Domnic Deegan: The plains of Maltak

[Cracklord]

The dessert stretched on forever, the mountains that surrounded it nothing but a grayish smudge at the end of the endless plains of cracked red, parched, cracked earth, and merciless sun, burning down on the lifeless landscape with the fury of an invading army.
Life was not welcome here.

The orcs subsided, scratching a living of rocks and what they could scavenge from their neighbors. In the end, the balance was failing them, and it was as though the land itself was throwing them aside to start again. Survival was hard, and their once prosperous people could be measured in the low thousands. Culture was dying or already gone. Desperation had set in. And it was only going to get worse.

The red dust caked everything. the once rich soil had been leached of vitality by the demonic poison, and could barely support The uncaring sun had burned it until it was harder then stone, wind had scoured it to one, uniform level, the occasional crag of broken rock jutting above the endless dessert relieving the monotony for a few scant seconds.

Team Rillian
The castle had been here for years, kept well stocked and well supplied, god knows how. It's origins were lost in the mists of time when Callan had occupied Maltak, and impoverished nobles or second sons had set up fiefs and used the orcs as chattel. It was a forbidding place. A grim fortress of crudely cut stone rose above it, far beyond the reach of the endless dessert bellow.
It spoke of a squat, primitive power, designed to be defended. There were a few such buildings left on the fringes of the plains, though none had contents like this. Any magician who saw the interior would probably sell the remnants of their soul to possess it.

It was all but empty. A few servants glided from room to room, never speaking or offering anything that cold be interpreted as an answer, or even seeming to notice their surroundings. And as events proceeded, Rillian sat on a simple stone throne, and waited.

Team Dominus

Donovon
It must be something in your accent. Or maybe you are speaking the wrong dialect, or something, because you hope to god he doesn't mean what you think he means. He's the strong, silent type, his hair done in braids so thick you could use them to moor ships, and his chest bare despite the blistering heat. So far, you haven't met anyone, or seen any signs of life, and, well face it, he's not exactly good company.
And then you see it. A head on a pike. The flesh has long since rotted away, a few withered bits of dessicated skin and stray wisps of hair the only remaining traces. The sun has turned the bone to the color of old ivory, and it was impossible to tell if it had been there for a day or a century.

It wasn't orcish. The jaw was to small, the forehead to wide. But it wasn't human either. The teeth were formed out of chips of flint, and above it's eyes their were thick stone horns. Some sort of demon?

knowledge (the planes) check, or bardic Knowledge.

The orc looks at you, his mouth hanging open. "My ginger flavoured Hippo can travel after livers. Spoon! Can yours?" He says softly, then shakes his head. "Ilka Tuk Tuk."

Suicide Orc.
The big human is looking at you again. Your not sure why, but you get a delightful little shiver every time he does. You can't help but fear him a little, he's clearly a dangerous man, but when he smiles...
The one-legged man hasn't deigned to speak a word to you, ignoring your questions though he clearly understands every word. Ahead looms the mountain in the center of the plains, little more then a gray smudge on the horizon.
Your destination.

Gregory, Milov and Dex
Szark and Jayden have been silent in the long walk. You learned form the mistakes, and brought wagons full of supplies appropriated by Milov. As you begin, you see a glimmer of green to the East, deep within the plains.

Gregory"Gregory?" A voice said in his mind, that's music brought tears to his eyes, purity and clarity were beyond good. This must be what it is like to be called into the holy radiance of God himself, to feel your soul burn in the perfect purity. "What the bloody hell took you so long?"
A sigh. "Nevermind. I'm on my way to the mountain where the crone lives. Hurry up and get here." With that, it fell silent, all twenty five words used up.


Suyan
War on your own people. Once, that would have been strange, but now? What choice do you have?
It seems incredible that the sanctuary that was formerly a thriving community became a military camp so quickly. The ring of hammers follows you wherever you go, and everywhere is signs of preparation.
In the center of the camp, an enormous Tent has been erected, where the preparations for the offensive begin. You have been asked to come to act as an adviser.


TIM
Beneath the outcrop you are resting on is a small patch of green in the endless sea of red. the grass starts abruptly, and ends just as abruptly, with just enough room for a handful of rude huts.
It's not a community. Nobody would even notice it in Callan. But here, it's one of the largest remaining settlements of orcs (apart from the tribes.)
You can see figures moving around,

Outrage Chief
Your people have gathered. They are speaking in hushed voices, as though afraid to disturb the silence. Even the least pious among them have inked their faces and cast aside their possessions as they prepare for a pilgrimage. Even Taran is smiling.
It's a long march to the Bikta sanctuary.
Perhaps you should just make the journey through the Nakta.
No. This is too important.
Grimacing, you shoulder the pack of supplies you have prepared. It's a long march East, and the sun is setting.

Jacob
Death.

Bikta Chief
The land flourishes. The Callan witch had power, whatever she was, and the land is draining her dry. You have time. That is all you need. A few of your people are grumbling, and have professed a wish to allow more refugee's places in the sanctuary.
Surely, they say, the Akta's gifts are such that it would be unthinkable not to make room for others.When the Akta has been so generous, should we not share the gift among our people?

[Tackyhillbillu]

Milov sat at the reins of the lead Wagon, ruefully looking at the Mules hitched to the front of the conveyance. The Wagon's he had brought were filled to capacity with Supplies, and the precious cargo. He had to admit, he hated this place. The Archipelago wasn't the most hospitable place in the world, but it was better then this hell hole.

"Ah well, tis for a good cause."

Milov peered ahead trying to make sure that spot of green was really there, and not just some figment of his imagination. After all, he really wanted it to be there.

"Gregory, Dex, Szark, can you see that up ahead?"

The Werewolf peered ahead. He was aware that he had left out a certain member of the party, but he wasn't sure how to deal with her yet. It seemed best to just keep moving on, despite her presence.

[EvilRoeSlade]

Stout and durable much like the castle he was in, Punchy lumbered into the throne room, unimpressed by what he had seen so far. He was a patient dwarf, and knew not to act until the time was right, so for now he simply stood at the side of the throne room, arms folded, glowering like always did.

Truth be told, he wasn't eager to meet the inhabitants of the plain of Maltak, having heard rumors that Lord Dominus had driven them all insane generations ago. Other rumors maintained that they were simply insane to begin with. It mattered little to him. The more he saw of the world outside of his little island, the more he was convinced that Dominus was to blame for all of its inconsistencies and unfathomable logic, and he knew well what to do to make him pay.

[TheArchivist]

TIM
He hated this land. Almost all there was on the plains of Maltak was death, and in death there was no love. This land also smelled of demonic corruption, it smelled like Karnak, and he hated this dirt hole all the more for it. But he had come to this blasted land with a purpose. He had been captured by those that called themselves the Royal Spellcasters. But then the Snuggly One had whispered into his ear, it had cried. The All Loving One had been ravaged, hurt, rejected in its boundless love by the One of Anti-Hugs. Dominic Deegan, a name he could only think with venom, had hurt his love. For that he must die, preferably painfully so. Compared to escaping a plane filled with eldritch horrors beyond all comprehension, a place that fell between the cracks of reality, escaping a prison made by mere mortal hands was pitifully easy, and he had killed many who would rejects the Great Huggers love.

He had made all due haste to punish the one who had rejected the One Who Offers Boundless Hugs. Now he was in Maltak. He could feel Dominic was out there. He could feel him. His oppressive presence was growing, extending, becoming more firm. It must be stopped and replace with the Snuggly’s warm embrace.

After running for miles he had rested in an outcrop. He looked down at the only green patch of land he had seen anywhere in sun blasted desert. This entire land had been devoid of vegetation, animals, or people, but here there was an inexplicable piece of grass and what were probably orcs. Was this one of those last clusters of orcs that had survived the storms after the War in Hell? From what he had heard, from other infernomancers and others, the orcs were an violent, warlike, and insane culture. Totally lacking in love and hugs.

After finishing resting he stood up. He decided. He would see if the orcs would accept the embrace of the Huggly One. If they did, then this would be the first place in this hugless land to rest within the warm embrace of the Hugging Time, if not, then they were clearly under the influence of the Hugless One, and then they would all need to die.

He hopped out of outcrop, and moved towards group of crudely made huts with inexplicable speed. Snuggly had gifted him with a speed to spread the message of hugs. He would see if these orcs wanted hugs or death. But eventually there would be hugs, oh yes, there will be hugs…

TIM as an At Will ability from the psudonatural templace can use dimension door as a 20th level caster. Thus as a standard action he can move 1,200 feet, and then 220 feet as a move action. Thus moving at a total of 1,420 feet every round, about a mile every 18-20 seconds. Though exact distances seem to matter little on the cursed plains of Maltak. He moves quickly towards the huts and patch of grass, intending to spread hugs (or more likely horrible death with a small recreation of Lynn’s Brook).

Spirit Father
It was done, the Callanian Witch had been defeated, and was no feeding the Sanctuary. The Sanctuary would be strong for a long time now, and he could now concentrate on other very important matters. He must tighten his hold on the Bikta, and mold them into a force that could preserver and protect the Sanctuary.

But the empowering of the Sanctuary has caused him people to grumble. Now they wanted to allow more of the few remaining orcs to be allowed to come into Sanctuary. This was a delicate matter to say the least. He would need more orcs for his plans. Naturally numbers would bring more power, increase their ability to defend themselves, conduct his plans to raid Callan, and many would no doubt be thankful for being saved from the wasteland. But there also came the danger of how many people the Sanctuary could support, and possibly an even greater danger, the Refugees could corrupt the Bikta, and unravel everything he worked towards.

This was not a decision he could make lightly. Spirit Father makes an announcement to the Bikta. “I have heard, due to the empowering of the Sanctuary because of our faith and purity, that you desire for us to allow more Refugees into the Sanctuary to live with us. I understand your desire to be merciful and caring to our people. It also hurts me to my core to see those around us become corrupted, degraded, starving, and becoming more savage. But we must guard ourselves from corruption, and be weary of extending the Sanctuary too hard. Insulting the gift we have received could result in it being taken away, and we would be no better than the other faithless and corrupt orcs. For these reasons I will withdraw to my tent to mediate with the Akta to determine the best course of action. The defeat of the Callanian Witch has changed much, and the Atka has shown its pleasure with us for our faith and purity. Once I am done with my meditations I will tell everyone of my decision based on what the Akta has told me.”

Spirit Father withdraws to his tent (assuming no one causes a major fuss), and sits down into a meditative position. After meditating and praying for a period of time he managed to get into commune with the Atka to ask it a series of important questions.

1. Would it be advisable to allow more people into the Sanctuary?
2. Can the Sanctuary support a significant increase in the number of people in it?
3. Should the Mark of Justice be used to help control new Refugees entering the Sanctuary?
4. Are a significant number of the Refugees that are coming to Sanctuary going to be impure?
5. Did the Callanian Witch have any allies?
6. Do they know where the Callanian Witch is or at least highly suspect?
7. Are they coming to help her, or will seek to help her soon?
8. Do they have the ability to free her from Sanctuary?
9. Should I be concerned about the Abomination that defeated the Callanian Witch?
10. Are the Shintula actively planning on attacking the Bikta or the Sanctuary?
11. Are the Doma actively planning on attacking the Bikta or the Sanctuary?
12. Are the Rhazgala actively planning on attacking the Bikta or the Sanctuary?
13. Are the Alheera actively planning on attacking the Bikta or the Sanctuary?
14. Is there any significant Callanian force planning on taking advantage of the situation in Maltak?
15. Are there any other major forces I am unaware of that are actively planning on attacking Sanctuary?
16. Are any of the clans planning on becoming my ally?
17. Is Suyan actively plotting against me?
18. Has Suyan told anyone else beside myself, Kiya, or Eltu know about the true nature of Sanctuary?
19. Are there any other significant forces I should be concerned with that I am not currently aware of?
20. Are any of the Bikta’s within Sanctuary faith wavering in me, the Atka, or Sanctuary?
21. Would using the Mark of Justice be an appropriate measure to deal with the faithless?
22. Is the wielder of the Hukthak actively plotting against me?
23. Is Eltu a significant problem that needs to be dealt with?
24. Is my hold over the Bikta strong?

Spirit Father quietly awaits the answers from the Akta. Praying it will give him the answers he seeks.

Commune
Spirit Father casts Commune in order to talk to the Akta, and ask it questions. Here is a description of Commune for your convenience.

You contact your deity—or agents thereof —and ask questions that can be answered by a simple yes or no. (A cleric of no particular deity contacts a philosophically allied deity.) You are allowed one such question per caster level. The answers given are correct within the limits of the entity’s knowledge. “Unclear” is a legitimate answer, because powerful beings of the Outer Planes are not necessarily omniscient. In cases where a one-word answer would be misleading or contrary to the deity’s interests, a short phrase (five words or less) may be given as an answer instead.
The spell, at best, provides information to aid character decisions. The entities contacted structure their answers to further their own purposes. If you lag, discuss the answers, or go off to do anything else, the spell ends.


OOC
Did you intend for us to keep all of our text in spoiler blocks or were we going to be doing everything openly like the previous two posts? If we are going without the spoiler blocks, then I will unspoiler my post here.

[Cracklord]

OOC Don't worry about it. Spoiler rolls, and actions, but leave the fluff in the open. This is not a serious game. It doesn't matter if everyone has out of character knowledge.


TiM
As the Infernomancer approached, the orcs looked up from their tasks, to see a cloaked figure moving toward them at an ungodly speed. An old looking orc was weaving what seemed to be a basket, and another two were maintaining what appeared to be crude blades fashioned out of wood.
In the center, of the settlement, a muscular orc male was naked but for a loincloth, his body decorated with bone piercings, leaves, and great rings of ochre around his eyes. His well-toned chest was decorated with fantastic whorls, swirls and curlicues, some done in blue ink, others more cruelly scarred on with a flat edged blade, his hair braided with leaves and stones, that rattled together as he shook his head wildly and gave voice to a wild, undulating cry.
He was moving in a rhythmical fashion, each flail of his arm or kick of his leg precisely timed.
Make a Spellcraft check or Knowledge (religon) to recognize what he is doing. Or don't. TIM probably doesn't care.
Around him was a crude circle of orcs, clapping their hands in time to his movements, an disturbing, rhythmless beat, that seemed to make the place colder, and the air thicker.
A few of the orcs stopped and turned to stare at him as he approached. But the ragged cloak he wore disguised him, and they did not seem to guess his intentions (I rolled abominably on their spot checks). A single pool of water is in the center of the meager stretch of dry grass, which the huts surround, and a fenced of area is their sad attempts at agriculure. A few limp, dry vegetables poke sullenly through the sifted earth. All in all, you can see maybe thirty orcs, and most look to old or young to fight.

* * * * *

Spirit Father
A few of your people grumble, but they make no move to raise objections. Shaking as recent events have been, they have come to trust your judgment. Still, more then a few seem less then mollified by this turn of events.

Connection with the Akta gave a feeling of warmth and indescribable joy. You feel your soul seared by the perfect righteousness, your mind dazzled by the brilliance. Your soul trembles in awe. It has been years since you last opened this connection to its fullest, and time has dulled your memory. How different it is to feel it every moment through the narrowest of connections, feeling it as one feels the sun on the horizon, basking in it's warmth, cheered by its light and your spirit lifting as it does. But it is nothing like finding yourself in the presence of the sun itself.
You are not worthy. But neither is anyone else.
The Akta does not talk to you, but it understands the questions, and your answers come in a series of impressions.

I'll give you visions the Mookie way rather then the traditional way, if you don't mind. Yes or no seems out of character for a vaguely sentient omnipresent energy source.

# The Akta shows your people embracing unfamiliar orcs. All of them have the look of refugee's.
# You see the boundaries of the sanctuary, ad they are not as large as you thought. Already, you see the hungry sand leaching the edges. Your own people are using fully two thirds of all available space.
# The Akta simply shows a picture of yourself. It has no answer for this question, it would seem.
# At this, the Akta shows a picture of ten orcs. Three are wearing Callanian clothes, and one appears to be riding a large Callanian animal.
# The Akta shows you a flickering of faces. Each one is embracing the witch, or otherwise acting in a familiar way. Worse, all are set against a backdrop of Maltak. The final image is Thuen Gor stabbing her in the gut.
# The Akta does not answer.
# Once more, the Akta does not answer, however you can feel the light around you brighten, until it becomes almost painful.
# The Akta once more gives a flickering of faces, a smaller quantity then the time before, but a large enough number to give you pause.
# You see a head on a pike. The features have rotted away, but you recognize the stone horns and teeth. Only one thing gives you pause. It is a Callanian pike.
# You see Thuen Gor leading his people through the dessert. The have their arms spread, and are unarmed.
# The Akta does not answer for a long time. At last, you see the sanctuary unharmed.
# You see a single orc, Wide of shoulder an sinewy of limb, crushing the sanctuary beneath his bare feet in a traditional Chakra dance.
# An ork appears behind the Dancer, holding a spear red with gore, a head planted on the top. It takes you a moment to realize the head is your own.
# A final orc joins them, holding a flaming torch, and the sanctuary beneath them burns. With that the images fade.
# A face you know. A gaunt, pinched face, with skin like leather that had been cured until it was harder then steel, eyes like open wounds and a thick silver mustache that traced the contours of his hollow cheeks. He was licking a blade that gleamed crimson with an orcs life.
# You feel a dark presence, burning with the stink that the Callanians brought with them. But this is not a man. This is something...more. Or less then one.
# Thuen Gor is glaring at you, but his arms are spread peacefully. The Akta seems uncertain, however.
# You see Suyan beside the dancing Rhazgala, whispering in his ear.
# The Akta does not reply.
# You see, for a moment, a shadowy being with an arcid stink that reminds you of the Nakta looming over the country. He is kept at bay, but the dark is not stopped, merely held back for the moment. His fleshless lips are drawn back into a terrible rictus, and his hands are outstretched, as though to seize the very world.
# A few faces flicker. You know them all. Few, but a rot will spread if nothing is done. Eltu is shown for the longest.
# The Akta agrees, giving you a warm feeling.
# The Akta shows Eltu holding a knife, and thirty pieces of silver.
# You see a Kelsheen mark etched in pink, and the wielder of the Hukthak, standing beside your enemies. Then, nothing.
# At this point, the Akta envelopes you completely, and you see all your people, bar a few, watching your tent, awaiting your presence. They revere you, your every word is sacred to them. You have nothing to fear from your people.

You leave the trance to find your body shuddering with release, perspiring even in the relative coolness. For a moment you can't see, and then your sight returns to you, spots still dancing before your eye and the edges of your vision after the perfect clarity in the brightness of the Akta.

[TheArchivist]

The Infernomancer

The Infernomancer finished approaching the small group of orcs. He smiles a wicked grin at the orcs beneath the hood of his cloak. He was determined to see the orcs either accept the way of the Holy Huggums, or be whipped off the face of this forsaken plain. The man speaks, and though he seems initially that he is speaking in a chaotic jumble, they still managed to understand what he is saying. “I bring great word of Sn'gl'euth'u, Snuggly, the Great Hugging One! I announced that a glorious age is upon us. One of nothing but love and hugs. Look at you, holding on to a patch of grass, barely clinging to life. Accept the embrace of the All Embracing Hugging Love and you will no longer suffer. I myself have been embraced by Snuggly. I was once cast down into a dimensional beyond all horror, reason, and imagination. A place with being beyond all comprehension, and by my merely perceiving the barest fraction of them was nearly destroyed. I suffered an endless torments before the Snuggly One brought me into its embrace.”

The Infernomancer’s smile became that of a madman. “It was at that moment I knew true love, well beyond that any other mortal has experienced. I too wish to bring that feeling of endless love and hugging to all of you. Reject your old ways that have brought you nothing but suffering, and the Holy Hugging One will bring you out of your destitution, and bring you into its snuggly embrace. Do you accept Snuggly’s eternal love, or would you reject unconditional love and hugs?” He scans the crowd of orcs, smiling all the while. “I suggest you choose wisely.” He eagerly awaits their answers. Like that of so many others since The Loving Embrace. He always enjoys the screams of those who would reject Snuggly’s love. The song of those that have rejected greater hugging in their final moments before oblivion is beautiful, only second the loveliness of Snuggly.

Considering he does not possess any ranks in spellcraft, I will have to pass on that, and say TIM just does not care.

Tongue of the Sun and Moon allows TIM to speak with any living creature. I figure he speaks whatever he was speaking at the beginning of his fight with Celesto, but people still understand what he is saying.

Is TIM insane? Yes, very much so. Poor poor orcs, they are never going to know what hit them


***

The Spirit Father

After finishing the vision Spirit Father brought up a shaking hand to wipe the swear off his forehead with a shaking hand, and then rubbed his eyes to get the last specks out of the. Communing to close with the Akta was always an exhausting venture. He took a moment to compose himself, and consider what knowledge the Akta granted him. Vision were always a tricky business at best with the user being prone to seeing what he wanted to see, and badly misinterpreting what he had seen, or not being able to understand what they even saw. Additionally it was not a wise idea to touch the divine too many times, and generally only when the situation warranted it. If things had not reached such a critical juncture with so many unknowns Spirit Father would not have bothered to touch the Akta.

But that Callanian Witch, though he would admit it, had deep down shaken him up. He had thought his most powerful opponent in Maltak was the Shintula Chief. A mighty warrior in his own right, and a orc who was probably his equal in strength. Though he got his power from the vile Nakta. But suddenly the Callanian Witch had showed up at the Sanctuary, and had vigorously tried to destroyed it. Spirit Father did not revel in the idea of fighting her, it likely would have been a very destructive battle that would have badly damaged the Sanctuary, and have killed many Bikta. It also appears he was right about there being many more forces at work in Maltak then he had been aware of before the Witch’s attack.

It had been wise for him to commune with the Atka. Now he had a much better idea what he was dealing with. The Alheera and the Rhazgala were marching on him. Also the traitor and blephamer Suyan had decided to join with his enemies, and was manipulating them with the very technique he had taught him. It would also seem that the Witch had powerful allies, ones capable of freeing her. This he could not allow. Though they do not seem to know right now what happened to her, or at least the Akta did not know. That was always the problem with these divinations. Also it would seem the blashphemous wielder of the Hukthak had met up with…the Little Pink Man? He had returned to Maltak? And he was working with those who were determined to destroy his people? The list of his enemies seemed to be getting long indeed.

Then there was the one that made his blood go cold. Had he really returned to Maltak after all these years. Had he been driven mad by the death of his son, and was now on one last death march to kill as many orcs as were left? What’s more it would seem from his vision that he or other Callanians had managed to slay the Abomination, the creature that had managed to defeat the Witch so easily. This was not a pleasant revelation. Then there were those that the vision could only touch upon. Threats that were significant, but were thus far not revealed.

Though the Doma for the moment seemed to be sitting on the sidelines. Not surprising, they have had a weak chief for decades now. A curious turn of events seemed to be that the Shintula might be joining him, or at seek peaceful relations with the Bikta, though only reluctantly. Still, this offered opportunity. If he had the Shintula on his side, then at the very least he would be able to fend off the other three tribes easily. Still, the situation was very tenuous. Much more then he liked. There was likely going to be war.

But what he needed to do right now was solidify the Bikta, now more than ever. It would seem the Akta now approved of him allowing Refugees into the Sanctuary. Though the amount of land was limited. The corruption that infected the land was clawing at the edges of Sanctuary as ever. The vision also seemed to warn that a significant number of the Refugees coming to Sanctuary were going to be corrupted. It would seem that corrupting influence of Callan ran deep, though the image of one of them riding a Callanian animal was odd. He would have to mediate on the exact meaning in the future.

When he had addressed the possibility of using magical means to enforce his rule, it had shown his face. It would seem that the Akta was advising him to use his own best judgment, and try and use it sparingly. The Akta must believe that he will find the answer within himself. He would have to use all the skills at his disposal in order to determine who should be allowed in Sanctuary, those who would be put under the Mark of Justice to ensure their good behavior, and those who would have to die for their impurity. Likely four out of ten would have to die.

The threat of corruption was also threatening his people. His fears for Eltu’s soul seemed justified. It would seem that Suyan had donemroe damage to the poor orcs soul then he originally realized. If events continued as they were, it would seem that Eltu was destined to betray him. But Spirit Father if anything is merciful and it was his job to protect the souls of those under his protection. He would take one last severe measure to try and save Eltu’s soul, and then work on the rest of those he saw in his vision who might turn against him. He needed to stop this cancer and soon. There was a storm coming.

Spirit Father took a moment to collect himself with a moment of meditation. His people depended on him more than ever if they were to survive. The forces allayed against them were immense, and they would need to be strong to survive. It would have to be his burden to make the hard decisions for his clan.

Spirit Father exits his tent after gathering his thoughts and steels his resolve. He calls for a crowd to make his announcement. Spirit Father speaks in a loud, powerful, and commanding voice gained from decades of experience as the Spirit Father. “I have meditated on the matters concerning us, and have touched the Akta to receive its wisdom in my decisions. The Akta brings both hope and warnings. With divine inspiration I have determined that we may allow some Refugees into the Sanctuary, though we must be careful how many we allow in. In time if we remain pure, and commit the right actions we may be able to expand the Sanctuary to include all our people, but for now Sanctuary is limited and we must be careful with the gift the Akta has given us.”

Spirit Father scans the crowd to gauge its reaction. “Though we will allow some of the Refugees to enter Sanctuary, we must be cautious. Many that are impure still wish to enter our Sanctuary, corrupting our souls, and they would destroy the Sanctuary, our last hope for salvation. Though many of them put on a mask of innocence and seem hopeless and in need of hope, they would destroy us all if given the opportunity due to their corruption. Those that are pure in heart, or those I determine have a chance to be saved will be allowed into Sanctuary for as long as we can continue to allow them in. But the corrupt ones must be killed without mercy. We are doing them a favor, their corruption only serves to eat away at their souls, and by putting them out of their misery we give them some measure of peace.” Many had already been killed for their corruption, and he could see the reluctance in some of the Bikta such as Eltu who grew weary of doing what needed to be done. He needed to steel their resolve to do what was necessary.

Spirit Father makes sure to note how they react to this change in policy. Now he needed to tell him people that war was coming. His voice took on a graver tone. “I also received a warnings from the Akta. Either in their madness, corruption, or jealousy the Rhazgala and the Alheera are marching against the Bikta. They are determined to take the Sanctuary away from us, kill us, and destroy everything we have created in this harsh land. They would doom our entire race, all in their madness. We must prepare us for war. This will be an ultimate measure of our resolve and dedication towards the Akta.” He knew he needed to assure his people. The possibility of conflict had always been on everyone’s mind since the Great Storms had passed. And now that time had come.

“Do not fear defeat. If we stand firm in our purity and resolve we will win the coming battle. Our enemies will be weak with hunger. They will be tired from the march across the corrupted desert that surrounds us. Their leadership is poor at best. The Rhazgala are led by a man who spends all his time abusing what should be rarely used religious drugs, and he has little respect from his own warriors. He is a mockery to the great chiefs that were his forebarers, and he mocks our religious by abusing drugs that he has no right towards. The Alheera were all but annihilated by the Great Storm, and are now led by an inexperienced leader who had been in exile for years, and who cannot even control his wife, much less an army. He is a man who willingly associated himself with infernomancers, corrupting himself in the process, and now he seeks to destroy Sanctuary. He is mad, and must be put down like a rabid animal. We can win this war, we must win this war, and we must want to win in order to win it. The fate of all orcs is within our hands. What we do in the coming days will decide the fate of all orcs and Maltak. We must meet our responsibilities to all orcs and to the Akta. We must win, save the Sanctuary, and save the purity and souls of all the orcs who remain pure. If we do not win, then the orcs will be finished as a race. By the Akta, by our ancestors, by Maltak, for all future generations we must win!”

Spirit Father motions that his speech is done to the gathered orcs. He hopes that his speech was enough to raise their spirits. There were hard days that were coming. And many of them were likely to be bloody.

After this assuming there is not any trouble Spirit Father will want to tell those in charge of his troops to prepare the Bikta for battle. Then he is going to want Eltu to come to his tent for a little conversation.

I figure Spirit Father needs to make a Diplomacy check for the speech? How exactly are we doing dice rolls? I’m not familiar with how the dice roller here on the forums works.

Also sorry for the long posts. I tend to do this when I’m getting into a character, and getting them down roleplay wise. I hope you do not mind me being somewhat proactive in my actions considering this is pretty open ended.

[Cracklord]

TIM
The orcs blink, a few of them scream, and some of the braver ones brandish weapons as he makes his way into camp. They hear his words, but they seem ridiculous. Nonsensical. And his otherworldly nature is obvious. TIM is standing there, in the center of the camp, smiling like a psychopath on the wrong medication, while the orcs wonder what to do.

Then the shirtless orc steps forward, his hair jangling with each move. Unlike his brethren, who show signs of malnutrition and sickness, he was strong and healthy, his muscles gleaming, toned to incredible definition, and his broad shoulders thrown back.

Holding out an open hand, a younger orc presses a great, stone headed axe, chipped crudely into a rough, chipped blade, into his open hand. It looks functional, as old as the mountains themselves, and deadly.

Some of the younger orcs joined him, holding less impressive but functional weapons, their clear eyes narrowed. At first, they seemed reluctant to move, then the leader threw himself forward, his weapon flying through a great arc.
The five orcs joined him with less enthusiasm, spreading around the infernomancer, attempting to flank him and keep him hemmed in. The rest of the orcs backed hurriedly away, expressions of shock or fear on their faces.
The big orc with the battleaxe charges you (provoking an attack of opportunity), and attempts a bullrush (provoking another one), power-attacking with his battleaxe.
d20+19=36 (1d8+11)
Makes a strength check of 25 in his attempted bull rush.
The other orcs are attempting to encircle you, all within 5 feet of each other.
The noncombatants are retreating.



* * * * *
Spirit Father
You should probably have made a diplomacy check for that, but I'll let it slide. Good roleplaying there.
The Bikta appear cheered immeasurably by the news, of the allowance to bring more refugee's into the sanctuary, however as your speech progresses much of this good-feeling vanishes.

The Bikta appear shocked. The thought of a war with the other tribes is... terrifying. None raise protests, but you hear grumbling on the sides of the crowd. Then one orc steps forward. Eltu.

"Spirit Father," he begins deferentially, but with undertones of contrition. "Surely our first objective should be peace. They are our people, and it is their leaders who are misguided, not them. Slaughtering the other tribes due to a few individuals sins is harsh, and not out way. Should we not try and negotiate?"

He falls silent, but another orc steps forward to speak. "Spirit Father, our warriors are strong, but theirs have been strengthened through hard living and raiding, while ours, despite our unbreakable courage and faith have not been challenged in a long time. We cannot win by ourselves. Only a fool goes to war without allies."

At this the mumbles grew a bit louder, and another orc called out "Have we even tried to talk to them?"

The final orc to speak was Chakra, a scarred veteren who was missing his left ear wore leather armor over his robes even in times of peace. "Spirit Father, if we are to raid Callan as you have urged, we will need more soldiers, not less. We cannot afford a war. Is there any alternative?" The complaints grow louder, until at last another orc steps in.

"If the Spirit Father states it to be the case, then who are we to argue. He is the chosen vessel of the Akta, it is he the blessed mother and the holy light have chosen to speak through. Do you really believe he has not already thought to ask them your questions? Do you believe he would not have given us his conclusions if he had not thought them through?" The murmurs subsided somewhat, but the orc was not finished. "When has he lead us astray. It is as he said, the Akta has rewarded it's favored children, and we have kept our posterity by cutting away the corruption, while the other clans have allowed themselves to forget the old ways and sink into ruin. If a war comes, we should meet it as our ancestors would, not as mewling cowards afraid to relinquish our soft lives."

The orcs look faintly ashamed of themselves. They do not look thrilled at the prospect of war with their distant kin, but make no further complaints.

Eltu arrives at your tent a few minutes after you summon him, dressed in his best robes and his hair tightly braided. He walks in with the heavy tread of someone marching to war, and his eyes are straight ahead, revealing nothing.
His feelings couldn't be plainer if he stated them aloud.

[smuchmuch]

Outrage Chief.

Holding his arm over his head to shelter his eyes from the sun, Tuen Gor gazes at the torrid wasteland that surround him. Even for him, it is hard to believe that only a few decades ago, in place of the red dust backed by an everburning sun, here stood the rich forest and grassy plains of his youth. It is a vision of despair and desolation for those knew the Maltak from before, enough to crush one soul, but, far from crumbling Tuen Gor's determination, the sight fuelled his rage and strenghten his resolve.

No matter the means and the cost, the land would heal, the taint be purged and the acursed Callanians who brought it, eliminated.

The witch and the necromancer would be only the first of the scavengers. Through trickery and lies they had tried to control the power of the Nakta. and he almost letted them do so. For his mistake he had payed a hefty price, his only remaining son, Adrak, was now barely gripping to life.

Turning to face his trusted Naktas, Tuen Gor stand ready to give the signal of departure.
"Tarran, Hirek, make sure the clan is ready. It is time for the Shintula to march on."

[Helanna]

OOC:
Alright, time to officially join the game, I guess. Before starting, I just wanted to say that I'm really new to this, so if I make a mistake or do something I'm not supposed to/don't do something I'm supposed to, please tell me, and I'll try to fix it.


Jacob

Jacob looked around him. Another man might have been unnerved at being cast into the afterlife, but he showed no signs of concern.

As far as he could see in every direction, mountains of the dead surrounded him. The orc souls were haphazardly tossed upon one another, with no apparent pattern. It raised a lot of questions - why were the souls piled in this fashion? Why were they inanimate, while he and Neilen had remained conscious? How, in fact, had Neilen been able to escape? And, perhaps the most puzzling question, why had he lost his temper so badly as to murder an orc, and how had the orc chief been able to defeat him so easily?

No doubt he would find the answers in time, however. Being trapped in the Nakta was hardly even an inconvenience - what better place to study it from?

Jacob began walking among the piles of the dead. Surely the orc afterlife did not consist of orc souls randomly piled up. Somewhere around here there was something more, and he intended to find it.

[Cracklord]

Jacob
That's fine.
The mountains of dead surround you. They do not seem to be insensitite, occasionally one stirs, or gives of a thoughtless twitch, but the majority are still.
Dead, and dreaming.

The number of bodies is impossible to guess, and seem to stretch on into infinity. Even the ground you walk on is made up of their prostate forms, a sea of still bodies. They seem unreal, subtly eroded, as their features and distinguishing marks fade, and their forms loose their cohesion, and their very identities. The air is chill enough to make you grit your teeth, and you can hear strange noises on the wind.

make a spot check, a listen and a knowledge, (the planes) check.

Thuen Gor
Your people begin their exodus, marching along forgotten paths towards the Bikta sanctuary. Your warriors march along the front, while behind them staggers a procession of the rest of the tribe the young, the old, the sick and the weak.

You have been marching for a few hours when Taran comes to your side.

"honored chief, a few of the warriors have been suggesting we send a few scouts. It seems a bit... trusting not to try and find out all we can about the dessert we're marching through. Who knows what might be happening?"

The dessert is mostly flat, and yet a haze makes it hard to gauge distances or make out details beyond a certain distance. And the march will take weeks at your current speed, you'll have to find running water sooner or later, and a way to replenish your supplies.

[Foolish_Mortal]

Like Death Dragon, I'm new to this kind of game, so please forgive me if I make any newbie mistakes. Which I probably will.



Suyan

Suyan spares a look around Stonewater's Sanctuary as he approaches the main tent. It seems eerily similar to his own, only smaller, and without..
He suppresses the thought. There'll be plenty of killing soon enough.

He sighs, then pulls aside the tent flap, speaking as he enters.

"You called for me, Chief Stonewater?"

[TheArchivist]

I’m new to playing on this forum, so how exactly does the dice roller on the forum work?

I’m a bit busy tonight with school work, so I’ll try and get in a post tomorrow.

[Cracklord]

Stonewater looks tired. The rings around his eyes have deepened, and his face looks worse for wear. You suspect he hasn't been getting enough sleep.
"Suyan." He says, and gestures to a seat.
"I've been thinking about, well, everything, and I don't know what to do. With Dominic gone..." He reflexively put his hand to his chest, in a warriors salute "Everything seems less clear. I have to do something about the Bikta. I have to save our people but it all seems, well, I don't know how to do it."
He sighs. "I'm going to attack. We don't have much choice, but it doesn't make it an easier decision. What will the Spirit Father do? Will he give up? Will he fight to the last, or will he burn the sanctuary before he lets anyone else take it?"
He tapped his finger agitatedly. "I don't know, and I can only hope you do."

[averagejoe]

Greg stood tall atop the wagon, having just climbed onto the supplies. He pointed ahead with a grin on his face.

It's civilization up ahead, I can see it too! he said, Full speed ahead, Milov! My bro wants me to go to him. He said something about a mountain where an old lady lives. I'm sure it's all part of some clever scheme of his! The wagon hit a bump, and Greg fell off, but he quickly picked himself back up.

[Frogwarrior]

Spark's with Team Dominic, right?

He's really not thinking of much beyond how much he misses fish and looks forward to the next meal. Hunger is getting to him. Or, rather, he is bothered by his bereaved belly's borborygmus.

[Cracklord]

Spark
looks like it.

Dominus walks ahead, leaning heavily on his cane to compensate for his pronounced limp. His face is curiously passive, and his eyes flat behind his glasses, never focusing on one object for long. Strangest is the half-smile on his face, suggesting he knows something the rest of the world doesn't. Which is probably true. It's disconcerting, but those who have spent time around him are used to it. A man of his stature is above their petty problems, and it is only right he should see such things as beneath him.
Hansai is less composed, occasionally giving odd, half glances to Kiya and then staring away hurriedly, focusing instead on a piece of rock or anything else that stands out on the plain.
There is nothing in the distance, but you can feel a subtle presence in the air.
Spark, spot check. Same to suicide orc.


The gay swordsman who is gay (Szark)
Szark leaned over the side of the wagon to watch Greg pull himself up, his eyes flicking to the young healers backside. He was dressed in broad billowy sleeves, a tight leather vest and equally tight pants, beautifully groomed and maintained. He looked like a young rake out prowling the taverns, with delusions of style, and the belief that spending sufficient amounts of money on clothes made them intrinsically superior. Somehow he had managed to avoid getting the ever-present dust on him, and was perfectly clean, his hair still groomed in an elaborate style, his cravat neatly tied. Even the rapier he was wearing looked like a showman's piece, bejeweled and shining.

"Now Gregory." He gently chided, punctuating his comments by rolling his tongue across his teeth. "It's not civilization until they build a university and taxation system. Until then they are noble savages."
He cocked his head. "So what does Dominic want us to do? Just to go to some mountain?"

He shook his head, in a gesture that had doubtless been practiced in front of a thousand mirrors, then resumed staring ahead. It is probably best not to speculate what exactly he was thinking about, but most of his companions had noticed the looks he was giving them.

"Milov." He said with a smile after a few moments silence. "What do you need all this candy for? I mean, wouldn't food be more useful?"

* * * * *
As the patch of green comes closer, you begin to make out details. Permanent structures in the form of huts, even a great log hall, a trickle of a stream, and a grove of trees. A palaside was being constructed around the edges out of timbre and piled stones, and a ditch was being dug around it.

[Cracklord]

'Bout time for a bump then.