Chapter I: The Ugly and the Beast Part One.

[Kharmak]

This story is not my own, but I had worked with the writer who had based this on my Orc Gladiator who was a slave to the Forest Trolls. This is the very same person who drew the pictures of my Orcs. With her permission I have been allowed to post it here for you all to read!

Based on Rokh the Mindless: http://www.orcsoftheredblade.com/wiki/index.php?title=Rokh_the_Mindless

- Back already? - a growling voice echoed in the tent, the massive, bulky troll kicking the wooden structure of the shelter, causing him to sway in the hammock he was laying in. - Did the High Priestess dismiss you, or...? - he yawned, opening just one of his red eyes to glance at the female that entered his living space, immediately squinting it at the amount of light that she allowed to spill inside through the entrance.

A low growl responded, the rather short woman denying him the conversation, glaring at him as she closed the canvas of the tent behind her, scoffing while she slowly stepped forth towards her belongings, crouching and slowly sorting them out - as always being in a bad mood after having to walk through the city alone, having heard an insult or two too much. The inside of the tent was highly decorated in beads, bones and skulls, with weaponry scattered all across the floor - mostly throwing axes and daggers with a single staff leaning against one of the spans, three bare skulls stuck on top of it. Only a few last flickering sunrays foreshadowing a sunset managing to find their way inside through the hole in the roof, making the interior rather dim and hard to navigate in.

- The contrary, Razakar. - she replied after a short while, her voice rather low and grumbly at this point. - We are moving out in two days, and with her blessing and order to take a gift for the Warband with us... I suggest you start preparing yourself to leave. - she turned briefly to give him a look of triumph, later to hunch over her belongings scattered in the corner, leaning to the side to grab a leather satchel and, opening it widely, stuffing potion reagents into it.

After having blinked for a few times Razakar sat up, resting his legs on the grassy floor, tilting his head to the side as he observed his sister for a longer while with a frown upon his menacing visage. Being enormous as he was he simply grabbed her shoulder and shook it lightly, trying to get her attention while she was clearly overwhelmed by the innate joy of travelling to Stranglethorn as an emissary of her tribe.

- Don’t forget we have business to do today. - the shaking, as light as it was, made the entire posture of the frail woman tremble under his titanic grip, beads on her neck rattling, eyes widened in surprise. - You promised we will see the fights before we get to leave, it might be our last time... Packing can wait. We have the entire day for it tomorrow.

Yara tried to shake his hand off her shoulder as soon as it hit her, however the skinny woman had no chance at all with an axe-thrower of such size. She simply kept on crouching on the floor, balancing her body weight accordingly on her toes. She sighed quietly and nodded her head, turning her head to look at her brother, her gaze giving away her discomfort as she began to tremble slightly. Razakar recognized that he had hit her boundary of snapping and for sure he invaded her personal space for far too long, quickly pulling his hand away as he stood up, hunching, being too tall for the tent they both shared on the outskirts of the city. He rolled his shoulders, looking at his sister with a smirk, shaking his head as he leaned forth to grab her staff and hold it for her to take - which she reluctantly did after a while, still somewhat startled by his behavior. As she lifted herself up she turned to face the door, muttering more to herself than to anyone else . Without word a she squeezed in between him and the opening of the tent, the elven skulls on her stave rattling as she stepped outside, and so did he, their ears suddenly flooded with the sound of drums.

It was early evening, the sky already turning into a golden red hue - foreshadowing the bloodshed that was about to come. A breeze was blowing lightly all over the Hinterlands with shrunken heads, beads and skulls that were hanging all around the Great City of Jintha'Alor creating a light chime that dwelled in the heads of the gathered Vilebranch, only increasing their excitement about the upcoming events.

As the siblings were wandering through the pathway leading towards the upper level of Jintha’Alor the roaring and yells of excitement grew only louder and stronger, the first skirmishes already beginning to take place, the blood being spilled already in the name of nothing else but sheer entertainment of the tribe. While Razakar was of quite the impressive posture and made his way through the crowd rather easily, like an icebreaker of sorts, raising his palm here and there to greet a friend of his, Yara struggled to make each step, rattling her staff to make sure she is being noticed, giving up after a certain point, deciding to hide behind her brother and use the pathway he makes to her advantage. As he had noticed that he glanced at her over his shoulder with a malevolent smirk, raising a brow.

- Pity you are too old for a piggyback ride… they used to be fun when we were but little pups. - he chuckled as he rolled his shoulders idly, later to look at the entrance to the Pit - We are almost there, there seems not to be enough place close to the arena itself… a shame. - he visibly waned, the sheer thought of missing all the carnage ruining his mood.

The blood priestess frowned, looking around, standing on her toes but still barely seeing a thing. With a huff she rested her palms on her hips, having sheathed her staff on her back beforehand. As she was about to give up and turn back she looked up, having noticed a few crevices in the wall just above the arena with possibly the perfect view on the very Pit. Without ado she pulled Razakar’s arm lightly and stormed off with a rather springy strut towards the wall, beginning to climb - having gathered a few giggles from the crowd here and there, seeing as she was not a good climber at all. As he saw his sister being this bad at something Forest Trolls exceed at, the axe thrower covered his face in a gesture of shame, moving towards her to both give her a helping hand and hurl himself up, the two soon resting comfortably on top of the stone wall.

What they witnessed was indeed marvellous to see - a full view onto the Pit, the wooden spikes, cages and trails of blood so very vivid, all bathed in a devilishly-red sunset with the breeze lightly stroking their mossy skins and red manes, torches being lit up to illuminate the entire area for the crowd to see the bloodshed well. It seemed that one of the fights that had held place prior to their arrival had already concluded itself - the gruesomely mutilated corpse of the fallen warrior was slowly being dragged away, sand was being spilled onto the bloody stains on the floor of the arena. The crowd however rose its fist - hundreds if not a thousand of voices began chanting a name that was at first hard to understand, slowly becoming more clear as the trolls caught the tempo. Yara frowned her brow and was about to ask Razakan about the entire ordeal, not used to the fights as of recent, however her brother began to speak before she managed to utter a single word.

- Ah, I almost forgot… - he began, taking out a pouch filled to the brim with elven ears, beginning to chomp on all the tissue, skin and cartilage, speaking with his mouth full. - You have not been to the Pit for quite a while… there is a new Gladiator in the cages, an orc, stolen from the Revantusk by our troops not too long ago… was it two weeks? I can’t recall… - he pondered, scratching his chin, later to extend the palm holding the pouch with the treats towards Yara, which she gleefully accepted.

- “Destroyer”, is this what the crowd is chanting? - she sighed, gnawing on the rather chewy flesh, spitting away what seemed to be an earring, later to look over her shoulder as she glanced at other trolls following them suit, nesting themselves on top of the wall. - I take it he deserved his name? It is a bold one, so to speak… - she remarked, being rather spiteful.

- He has never lost a fight, woman. - Razakan replied, slightly irritated by her insolence at this point. - Looks like a god of war himself, kills hordes with his bare hands, no warrior has managed to best him in battle. You will love the display, I am sure of it...

Yara shrugged, making little of it as she took out a scrap of paper which seemed to look like a map of the continent, having taken a piece of charcoal she began scribbling a possible route to try to get to Stranglethorn without causing too much of a ruckus. She scratched her cheek, a thin layer of face paint left on her fingers as she tapped them against the parchment, leaving marks. The chanting became louder and louder, soon to turn into a roar that made her blood run faster - “Rokh! Rokh! Rokh!” the crowd’s relentless mantra echoing within the walls of Jintha’Alor, for sure heard in entire Hinterlands at this point. Enthralled and inquisitive she tucked the map behind her belt and stood up, leaning on her staff that she unsheathed, staring into the Pit.

Suddenly, the crowd went completely wild as a shadowy figure emerged from the depths of the pit, its posture enormous with muscles bulging underneath its flesh, scars scattered on every inch of the surface of its body. Yara lofted her brow at the sight, clearly impressed already - no comparison to how a dire troll would look like, but still promising and foreshadowing a marvellous fight. She hummed to herself, squinting her reddish eyes trying to see the Destroyer better - the orc was mutilated beyond what she has seen during any other fight, chunks of flesh missing from his face and torso, wearing nothing more but a loincloth and shackles, snarling at the crowd while scowling, humiliated and brainwashed. She almost felt sorry for him, seeing how much of a proud and capable being he must have been before being broken by the slavery and pit fighting - she shook her head to shoo away the thought however, still being sceptical about a warrior with no weapon allowed to even enter the arena, the doubtful privilege being offered only to those who truly deserved to be ripped apart.[/pre]

As the shackles were unlocked from a safe distance the Destroyer roared, his voice echoing above the yells of the public, his name being chanted over and over again until the throats were sore and could speak no more. At that point Razakar slowly stood up with his arms folded upon his massive chest, chin risen high as he judgingly observed the orc, brows slightly furrowed, muscles tense in silent agitation. Yara simply continued to stand by his side, enchanted by the display of raw power and strength already, her eyes locked on the gladiator - slightly squinted with pupils widened, craving to catch every detail of his posture.

The sound of gongs echoed within the walls of Jintha’Alor and another cage - previously hidden beneath rags and flayed skins of other fallen gladiators, an enormous one to that - was hurled into the pit, crashing as soon as it hit the ground. Clouds of ashes and dust rose into the air, obscuring the view of the pit entirely, the crowd going silent for a moment with no one able to distinguish the two contestants, a murmur slowly beginning to emerge from their throats as the silhouettes became more and more vivid, later to turn into savage roars again. As Razakan squinted his eyes to see through the dust he smirked, leaning his head towards Yara while speaking out in a calm manner:

- I believe his glory days are over, sister. No one got to live through what he is about to face. - he uttered, turning his attention back to the arena with a sigh. - A pity. He was a promising gladiator...

The priestess huffed, still unable to determine how many opponents the mighty Destroyer is yet to face - this soon became clear, however, as a mighty fist rose high into the air, almost reaching the inner palisade of the pit as it swung, hitting the ground with a loud thump. A long, deep rumbling roar followed. As the dust began to fall back to the ground an enormous figure emerged from the ashes, twice the size of the orc at least, the maw of the beast filled with sharpened tusks and teeth, salivating profusely. A dire troll, nonetheless, its skin rugged and tattered due to the splinters of the crushed cage penetrating it, the blood already began to drip down his features.

A second gong rang in the ears of the gathered. The harbinger of death and decay, of the bloodshed to come.

The crowd has gone wild yes again, and for good. The battle had begun. At this point Yara could not contain her curiosity and began to swiftly strut along the wall in order to jump above the gate to the other side, closer to the Pit itself, completely ignoring the shouts of her brother calling her. With her head turned towards the pit she continued to run, almost tripping in the haste of it, slowly making her way to the empty space on the other side of the arena.

The hulking menace of a troll, having noticed the orc, roared with its almighty voice and began to move towards him, gaining speed with each step made while holding a wooden stake in its palm alike a club, relentless, aiming to kill, its red eyes stuck to its prey. Seeing that every muscle on the Destroyer’s body flexed, a single chain left from his shackles dangling at his wrist, attached to the cuff. He quickly wrapped it around his forearm, seeking to secure it for the time being. As the dire troll finally lunged forth to shoulder barge Rokh, willing to impale him onto the upper spikes of the arena, the orc feinted, throwing himself to the side, rolling upon his back and immediately lashing the chain forth. He aimed towards the Achilles’ tendon, successfully snapping the heavy iron lash, later to attempt another attack at the beast’s back - however, blinded by rage, the menacing hulk turned around and shuffled the orc away with a single swipe, the Destroyer hitting the wall of the pit with a loud grunt, inches away from the spikes. As his eyes filled with rage Rokh lashed the chain again, willing to wrap it around the beast’s wrist - the width of its limb however was too much for him to handle, and with yet another swing the gladiator was swept away once more, hurled towards the other side of the pit with the crowd chanting his name, a spike making a gash in his thigh, the wound bleeding profusely - yet another trophy to his collection of scars.