A cousin came calling at the edge of my hole to tell
me of a fascinating land where sun and moon defied
the laws of nature. Where the light shone from high
mountain peaks, reflecting the moon's reflection of
the sun burning another land far away.
He claimed night drew in early in the day as the sun
fell prey to the mighty Redhorn. He claimed day pierced
him in the dead of night as the moon blistered the land.
It was time for me to set out again.
My many friends seem to have gone away to the wars in the
west, leaving me no choice but to travel alone. I had
fought in the Breeland wars, and the skirmishes around
Rivendell, but so many years have passed that I was not
conditioned to the difficult life of combat. And so I
packed my things, longing for the days when draughts were
abundant.
I do remember when Gruksh could afford to find his own
ingredients and sold the clay flasks at a fair price. Of
course many things have changed since my travels far south:
We had warrens in the meadows below the misties. Now we must
travel for days to the rim of Redhorn itself. A horrid
climb, and a bane if whitescum show up to challenge Gumak.
I travelled west and turned south at the banks of the
Bruinen River as it turns towards Rivendell. The elves
have made it hard to cross the old bridge by building a stone
wall that forces orcs to wander the bogs and moors.
The rope bridge has changed some. It seems the ropes have
been replaced, as have the wooden slats across the Bruinen.
Still I found some comfort in the familiar terrain along
the old cobblestoned road winding south along those
desolate plains. An old tribe of orcs still offer wargs
to weary travellers free of charge if you can find one
in the pens.
The valleys and meadows at the edge of Redhorn still seem
to be good for hunting food
the deer seem as docile as
ever, but without warning an old sow came barreling at
me knocking me to my feet. The boar tusk snapped under
my weight as fell upon the brazen creature.
Boar meat takes like elf-dung. (Please, don't ask me how
I know. It's was an old initiation thing I'm still trying
to forget).
After negotiations the the winding edges of the misties,
I slashed my way through some thornbushes to find an
old cottage along a creek. I had heard of the Troll who
lives there, but I was quite surprised to learn what I
had heard was more than true.
The story goes like this:
An forelorn orc stopped for a night to get warm byt the
fire in the troll's home. It's a misconception that
orcs LIKE winter. In fact, they HATE it, but it's the
only time travelling is wise. They hate the sun even more.
This orc (his name was gha (with a silent "a")) cozied up
and sleot through the night. He wasn't familiar with
the culture of the Trolls, and wasn't aware that trolls
like to sleep in bundles... together. He was quite
surprised the next morning to wake up coughing a spitting
Troll-dung all over the room. It's a costly mistake to
forget that Trolls don't feel the need to excrete outside
their home. In fact, they prefer to mark their territory
in this way.
You've heard, I'm sure of the legendary Khuzur? Well, why
else do you think he needs to carry that majestic shovel?
He's gotta shovel out the crap somehow!
- Imp the curious orc
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