Doom of Blood

The winds slashed at the red rock as if it meant to cut the mountain down to rubble and snow littered with ice whipped in all directions. Guideless cyclones of biting crashing fury. The Blood Peaks howled is discordant cacophony as it carried another blasting storm to the caverns and hollows that marked the home of clan Redpeak. Redskins, carved of the same rock as the mountain made their huddled way through the connected tunnels of their home seeking the distant amber glow of a roaring fire, The scent of charring meat spurred the warriors on and they poured into the hearth like blood through a vein. Warriors, hunters, and soldiers all spilled their way out of the cold; pushed on by the pumping wind at their back. Dozens trudged into the great hall and were rewarded with the fierce heat of the Everflame and the raucous sounds of their kin; joyous at their return. Still, the Warrior noticed dozens of the many entrances went unused. A stark reminder of those that did not return it the safe heat. The night marched on; food was shared: hard loaf from the last of their grain topped with greasy meat seasoned with char and salt. \large stone pints of berry wine and ice cold water from the deep mountain spring passed from hand to hand as the warriors waited. Then spoke the chief. He towered over the hall, an orc of old stock from a time when the mountain folk grew large and broad. Like a relic of an ancient history he loomed just smaller than the great shadow cast by the roaring Everflame. His voice carried over the song of the wind and bent it to listen. “I am Throzah, son of Grozzack, Conqueror of the range, and Blood king of the Peaks.” Silence fell among the clan. In the distance the wind whimpered in rebellion to the claim. “Let my warriors speak and share the bounty of our Blood.” He sunk onto his great stone throne and eyed the warrior bands. The silence hung in the air like a ghost choking at their throats as the warriors gauged who had returned alive and thus who had the right to speak first. After the moment passed a grizzled orc, near twice the age of the chief stepped toward the Everflame. “I am Darken, son of Drastan, son of Fillez, son of Doramaz.” Three generations of pedigree and hardened with age. The young listened. “We bare a mighty sow, black as night and rich in fat.” A cheer went up through the hall as two warriors lugged the obese carcass forward. “And a pair of cubs; fresh and pure.” Two much smaller bodies were added to the pile. “This will fill our stomachs, fuel our fires and cloth our warriors.” The elder Darken said with pride. The Warrior noticed none mention the bear would have been deep in the winter sleep and the cubs all but defenseless. Darken stepped back and bowed to the chief with his soldiers. The chief’s burning yellow eyes passed on to the next group. A burly female warrior stepped forward, bones clattering against her axe. “I am Shegrade, daughter of Tsurek.” The chief nodded. “We have taken one of the jarlfolk, blasted and smote upon the mountain. We bring its head, weapon, and bag of supplies.” A cheer went up as the blue titan’s head rolled toward the all hungry fire. The axe was so large it took wo warriors to carry it. Only the chief could hope to wield such a weapon. The giant’s sack was full of preserved meats and berries. “A fine kill.” The chief admitted, taking with a single hand the mighty axe from across the Everflame. The warriors continued, each displaying their prize from the fierce wild of the peak. Until at last the bright yellow eyes of Throzah fell onto the Warrior. He stepped forward, knuckles white from the tight grip he held on his sword. “I am Warrior.” A nameless, unproven one. “Son of Rock,” An orphan with no blood of his own, spawned from the stone. “We return from the wilds of Blood, unbroken and unvanquished. Ready to bareour fangs at the wilds again.” Empty handed, but alive. A traditional delivery of a long time pledge. The words spoken by those who had risked the wild and returned alive but without prize. The cheer was muted and unenthused and Warrior felthe stare of the chief burn hotter than the fire against his skin. Slowly the yellow eyes closed and the chief nodded his acceptance of the delivery. In the mountains of blood there was no dishonor in survival. Warrior bowed low, felt the Everflame lick his face and stepped back whispering soft prayer to Malvrice, Lord of the Storm and God of the Maelstrom for guiding them through the wilds. The prayer was interrupted by the great, booming voice of the chief. “My kin! For the moment let us feast and revel in our glory. This meal and bounty I offer to you, Grow strong in my name so hat the mountain will never forget its ruler!” A rage went up among the clan. Raptured by the words of their chief, they feasted and drank; bred and wrestled around the Everflame in the name of their mighty chief who claimed the blood of the stone as his own. All save for the lone Warrior. Who took no more than his share to eat peacefully by the wind rocked entrance to the hearth. A soft prayer to Borglash on his lips. Thanks for the food in moments o hunger and the promise to restore the stock as best he could. But the prayer was swallowed by the wind and consumed by the rock which was red as blood. The revelry passed and the warriors were bloated on feast and lust. Every pleasure met to ready the soul for the mountain’s wrath. And go they would. Again and again. Each time the soft spoken Warrior prayed to Malvrice for safe passage of his men through the fierce storm. And with each return the Warrior remained unvanquished by the mountain but with empty hands to sate the clan. And with each return less and less of the warriors come back to the Everflame’s embrace. Still they went out into the storm and still the faithful Warrior returned until just his troop was left. The rest of the clan were too young, or too old, or unfit to survive the fierce storm. And still his hands were bare ofprizes from the mountain’s bounty. When at last the numbers had fallen to such dire straits and with no new claim to swell their stores did the chief speak, “I, Throzah, son of Grozzack will lead you into the mountain.” He hefted the mighty jarl axe to the cheers of the young, old and infirm. “I will remind the mountain who it bows to, even if I must carve the law into the stone itself!” Again the hollow rang with cheers. Warruir remained silent as the titan like orc that was his chief rose from his throne, the stone groaning as if a great burden had been lifted. He fell in line behind his chief as they pushed back against the flailing win. The orcs pushed tight and lose to funnel through the tunnels and as the light of the blinding snow came into view Warrior slowed his pace to offer his prayer to Malvrice for safety and guidance. A massive hand shook Warrior out of his prayers. He found himself face to face with those fierce sun like eyes. “Offer not your prayers to absent gods who have shied and fled from the wrath of the mountain.” His breath was hot with the scent of salted meat. “If any prayers be uttered here let them fall to me the sovereign of this range. For through me, and only me, shall the Blood be tamed.” His voice rose into a barely lucid crescendo that shook dust from the tunnel and for a moment seemed to silence the whipping snow. Warrior nodded in silence and fell in line, but offered no further prayers. With that the force spilled out of the mountain like a fresh wound, and while the snow and wind tried to blind them they stayed close to the chief as he, with jarlaxe in hand, marched into the torrent. And so they came to do battle with the mountain. Each step a mix of pain and frostbite. For each warrior that lost their footing and became an echo of memory another push was made. How long did they march? Warrior could not tell. Hunger had been numbed by the cold and the sky was lost beyond the never ending storm. It felt as if an eternity had passed to Warrior when, through the veil he sensed the chief throw out a hand and ready his ace. Instinct took over as Warrior drew his blade; the hiss of weapons being drawn behind him reached well trained ears as the remaining members of the party prepared for battle. The warriors pushed forward, testing slowly each side of the mountain as they crept ahead to flank their chief. His voice bellowed out, clear even over the storm and with strength as if he had lost none of his fervor. “Stand and be known or, like this mountain fall beneath my boot. For I am Throzah, son of Grozzack, Blood King of the Peaks.” The declaration echoed in spite of the wind and lashed against the force of the mountain. Warrior sidled up to his chief in the tumultuous silence. Weapon drawn and ready. What he saw sent shivers down his spine and for a moment the warrior felt his blood run colder than it ever had before. A hulking silhouette stood not forty feet from the chief, gnarled and bent it was boulder thick and heaving up and down with each labored breath. Eyes which seemed to carry unnatural light shown from out of the shadow of its body; fierce and yellow. Warrior swallowed hard and gripped his weapon harder; instinct warned him of danger and his body pulsed with the war rush like it had during the fiercest battles of his life. The being was outnumbered by far. Yet still his heart raced. They had the high ground. Yet still the war rush made his head throb. The fierce and mighty chief was with them. Yet his throat ran dry. An explosive breath escaped his lungs as in the moment of tension he could hold it no longer. It escaped him in a cloud of heat against the arctic cold. It was then the warrior realized what was wrong. The creature’s labored breathing stirred not the cold air around it. The Warrior went to speak, to warn the chief, but a chilling call rose up on the whistling wind. “Blood…blood…?” The thing’s voice croaked and whipped in a pale imitation of the wind’s furious howl. Its head tilted to one side and it shifted closer to the party. “Aye, Blood King of the Peaks!” the chief declared again. “Now declare yourself or be felled.” The force of his voice rattled the snow and Warrior could feel the others moving closer. Yet his body could not approach the hulking thing. Against his will it took a step back. “Blood…” the thing croaked again. “Warm…” The word had never felt so far from the concept to Warrior. It seemed to rob the last bit of gray light escaping through the storm until all that remained was the feverish yellow glow of eyes in the darkness. From somewhere in the darkness the voice of the chief came. “Take it!” Warrior felt the rush of the others charging forward in the darkness towards the baleful yellow eyes. Crimson red broke the dark black that had taken the Warrior’s sight. And drowned away the bright yellow suns. A shrill wind rose and twirled through the mountain pass with vengeful vigor. With it came a single piercing note that stabbed the Warrrioras sharply as any blade had ever done. “B L O O D!” The first of the hunters who had rushed the shadowed creature was eviscerated; the halves of its body scattered beneath a shower of gore and blood. The brutality and speed of the assault caught the warriors quick. Bounding on legs that seemed to shake the mountain beneath their feet the beast ravaged the soldiers. Swift like the wind it ripped and teared trough flesh and muscle and bone. The blood of men he once knew painted the shadowed figure in stark scarlet, and steam from the viscera rose off its body like a morning fog. The things face split into a vicious, ravenous smile and the wind rose with its voice. “Warm…so warm!” Warrior could see the blood on its body already beginning to freeze as it took a drunken step forward. He chief stepped forward to meet the thing, jarl axe whipping through the air so fast it seemed to cut the win itself. The axe hit deep into the thing’s side but it was not the sound o rending muscle and snapping bone that fell upon Warrior’s ears. No, it was the sound of stone being sundered and smote. Warrior felt his stomach lurch and knees buckle, the cry of a soldier losing his footing to the ultimate drop was shattered by the piercing breaking sound. The mountain shook and rocked and for a moment the Warrior was sure it would fall. The chief stood undaunted by the quake; reversed his grip on the axe with both hands and freed the blade from the wound. Warrior’s eyes rattled but he tried as best he could to watch the battle; ready for the gore and violence to pour from the gaping wound that was once the creature’s side. What poured forth from the wound was not blood, or organs, but instead a great gale of icy wind. The fierce typhoon blast from the wound as fierce as the coldest dragon’s breath, the chief’s axe frosted and became overgrown in glacial crystal which crept up along his arms. And still the creature staggered forward, distended and sheared near clean in half. It’s unnatural voice rising with the wind which drained from the hole in its side. “Give…warm!” It threw itself at the chief, but the titanic orc forced the blows aside like a gnat, and gripped his axe in both frostbitten hands. In a great downward chop the Redpeak _Chief cleaved and the axe sliced through skull and neck; becoming lodged where the ribs would begin. Rending the things head clean in two. The mountain shook and burst in violence, rocks rained from the grey beyond and Warrior felt for sure it would fall or break. Then the wind came. A cyclone burst from the space between the monster’s skull and washed over the warriors mercilessly. Warrior felt the strength leave his arm as the cold burned his flesh, muscle and bone. Then the voice came. “Blood…” it hissed weakly through the raging winds. “Your,,,blood!” It fell upon the chief who was froze to his core, his axe still lodged in the thing’s neck, yellow eyes wide and frantic. As it fell upon the chief of the Redpeaks, Blood King of the range, the Warrior with no name turned and ran. He ran through the blinding storm as fast as his weary legs could carry him. Cutting past twists and turns, the ground lurching and quaking beneath his feet as the mountain swayed and buckled. Into the tunnels he ran. Breathless from exhaustion; the wind howled and tossed him down the halls like a pebble in a stream. Buffeted and thrust, he clamored and clawed seeking the duller ember glow of the roaring Everflame. Yet the heat never came. Tired feet fell still as the Warrior grasped the jagged rock wall. The hall of the Everflame was no more. A void had opened in the very stone as if the core of the world had yawned and swallowed the heart if the mountain. Gone was the great flame, the voices of the clan; gone was the smell of burning meat and rich mountain berries. The heart was gone and never would the mountain winds pump their red skinned soldiers back to the core. Though the wind tried violently. Nearly throwing the weakening Warrior down into the vast and unknowing void. It rocked and pushed him as he clung to the stone unmoving. Then the wind came again, colder and more vicious. This time a voice carried on the torrent. ] “Blood…warm…” Warrior bit back the panic and fear, the raging pulse in his ears rallied in tandem with the beating wind. He turned from the shattered heart and fled back down the long tunnels. Now headlong into the beating storm; fighting against the tide. How long he ran the Warrior did not know but each step was hounded by the unrelenting wind and the cries for blood. He ran and ran until he was sure every part of him was spent past his limit but he could he could run on still. Through the pain and fear; always one step ahead of the icy gale dodging his steps. ] Warmth. Stillness. Quiet. Alien experiences assailed Warrior from all sides as the strength finally failed him. He fell to his knees, the sound of his gulping for air the only thing he could hear. Each breath a labored gasp as the sots of his vision slowly cleared. He had cleared the storm line. Beneath him the red stone, as bloody as his skin, disappeared into a thick forest of healthy evergreens. Far to the west the brilliant reflection of the ocean mesmerized the haggard Warrior. “Blood…” the echoes of the wind whispered behind him. “Warm…” the voice carried on. Slowly Warrior turned to look back at the peaks that had borne him from stone. Fourteen great peaks loomed behind, swallowed in the eternal ice storm. One, the largest and most central mountain that had once held the Everflame was shattered and split as if the snowcapped peak had been split from above as little more than kindling. Its side was rent from west to east; a vast vertical canyon that seemed to leave the whole mountain listing. But the Warrior saw not the mountain. He saw only the looming shapes and their bright yellow eyes. Fourteen shadows loomed in the storm, one shattered and broken with a massive tear in its chest were a heart might once had been. “Blood…” the voice carried on the pale wind. “Warm…” the hulking figures cried in unison. “Red…” the wind whistled futilely against the warmth below the stormline. “…peaks.” The fourteen monsters cried. But they made no move to leave the range of the storm. Intead they stood wailing and scattered in the valley at the edge of the snow. For a moment Warrior stared into those unknowable yellow eyes and for just that moment the whisper of his clan on the wind pulled him back towards the storm as if under some hypnotic spell. A hand grabbed his shoulder and snapped Warrior from the spell. He spun to see who had grabbed him; his body shuddering to life with new war rush. But no one was there. Save the fourteen shapes and the howling, whispering wind just beyond the edge of the snow. With great effort the Warrior pulled away from the storm; commanding legs that had nothing left to give. He marched down, leaving the Redpeaks behind as he disappeared into the forest south. And the name of Redpeak passed on, a haunted and cursed song that rings through the wind of the Blood Range Mountains; always blowing. Seeking to end those who would claim ruler ship over the stones as red as blood. A retelling of an ancient orcish myth, translated from Old Thran to the common tongue by Edrick Van Pike at the University of Arcane Might. As spoken by Burh of clan Thudnerstrike, eldest shaman of his clan.

Summary

A dramatic myth told verbally through the ages by the shamans and lore speakers of the thriband people, it denotes and refers to the folly of overconfidence, lack of faith, and the cost of such great hubris in the face of the gods and the natural world. Often misunderstood as simply a religious sermon to outsiders any orc lorekeeper or shaman would inform the listener that it came to them in a time before the gods cared of scriptures and rules and spoke of an ancient folly that befell them.

Historical Basis

Though the details of the myth vary from tribe to tribe it has, as far as cursory research shows reached almost every tribe of the thriband all over the planet including tribes who would have never been able to know of the place in question.　Also over the centuries members of the aforementioned clan have been known to pop up on occasion and burn bright in the history of the thriband spoken histories often as great tragic figures, Though if asked if any thriband clan had dared to take the peaks of the Blood Ridge again the answer is universally no.

Spread

Spread by lore speakers and shamans within the thriband tribes the myth is primarily told through the mouth of orcs and to the orc kin. Though when asked some goblin and kobold tribes had also heard stories of the Redpeaks and the risk of challenging the mountain though the greater allegorical implications are often lost on the small folk who worship their own deities and leave the orc gods to the orcs. Perhaps the most interesting part of the myth is its near universal spread through the empire of the thriband, for when questioned orcs from all across the planet can tell the tale or at least recall its warnings or key details. Such a universal spread is unheard of in most societies, especially where the myth seems to have its origin in the age of creation a time before great intercontinental travelling where the passing of information would have been much more difficult unless it was carried directly to the people by the gods but no evidence of that has been provided,

Variations & Mutation

The tale, though seemingly ubiquitous with the clansmanship of the orc could not be more varied. Each clans have their own telling and the most static detail is the location and the dark figures with yellow eyes. Beyond this the names and events that take place in the middle of the myth seem wildly interchangeable. Character names, genders and actions all seem to vary based on the individual clan and how each member of the clan leanred the myth themselves in their young days. When pressed many shaman and lore speakers will admit that the myth has changed from hand to hand as they strive to keep the tale relevant but also connecting to their clan; so a tribe with a chieftess instead of a chieftain might replace the main characters gender for female or something similar. Ultimately the stories end the same, with the slaughter of the clan and a single escapee who was shown to be loyal and devout but the variations of each clan are unique enough to stand out to scholars.

Cultural Reception

To the tribes of the southern and eastern reaches and the far off capital of the Ironband Empire the tale is often considered just that, a traditional ghost story meant to scare children to behave and to try and impart a respect or awe of nature to those who might be a bit to rash with the world around them. It is a tale used by shamans to grip the primal instincts of their young ones and guide them owards piety, humility and strength of character instead of just body. Alternatively, in the clans of the northern reaches of Warden and especially the tribes of Helfdome who still leavein the blood ranges and under the shadow of the mountains in the glacial planes across the shattered straight the myth is a codified history and warning. A guide to survival in a potential cruel and murderous land. In fact so great is the story respected that a festival is often held in the hotest days of the brief northern summer in which a feast is held and the story is told and reenacted by the tribes in great plays portrayed before the roaring 'everflame'. This holiday is often referred as Bludghross or Blood Dues in common.

In Literature

Not often do the orcs transcribe their histories to text instead preferring verbal retellings and strong oral traditions through out the generations of the clan. Though recently at the behest of the current emperor of the ironbrand, Graszkull the Vast this has become a more common practice, though translating Old Thren as the ancient orc language is referred to as to modern trade speech proves difficult even for the best of scholars. This particular myth was translated into the tradespeech seen here by one Edrick Van Pike a nobleman's son from Warden who was attending the University of Arcane Might in the city of D'amorand. Edrick worked with a Burh of Clan Thunderstrike, the clans head shaman to transcribe and translate the Thunderstrike's version of the myth which earned him several great accolades from the Grand Library whom with the permission of the shaman have begun to creating copy of the text to share across the faith. This has also caught the eye of the Emperor of the Ironbrand himself who has offered Edrick a lucrative deal as a myth and history transcriber if the human would consider relocating to the Empire's capital.

In Art

In the southern reaches the myth is little more than a frightening bedtime story but in the northern realms of the world much of the tribes of the thriband empire still vigorously and religiously follow the myth. Often great plays are done yearly in the tribes and reenactments of the myth take place to honor the story and cement its retelling, at these festivals great tapestries or paintings are often made by thriband who wish to offer their own tribute to the story but who had not been chosen as players to perform. But these great things often do not last as anything woven of fabric or put to paper is either destroyed in the fires as part of the celebration or used practically until almost all of the original art is lost. Some great art pieces survive on stone walls and on mighty boulders but often weather to be almost unperceivable in their original context.

Date of First Recording

Before the Birth of Marble (sometime in the first age)

Related Species

Related Organizations