Tradition

[Nograx]

He waited till his mate was fully asleep before he ventured outside. He wandered over the field of battle. To the foul smell of the shadowmoon valleys air came the stink of rotten flesh, shit, piss and blood. The smell of war. But he didn't ventured outside to gaze upon the battlefield. He had something to do.

His hand reached under his tabard and grabbed the amulet, he was wearing. Two tooth where on it. Dyed black. A mark of the Dragonmaw. Given to those, who are worthy of being called a member of the clan. He came along the tents of the wounded. Groans, the stench of sweat, cries of pain as damaged limbs got cut off. He knew this shit all to well. But, how terrible this was, they survived. The tribe survived. His friends survived. His mate survived. And that was all that mattered... Or was it?

He finally managed to get to where Rosh`tul Rimeweaver lead them against the charging Dragonmaw Fel- Orcs. So many of them. A big mess of red and black upon the dead soil of the valley. He sighed at the sight of this and got to work. Carcass after carcass he reached under the tabards of the Fel Orcs and every time he pulled out the amulets. By the time he was done his hands where full with these. He couldn't tell how much more burned away in the lava.

Branches, leather straps and some pieces of cloth. He sat outside the village on a hill and was putting these things together. He had done this times befor. So many times, that this act was ironically some kind of a routine for him.

We do this after every battle. To honour the dead.

The crude looking totem stood before him ontop of the pile amulets he had recovered. It had the shape of a dragon, spreading its wings and howling into the sky. Not pretty but that wasn't needed for this task. With heavy steps he went to the brazier and took out a burning branch.

„May your spirits fly free to the home of your ancestors.“

The wooden sculpture and the amulets catched fire within the the second and began to burn.

They are no true orcs anymore.

But the amulets. They are still dragonmaw. No matter how corrupt or fel infused. They still cling to tradition... Such an old tradition.

His hand reached for his own amulet and he looked between it, the burning pile befor him and the carcasses on the field back and forth. The same way the voice in his head came back and forth. Telling him this and that.

Was this right?

Nograx couldn't help to feel that he cared as much for the burning amulets befor him, as for the injury's his fellow tribesmen had. If not more for the amulets.

He stood there until the fire had died out and only ashes were left befor him.

[Gridish]

- giggles - I was mentioned in this story. 

Goodread Noggles!