RP:Vargan's Vengeance

Synopsis: Vargan comes to Gualon to get blood for what Mathollak did to his wife. Unfortunately, the orcs suffer a few good losses in the path to vengeance.

==Orc Encampment== Situated deep within the western tract of swamp land lies Gualon’s orc encampment. A scattering of huts in different shapes and sizes dot the sizable clearing, arranged in clusters that denote the various tribes of orcs within the settlement. These various tribes are designated by totems fashioned from the sprawling roots of the banyan trees nestled amongst the murky swamp waters. The centerpiece of the encampment is the largest, most decorated totem pole which presides over an immense fire pit. This carved monolith suggests the cluster of huts just beyond its boundaries belongs to the Orc Chieftain, his family, and other members of his tribe. The earth has been stamped down in this area, indicative of the councils convened here at behest of the Chieftain. Sometimes these conclaves result in war; more frequently, they are used to settle internal disputes within the orc community. But more often than not, the fire pit is used for numerous rousing and raucous festivities that celebrate victory in battle, an orc youth’s personal rites of passage, or perhaps just a day of good hunting.

Already, there are bodies. Many of the orc encampment's finest warriors have been brutally dispatched. Orcs of honor and experience, pious to their lord Rothik and their chieftain. Standing over their bloodied corpses are more orcs, members of an exiled tribe of Aramoth worshippers. It was easy for them to blend in with the others, take positions, and assassinate their targets. The retreats are already cut off, they organized a ring around the entire encampment, one that would tighten around the wooden huts with their thatched roofs. Vargan leads them, and signalled from the center of the village. The signal? He set off the ambush, signalling its commencement when he arrived from the chieftain's longhouse with the wise, burly, middle-aged orc himself. "Bring the one called Mathollak to me, or watch your chieftain die," Vargan called out to the orcs. Papa Thrug emerged from his hut...followed by Mathollak. Both of them carried great weapons, but Thrug looked too old to be wielding his. He tried to appear proud but his back hunched and stooped, forcing him to lean on his axe-hammer for support. Mathollak stepped toward Vargan, the exiles' leader. "I'm here," the Hero of Freedom called back, then turned his hand up impatiently, "What is this?"

The ferocious wind that battered the orcs on the ground was even more violent several hundred feet up in the air where a griffon carried Gualon’s first reinforcements: Sargaso and Terra. Sarge recognized the fur-laden, steel-heavy garb of the Aramoth-loving clan. He pointed out the invasion force to Terra and explained, “Those guys are from Frostmaw. They worship Aramoth.” The local Rothik-worshippers are outfitted in leathers and bone, with colorful feathers sewn into pauldrons to denote rank. Mathollak, the only human, sticks out like a sore thumb. Again Sarge mansplains to Terra (ignorant of the fact she too is a Gualon local (royalty?)), “That’s Mattie. Raised by orcs, grew up in Gualon. He sent the griffon.” The griffon descends until it is just 30 feet in the air. It circles above the outer wall of the invading orcs. Sarge shouts towards Mathollak, “What’s going on?” He’d like a plan before deciding whether or not to touch ground.

Terra had only recently started venturing back into Gualon but she could already sense the unrest. This was initially chalked up to the absence of Tristram and she had hoped to remedy that by reclaiming that mantle but it was a slow process when it came to orc communication. Most already knew who she was, she had been the First Lady for awhile, but now she was seeking to strike that title and just take on Governor. Things worked a little slower in the swamps though, especially with her attention split between seizing this opportunity and those in Rynvale. Mathollak's summons seemed to be an answer to a question that she had been asking for awhile - where did she need to prioritize? Gualon came first, it would seem. She listened to Sarge explain the situaton, gestured to his friend who she also recgonized from the tournament battles she had witnessed in Larket. Friend of a friend, it would seem. Terra seemed interested to learn about where he had grown up and briefly wondered if their pasts had crossed at some point in the past. "They're making a statement by attacking the war tribe first. It must have been an ambush. If this turns bad, we'll need to summon the other tribes but the horn of summons is usually," that's not said with confidence, "in that one," she'd point towards a hut just off the main one, within the chieftan's sector and it looked like it had suffered at the hands of the attack from Aramoth's chosen. Even if they managed to summon the other tribes, it's unclear with the recent unrest if they'd still show. It was on the to-do list.

Vargan held Riquor, the Orc chieftain, by the back of his collar and forced him to kneel. The point of a large glittering, bronze-colored sword blade was pushed to the back of Riquor's throat. Did Mathollak truly not remember? The letter he sent, and the package? Containing the head of Vargan's Wife!? "This is retribution!" Vargan shouted. "Are you going to let all these people die for your crimes?" Mathollak recognized some elements vaguely as if recalling from a dream. The armor was familiar, the golden fire burning in Vargan's eyes was familiar. Followers of Aramoth, the orc tribe from Frostmaw. Months ago, one of them attacked his people in Gualon's city center, and he cut her head off. Sargaso said he shouldn't but he was enthralled by Delisha's enchantments. He could barely remember the details. Then he saw Sargaso and Terra circling overhead. "Fine," Mathollak says solemnly, and he drops his axe, and walks slowly to Vargan and gives himself up. Another orc comes from behind Vargan to snap manacles around Mathollak's wrists. He gets one and attempts the other...only to find that his arm has grown to grotesque proportions, too large for the other ring to snap shut. "Heh. Sorry!" He shoves this ugly hand hard into the minion's chest, sending him rolling into Vargan. The minion bounces off Vargan's glittering bronze armor, but it's enough for Riquor to roll away and gain some distance. The other Aramothy zealots descend on the town, engaging the small amount of fighters that remain.

"Shit!,” Sarge says as Mathollak slams his hideous fist into an Aramoth zealot. Whenever possible, the paladin prefers de-escalation. It’s a recurring point of contention between him and Mathollak, whose bloodlust leaves no room for diplomacy. Sarge leans forward to give the griffon rider clear instruction. “Hold on,” he says to Terra. He grips her knee to keep her steady as the griffon swoops up into the air at gnarly 90 degrees, makes a single loop, then descends, talons out, on a line of Aramothian orcs. The half-eagle half-lion knocks down orcs like a bowling ball bearing down on pins. The griffon stops several yards away from the fight, so the passengers can hop off. Sarge plants one hand on the saddle under him and swings his legs over the side in one fluid, gravity-defying move. Gray, calm eyes look back at Terra to see what she will do. Does she fight? What’s her style? From the air or the ground? No time for chit-chat. A contingent of seven orcs are closing in on them. “Be careful,” he says to her, then turns towards the onslaught of orcs to face them with the same oceanic calm that has settled in his focused stare. He unhooks the canteen from his belt with one hand, grips pulls the hidden fish-shaped pendant out from under his shirt. He whispers a quick prayer, then throws a few ounces of water in the direction of the orcs. Those droplets sudden gush into a massive wave that surges forward and throws the orcs back, away from the griffon. A second wave follows the first, crashing down hard, making it impossible for anything on foot to get near Terra and the griffon. With the wave-wall in place, he looks towards the center of the encampment for Mathollak and Papa Thrug. Instead he finds Riquor, the chieftain, and joins his side in the fight. “What’s the plan, friend?” Sarge unhooks his sailor’s knife from his belt and throws it at an incoming soldier, impaling him right in the eye, clean through to the brain.

Terra probably said a word very similiar to the one Sarge used. She'd say it again as the griffon took off and even though he had warned her to hold on, which she did, there had been little time to prepare for all that transpired. Still, once steed and stomach settled, she'd follow Sarge off the saddle though she held back from the fray for now. It seemed that was the right decision when there's sudden waves of water crashing down on any that came near. While the wall was handy, the mud it created from the hard packed dirt was not and she'd squelch through that to join the band of Gualon's defenders, though she kept a close watch on the hut she had mentioned before. "Control your impulses!" That was half shouted at the Hero of Freedom which is ironic, given it stemmed from the elf being able to control hers in that moment. "This is NOT how we settle things." Riquor knew the rules of the tribes - they often settled things with violence so this was nothing new but all of this bloodshed had been caused because of the newly crowned champ had been reckless and brought this to Gualon's doorstep. The body count suggested it was too late to try this by tribal law and the descending orcs confirmed as much. "We're going to need help... I trust you all can handle this while I get reinforcements?" Well, while she tried. Again, this wasn't the best of times for a summons but desperate times... Plus, war helped to solve all wounds, right? The inquiry was more so to Sarge and Math since Riq, while intelligent enough to follow some of the common tongue, is only just refrained from unleashing his savage side that has kept him in the role of Chieftan for some time.

Shouting erupted from all around as orc men rushed their women and children into their homes. Vargan may have lost his prisoner for the moment, but he wasn't close to losing a fight. He hadn't in ages. "Fight me! Man to man!" Mathollak shouted at him, but Vargan only grinned as two more zealots engaged Delisha's Bloodknight. Mathollak has missed the point. This wasn't about honor or simple revenge. It was punishment! And finishing the mission his wife started. To create a war between Gualon and Frostmaw. The zealots outnumbered the remaining warriors nearly two to one, and though simple craftsmen had taken up arms against them, it wouldn't be enough to even out this fight. Even Terra and Sargaso wouldn't be enough! They would lose. All of them, if they couldn't get reinforcements. Vargan finds Riquor again, engages him. He stands arrogantly, taking no stance, daring Riquor to take his best shot. As soon as Sargaso joins Riquor, Vargan notices a momentary lapse in the champion's defense. He winds up a fist and slugs Riquor in the mouth, taking him easily off his feet. "The plan? Show everyone how weak you all are," Vargan says, answering the question that was clearly not meant for him. Then he engages Sargaso, whirling his glittering claymore around his back, then swinging it over his shoulder aiming to slice Sargaso in two. Mathollak was reduced to only defending. Dodging and parrying with his sidearm, a serrated dagger. "The First Lady?" Mathollak exclaims. A battleaxe comes whizzing for his head, and Mathollak takes this chance to bow, bending to a knee. "Yes! We'll hold them off." Mathollak loops his clawed fingers around one of the orcs in front of him and yanks it up, dumping the orc on his back. His ally slams a hammer into Mathollak's shoulder.

Sargaso isn’t properly armed for war, man. He just wanted to gamble a little and steal some lucky dice from some pirates, and maybe spend a good time with a hot babe. What the hell! And yet he finds himself in the middle of what is likely the first battle of many to come. He sees Vargan’s approach and grabs a fallen shield from the ground. He doesn’t have enough time to properly arm himself, and simply grabs the shield on both sides and holds it up to brace himself against the brunt of Vargan’s claymore. He turns the shield towards his left to throw the heavy claymore off to the side, then shield bashes Vargan in the mean kisser, breaking the orc’s nose and tusked teeth. As Vargan staggers backwards, he shouts to his allies, “I’ll get the women and children to the city!” As Vargan starts to regain his senses, Sarge high-kicks him under the chin, just as Vargan swings his claymore a second time, narrowly missing the agile paladin. As he sprints towards the women, he lays a hand on Mathollak’s back in passing and says, “Hang in there, Mattie. Selene’s got you.” Sure enough, Mathollak will immediately start to feel better despite the devastating blow to his shoulder. Drive by paladin healing and anesthetic (not very effective, but Mathollak shouldn’t be slowed too much by his wounds).

Terra is not entirely pleased by this turn of events. Sarge mentioned they were from Frostmaw and she's struggling to remember what the relationship was like between Hildegarde's city and Gualon, especially with Tristram gone. Yet another thing to add to the list. She's starting to wonder if she should call this ache between her shoulders blades a "Math ache" but that was a conversation to have another time. As it is, the path to where she believed the horn of summons to be isn't all that clear. There's approaching orcs and claymores swinging and she'd make a run back to the griffon, hoping to use the speed there. During the process, she's scooped up by an orc but fear not, this isn't her first time in this position and despite the fact it's going to taste terrible and she'll be filled with immediate regret, she savagely bit down, fangs singing deep in his face until she tore a chunk free, knocking the helmet he wore off in the process. Immediately she is free, soaked in blood and near deaf from the noise the orc made in retaliation even as his hands come to cover his face - that's one helluva spot to have ripped away. She's near enough to the griffon and rider to give an urgent cry about where she needs to get too and quickly, opting to ride side saddle this time. The male obliges after a quick glance at Mathollak, since that is likely where his commission came from and Terra would hang tight, watching as Sarge gathered others to safety and made a note to reward that later, if they survived all of this. Once she's near enough to the hut in question, she jumped off the griffon from a semi-reasonable height and vanished into the hut...

Riq also has a wife that, thankfully, is not maimed at this time or the war would definitely be escalated. That wife, upset with Sarge's initial inclinations to clear her from the battle, channeled that into charging, head first at Vargan with the goal to ram him as hard as possible into the series of huts and totems that were designed around the encampment.

Mathollak sees Sargaso deftly parry Vargan's sword strikes and kick him, and notes how easily Vargan eats it. Like a cheap hot dog in a hot dog eating contest, Vargan could eat ten thousand more of those wimpy hits before he'd start to slow down. His tusk-like teeth do gain a couple more tiny chips they didn't have before, but it almost has the effect of sharpening them, like chipping a flint into an arrowhead. Mathollak's arm sinks as Sargaso runs past him, effectively leading Vargan TO him, but bringing his arm back to attention. "Bruh, you're leaving too? Fine. Riquor and I will hold them off." There was no way he was going to stand up to three burly orcs, though. Not alone. "Delisha baby," he pleads holding up his palm over his head, "can you gimme a hand?" Of course she can. As Vargan shoulders his way past his own minions to deal with Mathollak, the Axe of Love receives Delisha's aid, she flings his axe handle right into his waiting hand, right when he needs it, and he pulls his arm down. The parry is just in time, axe blade meets claymore. Then Claymore...cuts axe blade? A jagged crack stretches almost from the blade's edge to the axe handle, as glittering sparks illuminate the claymore. Then Vargan backhands Mathollak into next week, and a wooden hut. It's about that time that Riquor's wife emerges from her tent. Some orcs don't need weapons. The chieftain's wife was one of these. She sprinted toward Vargan, lowered her shoulder, dropped her body weight, and launched herself into Vargan's back. Despite the fact that he was much larger than her, she lifted him up off his feet, crashed through totems, huts, and finally a tree, crushing them with his body as a battering ram. The young tree split and fell behind her, toward the encampment. Vargan was messed up, but after the dust settled, he stood up. And now, Riquor's wife was in a bad position. She was on the wrong side of the battle! With Vargan still able to stand, still able to lead, still able to fight, the gambit had failed. "Phalanx!" Vargan shouted, in a voice that was especially loud and clear to his soldiers. Aramoth's authority rang loud in his voice. A wall of zealots formed between Riquor's wife and her tribe.

Sargaso focused on his mission to get the orc women, children and elderly to safety. He wouldn’t need to escort them all the way, but simply provide cover for their escape. Any orc women who decide to stay and fight are welcome to; the Gualon allies need all the help they can get. At the south-eastern end of the encampment sits a massive livestock barn with a rear exit that opens onto a path that leads to Gualon. Sarge directs the refugee orcs to head towards the barn and follow the path to Gualon while he stands guard near the barn’s entrance with nothing more than a shield, a canteen, and a bit of rope dangling from his hip. He’s a sailor, not a soldier, handy with a knife, not a sword. He sprinkles water on the ground to create yet another swell, this time in the shape of a current with no waves just yet. He hops onto the inside of the shield and uses it like a surfboard on the snaking current which he controls at will. The current snakes around oncoming orcs with such speed that the sailor remains out of grasp. He steals a dagger, stabs a jugular, trips heavy boots, punches a jaw, and so on, deftly keeping the Frostmawian soldiers at bay while the Gualonian citizens flee. Sarge only has his sea-won wits and little else to carry out his task. He’s no soldier, not at all. As he zips about on his current, he occasionally looks for Terra and Mathollak to see if they need back up, and sees Terra hop out of a griffon mid-flight. So much for being careful.

Terra had sat through several of Tristram and Jacobo's lessons on orcs and thankfully, had yet to completely drink those memories away. The horn was there, still on one of the walls and though she had to jump to reach it from its hook, she was able to pull it down and tight against her. Around her, the walls shake as the ground trembled from the force of an orc stampeding and crushing another. It would be impossible to hear but her teeth are chattering as she struggled to regain her feet and get out of the hut. By now, the griffon has flown high above and she's lost the use of that but she's not without. Almost everyone else in the battle relied on some help from above and she would follow that mindset and start climbing the top of the tallest totem with the horn and its strap behind her. Terra is not amongst the living and there's already some concern about her having the capacity to summon orcs using an orcs system with the lungs of an undead elf but once she's near enough to the top to hook an arm and leg around the awkwardly shaped tusk of a carved orc, she'd give it her best shot. Deep breath in and OUUTT!! The force with which she expelled it was almost something the birds above could witness and the sound! It rang out, over the calls and grunts and battle noises below, across the muky lands of the swamps, into the deep city walls that would knock free some cobwebs and sand from a recent storm with the echo of that horn's call. Would it work? Would the others be summoned? Meanwhile, Snaglak, wife of the chief, is only semi-aware of the position she has put herself in. She has MASHED and that was the only goal the short-sighted orc held in that moment. There's a club attached to her hip, spiked and tipped with poisons crafted from the Droghan tribe, their local shamans. Snaglak did not believe in such things but she did like the fact the poison was red and when swung, would fling from the clubs spikes to those around her. She spun, the club high and extended, spraying that poison to those around her. One of the advancing orcs braved the poison, grabbed on to that club and launched it outside of the gathering horde, straight into the totem Terra was still trying to scramble down. Good news, her descent to the ground would be much faster, now that the entire thing is coming down. Also good news? It may, by the way it was falling, land on a few of Aramoth's army. However, probably against Sarge's earlier request, it would also land Terra in the same position with Snaglak. Let's hope that help was coming...

Mathollak crashes through a hut, slamming through a support beam. He braces himself as an attic falls on him. Outside, Papa Thrug struggles to keep up with a pair of much younger orcs, but his experience counts for much. He parries one blade into another, using the long shaft of his axe-hammer like a quarter staff, before spinning it around and slamming the hammer-head into the top of his enemy's skull, crushing it down into his shoulders. His neck is vanished. And what happens next, Thrug anticipates. The enemy who still has a neck and is alive, swings his axe toward Thrug's open side. Thrug knew this, anticipated it, expected it, was ready for it! But he wasn't quick enough anymore. The axe slams into his side. He falls. Riquor meanwhile, has no temperance left. They ambush him. Take him out of his house before his people. Use him as a bargaining piece for that blasphemous human. Fine. He was complacent, Vargan was an old friend after all. Riquor had sympathy for him and didn't believe the claims that he'd been radicalized into this crazed zealot. Even through all this! he maintained the presence of mind to lead his people in a ragged defence. But now they've taken his wife!? Caution abandoned him, he summoned Rothik's fury and power, and the Orc-God's voice thundered in his ears, the Orc-God's blood flowed in his veins. His muscles burgeoned, his bones grew, and his skin turned red. He grabbed a lance and a battleaxe in each hand and charged into the phalanx recklessly. Through sheer power, he broke the line, muscling through it, flinging zealous orcs up and over their allies to make a path to his wife. Snaglak was already fighting bravely, and now Terra was among them too. Would it be enough? Vargan would ensure that it wasn't. Snaglak's poison spikes bounced harmlessly off his glittering bronze, and just like with Mathollak, her weapon was weak compared to his. He lifted the claymore over his head and brought it down. The mysterious metal carved a chunk out of her club, and then cleaved through her armor and into her hip. She fell to her knee. Vargan called out to his people once again, in a voice that boomed through the chaos around them. "Pivot left, pikes up!" Just these two simple phrases changed the outcome of this battle dramatically. The entire platoon strafed two steps in sync, and the giant totem pole fell between two columns. A row of pikemen received Riquor at the end of their spears, puncturing him like a pin cushion. But the horn had been returned. From other encampments in the swamp, it echoed. Once, for the Gualortan. Twice! For the Jugriin. Thrice! For the Droghan. "Take them!" In one last defiant effort, Riquor wielded his lance like a bat, swinging the shaft into Terra. Believe it or not, this was an act of heroism! It was a mighty blow, but the force of it would take her away from the battalion, and give her a chance to escape. Then he fell. Vargan's soldiers swarmed the champion and his wife, battering them with heavy fists and boots until they fell unconscious. After that, Vargan and his small army of zealots took their prizes and began to make their retreat.

Sargaso felt the horn’s blast reverberate in his chest. The orcs that had been chasing the refugees turn tail and retreat on Vargan’s command. The paladin is left with no enemies, but with a few fresh cuts and bruises. In the chaos of battle, Sargaso did not see Riquor and Snaglak get captured (frankly, he doesn’t know them either). But he does see Terra getting thrown through the air like a ragdoll by someone’s massive lance, and she’s careening in Sargaso’s direction, too. Still surfing on a conjured current, he quickly closes the distance between himself and the first lady of gualon. Without dismounting his makeshift surfboard, he enters a widestance and catches Terra on both arms, defying all reasonable limits to personal strength and balance. Something in his agility and core strength defies physical expectations. The paladin also did not see Terra rip an orc’s face off with her teeth, and is thus completely oblivious to the effect the bleeding gash on his cheekbone may have on the vampiress.

Snaglak was not a chieftan, nor had she ever wanted to be. Her thoughts were mostly consumed with fighting, eating, her husband, fighting, eating, drinking, fighting, her husband. It was like that constantly. So it's of little surprise to her that she would go down swinging for those things. If she had been smarter, maybe she would have found a better way, but as it was... fighting, her husband, both were tied together now with Riquor near and it gave her the drive to remain in the fight all the way until she couldn't... There's nothing but bones mashing under the heavy stomps, her prizes of battle that she wore with pride crushed undertoe.

Much like the companion she had accompanied, Terra did not come prepared for a full onslaught of orcs and even if she had, she doubted the trio even with the assistance of the mighty orcs that graced this encampment would have been enough. The sting of defeat hangs heavy in her heart and she'd been just about to follow Snaglak's lead and go down swinging when she is f l y i n g. The sensation is not unique to her, after all, it was how she arrived. What is special about this occasion is that there is no saddle, no warmth from her travel partner and a bruising, crushing ache in her midsection that she is almost certain has left quite a few things broken, crushed, like her spirit then. She'd crash into the blessedly positioned Sarge and though she didn't require a breath in, it would be almost impossible to catch it after all of that. "We have to! We have to stop them!" Yeah, ok, and world peace would also come soon, try something more likely, Terra. She finds her footing, regrets the immediate pain it sends through her as she straightens up and finally took in the catcher's mitt that was the paladin. "You're bleeding." She's having a little trouble focusing here, blame it on the orc chieftan she had once celebrated with, by the very same fire pit that seemed shattered. And, in something that wouldn't be the weirdest move of the day, she'd wipe that blood from his face with a hand that thankfully wasn't as mangled as her insides were feeling and sample it from her finger tips. "Sea." Lucky for the pair, she has been at this for awhile so she won't do to him what she did to the other guy, but it does make it a little harder to leave him in order to stop them, though there's little she can do to stop an army, she'd gonna try! Until that first step reminded her that elves are not meant to fly.

Mathollak pulls himself out of the rubble of his childhood home, claw over fist, and then pushes his way through the last wall that remained standing. He's ready to fight all the enemies. All of them! "Where are they! Where...!" Then he sees Papa Thrug, keeled over on his side and bleeding from a gnarly wound. The fight leaves him instantly as he kneels to his father's side. He looks around for someone who might be able to help, but all he sees is more of the same. Orcs cradling their dead or dying loved ones bodies, or trying to find them. "My axe," Papa Thrug whispers weakly. "Hand me my axe." Mathollak knew that orcs NEEDED to die with their weapon in hand. Then they could safely ascend to fight the everlasting battle by Rothik's side. They needed to be armed or he wouldn't let them. Mathollak knew that, but he wasn't ready to let Papa Thrug die. "You don't need it," he says. But he finds it in the rubble and reluctantly hands it to him anyway. He cups his hand around Thrug's wound and just sweats out his eyes as his dad's blood seeps through his fingers. "Help is coming," he tells his dad. And himself. And it is. Soon the first heralds of the other tribes emerge onto the scene to get a grip on everything that's transpired today. They tend to the wounded, round up the dying, both enemy and friend alike. They take Thrug away from Mathollak, assuring them that they'll do what they can to heal him, but not whether it will make a difference.

Vargan and his zealots disappear into the woods.