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The Fabulous Destiny of Guthuriwan - Prologue and Chapter 1

Updated: Jun 7, 2023


Guthuriwan is unlike any Orc I have ever met. Not that I have ever met an actual Orc, nor do I know what goes on in their tiny excuse for a brain, relatively. But you will begin to understand as you read on, into the deep forests of my elaborated thoughts, that I have seen plenty of them on screen. I mean, who has not.

I will now continue where I left off, somewhere in my thought-y forest. But we have to understand that I do not know the way back to were my thoughts plunged themselves into the darkness of my bottomless pit so wondrous. But unlike a man trying to steal a flag, it would be so much easier if I just took it from the top.

Guthuriwan is unlike any Orc I have ever met. Proof of this can be found in the way that he is, which also gives an approximate description of the hero of this story, who you are now going to spend hours reading about. This is where I will begin to guide you through the fabulous destiny of Guthuriwan. 

First of all he is not really an Orc, but an Elf. I do know a lot more about Elves, but even worse, for me at least, he is not really an Elf but an Orc. Now this may confuse you, but do not despair, for the explanation of this weird twist of event is waiting just around the corner. Or I could just explain it now, before you turn the corner, where terrible things are happening, as we all know. 

He is of course an Elf, but besides being an Elf he is also an Orc. He is also neither truly Elf nor Orc, but an Erc, the first of his kind. As you might have guessed, Guthuriwan is actually half Orc and half Elf. I could have said that from the beginning and spared us all much time, but where's the fun in that? His Elven mother Ethyria fell in love with the fierce hero of Hugur Village, the one-slice Orc. Yes, he was know by many names, Vughtor being the most common, and Sweetmeats only by his dear mother. Ethyria moved away from the Elven city of Ymcar, mostly because the long standing feud between the Elves and practically everyone, Orcs very much included. She instead moved in with Vughtor and lived there in harmony with the other Orcs. After a couple of years, Ethyria became pregnant. But the Boss of Hugur Village became furious because he did not want the pure Orc bloodline to be spoiled. But then he died, and everyone agreed that it was a good thing. As Guthuriwan were born, the people of the village learned to like the semi-Orc, and he were therefore accepted and raised as a true Orc. This is why he is called and Orc and not Elf. Anyhow, the fact that he is half Elf is, shockingly enough, the root to that he is unlike any other Orc I have ever met or not met.

Secondly of all (or first again, depending on how you count) he has an incredible mind. You could say that his excuse for a brain is an excuse I would very much like to put in my pocket and present to all as I again gets blamed for eating all the fudge. He has the smarts of the Elves, but his conclusions and solutions… Hey, that rhymed! Hmhmhm, conclusions, solutions, daramdadad… hrm, well that was quite fun, but that is not what we are here for, mostly. As I was saying, his conclusions and solutions (humhumhum) always seemed to involve violence, and even worse, he laid his plans down so that everybody thought that it was the best solution, because it often was. This of course was not always a bad thing, as he gets a lot of things done. Actually, he is probably the most productive Orc ever lived maybe.

The most outstanding feature of this man is probably the fact that he is handsome. This, as anyone who have seen an orc knows, is not that common. Actually, there has not been a handsome orc since Hrdagwalf the scrumptious, and he owned a cosmetic empire. This has of course made him very popular with the ladies, and I am not just talking about the Orc girls but also with Elves, Gnarrs, Jigs and for some reason Rocks. He actually dated a Rock once until he tripped, smashing his knee on her. The Humans on the other hand do not find him that good looking due to his skin colour which has a nice bluish green lustre, but the Humans are as the Humans are. 

Despite his popularity with the aforementioned ladies, he have never been able to settle down with someone. Mostly this is caused by his adventurous occupation, and by extension because of his rule, but more on that later in the story. Even more wondrous is his handsomeness if you add the fact that his Elven mother was not what the Elves would call beautiful, and I do not think that I need to add that his father was not such a beauty either. Then again, to Vughtor, Ethyria was the most beautiful woman he had ever met, so what do the Elves know.

So to sum it up, Guthuriwan is unlike any Orc I have ever met, but as I have already said, I have never met any. So if you have, you should probably just make your own image of him, either Elfish, Orcish or maybe a little Rockish. Now, that is enough of the introductions. I now will begin to tell you about the wondrous, great, and most of all, fabulous destiny of Guthuriwan.

Chapter 1

The First Steps

Vughtor’s boot buried itself deep in Guthuriwan’s chest, like he was trying to hug a massive piston. I would not recommend trying to that, unless you really love pistons, and even then, it would not be a healthy relationship. He found himself on the ground in time he hardly realized had passed. His father was pacing a few feet away, waiting for him to get up. His chest ached, his breath felt lost to him, but there was no point in dwelling on it. He needed to keep going. In one year’s time he would face those not merciful enough to wait for him to get up. In one year he would be eleven, ready to adventure as his father had before him. He found his breath and rose. 

Vughtor’s hand found itself around the back of Guthuriwan’s head. A wide kick had left him exposed. But what was worse was that he had seen it coming. He could have stopped it, had he been quicker. Down in the mud.

“You’re dead, Guthuriwan.” His father removed his hand and stepped back. He hated that Vughtor had stepped back, as if his father knew what he was about to do. No reason to do it now. “Only ten, so young, he perished fighting one more skilled than himself.”

Guthuriwan felt his anger swell within him. He had been told not to get angry, but this time it had been enough. With all his might, with no thought on anything but his enemy, Guthuriwan launched himself from the ground and directly towards his father. He felt like he had never moved as fast as he did at that moment. He could see on his father’s expression that he did not expect it. Guthuriwan made a fist and drove it forward with all his might. By the time it would have hit, Vughtor had quickly moved it to the side.

As Guthuriwan moved past his father in rage, Vughtor kicked one of his legs out from under him. As he arched his body backwards, Vughtor grabbed the leg and whirled it around, Guthuriwan following his leg as he had always done. 

Guthuriwan landed far away, sliding on the mud that yesterday’s rain had created. He wanted to get right up and attack his father again, but his otherwise faithful legs failed him.

“There is a risk to getting angry, Guthuriwan.” Vughtor was slowly walking up to his son. Guthuriwan gave up and laid back down, trying to calm himself down. “You leave yourself too open.”

“I almost got you,” was all Guthuriwan could manage to say between breathing. He could hear his father’s footsteps in the mud, getting closer. He tried not to breath too hard as his chest still hurt.

“But you didn’t. Now you lie, ready for me to get a final blow in on you.” He was standing beside Guthuriwan now. “Now, why do we not lash out in anger?”

Guthuriwan wanted nothing more than to reach out his hand and drag his father’s legs away. But he knew his father had ended his training for today. There was nothing to be learned from it. He exhaled heavily. “We do not lash out in anger because anger is our nature. Anger is violence, Orcs are violent, so we fight not to be.” The words he knew by heart. The words he had heard since the first time he had gotten angry, and every time since then. He hated them, because he knew them to be true. Still he got angry, and he could seemingly do nothing about it. 

“Anger needs direction, like fire needs a furnace.” Vughtor could see a shamed expression on his son. He exhaled heavily and held his hand down to him. “Let's get home for today.”

Guthuriwan took the hand, and his father hoisted him up onto his back. He wrapped his hands around Vughtor’s neck, as his father had his hands under Guthuriwan. Vughtor’s slightly arched back was easy to hold on to. Safe. He laid his head on his father’s shoulder, as they headed back home. 

There were few things as unappetizing as the meals of the Orc. It was not that they could not appreciate a good meal, as they ventured out into the Swamp of Or in droves to take part in the meals served at the Meat Wagon, but there was a certain way of looking at food among the Orcs as nothing more than sustenance. So they ate roots, frogs and bugs, the occasional thing that looked a bit like a vegetable. Sometimes even sludge that they had found in the swamp, for its rich minerals. It made a great base for a sauce, in their opinion. 

In contrast, the Elves had always ravished in exploring the richness of spice, the properties of different parts of the animal, that butter makes everything better. They are not picky, but they believe that a meal should be enjoyed as well as eaten. 

A wave of flavour hit Vughtor and son as he swung the door to their home open. The smell of a few chicken breasts simmering in a stew of milk and a yellow mix of spices, along with roots from the garden; carrot and potato. There was something sweet about it as well, and something invigorating. They could not hinder themselves to stop and take it in. 

“No, no, outside gentlemen!” said a light voice, as Ethyria walked briskly out from the kitchen. “Take our muddy son and wash him off outside. I will not have either of you inside my house like this, you know that.” Ethyria was frowning, making it hard to look at her. She was never what the Elves referred to as ideal. Her posture was off, her fingers were too thin, she was a bit too tall, her nose was too long, her jaw too sharp, her teeth a bit crooked. The Elves found things like that important. Because of that she was not accepted, not liked despite her other beautiful qualities. That is, until a terribly ugly adventurer did not care. 

“Oh, yes of course, sorry dear,” muttered Vughtor, as Guthuriwan slit onto the floor and ran out the house again. 

Ethyria smiled a sweet smile at her husband. “You could use a bit of washing off too.” She watched Vughtor smile back and walk out the door to their son. 

A short distance from the house was a small gathering of water. It came from the mountain behind them, and fell down into a bowl. From there, it continued down towards the swamp. Guthuriwan slowly made his way there, and got into the cold mountain water. His body still ached from the training. His anger had been replaced with disappointment. He felt he could not do this. He was not sure he ever would be able to. 

He scrubbed his head, feeling the scruff of what was left of his hair. His father had shaved it off when his training began, and now starts every five days by shaving it off again. He missed his hair, and knew that the first thing he was going to do when he left the village in barely a year’s time was to save it out again. 

His father slid into the water as well, dipping his uneven face and scrubbing it. Sometimes Guthuriwan found it weird that his father looked this different to him. They seemed to share no features except the green colour of their skin. Even there, Guthuriwan was lighter than his father. He had once asked him if he would look like him when he got older, but Vughtor had only laughed and told him that he hoped not.

As Vughtor took off his shirt, Guthuriwan could see all the scars his father had collected throughout his adventuring days. The most eye catching of them a burn wound that covered most of his shoulder. The story is one Guthuriwan had heard many times before, about when his father had fought massive logis deep within the dwarven ruins overseas, in the continent of Badlon. One had caught them off guard and managed to spit hot lava over him. Vughtor had survived by throwing his armour off as quickly as he could, as his friends made quick work of the beast. Still the burn had nearly made him pass out, but he gritted his teeth and they had continued to find whatever it was that they were going to find. That part varied every time Guthuriwan heard him tell it. From dwarven treasure, to a missing child. One time he said he had found a lost dwarven civilization, with living dwarves that seemed to have survived where the rest of their race had perished, but none seemed to believe that one. He had a story for every scar, often involving heroism where Vughtor and his friends had defeated evil despite the odds being against them.

The scars made Guthuriwan feel uneasy. He knew that situations like that was beyond his own skills. He sat still, looking at his father, as Vughtor washed himself and his clothes. Suddenly he stopped and looked at Guthuriwan.

“What’s the matter son? If you don’t clean yourself up, you can’t come in and eat.” 

Guthuriwan looked down at the water, away from his father’s eyes. It had started to turn brown, oozing from his clothes. He half-heartedly started to scrub his arms. They still ached. 

Vughtor made his way over to Guthuriwan, and sat down. Guthuriwan could only see his head sticking out of the murky water, his tusks sticking out of his lower jaw. “There is something the matter with you,” said Vughtor and looked at his son. “You can’t be disappointed that it did not go as you wanted it today. We train to learn, so that you will be ready when you decide to leave.”

“What if I can’t do it? I don’t feel like I’ve gotten better since we started. I've never even hit you. What if I never get better?”

“You will continue to feel like that, if you only look at how close you are to beating me. You will never beat me this year. I have thirty years on you kid, and have fought terrible beasts and terrible people alike. I always had to be better, and so as you learn, I will keep making sure that you always have someone who is better than you to fight with, so that you always learn.”

Guthuriwan looked at his father, a bit confused, trying to piece together what he was saying. 

Vughtor smiled at his son. “I have already had to step it up, because you have improved. You’re getting quicker, both in muscle and eye. You are hitting harder, and more precise. 

“How can you tell if I haven’t even been able to hit you?”

Vughtor smiled a crooked smile. “I can tell by looking, and by how much I have to work to keep up.”

Vughtor’s words seemed to comfort Guthuriwan a little, but deep down he was still worried. The enemies he would meet on his journey would not show mercy. But he somehow still trusted his father’s words. He had improved. He had to have improved.

Guthuriwan dipped his head into the cold water and scrubbed. He could feel his whole body aching as he moved around in the water, scrubbing clean both body and mind. He floated motionless in the water for a few seconds, enough to find peace within himself. 

Guthuriwan felt no real need to tell his mother about today’s session. She conversed with his father instead. It hurt raising his wooden spoon to his mouth. A good hurt, that made the world around him seem better in many ways. The house somehow looked better, more inviting, and the food smelled amazing, tasted even better and warmed his body on its way down. He looked longingly at the sword hanging on the wall, the sword of Vughtor, a wide, thin great sword more than five feet long. One day he would have a sword like that. 

When he was done, he no longer felt that his body could stay awake. “Thank you for the food,” he said and started to walk up the stairs, to find his bed.

“You’re welcome,” said Ethyria, while throwing a concerned look his way. 

Training, bath and food really takes all the energy out of one, for some reason. Guthuriwan barely had time to lay his head down on his pillow before sleep took hold of him. His dreams were more like internal thoughts of a worried but determined boy. At its deepest they played scenarios of him coming unprepared to fights he could not win. The enemies, taunting him, playing with him as they planned how they were going to kill him. I need to be stronger. The thought became a mantra through his dreams. As his enemies lost focus, he would brake through. 

Guthuriwan opened his eyes. He could still feel his entire body ache. He smiled a bit and flexed his body, feeling the ache even more. It felt great. The sun had gone down. He still wanted to sleep, he needed it for tomorrow’s training. As the quiet around him became more apparent, he became aware of voices from downstairs. Silently, Guthuriwan got on his feet and started to inch his way towards the stairs. As he did, he started to make out what the voices were saying.

“You can’t train him tomorrow when he's like this,” hissed the unmistaken voice of Ethyria. “He seems just moments from breaking. I won't have you breaking our only son.”

“I don't want him to die out there, not when he seems set on following in my footsteps,” answered the low voice of Vughtor. “I survived because I was well prepared, and even then I had more than a few close calls. I don't want to find out in that he died somewhere because he took something on that he could not overcome. I mean, you know how he is.”

Guthuriwan crouched down on the stairs, getting a better glimpse of his arguing parents. 

“I get it, I don't want him to die out there either, but there has to be a better way to prepare him than to kick him around until he can barely stand?” Ethyria was not taking her eyes of her husband for one second. “The only thing he'll gain from this is resentment for you.”

“I'm fine with that, if that means that he will survive.”

“Well I'm not!” exclaimed Ethyria, louder than she had intended. As she did, Guthuriwan felt himself shift, and the wood under him creak. Both of his parents turned their eyes over at where their son was sitting. Ethyria composed herself, shooting a look at Vughtor before walking over to the stairs and starting to walk up them. Guthuriwan stood up and met the kind eyes of his mother.

“You still look tired dear, you should sleep just a little while more,” she said, while driving Guthuriwan upwards to his room again. Guthuriwan said nothing as he slowly made his way to his room. He wanted to say something, but it was like a stone had been wrapped around the words in his throat.

As they approached his bed, he finally turned around and spoke to his mother. “I want to train more, I need to train more.” His tired eyes were struggling to keep themselves locked on his mother.

Ethyria sat down on the straw-filled mattress. “Are you sure?” 

Guthuriwan was still standing up. “I need to be stronger.”

“I won't keep you from training, and your father and I will make sure that you are ready for what awaits you out there when you leave.” She grabbed Guthuriwan's hand and suggested he sit down. He did, feeling his body ache again. “Dear, we will protect you in any way we can. Your mother is just a little worried that you will end up hurting yourself.”

“I won't.” Guthuriwan was trying to be confident, but his body was seemingly failing him. He just wanted to lie down again.

Ethyria smiled and laid her son down, covering him with the bear skin. “Sleep tight my little warrior, you have training in the morning.” And so he did.

Guthuriwan woke up to the sound of birds outside his window. He lay awake, his eyes closed, listening to their song, knowing full well that his father soon would wake him up for this day's training. As he enjoyed the few moments of peace, he felt something, a presence. He opened his eyes to find his father's face only inches away from his own. Guthuriwan let out a shriek like that of a cook finding rats in the mice-pie. 

“Good morning son, time for your training.” The scarred face of Vughtor smiled slightly and straightened his back again.

Guthuriwan calmed down. He could feel his body still aching, but got to his feet anyway, clothing himself in his pelts, hoping that he'd be able to get a hit in on the source of his rude awakening today. 

“You won't need that today,” exclaimed Vughtor, as Guthuriwan reached for his training sword. 

Guthuriwan stared at his father. “Why?”

“Last night revealed some things about your training that I had not thought about when I started training you. Therefore your schedule has changed.”

“But I need to get stronger,” muttered Guthuriwan, stretching his body out and returning blood to his muscles, as a yawn escaped his mouth. 

“True, but not just when it comes to the way you are fighting. Yesterday's excursion onto the stairs made me realize,” his father paused for effect, the dramatic, self-important person he was, and smiled “that your sneaking skills are terrible.” Guthuriwan gave him a slightly annoyed look. “So you will train as we have for the last month, every other day. The rest of the days will be spent learning other skills that you will need to survive and help people as an adventurer. Sneaking, scouting, even diplomacy, which your mother knows more about than me, so she'll help with that.”

Guthuriwan did not like it. He would not be able to survive by talking to a monster. Monsters were to be slain, nothing else. 

At that point it all sounded absurd, but little did he know that he would do that very thing only a few years later. At that point he had understood that his parents training had succeeded. He had been prepared to travel the world, helping those who needed it. The twenty-three years old Guthuriwan found himself thinking back to that time, sitting upstairs in his parents house. Opposite him sat his friend Duran, a Nord, playing calm the raging postman with him, a card game they had learned during their stays in the Human capitol of Badlon. Looking on were the Aquarian Ffethryr and Juguri of the Wood Elves. This little team of adventurers had slowly become his family during his twelve years adventuring. Duran and Ffethryr he had known almost all of those years, while he had found Juguri to be his intellectual equal during the three years he travelled with them. In Guthuriwan's opinion that is.

Guthuriwan looked at the cards in front of him, realizing that he had the opening he had waited for. He slowly put down the winning card on the table, as the Nord turned his bearded smile into a face of disbelief. 

Duran grabbed the end of the rough, dark oak table and threw it up in the air, making it spin like an ice skater in a tumble-dryer. Calm the raging postman was not his kind of game. Games in general was not really his kind of game, unless it was the game of hitting something very hard with a hammer, or hitting something far away very hard with a flying hammer, or cooking. He could definitely hit someone with his delicious cooking as well.

Ffethryr and Juguri were of course used to the fact that this hot-headed Nord got out of control and started to throw things into the air, this being the single reason for him handling the plasma grenades. Well that and the fact that if you throw it the wrong way, the grenade will stick on yourself and go boom before you have the chance to throw yourself on top of someone you really dislike. His constant closeness to rage might even be an asset from time to time, but it was unsettling at other times. He did not even try to quell his rage, almost as if he thought it a perfectly normal response. At least Guthuriwan tried to keep himself from boiling over with anger, even if he still failed pretty often. Juguri mostly found ways to get his anger out when people were not looking. 

The only exception was Ffethryr, the outcast of the strict people of Poseidopolis known as the Aquarians. She had never lost her temper. She was as cool as ice-cream frozen in a block of ice, on a glacier, on the highest tops of the Shoifun Mountains in the northern parts of Huax-Che. This really came in handy when dealing with some old geezer wanting too much for a pack of fish crackers, but it made her something of an enigma to the rest of the group. The only one that seemed not to care was Guthuriwan. But they had known each other long before she started hanging out with them as a group. 

Now, lying with its legs up in the air, the dark oak table stared to wonder what in the name of way too many gods for me to remember (just kidding, sixteen) is going on. This of course, you will think is stupid because of the simple fact that tables can not think. Well, this is my story and it make little sense much of the time and if that bothers you, that is just too bad because there is going to be a lot of things in this story that you will not understand, and that too is something I am not responsible for. 

As Duran started to calm down in the somehow smaller than he remembered house of Guthuriwan's parents, laying on a hill overlooking Hugur Village, an Orc slowly opened the door to the room. 

“So, what is going on here?”, he asked as all five of them turned their eyes towards the door. Well, maybe just four, the table really had no eyes to talk about, and sad as that might be, he did alright.

“I just happened to win at cards again, and Duran got angry”, said Guthuriwan, flipping the table right again. 

“I don't get why you're even playing against someone you know you'll win against. Wouldn't any of the other two make for a much more interesting match?” Vughtor, the man who had fathered Guthuriwan, was now an old Orc. His now red-brown-green skin starting to show signs of ageing, more than an Orc usually does. The man that had trained Guthuriwan only thirteen years ago was now more devoted to help one specific village, and one home in particular, the home of his lovely wife Ethyria. She was at the moment out at the small gathering of water outside their house, cleaning the groups clothes, as many years of adventuring often made them dirty and torn, among other things. 

“I think Guthuriwan would rather play an opponent he know he'll defeat, rather than one against which he would definitely loose,” said Juguri and shot a smile a Guthuriwan. Duran burst out laughing at the Elf's remark. Guthuriwan looked slightly less amused. 

“I almost had you last time Juguri, it won't be long now,” he retorted, sat down on his chair again, folding his arms. 

“Sure, you keep telling yourself that,” said Juguri, his smile widening slightly for a second.

“You got lucky last time, you saw that, right Ffethryr?” Guthuriwan shot a look over at his friends. 

“I'm sorry, I wasn't paying attention.” Her face seemed not to move much as she spoke. Guthuriwan looked increasingly agitated. Both Juguri and Vughtor joined in Duran's laughing, as Guthuriwan finally did as well.

When Guthuriwan decided he wanted to set out into the world and fight for the downtrodden, as his father had done before, Vughtor had told him that he first needed to train. He taught him things like, shave your head, so it won't get in the way, and do not date Rocks, both advices Guthuriwan completely ignored for the most part, and had to pay for in some respect. Twelve years later, head now shaven, he came home with a new set of friends and many experiences richer. Here he had stayed this last year, as they pondered where they would adventure next. But little did Guthuriwan know, that soon adventure would be coming to him, and this time, he would have to do it for the sake of the world. Well, his world at least. Do not worry reader, you are safe. Well, relatively. 

There was a shrill sound that pierced through the walls of the house. Like someone magnified the sound of a hammer breaking a brittle sword in two. Juguri was fast on his feet and down the stairs, gracefully dodging some sort of comically placed ball, before finding himself outside. As the others made their way down, Duran gracefully not dodging some sort of comically placed ball, Juguri shouted for them to hurry.

“What is happening,” pondered Guthuriwan, as he saw the thick smoke rise from behind the trees. The others joined, as Guthuriwan's mother came back from the washing. 

“What is going on,” she shouted at them, hurrying with a basket of clothes in front of her. 

A sudden movement in the bushes next to Guthuriwan's mother made it clear that they were not alone. As they all made the effort to run towards it, a savage creature jumped out. It had the head of a wolverine, but was clad in black armour with a red symbol on his chest. A small tail could be glimpsed behind it. It made a roar and raised it's sword high to attack, but did not have the time to finish his swing, as his blood fell on the ground soon to be joined by his halves, both of them. The blade of Vughtor dripped as its wielder got up from the ground and faced Guthuriwan, only to fall down again. 

“Careful,” implored Juguri and helped the old hero up from the ground. 

“What are these creatures?” asked Ffethryr and looked at both halves of the sigil on its chest. It seemed to depict the head of an elk from the front, as if it was to charge at you. Not that it would, that would just be ridiculous.

“I have never seen such a creature before,” cautioned Juguri, slowly approaching it. “I know of creatures with features like sheep, elephants and black panthers, but not this.” 

“It can't be.” Vughtor, backed away slightly. “I have heard stories of creatures more beast than man, somehow a product of the fall of the Gods,” said Vughtor, getting himself up onto his feet again. “But I would never think they still existed,”  

“So it is what? Like a Beastman?” asked Duran, his massive two-handed hammer still outstretched in front of him. Vigilant is definitely a word. Terrified is another. 

“So they are of legends?” asked Juguri, his eyes darting in every direction. 

“So they are, and like legends they will die.” Vughtor walked up to his son. “I want you to go down there and send them Beastmen into the pits of the underworld,” he said placing his blade in Guthuriwan's hands. He held the sword of Vughtor in front of him, spinning it to inspect both edge and surface. It stretched over five feet long, thin as a blade that was very thin, but broad and heavy. In the blank surface he could see the reflection of his handsome face with the black smoke in the background. He saw it and turned to his father.

“I will not make you disappointed,” he said, as his mother carried his father into the house. 

“Just be careful, the blade will easily go through flesh, but struggles with iron and heavier armour,” he said and nodded to Guthuriwan and his companions to leave. They, in an instant, began to run down the hill, towards the village. Duran put his horn to him mouth and blew hard, a battle cry to scare any enemy.

The wind in their long hair felt somewhat refreshing for Juguri, Ffethryr and Duran. A thought is that they felt like they had to compensate for Guthuriwan's lack of hair, by having these enormous hairdos. Ffethryr's light blue hair, matching her deep blue skin, went down to her lower back, but was usually tied up in a tail or the like. Duran's massive locks would probably reach even further, but his hair was so messy that it was no use trying to straighten it out. With his large beard, it mostly just looked like a big, red mane all around his pale face, or a flock of lobsters. Juguri had on the other hand wavy black hair, matching his dark skin, tied in a low tail at the back. But you rarely saw much of it as Juguri almost always carried a hood. Guthuriwan barely thought anything of it, thinking it probably had something to do with the fact that he was a Wood Elf. They had met Juguri on the streets of Badlon, running from people who seemed to target him simply because of him belonging to this secluded race. Of course there was more to his hood than that, but why spoil the mystery.

What they saw as they arrived at the village was nothing less than a massacre. Orc and Beastmen fought with all their might, making the streets full of beheaded bodies and blood, dripping off the edges of the wooden streets and into the swamp on which it was built. 

“Split up and take them down, help the people!” said Guthuriwan, as he and the others threw themselves onto the nearest Beastmen and started fighting their way through the city. As this is Guthuriwan's story, we will follow only him. For the others, I care not. Okay, maybe I care a little, but this book is already way too long so why pad it out more just to describe more ways for a Beastman to lose limbs.

As his father had told him, there was a lot of finesse to using the sword of Vughtor. You had to be careful not to hit any hard parts, as the frailty of the blade might cause it to snap. It was a skill that Vughtor had trained in for decades, mastering the faints and control it took. Guthuriwan had not. 

It was over quicker than it had begun. The blade broke in oh so many a few pieces as it clashed with the thick iron maces of the Beastmen. Guthuriwan could do nothing about it but to fight with his fist. He was still able to knock most of them down. He was, after all a very strong orc, and had many years of experience in improvising. He picked up a mace as the Beastmen fell. As he took down two more, he stopped for a while to envelope the pieces of his father's sword in a large piece of cloth. I'll pay for this later, he thought, as a lump formed in his stomach. Later.

He made his way through the streets, helping the Orcs that needed help, saving those who needed saving. He lost count of the skulls he cracked as he managed to make his way to the one he assumed was the leader.

He assumed this mostly because he looked weak and was very skinny, wearing fancy clothes and bearing the likeness of a fox. Leaders were often that, different. As Guthuriwan hurried towards him, he drew a cylindrical metal bar with some sort of wooden handle from his belt. Guthuriwan took his mace and hurled it towards the fox-like Beastman. The mace, thinking that she loved to be used to hit a Beastman in the face, she who had been used to beat so many, making her surface a little bumpy, flew towards the Beastman. She finally got her revenge. But not before a shrill sound came from the cylinder, and something was thrown from it at high speed, towards Guthuriwan. The metal pebble hit his arm and went straight through, before its deliverer hit the ground from a mace in the face. 

Guthuriwan began to walk towards his attacker, his arm hurting and bleeding. The mace had done a satisfactory job, crushing the Beastman’s cranium. Guthuriwan took up the Beastman’s metal bar, kneeling at his attackers dead body. What are these creatures, he thought, even though he had gotten at least half an answer from his father. A sudden voice from behind made him aware that someone was behind him. He was smart that Guthuriwan.

“Guthuriwan, I'm glad you noticed the attack on the village.” As Guthuriwan turned around he found himself facing the Orc Boss, Kanoc the might be mighty. He was large, even for an Orc, his many black braids tied up in a bun at the back of his head. His otherwise light-brown skin with hints of green had been bloodied with the blood of his enemies, as usual. His wooden cudgel mimicked the colour. His chest laid bare, revealing a well trained upper body, with more scars than Guthuriwan dared to count. From his large leather and iron belt hung large and small strips of cloth and leather, covering the lower part of his body. His face, also scared, was as stern as an Orc got, a square face with a large forehead and a protruding jaw, due to a pair of small tusks shooting out from his mouth. “Have there been many casualties from where you came?” he said and pointed back to where Guthuriwan had arrived. 

“Too many,” started Guthuriwan and shook his head. “What happened to our defences?”

“They came from the south, and in force. I have never seen anything move like they did. They leaped up on out guard towers, using the trees to avoid getting stuck in the small path's in the swamp.”

“Someone has to pay of this,” growled Guthuriwan clutched the metal bar he had picked up from the Beastman in his hand. 

“By the Destroyed, they will.” He looked up towards the clear sky in sorrow, the back at Guthuriwan. “I need you to make sure that there are no stragglers, make sure we got all these bastards. And when you are done, come see me at the hut.” 

“Yes, boss,” answered Guthuriwan quickly and  started to make his way through the streets of Hugur Village. 

The other warriors and Guthuriwan's companions seemed to have taken care of the other Beastmen, as the streets were quiet. Blood had started to ooze into the black swamp, colouring it a sickly colour. They were, together with the townsfolk who had survived the attack, trying to put out the fires who had been caused, partly by the torches of the Beastmen and partly by one or two misdirected plasma grenades from Duran. 

As Guthuriwan came to the large plaza, build out of crocked wooden boards, he met up with the rest of the gang. Duran was carrying his large hammer over his shoulders, the head coloured red. It had a solid, metal head, in a style recognizable from the battle hammers of the Nords, with a long steel handle. It was clearly made to be handled with two hands, reaching around four feet, though Duran did not always have to do that. 

The sides of Juguri’s robe were splattered with the blood, dripping from the wavy daggers he had hanging from the side. A crossbow hung at his back, made form the dark wood native to the Woodlands. The crossbow had a small compartment underneath it, that automatically loaded a new bolt into it when one was fired. 

Ffethryr was walking behind Duran and Juguri, dragging a screaming and kicking Beastman. She was grasping her longsword in the other hand, hastily cleaned, with strains of blood throughout it. 

Guthuriwan looked at them and smiled. This was often a rare sight among Orcs as they did not smile that often. The reason for this was of course that they were very ugly and smiling made them, if possible, even uglier. You see, an Orc has a very uneven face and when they smile, their faces kind of mushes together, forming some kind of doughy thing that is too ugly to even mention. That is one of the reasons I will not. But as Guthuriwan has an even face, like an Elf, it is not at all bad. His smile is actually kind of charming, showing his sparkling white teeth and making dimples show on his cheeks.

Ffethryr threw the Beastman towards Guthuriwan, making him hit the ground with a big bang. He started to crawl away as a bolt from Juguri went through his leather amour and nailed him to the plaza floor. He lay screaming on his belly when Guthuriwan pulled him up, through the bolt and laid him on his back. He was wearing on his armour the same large red elk as all the others, a sign making Guthuriwan feel almost fearful for some reason.

“Who sent you?” asked Ffethryr, bending over the injured Beastman, who was now laughing, making blood come out of his mouth. He looked at Ffethryr for a while, still laughing.

Aull naubd od Iffyll”, he said, his voice almost indistinct from the animal he resembled. He started to twitch in violent spasms and then, as a man that had formerly been dying, he died. Guthuriwan stood up and looked at the others. Something was bothering him but he could not understand what. He turned to Ffethryr who had tuned away from the Beastman.

“Did you understand anything of what he said?” he asked as Duran picked up the body and walked to the edge of the plaza and dropped him into the swamp. Ffethryr merely shook her head.

“No, But I think I heard a name, Iffyll”, Juguri said, as Duran came back. Guthuriwan looked at Juguri.

“Who’s Iffyll?” he asked. There was no immediate response. Guthuriwan looked at Juguri for a while.

“I... don't know. I've heard it before, but I can't seem to remember,” he said and looked at them again. The others looked at each other and then they looked at Juguri. Then a bird looked at them before remembering to look straight to avoid a pole. I guess that some frogs and swamp fishes right now looked at the sinking, or maybe stinking, but probably both, body of an impaled Beastman. The Beastman did not look at anything. Because he is dead. Obviously.

It was a normal day in the life of Gunnar the seagull. He was just flying around in his own thoughts, with the wind in his pearly white feathers as he soared through the blue skies of Varon. Not much had happened since he had been woken up by young woodpecker brats pecking rudely on his front door. Gunnar had gotten mad and shouted at them. After a while, they came back to apologise, They had made Gunnar a truly delicious seed-and-fish pie that they all enjoyed together with one of Gunnar’s famous stockpiled blueberry lemonades and a newly opened can of lard. 

This had made Gunnar very happy this day. What he did not know was that the day would not get much more interesting than. As he swooped down towards Hugur Village, some guys were staring at a hooded guy. Gunnar too stared, being a little too easily manipulated by pier pressure, but looked away as he noticed that he was on his way to crash into a large wooden pole thing. He barely avoided it, as he looked back at the people standing behind him. They were now starting to walk towards a path situated at the right of the large plaza. 

What strange people, just standing around and then walking, Gunnar thought. But little did he know that it would be the last thought he would think all day as he failed to see the next pole coming at him. Clonk is a funny sound.

Thank you all who helpt get this book made. The book is available at the store.

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