Saturday, July 26, 2008

T'was a dark and stormy night in the Mountains of Mourn

Wind thrashing against his face, and the rain pouring down making visibility terrible, the lone pilgrim walked out to the ledge, and stared down into the Ravine.

However, this pilgrim was not a religious hermit (not per se anyway), for instead of a wizened scholar, he was a filthy, blood-stained brute. Standing over seven-feet tall, and wearing a bloodied apron, he carried a large sickle-like butcher's knife. Turokk the Fanatically Blood-obsessed looked out towards the vale. He was almost home. Things had gone badly for the Tribe of Two Shoulders, having lost two champions in the mighty Arena of Death, and he had been dispatched to seek some form of enlightenment and hopefully appease the Great Maw.

He carried with him, a yhettee scalp. Resembling the depiction of the legendary Kuggrott, the mighty hunter renowned for the avalanche he triggered, saving the tribe and destroying untold orcs in the process. This was carried in a blood-stained segment of blue cloth, and Turokk took this to be some sign of potential salvation, and was now headed home to rejoin his tribe.

Enduring the freezing conditions, he soldiered on. Bringing his servant gnoblars into heel- most of which had died on the journey- he trudged across the ledge. Tomorrow he would reach the vale, and reveal his findings to the tribe.

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