A Beast of The North (Part 2)

Why hello again! I sorted out those shaman shenanigans from the other day, and I think it is time to finish the tale of Alanon, and the White Beast of the North.

“Alanon’s eyes grew wide, as he stared into the faces of a pack of orcs.

He fell backwards in fear. The orcs towered over him, wielding large clubs and axes. They spoke rapidly to each other in a guttural, harsh language. One smaller orc was pushed to the front of the group. “Where do you come from?” Asked the orc, who had scars running all over his arms,

“Hawthenshire”

“Southern territory, what brought you all the way into orc lands?”

“I was banished from my holdings…”

The orcs engaged in a rapid fire conversation which Alanon could not understand. Then the scarred orc said, “Our chief will kill you now, and suck the marrow from your bones.” A different orc stepped forward with a massive spiked club.

“Wait, wait… I can be of use to you!” Alanon desperately shouted.

The chief turned to look at the orc who was translating. “How?” He grunted.

“I know the lands in the South, and I can give you information about guards, and villages. I know the areas left undefended that will be easiest for you to raid.”

The orc translator relayed what Alanon said to the chief, and the chief pulled out what seemed to be a rope made of dried rawhide. He stepped forward and gave Alanon a mighty blow across the face, splitting open a cut above his eye. Then he tied him up like a woodsman tying up a hog for the slaughter. Alanon was barely conscious, and the blizzard was taking its toll on his strength. As the orcs carried him back to their camp, he bled from his wound, and exhaustion truly set in.

Alanon was dumped unceremoniously onto a bare patch of dirt where the snow had melted. His blade had been taken by the orc chief, and his clothing was not near warm enough for temperatures that far North. The orcs debated in the center of their camp, and the volume rose quickly. The chief was very agitated with a few of the other orcs. One of the orcs stepped forward to the chief and spat in his face. The chief casually reached behind him, grabbed his club, and then savagely struck the orc’s head so hard that it ripped partly off the shoulders.

An orc dragged the corpse off to the edge of the woods, and the argument was over after that. The scarred orc walked over to Alanon, and said, “They were arguing over whether to kill you now, or wait to get information out of you.”

“They aren’t going to kill me now are they?”

“You are scum, since you so readily offered to bring orc raids onto the villages of your people, and we would like to see your blood spilled. However, Chief wants information. I think you will be dead by morning.”

The orc strode back to camp and tore into a hare that had been roasting over a fire. Alanon shuddered with fear and cold. He had no blade to cut through the tough rope and free himself. Even if he did manage to get free where would he go? He was farther north than he had ever been, and had completely lost his bearings.

Night fell, and Alanon could hear wolves howling in the distance. The chief orc stood from his place at the fire, and motioned for the scarred orc to come with him. They strode over to Alanon and the scarred orc said, “Chief wants to know about the villages you said would easy to raid.”

Alanon stuttered, “Fallkirk should have only a couple men to defend it right now because of the passes being blocked by snow… and…”

“What is the quickest way to get there from here?”

“I don’t know where we are…”

The chief said something in orcish, and grabbed his club.

“Hold on!” Alanon pleaded, “I can give you more!”

The translator said, “Chief does not care, he wants you dead now.”

Then an orc ran into the camp from the woods. He yelled in orcish, and the orcs grabbed their weapons, and followed him back into the woods. The chief hesitated, and struck Alanon on the head again, before heading after the other orcs. The camp was empty now, but Alanon bled even more than before from his head, and he was still tied tightly. He struggled against the rope, desperately trying to free a foot or hand. The orcs would be back soon from what he assumed was probably a raid on innocent travelers, or a battle with another tribe.

Alanon braced himself and pulled his foot from the rawhide with all of his willpower. His foot slipped out, but it twisted his ankle, and it left a gash down his foot. He pulled himself to his feet, and hobbled out of the orc camp. He bled from his multiple wounds, and he knew that once the orcs came back, his blood would stand out on the snow, leaving a clear trail.

Alanon limped through the snow all through the night with no sign of the orcs. The only thing that kept him going was pure fear. Eventually he found a road that had been freshly dug out of the snow. He collapsed into a bloody heap onto the road, accepting death. His body could not take any more.”

Now, my traveling friends, this would have been the end of Alanon, if it was not for a certain woman named Alura, but that is a tale for another time. This concludes Alanon’s adventure with the beast of the North, and how he escaped from both the beast, and from the orcs. I would like you to keep in mind the well-spoken, scarred orc, for he will come up in tales in the future. I wish you all happy adventuring!

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