Blood Call

The orc grunted and paused, peering through the thick bushes at its prey ahead.
A dozen ogres, milling around in the clearing. The huge creatures were arguing in slow, loud voices.

The orc smiled, bringing the horn to his lips. "Easy pickings" he thought as he blew.

Krut leapt, his trusty axe swinging as he went. Warsong orcs fell, black blood splashing his face. Krut landed, grinning with joy whilst standing in the centre of mangled Warsong corpses. He couldn't resist slaying a few before calling the rest of his clan to the battle. The thought of the indignation crossing Feletia's face amused him. He chuckled and unslung the horn from his back - time to call his clanmates along and finish these Warsong interlopers off once and for all!

The Gronn groaned and licked its wounds. The nameless, dim-witted beast didn't understand why it had failed and it felt sad, and hurt.
The little brown-skins had set up a village. He had watched as they built a wooden stockade, watched as they had begun to herd the talbuk and watched as they had settled down and turned this place into their new home.
The Gronn may have been dim, but it also had a certain low, animal cunning. It knew the best time to strike was when the prey was relaxed... So it had waited weeks before launching its attack! It had burst from the forest, roaring, hooting and bellowing and it had smashed straight through the stockade as if it were made of matchsticks!
Before the little brown-skins could react properly it had swept a handful into its gaping maw and devoured them.
Hooting with joy it had torn through the village, devouring every little brown-skin it found. Then the strange noises had begun, the loud, almost painful roaring from a source unknown.
Roaring back, sensing a threat, the Gronn had stomped through the shattered village, tracking the source of the noise to a solitary watchtower. Peering into it, the tower's platform at its own eye-level, the Gronn had seen one of the little brown-skins, blowing into a large animal horn.
The little one blowing the horn showed no fear at the Gronn staring. Then suddenly, pain. Mind numbing, constant pain.
Shrieking with the pain the Gronn had looked down to see dozens of the little brown-skins hacking at its legs with edged weapons. Unprepared for such an assault the Gronn had fled, the sounds of the horn roaring echoing around its ears.

Dekreth snarled in anger, watching as Gerrenna strutted around the camp as if she owned it. The Horn at her side and a blademaster's sword on her back.
What had she done to deserve such honour?!
She was nothing. A nobody. She was a whore!
Ever since she had declined to become his mate she had become too uppity. So what if she had slain the enemy champion? He would have slain the champion himself if he had encountered it first.
His cheeks darkened in an angry blush, recollecting her gloating over her kill. He had been overcome with lust then, wanting her, wanting this savage, blood-drenched but beautiful orcess as his own. But she had laughed in his face! Just because he was the Chieftain's eldest son didn't mean she would mate with him, she had said.
The bitch.
She would pay. The Horn should be his, as should she.

Gub sharpened his stick. He had seen orcs of other families do this and resolved to copy them. A long, sharp stick made killing the talbuk easier and less dangerous than simply wrestling them.
The bleeding wolf had come to him in his dreams again, this time demanding he form a family of his own. Gub knew he would have to become a better hunter to attract a female from another family to join him. This was why his pointed stick was required.
He finished his sharpening, testing the edge with his thumb. Ouch!
Gub grinned sheepishly at the spot of blood on this thumb. The stick was sharp.
Satisfied, Gub patted the horn resting on dusty ground beside him. Soon he would use it to announce to the other orcs in the region that he was going hunting.

Griklor knelt, in awe. It was his! His!
The Chieftain approached him, holding it out, reverently in both hands.
"Swordshatter. You did us proud today. The girl is yours, as is this. You are our Champion, our Horn Bearer.
Griklor gulped, his head spinning. It was his!

The human shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Bloody orcs. Their 'treasure' was mostly rubbish. Lots of good weapons, but barely any small enough for a human to wield. Their armour was mostly awful; badly tanned leather and crudely stitched hides. Not worth a penny.
Bah! He had volunteered for this job eagerly, anticipating all the loot he could steal. What a waste of time it had turned out to be!

Groaning inwardly the human grabbed another sack of orcish belongings. This was one of the newer bags, taken from the internment camp's latest prisoners. All of them were too lethargic to defend their property, so armed gangs of guards had been travelling the camp stealing everything.
The sack's contents clattered onto the floor. Knives, an axehead, some dwarven coins... He swiftly pocketed the coins and continued sorting through the junk.
A broken sword. What use was a broken sword?! Why would an orc even keep hold of a broken sword?
He sighed and continued sifting through the pile.
A warhorn was next, large and ornate, covered in dark runes and metallic strips, bound by a leather strap and a thick chain.
Hrmm... The human eyed it carefully. The metal looked magical, probably cursed or enchanted. He didn't trust it at all.
Bored of his task the human shovelled everything back into the sack and hurled it into the unlit furnace he shared the room with.
Junk! It was all junk or foul demonic magic he didn't dare try to sell.
Damn these pauper orcs, he thought as he placed fuel into the furnace and set it alight.

Grim awoke, blinking.
What a strange dream, he thought.

Cracktusk ushered the little ones away. "Run children! Run!"
The little children wept, but obeyed his orders, taking one last look at the elderly tauren before fleeing.

Cracktusk sighed and picked up his polearm. He was old and his time was spent, but he would hold the centaur off as long as he could to give his grandchildren a chance.

The centaur approached, snarling and gnashing their teeth. Cracktusk saw the contempt in their eyes - they saw a single grey-furred tauren of advanced age. They did not see a threat.
He gritted his teeth and swung his polearm, hacking the head from the shoulders of the first centaur...
Suddenly his ears were filled with the sound of howling, of roaring. Visions of brown-skinned beings battling, hacking and slaughtering to the sounds of a great warhorn overcame him. Visions of wolves and teeth, tusks and weapons.
Through it all the great warhorn sounded. Egging the carnage on.

Cracktusk blinked and opened his eyes. He was on his knees, slathered in red blood. Surrounded by butchered centaur.
The roar of the warhorn had gone, the howling of wolves had dissipated.

((Written by Kalcifer / Tobemory))

"MANTID! MANTID IN THE FIELD!" The call went up, echoed by others and carried around the village. The dusk had fallen on the village and the farmers should have been returning home from the days labour. But none had returned and the darkness of night was gradually sweeping across the island. Farmer Stoutpaw, who worked the southern field closest to the village, ran into the town centre, screaming and wailing. He collapsed in the arms of the Pandaren who was lighting the torches the circled the square.
"Mobetory...." Farm Stoutpaw gasped, his mighty chest heaving with great gulps of air. "There are mantid in the field. The others are still out there." Mobetory nodded quickly and glanced at the other villagers who had flooded into the square.
"Gather those that can fight and follow me into the fields. Someone carry Stoutpaw to the inn and get him some rest" He bellowed to the assembled pandaren. Mobetory returned to his house quickly and picked up the spear that had been handed down through his family. He hefted it's comforting weight into his mighty paw and headed quickly to the fields.

Night had come to the fields and in the darkness Mobetory could hear the screams of the farmer. Underneath he could hear the unnatural clicking and rasping of the mantid. Behind him, those of the village assembled behind him.
"Light some torches and try and sweep them to the shore! Carry any injured back to the village!" He barked at the villagers. Mobetory rushed into the field, spear in hand and headed towards the sounds of the mantid. The corn had grown well this year. It reached into the air about his head and waved softly in the breeze from the sea. The sounds of the villagers had added to that of the farmers and the mantid raising a cacophony of noise that swelled over the corn like the waves of the sea. Mobetory stopped and tried to get his bearings. The noise had grown but where was it coming from. The breeze from the sea grew stronger and louder. The corn waved and shook and bent from the terrible gale raising from the sea. Mobetory raised his hand to his eyes to shield them from the wind. The gale's voice raised into a echoing howl that rumbled through Mobetory's body and lifted his soul. Raising his spear in his hand, he plunged onwards, running with the howl of the wind at his back, raising his voice in an echo of that terrible noise. The mantid stood clicking it's mandibles, raising it's strange arms and weapon above the farmer lying prone on the ground. Mobetory charged out of the corn and headfirst into the Mantid. The Mantid was knocked to the ground but managed to bring it's head around to see where the attack was coming from. The spear flashed out and plunged straight in between it's foul eyes. As the mantid died, the wind and the noise died with it. As quickly as it had come, the strange power in the corn has retreated. The villagers arrived quickly and lifted the fallen farmer to safety. Mobetory stood in the clearing and wondered about what had happened. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw an animal sitting at the edge of corn looking at him. Before he could turn, the animal nodded and retreated into the corn.

****
Many years had passed since that night. Mobetory thought very little of the mantid attack and what has possessed him in the corn. But sometimes he would wake up in a cold sweat in the night. Awoken by dreams of wolves and blood and a howl that echoed through his body and soul. He left his bed to get a glass of water but noticed that the light had been lit in the kitchen. In the kitchen, sat his son. He looked pale and was trembling slightly. Mobetory quietly shuffled into the room and sat next to his son.
"Chiya's given birth....it's a boy" his son mumbled. Mobetory ran his hand over his head and burst out laughing. The laughing heartened his son who also joined in with a hearty chuckle of his own.
"This calls for something stronger!" Mobetory exclaimed and reached under the sink for the finest pale ale that his family brewed. As he poured the drink out for himself and his son, a dark thought surfaced in his mind. Payment would be expected for the help he had received. Who would be the one to pay for it?