Freedom at Last:
Warning: This snippet explores a character who's been a slave his whole life. This might be an uncomfortable topic to dive into without forewarning.
2486 IC
Grimgor Ironhide was angry. He always was. It was simply a fact of life. The surprising thing, however, was that the Black Orc had recently found something out about himself.
He was tired of being angry. It was tiring, exhausting even. Fighting was supposed to excite him, pump his blood and get his heart beating. All he felt was rage, and not the hot, burning, exciting kind. It was the dull, cold anger of an Orc who was battered, beaten and terribly exhausted.
His body was going through the motions. Duck left, swing right, lean head down, parry left, turn to the side, present your back to the wall, cleave down. He wasn't feeling it. Even now, his mind wandered, as it tended to do as of late. There was no need to pay attention, he was killing rats. His axe, Gitsnik, cleaved through them like air, and none of the hits that struck him could even penetrate deeply enough to touch his coveted Ironhide. Such was the strength of his Blood Forged Armor. Even the heavily armored gits weren't much of a challenge.
Grimgor no longer heard the voice of Gork, or possibly Mork, inside his head. He hadn't, not in a few years. Time seemed to blur, the days passing by in a haze of anger, combat and blood. If he had a choice, then perhaps he would have been satisfied, but he wasn't. He never had a choice.
Choice, what an odd concept. He knew of it, in an abstract concept, but he had never experienced it. What did he know of choice? He was born a slave. He lived his life serving his "masters" the Dawi Zharr. Every fight he was involved in, every meal he ate, every time he slept in a filthy matted straw cot, the equipment he held and used. Everything reminded him of one thing. That none of it belonged to him. Even his birth, his very existence, was caused by them. None of it was his.
Grimgor had long ago learnt that the only choice he ever had was to refuse. That didn't go well, so he hadn't done so for more than a decade ever since he had seen one of his brothers killed for "sedition".
Even now, he was fighting and killing rats because his masters told him to. He was reminded of that every time he felt the bite of the collar around his neck. Not even the death of his enemies at his own hands, their blood splattering over his axe and armor, could satisfy him anymore. It hadn't satisfied him since he lost the voice of his Gods in his head. He had thought he had attracted the attention of Gork (or possibly Mork), and that they would set him free, but it seems he was foolish to think so.
He couldn't rely on them. You couldn't trust others to give you your freedom. If you wanted it, you would have to get it yourself.
This is why Grimgor's mind wandered. He knew this was his chance. A few of his brothers, the group he dubbed "Da Immortulz", were fighting alongside him within this cavern system. These rat hideouts belonged to Clan Moulder, and the Dawi Zharr had pushed him and his brethren to fight for them, taking advantage of some sort of distraction that diverted the rats' forces. But the garrison that was stationed here was more powerful than the Dwarves predicted, so they had deployed the reserve forces, his "loyal" Black Orc squadron. The Dawi Zhar were few, so they could not afford to expend many of their troops. This is why they used Hobgoblins and Black Orcs, with a few Sorceror handlers to maintain the magical equipment that kept them in check.
They had split their forces to deal with the many different squads of rats within this warren. The result of this was that Grimgor and four of his brothers were deployed to handle dozens of rats with only a single Sorceror and a few Hobgoblins to keep them in check. There was never a better chance to strike.
Those were his thoughts as he cut down the last of the rats within this holdout, Gitsnik biting down through the shoulder and splitting the rodent from head to toe.
"Good. Now form up and join me, we're going back to the others." The foolish Dwarf Sorceror thought to order him.
Grimgor's response was to lift his axe onto his shoulder and look at him.
"Waagh" were the only words to come out of his mouth. It wasn't the belligerent battlecry that the Orcs would often cry out in battle. There was no screaming, simply a seething anticipation and a quietness that belied the utter rage behind the words. It was all that was needed to signal Da Immortulz to action, and he punctuated the statement with his own actions.
It took roughly half a second for Grimgor to cross the relatively short distance between the stuntie and him. It took less than that to cleave his head off his shoulders.
It took almost a decade of feigned loyalty to get this axe, and he couldn't be happier with it.
Grimgor wasn't the only one to move, his brothers acted swiftly, albeit not quite as quick as he did, to take down the puny skinnies accompanying the stunty. Grimgor joined them, and it took barely a minute to clear them out.
Grimgor took note of the collar on his neck growing warmer and squeezing tighter, the emergency mechanism activating. It would constrict his neck, focusing on blocking his blood vessels to deprive him of oxygen to his brain. He didn't know that much of course, but he knew how long it would take him to get knocked out. Three minutes, and all the other Sorcerors in the area would know he betrayed them.
'Three minuteses is enuff.'
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Ghakur Bullbinder, the High Sorceror in charge of the assault on the Sixth Combe, could not be more satisfied with his progress. The Skaven were being pushed back and losing every stage of the battle due to his tactics, and he could only imagine the glory and riches he would enjoy as a result. He delighted over the idea of rubbing his victory on Ghazarr Demonhoof's face. That dumb Bull Centaur took on the easier job expecting to receive guaranteed glory, but Ghakur knew that the more difficult assault was always more rewarding. You simply had to take risks.
Ghakur's enjoyment was cut short, however, when he felt the bindings on a few of the Black Orcs in Sector 6 activate. His growing grin soured near instantly, turning into a bitter scowl that would frighten the most stalwart Fire Dwarf.
'That can't be right. I made sure to triple check every candidate on the reserve force for loyalty. Every single one proved themselves capable of the utmost degree of loyalty expected of our troops.' Ghakur fumed within his mind.
Ghakur didn't have much of an opportunity to consider reforming his troops for a countermeasure before he could feel more than see a force of Black Orcs turning around the corner and charging straight at his personal bodyguard. He could barely contain his astonishment at the sheer speed of their charge that they could move from Sector 6 to his command camp before he was bowled over with notifications from nearly every sector containing Black Orcs in his forces, indicating mass betrayal.
"Form up maggots! Shield wall, left, on the double!" Ghakur bellowed to his troops, forming his bodyguard into an impenetrable barrier to receive the expected Black Orc charge. Ghakur quickly cast a defensive incantation to create a barrier surrounding himself, then cast the Breath of Hatred on his troops to strengthen them. His next step was to prepare to cast Burning Wrath. The spell's range was short, but it was powerful enough to bowl the strongest of enemies.
It was then that Ghakur noticed that his initial guess that it was a force of Black Orcs charging was inaccurate. It all happened so fast that he couldn't accurately discern numbers. There was only one Black Orc charging out of the darkness and into the battleline of his bodyguards. Ghakur felt something he hadn't felt in a long time: Fear.
The Black Orc charged his way past the enhanced body line of the heavily armored Fire Dwarf bodyguards, bowling over the highly trained warriors like they were chaff. What scared him most of all is that the Orc wasn't screaming or shouting. Aside from the occasional grunt and growl, he made next to no sound that wasn't the shrill wails of his weapon swinging across the air and slicing through the shields and armor of the stout line of Dwarves. The Orc looked him in the eyes, and he felt his impending doom.
Ghakur had been holding back his spell, expecting the Orc to be held down and cornered so he would have a clear line of sight. He could see now that that wasn't possible. He unleashed Burning Wrath, the flames of Hashut washing over his soldiers and the Orc in question, enveloping them in suffocating black flames. The smell of charred meat and the screams of dying men could be heard over the crackling of vicious, consuming flames of the God of Greed.
The last thought that Ghakur had as the Black Orc, who he had finally recognised as Gorgrim Ironhide, charged out of the flames and swung his axe at Ghakur's head was:
'Why did we give him armor forged with the blood of Runepirests?'
Darkness consumed Ghakur Bullbinder.
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Grimgor wiped his bloody axe with Ghakur's beard, then threw the Sorceror's head aside. The heat and constricting tightness on his neck faded with the death of the Sorceror who was maintaining the enchantment, so he squeezed his thick fingers over the gap in the collar and pulled.
The muscles in his arm bulged, his bones creaking and protesting the abuse Grimgor was putting them through. With impossible strength, the metal collar was snapped in half, and fell to the ground.
Grimgor rubbed his sore neck, particularly the scarred flesh around the collar that had been bound to him since birth. He listened to see if the Waaagh called out to him, like it did when he was born and when he felt Gork (or possibly Mork) in his head so many years ago now.
He heard nothing.
Grimgor looked at the corpses strewn about, the corpses of his slavers. Their blood soaked his armor and painted his skin red. He felt the ache of what hits they managed to land on him, bruising and injuring him despite his armor and tough hide.
He heard something now. It was more like a feeling, rather than a sound. Grimgor was used to rage in many of its forms, and the one he had built to rouse him to fight back against his slavers was a cold constant rage. It had sputtered out with his collar, the flame lacking fuel to go on. He was too tired to keep it up. It was how he recognised that the anger rising in his heart was foreign. It wasn't his.
BLOOD
Grimgor knew what this was. He had suspected that the collar on his neck prevented Gork and Mork from reaching him. It was why he couldn't harness the Waaagh like the other Orcs he knew of in the West. There were only two times he had heard their voice, one before the collar, and only once since then. He didn't feel Gork and Mork paying any attention to him. Perhaps he slipped their notice.
Grimgor did not slip past the Blood God's notice it seems. Unfortunately for the God of War, he only had two words for him.
"Zog off." Croaked Grimgor in a hoarse, tired voice. He was no longer a slave, and he would never be a slave again.
Gork and Mork didn't save him, he saved himself. He would serve neither god nor master.
Rolling his shoulder, Grimgor Ironhide ignored the scream of rage ringing across his head and walked back to his Immortulz. He had a job to do.
He was going to wipe the Chaos Dwarves off the face of the planet.
AN: Inspiration hit me again. I want to see people's interpretation of what I've put together instead of explaining it straight away, I will just say that Gorgrim Ironhide wasn't a typo, that really was what Ghakur thought his name was.
