28mm Theatre

Orctober - Take Two

2010-10-01T13:01:00.000-07:00

Thankyou Charles Schulz for your contribution to my perspective on life, orcs, and the joys of seeing a poor naive place-kicker land flat on his back.

I should also give some inspiration credit here to Chuck Jones, who directed the Coyote and Roadrunner cartoons.

This was my last 28MMT comic to date. I have thought about starting a new comic in a similar style with miniatures, but not based on any particular real game product, but my game time and space have been too scarce to permit it so far.

I may yet write more short stories though.

Orctober

2010-10-01T12:49:00.000-07:00

Just another day at 28mm studios.

The "stick drawings" bit was by no means meant to be an insult to any other particular web comic. If Janara had truly wanted to be mean, she would have threatened the cast of 28MMT with being replaced by a reality TV program starring a pack of oxymoron LARPers in orc costumes.

Spelling Bee

2010-10-01T12:42:00.000-07:00

Yagun and Kiakara get into a friendly spellcasting contest, ...which can only spell trouble.

This was a subtle (and not nearly as personally financially rewarding) homage to another more famous web comic. Congratulations if you were able to figure out what Yagun was saying at the end.

Crazy Kormok

2010-10-01T12:36:00.000-07:00

Orcs, like most other creatures, have a hard time resisting the urge to buy shiny new toys. Luckily for them, Crazy Kormok can pass the savings on to them by eliminating the middle-man. Luckily for Kormok, dead middle-men tell no tales.

In the beta version of RAGE Chronicles there was an upgrade called Cute Familiar that gave clerics a bonus to Cute Checks after midnight or something like that. Somehow the little joke got left in the final edit and some confusion ensued.

In the most recent revision of Warlord, most of the changes made by RAGE Chronicles were reversed or toned down.

The Status Queue

2010-10-01T12:30:00.000-07:00

With so many new data cards to issue, Greka decides to follow the high efficiency standards set by the Department of Motor Vehicles. Unfortunately for everybody else, there are no Bounty Points for killing time in line.

Beam Me Up, Greka!

2010-10-01T12:27:00.000-07:00

Greka brings Kharg and his raiding party back from beyond the End Of The World. It seems as if Prugg's new treasure has already begun to work its magic on the raiding party. Meanwhile, Varaug continues to be Varaug.

Yep..there was a free download available for that particular revision.

The Latest RAGE - Part 2

2010-10-01T12:24:00.000-07:00

Everybody is excited about the changes that are taking place in their world, but after Toughness Checks too numerous to count, poor Fourthorc just wants to go home.

For those who wonder, a WIP is a work-in-progress....and KIA I am told by one reliable orcish source stands for "kicked its #$@%".

For what it's worth, "reliable orc source" is an oxymoron.

For more of what it's worth, oxymoron has nothing to do with acne nor stupidity...any more than it has to do with being an orc...even a zitty-faced orc....or so I've been told.

The Latest RAGE - Part 1

2010-10-01T12:17:00.000-07:00

At long last, our adventuresome heroes find what they've been looking for... but discover it was not quite what they expected. Special guest performance by #03043: Surkar, Orc Shaman, painted by the extremely talented Jester.

The RAGE Chronicles had just been released, a game revision that included many new rules and changes to character data cards. Many models gained extra Special Abilities and Damage Tracks. Faction abilities were also revised.

Other Side of the Rainbow

2010-10-01T12:10:00.000-07:00

Captain Kharg and company go in search of paint, and are surprised to see a few familiar faces. Meanwhile, Lunk selflessly takes it upon himself to validate a certain legend concerning rainbows and pots of gold. WARNING! IF YOU READ THIS COMIC WHILE LISTENING TO PINK FLOYD, NOTHING PARTICULARLY PROFOUND WILL HAPPEN!

Okay..so nothing is sacred..not Warlord, not CAV..and now not even Reaper paints. At the time I had a pile of unassembled, unprimed, and unpainted orcs, not to mention a few that needed some touch-up work. Then I was just beginning to learn to paint.

Ironically enough it was about that time that Reaper announced their plans to launch their line of Legendary Encounters pre-painted plastic models. They had seen my work and were afraid.

Lucky Streak

2010-10-01T12:01:00.000-07:00

When Greka explains that the Ring Of Power has an evil side too, Lunk comes up with a plan that will improve the party's chances.

Our game store used to have a bucket of "cursed dice" for people to borrow if they had shown up without their own dice. I never did formal scientific tests to validate the curse, but most people preferred to remain on the safe side and buy dice there rather than chance losing another character to Old Snake Eyes.

Dial "O" for "Owwww!"

2010-10-01T11:55:00.000-07:00

Kharg and company hatch a plan to hijack some big stompy robots. Meanwhile, Fourthorc finds what everybody else is looking for by using his head.

In original Warlord, a 10, or zero on a ten-sided die, is an automatic success or hit.

East of Adon

2010-10-01T11:49:00.000-07:00

After a seemingly endless trek across the vast and empty emptyness, Kharg's raiders discover a whole new world of surprise and danger...and cheesy pop-culture referrences. CAV Dictator 70 painted by guest-painter Chris "Bob" Holcomb.

Reaper also published a game called CAV that was a sort of futuristic big-stompy-robot fantasy game. The models were based on six-sided bases and 'could' be played on a hexagonal map.

While making this comic I had to repeatedly remind myself that there is no "k" in orc.

Reven Brides for Reven Brothers - Part 3

2010-10-01T11:44:00.000-07:00

In spite of Greka's bad matchmaking, one lucky couple succeeds in walking away unwounded from le Jeu d'Amour.

Up in Kargir, the orcs have this little game they like to play in which they take up axes, swords, clubs and other hurtsy things, march into the human-occupied parts of Orc Country (which is pretty much the whole rest of the world) and wage war on the basis of "those gits stole our football". The football is in fact only symbolic, but the vuvuzela is all too real..and unfortunately for the orcs, the humans invented it first.

Reven Brides for Reven Brothers - Part 2

2010-10-01T11:30:00.000-07:00

Proxy Models arrive from far and wide to help Greka in her mission to make the world a greener place. Special appearance in this strip by Skralla the Black, painted by Urion Franz.

Originally in official tournaments, only Reaper models from the Warlord line were allowed in the game, and each model could only represent the model it was intended to represent unless no model was yet available. This was eventually relaxed, and not long after that, ANY Reaper model could be used..even some of the orcs from the old Dark Heaven line...which made me and the rest of the Gragg Elfslayer Fan Club very happy.

Reven Brides for Reven Brothers - Part 1

2010-10-01T11:23:00.000-07:00

Greka tries her hand at matchmaking to guarantee the future of orc-kind, completely unaware that she has just introduced the evils of Valentine's Day to the Monglash Steppes.

Monday Blues

2010-10-01T11:15:00.000-07:00

Varaug discoveres that he is uniquely overqualified as a stock-boy. Meanwhile Kraug and Urmuk take a longer-than-expected smoke break.

Yes, Varaug the Great has always secretly dreamed of having a degree in Sociology...but we all know that in the real world, orcs usually drop out of college their freshman year and join the French Foreign Legion.

Player Characters

2010-10-01T11:10:00.000-07:00

Urmuk recruits Varaug to take Nurd's place on game-night, and Gaaguk will soon learn why blind dates are best made sight-unseen.

I remember the first time I saw a LAN RPG being played at the game store. While the ability to show players only the part of the map they should be able to see, send secret notes to certain players, and allow the DM to have instant access to everything game-related on a spread sheet might seem nice, the complete lack of space on the table for soda cans and boxes of pizza was just too disconcerting.

Tough Guys

2010-10-01T11:04:00.000-07:00

Now that the End Of The World has come, Kharg, Prugg, Lunk and Fourthorc have to rely on their Toughness to survive.

Back then, most Warlord models only got one Damage Track. The Toughness ability, however, came in varying degrees. A Tough/3 model would survive if his combined roll + 3 was higher than 10.

Tent Revival

2010-10-01T10:53:00.000-07:00

The next morning, Greka summons all of the slain back from the Afterlife. Meanwhile, Gurgh and Nurd find out that Heaven is not quite what either of them was expecting.

The nature of Reven Heaven was often discussed around my game table. It is quite a lovely place with shag carpets, faux-wood panel on the walls, a fridge full of high-octane cola and cheap beer in the corner, unlimited pretzels and snack cakes, and it is always Saturday night right around nine-ish and everyone's there...even the ones who somehow managed to get dates.

A Deal with the Devil

2010-10-01T10:46:00.000-07:00

Varaug finds himself stuck between the forces of Good and Evil when Greka comes to collect her payment.

If Reaper makes a model of a female orc ugly enough to be Greka's sister, I am not aware of it.

Mission Impossible

2010-10-01T10:42:00.000-07:00

Kharg the Awesome and his fellow Crusaders take it upon themselves to become missionaries in orc-country.

Admit it. You would like to take an orc to church too, wouldn't you!

Bitter Victory

2010-10-01T10:39:00.000-07:00

Meanwhile, Sir Krunk the Merciful recruits more Crusaders to aid him as he valiantly makes a stand against the foul Reven.

After making this comic, I decided to write a short story about Krunk and the Crusaders called The Broken Spear.

The End of the World

2010-10-01T10:33:00.000-07:00

Finally Kharg's raiding party reaches the eastern mountains. What awaits them on the other side is something they never expected. Has the world come to an end..or just an edge?

The Foamy Mountains..that great ridge of blue insulating foam coated with painted sand and static grass..that great barrier that stands between orc-kind and the infinite unknown. It was long believed that any soul that goes beyond that point is "no longer in play".

Regarding orcs and dark-vision, I blame a certain band of seashore-dwelling sorcerers who would want us all to believe that they invented dark-vision, orcs, and fantasy gaming in general, and who dare any others to usurp their genre.

Lunk's Crystal Ball

2010-10-01T10:22:00.000-07:00

Kharg, Lunk, Prugg and the Fourth Orc head east in search of arcane treasures and weapons; and the true nature of Lunk's coveted crystal ball is finally revealed.

At one time in Warlord, being on higher elevation not only helped Line Of Sight, but improved the distance of ranged attacks.

Reven Red Rover - Part 2

2010-10-01T10:16:00.000-07:00

Once again, Krunk gets trapped by womanly wiles. Now the Crusaders freshest recruits launch their counter-attack against the remaining orcs.

The "Mercy" special ability from the original version of Warlord let Crusader leader models who had reduced enemy models to zero hit points offer them mercy or death. If the enemy model failed a Discipline check, it became a Crusader soldier. It would seem that the orcs..or at least my orcs, had a Discipline value only slightly higher than their perceived value of their own faction special abilities.

Reven Red Rover - Part 1

2010-10-01T09:58:00.000-07:00

In a last effort to win back a lost battle, Kharg and Dantral launch one final assault with a bit of help from Ombur. Unfortunately the Crusaders have one more surprise waiting for them.

The Broken Spear

2010-10-01T09:07:00.000-07:00

Part 1

The mud was almost too deep to march through. It had been raining every day for almost an entire month, and it seemed foolish to Krunk that the great KhaKhan should want to conquer a place that had nothing better to offer than rocks, barren trees, scarce game and mud. Though he was soaked through to the bone and hungry, he plodded along with the rest of the thin column of orcs moving through the land the Boghul called “Tar-gar-thus”.

“Stop poking me!” growled a voice from behind. A swift kick to the backside sent Krunk sprawling forward face-down into the sticky mud. Before he could get back on his feet, he felt himself being pulled up by his hair. Soon he was staring into the narrow yellow eyes of a bull orc called Yaragath. The tusked tough was almost a third again larger than Krunk and carried a long crudely forged but sharp scimitar. Krunk had only his spear and had no shield to defend with. “I be more careful next time.”, Krunk apologized timidly. The brute expressed his acceptance of the apology by letting go of Krunk’s hair and shoving him backward into the mud again. Howls of laughter ensued from those around him, but Krunk swallowed his pride, got back on his feet and shouldered his spear, this time making sure the point of it came nowhere near anybody else, especially Yaragath.

It was no harsher treatment than Krunk had come to expect. He was only gurulukh; an orc tainted by distant human ancestry, however miniscule. Though he was still one of the Sula-ulus, his kind were not allowed to own land or choose their own wives, and were regarded as inferior by the less populous but stronger tomukh, or bull orcs. His kind were smaller and weaker, but not so small nor so weak that they could not be made use of in the Reven.

This would be Krunk’s first reven, if there was indeed anything worth raiding at the end of this mud-march. Though he had not yet proven himself as a warrior, he had earned some fair praise among his clan as a hunter. As a young boy he learned from his father how to anticipate the next move of his quarry, when to attack, when to dodge and how to know when he has met more than his match. When he became old enough he was allowed to join the older hunters, tracking the big game across the plains to provide food for his clan.. Hunting the wild boar, the krung-beast and the nhoolyan made him grow stronger and more fearless, yet one test remained for him to prove he was no longer a boy. That test was the Reven, and although this hunt would be far more dangerous than any he had ever been on, the reward would be well worth it.

Soon the sky began to darken and the column stopped its march to make camp amidst a large wind-eroded outcropping of rocks. As sentries were posted, everybody else scrambled to secure for themselves a bit of shelter from the rain that was beginning to fall. Krunk found a suitably dry place where one large megalith of granite had fallen over onto a second flat slab, creating a small cavern. There was room to sit but not to stand, which was all Krunk really wanted. He was glad to be out of the chilly rain and no longer feel his bare feet sinking in the slimy Taltain mud. Once shed of his armour, he examined the contents of his ration sack that he wore hanging from his belt on the march. There was some flattened black bread covered in mud, some green nuts and mud, and a thin strip of slightly mouldy dried krung-meat with mud-gravy. Krunk cursed Yaragath under his breath for having pushed him into the mud and on top of his supper. He was able to wipe away enough mud from the meat to make it edible. Trying the same with the bread yielded a soggy mess that tasted only slightly better than the yellow curdled sludge that the goblins considered to be cheese. Krunk threw it out of his stone shelter, raising a string of curses and threats from an orc who was trying with no success to find a place to sleep that was not already occupied.

Fortunately for Krunk the orc calling him out to fight was one like himself and not one like Yaragath. The two adhered faithfully to the customs of settling such disputes between orcs of equal birth, circling with fists brandished while a ring of jeering onlookers arbitrarily encourage their favourite contender to defeat his opponent by amusingly violent means. There is usually some degree of pushing and shoving, but both combatants have a clear understanding that if either tears off the other’s head and spit down his neck-hole, that the other won’t be there to help him fight the real enemy tomorrow or the next day. Had Krunk offended a bull orc in such a way, the fight would not last very long and would end with the other orcs squabbling over who would get to have the slain Krunk’s meager belongings.

After half an hour of taunting, name-calling, and a few below-the-belt punches, the disagreement was settled in the customary way, wherein both participants promise to postpone killing the other if each agrees to give the other a suitable reparation for all the rude names and conjectures about his ancestry. When it was all over, Krunk had two more strips of dried meat without mud, and the other orc had Krunk’s little cavern.

Krunk tried to get a night’s rest on the semi-sheltered leeward side of a large boulder, but there was no escaping the mud. He awoke the next morning with an aching back and a growling stomach. The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was Yaragath sitting on a nearby rock sharpening his sword. The bull orc went meticulously about his task with a glint in his eyes as though he was bedding his newest wife. Krunk imagined to himself how Yaragath would probably someday have ten or twelve wives, yet give that sword of his more attention than any of them. Such thoughts would make Krunk a lot angrier except that he knew someday a hothead like Yaragath would pick one fight too many, let loose his rage, lower his guard and die like a nhoolyan blindly charging into his enemy’s spear point.

Soon the Boghul began barking out marching orders. Krunk took his place in line next to Yaragath for the daily counting of heads. It was soon discovered that two orcs had deserted the camp during the night. The Boghul was irate and seemed ready to use his whip on each and every one of the sentries for allowing the two to leave. Thoughts of desertion had entered Krunk’s mind on more than one occasion, but he knew his clan and kin would never forgive such cowardice. Rain-laiden clouds stretched endlessly toward the western horizon. Krunk sensed that this was going to be another bad day.

The company began its march westward as the dense fog clung to the cold wet ground. Soon they approached a small hill atop which stood a single lightningstruck tree, its dead branches stretched outward like two great claws. The two archers that were sent ahead to see what was on the other side of the hill reported that they had found a small farmstead. The spirits of the company were immediately lifted with the prospect of fresh food, dry shelter and Taltain women for the taking.

No sooner had the column crested the hill than a volley of arrows came forth from behind a low stone wall, catching the orcs completely by surprise. Those who had battle experience prepared themselves for a counter-attack, forming into small skirmishing groups or rallying around the Boghul or shaman. Just like the previous night, everybody raced for whatever cover was available. Krunk followed the veterans’ example and ran to join three other orcs inside a roofless stone hay barn.

“Wait now, young one.. Let our archers have some sport first.”, said one of the three. Krunk felt a brief awkwardness when he realized that he was cowering in a barn with the same orc he has fought with the night before. The barn’s two other occupants were bull orcs. The one with the sword and the iron-capped tusks offered Krunk a few words of encouragement. “When we attack together, we are stronger.” The other bull orc with the axe just gazed through the barn’s one small window while a hail of arrows bounced off the stone structure. “Today not good day to die.” was his only advice. Outside, the orc archers returned volley. A human voice cried out in pain from behind the low stone wall.

A bugle sounded, and a small company of armoured men bearing shields with the mark of the Crusaders of Denelspire came marching in step toward the orc archers. A disorderly mob of shieldless bull orcs with war axes charged forth to meet them, believing their war-paint would protect them. The Boghul held his best fighters in reserve as the casualties piled up in the centre of the small barnyard.

“Now!”, shouted old iron-tusks. The Boghul and his phalanx of fighters began moving toward the left flank and toward the Crusaders’ healer who had unwisely put himself in harm’s way. Krunk and the other three orcs left the safety of the hay barn and raced toward the far right end of the stone wall as a swarm of orc arrows flew by overhead. The surviving human archers loosed their arrows into the advancing orcs, but only struck one. The bull orc with the axe fell clutching his midsection. Only the prayers of the shaman could save him now.

The other three continued their charge, never looking back. Through the noise of battle, Krunk could hear the Crusaders’ healer chanting. Krunk ran as fast as he could while the archers were preparing to loose another volley. He reached the wall just in time, and leapt over it with a level of agility and fearlessness that he would never have thought himself capable of had he ever stopped to think about it. Catching one of the human archers off his guard, Krunk lunged forward with his spear, thrusting it at the archer’s chest. The archer parried the attack in spite of having only a small hatchet to defend himself with. The archer then tried to back away from his attacker in order to take one last shot, but stumbled over his own retreat. Krunk drew back his spear and was preparing to deal the killing strike, but at that moment he felt the flat side of a Crusader sword sliding under his right ear and threatening to remove his head from his shoulders. Slowly he lowered his spear and turned to face his captor, a rather tall human female in plate armour. Without lowering her sword, she looked Krunk straight in the eyes and spoke to him in his own language, much to his amazement.

“Your life is in my hands now . If you make peace with me, I will not harm you. If you make war with me, your death will be quick.”, she said as she demonstrated her precision with the blade by tapping his ear twice with the flat of it almost before he could even flinch.

What seemed to be a long silence passed between she and Krunk as he considered his options. All those months since he had joined the Reven, all he had heard was that the Taltain humans were weak, that their villages and strongholds would fall easily, and that when the orc nation reclaimed its right to Taltos, everybody would share in the wealth. He had been told that the Great Reven would sweep across Taltos like a storm, but where were the other three that had charged the wall with him? Everything was going wrong. After all his father had taught him and all the abuse his Boghul had put him through to make him tough, the attack had failed. Krunk, son of Kurzug of the Fireblood Clan, had been beaten by a scrawny human girl. The battle was lost. Soon the orcs would be hunted on their own hunting grounds until there was nothing left of the Sula-ulus but lies recounted by the hateful humans. Though he knew he was utterly defeated, he threw his spear wildly at the archer, missing him completely. The now unarmed orc looked his executioner defiantly in the eye and awaited death.

But death did not come. The woman withdrew her blade from Krunk’s neck and spoke to him again, her pale green eyes displaying no signs of self-doubt. “You may still prove you are a great warrior with the Crusaders.” Though moments earlier he had seen her as an enemy to his people, he now believed that she was the only person who would give him his second chance. He had failed his clan and his people, but it was his father’s judgement he would be least willing to face. Krunk resolved to prove himself worthy of his father’s praise whether with or without the Reven.

The woman sheathed her sword and gestured for the archer to retrieve Krunk’s spear from the mud, which he did with some hesitation.. Krunk stood tall as the woman offered him back his weapon along with the protection of Aurellius. Awkwardly he spoke his oath of fealty to her using as many Taltain words as he could recall.

“Krunk in human clan. Me do what queen want.”

Part 2

When the orcs began their final forlorn advance toward the wall, the Crusaders were ready. Less than a dozen orcs remained. Their archers had all been killed and the old shaman was nowhere to be seen. The humans outnumbered them almost two-to-one and were in an excellent location to defend themselves.. The orcs did not have a chance, but Krunk knew that most orcs will not accept that they have been defeated until it is too late. He stood beside his new queen, completely sure he had made the right choice even if it would mean killing his own people.

It was of little concern to Krunk that the two orcs charging toward the archers’ position were the same two who had failed to reach the wall with him in the initial assault. The archer who Krunk had fought with moments earlier managed to wound the smaller warrior as he tried to run through the thick brown mud. After nocking a fresh arrow, the archer took aim at the larger bull orc, but his arrow flew wild and struck the wall of the hay barn instead. Both orcs came over the wall, disregarding Krunk as any sort of threat. The wounded lesser-orc gave chase to the archer as the human tried to shoot and retreat. The bull orc charged toward the woman.

She put forth a ferocious defense against her attacker, but Krunk knew that the bull orc would quickly wear her down. He had been taught that her kind revered cleverness over strength, and very rarely did they expect their females to take up arms at all, which was one of the reasons the orcs were able to take so many human females as slaves. The thought of seeing the woman warrior become the unwilling concubine of some bull orc like Yaragath awoke a rage in Krunk that had been building within him throughout the long march into Taltos..

Krunk grasped the shaft of his spear as tightly as he could and tried to thrust it into the bull orc's back, The alert warrior saw the attack coming and turned, but his reaction was slow enough that Krunk was still able to wound him.. A thin line of blood began to trickle from a fresh gash on the bull orc’s forearm, but he seemed undaunted by his injury. Cursing as one might curse a stinging insect, the enraged warrior struck back at his small tormentor, bringing his heavy sword down upon Krunk’s armoured shoulder with a resounding clang. Krunk doubled over and fell forward, addled from the sheer force of the blow. Lying on the ground prone, he tried to get his feet back under him but found his right arm to be numb and uncooperative. Clumsily he tried to crawl toward his spear, but just as he reached it he heard a terrible bellowing howl followed by gasping and gurgling. The bitter smell of orc blood filled the air and the towering bull fell on top of Krunk, pinning him to the ground. For a fleeting moment it seemed as though the gods of battle would exact justice for Krunk’s betrayal, but lying face-down in the mud beneath the crushing weight of the tomukh warrior was not how Krunk, son of Kurzug of the Fireblood Clan wanted his life to end.

The effort was painful, but Krunk rolled the body of the slain orc off of himself. The numbness in his arm was subsiding and his shoulder throbbed as though it might be broken. Krunk recognized the iron-capped tusked face staring at him with lifeless eyes, even though he had never learned the orc’s name. The old veteran had told Krunk less than an hour ago that strength was in numbers, an ironic lesson that was not lost on the young orc. Had the woman or he fought alone against the bull orc, neither would have had much of a chance.

Through the clatter of weapons and armour, Krunk could hear the gruff voice of his Boghul issuing orders for retreat mixed with a barrage of profanities. At last the orcs had recognized defeat and were withdrawing. It appeared that the battle was over, though Krunk had no doubt that the few orcs that had survived would be back sooner or later. The very fact that the humans were defending the little farmstead would only make the orcs want it that much more, though Krunk was not certain there was anything of value to be looted in any of its three dilapidated structures. A bugle sounded again and immediately healers came forth to tend to the wounded. Others began removing weapons and armour from the dead. The archer who had retreated into the smaller farmhouse came back out and began salvaging arrows from the ground, taking care to separate the orcs’ arrows from those of his own people. Everybody with one exception seemed oblivious to the young orc sitting in the mud desperately trying to pull his spear out from underneath the bull orc’s corpse.

A man’s voice shouted from behind, but the only words Krunk understood were “orc” and “dead”. An armoured foot came down upon the shaft of Krunk’s spear just as he succeeded in freeing it Krunk looked up to face a tall Crusader knight in brightly polished armour carrying a very ornate longsword. His hair was almost blood-red and he had narrow, squinty eyes and a peculiarly hawklike nose. As the man reached to draw his sword, the woman came hurrying to the orc's defense, shouting at the man in the human tongue. The man glared at Krunk, resheathed his sword with disgust, and uttered something under his breath. Though Krunk understood only three words of what either human said, he knew that the woman had saved his neck for the second time that day. Gripping his injured shoulder, he abandoned his broken spear and stood up.

“Come with me. You need a healer.”, spoke the woman in orcish as a murmuring arose from curious onlookers. She then proceeded to lead him toward the biggest of the farm’s three buildings, The armoured man followed right behind as if intimidation would be required to convince Krunk to visit the healers. The archer ceased the salvaging of arrows and followed too. “You fought well... Krunk?”, she said, speaking his name timidly. Though she mispronounced it badly, the orc just nodded and said, “Yes, my queen.” He had never heard a non-orc speak his language before but quickly was growing fond of her strange accent and habit of adding extra words when they were not needed. “You call me Theodora..not Queen.”, she told him as they walked past the cook-fires where men were already tending two large black cauldrons. “Yes, my queen”, he answered as his mind wandered to thoughts of a hot meal. He had heard that the lizard-men of the Great Swamps ate the flesh of their captives, but had never been told any such stories about the Taltain humans. He was hungry, but he knew he would never be hungry enough to want to taste orcflesh.

Unlike the hay barn, the main farmhouse still had its thatch roof intact. Its sturdy fieldstone walls were old and green with mildew from the rains. There was a door at each end and several small windows with wooden shutters along the side. A plume of smoke rose from a tall chimney at one corner of the house. Krunk believed that the man who built it must have been a very important members of his clan to have earned such a large and permanent dwelling.

Standing at the doorway, Krunk could see that the main room was crowded with people. The two priests were hurrying back and forth among the wounded as an older female in long blue robes weaved her way through the chaos with a basket full of bandages. “Better you wait here.”, said Theodora to Krunk. “Yes, my queen”, he responded as she went inside to speak to one of the priests. The archer and knight both waited outside with Krunk. Though he was now part of her clan, he suspected that most of the humans still did not like or trust him much, especially the armoured man, whose squinty eyes stayed fixed on him the entire time Theodora was away.

After half an hour had passed, Theodora came back out with the elder of the two priests, a tall but stout man who was in no way gentle in resetting Krunk's shoulder but did not appear to begrudge being asked to do so. Krunk tried several times to ask the priest when he would be given a new spear and armour, but realized that the priest did not speak orcish nor did he comprehend Krunk’s attempt to speak the Taltain tongue. In spite of the language barrier, the priest carried on a lively conversation with the orc, upholding the reputation the humans had among orcs which earned them the name mongkele or ‘never-stops-talking’. Krunk listened and pretended to understand by giving an occasional nod, a charade which made the archer laugh but clearly infuriated the knight.

Meanwhile, Theodora had gone to the cooks to find something for Krunk to eat. She returned with a wooden bowl full of stewed turnips and potatoes, which Krunk happily devoured. The healer-priest frowned and shook his head. Theodora only added to the orc’s confusion by explaining to him that the soup had not yet been blessed. Never the less, Krunk thanked her with a resounding burp of gratitude and passed the empty bowl back to the priest so that the bowl might still get its due blessing. The knight, who the priest called Eduard, watched with contempt.

Finally the archer spoke up, asking Theodora to translate a question into orcish. “Gerome wants to know how many years you have lived.”, she asked Krunk. “Ten and three.”, he answered, a fact that the archer seemed surprised by. When it came Krunk’s turn to ask a question, it was revealed that Gerome was in his twentieth year and still had not even one wife, a fact that Krunk found equally surprising. Gerome then asked to see what was in the sack tied round Krunk’s belt, but neither he nor Theodora were curious enough to actually sample the fistful of green nuts nor the two strips of cured meat of questionable origin .

The questions and answers continued for the next two hours. Theodora appeared to have a sincere interest in mundane orc life, such as how meals are prepared, the arranging of marriage and naming of children, and the weather in the steppe. Krunk told her about his four younger brothers and two sisters, the small circular shelter made of animal hide that his family lived in, how the floods took his mother’s life, and how his father taught him to hunt.. In return, Theodora told Krunk all about her grandfather’s estate in Racheau, how her older brother was killed by pirates while travelling by boat to Taltos, and how she spent most of her later youth in a place she called a school reading books so that she could follow her brother's path and become something she called a Chronicler.

“They are like your lore-keeper.”, she explained to the orc before beginning a long and awkwardly translated discourse on the subject. From what Krunk could comprehend, Theodora had learned all she knew about the orcs' language and culture from books written by other Chroniclers. Krunk listened, recalling his own childhood. When he was a young boy, a bhasamagh,, he would often join the other children of the clan and listen to stories of great battles and heros told by an ancient white-haired orc who was known only as Tahu-Tahun, or Rememberer-Of-Years. The old orc never owned a book, and had probably never seen one except among the looted treasures of the goblins who overtly coveted all-things-human. As a drum banged the rhythm, he would chant one of his epic tales exactly as he had first heard it so that the more attentive children soon learned the words and could chant along with him. Such an enormous mentally challenging task as preserving the clan’s oral history was a duty to which few orcs aspired to, but all warriors were taught the importance of protecting the Rememberer. Apparently the order of knights to which Eduard belonged had been created to safeguard the Chroniclers.

Gerome’s questions were mostly about weaponry and armour, much to Krunk’s disappointment. He had not spoken much about home or family since he had joined the Reven, nor had anybody else asked him to. Krunk offered the archer his crumpled shoulder armour in trade for the archer’s hatchet, but the archer’s translated reply was a polite, “I already have one.” Krunk was fairly sure that had not been Gerome’s actual words, but Theodora knew the unwritten rules of how to make a trade. No orc ever refused a trade without a valid reason, even if the valid reason was not entirely true. The armour had belonged to some other warrior before it had been given to Krunk by the Boghul. It fitted him poorly and by Krunk’s own deduction had not been much protection for its previous owner either. He did not begrudge the archer in the least for keeping his axe.

His spear, however, was given to him by his father upon his return from his last successful hunt. It took him and seven others to slay the great nhoolyan, and two of those seven were killed trying. “Now you are ready to be a warrior”, his father had told him; words Krunk had once believed and wished to believe again. It was as good a spear as any bull orc hunter might have. Its shaft was of the finest hardwood and had no visible knots or cracks. The spearhead was made for Krunk’s grandfather many years ago and bore the wyvern rune, the mark of the Fireblood clan.

“My queen not want me fight with empty hands”, Krunk protested loudly, pointing his finger at Eduard. “He broke my spear! I want his sword!” Theodora hastily translated Krunk’s subsequent threats and taunts, but the man was unresponsive to even the most crass slanders Krunk could deliver. Frustrated by Eduard’s unwillingness to answer his insults as was customary in such quarrels, Krunk spat at him; but the provocation was more successful than Krunk had hoped for. Eduard’s face flushed full crimson with rage and he reached for his sword.

At that point, it was no longer a dispute between equals. The man, though just a human, was far better equipped than Krunk. Not wanting to chance letting the man draw his sword, Krunk wound back his good arm and caught the knight with a hard punch to the chin. Theodora shrieked as Eduard reeled and fumbled with his scabbard as if he was drunk. Gerome nocked an arrow, but not quickly enough. Krunk rushed at the man, grappling him around the waist and throwing him completely off balance. More spectators gathered to watch the fight. With the weight of his armour now working against him, the knight stumbled backward with the orc still clinging to him. As both fell to the ground, Krunk rammed his head into Eduard’s chest, knocking the very breath out of him. The gasping man tried to defend himself, but had apparently never learned to fight unarmed the way Krunk had as a boy. The orc poured on the punches while the horrified onlookers watched their champion take a beating. Theodora ordered him to stop, but Krunk chose to ignore her. He had made a mistake and he knew it. He had, as his father often warned him against, grabbed the wolf by both ears. He wished the fight would end, but did not know how to end it except by killing the man, which he knew his queen would never allow to happen. Then something heavy struck him from behind and he fell into sleep.

When Krunk came to, his injured shoulder and the back of his head both ached terribly. His hands were bound tightly in front of him and his feet had been loosely tied to prevent him from running. The crowd was still gathered but they were silent for the most part. Eduard seemed unharmed except for two blacked eyes, a cut across his cheek, a bleeding nose and a swollen jaw. Krunk had failed earlier to notice that the priest was carrying a heavy mace, but now he was sure who it was that had hit him from behind. Theodora and Eduard were both engaged in an intense debate with a very tall man who Krunk assumed was one of Theodora’s subchieftains. Finally a verdict was reached and the encircling crowd parted, allowing Theodora, Gerome, Eduard and the priest to escort their prisoner away from the farmstead. The archer carried a coil of rope over his shoulder. The orc knew all about the humans’ various methods of execution. Being hanged as a prisoner was not how his father would have wanted him to die, but it less cowardly than being shot in the back while running away.

“Your life is not in my hands this time. I am no queen. I must do what Lord Marius says.”, she explained as they reached the old hay barn . “I am sorry, Krunk.”

“I sorry too. Now not a good time to die.” was Krunk’s solemn reply. He walked the rest of the way in silence thinking about the afterlife. He had been taught to fear his gods. They, like the people and land they created, were often vengeful and capable of great wrath. He only knew Theodora’s god to be merciful and protective, but one god could not be strong enough to protect Krunk from the many gods he had turned his back on.

They walked beyond the hay barn and up the small hill to the old lightningstruck tree. Gerome nocked an arrow and cast his watchful eyes in the direction from which the orcs last attacked. Meanwhile, Eduard took the rope and tied his prisoner to the trunk of the tree, “Lord Marius believes you cannot be trusted. He says you should be left for your people to judge.”, Theodora explained, her voice betraying no pity for the condemned orc. “Do you have anything else to say?”

It was a fate worse than hanging, beheading, or any other Krunk could think of. Orcs had no use for traitors or cowards and their punishment for such crimes were imaginatively cruel but inevitably led to death. Krunk shook his head, closed his eyes, and prayed for any god who would listen to help him.

After a long silence, Krunk opened his eyes again to see the priest and Theodora frantically trying to loosen the cords that bound his wrists and ankles. Meanwhile, Gerome took his hatchet and chopped through the ropes that tied him to the tree. Finally,. Eduard laid his hand on Krunk’s shoulder and spoke while Theodora translated. “He says he will still not give you his sword, but he will let you go free.”, she told him. “He says Aurellius is not yet finished with you.” Nothing Krunk had ever been told about the humans had prepared him for what was happening now. Though he understood them even less, he was learning to like them a lot more.

With a quick word to Theodora, Gerome sprinted off to the other side of the stone wall and returned with the two halves of Krunk’s spear, which he presented to Krunk along with his own hatchet. Eduard smiled, laughed loudly, and then spoke once more, rousing more laughter from the priest and Theodora.

“He says you better go now before he remembers he does not like orcs.”

Feeling a new sense of purpose, Krunk shouldered his shortspear, hefted the small hatchet and spoke his parting words in Taltain.

“You all in Krunk-clan now. I not let no-body hurt you.”

Beyond the farmstead, Tagarthos’ hills and caves were crawling with Isiri, walking-dead, dark-dwarves, vampires and murderous bandits, as well as Yaragath and a few other unenlightened orcs. It would be a difficult job for one young orc making war against all of them, but Krunk had faith in the words of his father and the guidance of his new god. Though the heroic deeds of Krunk, son of Kurzug would never be recorded in any book, this day would mark the beginning of Krunk's own Reven.

A Matter Of Taste - a hill giant's tale

2010-10-01T08:32:00.000-07:00

The last rays of a sinking sun reached across the evening sky like golden-red tethers, snapping loose one by one as the crescent moon ascended to steal the sun’s dominion. It was the sort of sunset that might be remembered in the epic songs of an elven bard if only one were there to witness its majesty.

He sat all by himself on the warm rocks on a small plateau overlooking the river below. He was waiting for his breakfast. The heat of the summer days made even the most basic tasks seem strenuous, and so he slept while the burning sun was overhead. Unfortunately, the days grew longer during the season and only prolonged his fasting.. He woke up hungry as usual. Before the days had grown so hot, he would venture down the long and winding path into the valley to seek more substantial meals such as the long-horned beasts that grazed in the tall grass along the riverbanks, but such delicacies had become rare of late. Besides, it was too hot to go wandering, even after the sun had gone.

The stars came out one by one. It would not be much longer now. They came almost every night without fail, moving in a long black column across the river plain and toward the mountain pass. Usually a handful of the creatures would break from the column and descend the steep rocky path that led past his small lair. If their numbers were more than he could count on both hands, he would remain out of sight and let them pass. They were small, but they fought ferociously. If their numbers were less than he could count on both hands, he would ambush them, slinging boulders at them as they reached his plateau and crushing the survivors two and three at a time with a tree-trunk which he wielded as a club.

The creatures were by far not as pleasant tasting as most other flesh he had eaten. He found them to be tough, stringy and generally not very meaty at all. Nevertheless they were better than trying to survive upon the local vegetation. Not only did leaves and grass fail to sate his hunger, but they disrupted his bowels severely.

He could smell them long before he could see their tusky faces. As they came nearer he counted them on one hand. It would be a light breakfast, but perhaps more might come to the aid of the dying and provide him with a second meal.

As the first of the orcs neared the edge of the plateau, a torrent of small boulders came raining down around its head. It staggered backward on the narrow ledge and slipped over the precipice. Digging its axe into a crevice, it clung to the steep rocky hillside, but its improvised piton only held for a moment before it fell tumbling down to a certain death upon the rocky plateau below. The other three covered their heads with their shields and endured the falling rocks lest they meet a similar fate. . When the bombardment ended, the other three scurried up the path, but he was ready for them. The first two he crushed with one fell swing of his club. Both flew through the air and struck the mountainside. The third one put up more of a fight though. He took a few checked swings at the fierce little creature even though its sword bit into his scarred legs, drawing blood. Finally when it seemed that the orc was not going to call for help, he brought his club down upon its head, taking some pleasure in the funny sound it made. Splattering the organs of ones prey all over the rocks was a shameful waste of food, but the annoying little creature had caused him to exert himself far more than he had intended it to.

For the next half hour he prepared his meal, first by stripping the three slain orcs of all their armour and clothing. Next, he twisted off their heads to be piled near his lair to serve as a territorial marker for his kinsmen who also made their homes in those mountains. Finally, he ate, finishing the arms and legs first before making a dessert of the sweet meats.

He was satisfied for the time-being, but far from full. For the rest of the night he sat awake, picking the gristle from his teeth with one of the orcs’ swords and watching the river valley below for supper. No more came. The stars began to fade with the coming of the sun and he retreated into his small fortress of boulders to avoid the sweltering heat of the coming day.

Either it was his own hideous snoring or the rumbling of his belly that woke him from his dream of fresh boar flesh. He crawled from his shelter and picked through the remains of his last meal hoping to find one last morsel, but there was nothing left but bones and a pile of armour, swords and axes. Angry at his own misfortune, he sat upon the warm flat rock overlooking the river and waited. The shadow of the mountain had only claimed half of the floodplain below and it would be some time before the night would come. Still, he was too hungry to go back to sleep.

Night arrived in the usual way, but without orcs. He wished he had bothered to climb down to the plateau below the night before rather than let that orc go to waste, but now it was too late. Likely the carrion eaters and flies had already found it, and even if they had not, the meat would have spoiled. It was almost morning before he finally gave in to his ravenous hunger and went out in search of food. .With his club in tow he nimbly descended the steep path down to the foot of the mountain. By the time he reached the bottom the sun had climbed high in the east. It was midday when he got to the river. As was his hunting style, he collected a few stones, hid himself as best he could behind a low pillar of limestone near the riverbank, and waited for an animal to come to the water to drink. He waited and waited, but to no avail. It was terribly hot.. as hot as any day he could remember, and he was hungry and sleepy. He decided to have a short nap before embarking on the long climb back to his lair. He yawned, closed his eyes and drifted quickly into sleep.

The night fell soft and silent like a feather. On the wings of a breeze the moon sailed its course, its mystical light bringing to life a nocturnal chorus. Fireflies danced, mimicking the stars. It might have been the sort of night that elves would sing about for generations to come had not some unintelligible creature’s bellowing interrupted the vignette.

“DURR WAKE UP! WAKE UP, DURRRR!!!!!”

He rubbed his eyes and looked up into the face of his brother Gok.

“Why you sleep here now?”, asked the elder of the two as he stood over his recumbent sibling. “It good me find you. Me take you to new friends.”

The less articulate Durr sat up and looked around. “Where friend? Me see just Gok.” He rose to his feet and hoisted his club over his shoulder. Though Gok was his brother and only real friend, he often picked on him as was a younger brother’s role. Gok was more popular among the members of the tribe, especially the females. Durr was shy by his people’s own reckoning and had only been courted once, a disaster he had tried since to forget.

“Ulula tell you come find me?”, Durr asked, feeling his last meal churning in his stomach.. Gok shook his head and laughed loudly.

Years ago, before Durr moved away from the tribal rocks and took to living alone, he had the misfortune of catching the eye of Ulula, the youngest of the two grand-daughters of the tribe’s highest matriarch. Being that females constituted less than one quarter of the tribe, it was considered wise for a female to choose several husbands to ensure that the tribe grew and thrived. A husband was expected to stay home and perform his reproductive duties during the season that was thought to be most fruitful so that she could bear many children. He was also expected to continue performing those duties most other days of the year to keep her happy and maintain harmony in the tribe.

Ulula, however, was the ugliest creature Durr had ever laid eyes on. In addition to her rather hairy chin, underbite and flat nose, she had a shrill voice that could start an avalanche and two extra toes on one of her feet. Durr never could understand why she was so smitten by him, or he might have been able to do something to dispel the charm that drew her to him. Instead, he chose a life of celibate freedom, sitting outside his lonely lair staring into the valley for hour after hour wondering where his next meal would come from.

Durr shook himself awake from his contemplative trance. Gok had started walking eastward and was barely within shouting distance. Durr chased after him in a thunderous trot, realizing for the first time in a long time how unfit for running he had let himself become. “You run too slow.”, Gok bellowed as Durr caught up with him. “Slow Durr get caught by Ulula”.

Laughing even louder at his brother’s expense, Gok took off running toward the wide-open plains south of the river. Durr had never strayed far beyond the entrance to the mountain pass and was starting to think his brother had gone insane. He ran as hard as he could until he felt his heart might pound its way right through his chest. Finally the two of them crossed over a small foothill and for the first time in his life, Durr beheld the people the orcs called the Ogere.

There were more there than Durr could count on both hands and both feet. There were even more than he could count if he had two extra toes like Ulula. He had never seen so many of any sort of creature in one place at one time with the exception of flies and orcs. They were different from anything he had ever seen. Much taller than orcs they stood, but they were not at all of the same blood as Durr or Gok. They walked strangely upright and spoke a peculiar language that vaguely reminded Durr of orcs. Most of them carried small clubs, but some wore armour and wielded large swords or axes.

As they stood on the hilltop overlooking the ogre encampment, Gok turned to Durr and explained his contract with the ogres with gleeful zeal. “Them let me go with them for make war. Them let me eat all me can splat. You come too!”. It was a bargain too good for Durr to pass up. He was almost hungry enough to take on the entire camp, but not enough to take on his brother too. More than ready to join their hunt, Durr followed Gok down into the ogre camp.

The ogres had a strange way of eating their food. They actually placed the meat over a deliberately-set fire and let it remain there until it was no longer red and juicy. Gok brought over a small chunk of the roasted meat to Durr and entertained himself by making Durr guess what sort of meat he was eating. Unfortunately Durr had never even heard of trolls and therefore was at a disadvantage. Now that he knew what one tasted like, he was eager to learn what one looked like before the butchering so that he might be able to find and kill a whole one for himself.

Durr was surprised to discover that his own language and the tongue of ogres had some of the same words. When they spoke, some of the sounds reminded him of orcs, but he did not recognize any of the words. His particular relationship with the local orcs had limited his orcish vocabulary to warcries, shouts for help and profanities. The ogres’ leader, who called himself Garmok, got around the language barrier by supplementing his words with simple pictures which he drew in the dust with a long stick. They would break camp at dawn to find more meat. Durr and Gok would have plenty to eat, but first they must sleep.

It was the best night of sleep Durr had ever had. The grassy slope of the foothill was much softer than the rocks on his little plateau. He awoke to the smell of orc. Even before he opened his eyes his mouth was watering. He almost jumped to his feet. The orcs scattered in all directions as he grabbed up his club and prepared to smash himself some breakfast.

“Stop! Them not for food. Them come with us!”, Gok commanded his brother. “If you full of orc, you not have room left for dwarf.”

The ogres had struck camp, taking all they would need for the march north and leaving behind them only a field full of smouldering fire pits, stacks of bones, and foul-smelling open ditches filled with fluke-ridden ogre-filth. “What is dwarf?”, asked Durr as he contemplated whether or not the ogres would notice the absence of one tantalizingly pudgy little orc archer. “Dwarf taste like chicken.”, replied Gok as the column of ogres and orcs began the march northward. Some of the orcs began laughing and snorting at Gok’s comment, but Durr, as usual, was confused. “What is chicken?”, he asked, sending Gok into fits of roaring laughter too.

They slowly marched northward until midday when they reached the river, and then began following the river west, straight toward Durr’s mountain home. Had the orcs not come along too, they might have been able to move faster, but Durr did not complain. He was envious of the ogres for devising such a clever idea as marching with their provisions on the leg. It was far better than slaughtering them all at once and then having to carry the meat all day long and letting the sun spoil it.

By mid afternoon the column had reached the entrance to the mountain pass. At that point, Garmok and a few other ogres stepped away from the column to consult with some off the more heavily armoured orcs. Finally it was decided that Durr and Gok would lead the column up the mountain.

Deeper into the pass the column advanced. The rocks were unfamiliar to Durr. For generations his people had lived in the higher terraces of the mountain where the air stayed cool. Only during the harshest winters would they migrate to the lower rocks of the eastern slopes. The mountain pass had always been thought to be barren of food, as there were not enough suitable caves or vegetation to sustain any indigenous game. Durr had often wondered why the orcs were inclined to hunt there. He suspected it was because they were not very smart.

“What dwarf look like?”, asked Durr as he and his brother ascended the narrow path cut into the mountainside. Gok tried to explain. “Dwarf like bear. Them got hair on faces, and them not tusky like orcs.”.

“Hairy like Ulula?”, Durr asked.

Gok laughed. “No. More harrier. Dwarfs all round and fat, not like orcs. Them got more meat on bones, but not easy to clean. Them covered in shiny hard shell like big turtles.”

“Them easy to catch?”, asked Durr as his mouth watered.

“Them not fast like orcs, but them fight back hard, not like orcs.”, answered Gok. “Dwarf caves big and deep. Orcs show you way to them. Me go home now.”

Durr looked to his brother in puzzlement. “Why you not come too?”, he asked.

Gok frowned and slumped his shoulders. “Mamulu not like me make her wait.”

Durr continued westward into the pass as Gok reluctantly turned homeward. A few orcs took the lead, racing beyond Durr’s sight as though they knew he would eat them if they did not find the dwarves lair soon. Just as the first stars were beginning to appear in the sky, the column spotted the entrance to the mine.

He had never seen such a cave. He doubted it was even a cave at all. The rocks all around it had been scraped and smoothed as though by a large knife, and the entrance was flanked by two large flat stones. A broad path led from the cave’s entrance westward, and along the path Durr could see many small creatures moving toward and from. Wooden carts laden with stones were being hauled away from the cave by horses and large long-horned cattle. From where Durr could observe them all, they looked not much different than ants moving about, but he knew that these were dwarves. Apparently the dwarves had noticed they were being watched and had sent up an alarm. The flat stones that stood either side of the cavern’s mouth began to close shut like a large pair of jaws, and carts wheeled round and retraced their path back toward the cavern to safety. The dwarves were preparing for an attack.

Hungry beyond trepidation, Durr charged toward the mine in hopes of catching a few before they could all retreat into their hole. Whether they had made any elaborate battle plans or not, the ogres and orcs followed the impetuous giant as he charged toward the dwarven mine.

Gok was right. They did not fight like orcs at all. They easily surrounded him, but unlike the orcs, they did not all try to attack at once.. They were very skilled at dodging and countering blows. In spite of their short legs and clanky armour, they moved quickly. As Durr would swing his club in one direction, five dwarves would attack him with sword and axe from another direction; and all the while stinging arrows flew at him. Fortunately for him, the orcs were not fighting against him this time. Driven by nothing more than hunger, he smashed and bashed and squished dwarf after dwarf, but he was beginning to believe this might be his final hunt. Bleeding and weakened, he was determined to see for himself if dwarf-flesh was all his brother had told him it was. Gok was a true epicurean. Of all his people, he loved food more than any, but his discriminating palate spared him from the obesity that might have plagued one less picky. ’The harder it fights, the better it tastes.’, Gok often said. Had Durr not valued his brother’s opinion so much, he would have just as soon turned on his new allies and perhaps been allowed to have his first sample of ogre.

Luckily for the ogres, the dwarves’ numbers dwindled until only a few remained. Durr was exhausted. While the surviving orcs and ogres finished off the weak and wounded, Durr picked through the freshly killed dwarves and selected for himself one very plump specimen.

Carefully he started removing the tiny plates of armour, a task for which his broad calloused fingertips were not well suited. The dwarf was a female, which confused him at first, for he had thought all dwarves had hair on their faces. He set aside her tiny shield and axe to add to his small collection of looted trinkets he kept hidden away within his lair. He then used the sword of a slain orc to cut away her two golden braids from her tiny head. Of all the treasures he had ever taken, her braids would be the shiniest and prettiest.

Before eating her, he held her under his nose and sniffed at length. Gok had once told him that a fine meal must be enjoyed with all the senses. Truthfully, orcs did not smell terribly tasty nor did they look very appetizing. They were not bad, but neither were they very good. They were just an easy meal.

She was, in fact, the tenderest and most tasty morsel he had ever put in his mouth. Although the ogres seemed to disapprove of his eating habits, he did not let their glowering ruin his dining experience. While, the orcs finished looting the bodies of weaponry, Durr took his time, being sure not to waste a single bite. When nothing remained of his little hors d’œuvre but a pile of bones, he joined the ogres around the pile of looted corpses to argue over who gets how much.

The ogres had a specific set of rules governing the claiming of spoils of battle. First picks from the dead-pile was always awarded to the one who killed the least. Though Durr did not understand why that was, Garmok explained to him that if they started with the one who killed the most, they would still be standing about arguing when the dwarves come back to avenge their dead. Durr complied with their rules, but was still not convinced that it was not their way of discriminating against him. By the time his turn came, the only choices remaining did not look very appealing. Never the less, he took a tarpaulin from one of the carts and gathered the leftovers up to take home and eat later.

It was nearly midnight when Durr made it back to his plateau overlooking the river valley. To his surprise, Gok was there waiting for him. “Me have some of that?”, Gok asked as he poked at the blood-soaked canvas bundle slung over Durr’s back. "Mamulu wanting strange food in middle of night. She say she eating for two.. tell me bring back cave bear."

“She Gok's wife..not Durr's!”, Durr snarled, though he eventually gave in and offered Gok half of a crossbowman.

“Garmok say me wait tomorrow for orcs.”, Durr told his brother as he started tidying up the bones strewn round his lair.

“Why Durr want to wait for orcs?”, Gok asked. “Dwarf taste more better.”

Durr had dug a small hole and was now filling it with his collection of orc skulls. “Orcs say them take me to place where me get all the dwarfs me can eat.”

“What me do when you eat up all the dwarfs?”, asked Gok, who was always teasing Durr about his girth.

“When dwarfs is all gone, we eat humans.”, replied Durr.

Gok looked at his brother as though in disbelief.. “What is human?”

“Me not know.”, laughed Durr. “Garmok say them taste like pig-meat.”

A World Without War - Gurgh's story

2010-10-01T08:14:00.000-07:00

It was the shouting that woke him, though they seemed unfamiliar and distorted. He opened his eyes and looked upward into the dense canopy of yellowing leaves which choked off all but a few rays of the late-afternoon sunlight. The air was heavy with the metallic scent of spilled blood, though it appeared the battle was now over and lost. The shouting continued but seemed to be far off and moving away further. He tried to sit up but his head throbbed, apparently from the same injury that had caused him to be laid flat on his back alone in the middle of the woods. He touched his brow expecting to find a bleeding gash across his forehead, but only found a large and tender lump. He tried to recall what happened after he and the others had been sent into the woods to suppress the mercenary crossbowmen.

He had followed orders obediently as always, charging the archers until he and his company were almost upon them. The enemy archers retreated into the woods but he and the others continued their pursuit though the briars and brambles slowed their advance. A volley was loosed at them as they neared the far edge of the woods and he turned to see one of his boyhood friends fall with two crossbow bolts jutting from his shoulder. Beyond that he could recall nothing.

Though it only made his throbbing head ache more, he sat upright and prodded around in the fallen leaves that blanketed the forest floor for his weapon and shield. He could find neither. He wondered which of his company had taken them and if they had perhaps discarded their own inferior equipment in the trade. He stood, took a moment to recover from a passing dizziness, and began a broader search of the area. He hoped to at the very least find a shortsword or a dagger, but nothing had been left behind this time. There were no other bodies of slain friends or foes to loot, not even his boyhood friend who he had seen fall to their archery.

He could make no sense of it. If the attack had failed, he would have been killed outright by the enemy or taken as one of their prisoners. He considered that he might have been mistook for dead and spared the coup-de-grace, but then where were the other casualties? Maybe the invaders had already disposed of the dead by burial or burning or whatever else might be their custom, but had the battle been over that long? He was not sure how long he had been unconscious, but could imagine nothing short of intervention by the gods that could have allowed him to be overlooked by his enemy once and perhaps twice.

Then he wondered if the attack had somehow succeeded, however unlikely. Could it be that all but he had continued the charge, even his boyhood friend? A seasoned veteran of the wars had once told him that the common warrior is often the last to learn that a battle has been won or lost. Maybe things had seemed far worse than they had actually been. One moment ago he believed the gods favoured him, and now he believed he had failed. The sounds of the shouting were now only distant echoes, but he knew he had to hurry and catch up to them so that he would not be thought to be a deserter and face the judgement of a coward.

He emerged from the southern edge of the woods as the sun dipped lower toward the westward hills. He knew nothing of tracking beyond the rudimentary skills that any boy from his settlement might learn through osmosis. All around him he could see the devastation of battle upon the landscape. The tall brown grass had been trampled flat as is always the case when an army or even part of an army moves through an area, but just as he had noticed in the woods, no evidence of the slain or their equipment had been left behind.

He looked for tracks that might lead him to the rest of his company. Though the Great Rains had not yet begun in earnest, a recent shower had softened the sunbaked clay. Tracks were in abundance, but it was impossible to tell which ones went which direction.. Human tracks mixed with horse tracks, dwarf tracks, cart tracks and orc tracks seemed to meander and mingle in all directions as though every army in Taltos had passed through that very spot. He looked skyward as the waxing moon rose in the east. He listened for the shouting, but could no longer hear it.

He began walking westward, becoming increasingly aware of how quiet the world could be when one was not accompanied by an army. It had been a long time since he had noticed the sound the grasses made as they wavered in the breeze or the chirps of the numerous birds and insects that came out after nightfall. As he became more acclimatized to his surroundings, he caught himself thinking back to his own childhood and how he wanted to one day travel to every part of the world he had ever been told about; and perhaps even to a few places nobody knew about. Too quickly he grew up though,, and he followed his two brothers and his best friend into the army as he was expected to do. Since then he had been many places far from home, but now that he thought about it, those places all seemed the same.

The night air was fresh and cool. Nowhere was the smell of burning villages or pyres, nor the stench of death and the dying. Those smells usually were carried by the wind miles away from the battle. Also absent was the odor of the army itself. With no wives or mothers around to daily instill upon them the importance of cleanliness, most common soldiers would simply try not to smell any worse than the one next to them. Eventually, everybody just gets used to the stink and so nobody notices it until the campaign is over and the army returns home to the discerning noses of their women-folk.

Soon he came to a creek bed that still had an ankle-deep stream running through it. Though it was hardly a bath, he decided to stop and try to wash away some of the accumulated mud, dust, dried blood and grime. Not compelled to put his wet gear back on right away, he rested by the stream and started picking through his tiny cache of marching rations for something palatable. It was then that he heard the rustling and clatter of somebody approaching him from behind.. Naked and unarmed, he knew that neither fighting nor fleeing were options. Slowly he turned around to see the silhouette of a tall cloaked figure with a pointed helm standing about twenty steps away from him. The figure took a few more steps forward, raised a bow, nocked an arrow, but did not shoot.

He stood, deliberately letting the figure see that he was unarmed, not knowing whether the figure was friend or foe. The figure finally lowered its bow and began walking toward the creek bed. It seemed totally oblivious to him though he was sure he had been seen. Kneeling to fill its waterskin at the stream a mere ten paces away, the figure looked up and turned its gaze right to him, or rather through him. Behind him a rabbit bounded from its hiding place only to be pierced by an arrow. The figure corked its waterskin, stowed its bow, collected its quarry and casually started back toward whence it came.

He waited a few minutes, dressed himself and followed the figure from a distance, trying to rationalize why he had once again been unseen. Was it magic? Was he invisible? Was he a ghost! The third possibility weighed heavily on him and he began to wish the shadowy figure had attacked him just so that he would know he was still alive and of this world.

Soon he was overlooking a small encampment of elves. Their race was known for their keen eyes and ears, and their rangers were among their best. The cloaked scout presented the rabbit to a superior, giving no indication that he had seen or heard anything out of the ordinary. The camp went about the business of cooking meals and deploying sentries as he watched with growing curiosity and concern.

Then without warning a shrill scream came from the other side of the small clearing and a hideous mob of creatures enslaved and twisted by the Isiri surged into the elven encampment. Swords and scimitars flashed in the moonlight, arrows whistled through the air, and an Isiri javelin flew right toward him, driving itself deep into the tree trunk he was taking cover behind. He hoped that his own comrades had been better prepared than the elves, or that maybe the Isiri had not found them yet.

Though he was tired, he ran as fast as he could in the same direction the dark elves seemed to be advancing toward. From behind he could hear the shouts, curses and cries of anguish as the two factions of elves and dark elves tore each other apart. He kept running until his legs grew tired and his lungs burned from the exertion of the uphill climb. Once he reached the top of the hill, he could see the fires of a rather haphazardly-arranged bivouac in the valley below. . Wanting to give them ample warning about the advancing Isiri, he charged down the hill with renewed strength. It was not until he was nearly in the middle of the slumbering company that he realized he was amidst the same mercenaries he had fought earlier that afternoon.

“ISIRI!” he yelled, hoping to rouse the entire camp even if it was at the cost of his own neck. Some great hero or other had once told him that an enemy of an enemy can be an ally, and right now he needed allies. Nobody in the camp stirred. Even the muscle-bound giant of a Hakirian that was posted as sentry declined even so much as to raise an eyebrow as he shouted a second warning. Again there was no response. Helpless to prevent their slaughter and not wanting to witness more bloodshed, he left the mercenaries to their unpleasant fate.

The moon was descending now, and there was a ring around it. The air was damp with the promise of rain. He trudged on, climbing hill after hill until he could go no further. The sky grew lighter in the east and the birds began singing again. A small outcropping of rocks in the middle of a large meadow seemed to him as good a place as any to get a few hours of sleep before turning round and retracing his steps back eastward.

No sooner had he reached the rocks than he heard the sound of thunder or what he thought was thunder. The rumbling was steady and came from all around. The noise grew louder and louder until it seemed to shake the earth itself, and then he saw the standard-bearers coming out of the morning fog in the south. To the north, a second army was forming up in ranks and preparing for a charge. From both directions horns and wardrums sounded. Warriors chanted trying to embolden themselves and mages began incantations. War-engines creaked and rolled into position and large winged beasts circled overhead.

The sun rose and shone golden across the meadow which still glistened with morning dew. Rabbits, field mice and all the other small burrowing denizens of the meadow scurried in all directions as the fog slowly lifted, knowing that their home was about to become another bloodbath.

There seemed to be no end to it. . For as long as he could remember the wars had been going on, and it seemed now that they would go on forever until there was nobody left to fight them. He had once thought the world was more than big enough for everybody to live without having to fight one another for more land. He had seen enough in his lifetime to know that it was the land that suffered most. Soon this meadow would be trampled flat, scorched, littered with bones and broken weapons; worthless to nobody except carrion eaters and necromancers.

He stepped out from the rocks and shouted a curse at the top of his lungs, though he doubted either of the two armies gathered spoke his native language. Though he himself had been a willing participant in the same sorts of ignorant brutality he was now so judgemental of, he could not ignore his new insight and watch his world self-destruct.

Nobody saw or heard him.. They charged toward each other and toward him like a great thundering rock slide and soon he would be buried by their foolishness and greed. As the two roaring masses collided around him, his final wish was for one last chance to make amends for perpetuating this war and a chance to pursue his dream of a lasting peace among all the people of the world. Then something struck him above his right eye and he fell, spinning and spiraling into the darkness.

It was more shouting that woke him, not the roar of thousands of warriors greeting their deaths, but the warcry of an orc nokhan. He scrambled to his feet quickly, almost bumping his head against a low branch. The afternoon sun barely shone through the yellowing leaves overhead . He placed his hand on his throbbing brow and felt a small trickle of blood. “You should watch for trees.”, spoke another voice in orcish. He took a few seconds to recover from the dizziness and then collected his axe and shield. It had all been a nightmare or perhaps a foreshadow of things yet to come. Whatever it was, he had brought back with him a new purpose in life There was still hope to change the world as long as he did not give up on the dream..

One day there would be no more bickering warlords, no more petty kingdoms with artificial boundaries, no more long bloody campaigns, and no more killing for the sake of killing. Some day there would be only one people, one nation, one clan... ruled by one khan.

Gurgh wiped the blood from his eyes, raised his axe above his head and charged toward the mercenary archers. This was no longer an ordinary war for Gurgh. This was the reven to end all revens.

The Best Laid Plans

2007-03-14T19:43:00.000-07:00

Dantral gets a good lesson about traditional orc-tactics, while Gurm gets a lesson in mathematics.

Okay..I think WWWAAAAUUUGGGHHH!!! might be a trademark of a certain other game shop ...so I left out one letter and added extra puncutaion.

Also, in old Warlord, a model's melee attack value (MAV) was increased by one if the army it belonged to spent 10% of the points-buy value on a Totem Of Battle. In those days, there was no designated model for that item. It just had to be a certain size, and the suggested totem for orcs was "Skull Throne". A year or so later I actually made one that was a skull-motif toilet.

As for "Distract"..I think that rule is still in the game. Some players thought it was an odd ability to give an animal model...but apparently they've never owned a dog.

Got Rangers?

2007-03-07T19:29:00.000-08:00

Hoping to find the Crusaders before the Crusaders find them, the Orcs send forth their best Ranger. Ogres, however, are not known for their subtle approach to reconnaissance.

In the old Warlord rules, being on a road doubled a model's movement rate, and being a Ranger gave a model a free extra movement at the start of the game. Somehow the idea of Gurm the Ogre being all stealthy and cowled and brooding and changing his name to Strider kind of makes me giggle though.

The Rookie

2007-02-28T11:03:00.000-08:00

As the other Kharg and the OTHER other Kharg head westward in search of Valandil, the orcs decide to give their new rookie Captain a first-day-on-the-job to remember. But the joke is lost on poor Krunk. Much like his spear, he's got things all backwards and doesn't see the point.

I was always of the opinion that in the official Warlord fiction, Dantral took himself way too seriously and that a little time with my orcs ought to do him some good.

The bit about fighting companies and losing the Enrage ability are outdated rules references. At one time in order for an orc to have the Enrage ability that increased his attack and lowered his defense was to be part of a company made up of only Bull Orcs (the tusky-faded big bad orcs).

Kharg Trek

2007-02-22T10:48:00.000-08:00

Kharg chooses a small troop to join him on a mission for Greka.

In spite of what some folks might think, the name Fourthorc predates Taco Bell's Fourthmeal by almost half a year. Fourthorc is sorto of the antiGurgh in that, in spite of having something bad happening to him every time he rounds the corner, he never ever expects it.

Nerdzerkers

2007-02-15T10:37:00.000-08:00

While the rest of the camp is in chaos, Gaaguk gets his first taste of live-action roleplaying, but will his grand ambitions in the make-believe world of Biggie-Burger get the best of him?

The idea for the reality-based RPG came from a comic strip by Tim "Talin" Collier that used to be featured in Reaper's Casketworks catalogue. One particular strip featured Gragg Elfslayer (my favourite orc) tearing up an office building.

Three of a Kind

2007-02-11T10:13:00.000-08:00

Resurrecting an army is never cheap, as Varaug's three "volunteers" soon find out.

More game-related humour here..sorry.

Kharg was "non-unique" meaning you could have more than one of him in your army build. I had three, and converted each a little to be able to tell them apart.

Wake the Dead

2007-01-29T09:52:00.000-08:00

You can't keep a good orc down, and they don't stay dead for long either.

In the old Warlord campaign system, if a model was slain in battle, he/she/it could be brought back to life for the next battle by spending gold from the player's faction treasury. Of course Greka has her own price in mind too.

As for the Elemental Plane of New Releases and Dantral, it had become almost a running gag with those who played the orc faction that Dantral would come out sometime after the Atlanta Falcons win the Superbowl and just before Hell freezes over. (We orc players can be an impatient lot).

Big Trouble

2007-01-21T09:42:00.000-08:00

When the hill giant and goblin spring their surprise attack, Dantral and Krunk decide to be heroes. See who "gets it in the end".

My apologies for the slew of outdated game referrences. I'll try to 'splain.

The bit about "lots of Defensive Strikes" has to do with the fact that in Warlord, even models who can be killed (and ARE killed) by only one swing still get to swing back, since all combat is resolved simultaneously.

The bit about "AoE" refers to "Area of Effect". In general an AoE has to do with a spell such as a Fireball, but for the Hill Giant, AoE refered to the patch of ground he could either smash with his club or bash with a rock.

Blind Love

2007-01-15T09:26:00.000-08:00

Dantral tries to explain the rules of model proxying to Krunk, but only succeeds in breaking his heart. Meanwhile, who is guarding the camp?

The Dark Horse

2007-01-08T19:30:00.000-08:00

While the Orcs sleep, the Goblins plot a coup d'etat, but first they have to decide who is in charge.

It is a little known fact that Hilly the Hill Giant is a fan of Teddy Roosevelt.

Unreal Estate

2007-01-01T20:06:00.000-08:00

With the forest now rid of Elves, it is time to divvy up the loot, and Varaug and Narg plan a surprise for Kiakara.

On the twelfth day of Christmas, Reaper gave to me...

2006-12-24T18:45:00.000-08:00

twelve Orcs a'Charging

eleven Reven revellers
ten Goblins mobbing
nine Archers aiming
eight Harpies flying
seven Hunters hunting
six geeks a-playing
5 MAV
four snoring Orcs
three Beast-men
two Ogre thugs
and a Hill Giant with a dead tree!

On the eleventh day of Christmas, Reaper gave to me...

2006-12-23T18:42:00.000-08:00

eleven Reven revellers

ten Goblins mobbing
nine Archers aiming
eight Harpies flying
seven Hunters hunting
six geeks a-playing
5 MAV
four snoring Orcs
three Beast-men
two Ogre thugs
and a Hill Giant with a dead tree!

On the tenth day of Christmas, Reaper gave to me...

2006-12-22T18:37:00.000-08:00

...ten Goblins mobbing

nine Archers aiming
eight Harpies flying
seven Hunters hunting
six geeks a-playing
5 MAV
four snoring Orcs
three Beast-men
two Ogre thugs
and a Hill Giant with a dead tree!

On the ninth day of Christmas, Reaper gave to me...

2006-12-21T12:13:00.000-08:00

...nine Archers aiming

eight Harpies flying
seven Hunters hunting
six geeks a-playing
5 MAV
four snoring Orcs
three Beast-men
two Ogre thugs
and a Hill Giant with a dead tree!

On the eighth day of Christmas, Reaper gave to me...

2006-12-20T12:09:00.000-08:00

...eight Harpies flying

seven Hunters hunting
six geeks a-playing
5 MAV
four snoring Orcs
three Beast-men
two Ogre thugs
and a Hill Giant with a dead tree!

On the seventh day of Christmas, Reaper gave to me...

2006-12-19T11:58:00.000-08:00

...seven Hunters hunting

six geeks a-playing
5 MAV
four snoring Orcs
three Beast-men
two Ogre thugs
and a Hill Giant with a dead tree!

On the sixth day of Christmas, Reaper gave to me...

2006-12-18T12:02:00.000-08:00

...six geeks a-playing

5 MAV
four snoring Orcs
three Beast-men
two Ogre thugs
and a Hill Giant with a dead tree!

On the fifth day of Christmas, Reaper gave to me...

2006-12-17T11:31:00.000-08:00

...5 MAV

four snoring Orcs

three Beast-men

two Ogre thugs

and a Hill Giant with a dead tree!

On the fourth day of Christmas, Reaper gave to me...

2006-12-16T20:06:00.000-08:00

four snoring Orcs

three Beast-men
two Ogre thugs
and a Hill Giant with a dead tree!

On the third day of Christmas, Reaper gave to me..

2006-12-15T20:02:00.000-08:00

...three Beast-men

two Ogre thugs
and a Hill Giant with a dead tree!

On the second day of Christmas, Reaper gave to me..

2006-12-14T20:25:00.000-08:00

...two Ogre thugs

and a Hill Giant with a dead tree!

On the first day of Christmas, Reaper gave to me..

2006-12-13T20:25:00.000-08:00

...a Hill Giant with a dead tree!

Tough Luck

2006-12-11T19:23:00.000-08:00

With Mossbeard and the Elven Archers defeated, the time has come for the inevitable Toughness check.

Way back in the day, when an orc model got knocked down, an orc leader could rouse him with a Warcry, and if that didn't work, there was the Toughness check. To pass, most orcs needed to roll a 9 or 0.

Lady Luck, however, does not care much for poor Gurgh. He is one of my oldest models and has much of his paint worn away. Still he is a good stout front-line veteran...and Reven-Heaven's number one returning customer.

Yard Work

2006-12-05T18:24:00.000-08:00

Urga and his Beastmen Woodcutters come to the rescue as the orcs take on the Treeman, hoping to prove that Mossbeard's BARK is much worse than his bite.

The PUNishment never ends, folks! As for Urga and the rest of the Beastmen, I always imagined them to be the expert landscapers of the Monglash steppes.

Tree Huggers

2006-12-05T17:57:00.000-08:00

Upon realizing that Elves are almost impossible to shoot when they're hidden in the trees, Ugmok and Gurgh try out the tactic for themselves.

It was only a matter of time before I took a jab at the elves. Oddly enough, this was inspired by a game room incident in which my friend Kelly needed a proxy for the big Tree-man model. We "made do" with one of my ogres camouflaged in clump-lichen. Some of the other elf players were not quite so amused.

Friendly Fire

2006-12-05T17:52:00.000-08:00

When Elves attack the Reven column, Narg sends his rookie Archers forward, but leaves his rear flank unprotected.

Believe it or not, there ARE actually people out there who are fanatic enough that they go through the trouble of adding bowstrings to their archer miniatures. The material of choice is kitty whiskers (that fall out naturally, of course).

LIttle MIss Understanding

2006-12-04T17:28:00.000-08:00

On the road to Aizen Krahl, Krunk meets his new Captain. Not only is love blind, but it does not listen too well either. Introducing #02946 Neroli, half-orc paladin painted by Anastrianna in her first full-length feature funny-page.

The Dantral proxy joke begame a rather long-running gag at our local Warlord games because the official model for the half-orc captain took a long time to actually enter production. Besides, this particular model was painted by a very talented friend as a gift and I was dying to show her off.

"Womens' Liberation"

2006-11-13T17:08:00.000-08:00

Before the Aizen Krahl campaign begins, Varaug and Kiakara argue over the spoils of war, however Varaug is disarmed in this battle of wits.

Of course it was Sylvester and his little nephew that invented this gag, but far be it from me not to recycle it. Ironically since several game revisions, Kiakara has improved her stats, but Varaug hasn't gotten any smarter.

"Confirmed Bachelors"

2006-11-06T17:04:00.000-08:00

With all of Townville to loot and pillage, Urbog and Krunk decide to go look for some action..but find something else instead.

This one may seem a bit dated. If I had made it just yesterday, I suppose the berserker axe-orcs would have been playing Flames Of Waaaagh instead.

Gee I hope "waaaagh" isn't a registered trademark too.

"It's the Great Reven" Halloween special - Part 8 of 8

2006-10-24T22:23:00.000-07:00

And there you have the origins of Halloween..and you know it is true..because it's on the interwebs.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Come back this Friday for the regular scheduled update.

"It's the Great Reven" Halloween special - Part 7 of 8

2006-10-23T16:39:00.000-07:00

So it seems Kiakara's catapult does indeed work. The ending would appear to be a happy one...so far. Tune in tomorrow..same orc-time, same orc-channel to see if Janara and Gragg get to see the "Great Reven" in the pumpkin patch.

"It's the Great Reven" Halloween special - Part 6 of 8

2006-10-22T20:31:00.000-07:00

The plan seems to be working ...so far.

I wish I could offer a valid explanation for the references to cupcakes and cute orcs..but I can't. Some things are not really meant to be understood... but to be accepted just the same.

"It's the Great Reven" Halloween special - Part 5 of 8

2006-10-21T19:18:00.000-07:00

The term "orc plan" is self-contradicting, but that never stops an orc from trying. This was also a fun chance for me to debut a few new models in the comic, including one big stompy robot from Reaper's CAV game. I'm not sure where the cutie-bear came from though.

A bit of 'splaining for those new to 28MMT and the Warlord game, Hilly-G is the HIll Giant (thus the irony), and the CAV "Ogre" is a different stompy robot from the futuristic fantasy game system.

And yes, that'd be the Linus and Sally homage there in the last frame.

"It's the Great Reven" Halloween special - Part 4 of 8

2006-10-20T19:33:00.000-07:00

A Halloween special just isn't the same without Lucy and the football... or Kiakara and the catapult.

"It's the Great Reven" Halloween special - Part 3 of 8

2006-10-19T18:11:00.000-07:00

For those of you not familiar with the Reaper universe, Kargir is an icy realm populated by orcs..and being that it is an icy realm, the orcs often venture south into Anhur during the winter..and then stay there for the summer..or a bit longer if they want to. Gragg is their leader... and Janara... well, she's the self-appointed president of the Gragg Elfslayer Squeeing Fangirl Fanclub.

"It's the Great Reven" Halloween special - Part 2 of 8

2006-10-18T18:09:00.000-07:00

For those of you not familiar with Reaper's Warlord universe, a "reven" is what the orcs call a full-scale raid, and is considered to be a necessary rite of passage before an orc is considered an adult. In reality, the term seems to be related to the reavers of old who raided all along the borders of Scotland.

Neek the goblin considers himself a contender for Warlord of the goblinoid tribes of the Monglash Steppes, and in these comics is often trying to get himself one-up on poor Varaug.
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"It's the Great Reven" Halloween special - Part 1 of 8

2006-10-17T13:52:00.000-07:00

Halloween has always been my favourite holiday. I mean, what's not to love about dressing up strangely and eating loads of candy. I also love this time of year because I can dig out my old VHS copy of It's The Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown. This holiday 28MMT special is dedicated to the memory of Charles Schutz.

Check back nightly for the next week as I upload this rest of this eight part holiday special.

"A Lasting Peace"

2006-01-08T06:36:00.000-08:00

Now that the orcs have taken the small hamlet of Townwille, it is time to make plans for the future.

This one, I admit, was inspired by Dick Cheney. Can you guuss which orc is George W. Bush?

"Sensitive Orcs"

2006-01-01T10:00:00.000-08:00

The first full-sized 28MMT comic strip, featuring the orcs of Warlord doing what orcs do best.... whooping the Undead. Many of the comic punchlines have to do with rules from the Warlord game, some of which no longer exist. The Warcry rule lets a leader model revive a grunt model with what SHOULD be a fearsome rallying bellow..but in this case.. well...

"Literature 101"

2005-10-05T08:00:00.000-07:00

This is the first comic I ever sent to ReaperGames. Again inspired by real life and JRR Tolkien, the orcs discover "the dipping jar".

"Honey I'm home!"

2004-09-22T18:05:00.000-07:00

I found this first comic strip about a week ago while cleaning up my computer and it dawned on me that it was nearly five years to the day I started the 28mm Theatre series. So I've decided to round up as much content as I can find and bring 28mm Theatre back to teh interwebz.

This strip came about one night while I was playing around with a modular dungeon set. The two featured models are Reaper's Garish McRae Highland Wizard and Janara Halforc Female Ranger. They are this particular Dream House's version of Ken and Barbie.