Rotten Luk

Rotten Luk

The battle-hardened brown worg dozed fitfully just inside the fortified bunker that housed supplies -- weapons, armor, foodstuffs and miscellaneous. The worg wasn't guarding the bunker per-se, but it retained a certain vigilance even sleep couldn't dull; it was a born survivor, a cunning and vicious beast that had earned the respect and affinity of one of the Red Blade tribe's most formidable huntresses.

This was Brutal, the treasured companion of Nag'Ogar Keishara Wildeye, an orc whose past was defined by loss -- that of her parents, her blood-siblings, even an orc likely to become her mate, one Gosh'kar Tarag Bloodhorn. All of these had been taken from her, but Brutal remained as a faithful friend, a trusty confidante and a loyal hunting partner. Though not a highly-visible member of the Resistance, her contributions were nonetheless undoubted, and her worg remained about camp even during her short absences.

The gangly peon waddled awkwardly through the camp, a large stack of rough-hewn logs loaded in his muscular arms -- what he seemed to lack in intelligence or finesse, he certainly compensated for in brute strength and load-bearing. Continuing his meandering trek throughout camp, he sought someone important to speak with -- it had still not been made clear where lumber was to be stored. Using the blacksmith would incinerate the logs, even a peon knew; storing them in the open might risk their theft by naga or unscrupulous mercenaries.

Luk peered around with the same dumbfounded, vacant expression he always seemed to wear. The urge to scratch his rear briefly flared -- moving one arm down, the stack of logs buckled and he was forced to return the arm. His rear went unrelieved, and so he seemed to shuffle from side to side in a curious attempt to rub his two buttocks together. This was a stratagem that led to mixed success, as his loincloth began to ride further up his leg, exposing one of his beefy glutes to the world -- a nearby grunt's faced paled as Luk approached him, relocating to anywhere else but his present location.

The peon frowned. The General was off with the Varog'Gor, no doubt at another private secret meeting with the elite representatives of the Resistance; the campfire was also largely empty. The few grunts he tried to speak to seemed to ignore him or threaten him with bodily harm.

"If ya botch m'name just one more time, ya pathetic whelp, I'll shove this longbow so far up yer stupid arse that ya'll be belchin' arrows," one such grunt warned him.
"Oof. Okidoki, grump of Zoggle'gar," the peon said, a sad expression on his face. He continued along his way before an apparent master-stroke seemed to dawn on him. His face almost illuminated with new insight, he lumbered his way to the supply-hut with the lumber. It was dry and roomy, and used to store important things anyway, the peon reasoned -- and what could be more important than wood?

Wood builds cities. Wood builds the siege-machines that destroy cities. Wood feeds fires that cook meat that feed orcs. Wood keeps morale high and orcs warm during long nights in bitter lands like Winterspring -- where the peon had 'accidentally' found the tribe that now gave him shelter and protection. And wood was the ideal excuse for him to leave camp for hours at a time without anyone suspecting his motives. He would return with a token bundle of sticks, and the others no doubt assumed he had napped the rest of the time. But he hadn't. Oh no.

The peon reached the supply hut, his view nearly obfuscated entirely by the stack of logs in his arms. As such, it was of little surprise that he tripped over the sleeping Brutal, his barely-covered feet striking against the worg's rib-cage as he fell face-forward. The few logs he had gathered flew into the air and scattered as the peon hit the hard ground with all the grace of a crashed airship.

"Oof!" The peon shook his head, his ears seeming to ring. Or... not quite ring. More of a rrrrrrr--- a grrrrr--- a--
The worg growled bestially, awoken immediately by the clumsy peon. Its rib-cage smarting, it gave a restrained but ferocious warning snarl towards the would-be assailant, the lip of the beast curling to reveal the fangs beneath. With its four paws digging into the ground and its tail stood upright and firm, it was in position to strike if need be -- it may be the companion of a huntress, but it was no push-over.

Luk gasped at the sound, his fingers immediately trembling as he turned around to face the angered worg. "G-good worgy," he stuttered, a nervous smile passing over his face. Sitting back in a more passive position and putting his hands out to indicate he meant no harm, the peon's eyes dropped to the ground as he murmured something resembling an apology. "Sorry, worgy. Luk iz sorry."

Brutal may not have understood all of the nuances of the orcish tongue, but he recognised Luk's submissive posture nonetheless. The growling ceased as the worg returned to a more sedate temperment, still looking directly at the peon.
Luk continued to pout, still muttering nigh-inaudible words of apology towards the beast. Slowly and hesitantly, he put a hand out towards Brutal -- an open-palm, with fingers reaching out taut. "Luk pat worg, show him sorry," the glum peon explained with a sullen tone.

Eyeing the palm suspiciously, the worg remained cautious but permitted the contact. The peon smiled slightly as the hand came to rest on the thick, wiry pelt of the beast, before raising and lowering gently in a patting action -- far gentler than he had been with Redeye's bunny, far gentler than he had been with Myrar. Luk permitted himself a brief snicker at his own genius.

Continuing the patting action, the peon slowly inched towards the worg with the same conciliatory submissive position. Sat cross-legged right next to Brutal, the peon continued the patting as the hand slowly began a journey from the beast's lower-back to its upper-back, to its neck. Soon he was stroking the neck, first with both hands then with two hands.

The worg didn't seem to like this, a growl escaping the curling lips once more. Muttering words of assurance, the peon continued to stroke... or massage the neck, getting slowly firmer with his grip. Brutal's teeth parted as the worg snapped out at the peon, nicking the meaty flesh of his forearm and coming close to doing serious damage.
The peon continued to latch on, the same dumbfounded expression on his face as he slowly lurched himself into position over the worg, the hands across its neck as its head swung back and forth, teeth bared and growling loudly. The paws scrabbed back and forth, catching the peon's ankle and leaving a thick gash -- the peon lowered his own body onto the worg's own, pinning it down as he continued to apply pressure to the desperate, frenzied Brutal.

After one last burst of fervor, suddenly-- nothing. A sick smile spread across Luk's lips as he commended the beast, saying "Gud worgy. You stop now. Dat gud." Slowly slumping down to cuddle the motionless beast, he lay there in peace for a few moments before his eyes widened at an unexpected sensation.
Rising. Falling. The chest of the beast still expanded and contracted -- putting a hand to the warm furry body, the peon's expression turned from delight to uncertainty to... something more sinister.

"It is still respiring. Still alive. I can... use this."
Searching around in the hut, he found cord with which to bind Brutal's paws together and muzzle his jaw tight. Stuffing the unconscious worg into a coarse burlap sack, the peon slung it over his shoulder and began treading his way outside. Passing a grunt, he explained, "Me take sack o'leaves an' twigs out to dump, oki."

The grunt didn't care and he barely noticed. The peon trekked outside of the encampment with his quarry in tow -- as Brutal returned to consciousness, the bag seemed to squirm and kick back and forth, but to little effect. Luk continued his walk to the algae-covered cave in the woods, grinning as he peered towards various vials and tomes, a glowing cloth-bundle and the festering corpse of a dissected draft-horse, the organs removed and flies buzzing around its rotting flesh. He waved at the carcass jovially. "Wut it do, friend Tickles?"

You can take the orc out of the Arcane Enclave, but you cannot take the Arcane Enclave out of the orc. Try as the Kor'kron might, try as that rat Slitherblade did, try as the Resistance undoubtedly never will... everything was coming together as planned.
"Oof. Work-work."

HE KILLED TICKLES?!

That's it.

This Orc has to go down.