The Wild Child - Ugarth II

Fair Warning:

I ragequit translating halfway. Because, fuck. ^^

My father took me to the sage, an old woman who knew her history. He told her:
“Tell him the story of his birth. Every other orc in camp knows it."
“I see...”
When my father left us, she began:
“As you know, the clan lives mostly of pillaging. Your father is a great raider. It is about showing others our strength, so we are not attacked. When raiding the Velen cities, your father happened to rape the king's daughter. None of this had a real effect on the clan, but a few years later we saw a man prowling the camps. He quickly ran when spotted, but left something behind. The guards found a little half-orc, the son of an orc and a human, of about two years of age, with dried blood on his vest but not wounded. Nobody knew why he looked like that. When he was taken to Karg, he knew right away he was Grommash's son: the human wore the threads of a page, and women raped by orcs usually force a miscarriage. Now, a princess can«'t do that. Of course, that baby was you... You are lucky you look quite human, too. The princess probably took pity and sent the page instead of having you killed on the spot. But Karg quickly became alarmed because an enemy had discovered where the clan was located. He pondered changing location of the clan, but realized that the place where they were, a hill very hard to climb, was good enough because even suffering an attack of the army of Velen would give us enough time to get the weapons and prepare for confrontation. Karg, knowing that the Velen army was weakened due to the attack of the clan, but given that they have discovered the location, it was a matter of time before they attack us, sent to reinforce the line of defense of the city. Karg was right, a year and a half after the looting of Velen, they attacked us, but geography was in our favor and his army was quickly decimated. On our side, there were few casualties and some repairs to do. Since then we have expected the new attack But now few believe that they will ever strike again, after being massacred twice, among which is not Karg. Por essas razões Karg tem mantido rangers nos arredores da cidade e pôs dois ladinos responsáveis por obter informações de possíveis ataques que estejam a ser preparados por Richard. Acho que é tudo, alguma pergunta?”
“ Não, Ma’her. Obrigado”
Gostava de dizer que a minha vida continuou com a sua normalidade, mas muitos miúdos olhavam-me de
forma diferente, fazendo-me sentir-me como algo que não pertencia ali, por sorte continuava a ter os mesmo amigos que se habituaram ao facto de eu ser diferente, apesar de não saberem o porquê. Parece que o que dizem de nós sermos corrompidos por natureza, pois apesar da maneiras como os outros miúdos me olhavam, os adultos viamme como qualquer um deles, parece que já se tinham habituado a forasteiros dentro do clã. De resto, nada de relevante se passou até que 4 meses depois chega a cidade entra numa comoção enorme, um dos ladinos enviados, mais morto que vivo chega ao portões da cidade levam-no a Karg e pelo que parece o outro ladino fora morto e ele deixado vivo apenas para lhe contar que Velen, Murran, Mosstone e Riatavin se tinham aliado para atacar o clã e o mandar contar isto a Karg. Karg ficou claramente perturbado:
“ Riatavin!!? Nós nunca atacamos Riatavin, porque raio eles nos atacam?!”
“ Não sei, talvez por med...” - colapsou assim o ladino.
“ Este orque mal se aguenta de pé, ele não pode ter andado muito, eles não podem estar muito longe... Foda-se, foda-se, FODA-SE!!!” - ecoou o berro pela proximidades - “Um gajo não os ataca para não sofrer um cerco e os filhos da puta atacam-nos! Burros de merda! É preciso mandar-lhe uma carta a dizer que não os vamos atacar?!” - e o punho cerrado de Karg aterra na mesa onde estava o mapa.
“O que fazemos chefe?”
Karg amarra o soldado pelo pescoço, encosta-o à parede e berra-lhe:
“ Se tens alguma ideia podes muito bem deitá-la para fora!”
O soldado apenas mostrou uma cara que quem se sentia claramente intimidado pela possibilidade do chefe
acabar a vida dele, devido ao ataque de cólera provocado por esta notícia.
“Bem me parecia...” - disse Karg ao soldado.
“Eu tenho uma ideia.”-disse o meu pai.
“Desenbucha!”
“Existe uma aldeia de tieflings nas montanhas de Starspire que nos devem um favor, esta é a altura ideal para o cobrar.”
“Mas vai durar dias só para alguém poder contactar com eles!” - diz um meio-orque que manejava vários
instrumentos sobre o mapa.
“Na ausência de melhor ideia assim será.”- vira-se a uma ranger e diz-lhe - “Agra, pega num dos falcões e manda-o com esta mensagem”- pegou num papel e começou a escrever- “ aos tieflings.”- acaba a mensagem e carimba o papel.
“ Com certeza”
O meio-orque que manejava os instrumentos sobre o mapa diz:
“Vai demorar cerca de duas horas até o falcão lá chegar, mas o exército demorará cerca de três dias até cá
chegar, ainda mais o tempo necessário para eles prepararem a viagem...Hmm... O exército chegará daqui a 4 dias, pela manhã.”
“Muito bem por enquanto preparemos o ataque. Soldados, dispersem estas pessoas e chamem os rangers.”- assim foi feito, mas mais uma vez consegui arranjar maneira de ouvir a conversa com os rangers sem ser detectado.
“Ora bem, quero que preparem as bestas para a batalha e que amestrem o maior número de bestas possível. Entendido?”
“Sim, senhor!”
“Podem sair.” -saindo os rangers e restando apenas o meio-orque e o meu pai na sala Karg disse - ”Meus
senhores preparem-se bem, que esta pode ser muito bem a nossa última batalha.”
Apenas um dia se passou e pela altura em que o sol brilhava no alto se ouviu o barulho que ninguém queria
ouvir, soou pela cidade inteira, som esse que vinha de um corno que um dos guardas soprava, perto dele um ranger arfante que dizia a outro guarda para dizer a outro ranger para perguntar ao chefe para quando queria que libertasse o dragão.

Moments later we see Karg running towards the gates, could see his army in the bottom of hill and close to us rangers running for their lives.

“Release the dragon!”, Karg ordered.
“The youngling?!”
“A fine age to start fighting. Release it!”
“Aye.”
The beast was airborne in no time. And with an army pouring over on every side, the gates were reinforced, and a battle began.

Where did this come from?

Original work C Ricardo Vilaça. Split to ease reading.

The Wild Child - Ugarth

Been a hell of a couple of months, so here's an interlude. Disregard eloquent orcs nonsense. Ugarth is a pretty cool guy who doesn't afraid of anything, after all.

          Ever since I can remember, I have lived among the of the Dragonmaw Clan, housed atop a hill in the Wealdath forest. It was a large town, born from the remains of a rich eladrin city. The eladrin were not happy with this, and so all were destroyed.
I spent my days between kindergarten and education in the ways of the adult orc, such as cooking, hunting, and even very basic spellcraft, until I was 12, the time when one was supposed to choose the job one would like to take with the clan. Each kid had an instructor for each skill, and every adult member gave a hand. All except Karg, the clan chief.
         There was no family structure in the clan. A child of the clan was raised by the clan. One could, if he liked, tutor a particular child for a closer bond. My father chose to do that. A wonderful warrior and one of the closest to Karg, he taught me the martial arts. Of my mother I never had a clue. I didn't like that, but with every question on the subject, my father's lips were either sealed, or spitting out some harsh words: "No talk in practice! You are in the battlefield! You want your head on your neck, you watch the battlefield!". My shape was also very different from the other orcs, taller, thinner, shorter tusks... There was something weird they were not telling me, and I was going to find out!
         After the night feasts, we had some moments to rest and talk, and then it was curfew for the young ones. One day, me and  a couple of other runts had sneaked out when we heard voices from a nearby tent. Karg and about a dozen other grown orcs were there, including my father. The meeting had started a while ago, and the talk was about the coming-of-age of young orcs, and their future tasks to the clan. There were a few of us who wanted to follow a path they were not fit to follow, and those were the ones they talked about more. At the end, Karg pulled my father to the side to talk in private:
         “Grom, I have to ask you about Ugarth..”
         ”Eh.. The kid fights well, but I can't decide on the best place for him in the army. Nag says he is good with the words, and even has a touch for the spells..”
         “His forefathers...”
         “Yes.”
         “It is true all runts have to prove their worth, but you know yours is special. We are friends, but I will exile him, if that protects the clan!” Karg only stopped for a moment. “Nothing to worry about, of course, After all, he was born of the princess, and is grandson to Richard the Unmerciful!”
         So ended the talk. The tree of us ran back to the dorms, where I had trouble sleeping, knowing the other two constantly whispering about me. The next day, I was summoned to Karg's tent before lunch. My father was there.
         “ Ugarth, who told you your mother was a human?”
         “ Uh, nobody,” I suddenly stuttered.
         “ Do not mock me! The whole yards talk about it! Explain?!!”
         I told them about last night, except about the the two that had accompanied me.
         “And how was this known in the runt-yards?”
         “ Mook and Ven woke up when I got back, so I told them what happened.”
         “ I seems the kid has some tricks we might use. Ah, the harm is done. Grom, tell him your story.”
         As my father walked me out, Karg still said:
         “ We didn't tell you for your own good, runt.”

         I would soon understand those words.

Is Ugarth, like, king or something?

Original work C Ricardo Vilaça. Split to ease reading.

Misty Mountain Hop

Where did this come from?

SoW e03

This episode is dedicated to The Goat, who didn't make it due to budget constraints (also, sense).

          The five met at the foot of the largest house in town. It had been built in stone, with the savings of the people of the land, many decades before. It was a great thing for a town so small. The youngsters always looked upon it in awe. The elderly called it their shame. The ruling council had lived and ruled from there ever since. And it was the council the five adventurers had come to meet.
          "The council, titles, titles, summons you, brave sorcerer, blah, blah, murdering goblins, etcetera, great service. Gold. Sounds about right?" Shedinn read aloud.
           "It checks with mine, ser." Claidheamh retrieved a folded piece of quality paper from his pocket. "Except for 'wild ranger'. They went to the trouble of checking us."
          "Heh," grunted Ugarth. "Ya not 'brave' like the mage. Well, mine says gold on it too, so Imma get it."
          The ranger thought wild was just as good, for someone who didn't know him. "Let Thoradin do the talking when we're in. They're like to listen to the good reputation."
____________________________________________________________

          "My name," began an old man in a richly decorated war room, "is Troyas. I preside over Brindol and the next few miles of the Elsir Vale." The war room hadn't been used in a long time, or so said the dirty chairs and dusty wall carpets. Noone knew what had gotten into these peaceful farming people to build such a display of power. Elder Troyas continued: "Yesterday, someone defending the North bridge found this." He snapped his fingers, and a man that had so far stood to the back opened a chest and retrieved something from it.

          "Do you know this banner?", he asked.
          Noone knew. "Two centuries ago, the Vale was raided by a warren called The Red Hand of Doom. They claimed freedom, conquest, and other such nonsense for a bunch of goblin. See a connection here?"
          It wasn't hard to see. "Are they back?"
          "We have to think so. We have found a letter in one of them. Allow me." The elder pulled a crumpled paper from his sleeve. In the broken goblin dialect, it was closer to a manifesto than a call to arms. It did incite a revolution, calling the Vale theirs and naming the human settlements "gold-centered swines", too big an expression for the limited goblins. The letter set Rivenroar as their home base, and was signed (!) Sinruth.
          "Rivenroar?", the ranger asked.
          "A castle, atop the mountains. Been empty until now. Something happened there, years ago. No survivors, and noone cared enough to investigate either."
          "And we are to clear the goblins and end this?" asked Thoradin, very tactfully.
          "It is said you were good enough for an ogre. Yes, I expect you to take on a goblin revolt. There will be gold, and fame."
          Brindol was in a part of the world were fame was as useful as nipples on a breastplate. A large expanse of corn and grazing fields, framed by a set of mountains on each side, fame wasn't like to go far. Coin, though, was coin.
___________________________________________________________________

          The mountain road was tiring, but not as dangerous as one would expect from a revolting country. Having a ranger in the party helped a lot, as everyone would come to agree. East was always East, instead of circles. Wild animals were deftly avoided, except when the stomachs began growling. A seven-hour trek seemed almost short with all the stories. Thoradin turned out to have been a famous guard, until he took a wrong turn and fell from grace. After three years in jail, he took the vows, and said he was now a different dwarf. Claidheamh had never met his parents. Brought up by a mountain clan, he was great with the twin swords, so set out to make a name for himself. Shedinn liked fire. His egg had been bright red with orange streaks, even though his scales grew to be of a coppery shade. He also liked funny little poping goblins. Ugarth and Occam were not the chatty type, but still laughed when Thoradin would sporadically get a boot stuck under a root.
          It was without incident that the party got to the summit. It was a large plateau, big enough for a city, but the ground was barren. Dark grey earth spanned the lenght of the oval mesa. In the easternmost corner, a great shadow loomed over the mountain.

Why are they doing this again?                                          Whoa. Is it Rivenroar?

The Cask of Amontillado

Where did this come from?

SoW e02

          Outside, a ranger held on against two goblins. His two longswords, lightly curved at the tip, reflected the firelight at his stern face.
          Brindol burned. It seemed a whole warren of goblin was running around, in groups of two or three. Claidheamh, the ranger, picked off his foes from the mob with methodic cuts. When a black panther shot out of the inn and turned north, he too felt trouble was brewing in that direction. The bridge. Can't go now, he cursed to himself. Houses burn. Hope that one went to help..

          An arrow landed at his feet, drawing his attention to the rooftops. Two particularly bright members of the horde had taken to high ground, and fired their short bows from opposing houses. For a ranger, Claidheamh was not the best mark in the land, but he knew his way around well enough. He stuck his swords on the ground and drew his longbow. He fired two arrows in quick succession, a wide overhead lob that would not hit either goblin if they were giants.
          It worked just right. The goblins stared in awe at their respective arrow until it was way past them. When they looked back, that puny human was gone.
          Covered by the low-hanging out ceiling of the inn, Claidheamh surveyed the tavern room from the outside. It was quite damaged, but the fires had been put out. Near a dozen goblin lay dead on the wooden floor and one roasted on the common hearth. To the back, someone gave divine rites to a patron that had died in the fire. Some of the survivors stood up when his head poked through the door frame. The ranger identified a dragonborn and a dwarf. The one saying words for the dead was human, some war priest in a stupid crown. City-born, he thought. And that - the hooded hulk with a tiny dagger in his hand - is a half-orc if I ever saw one. What a strange lot to assemble here today.
          "Wetch it lad. Thar coul be moar of these thengs." The dwarf seemed worried. He was leaning on his battleaxe and looked expectantly around him, as if a goblin were to jump on him at a moment's notice. He seemed quite nervous for a paladin.
          "There are plenty, ser. Outside." Claidheamh answered. "The town burns", he added eerily.
          "We'll kill'em all", grunted the half-orc under his cowl, not without excitement.
_________________________________________________________________________

          Shedinn slashed at the air with his knife. A loud crack, and two blades of lightning fried the goblin scouts. Two more came around the corner, wielding large kitchen knives. The paladin charged them shield first, driving them into the alley. The group quickly followed, and quickly wished they hadn't.

          An ogre pulled a cart filled to the brim with barrels. Two more goblins sat atop the barrels, waving torches and firing the occasional arrow at fleeing peasants. Claidheamh stopped in his tracks the moment he saw it, halting the rush of the sorcerer as well. The dwarf didn't even raise his head. He could see a leg, and that was very much enough. He rushed to the creature, standing just a little over knee height, and cleaved blindly. The dwarven battleaxe had trouble cutting through the thick giant skin, barely drawing blood. If it was hurting, one wouldn't know from the ogre's face.

          An ogre's face has a permanent angry, grinning, constipated scowl. Their eyes came in two varieties: the dull, glassy, stupid daze most had when they were not rampaging, and the vicious bloodshot rage all of them had when they were rampaging. This one was the latter. Goblins had tied him up to an oxcart, and would sting him with their little flying sticks if he didn't move. He wished he had eaten them. Now more little ones were hitting him with their sharp sticks. He might just eat these, if the goblin don't nag too much.
          The ogre turned his body with great effort and picked up a barrel. The smartest of the two goblin jumped on its arm and lit the rag coming out of the cask with his torch.
           The robed man paid no attention to the flaming cask flying over his head. In truth, he didn't see it, as the others saw it. His eyes, wide open, saw nothing of his world. When one speaks with a god to ask him for an angel, one looks him in the eye.
           The cask went up in blue flames the second it hit the ground. Claidheamh, five feet way from it, felt the heat in his face and the fire in his sleeve. He dove shoulder first into the nearby wall to put it out. Then rushed the ogre. He had expected to run beside the half-orc, who had struck him as some type of duelist, but he was nowhere to be found. If that coward ran on us, I'll hunt him down myself. The ranger maneuvered around the bulk of the ogre, taking advantage of the paladin's challenge: a yellow dragon had appeared above the ogre's heart, branding him an enemy of Bahamut. Were he not to live up to the challenge...
          Seeing a little one with two sharp sticks run by him, the ogre took his chance. He swung his enormous maul in a wide uppercut, hitting him above the stick holder. A moment later, his heart burned in pain, and the thought of the small little one appeared in his mind. He roared at him.
          Shedinn's flame whip had faded, so he turned to less artistic demonstrations of power. He inhaled deeply, fusing his innate magic and his inheritance inside his body. The fire that rushed from his mouth was a jet stream of cold winds and frozen water so powerful the goblin that received it to his face dropped without a word. Alright, one more. Leave more room for the big ones to fight in... A small sphere of light formed near the other goblin's face. Well that's new. Did I make the sun?, he thought.
          He hadn't. The "sun" exploded in a dozen smaller shards that pierced the two creatures, and his goggly-eyed friend's sudden intake of breath had Shedinn between relieved and disappointed that he hadn't made such sweet flame.
          Paladin and ranger had brought the ogre to its knees. Claidheamh had found a place in the wagon, right behind the ogre. A blind spot. Adjusting his grip, he sunk both longswords in the beast's back. It shook violently in pain, overturning the cart. In fear of being crushed, Claidheamh looked up just in  time to see two throwing knives sink into the ogre's neck.
          The ogre saw nothing when he looked up. No birds up there. Nothing on the roof either. Ugh. It nothing. Kill anyhoots.
          A shadow clouded Claidheamh for a second, and then it crashed into the ogre. The shadow then proceeded to slice dozens of cuts on the beast with a long dagger.
________________________________________________________________

          It wasn't hard to bring down. The five sat resting just as far from the cart as they could monitor the fire, and still not smell burnt ogre. The ranger spoke first.
          "Claidheamh", he said, "It's my name. I have been ranging for a while. We beat a powerful foe today."
          "Aye lad. Stone called me Thoradin, so I be that. Paladin of great Bahamut for as many years as ye been born."
          Shedinn's introduction was a revolving ball of fire hovering above his hand. "I'm Shedinn. I like goblins." Dramatic pause. "They make funny little pop -he clicked his tongue- noises when they die!"
          When it was the robed man's turn, he just said, "Occam. Hello". The paladin added to his story. "Lad say he be an invoker. That Pelor heself be talkin to him. Bah! Might as well be." He than laughed to a joke noone saw.
          The half-orc -it was indeed a half-orc, to Claidheamh's pride- turned out to be called Ugarth, and said he was great with knives. Although his prowess in that field was not in question, he also claimed to be like a ninja -and here he threw some punches at the air- striking from the shadows. Were that to be proved, it would be a feat of note, for someone whose shadow is larger than most.
_______________________________________________________________

          All fires had been put out at the end of the same afternoon. The next morning, five people woke up to a note slid under their door.

Nice, but who are these guys?                      Ah, I bet it was the heroes. What's it say?

Fire! - p2

Where did this come from?

SoW e01

        A handfull of goblins rushed after the destroyed bits of the door as if they were gold. Once inside, one flung his torch at the table Shedinn had been sitting at the previous minute, which caught fire in a matter of seconds. Before Shedinn even had a dagger in his hand, another was charging the two people at the hearth with a puny hatchet.

        Shedinn felt a burst of energy behind him, and ducked so whatever the treeslinger was charging wouldn't hit him. A moment later he felt a slight gust of wind, and a moment after that a black gorilla with silver back landed just in front of him. So this is a druid, he thought. With another leap, the great ape crashed into a goblin and punched it in the face.

        The shield that appeared on the dwarf's hand showed the head of bahamut in deep blue. He had little trouble halting the hatchet, which nearly split on impact. Behind the dwarf, his monologue partner seemed to just now slip out of his comatose daze. His eyes became a nearly white shade of blue, and the gem on his staff flashed brightly. The closest goblin staggered.

        Shedinn's spell was ready just in time. His tremendous size and muscular build weren't enough to disencourage one of the more stout among the goblins to try and sharpen his shortsword in his scales. Shedinn drew his dagger in a flash. The air around it ignited, and a flaming whip sprouted from the blade. The goblin ducked at the last moment, though, and only his long ear was seared. Shedinn searched his body for the strenght to hold the spell. Walking forward, he waved the flame in large circles, snapping it at every step. He hit the dwarf once, and the druid too (he'd apologise later), as well as most of the goblin, until one decided he would stop the rampage. Taking advantage of the smoke that had been raised by then, he sneaked behind  Shedinn. The dragonborn never noticed the goblin's head split in two when a knife burst through his thin skull.
          The last of the wave gave up on the futile plan, and life altogether. While attacking the dwarf, a successful block threw the monster off-balance. With a little help from the dwarf's friend, such was his confusion that he perished in the pitiful flames of the hearth.

          When the fires were put down, the druid returned to his regular shape to rest. There was no time to talk before he turned into a great black cat, and bolted out of the door.

Where did this come from?                                                         Uh, then what?

Fire!

SoW e01

          The fires always burned at the Weary Horse. A small inn it was, with more space to drink than to sleep in. Brindol, the town where one could find the Weary Horse, didn't need a large place for tourists, because there were none. The few farmhands and helpers that came during the harvests would often build their own straw huts, and the rare group of rangers tracking a pack of evil creatures carried their tents and would seldom stay for more than a hot bowl of stew. So all in all, this was an odd day in the Weary Horse.

          In a table near the wall, Shedinn eyed the dancing flames housed in the center hearth. He wasn't cold, but he'd much rather be by the fire. Shedinn had some very strong opinions about the usage of fire, and personal warmth was not high on the list. The mantle was occupied, though.

A Different Story - Wil v

         It was a killing cycle.

         I wondered how much amusement those people were taking off seeing unskilled amateurs go at it against unarmed opponents. I didn't spend more time thinking. Not that I had the time to... Even though I saw myself in each of the boys running hopelessly against the newcomers, I kept shouting orders around, hoping someone foolish enough would follow them.

         Quite surprisingly, a pile of bodies began taking shape. Not my body or theirs, but the bodies of the victims of our first charge. One of ours decided not to take cover behind the difficult terrain, and ran around the arena in panic instead.
         Like a pack of wolves that saw a lone lamb, he was picked, torn like a rag, and left on the ground.
         After that the time was counting. The cloud of dust kicked by the new warriors got closer and closer.
         Funny how I was on the wrong side of the slaughter this time, and how the victims of the previous one would help their killer survive. One of my companions fell beside me, managing to take one of the armed ones with him. Seeing his shiny metal lance I slid from under the two corpses I was hiding under, grabbed it, and rolled up. I still had no idea where to turn, except I knew to keep quiet and lay low.
         A boy stared at me, so hopeful, seeing my plan to get a weapon come together, he never tried to dodge my lance until it came out the other side of his chest.
         I fought my way back and forth, stabbing at the powerless that counted on me to save their sorry hides, offing one or another of the second group when noone was looking.

         The crowd roared more than ever. Everything that was going on was obvious to them, watching from the outside. But the fodder in the arena was too busy doing a horrible job at surviving to notice the guy raving through flesh and bone.
         Then we were three, and the crowd was screaming... they yelled like they still needed more blood:
         "One more!"
         We faced each other. Neither would hesitate killing, and we knew we couldn't just walk away, but I knew something they didn't: the crowd was wrong.

Two more...


Where did this come from?                                                         Oh crap, then what?

Original work C Pedro Nunes. Split according to OP's vision.

A Different Story - Wil iv

The pits. Of course.

        Suddenly all was clear. The kidnapping, the forced work, the ridiculous amount of guards for a mine of ragged weaklings... We were stocked pigs for slaughter.
        The sound of marching was muffled by the screams of the crowd. Something was brewing. I looked around: there was a bunch of boys near me, more people I barely knew from the mine; across the arena was another group, except this one had their clothes marked in blood. Both were frozen in their feet, shying away from the thousands of eyes around'em.
        Fear, screaming, blood and sand. All had a very distinct smell, and could almost touch it. There was a bunch of weapons in the middle of the arena, and it was time to shine.
        There was nothing to be said. I ran to the stack, and my friends quickly followed. Those on the other side were not so keen on living, and moved only when the glint of our blades caught their eye.
        We had been locked up for far too long to risk going back. The crowd caught their breath when we charged the defenseless kids.
        There was blood. Much more than I'd ever seen, I had never killed anyone before, but never thought I'd feel so.. unconcerned.
        Once I got past the surprise of not being surprised, I took to hacking away until not a single man in that group was moving.
        The crowd was not excited. For someone that came to see the gore and violence, they weren't showing that much passion. But I had more to worry about.

VICTORS OF THE WHITE TEAM

Put down your weapons. Leave the arena now, and rest. You've earned it.

       
        One of the larger gates crawled open. Beyond it, I saw trees, and freedom. I ran, we ran, like we had never ran before. So close, Closer, On it. A huge portcullis came down. NO.
        More loud screaming. The cheering was at its maximum now. Behind us, we found a new group, more young men in clean clothing.

                They didn't look friendly.

Where did this come from?                                                         Then what?

Original work C Pedro Nunes. Split according to OP's vision.

A Different Story - Wil iii

         There were no heroes in the mines. Noone made a move. Even the scrub that carried food terrified most of the men. Strong men, with rock-shattering picks, feared the boy with a small pot. Most wet their pants -what little was left of them- when the guards came around, picking up those too weak and replacing them with younger blood every fortnight. Not a single one of us thought the ones that were taken away were luckier than those who stayed.

         Every day was alike. The light crawled across the white rock, dance around it. Withered away and died, and some men took to follow the exemple. The stubborn ones, those that didn't, slept little or not at all, from muscle cramps, or hunger cramps, or the smell, or all the yelling in the pain that took over when the mind was not busy axing solid ore.

         The white rock was gone. We soon heard the rustle of armor, the heavier stomping of the guards' boots. Each man lined up next to his pile of ore, hoping for the smallest piece of meat instead of everyday's  bread.

         No. No meat for me either. "I should have worked harder." The meekness was finding its way into me. "No", I thought, "I should get out of here." I had grown since I had been brought to work in the mine. There was no way I could feed my newfound constitution with bread and water. I began plotting a way to train, and still work. That was an action best delayed by thinking.

         I found the corpse right where I knew he'd be. The guard had been left to rot at the place he died, consumed by the disease and despair. The other guards showed him no more respect than they showed the living slaves, but me and a couple others took off his shabby leather armor and put him in a nearby crate. It had been a week, but he still had his iron gauntlet. Though rust began to creep in, the old soldier's name engraving was still visible. Thank you, "Porter".

Those few that watched, terrified, entertained thoughts of heroes and saviors as they caught my smile.

         It fit like the glove I never had.

         Even if it was slower now, the gauntlet was the focus I needed to keep practising. My style got better, at both fighting and at punching ore out of the wall. Personal space wasn't a rare resource. Entire galleries and closed walls were mine, and I couldn't work any more if I wanted to.

         Nothing the others said about being taken and not returning worried me.

And then it was my turn. I was swinging around an old pick shaft, when more blinded boys came tumbling in. "You with the stick, time to go.".

I put down my lame weapon and walked towards the hooded men. There was a "smell ya later" in my face that my coworkers caught on, although they couldn't see that the reason I was sad was the loss of my training place.
         Blindfolded again. And chained.
         I followed the sound of the armored boots again, stumbling a few times when someone split and they wouldn't tell us where to go. Without much else to do, I thought about my future. I hoped it would not be like thebug I just stepped on. Noone would remember me that way. I wouldn't have that.

         Keys fell at my feet a second after the iron door closed behind us. I hurried to take off my chains and clear my eyes.
         It didn't improve much. It was still dark, a long tunnel with but a single, small light at the end.

         Could I see the sun again? I ran up the slightly sloped tunnel, towards the light. It grew, it was a passage, could it be freedom?
         ..Such light..

         It hurt my eyes, accustomed to the dark as they were, but I was happy to see it growing larger and larger.
         With eyes half closed, I left the tunnel at what seemed to be at the foot of a valley too small to be.
         That....
         ...and the endless cheering all around me.

Where did this come from?                                                         Then what?

Original work C Pedro Nunes. Split according to OP's vision.

A Different Story - Wil ii

        Some answers were easy to come by. Others not so much. Some were answered by questions, like "why am I blindfolded?" kinda answered "am I still in the woods?". I tried to remove the cloth on my eyes.

        Chains. Of course.

        I struggled to my feet and tried to leave. I managed to shamble a couple steps.
        Chains. Should have known by then.

        I got on my knees and crawled away. Maybe the chains weren't holding me to a wall.

        They weren't. So came the whip. I preferred the chains.

        Thinking back now, I don't know how I wasn't worried. Probably shoulda been. Then again, they could have killed me whenever they wanted, bit they didn't. I had some purpose.

        I thought of mother. She probably thought about me too, for the split second before she realised she'd only burn half the wood now. I wondered what I had gotten into.

        I walked to what I found to be the entrance of a cave, where the chains at my feet came off. "The two of you, left", came a harsh voice, followed by a punch to the ribs. "The old dogs, with me."

        Not knowing what in hell left was (love ya, mom), I took a chance.

        Whip.

        Left hand is what you use to hold the heads you'll cut with your right hand. Don't think I'll ever forget it that way...

        Iron doors closed behind me. The chains on my wrists fell, so I took off the blindfold. Not that it changed much. The world was grey and black. Brown, when you were lucky.  The close walls were a greyish-brown. The far end was black. The people around me were grey, dirty from years of earth and dust, although their hands were black. The muddy floor stank of all things that came from, or were, human. 

        A bitter "Welcome to the iron mines" was the warmest thing I was offered. "There's your pickaxe, and there's your timer" was not as bad as a "try not to get killed when you go for the wood or I'll have to hire someone to go get it". The timer was a white stone, right under the only hole that connected to the surface. "When you can't see the stone anymore, they come and take what you cut out. They give you some food, according to what you got", an old man told me when the huge serjeant looked away.

        There were a lot of people in that mine. Boys and old geezers, strong men at their peak, all cowed under the flogging.

        "And if I don't want to?"

        The sound of clashing metal and falling rocks was everywhere.

        "Ah, just do like Andrah Seih. Andrah didn't feel like working too hard either." Though I never met him, Andrah looked like an amazingly lazy fellow. He didn't work, he didn't exercise, he wouldn't even eat. He was also a skeleton, his flesh picked almost clean by the worms. "But I tell you, boy, I'd rather work."

        Chopping resources for others, rotting corpses, food that even an ooze would balk away from... If not for the low light, one could call that place home.

Where did this come from?                                                                     Then what?

Original work C Pedro Nunes. Split according to OP's vision.

A Different Story - Wil

"Quick, hide him! Noone can find out."

         When these are the first words you recognise in your life, you just know better not to expect normal to happen. But who was I to see through the intentions of outsiders, when even to keep breathing required some practice?

         Practice. Yes. The school of Hard-Knocks, is where I went, not that I ever heard of any other. Whether it was me or my mom that called that shot, I never thought about it much, and it matters even less. The house needed a man, and for good or bad, that's what I was. Short and scrawny, almost like the corpses we used to find in the woods, "We need firewood", she would say. "Watch out for the thieves" would always come after, not out of her love or fear for my life, but because it got friggin cold in the old shack.

         The thieves, or any living man, they were not what I was afraid of. The bodies, littering the dark earth of the forest, they scared me. The thought that one day one would pass by, like I did every other day, and see me there, gaping, forgotten, like trash, without any mark (on myself, or the world) to go by, terrified me.

         "Think that's enough wood? Go get some more, so we can finally eat" was the closest I had for Happy Birthday that day. That decade, in fact. It had been twelve years since I had my only gift, a shabby necklace with a small G-shaped.. thing. Never knew what it meant, or if it ever did mean anything. Probably a cheap-ass trinket found on the ground. Or a corpse. Whatever. I kept it, thinking that, some time ago, someone remembered me. In good time too, because a moment like that never came around again.

         And since the firewood never sold itself nor the food rained magically on our dirty plates, I walked to the pile of logs I had cut before.

         A man was there.

         "Sir, that wood can be yours for a good price, but please put it down"

         "Mom never told you not to wander alone, kid? I'd run to her if I were you."

         I was never a man of great thought. Thinking delays your actions. But that time, thinking out the part were I charged a man I did not know, unarmed, might have saved a lot of trouble. I looked down to the man, with his back on the floor, and took a step back.

         "Sir, my mother needs that wood to make it through the winter. Stay away from it."

         Hoping he had understood, I let him get up. His strenght was nothing to worry about, that much I knew from the impact. He was searching for a something in the snow. My hopes quickly melted as fast as the snow beneath my feet. He found, he pulled, his sword.

         It didn't budge.

         "The frost, sometimes it makes the blades stick."

         He probably didn't hear me. I had no intention of giving him time to draw. I threw myself at him.

        

         A boy, threw himself at a man he did not know, twice his size, unarmed.

          They fought.

           And someone got hit.

        

         That's the last I remember from my forest, but the godawful smell had changed little.

Then what?

Original work C Pedro Nunes. Split according to OP's vision.

Prologue - Aran

          Aran is a young Shifter. Naturally, he was even more so a few years back, when he could still call home to the large clearing in Riftwood, a forest neighbouring the Underchasm in Faerun; when he still had his clan, top of the forest’s food chain. such was the man’s name - was always happy to see Aran.

          Aran’s story begins like most other Shifters’. Although mother and father both shared the half-breed, he had met an uncle, his father’s brother, a human living in Baldur’s Gate. This man was not welcome to The Wild, but a Shifter could easily pass as a Half-Elf on a city the size of Baldur’s Gate, and Daenor -that was his name- always welcomed Aran to the big city.

          When not hunting, or visiting Daenor, Aran played with Magga, a Drow. This most strange friendship was not taken well by the clan, not with the Underdark that close. But Magga was a kind girl, of Aran’s age, and when they race, in Magga’s giant spider and Aran’s wild drake, they were not Drow and Shifter, but the forest itself . Aran was not the greatest of warriors. In the hunting pack, he would be the tracker more often than not. His light weight and slender constitution, and the awareness of the forest, would give him the upper hand against boar and bear. But the Underdark is large, and great is the power of Lolth. And as the wolf-men, the Drow did not want one of their kind exposing the secret of the dark to the overworld. So the spider lords conspired, for the forest was rich at the time, and the Underchasm depleted. The conspiracy ran wild through the East Rift branch of the Underdark. And Magga and Aran, young stalkers, knew nothing.
          The news came to Aran when he was on the road. Baldur’s Gate was his destination, as many times before that. A black crow brought him the blacker message the master of birds managed to write in the little time he had left. For months, Aran erred through the woods and mountains of Faërun. Days could no longer be told apart, and seasons lost their meaning to the boy that found himself lost in grief and rage. During the night, the sounds of predators would not allow him to sleep. The next day, even the trees would seem to whisper words of death. At last, Aran’s will broke. He laid his back on the ground, and waited.
          He closed his eyes, and waited. And when he got tired of waiting, he opened his eyes, to see if he was dead already.

          And as the biggest, largest damn bear he had ever seen was just there in front of him, he decided to close his eyes again and wait a bit more.

          Katar was the shaman’s name. The bear was called Faerun, and the bear was Faerun. And Katar listen to Aran’s tale, and then told him hers. Katar needed a student; Aran needed some fire, and perhaps a bed; Faerun needed nothing, because he was a bear, but mainly because he was a spirit; but still he took in Aran. And Katar showed Aran the trees, and plants, and animals, and the spirits of everithing that lives, and everything that has come to pass. Aran learned fast, and through Faerun, would speak to spirits.
However, Aran was unable to take a spirit as companion. His scars were too deep. With understanding, Katar took to the spirits she knew the least: of wind and of life, of fire, and water. And Aran took them in his heart, and the started mending the pains. Then, Aran would come of age. With Katar and Faerun’s blessing, Aran was now truly a druid. As a parting gift, Katar created a portal, and, not revealing where it would take him, bade Aran cross it.


          For over a year, Aran roamed Greyhawk. Working as a hunter, or maybe a healer, or even the bodyguard of some lordling with airs of grandeur, Aran was comfortable in most any shape he took, but the greater fortunes seem not to smile at him. What he looked for, though, was some other like him. Another orphan, refugee or reject, with the least bit of respect to the spirit world. Katar had taught him well, and the best way to repay, he thought, was to bring to life another primal warrior.
          It was on the outskirts of a small village where heard, from a small farmer whose crops he had saved, a tale of a dragon, to the South, which was said to rule the neighbouring city. Stopping at the village for some more info, he was at the bar when a horde of goblins decide it’s probably fun to torch the place. Somewhat annoyed (Aran enjoys his coffee cold..), he fights off the mob with an amazing display of force, and the small help of two bands of adventurers. When it calmed down, his heightened panther senses heard some kind of disturbance to the East, and went to help there too. For a job well done, Aran was awarded a pouch of magical dust. His inability to recognise not-primal magic dictated that experimentation would be a good way to find out what it was. Along with the pouch, the promise of even greater riches, should he be able to recover that which the goblins took, was given to him by Head of town council, Troyas. And, ten hours later, Aran and his team arrived at the old castle ruins where, he thought, the goblins had set camp, controlled by some higher power.