Stratagem - White Harbor
Posted: Sun Apr 14, 2013 11:41 am
In any pinch there is one thing every expert strategist wishes to have immediately on hand. Whether it is assailing an impregnable fortress, surviving a life or death gladiatorial match, or leading an assault on an orc fort that is located precariously close to the peaceful farm and lumber village of Yew, there is but one rule: Get yourself a Spaniard if at all possible. The common misconception, and a terrible mistake to make when dealing with a Spaniard, is to assume that they often take the deadliest tasks because they are dim-witted and expendable; this is the mistake that is only made by the most dim-witted of strategists. There are three very specific reasons a Spaniard is a favored choice: Their skill with metal is unmatched, they will defend their loyalty until their last breath, and their vengeance if incurred will carry even beyond death. While it is true Spaniards may not all be educated in the traditional sense, they are born with an innate perception of men’s true intentions. If you carelessly assign them suicide missions without having rightly earned their loyalty you could instead incur their vengeance. The only trouble is that the stories in which Spaniards appear are usually so fantastical that there is an air of disbelief that typically follows them.
This is personal account and record one of these fantastical stories. And Thork Akelorn was just such a Spaniard.
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Reaching the southernmost boundary of Yew, Turbo was still trying to finalize the details of his assault strategy. So far, all he had worked out was: reach the fort and don’t die. True, it wasn’t much of a plan, but then the urgency of the matter had barely afforded him enough time to ensure his blade was sharpened. And of all the citizens of Yew, found only one very brave, but very inept farmwoman who volunteered to journey with him; and the only reason Laura agreed to come is because he’d agreed to escort her to Nu’Jelm.
With each step further into the forest his hopes for returning alive diminished. “If only I had found a Spaniard!” He thought out loud. As if in mock reply to his plea, the bramble spat out a “man”-ish figure, clothed only in ragged robes and a grotesque helmet with gnarled horns. Within an instant Turbo’s blade was unsheathed and flashed towards what he certain was some orcish abomination, but with even greater speed his thrust was parried earth-ward embedding his blade so deep in the topsoil he could barely manage to retract it in time to deflect the slash that followed almost as a reflex. Turbo and the stranger danced for a moment, when to his surprise the opponent did something very un-orcsodox; he lifted his blade in a gesture of truce. “Mi nombre es Thork Akelorn. Soy de España.” Turbo understood only one crucial word from the man’s foreign tongue: A Spaniard! Turbo mimicked the gesture with his own blade and he knew his quest was destined to succeed from this moment on.
The English he spoke was mangled, but it was infinitely more tolerable than the atrocious sound that orcs made when uttering anything. And, although his English was slow and struggled when speaking, Thork understood English well enough to comprehend Turbo’s revised strategy: kill as many orcs as you can and don’t die. True, the basic components of his strategy hadn’t changed much, but he now had the crucial element which had been lacking.
Upon reaching the fort embattlements it was crucial that they eliminate the advance orc scouts. Buurz’ark was quickly dispatched but not before he alerted a wild mage orc and a captive two headed giant. Fortunately they were able to dispatch this advance party with little enough sound to still hope the entire fort hadn’t been alerted.
As they approached the entrance there was no sign of activity. Thinking their job was done, Thork and Turbo turned to make their way back to Yew when suddenly bolts of fire and lighting flashed. Turbo stumbled backwards flailing his arms. His body had not yet had time to send his brain the message of severe pain that would be following; he quickly opened his yellow juice and swallowed. There would be time enough to feel pain later.
Like a shark sensing blood in the water, Klogoth’wuz focused all his fury on Turbo; which was more or less according to Turbo’s plan. As he finished tying the last bandage Turbo turned to face the orc zealot and feigned weakness like a wounded bird. He took a knee and looked straight into the face of the most ferocious eyes he’d ever seen – the pupils and entire eye were a dark, glossy black. Klogoth’wuz licked his chops as he closed the distance. Spouting curses in preparation to launch his final attacks. Then, just as the wretched orc raised his hand to unleash the sparks, Thork flew out from behind the trees and thrust his blade right at the base of his neck and shoulder. At first it looked like he had missed completely. Turbo’s heart sunk, perhaps the tales of their ability were not as true as he had been lead to believe. But then Klogoth’s look suddenly turned from one of frenzied blood lust to sheer panic. The Spaniard had done it! He had waited for precisely the right moment when all of the power and aura of the unholy magic was convened within the orc’s body. His thrust had not missed at all, but had severed the connection to his cerebral cortex and the rest of his body; the wretch now had no means to release the energy he had pent up. His body began to convulse violently. Thork looked at Turbo and made a clear motion to duck. Klogoth’wuz gave one final battle cry, “URRGAAAGH!” and this body erupted and exploded in all directions.
Not waiting for the rest of the fort to investigate the commotion, Turbo looked to Thork, “Go, take the King’s road to Britania and tell the Lord British of the power the orcs wield here!” Klogoth’s power was beyond what any of the previous accounts had affirmed. Turbo wasn't going to hold out hope that the King would do anything, but perhaps if the King learned just how powerful these orcs were he might send reinforcements sooner rather than never. Turbo would have liked to deliver the news in person, but for now, he had to find Laura, who had disappeared in the fray.
This is personal account and record one of these fantastical stories. And Thork Akelorn was just such a Spaniard.
********************************************************
********************************************************
Reaching the southernmost boundary of Yew, Turbo was still trying to finalize the details of his assault strategy. So far, all he had worked out was: reach the fort and don’t die. True, it wasn’t much of a plan, but then the urgency of the matter had barely afforded him enough time to ensure his blade was sharpened. And of all the citizens of Yew, found only one very brave, but very inept farmwoman who volunteered to journey with him; and the only reason Laura agreed to come is because he’d agreed to escort her to Nu’Jelm.
With each step further into the forest his hopes for returning alive diminished. “If only I had found a Spaniard!” He thought out loud. As if in mock reply to his plea, the bramble spat out a “man”-ish figure, clothed only in ragged robes and a grotesque helmet with gnarled horns. Within an instant Turbo’s blade was unsheathed and flashed towards what he certain was some orcish abomination, but with even greater speed his thrust was parried earth-ward embedding his blade so deep in the topsoil he could barely manage to retract it in time to deflect the slash that followed almost as a reflex. Turbo and the stranger danced for a moment, when to his surprise the opponent did something very un-orcsodox; he lifted his blade in a gesture of truce. “Mi nombre es Thork Akelorn. Soy de España.” Turbo understood only one crucial word from the man’s foreign tongue: A Spaniard! Turbo mimicked the gesture with his own blade and he knew his quest was destined to succeed from this moment on.
The English he spoke was mangled, but it was infinitely more tolerable than the atrocious sound that orcs made when uttering anything. And, although his English was slow and struggled when speaking, Thork understood English well enough to comprehend Turbo’s revised strategy: kill as many orcs as you can and don’t die. True, the basic components of his strategy hadn’t changed much, but he now had the crucial element which had been lacking.
Upon reaching the fort embattlements it was crucial that they eliminate the advance orc scouts. Buurz’ark was quickly dispatched but not before he alerted a wild mage orc and a captive two headed giant. Fortunately they were able to dispatch this advance party with little enough sound to still hope the entire fort hadn’t been alerted.
As they approached the entrance there was no sign of activity. Thinking their job was done, Thork and Turbo turned to make their way back to Yew when suddenly bolts of fire and lighting flashed. Turbo stumbled backwards flailing his arms. His body had not yet had time to send his brain the message of severe pain that would be following; he quickly opened his yellow juice and swallowed. There would be time enough to feel pain later.
Like a shark sensing blood in the water, Klogoth’wuz focused all his fury on Turbo; which was more or less according to Turbo’s plan. As he finished tying the last bandage Turbo turned to face the orc zealot and feigned weakness like a wounded bird. He took a knee and looked straight into the face of the most ferocious eyes he’d ever seen – the pupils and entire eye were a dark, glossy black. Klogoth’wuz licked his chops as he closed the distance. Spouting curses in preparation to launch his final attacks. Then, just as the wretched orc raised his hand to unleash the sparks, Thork flew out from behind the trees and thrust his blade right at the base of his neck and shoulder. At first it looked like he had missed completely. Turbo’s heart sunk, perhaps the tales of their ability were not as true as he had been lead to believe. But then Klogoth’s look suddenly turned from one of frenzied blood lust to sheer panic. The Spaniard had done it! He had waited for precisely the right moment when all of the power and aura of the unholy magic was convened within the orc’s body. His thrust had not missed at all, but had severed the connection to his cerebral cortex and the rest of his body; the wretch now had no means to release the energy he had pent up. His body began to convulse violently. Thork looked at Turbo and made a clear motion to duck. Klogoth’wuz gave one final battle cry, “URRGAAAGH!” and this body erupted and exploded in all directions.
Not waiting for the rest of the fort to investigate the commotion, Turbo looked to Thork, “Go, take the King’s road to Britania and tell the Lord British of the power the orcs wield here!” Klogoth’s power was beyond what any of the previous accounts had affirmed. Turbo wasn't going to hold out hope that the King would do anything, but perhaps if the King learned just how powerful these orcs were he might send reinforcements sooner rather than never. Turbo would have liked to deliver the news in person, but for now, he had to find Laura, who had disappeared in the fray.