Post by xv18 on Jun 14, 2007 12:24:38 GMT -5
Skrenn sat with his feet up against a small group of Gnoblars he was using as a footrest. A few squealed and bit eachother in a competition to support the Butcher's feet, but the Ogre was oblivious to the noise.
For, Skrenn was the beast of legend. Slaughtermaster of Bighearth tribe. The undying one.
An old Ogre myth claimed that during the Second Great Migration, when the Ogres first reached the Firemouth, a young Skrenn found a helmet in the rubble of a previous magma flow. Upon looking at it, the mountain erupted yet again, catching none but the single Butcher in its rampage. A holy stream, it was later called, for it burnt out the entire upper half of his face, but left the lower half unscathed, stopping at his lips, so the Ogre was still able to glorify his God.
Placing on the helmet to cover his features, he found it fitted him perfectly. Blessed against the maw's more damaging effects, and rendering him seemingly immortal, he and his tribe set up their tribe on the foothills of the Firemouth, merely a few miles from where the Great feast is now held.
In reality, most of this legend is untrue. THIS Skrenn is infact the 70th Skrenn in line. The head Butcher, Skrenn, when nearing death will summon the most prosperous apprentice to his hut, and blind, deafen and tear off the candidate's nose. The helmet is then transferred, and the candidate must learn to taste and 'see' with his tongue and mouth.
Naturally, only the Skrenn's know of this slight miscarriage of the truth. Even the members of Bighearth still believe they are seeing the original.
The current Tyrant of the tribe is one Strend Wallcrusher Bigmouth Hardnut Largegut Halfbrain. He accompanied his brother, the current Skrenn, on a pilgrimage to the maw. Apparentely pleased with his brother's devotion, and apparently seeing the Butcher's future, he gifted the would-be 70th in line with the ability to speak in the tongues of the other races, provided he consumed them. This was at the cost of a large portion of his brother's brain, turning the hulking mass into a drooling creature of muscle and bone.
This worked perfectly for the ambitious butcher. With a little help and a few favours, he elevated his brother to the position of Tyrant. Now, most are too scared to challenge the beast, and Skrenn, who has always puppeteered things, now rides at the forefront of his tribe, the leader mere bodyguard or formality.
Meanwhile....
Two bulls brought forward a screaming group of men. He hated the empire, but he needed the victuals. They always whined on so much. But, he was loved human cuisine.
The butcher loooked strangely directly at the two men, despite his lack of eyes. "You are the head chefs of the area, no? Cook your area's delicacy. If it is sufficiently satisfying, we spare your village's lives. Fair deal?"
The chef shook with fear. "Bulls! Give the man whatever he needs!"
"Please!" The man screamed. "How do you speak like that? You sound like a Tilean! It's perfect!"
"Well..." The Butcher grumbled. He hated giving away secrets to the thinlings. "Let's just say somebody's stew wasn't up to scratch, shall we?"
He turned to a group of Ironguts flanking his girth. "Grab my implements. Just in case it isn't good enough. I'm seeing some parsley and sage. Or maybe some of Inds Cajun spices... What do you think? Come on, let's have a look. Oh, and to drink. I was thinking wine... Maybe a nice dark red wine... Or a Merlot..." The beast grinned with unnatural intelligence and headed off to the supply train...
For, Skrenn was the beast of legend. Slaughtermaster of Bighearth tribe. The undying one.
An old Ogre myth claimed that during the Second Great Migration, when the Ogres first reached the Firemouth, a young Skrenn found a helmet in the rubble of a previous magma flow. Upon looking at it, the mountain erupted yet again, catching none but the single Butcher in its rampage. A holy stream, it was later called, for it burnt out the entire upper half of his face, but left the lower half unscathed, stopping at his lips, so the Ogre was still able to glorify his God.
Placing on the helmet to cover his features, he found it fitted him perfectly. Blessed against the maw's more damaging effects, and rendering him seemingly immortal, he and his tribe set up their tribe on the foothills of the Firemouth, merely a few miles from where the Great feast is now held.
In reality, most of this legend is untrue. THIS Skrenn is infact the 70th Skrenn in line. The head Butcher, Skrenn, when nearing death will summon the most prosperous apprentice to his hut, and blind, deafen and tear off the candidate's nose. The helmet is then transferred, and the candidate must learn to taste and 'see' with his tongue and mouth.
Naturally, only the Skrenn's know of this slight miscarriage of the truth. Even the members of Bighearth still believe they are seeing the original.
The current Tyrant of the tribe is one Strend Wallcrusher Bigmouth Hardnut Largegut Halfbrain. He accompanied his brother, the current Skrenn, on a pilgrimage to the maw. Apparentely pleased with his brother's devotion, and apparently seeing the Butcher's future, he gifted the would-be 70th in line with the ability to speak in the tongues of the other races, provided he consumed them. This was at the cost of a large portion of his brother's brain, turning the hulking mass into a drooling creature of muscle and bone.
This worked perfectly for the ambitious butcher. With a little help and a few favours, he elevated his brother to the position of Tyrant. Now, most are too scared to challenge the beast, and Skrenn, who has always puppeteered things, now rides at the forefront of his tribe, the leader mere bodyguard or formality.
Meanwhile....
Two bulls brought forward a screaming group of men. He hated the empire, but he needed the victuals. They always whined on so much. But, he was loved human cuisine.
The butcher loooked strangely directly at the two men, despite his lack of eyes. "You are the head chefs of the area, no? Cook your area's delicacy. If it is sufficiently satisfying, we spare your village's lives. Fair deal?"
The chef shook with fear. "Bulls! Give the man whatever he needs!"
"Please!" The man screamed. "How do you speak like that? You sound like a Tilean! It's perfect!"
"Well..." The Butcher grumbled. He hated giving away secrets to the thinlings. "Let's just say somebody's stew wasn't up to scratch, shall we?"
He turned to a group of Ironguts flanking his girth. "Grab my implements. Just in case it isn't good enough. I'm seeing some parsley and sage. Or maybe some of Inds Cajun spices... What do you think? Come on, let's have a look. Oh, and to drink. I was thinking wine... Maybe a nice dark red wine... Or a Merlot..." The beast grinned with unnatural intelligence and headed off to the supply train...
