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"Chieftain! All our warriors have arrived! When do we get to fightin'!?" Gruugash didn't even look at the orc who was speaking before a bellowing roar erupted from his mouth. It didn't take long for the rest of the orcs to follow suite, their collective war cries seemed to shake the earth itself, birds taking flight from nearby trees, and all sorts of creatures running from what was soon to be a bloody battlefield. Once the orcish roar had finally dissipated, the trolls from the other side bellowed out their own call for blood. Once this was done, the two sides began to advance towards each other, and Gruugash immediately began looking for the trolls’ chieftain.

Once the two forces were only separated by around 150 yards, Gruugash had his warriors extinguish their torches. When every flame was out, Gruugash began walking forward on his own, bashing his axe against his shield as he did. Behind him, a large majority of the orcs were doing the same, some letting out roars once again.

On the side of the trolls, their own chieftain grinned, his large iron teeth barred as he reached for his flail. Similar to the orc side, he walked forward alone, his warriors either stomping on the ground, or smashing it with their weapons.

When Gruugash finally saw his opponent, he couldn't help but grin. Gruugash was large among orcs, some considered him to almost be troll sized, however the troll chieftain must have been at least twice his size, and his weapon alone seemed about the same height as Gruugash, and each one of its spiked balls the size of his head. The part that really started his blood boiling was the fact that the troll seemed to have armored plates grafted into his very skin. Almost every inch from his head, to his feet seemed to be covered in a mix of iron, and patches of skin that seemed to regenerate over the metal. The only parts that seemed that the only unarmored parts appeared to be his joints, which were covered in what looked like tree bark.

When the two were close enough, they began to charge each other at full speed, Gruugash holding his axe to the side and his shield ahead, while the troll began swinging his flail overhead. Then once they were close enough, the troll suddenly changed the direction of his weapon and swung at Gruugash's side. The orc quickly moved his shield in the way of the weapon, but only two of the balls were lodged into his shield, the other reached around, and dug itself into his arm. Without even flinching, Gruugash quickly dropped the shield, and grabbed the chain of the ball which was still lodged in his arm, with a roar be began to pull, straining the chain as he did, and once he felt it was tight enough, he swung his axe at the chain, effectively severing it from the rest of his weapon.

The action received heavy cheers from the orcs’ side, and more of the deep bellowing from the troll side. However Gruugash didn't focus on this as he quickly pulled the ball from his arm, now wielding it in the hand his shield previously had been. Luckily when he had severed the chain, it caused his opponent to momentarily lose his footing, and while he tried to regain it, Gruugash began to swing the chain above him like a sling. Once the troll was standing once again, Gruugash released the chain, sending the weapon straight for his opponents face. The troll roared as the weapon made contact with his mouth, a large stream of blood now running out the side. However as soon as he had thrown the weapon, Gruugash charged forward, swinging his axe with all his might into the kneecap of his foe, and with a roar of pain, the troll chieftain toppled over as the lower half of his leg was severed away.

Once again taking the advantage while his opponent tried to right himself, Gruugash wrenched away his shield from the now tossed aside flail, and quickly stuck it where the leg had been severed, stopping the two parts from making contact.

The battle continued for a while in the same fashion, Gruugash parrying or dodging the blows of his enemy, while occasionally severing a limb at the joints. It took the troll a while to realize that he could not win against such a skilled foe, but once he had, he raised his head, uttering several grunts in his language which Gruugash had heard from the goblins to mean something along the lines of surrender. Immediately after this, Gruugash let out an enormous roar, part in victory, part in anger. While he was glad that he had won the entire trollish tribe in this single fight, he was slightly angry that he would walk away without a single skull for his "Pointy Stick" Regardless, he knew that if he were to remove the head from the troll, it probably wouldn't go over to well with the rest of the tribe, and for his plans, he would need all the warriors he could get.

Lithaelin moved quietly, keeping herself low to the ground and careful to tread lightly. Her full hand, as she liked to think of it, held the small weapon to her lips, ready to fire a poisonous needle at prey or threat.
The wind whistled through the trees differently here, she knew, at the southern edge of the dense forest. Once or twice a year, almost ritual-like, Lithaelin would trek to this foothold of familiarity and perch on a branch like a bird of prey, watching the open plains before her. This was a roadway of some sort, for many creatures ventured through it, some tastier than others. Occasionally humanoids (yes, she remembered humanoids, what that meant, that she was one, that something... something else was important, but if pressed to long, the memory would just slip away...) would travel in packs and herds, shepherding their young and valuables down the road that Lithaelin could not see from the forest. She knew it to be there, could hear the difference in footfalls, even that far away for the relative silence of her surroundings.
Lithaelin drew herself to the present and glanced around again, reassuring herself of the lack of threat. She held the blowgun between her teeth and scrambled up a large tree, begining her watch.

Username: T.CJester

Character Name: Igar BlazingForge

Race: Dwarf

Age: 110

Height: 4'9

Weight: Oh, about 250

Weapon: Multiple throwing hammers, with a large double bladed crescent axe.

Classification: Well, Fighter of course.

Appearance: Well, he's 4'9, as stated above. And that two hundred and fifty pounds isn't fat, thats for sure. As any dwarf, he has a deep red beard that reaches his calfs, that he normally wears tucked into his belt so he doesn't trip. He wears generic chain'n plate armor, and carries a sheild with the emblem of BlazingForge on it, an axe and an hammer crossing on a field of red and orange. The shield has many dents and nocks, Igar perfering to keep them in as a sign of veteranism. He has deep green eyes, and a wide nose. He has a few scars on the backs of his wide hands, as well as several on his main body and arms. He wears large, heavy boots that he has augmented himself, putting plates of steel on the toes, the plates first being riddled with nails. For the most part, if he says he's going to kick ye in the rump, don't stay around.

Bio: He grew up in the typical dwarven fashon, living underground in a mountainous keep. he learned to work a forge at around ten, got good at it at twelve, started mining for ores and gems a fifteen, and then found his passion for fighting at twenty when the Blazingforge hold was attacked by a group of idiot orks. Well, the orks were dispersed, and Igar, like all dwarves, loved the battle. He signed into the tunnel guards soon after, got reassigned to keep guard at twenty five, and got put into the main army as a captain at twenty seven. And now he leads his own group of rough-and-tumble dwarves into any trouble that may pop up. They call themselves the BlazingForge Hammers, seeing as the "fall" apon the enemies like a hammer. Dwarves and their metaphors.

And so, thats where we're at today. He is still a captain, likes being a captain, and has refused promotions to stations such as general. What can he say, he likes being "dwarf deep" in the fighting.

Breathing in the smokey air, Brakus moved into the main chamber of Mithril Hall. His dwarves, all whom were heavily tucking into morn meal, raised a hearty cheer for their leader. Nodding his head in acceptance, he moved to the meal line, getting a shield sized platefull of pancakes, bacon, and eggs, and moved on to get a tankard of foaming beer. Sitting among his people, he dug in, after recieving pats on the back and handshakes.

After the large morn meal, he trudged into the throne room, not at all happy with this part of the day. He would rather work the coalroom than sit here and read reports all day. Throwing himself into the large, gilded oak chair he called a throne, his adviser walked infront of him, motioned for two burly dwarves to drag a large oak desk infront of the throne, and threw a dwarf sized stack of papers onto it. "Well, you want the boreing stuff first or the good stuff first?" "Bah, its all boreing..." Brakus said sullenly. "Then we'll get on with the boreing stuff first. Well, the humans at Luthien want a increase in the steel we send their way..." It'll go on like this for a while, to let you all know.

(to save a post, I'll just put Igar's in with this one)

Igar and his boys moved through the hall and into the audience chamber of the BlazingForge hold. Gurkus BlazingForge, Igar's Greatgrandpappy, was seated in a throne made for comfort, not for intimidating people with its wealth and size. Igar and his thirty men stopped infront of it, waiting for the ancient dwarf to finish coughing. When the Gurkus stopped, Igar reached over and gave the old dwarf a gentle hug. "Welcome back, ye thick 'eaded excuse fer a dwarf!" Gurkus said in a raspy, old man's voice. "Dah, look 'oos talkin', ye gnarled old root! What de ye want me'n me boys for, anyway?" Igar steped back into his original position, under the looks of his men. Only family could do anything of the sort to old Gurkus. He may look old, but he can still throw his boot like any drill sergeant. Gurkus looked Igar up and down. "We've 'ad reports about a large group of orks messin' about in the area.." "Bah, orks, they'll kill themselves off before we" "Would you not interupt me, ye thick 'eaded lump o' iron!' Yelled old Gurkus, which promptly set him coughing again. Igar looked at the floor, shamefaced. "This particular groups bigger than normal, and by reports they're also smarter. Now, I don't want you to attack the damned things, just get to Mithril 'all and tell 'em about it. Once we get their hammers into the mix, we'll go take care of the orks. And 'oo knows, me'be by then they'll 'ave killed themselves off like ye said. I want yer group and two others te set of temarah, if ye can. I'll take two days if ye have to." Gurkus said after regaining control. "Nah, we'll be ready by tomarra. Any mind te which two?" Igar said. "Nah, ye kin pick. Ah trust ye judgment. Now, dismissed!" Igar and his boys went into attention, about faced, and marched out of the chamber. Each one of them had a smile on their face.

((It's cool, they are coming up for me in the next 2 weeks. The only reason I'm not having them next week is that we have had some crazy weather this year and have had school canceled about 5 times so far.))

Once the trolls were completely merged into the orcish ranks, Gruugash called a meeting with the head of every clan in his army, as well as the recently joined troll chief. As usual, soon all of Gruugash’s fellow chieftains arrived and each took their place around the large table that sat in the middle of Gruugash’s tent.

It wasn't long till one of the orcs stood up with a look of anger on his face. "Well Gruugash! Looks like we're all 'ere! Lets get this thing started, I didn't come 'ere so you could waste me time!" Gruugash turned to face to speaker with an expression of fury and irritation, "I think you should come over here and say that again maggot!" With a loud grunt, the orc sat down and stared at the table. After a few more minutes, another orc came through the tent flaps, although this one only reached up to Gruugash’s neck, he appeared more ferocious that most of the orcs there with his wild black hair and beard, and a face that slightly resembled that of a wolf.

"My apologies for the lateness oh great war chief, we had some promising candidates, one of ‘em nearly bit my arm off, great spirit if I don't say so myself...." The orc talked in extremely gravely voice which sounded almost like growling. Gruugash merely smiled at the orc and said, "I understand Wulf, but now that your here we can start the meeting. You gobs! Bring me that map!" With this, two goblins brought over a large map of Alzas and unravled it on the table.

"Now from what I get, the two cities, Jax and Atlan, directly south of here are controlled by goblins. I hear that these cities come complete with walls, docks, ships, towers, houses and the like. Now I could care less about the goblins themselves, but some of the gobs on our side say that they have a bunch of boats in the port. Now from what I figure, the humans get a great deal from the water, fish, whale parts, and errr….” One of the orcs raised his hand hopefully and said “Doesn’t they get water from the sea, chief?” Gruugash snarled at the orc as he continued, “I was about to say water, idiot! Of course they get water from the sea, where else they gonna get it?!” The orc nodded at this with a look of understanding on his face.

After cracking his neck slightly, Gruugash continued, “Anyways…. If we want to cut the pink-skins of from the sea, and attack them from the water, we’re gonna need boats, so to do that quicker, we’re gonna split the army in half!” This statement was met by several mutterings around the table and a loud belch from one of the goblins nearby. “Now this doesn’t mean we’re splitting up forever, we can just do more damage at a time if we go in two armies stead of one. So here’s how it is, my lads, Wulf’s riders, and the trolls will go to Jax, the rest of you lot will go to Atlan, once this is done, we take the ships and attack the pink-skinned port of Silf. You got that? Good! Now go back to your camps, we move once the sun hides behind the horizon!”

The rogue shoves the slim boat into the dark water, hopping behind a few little ones and starting to paddle with the older boy at the front. A soft breeze tousles Finch's curly hair, making her snicker as the cluster nears the coveted island. Within the deepening waters the rocky and sandy bottom can be seen along with dawdling fish. The current scene calms the young woman, easing her anxiety to find Hawk. Once the rowboat bumps into the island's shore, she and the children pile out of it, hauling it in earnest to a flat boulder and leaving it there. This is their fourth visit together since Finch is a busy rogue, also the children haven't been excused from their daily duties every time it was requested to go play. Her bear-claw boots make imprints in the sand that the children try to imitate by stepping in them like walking guides. As the group walks to the layer of dry grass connecting near the shore's sand, Finch keeps her head high as she begins to explain her plans as usual.
"To get here easier, I will build a tall bridge leading from Oltine's beach to this very shore. Once its strength has been assured I shall build a stable for Rothun, then lead her here so that she might become a mother.", now the bumbling group has entered a sparse lining of birch trees, "There shall be no created pathways, I want this place to keep it's wild facade. In the furthest corner of this tiny forest is where my cottage shall be built, along with an orchard of pear ad apple trees, and a garden of lilies."
She grins just thinking about her future home. For now the rogue gets down on her knees in some dirt, an old pile of twigs before her. She usually taught the children about living in the wild and today is their first fire lesson. Offered one of the boys' throwing blades, Finch keeps it in her left hand as she selects a fist-sized rock to strike it against, holding it low near the twigs.
"Make sure to move your blade away from yourself and towards a pile of dry debris..."
The children crowd after the first embers have been birthed, eager to try it themselves.

After showing the children how to fully extinguish the flames, the rogue shoos them back to the shore and shoves the boat back in the shallow water for everyone to hop in. Also getting inside she and one of the older kids paddle them back to Oltine’s beach. She bids the children farewell, leaving the rowboat and paddles on the shore. Finch wanders to the bar to find a fresh bear’s head already cleaned out on a towel on the counter with no Untas in sight. The sides of its lower jaws remained intact, along with the fangs of the mandible but the lower plating of the jaw had been carved out. It’s throat had been hacked away, but the fur of the ruff was kept so that when worn it would drape over the back of her neck for warmth and that desired barbaric fashion. A small belt had already been fastened into it, designed to go under her chin loosely, for the sake of keeping the helm on while moving quickly such as doing battle or riding on a mount. The empty eye sockets have already been filled with bits of oval coal. Smirking, Finch snatches her new helm and sneaks into the halflings' inn. She goes up to her unofficial room and puts on her ready armor, grabbing her empty saddlebags and old bear helm, including her short silver sword that is within its sheath on her bed. The note from Hawk had been moved into a saddlebag. Rushing downstairs she lunges out of the front door to charge into the outer valley of Oltine village, Rothun automatically stops grazing to trot to her rider. Finch curses since she had forgotten the tack. Setting down the helms and saddlebags, the rogue sighs and darts back into the village, veering in the stables to swipe up the saddle and reins. Her strong legs propel her outside to bound in the local keeping-meadow. She slows down as she equips Rothun, pulling the saddle's strap tight. The vast mare easily accepts the bit of the reins into her mouth. Finch attaches her old helm to her saddlebags to burn later as a sort of personal ritual. She then dons her new helm, it didn't smell too good, but nothing just killed ever did. A map is within her saddlebags but the rogue knows it'd be easy enough to find the group of nomads. With a crisp whistle she trots Rothun to the edge of the forest, only to be stopped by a few of the children.
"Finch, wait! You just got back..."
She hesitates and looks back with a soft smile, "Don't worry...I'm just going to find my brother, I'll be back before you know it. Just keep to your chores and don't throw things at each other! Namely those small blades I gave you boys. Take care, cubs."
Finch nods her head, making her helm's muzzle nod to them which produces a chuckle from the kids. The rogue does not want to delay any longer and turns Rothun sharply towards the east, swiftly launching the horse into a gallop. Hopefully she'd reach the eastern hills before sundown, it'd take at least two days to reach the camp, maybe three if the hills and mountains ahead prove hazardous.