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The Defense of Sylvarelle

Commander Talion Lannigold barked an order. The Royal Lancers of Allon, sun gleaming off their polished platemail, smoothly fell into a wedge formation and charged. As they picked up speed, they lowered their lances to a horizontal position. The hooves of their steeds thundered, as did my heart, in anticipation. The wedge crashed into the rows of scarecrows that were arranged to represent the enemy armies, and they went flying in either direction, impaled by the shafts of the lances. 

Another order. The lancers slowed down, wheeled around 180 degrees smartly and drew fresh lances from their saddle holders to charge the enemy lines again. I could imagine the mayhem, the fear in the eyes of the enemy before their doom met them.

We will crush them, I thought. Easily.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

The Elves of Sylvarelle had somehow managed to move their towns - all 3 of them - in mass exodus to the middle of the Weeping Willow Woods. Commander Lannigold, unflustered, ordered a fully outfitted expedition into the woods.

What followed was a nightmare beyond my wildest imagination.

Arrows fell from all directions. I don't just mean north, south, east and west. They fell from the sky. They came from the undergrowth. They came from everywhere. Sometimes, there was only an odd arrow or two, shot from the dark, in the dead of the night. Sometimes, there were several volleys of concentrated fire from multiple directions. We lay awake at nights, dreading to fall asleep and wake up with an arrow through the gut.

Not once, I am ashamed to say, did we manage to catch more than a glimpse of the blasted elves. Oh, we gave chase, we did, with our fine horses. But before we negotiated a few turns in the trails through the woods, the elves were long gone.

Humiliated, Commander Lannigold withdrew our troops. We were harried all the way till the edge of the woods. As we retreated back to the city and the safety of our walls, I saw the Commander glance back to the woods.

He would go back, later, with a plan. I was sure of it. He was not a man to admit defeat.

Just as sure as I was that the elves would have something else up their sleeves. I shivered. This was going to be a long war.

The Smell of Freedom

The city of Port Tal, on the coast of Tallimar, is one of those rare places where you might see a Dwarven farrier's stall next to a Human cooperage, and both within earshot of the elated or frustrated cries coming from an Orcish gambling den, whose profits are protected by the most elaborate wards that Elven mages have to offer. Truly, few places on the Elgean Continent boast such a myriad of different races, all living in a sort of symbiosis. It is here, where pragmatism is the preferred religion, and industry speaks louder than patriotism, where my story began..

I, Ridgeback (don't ask, that is a completely different tale), am an Orc. I was employed by a shipping company in the aforementioned town in my youth, and worked to unload the large trading vessels that put into port there, sorting and reloading their contents on caravan trains bound for destinations inland. It was this set of circumstances, combined with the fickle finger of fate itself, that deemed to intervene in my destiny, and put me upon a path that would lead me to where I am now, but I'm getting ahead of myself, we'll get to that shortly.

It seems that at that time, my employer had lost three caravans which had been contracted to haul supplies up the river to an elven patron in Mal Motsha. Fearing that Orc raiders had beset his shipments, and already enraged over his lost profits (the only thing that made him emotional), he came up with the bright idea of sending me to deliver his latest attempt at satisfying the contract and salvaging his reputation. So it was with an air of adventure and a desire to see the world that I set off in a small riverboat at the onset of winter, before the thickening ice made river travel too treacherous.

The journey was, without a doubt, exciting to a young Orc such as myself who had never been far enough from the wharf where I worked to smell air untainted by the smells of the fish mongers. So many different towns and cities, each more exotic than the last, painted my imagination with possibilities of a life I had never imagined was out there. The journey went without incident, until we embarked overland near the end of our destination.

As we traveled down the road and came around a sharp bend next to the line of hills we had been skirting, the object of our quest came into view. The glittering towers and white ramparts of the Elven city gleamed with a brightness I had never seen before in a port dedicated to function rather than form. Truly, this was a drop of the Sun itself fallen to the earth. With much enthusiasm, my Orcish comrades and I spurred our wagons faster, while speculating what manner of exotic delights and Elven magic we would find therein. As we came within earshot of the walls surrounding the settlement, we began to proclaim ourselves loudly, looking forward to the gratitude that would surely be the reward for the team that finally succeeded where there had been only failure. And then...

A hail of arrows appeared out of the sky, slaying horse and Orc alike. We were dismayed. Having no choice, I commanded the brethren in my charge to flee, and those of us who could manage the feat turned and fled, as the portcullis of the wall opened and a company of bright helmed foot soldiers advanced upon us. Knowing it was only a matter of time before their cavalry could form and join the chase, our survivors and the remaining functional wagon teams ran for our lives  into a nearby forest. For what seemed like days we fled, not knowing if we were still being hunted, or how close our hunters may be.

Finally, injured, weary, and uncertain of our future we arrived at a hill in the forest next to a swamp. We had lost twelve good Orcs. Knowing we could not now complete the task we had set out upon, or turn back and have enough crewmen to sail our ship back home, we found ourselves blocked in our advance by a small mountain surrounded by swamps.

Too weary and disheartened to continue running, we stopped and made camp. Some of my cohorts removed the tarps from the wagons to serve in the grisly task of interring some of our wounded who had not survived the retreat. As we concluded that dread chore, one of my brothers turned to me and asked..

'What now Ridge? We cant go on, and we cant go back'

I looked over my shoulder at the now displayed contents of the wagons...building supplies.

'We go nowhere. This will be our home now', I replied.

 Two of our number had no desire to stay, both had families left behind in Port Tal, and only wished to see them again. I sent them home with a scrap of my cloak, and a tale to tell the master, of beast attacks that had claimed the lives of everyone else. The next morning we began construction on our first shelter, and have never looked back.

Our small town of Interritus now holds over 400 Orcs, and is growing fast. We have found brotherhood among other Orc tribes in the region, and have hope for a bright future. Sometimes one of my fellows will make a remark about the stench of the marshes that border our village, and I always give them the same reply....

'It smells like freedom'



Edited by Ridgeback - 20 Dec 2011 at 00:41

Greetings all!

Congrats to the winners.

Congratulations to everyone, winners or not! :D