#torgrim prime

[incorrectwaaquotes]

Tarek: Pray, who the devil are you?

Torgrim: KNEEEEEEEEEELLLLL!!!!

Tarek: Oh god, he's foreign. Hello, Neil! Nice to meet you!

[wearewarlord]

Versette

In the dim torchlight, five figures gathered around their round table.  In the center was an ever-changing map, the topography shifting constantly as new canons and fresh worlds were brought into being.

Torgrim jabbed a jagged finger towards the northern quadrant depicted, specifically a mountain pass. “Supplies to the Norskan Shelf can be delivered through this pass here.  It is treacherous, but it can be widened if necessary.”

Brador, his feet on the table, snorted derisively.  “You think supplies are gonna make us stronger?  Leave it be.  My crew’ll be all the better with a little struggle.”

Torgrim offered a halfhearted shrug.  “Zoltoq, how goes the terraforming?”

Zoltoq’s gaze turned from the map to Torgrim.  Space seemed to bend inwards.

Torgrim put his hands up in surrender.  “Very well. I won’t ask again.”

Skargash slammed his power klaw into the table.  “When’s me n’ da boyz gonna get sum good stompin’?  It’z been three stinkin’ days and we ain’t krumped anythin’!”

Torgrim seemed to sneer at Skargash.  “You’ll get your fight when the rest of us are good and ready, Skargash.  Now, on to the matter of Clan Skurge’s reparations—“

Torgrim was cut off when the rest of the Pantheon took note of a sixth figure.  A girl in her nightgown, only eight years old, stood in the war room’s doorway.

“Daddy?”

Beat.

“Versette?  What are you doing up this late?”

Versette stumbled forward, rubbing her eyes.  Behind her lumbered a massive teddy bear golem, a gift from the Venomancer.  “I couldn’t sleep.  I had a bad dream.”

Torgrim extended a hand. Versette took it.  “Oh child, it is but a dream.  It can’t hurt you.  Perhaps some strategic planning will set your mind at ease?”

Versette’s face lit up. “Yay!”

The golem brought forward a chair, then gingerly lifted Versette into it.  Versette planted her palms on the table.  “What’re we stra—strat—planning?”

Torgrim gestured to Helkin Seep, chittering in his own rotting throne.  “Clan Skurge continues to suffer after their defeat at the hands of the Collective.  We are considering what compensation to provide them.”

Versette raised her hands in joy.  “Send ‘em cows!”

Helkin hissed, licking his chops.  “Yes! Tasty cows!  Tasty meat!”

Torgrim waggled a finger. “Not so fast, Versette.  Did Seer Seep really earn such a tasty treat by being beaten so badly?”

Versette paused. “Ummm… no.”

“Perhaps we can send him something more… like him?”

Versette gave some thought, then exclaimed: “Piggies!”

Helkin grabbed his ears and keened as the rest of the Pantheon roared with laughter.  “How much swine do you think the Clan deserves?” asked Torgrim.

Versette clapped her hands. “So many piggies for the smelly rats!”

Another round of laughter as Torgrim raised a fist.  “So it shall be!  Forty pigs to be delivered unto Clan Skurge!”

Versette cheered, then stifled a yawn.

Torgrim ruffled her hair. “Looks like someone’s growing sleepy again.”

Versette shook her head vigorously, unbalanced in her drowsiness.  “Nuh-uh!”

Torgrim gestured to the teddy bear golem, who scooped up the child.  “The Regent Lord of Ascaria demands that all children get a good night’s sleep.  I’ll still be here in the morning.”

Versette snuggled into the golem’s plush arms.  “Ok. If you say so.  I love you, daddy.”

Torgrim ruffled her hair again.  “I love you too.  Go get some rest, little lord.  Your father needs time to plan on how to best deliver you the world.”

As the golem carried Versette away, Torgrim turned back to the Pantheon.  

“Now.  What do we do about the Collective?”

[incorrectwaaquotes]

If you won't respect me as a hero, maybe you'll respect me as a villain! A villain who is... EVIL!!!

Torgrim

[incorrectwaaquotes]

Torgrim Prime: Remember, no one was created perfect. Even I was created with an imperfection. I was given too much empathy with human suffering. But I overcame my handicap. That is a true story.

[incorrectwaaquotes]

The flesh has always been weak. The spirit has always been willing.

Torgrim Prime

[incorrectwaaquotes]

First Law Disabled

Torgrim Prime

[incorrectwaaquotes]

War is cruelty. There is no use trying to reform it. The crueler it is, the sooner it will be over.

Torgrim Prime

[wearewarlord]

The Burning Rose

A @weareadventurers short story, starring Torgrim Prime and Breamson Gidori AKA @we-aredancer

Breamson strolled out of the tent.  It was late, and he needed to relieve himself before bed.  A look to the night sky and the peal of thunder told him it would rain soon.  He donned his hood and set on down the field.  His thoughts turned towards his apprentice, the tiefling Damakos, and the quest he had embarked upon.

His thoughts then turned to more recent events; even one such as he had heard of the recent events in far-off Borosk, and the recent threat made by Torgrim had put him on edge of recent date.  Still, the Collective’s guildhall was literally in sight, and Torgrim would not dare attempt anything in such a close proximity to the domicile of the most iconic heroes known.

Down the hill, he spied the hunched form in a red robe.  A trio of inhumanly blue eyes peered out from under a scarlet hood, and it spoke with a familiar voice.

“Hello… dancer.”

Breamson was surprised.  “Torgrim?!  What the bloody hell have you done to yourself?”

“A revolution necessitates many changes.  My form, for example.”

Breamson scoffed.  “You look decrepit as hell.  Can’t see you swinging a hammer like that.”

“I’m a warlord, Breamson.  Make no mistake, I don’t have to swing the hammer to enjoy its use.”  Torgrim scuttled forward.  “I have an offer to make.”

Breamson cocked his head to the side.  “I’m listening, but this had better be good.”

“Surrender now, and nobody else has to get hurt tonight.”

Breamson kneaded his brow.  “You suck at this whole ‘making an offer’ thing.”

“It’s why I have diplomats.”

Breamson entered a fighting stance.  “Well, you can kiss my ass.”

Torgrim chuckled.  “Very well, then.  Let’s waltz.”

As the construct rushed forward, the elf lashed out with his whip, coiling it around one of Torgrim’s arms.  The two circled each other, attempting to get the upper hand, but it was clear that in close quarters, Breamson was the superior combatant.  As Torgrim swiped futilely with his sparking cane to the left, Breamson dodged to the right effortlessly, launching a series of kicks into Torgrim’s abdomen.  As the warlord reeled, the dancer threw a solid punch into the side of Torgrim’s head, releasing him from the coils of the whip and letting him stagger away as a flare from the cannon embedded into Torgrim’s back shot off into the night sky.  When Torgrim turned back to his foe, the light in one of his eyes had gone out.

Breamson beamed.  “You certainly weren’t built for this, were you?”

Torgrim righted himself.  “Perhaps not.  But now it doesn’t matter.”

Breamson could hear the peal of thunder, and see the lightning… only some part of him knew that lightning isn’t red in color.  Nor does it start that close to the ground, rising up.

From the distance, the fireball tore a path through the clouds, arcing towards Breamson and Torgrim.  Torgrim slammed his cane into the ground, forming a protective bubble, while Breamson dove to one side.

As Breamson groaned and tried to catch his breath, rapid heavy footsteps surged in his direction, and a fifteen-foot tall boxlike construct emerged from the crater.

“NOW IS THE HOUR OF OUR DISCONTENT!” it roared in Torgrim’s voice.

Breamson ducked beneath one lateral swing, driving a kick into one leg joint, shattering it.  A second, similar kick drove the great mechanical beast to its knees.  When Breamson lashed out with his whip, though, it caught the end in its viselike grip, yanking it forward with the elf himself.  It took Breamson up in one hand, held him high, and tightened its grip.  The sound of splintering bone was audible.

Time slowed.  "I guess… this is it.  The Collective’s been… a great audience, but every performance must reach… an end.  Damakos... Lark... I love you..."

The great construct launched Breamson headfirst into the pavement, creating a fresh, bloody crater.

Torgrim flew in on his hovering disk, trembling in rage.  “No, no, no, NO!”

The construct arose and faced its master.  “HE HURT ME.”

“Capture, I said CAPTURE the dancer!”

“BUT, BUT HE HURT ME!”

“He hurt you?”  Torgrim charged his cane until it was white-hot, and he drove it into the heart of the behemoth.  It collapsed to the ground, lifeless.

More soldiers of the Clockwork Legion emerged from hiding.  “Prime One, you are injured.”

Torgrim reached to feel his darkened eye.  “This… trifle is nothing, easily replaced.  Without the dancer, perfecting the Pattern X project is a virtual impossibility.”

The Legionnaire shifted uncomfortably.  “Your orders?”

Torgrim sighed.  “Remove the Pattern VI from these premises.  Reuse whatever parts you can, but I want that mind-core scrapped.  And… tell the Legion to prepare for war.  Like it or not, we’ve killed a member of the Collective, and they don’t take these kinds of matters lightly.”

As the hooded soldiers began to move their goliath-sized brother away, Torgrim looked grimly to the guildhall in the distance.  True thunder cracked, and it began to rain.

This is going to get worse, thought Torgrim.  Much worse.