Chapter V: Power (Part I)
Two days later, in the camp of Rokwork…
"I'm gonna fucking die…"
The former Mortar Operator, Otto Holz, crashed to his knees, fatigue and exhaustion his only company; it took all of his effort to not faint from the searing heat waves and endless hours of hard labor he was enduring at the present moment.
"Yer soft, umgi (human)!"
Otto groaned inwardly as a swarthy shadow overcame his body. He'd come to learn just how infuriating Dwarves could be in just about every situation imaginable.
"Clearin' these rocks," The Dwarf continued in his deep-bellowing, unusually Scottish voice. "Is easy enough even for Grobis (goblins)! I can't imagine you'd make it far diggin' tunnels through Karaz-a-Karak!
"Well, when your body is built like a tiny boulder, I can imagine it's a lot easier to empathize with the rocks!" Otto retorted. The Dwarf's face pinched in absolute fury.
"TINY?! You bloody wazzock (fool), when I get back to High King Thorgrim, I'll make sure that particular comment goes STRAIGHT to the Book of Grudges!"
"Oh, I'm terrified!" Otto shouted sarcastically. "I'm sure that will mean much after I FUCKING DIE *deep inhale* IN THIS SLAVE CAMP!"
"Calm down, you low-born harpies!"
A third figure entered the conversation; a female High Elf by the name of Aciri the Clever, with fair blonde locks and even fairer in beauty. Yet her mouth was fouler than her appearance belied. She gazed contemptuously at the Dwarf and Imperial human, as if staring at bugs intruding on her doorstep.
"It is unbecoming to lose your composure even in such dire circumstances. You let the enemy see your weakness, and they will exploit it!"
The Dwarf, known as Gronric Goldbeard (named aptly as he was adorned with a gold-hued beard) stared similarly back at the pompous High Elf.
"Low-born, she says? The Elgi bitch thinks about birthright above all else, even competence! Typical of your kind. That's why you lot 'ave been stuck on a bloody island, tearin' each other apart, for centuries with no progress 'ta name!"
"By ze LADY of ze LAKE!"
A particularly Bretonnian (french-sounding) accent overwhelmed the conversation from afar; All three slaves craned their heads around to see a tall Bretonnian cradling a small lamb, which seemed to have been sleeping rather soundly, even despite the toiling atmosphere all around the camp.
"I will have been enslaved here, and I will have found a little lamb who needs to sleep! So you will have quieted your rambling, so I may cradle him!"
"Ugh," The Dwarf groaned. "Of all the umgi factions, I bloody despise speaking to you Brets the most."
"What do you speak of?" Otto mumbled, and Gronric groaned louder than before.
""Ave you never spoken to a Bretonnian? Not only are ya weak, but ignorant, too!"
"Just shut up and tell me, midget!"
"GRUDGIN'!"
Gronric sighed a great deal, his long golden-beard fluttering from the exhales of his breath.
"Brets informally speak in the future tense to reference past events. So listenin' to 'em is insufferable!"
"Now, now, no need to be so chaste."
Yet another slave entered the scene of curious personalities- a tall and beguiling Dark Elf by the name of Duvos Amberfall, hair ladened in that stygian-black reminiscent of most (spare few) Dark Elves; he was incredibly-fit, as was the nature of most Elves, and carried himself with an inherent pride of his silent past accomplishments.
He, too, was pompous like the High Elf. He, however, hid his arrogance under a facade, much unlike Aciri, who despite being quite crass in her language was very personable and outgoing, even to other races. That did not mean, though, that the Dark Elf was any less adequate in conversation, wit or prose (at least, that was the thought process of said Dark Elf).
"We mustn't squabble," The Dark Elf proclaimed passionately, sounding very much like a certain Ramsay Bolton. "Our interests are aligned in staying alive. I have been saying this repeatedly- we should be plotting how to escape this dreadful environment."
The High Elf scoffed vociferously, clearly in antagonistic opposition to the not-so-High Elf across from her.
"I'd expect nothing less from an agent of cynath (death)! You intend to plot, yes, only for your self-interest!"
The Dark Elf's face noticeably faltered in his maintenance of a charming demeanor, revealing momentarily a menacing, malicious caricature of Duvos' features. He turned to snarl-gossip with the unfortunate Otto, who was still trying to chip away at the mines with his pickaxe and ignore the ranting and raving of the unbearable slaves he was stuck with. His state-indoctrinated xenophobia was starting to feel more reasonable by the second.
"This Asur (High Elf) babh (female) has some serious audacity to declare me a murderer, as if I would be ashamed of it!"
"Uh, you're not ashamed of that?" Otto muttered.
"Did you know that their first so-called Phoenix King was so spineless that he rejected the Sword of Khaine and killed himself when faced with the Witch-King's forces? Can you imagine giving praise to such a cowardly being?"
The air suddenly rose rapidly in temperature, and eyes swung to Aciri, whose presence had magnified and manifested an aura of sheer outrage, indignation and hell-fire fury. Her face was pinched inward out of piqued anger, her teeth baring in feral temperament.
"By the Sacred Flame, by the Everqueen, by the Blessed of Asuryan- YOU WILL DIE FOR THAT COMMENT, BASTARD!"
And yet even after uttering her intimidating threat, she reached instinctively for a spear and shield which did not exist, much to the amusement of the Dark Elf, who began to cackle dramatically, pointing vigorously at her while occasionally slapping his knee.
"A spearwoman versus a Corsair? Surely you've gone mad! I've traveled on Black Arks, watched them rain damnation on entire cities; I've seen half the world from Norsca to the Southern Wastes; In my many campaigns, I've vanquished Trolls, Skin Wolves, Chaos Spawn, Minotaurs, Crypt Horrors, Rat Ogres, Kroxigors- I have fought against the Emperor Franz and left a scar across his chiseled baby-face! When was the last time you left your little fishing village?"
"What a bold lie you tell, pixie."
Duvos furrowed his brows in annoyance as he heard the crude slur from Otto. He sneered at the human still digging fervently at the hard minerals and rocks in silent fortitude.
"Oh, do recall your previous occupation, kyndul klath (stupid slave). I'm… pretty sure it was an auxiliary role, no? Not like… an actual warrior who would survive more than two seconds in the blood and dust."
"You didn't fight Emperor Franz."
The Dark Elf was irritated at his failure to provoke the human, but before he could find a retort, Otto turned his eyes on him; and reflected a somber stare that carried for a thousand yards.
"Behind the Emperor's every step follows legions of rocket artillery, mortars, steam tanks, and many tonnes of gunpowder. I have borne witness to the sheer havoc of such battles with those instruments. I have used them more than enough; and nary have I seen a warrior from either side who escapes those cratered and peppered fields without a near-permanent shell-shock. You act carefree, and speak with the unbridled confidence of someone who has never stood on the receiving end of their fleet's bombardments."
The atmosphere fell uncomfortably silent, and reasonably so; for the first time in many years, the Dark Elf was left speechless. Not because he was particularly intimidated (A Black Ark Corsair feared few things), but because he had underestimated the brevity of this man- something which Duvos had prided himself on estimating quite well when meeting others.
Not just that, but Duvos noted how fearless the human was despite his dreary surroundings. It made some sense that elite warriors like the Dwarven Hammerer, the Wood Elf Wardancer, and (naturally) himself would be able to survive in this grim situation. But for a mere Mortar Operator like Otto, or the peasant Cathayan female working silently next to him, and even that Bretonnian idiot to stick it out alongside them…
It was just a bit infuriating how strong-willed they appeared to be.
"We ambushed him, then." Duvos muttered dismissively at Otto as he exited the conversation, focusing his gaze on the female Wood Elf staring out at the dusty horizon. "And what are you contributing to this lovely conversation, suithi nobh (dancing bird)? Not much of a sight out there-"
Before he could utter another syllable, his tongue was suddenly halted by a sharpened metal stick that served as a short pike, its wielder bringing her eyes to bear on the Dark Elf.
"Control your tongue or I will take it." The Wood Elf spoke indifferently in graceful Eltharin. As the blade left his mouth, Duvos grinned rather salaciously.
"My tongue, you say? Well, only if it may slither past your lips would I be keen to share."
The Wood Elf laughed cruelly, turning her hazel eyes back towards the horizon.
"I would rather couple with that 'auxiliary' human than ever poison my skin with even accidental contact of your putrid flesh, Drukhi." She replied contemptuously, purposely changing her speech to Reikspiel so her words could be understood by Otto. He, in turn, silently turned beet-red in embarrassment and erotic excitement as he worked even more passionately at the rocks.
Truth be told for Otto, he was absolutely smitten with the Wood Elf to the point of developing a near-obsession; being stuck in a dingy work camp run by mindless Orks was perhaps one of the more terrible fates a warrior of the Empire could end up with. Seeing as his death was practically a countdown at this point, he began to look to his unresolved ambitions, goals and desires.
One of those primarily being intercourse. At the age of nineteen and a half, he was still (to his utter shame) a virgin, which was inevitable since he had been drafted into the army at the age of fifteen from his local village and refused to bed the various swarthy whores and loose-lipped escorts that were offered to him on his campaigns. He had badly wanted to lay down arms after being conscripted into the most recent crusade. His only thoughts were to retire in a nice countryside town and find a smart, pretty wife who would satisfy his romantic and intellectual desires.
No, no… the world had something different in store for poor Otto. The Empire Captain who commanded his battalion lost the battle against the Orks because of poor strategic thinking; so poor, in fact, that the absolute fool had been outflanked by FUCKING ORKS! FUCKING. ORKS!
The slow, stupid, bumbling green brutes whose only form of tactics was CHARGE! The fat ugly green gagglefuck of brainless muscleheads that believed painting their boars red would make them go faster. The faction with the slowest cavalry Otto had encountered in his entire life; so slow, in fact, that his artillery regiment, which took roughly twenty seconds to reload per shot, had exhausted their ammunition before the Ork's hog cavalry had reached the edge of the battalion's flank. And then said hog cavalry was decimated by a small group of Demigryphon Knights in about three seconds.
That Empire Captain had lost to them.
And so, Otto ended up here. In this miserable hellhole, yet somehow blessed with perhaps the most beautiful creature he had ever set his dreary eyes upon. Smooth and fair skin; silk-like blonde hair, button nose, slender cheeks, bedazzling eyes, zero physical imperfections, top-tier combat skills, busty~!
It wouldn't be hyperbolic to say that his desire to talk with and perhaps even couple with her was the only thing keeping him alive in spirit and life right now; what low heights he had fallen to!
Hearing that statement from her, in this predicament he was in, was like several dopamine shots of pure euphoria, and so his will to live skyrocketed to unprecedented heights.
"I sense it."
Otto flinched as the athletic Cathayan woman to his right suddenly spoke out- a complete oddity to everyone in earshot, as she had been silent the entire month they had been stuck together. When she spoke, all ears were tuned in.
"A great movement is heading towards us." She uttered.
Duvos, baffled, looked back to the Wood Elf, whose staring at the horizon now made sense to him.
"You could have said something earlier!"
The Wood Elf scoffed.
"Why would I tell you anything?"
Suddenly, as if on queue, the ground began to rumble ever so softly; the group looked around to see Orks forming up and moving towards the front of the settlement, carrying weapons in hand and shouting in excitement and snowballing fervor. The lamb in the Bretonnian's arms woke up groggily and began to mewl loudly.
"Ah, fuck!" The Bretonnian cursed in his cartoonish accent. "Oliver de Betencourt will fail at soothing ze lamb! What is with all ze damn ruckus?!"
Otto was the first of the group to move, climbing atop the patchy groundwork and mines to get to a high spot of the camp where he could peer over the mass of desert abroad. The others followed suit shortly, including the Bretonnian who cradled the lamb as he climbed the steep hill with one hand.
"Uh oh... Zis is not good."
(Music: "Desert Moonlight", by Andrea Krux)
The heatwaves of the dry wasteland casted blurred visions of the distant horizon, but any creature with working eyes could see the great mass of green muscle that was closing in on the camp from the north. The rumbling from earlier had crescendoed into a thunderous applause from the earth, heralding the arrival of this unknown threat.
As if sensing the impending danger, the Orks doubled their gusto, preparing fortifications and weaponry at a hastened pace. Goblins spread out along the battlements and placed their spears over the ramparts while holding their shields above their head in preparation for arrows, while the Orks bunched up at the front gate and flooded through once its hinges opened outward. The leader of the encampment, a Big' Un by the name of Grotgrim Teefsmasher, pushed aside the rowdy Orks and stomped to the front of his horde, sizing up the distant enemy with a snarling scowl.
"ROIGHT, BOYZ!" He shouted authoritatively, turning around to address his warriors. "WE'Z GOH'T A KRUMPIN' INCOMIN'! OI'M TALKIN' WIT' DA BIG' UN LEADA FURST, DEN OI'LL GIVE YA'Z DE ORDAH 'TA KRUMP WHEN OI'M GUD AN' READY! GET IT?!"
"WAAAAAAAAGHHHHH!" "WAAAAAAAAGHHHHH!" "WAAAAAAAAGHHHHH!"
"WAAAAAAAAGHHHHH!" "WAAAAAAAAGHHHHH!" "WAAAAAAAAGHHHHH!"
The Orks sounded their approval, raising their weapons and bellowing their iconic warcry. Satisfied, Grotgrim turned back around, preparing for the incoming invaders as he practiced swinging his short battleaxes in both hands, chipped and worn from the years of experience he'd gained from past battles.
"How will this turn out for us?" Otto muttered worriedly. "If the other side wins, will they keep us as slaves or slaughter us en masse? Rgh, this is why I despise Orks!"
"You've quite a pathetic mindset, umgi!" Gronric huffed. "Between escape and continued slavery, you would choose the latter?"
"Escape? Escape where? It's barren in every Sigmar-damned direction for miles!"
"What the…" The Wood Elf suddenly muttered, her fingers touching the soil and glowing faintly. Her surprise was a serious contrast from her usually stoic demeanor, and captured the attention of the group. "My senses must be deceived…"
"If I may ask, what exactly are you doing?" Otto asked, as politely as he could, to the Wood Elf. She looked up at him, skeptical at first of saying anything, but eventually relenting.
"I would… prefer not to tell you what exactly it is, for the sake of preserving our secrecy. Only know that I can connect with the land to discern a basic idea of the invaders."
"Wow…" Otto mumbled. "That is… amazing. You are blessed to have this power, surely."
The Wood Elf smiled ever so slightly. Though it went unnoticed to most everyone else (all of whom were focused raptly on the fight that was soon to commence), the Dwarf Gronric had spotted the expression, and his beard hairs nearly twisted inward in utter shock and perplexity. He had spent many years meeting with, fighting, and standing off against the Elves. High Elves, Sea Elves, Dark Elves, Wood Elves… he had come to know their culture and traditions, as well as their usual behaviors, habits and mannerisms.
Wood Elves were, by and far, the most seclusive, reserved, stoic, xenophobic and crass race that he had encountered every single time without a fault. Even compared to other races, they always won the matchup for being the most likely to leave a celebration without telling anybody. So what the hell had caused this Wood Elf to suddenly start breaking norms and traditions to speak with this human so casually?!
Even while the distant fight was commencing in a stand-off, Gronric was enamored with the interaction between Otto and the Wood Elf, and decided to listen in while he had this precious moment of historical significance.
"Thank you-"
By the High King, did she just THANK HIM?! Gronric thought in absolute bewilderment.
"-Otto."
BY GRUNGNI'S GREAT PICKAXE, DID SHE JUST CALL HIM BY HIS NAME?!
Gronric nearly fainted out of sheer shock; this was equivalent to a cultural flashbang for the aged Dwarf, but he was too invested in this experience to stop listening now.
"And may I say, fair lady, that I have never had the opportunity to know your name." Otto said humbly, bowing slightly out of respect for the Wood Elf. Gronric shook his head in pure denial.
There's not a chance in hell she's giving you her-
Gronric's eyes suddenly widened beyond its normal limits as he peered the Wood Elf turning her gaze downwards for a moment, before meeting Otto's eyes again.
"...You may call me Ilse."
"BLITHERING BLASTED BLOODY WHAAAAAAAAAAATTT?!"
Gronric shouted in pure confusion, his entire grasp and outlook on reality upended by this singular event transpiring before his eyes. The shouting had disrupted the conversation and brought several wide-eyed gazes upon him, but the interactions were abruptly halted by a booming voice that reached across the gap of badlands and throughout the camp of Rokwork.
"G-R-E-E-N-S-K-I-N-S!"
(Music: "Lacrimosa", by Samuel Kim)
A great bellow from the distant group seemed to freeze the entire atmosphere. For a moment, the air fell still; many breaths bated at the sudden silence that overcame them like a quiet mandate from the heavens. Oxygen was pulled from the lungs of every living being in the camp, leaving them breathless for several seconds. The sky began to change colors of vibrance and intensity, the winds sifted in conflicting directions, the trees shook and swayed in rhythmic form; even the mountains seemed to flow and shift with unnatural fluidity.
The sight was fantastical; majestic and unprecedented even to those who'd seen many of the wonders this world already possessed. The Winds of Magic had manifested themselves into physical reality for a sparse few and dazzling moments, awing everyone that could behold its glorious visage.
And then-
-C-R-A-C-K-L-E-
Everyone shook with insurmountable dread; the ground began to erupt with fomenting energy, fissures breaking open the ground and closing the distance between the far-off horde and the camp of Rokwork. The outlying landscape rumbled and groaned below the denizens' feet, as if the very earth was sentient and screaming in rage.
Air convalesced into flash-gales and torrential frosty winds that bit at the skin of the Orks gathered in defense of the camp. Storms gathered from seemingly out of nowhere to blot out the searing sun, casting an ominous grey hue across the arid landscape for miles in every direction. Lightning begun to crackle in the darkened sky, as if heralding a great disaster to unfold. The sheer cacophony of rupturing sounds sent many of the Orks and slaves stumbling to the ground as their ears were deafened utterly.
"How much worse can our predicament get?!" Otto mumbled under his breath, trying to hide his apprehension from Ilse. That is, until he happened to glance to his left.
Ilse's eyes were dilated and shaking intensely. Beads of sweat ran down her face, arms and legs, and her body quivered with fear and dread. To see the most stoic figure in their group, who wore no face other than indifference and mild amusement even in the most dire of times- to see her shaking at whatever sight she saw only served to magnify Otto's terror a hundredfold.
"A man leads the Orks. He bristles with power I know nothing of…" Ilse muttered fearfully. "He carries winds from outside of this world."
"What in Grimnir's cock are you on about?!" The Dwarf huffed, though he too was clearly affected by the changed atmosphere and approaching danger.
At the front of the camp, Grotgrim was in a bit of a mental bind; he had not expected this kind of force to come across his remote camp in the middle of nowhere. Since he had a bit more brain than his followers, he was better able to discern the balance of power between his camp and this unknown menace.
And he did not like the odds he was going up against. He didn't even need to consult his Weird Boyz on the direction of the Winds of Magic, as it was already making itself apparent which side it was flowing in favor of.
If he wanted to keep this camp intact, he needed to get reinforcements from the nearest outpost, which was doable by getting the Weird Boyz to use telepathy across the long distance. It was only an hour march away, and the outpost had over ten legions of Savage Orks under the command of War Boss Mongros Mountainbreaka. If he could just delay this threat for long enough…
He planted the edge of his axes in the ground, pointing at the encroaching individual and his marching entourage.
"ROIGHT, THEN!" He bellowed across the expanse. "WHOO'Z ARE YOO? WUT BROUGHT YOO 'ERE 'TA MOI CAMP?"
CRACK! CRACK!
CRACK!
The Big 'Un leader was mightily shocked as a number of lightning bolts slammed into the ground around the approaching figure, and with their glow they illuminated the silhouette of the challenger.
"WUT DA FAHK?!" Grotgrim cried out in confusion. It was a human! "JUS' WUT DA HELL IS GOIN' ON 'ERE?!"
The human continued to approach silently, and after a few moments did Grotgrim begin to distinguish the overwhelming size of the human. He was easily over eight feet tall; his every step sent fissures across his path, glowering with a blinding malevolence that could be felt across the whole area.
"LET'Z NEG-OH-SHEE-ATE, 'UMIE!" The Big 'Un shouted angrily. He loved fights, but he also liked not being killed without any chance of resistance. It was looking more and more like the latter was going to occur if he didn't talk his way out of it. "IF YOOZ LOOKIN' FER GOLD OR COIN, WE'Z GOH' PLENTY 'TA SPARE!"
Of course, that wasn't going to happen in the long run. The Ork was hoping to get the unusual human going so he could attack him later with the other War Boss and retrieve his treasury. However, that possibility was quickly snuffed out only seconds later.
The human raised his war club in the air, wielding a crude whip in the other hand; the ground around him fragmented into boulders and rocks, levitating above his head and pointed straight at the settlement. The crackles of lightning in the sky began to strike the earth around the camp in rapidity, sending its inhabitants running around in panic and terror. Maelstroms formed in spirals above the land, twisting the massive dark-grey clouds in spiritual havoc and chaotic fervor.
The human roared his next statement with fury and absolute authority, whipping the ground and sending further plumes of dust and cracks across the earth's mantle.
...
"I, AM ENOS, MAN-ORK!
I CLAIM THESE LANDS UNDER MY DOMINION!
YOUR BLOOD AND BONEMEAL WILL FERTILIZE ITS SOIL, AND YOUR SOULS WILL BE SENT -SCREAMING- TO THE DEPTHS OF HELL AS THE HERALD OF ITS CHANGE!
FACE YOUR ANNIHILATION!"
...