I always imagine orcs with british accents
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I always imagine orcs with british accents
Shout out to orcs, y'all can breed me anytime
It's my -uh...Glatsmec Gte's Cakeday
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Chapter 29: Ionia Marches
The city of Borlimar rested along the slow winding banks of the River Danse like a sleepy old heron beside calm waters.
It was not a grand city by the standards of Acury.
No towering marble keeps rose above its walls, nor sprawling markets rich with gold and exotic goods. Borlimar was small, practical, and old. Timber homes with mossy roofs clustered tightly within sturdy stone walls while fishing docks stretched out along the riverbanks crowded with little boats and drying nets. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys into the cool northern air while narrow cobbled streets wound between taverns, fishmongers, shrines, and weatherworn storehouses.
Life there had always moved quietly.
Fishermen hauled silver-scaled river fish from the Danse before dawn. Merchants traded salted eels, river pearls, and preserved trout downstream to larger cities. Farmers from nearby hamlets brought grain and vegetables through the gates beneath the watch of half-interested militia guards wearing patched gambesons and rusting helms.
It should have been peaceful.
Instead—
Beyond the city walls stretched an ocean of Orcs.
Campfires filled the horizon.
Black banners bearing the Green Hand of the Domination whipped in the wind while tens of thousands of hulking green-skinned figures sprawled across the surrounding countryside like a plague of flesh and iron. Smoke from cookfires and burned villages stained the sky gray while the smell reached the city even over the river breeze.
Sweat.
Smoke.
Blood.
And Orc.
Lord Gregorie Merce stood atop Borlimar’s walls clutching a polished spyglass tightly in pale fingers.
His face had gone slightly green.
Through the lens he saw Orcs everywhere.
Huge hairy beasts sharpening axes beside campfires. Fat warriors wrestling one another in the mud. Others devouring entire roasted livestock while bloodgrog sloshed from barrels the size of wagons. One particularly enormous Orcess scratched herself openly while laughing thunderously at some crude joke before belching loud enough for nearby birds to scatter from the trees.
Gregorie lowered the spyglass with visible disgust.
“Gods preserve us…”
The city militia around him looked terrified.
And why wouldn’t they be?
Nearly one hundred thousand Orcs surrounded Borlimar.
An impossible host.
The countryside had already been stripped bare by raiding parties. Farms burned. Villages looted. Livestock taken. Refugees now crowded Borlimar’s streets and temples, whispering horror stories of green giants marching beneath black banners.
Yet strangely…
The Orcs had not attacked.
Not yet.
Instead they had sent heralds beneath flags of truce demanding parlay.
Gregorie rubbed his tired eyes.
“What could they possibly want?” he muttered bitterly.
Borlimar possessed no strategic importance.
Its walls were modest.
Its militia laughable.
His own overlord in distant Brambedigan likely scarcely remembered Borlimar existed beyond its fish levies and river taxes.
No.
Gregorie understood this situation perfectly.
This was not conquest.
This was extortion.
The Orcs had come like wolves before a sheepfold, and Borlimar lacked the strength to resist them.
If he wished his city to survive…
If he wished to live…
Then tribute would have to be paid.
The delegation met upon the muddy banks of the River Danse beneath a great white pavilion hastily erected between the city and the Orc encampment.
The river rolled quietly nearby while nervous human guards stood at attention around the tent perimeter gripping spears with sweaty hands. Across the water rose the endless smoke and noise of the Orcish host. Drums boomed in the distance while black banners snapped in the wind.
Inside the pavilion, Lord Gregorie Merce sat rigidly at a long wooden table.
A perfumed handkerchief remained firmly pressed beneath his nose.
Gods above—
The smell.
Even seated several feet away from the Orc delegation, the odor coming from them seemed almost physical. Sweat, bloodgrog, wet fur, smoke, unwashed flesh, and something animalistic entirely unique to Orcs assaulted his senses relentlessly.
Have these creatures never bathed in their lives?
Yet despite the smell…
They were not the mindless savages he had expected.
Two immense Orcs stood silently behind the seated elder like royal bodyguards. Their armor gleamed darkly in the afternoon light, polished steel adorned with heavy rondels depicting screaming wailing faces. Massive shields rested at their sides bearing personal sigils painted across black fields—one marked by a roaring golden lion, the other by a crimson griffin.
Veterans.
Nobility perhaps.
Not brutes.
And seated before Gregorie himself was the largest Orc he had ever seen in his life.
The elder Orc was grotesquely fat, his belly straining purple robes embroidered with Orcish glyphs while a heavy cape draped across his immense shoulders. A gray beard spilled halfway down his chest beneath a balding scalp covered in old scars and liver spots. One cloudy eye remained half-shut while thick fingers rested atop a heavy ironwood cane.
Yet beneath the age and bulk…
He radiated danger.
The countless scars across his arms and face told Gregorie plainly this ancient monster had survived more battles than any ten human knights.
Lord Merce swallowed hard and attempted dignity.
“I am Lord Gregorie Merce,” he announced carefully. “Master of Borlimar and servant of his majesty the King of Acury.”
The old Orc nodded slowly.
When he spoke, his Common was rough and gravelly.
“I am Warchief Fartbringer.”
Gregorie blinked.
“…Fart…bringer?”
He nearly fainted outright.
Good heavens.
The old Orc actually smiled at his reaction, yellow tusks jutting like spears.
“Aye,” he rumbled pleasantly. “Strong name.”
One of the armored Orcs behind him barked laughter.
Gregorie pressed the handkerchief harder against his nose.
“Quite.”
The lord cleared his throat shakily.
“What are… your terms?”
Fartbringer leaned back slightly in his chair with a loud creak of wood.
“The Queen desires supplies.”
One thick finger lifted.
“Foodstuff.”
Another finger.
“Weapons.”
Another.
“Borlimar becomes subject of the Gelbeg Domination.”
Gregorie’s stomach sank instantly.
The old Orc continued calmly.
“You pay taxes to us now.”
Outside the pavilion, distant Orc drums thundered.
“In exchange,” Fartbringer rumbled, “Borlimar remains safe.”
Gregorie nearly rose from his seat.
“These terms are outrageous!” he sputtered. “My city is already strained feeding refugees and militia! And to betray my king and rightful overlord—”
Fartbringer grinned again.
It was somehow worse than anger.
“Your overlord?”
The old Orc chuckled deep in his belly.
“Lord Hannigan of the East soon falls.”
He pointed lazily toward the endless Orc encampment beyond the river.
“The Orcs rule now.”
Gregorie fell silent.
Fartbringer leaned slightly forward.
“Better to keep your own head than lose it beside a dead king.”
The words landed with awful simplicity.
Gregorie looked toward Borlimar’s walls in the distance.
His people.
His city.
The terrified refugees.
The thin militia.
Then he looked back toward the sea of Orcs surrounding them.
There truly was no choice.
Slowly…
Painfully…
Lord Gregorie Merce lowered his head.
“…Very well.”
The Orcs watched silently.
“From this day forth…”
The words tasted like ash.
“…Borlimar shall become a vassal of the Gelbeg Domination.”
Fartbringer’s tusked grin widened broadly.
“Wise choice.”
Queen Ionia stood hunched over a sprawling map inside her command pavilion, one thick finger tracing roads and rivers across Acury while Gutd loomed beside her like a mountain of green iron.
The great High Warchief towered over everyone present, his immense frame wrapped in blackened armor scarred by countless battles. Lantern light flickered across the angry face of MOG embossed upon his breastplate while outside the pavilion the sounds of the vast Orc encampment rolled endlessly through the night.
A messenger entered and dropped to one knee.
“Borlimar submits, my Queen.”
Ionia’s crimson eyes gleamed instantly.
“Ahhh…”
A slow grin spread across her tusked face.
“Good.”
She leaned back from the table and slapped one heavy hand proudly against her swollen belly.
“My late husband’s kingdom grows larger still.”
The gathered Orc commanders rumbled approval.
“With it,” Ionia continued, “comes more living space for the Orcish people.”
Gutd nodded approvingly beside her.
Ionia pointed toward Borlimar upon the map.
“A garrison will be stationed there immediately.”
One clawed nail tapped the parchment sharply.
“The humans are to remain under watch at all times. Taxes collected. Weapons monitored. Their lord reminded who rules him now.”
Several Orcs grunted agreement.
Then Ionia’s grin became sly.
She turned toward the enormous figure standing nearby—Warchief Lugburza of Rad’Udu.
The gigantic Orcess rested one broad hand atop her visibly pregnant stomach while the other gripped a tower shield taller than many humans. Even heavily with child she looked capable of crushing a horse beneath one foot.
Ionia winked knowingly.
“And several of these soldiers should be pregnant females.”
A wave of snickering spread through the pavilion instantly.
Lugburza barked harsh laughter.
Ionia’s grin widened further.
“The humans do not yet understand how Orc conquest truly works.”
Gutd himself chuckled darkly.
“At first,” Ionia said, “they pay tribute.”
She raised one thick finger.
“Then they accept garrisons.”
Another finger rose.
“Then Orc families.”
Her tusks gleamed in the firelight.
“And before they realize it…”
Several Orcs began grinning knowingly.
“…the Orcs outbreed them.”
Laughter erupted around the map table.
Ionia spread her hands wide dramatically.
“Soon enough the humans will drown beneath green children until they become too numerous to resist.”
One Orc snorted bloodgrog through his nose laughing.
“And then,” Ionia finished proudly, “Borlimar shall become properly Orcish through simple population replacement.”
The commanders burst into cheers and crude amusement.
“HAH!”
“Smart queen!”
“MOG bless fertility!”
Even ancient Fartbringer slapped his knee laughing before suddenly raising one scarred hand.
“My Queen,” the old Orc rumbled, “I offer my youngest daughter for the garrison.”
Ionia looked toward him curiously.
“Urty?”
Fartbringer nodded proudly.
“A fine shield maiden.”
He grinned broadly.
“And already carries a litter brewing in her belly.”
More approving laughter followed.
Ionia nodded warmly toward her old companion.
“Then Urty’s children shall become future lords and ladies of Borlimar.”
That earned roaring approval throughout the pavilion.
Orcs slammed fists against shields.
Tankards crashed together.
“MOG!”
“MOG!”
“IONIA!”
Ionia herself laughed deeply amidst the celebration, red eyes drifting once more toward the map of conquered lands spreading slowly beneath Orc hands.
One year ago today I posted this miniature Lord of the Rings Orc photo I created using real lighting, figures and miniature sets
Bergash of Barad-Dur, Uruk-hai chief
She took charge or the remaining denizens of Mordor after Sauron's fall, navigating her newfound independence alongside them and trying to build a life on the ruins.
2022
Commissions info - Prints* - Merch*
*might be domestic only!
Chapter 28: Silent Feelings
Night settled heavily over the hidden Minotaur valley.
Cold mountain winds whispered through the pines while hundreds of cookfires dimmed to glowing embers beneath the stars. The village did not truly sleep quietly. Minotaurs snored like distant thunder from within their hide yurts while others rested outside beside fire pits, wrapped in furs beneath the open sky. Even asleep they seemed massive and powerful, horned silhouettes rising and falling in the darkness while the smell of smoke, beasts, leather, and sweat lingered thick in the chilly air.
The Minotaur night watch proved just as imposing.
Pairs of warriors patrolled constantly around the valley edges carrying long spears tipped with obsidian and bone. Their heavy hooves clopped softly over stone while deep snorts echoed now and then through the darkness as signals passed between sentries. Totem fires burned at elevated positions overlooking the mountain paths while great horned shadows stood watch against the moonlit ridges like living statues.
Lower in the valley, away from the honored yurts and central fires, the Au’Roch rested.
No grand tents sheltered them.
Most slept beneath rough lean-tos of hide and branches or simply beside small cookfires under patched blankets. The horned men and women huddled together against the cold, separated instinctively from the true Minotaurs despite sharing their blood. Ulf noticed even now that no Minotaur campfire welcomed them fully. Some watched the Au’Roch with contempt. Others with pity.
Neither was kindness.
Ulf walked silently through the valley beside Hate.
The towering Orc moved with surprising quiet for one so immense, his daggers resting at his hips while the cold mountain air stirred his long dark hair. Above them the stars stretched endless and brilliant across the black sky, unmarred by city smoke or torchlight.
Ulf folded her arms beneath her cloak and exhaled sharply.
“They hesitate too much,” she muttered. “Every answer from Mooton comes wrapped in thought and caution.”
Hate sniffed loudly through his broad nostrils.
“At least they possess a proper stench.”
Ulf blinked.
Hate grunted toward the smoky village.
“Smoke. Sweat. Beasts. Blood.”
A faint grin tugged at one corner of his mouth.
“Better than humans.”
Ulf barked a short laugh before catching herself.
For a while they simply walked together beneath the stars.
The sounds of distant Minotaur moos drifted through the valley while fires crackled softly around them. Somewhere nearby an Au’Roch woman sang quietly to a child in a trembling voice.
Then Hate spoke again, lower this time.
“You did well tonight.”
Ulf glanced sideways toward him.
The big Orc was already watching her.
Not as a subordinate.
Not even truly as a bodyguard.
Something softer sat behind his eyes for just a moment beneath the firelight and moon glow.
“You spoke like Gelbeg,” Hate rumbled quietly.
Ulf’s chest tightened unexpectedly.
For one dangerous heartbeat neither spoke.
The cold air suddenly felt strangely warm around them.
Then Ulf abruptly looked away.
“The smoke,” she muttered quickly. “It muddles the head.”
Hate said nothing.
Ulf cleared her throat harshly and stepped backward slightly.
“I should rest. Tomorrow will be long.”
Again Hate remained silent, though disappointment flickered faintly across his features before vanishing behind his usual stoic expression.
Ulf turned and walked back toward the guest yurts without looking behind her.
But her thoughts churned.
Because she knew exactly what that moment had almost become.
And she could not allow it.
She was Ulf, daughter of Gelbeg. Princess of the Domination. Her duty stood above fleeting emotion.
Her marriage belonged to Goreboar.
Her future belonged to the Orcs.
Still…
As she disappeared into the smoky darkness of the sleeping valley, the unanswered feeling lingered painfully in her chest.
