Content

I'm having trouble thinking up content for the site. (Actually, I'm just having trouble thinking, period.) So I'm just going to start dredging up old files and stuff the likes of which you people have never seen before!

To start, here is a file titled "Ork not-quickie." Enjoy!

A young boy stood before me, his thick lower lip quivered, pouting, with his long canines pressed hard against his upper lip. His forehead was smeared with blue paint made from crushed berries and the smooth grey mud from the bottom of the river. It would stain his green skin an odd dark teal for a week at the very least. His father, Phumbaabaa, stood behind me and glowered with disappointment. The child looked as though he might cry, which would only worsen his situation, but he stood firm.
I decided to tell him a story.
“A young orc was in the woods, he was alone, but not scared. He was always a brave child…” I began.

“The orc boy beat his way through the forest, not at peace with it. You see, he was not really at peace with anything at that time. He felt that he lived for the fight and he had no higher aspirations that to be the strongest warrior in all the land, much like you Brahgaabaa. He stood firm with his weapon at hand as he beat his way through the brush. You see, a fire had not swept out the valley in many seasons, and the lesser plants had begun to take over. This was a much easier year. Anyway, he fought the scrubby green plants as he made his way through the woods, making sure to keep his weapon clean of any leaf litter that might cling to it. The boy was unaware that he was being hunted by someone.
There were signs, of course, the occational snapping of twigs, the shuffling noise of feet in the dead leaves. Even the birds in the trees tried to warn the boy that he was being stalked by an unknown enemy with their twittering and tweeting. They knew to avoid the hunter in the trees. Of course, the boy did not hear the signs over the sound of himself fighting the forest, so it was an easy matter for the hunter to chase the boy until the boy fell into his trap.
The boy was lost in the wash of green. Trees loomed over him like drunken giants, swaying in the slight breeze that washed over the valley. They seemed to attack him too, but like I said, he was not at peace with the forest yet. He was surrounded by their tall, thick bodies and their creaking, groaning sighs.
I do not know why, I assume the boy was becoming frightened by the forest, or maybe he knew, with some untapped second sight, that there was something was following him. Maybe he stopped making such a wretched racket in the bushes that he could hear something other than himself— I don’t know and it isn’t really the point. He began to sing the warrior’s song his mother had taught him.

I am flesh,
My will is stone,
Hungry worms won’t take me home.
You are weak,
And I am strong,
Our new battle won’t take long!

He had most of the words wrong, actually, but he managed to make it rhyme, and he had a good singing voice. It was strong, like the words of the song he half-invented said. They say that Shelragk the wanderer helps those who sing in the forest, that he would give a blessing to those who sing songs that he likes. Maybe if the boy sang something more fun, dirtier, Shelragk would have heard him that day. But he didn’t, instead he sang his half-song and only his hunter listened. If the boy did not sing so loud maybe he would have heard the hunter laugh at him in the trees, but he did not.”

“This boy is not clever. I feel I should make that clear to you,” I said to the boy, winking with my yellow eye. I knew he would not understand the irony of the statement, and his father was too embarrassed to be angry with me now. I continued.

“Eventually the boy made it into a clearing, and was very grateful that he was freed from the prison of the trees. So focused on the grassy, open place he did not notice the bent ash that was not but a few feet to his side. He stepped out of the trees and with a twang and a snap he found himself upside down, dangling from a tree by a piece of rough rope. He dropped his weapon and wailed in surprise.
His hunter walked out of the trees and smacked him across the face with a wet, muddy bladder on a stick, like the one in your hand there.”

“You are probably wondering why I told you this story, like you do with most of the stories I tell you when I ramble on like an old man like this,” I said to him. He nodded and I felt like cuffing him upside his head. The children now do not have enough respect to lie to their elders. Anyway, I said to him, “I told you this story because the boy was your father, Phumbaabaa, and I was his hunter.”
The child’s eyes lit up when I said this, and I nodded, trying to look sagely. I could feel Phumbaabaa shrinking behind me. I said, “You see, there is more to fighting that simply being stronger than your enemy. You must also be tricksy. You must fight with your mind before you even begin to fight with your hands. Now, who beat you? Was it Thrashk, Grashk’s son? He seems like the kind.”
The child nodded. I nodded. Phumbaabaa rolled his eyes a bit behind me. I can tell. The child asked, “If you were more clever than father, why is he chief and not you?”
I chuckled at this, and at the angry growl Phumbaabaa released at it. I replied, “Because he learned, just as you will, with time…”
I would have continued, but Phumbaabaa interrupted me. I was actually surprised he had not said anything earlier. He said, “Who says that Krage is not the chief? I am chief only in title. Krage has become worse than your mother, he has. He nags me unbearably until I do what he has told me to do. Krage is the one who runs the tribe, he only lets me act as chief because I have not killed him yet.”
I decided that day to tell better stories about Phumbaabaa for a many nights after that.