This choice: A manual for an odd fighing style called sumo. • Go Back... Three suns passed over the lands of Head-Crusha since the great feast and the departure of the strange merchant, and things were slowly falling back into routine. As hangovers and bloating wore off, craftsmen returned to their tools and herdsman returned to their fields, while the youngest and nimblest patrolled the outskirts of Head-Crusha territory atop of fast and agile warboars. Two scouts on the Eastern side made idle chat, bragging about their amorous conquests the night of the Manticore Feast when their sharp ears and eyes caught sight of a single figure riding atop a warboar of his own. Turning their boars around, they rode out to meet the visitor, their ragged swords drawn.
"Hey! You!" they grunted, cutting off the visitor's path. "What you doin in Head-Crusha Clan territory?" The visitor lowered his hood, revealing himself to be an Orc, shorter and stockier then most, with a shock of short black hair and, most notably, milky white eyes with no pupils or iris to speak of. Pulling a face, the Orc sniffed at the air and pondered a moment.
"Yegoth and Oghash, is it? No!" he jabbed a thick callused finger towards the lady orc among the two. "That is Oghash's coat, not Oghash herself. You are..." The Orc sniffed the air again. "Bulak. I'd recognize the gait of your warboar anywhere."
Yegoth and Bulak looked at one another awkwardly before the latter spoke up. "Y-yes. Many apologies, Zudagog. We just doing our jobs."
"As you should," Zudagog the Vigilant smirked before sniffing at the air again. "Hrmm, eating well, have we? What has my sister slain since I've been away?"
Bulak blushed, placing her hand defensively against the potbelly bulging from her fur tunic. "It was the Crimson Manticore."
"Ah, that's a wily one. Very well, I'll leave you two to work off that blubber then." Spurring his Warboar, Zudagog passed the two sentries, his spirits lifted substantially. After all, he wasn't truly home unless he coddled some of the younglings. It had been an admittedly bad habit he picked up because of who he was. Being a blind Orc with a taste for the civilized life was a death sentence in the Ookh Dustbowl.
That had certainly been the intent the night of his father's sky burial, when his friend made his move for the head of clan Skull-Crusha. He could still remember waking up to the murderous look in Kharag's eyes, right before an axe sprung from the darkness and lopped off his friend turned rival's hand before it could plunge into his chest. It was the last thing he ever saw with his own vision, as Kharag drew a second blade across his eyes before being thrown off; how he wished he could have kept them long enough to see his own sister fight off a dozen armed men long enough for him to be whisked away to safety.
Zudagog spent years in pain and agony on the outskirts of Futotta-Machi as the apothecaries tended to his wounds, certain he would have never been able to come home, when a messenger arrived summoning him to the court of Bralga Head-Crusha. He might not have been able to see his own sister in all her splendor, but when he entered his father's yurt, he could feel it in his bones that she was the one to lead the clan as she declared him to be her right hand, second to none but her among all of the Head-Crushas. It had been a glorious night of celebration, culminating with his reunion with his old friend and rival Kharag. He couldn't see it of course, but Zudagog so enjoyed hearing Kharag's screams of agony that night, coupled with that messy aftermath...
The ride to the main camp was quiet today, unusually so, since his sister almost always rode out to meet him on his return from the outskirts. Was she perhaps preoccupied? Shrugging it off, Zudagog rode on until he could hear the distinctive sounds of the main camp ahead. Passing by the outer yurts, he dismounted next to a heavily pregnant maiden singing a song to the baby in her arms.
"Zudagog, hello!" the maiden called out brightly. "How was the journey?"
"Uneventful as always, Mogak," Zudagog sniffed. "At the very least that ponce from the city won't be sending more hires to tangle with us. Where is my sister?"
"She's been in her tent since the celebration...entertaining that nubile elf dancer." Zudagog rolled his blank eyes as the maiden giggled. Reaching the flap of the main tent, he strode right in, completely unconcerned with catching his sister in a compromising position. She should have known better anyway.
"Bralga, what's this I hear about-"
CRASH
By the Gods, was Bralga trying to kill that waif? Breaking into a jog he ran into the center of the yurt where the commotion came from.
"Oh, M-Mr. Zudagog, sir!"
Zudagog titled his head as the elfish dancer sitting in the corner called his name. Sniffing the air, she seemed to be fully clothed, with some sort of book in her hands. What was-
BANG
"Haha, yes! You great sparring partner, now try and push me out of ring!"
The blind orc sniffed the air again, realizing that the center of the tent seemed to have been cleared out. He caught the whiff of chalk, probably drawn onto the ground. Most notably, he recognized the presence of his sister Bralga, her tunic shedded in favor of only her short trousers and a wrapping around her bosom, shoving up against a rather large and slow fellow by the name of Goor, himself dressed in only his trousers.
"What in Ardoid's name are you doing!?!"
"Zudagog, you're home! One moment!" Bralga let out a warcry, nearly lifting Goor off his feet before she slammed him down again and flung him out of the center of the tent where he collapsed onto a stool, making it into splinters. Hair disheveled and a big stupid smile on her face, Bralga ran up to her brother and wrapped her muscular arms tightly around him in a hug.
"That milk drinker Sir Frum will not trouble us any longer?" she said brightly.
"No, of course not...but what is going on? Why does the elf have a book?"
"I can't read in Elfish, she can?" Bralga shrugged as the elf girl cowered in terror. "How else am I going to learn sumo?"
"...you're learning what now?"
"Sumo, wrestling style from farther east!" Bralga spread out her stance and stomped the ground, sending up dust clouds from her muscular action. "I think I can be good at it, too! You heard of sumos, yes?"
"I...of course I have, but..."
"Manticores and wyverns are no match for Clan Head-Crusha, brother!" Bralga ranted on. "If we wish to stay powerful and strong, we need to learn new things and challenge ourselves, yes?"
This was all a bit much to take in, Zudagog thought as he furrowed his brow. Why now with this obsession? How far would she take this? And more importantly, how would Clan Head-Crusha react to such a change? She did not have an heir yet, and if she was cast out, there was no question that the great Head-Crusha would fall to infighting and be gobbled up by their neighbors.
On the other hand, Zudagog suddenly realized, this could be a golden opportunity. This newfound interest in Futotta-Machi culture could be the first step in more peaceful relationships with the more civilized urban cities. They could trade for knowledge and luxury goods instead of stealing them, and perhaps they could even procure some of their famous swords and bows for use in their warbands. Such advances could make Head-Crusha even more powerful...perhaps, powerful enough to unite the Ookh Dustbowl under one banner for the first time in centuries?
"Well, if you are serious about this..." Zudagog said gruffly.
"Oh, very!" Bralga said proudly. "Bralga Head-Crusha will be the greatest sumo warlord ever! Now, elf girl, what does book say about sumo's diet?"   indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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