned bull” stood up on its hind legs, and flicked them all off with a mighty middle finger, before leaving Vallaki, and those who wished her dead, behind.