Board Thread:Roleplaying/@comment-25828117-20190911184542/@comment-25828117-20190912192817

Borgok licked his dagger clean. The blood of his fallen foe tasted good, the sweet taste of victory.

His men had been thorough in claiming this land for the patriach, Malacath. The smoldering ashes of what had once been palisades of the reachman camps still glowed orange and cast long plumes of black smoke into the grey morning sky, making the orcs' glorious carnage.

Orsinium would be remade, reforged, and greater than ever. A grand empire that would force respect for Orcs once and for all.

And they were well on their way. The tribes had brough their banners together in the largest alliance of Orcs that had ever existed. From Hammerfell to Skyrim they waged guerilla war, weakening the areas so that the final pincher attacks could occur. This would connect all the different tribes, uniting them under one nation that spanned large chunks of three provinces.

The call for anyone to join with Orcish blood was strong. A bolstering sense of pride and conviction. A blessing from Malacath.

An old reachman who's face had been torn open by an orichalcum blade tried to crawl away in the shade of a rock but Borgok had seen him. A wicked grin danced across his face, his wide mouth unfurling slightly by his tusks. He casually strolled over to the old man, flourishing his dagger as he deliberated on how to end the man's life. Tear open the gut? Slice the neck? Pierce the eye?

Meanwhile the old man crawled on using every morsel of strength left within him to reach the shrine of what had been his home mere hours ago.

"Where are you going, Bomsha?" A bomsha was someone who had lived beyond his or her useful age in Orcish eyes. The Orsimer considered anyone to live over fifty to be useless and a drain on society. To be called a Bomsha as an Orc was thus a grave insult.

The old man did not respond. Instead he kept crawling. Leaving a trail of blood as he went.

"Your house is gone, Bomsha. Your family is gone."

The reachman continued to pretend as if Borgok was not there, walking along, casting a faint shadow over him, taunting him.

"This is Orc land now. At least you should die well. Be with your family, where... wherever you think they go." Borgok did not at all care about that.

The old man clutched a piece of wood from his ruined hut once he had arrived. He had stopped moving.

The orc crouched down beside the man and turned him over, only to see the old man's ruined face smile back at him. A red grin where yellowed teeth, wherever they still stood, were coated in his own blood.

Borgok brought his dagger down into the old man's neck and saw the muscles in his face twitch and spasm where they still could. It didn't take long before life left him and his hand fell open revealing a beast token of Hircine.

-

15th of Last Seed

The Hellcat was bound to land in Senchal any moment now, with one day delay from the original projected travel time. Given the weather that was perhaps well enough.

The heat was still there whenever one stepped into the rays of the sun, but under the canopy and with the Topal sea breeze it was actually a lot more tollerable than it had been in southern blackwood.

Despite the good weather the mood of the crew was decidedly less sunny. Emile had been dumped into a sweltering cage below decks and had been fed only twice in the five days he had been down there.

On deck Lysilde wore her summer dress and looked out to see if she could spot the shore.