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The ogre's ways of laws would be strange to those who would be able to get a chance to hear of them. Unfortunately, anyone who comes near the villages is killed. The laws, or rules, go as hence. There are ranks in the village, and to gain these ranks, you must kill the one holding the rank. But, you cannot kill anyone more than 2 ranks higher than you. You must first kill the lower ranks to go up into the higher ranks, and finally challenge the Chieftain. These rules are followed by every ogre who wants to live more than a few minutes of their lives. Oreen had been a Blood Guard, a high ranking individual in the ladder of ranks. Now, Grok had too been a high ranker before being shunned and exiled. He had been a Stone Guard, a rank below a Blood Guard.

To see where I'm going with this, is that the other ogres could not challenge him because of his high status. However, that did not stop the higher ranked to kill him on sight.

He had been thinking of these things as he entered the village, and encountered a close friend of his, a Centurion named Baldor. It seemed the sentries on the wall had warned him of his coming, because he had been standing there in the middle of the street, as if waiting for him.

"Ah, Grokivar. You return, hm? Too bad, now me kill you. You shouldn't have come."

"I have to see my father. Do not stand in my way, Baldor. Or you too will die."

"Me know you, Grokky. You no match for me." Baldor seemed to be done talking, as he charge Grok with his massive mace raised high, bringing it down swiftly. Grok jumped back, stumbling a bit. Baldor took the chance, again rushing him, swinging the mace in an arc, catching Grok in the side.

Grok, still off balance, went flying away, crashing into a solid wall. Slowly, leaning on his axe, he stood, and faced the direction Baldor had been. Taking his axe in both hands, he roared out a challenging shout, which was matched by Baldor's own. As one, they charged each other, the two great weapons clashing together. They grimaced as they fought for control, to gain the upper hand. Finally, Grok pushed away, this time swinging low to catch Baldor's leg. With a howl of rage, Baldor cursed to see blood running down his leg. His eyes flecking red, he shoulder checked Grok, catching the half-ogre off balance. He then swept his mace down low, sweeping Grok's legs out from beneath him.

Grok landed hard, the wind gasping out from him. He blinked up to see Baldor's mace coming down for his chest, and barely rolled out of the way. Struggling to his feet, bruises now showing over the cuts he had received from Oreen, he charged the surprised Baldor, opening a massive cut on his chest from a fast cleave. Baldor blinked, then the pain hit him. His eyes turned a deep red, and a ear-splitting howl erupted from him. However, he still stood, and more. Parrying Grok's next attack, he pushed Grok with his mace, sending him sliding back. Grok bared his teeth, a growl soon followed by a charge at Baldor. Too late, he saw that Baldor had already seen it coming, and was ready with a dizzying smash to the side of the face. Grok again went rolling away, head throbbing. He shook his head, and blinked a couple time. Seeing Baldor come rushing at him, his mind raced to think of what to do. An idea popped up, and he planted the two heads of his axe into the snow, and when Baldor was merely inches away, thrust upward with the spike at the end of his axe. It went clear through Baldor's stomach, and a gurgle Baldor slumped against it, chest heaving.

"You..you got better, Grokky. Me...sorry....to end friend like this. Me sorry..." Baldor gave a hollow rasp, and the dead body was pushed away by Grok. Unbidden tears sprang from the changed half-ogre. Was continuing on worth it? He hated to kill those who had been so close to him, even if they had left him for dead. With a resolute sigh, he turned towards the tall building that housed the Chieftain, his father. It was too late to change the past, and so he would continue on, to give a meaning to the ones he had killed. With a heavy heart, Centurion Grokivar Ragefury continued down the road he had set for himself.

Grok slowly blinked his eyes awake. They were bleary, and he couldn't see that well. As they became clearer, he noted that he could see a roof. Rolling over, he saw his clothes, and axe. Sitting up, he saw that he was in a room. His mind tried to grasp how he got here, but nothing came up. Then, steps could be heard coming towards a door in the room. Quickly grabbing his axe, he stood, ready to face anything that came through that door, clothes or not.

His jaw didn't seem to work anymore, for it was quite open. The woman didn't seem disturbed by the fact that he, too, was quite bare. Instead, she hugged him close.

"You're awake! Oh, I thought you were gone for good! Come, get your clothes on, and we'll talk more."

With a flustered nod, Grok began to dress. When he looked up again, she was dressed too. With a wave of her hand, she opened up a door, and walked into what looked like a kitchen. They sat down, and Grok cleared his throat.

"So, you save me? Why? Who you? Where I be? How I get here? How long I sleep?"

The woman, who now looked slightly familiar, just laughed, but nodded.

"Yes, I did. And it was close too, so many cuts! My name is Maren, and you've been asleep in my house for quite some weeks. The turmoil you made in the village has slightly gone down, thankfully. Now, you may be wondering why I even bothered to save you. Well, I'm your sister. Dad thinks you're dead, and I haven't said anything to him about you. You need to go! Now! I don't want to see you dead!"

Grok shook his head, trying to get all that in.

"I been asleep for weeks! I need to continue! Our father have much to answer for. I stronger now, but I no kill him. He need to see I not useless."

Maren sighed, but nodded.

"I was afraid you'd say that. Just so long as you promise that neither of you will die, I can't stop you. I cleaned your axe and clothes, by the way, so be sure not to get them all dirty again!"

Grok grinned, and stood.

"I promise. Thank you."

With a final hug, Grok left the building, after a few wrong turns. He was much closer to the Master House, and he made his way there. When he reached the door, he could see guards all the down the hallway. With a snarl, he barreled through them, tripping them with his axe, or just shoving them aside with his shoulders. When he finally entered the audience chamber, a huge round room, he was followed by at least twenty guards. Not to turn away from a fight, he turned and brandished his axe with both hands, vowing to take as many down with him as possible. When the guards looked like they were going to attack, a single voice came from the high throne chair.

"Stop."

The guards stopped immediately. With spits and curses, they turned and walked back, muttering to themselves. Seeing that no fight would happen, Grok turned around, to see the giant ogre had risen from his throne, and towered over him.

"Grokivar... I can't believe it. You were driven from this place, and run off like a scared dog. Now, you back. Why? You not wanted, not cared for, and despised. You were better off wherever you came from."

His teeth grinding, Grok cursed himself. Why had he wanted to come, anyway?

"Haldrek...father. I came, so you and village see me no weakling. I come to reclaim honor for myself, and orks. I will defeat you, to show that I am the better now."

Haldrek laughed, a deep, bellowing laugh. That just infuriated Grok even more.

"Listen, Grok, you no match. You were, and always will be, a weakling. Now, scurry off. Us real ogres are busy, we're planning on overrunning your mother's sorry tribe once and for all."

With a bellow of uncontrollable rage, Grok raced towards Haldrek, his axe swinging and cutting him badly across the chest before the other knew what was happening. Haldrek cried out, and his weapons became a blur. Cuts appeared all over Grok in no time, and with a final thrust, Grok was propelled backwards, blood running down his arms and chest. Panting, Grok's eyes turned a deep red, and his axe too glowed red. Feeling some strength return, he rushed his father, swinging his axe wildly, but they were parried and dodged easily. With another bellow, he headbutted Haldrek in the chest, causing him to stumble. With a swing, another deep cut appeared on Haldrek's chest. Haldrek's blades were now both a dark, eerie black. With a growl, Grok was again thrown back with even more cuts. Feeling himself start to slip into a berserk rage, he now saw through a hazy red curtain, and went wild. His axe was blur, and now it was his father that had to back up. A surprised face grew on Haldrek, and then a furious one. Planting his feet, he fought back against the wild rage, but was overwhelmed. With a cry, he flew back.

Grok, his rage now over, his arms weary, gave a triumphant grin. Then, his father stood up again, and he flung his weapons like spears, straight at Grok. He couldn't dodge, they came to fast. They pierced his shoulders, and he was driven back by the force of them. Then, just from exhaustion itself, he blacked out. His father, with a grim face, pulled out his weapons, and motioned to the guards outside.

"He has proven himself. Take him back to whence he came. I trust that you'll be able to trace his footsteps. Afterwards, join the army at the Ragefury village, and join in with the spoils."

The guards nodded as one, and dragged the limp body of Grokivar out of the room. Only then, could his father grin, then laugh. His son was now stronger than ever, and could perhaps come back next time, and beat him. Then they would have a strong leader on the throne yet again.

As he awoke, blurrily rubbing his eyes, the first thing he saw was an old ork woman peering down at him. With a yelp, he backed up. The old woman only smiled, then stood.

"Just like your father, red eyes and all. But I would know my own son, I should hope. Welcome home, Grokivar."

Grok was stunned. He had never really known his mother, having lived in Bloodhammer Village all his life. Now, this woman who Grok had never met, stood in front of him. With a joyful whoop, Grok jumped up and gave his mother a great bear hug. He stood taller than her, and all the other orks for that matter, but it didn't seem to be a problem with her.

"Now now, sit down." Said Grok's mother, "And let me hear why your all the way up here, with your father's army about half a day's march from here."

Grok eagerly nodded, and filled her in about his life at Bloodhammer Village, how he had been shunned, and finally how he had come back. Then, he told her why he had come back a second time. He described the dark blades, and there effect on him.

She nodded, and looked Grok straight in the eye. "Oh, I know his powers. They're deadly, and whomever now has the darkness will slowly die, no matter how powerful they may be at the healing arts. The only way to dispel it would be to break the blades themselves. Now, I know your father, and he won't allow anyone near them. The only way for you to be able to break them, would be to kill your father first."

Grok had been expecting that. No way would it be as easy as just saying a simple spell. But..fighting his father again? Was he up to it? Uncertainness showed clearly on his face. What if he couldn't do it? What would happen to Cera?

Grok shook such thoughts from his head. He had to win. There was no if, buts, or ors. It would be to the death then. Standing, he nodded. "No choice then. Me just have to kill. Haldrek will pay for what he do to Cera."

Thanking his mother, he left behind the ruined village. Grok's mother watched from the hill, wanting to tell him another part about the blades, but by now he was gone. With her head down, she returned to where her people had made some makeshift tents.

Grok, not looking back, made his way straight towards the massive army. He would finish this now, if he won or not.

Grok awoke some time later, followed shortly by a burst of pain. Crying aloud, Grok attempted to stand, only to find that he couldn't move his left arm. With a curse, he fell back against the tree. Pain...hurt...must...move. Grok's thoughts were muddled, but the pain remained as a reminder to what had happened, and to keep him from falling into sweet obliviousness.

Slowly, using the tree as leverage, Grok was able to stand. Gritting his teeth in pain, he slowly moved forward. He had no idea where he was going, but his feet moved by their own accord. He still had his axe, strapped to his back. His memories of the past few hours were a blur, and as he furiously tried to find them, his feet continued to move. The snow slowly got higher, and the numbing effect was welcome to his burned leg. Slowly, ever so slowly, the snow melted away, and now he traversed on roads, grass, it was all a blur. His mind was numb now, he didn't, couldn't, think. His feet were only shuffling now, and his eyes were fixed to the ground. They had a blank look on them, as if his mind had fled away from the amazing pain on his left side. Finally, he had to resort to using his axe as a walking stick.

But, slowly and surely, his feet never strayed from the path he had subconsciously set them. Now, his chest heaving, feet scuffed and bruised, and his entire left side burnt, he had arrived. The tower rose above him, but he could not make himself open up the door.

The axe urged him on, following what looked like a game trail. It was winding, and faded so that it disappeared at times. Grok continued moving forward. Only his mother would know how to fix his arm, if anyone. And so, it was near the middle of the night when he saw the warm glow of campfires. It seemed the entire village had come as one. As Grokivar entered the light, he saw that things had changed. Weapons were now visible, though unused and old. Men were on edge, children didn't play, and women often had red faces from crying often. All was quiet. Grok moved silently around them until he found who he had been searching for. She hugged him silently, then motioned to follow her.

Once they were out of sight of the campfire, she finally spoke. "I had feared that this would happen..oh, my son, how you must hurt!" Grok shrugged. "I have come to terms with it, but would be much happier if it were fixable."
"Oh, but it is! However..." She trailed off, as though not wanting to go on. Grok waited patiently. "However, it is very dangerous! To completely heal it, we must call out the Orken Gods. They are not ones to sympathy, and will want to test you."
"Then let them." Grok was final, and sure of himself. "Let them come, and we shall see if I am worthy of my arm."

His mother nodded once, then knelt. She scraped patterns into the hillside, then lifted her hands up in begging. At first, nothing was visible. Then, finally, a dark light coalesced itself in front of them. From that light, 5 great orks manifested themselves. They were head and shoulders taller than Grok, who was at least a head taller than the tallest ork. Looking to his mother, the image of the gods uttered in the guttural orken language. "And who is this, who would call to the gods in need?"
"I am not the one who is in need, rather, it is my son who has need of your arts."
The gods turned, and seemed to finally notice Grok. With a bellow of rage, they shook their heads. "This no true ork! We no help half orken! Begone, foul scum, and never disturb us again!"
This, Grok would not take. With a step forward, he brandished his stump of an arm. "I may not be true blood, but I almost die for orks! You now repay me! I lose arm while helping, you restore it so make even!"
The gods seemed to consider this, until one of them stepped forward. He would later learn this was was Frik, god of war.
"Very well, but first we test you to see if you really deserve it back!"

Ahead of him, he could see what looked like a vast shadow that literally covered the landscape. As he neared, he could see that it was instead made up of tiny men, each holding a spear and shield. A great cry, well, tiny to Grok, arose from the minuscule men as they charged forward at Grok. With a grunt of surprise, Grok had unstrapped his axe, and beheaded the first 6 that came to him. They were about knee height to him, and he made good use of that fact, often sending one or two flying with a well placed kick. There were just so many of them! If he took one down, two or even three more arose to take it's place. Grok had to grudgingly give ground, but not without a terrible price to the massive, but weak, army that stood before him. Soon, he began to build a wall around him of dead and hurt bodies, and the flood began to slow instead into a trickle. He was tired, his chest heaving mightily, his arms and legs cut in dozens of places, and yet still he stood. A head popped up from the mound, and his axe flashed. The thing shrieked, it's face now sheared off. Another rose to take it's place, only to go falling back without it's legs. Two had crept up behind, and no sooner had they poked their sharpened sticks into his legs than they were sent flying by a fast kick to the head. And yet still they came. Finally, as his legs failed him and his arms refused to lift the heavy axe, did they stop. A great keen came from them, and they fled. Too tired to think of why they had stopped, he lay down among the dead and dieing, and soon fell into a black and dreamless sleep.

Grok stumbled along, unsure of which way his legs were taking him, but not caring either. He was exhausted beyond belief, hungry to the point of starvation, and so thirsty that his tongue refused to wet itself. Then, as if by magic, a table materialized ahead of him. It was covered with breads, meat, and sweet, sweet ale. Afraid to even believe his eyes, he rubbed them continuously as he reached the majestic table. His stomach gave an enormous rumble, as though awakened just by the smell of it all. Breads of many kinds, sourdough, multi-grained, sweetened with what seemed like honey, and so many others. Meats piled atop each other, made from animals that he could recognize, others he could not. And the drinks! Ale was a plenty, although water and what seemed like milk was not far away. His mouth again watered at the sight before him, and a tentative hand reached towards one savory looking sausage. Then, he mentally stopped himself. This was yet again a test. But, wasn't it worth losing to this? Almost hurtfully, he teared his eyes away from the sight before him and continued his trek. As he looked back, he saw not the table, but instead a dung pile. Almost laughing from relief, he felt slightly restored as he again walked the test.

Finally, after what seemed like the entire day, he thought he saw the end of this damned test. He entered into a large room, and the door behind him clanged shut with stiff iron bars. Slowly, he made his way across the room, where the light still shone. At about the mid way mark, things began to happen. Rain fell, the earth shook, and lava burst from the ground. Visions swam across his vision, of lustful women, and savory foods. Closing his eyes, he felt the patter of rain hit the ground, the lava cooling, and the earth moving. Then, he heard steps. Not of one person, but of many feet. Risking to open his eyes, he still saw the visions. Not trusting himself, he again closed them. Freaks of nature slowly shambled toward him, beings made of rock, soil, or mud came. From fire, lava, and steam that would burn, too came. Also, beings of water rose, from pure blue to an almost sludgy brown they rose. They moved as one, encircling Grok as he heard them come. Swiftly, he swung his axe, and heard it hit wetness, which quickly became a puddle. He swung again, as he heard a step behind him. It struck wood, and continue through as the being fell, not just logs. Still they circled, and again and again Grok swung, his axe the only defense against these creatures. All too soon, he was slipping on the treacherous muddy earth, burns covered his arms, and still his eyes would not work for him. Too late, he realized that the gods did not want him to win this test. Too late, he realized that he would not get out alive of this room. And that made him angry. With his last remaining strength, he felt heat run throughout his body, and his eyes flashed open, fully red from berzerk. With a great roar that shook the earth that so wanted to see him dead, Grok began to cut down the masses. Now, instead of just staying put, he moved, cutting large holes into the mass. He was an army now, unstoppable. Nothing effected him but his rage, and soon the beings were none more, turned again into what their components.

Grok felt dizzy, his eyes saw everything through a thick vale of red, but he was weakening. The vale began to lift, and then all was black. He had spent the last remaining essence of his strength, and life, into that last attack. He now lay cold among the many things that littered the ground around him.

Watching from above, the ork gods nodded to themselves. He had come close, too close. But, now once again was their race pure. They had felt his life pass this place, and went away to tell his mother of his passing.

The half ogre tore off another bite out of the leg, eating heartily in the silence of the Lunar Hope. It was early morning, and Grokivar had woken refreshed and alive. The silence was friendly, almost fulfilling in itself. Finishing off the leg he had been chewing on, Grokivar allowed himself to relax and soak in the good feelings. Then, just as suddenly, the silence turned hard, and with a flash of black the bound book Grokivar carried with him disappeared.
"No!"Was all Grokivar was able to say before he disappeared from the Lunar Hope, the nearly finished leg of meat looking quite odd all by itself.

Vast pillars stretching into darkness met the blinking red eyes of Grokivar. Standing slowly, he cradled his head, and looked about the giant game of chess once again.

"Well met, Grokivar Ragefury. The time has come for your final battle. Fight well, for it will be your last." The Lady of Death spoke, in quiet but forceful words. And then he was gone.

It was a bright sunny morning, and the hill where Grokivar now found himself on was covered with lush, green grass. Uneasily grabbing his axe from his back, Grokivar awaited might come to him. He did not have to wait long. Suddenly, all about him were the orkish gods, yelling and shouting in surprise and anger.
"You were dead, half breed! We killed you!"
"No, you did not. Now, you shall die for trying to kill me."Grokivar replied to there accusations and curses. With a great cry, Grokivar attacked with ferocity at the one in front of him, his axe glowing a deep, hating red. Almost surprisingly, it cut him. Frik, the god of war, looked even more surprised at the red stain it left on him. He did not bleed, but instead was from Grokivar's axe.

With a great roar of rage, the other gods convulsed upon the half ork. Grokivar spun and parried, his axe a blur of red as he cut great wounds into the orkish gods who had killed him. They attacked him in equal, though. Great burns covered his body, wounds festering, his stomach was in a great deal of pain, and his eyes were of no use to him. Instead, he relied upon his hearing and feelings outward. The bloodshed continued well into noon, when one of the gods fell, great rends in his body finally sending him into a great sleep. Grokivar knew he could not simply kill them, but he would make them remember his name. Oh, they would remember it. And fear it.

As the sun started it's descent along the sky, Grokivar had exerted himself well past whatever he had previously. One arm hung useless, blood pouring out of it, bones broken in many places. He stood only from sheer will, and could not walk. Many broken ribs and a punctured lung made his breathing come in great, painful gasps. Though he hurt, he knew that the gods did too. Unused to pain, and unused to actual work, the gods had equal or greater injuries to Grokivars. But, they still beat him in numbers, three to one. Another had fallen just recently, and Grokivar knew that he had won a small victory.

Again, he raised his axe with a shaky arm, and once again attacked. The fight continued, neither side ready to give up. Then, the unthinkable happened. Frik, the god of war, had created a shield previously, and used this to both block and smash Grokivar. As Grokivar swung his trusty axe, Frik raised his shield, and was shocked, but not as much as Grokivar, when both shattered. Grokivar stood, his last remaining fight draining from him as he stared at the remnants of his axe. He nearly wept, so great was he broken. The gods, knowing that the fight was gone, began to prepare the final strike to end this.

Grokivar...I am still here. Do not give up hope, for now you and me are complete. None may stand against us now, so lift your shoulders, and let them know just how strong we really are!

As the blows came, Grokivar stood strong against them, his eyes blazing red, almost glowing. A veil of red had appeared before his eyes, and his nails were now the shards of his axe. Giving an evil, devilish smile to them, Grokivar attacked. The gods had no idea what came, then. Later, all they would remember would be pain, and a deep, primal...fear. They now feared this being, who challenged gods, and had beaten them. Grokivar stood at last, the five gods of the orks lying beaten about him. Then, with a great, shuddering sigh, Grokivar fell.