Skadistad Harbour Skraelings
The night of his birth was filled with gale-like corpse winds, and rain of ashen taste. His orc-mother filled her feral mind with a wish of un-birth, when she laid eyes upon the creature she had born into the world. She would not live the night. Cailgrod, child of unholy sodomy, lord of minor mischief, master of personal gain, was born.
After a turbulent adolescence, Cailgrod half-orc found himself in the cold and despairing lands of Norsca. Its folk were glacial, hard and cold. But to his surprise, these men accepted, or rather tolerated, his cadaverous visage, and cruel mindset. Allowed to settle in the timbre town the northmen called Skadistad, he would watch the longships depart for southern raiding, and return, laden with plunder.
He would wander the wet, wooden docks, eying bare chested men, flaunting new scars, as they unloaded the ships.
When he saw the first mal-nourished slaves stumble unsteadily down a narrow gangplank, an idea was born.
On the market afterwards, between barrels of rotting fish and crates of crude tools,consumeables, valuables and slaves were sold to those who would pay gold. Men and elves as servants, or prostitutes. Dwarfs and docile orcs for labour. Brutes of all sorts for the fighting pits. Left, along with food turned on the way north, were the unwanted slaves. Those of dimunitive size, faerie strength, and unsound mind. He bought the lot, paying with ill-begotten treasure. Not being a counting man, he still reconed he had done a fair deal, as he gathered the crowd of puss-ridden miscreants around him.
- Any'a youz 'now Bluddbool? he asked, voice like mustard in a dwarfs ass.
There was shuffling.
- No'un will be beat'n fur sayi'n no.
- No, someone said.
- Dat's well. Ye 'now trolls?
- Ye, thats the ones that eats our kind, a strangely well spoken fellow at the back answered.
- Rite! You lot is gonna' help me catch a pair 'o 'em!
It had not gone as planned. The cages, corroded and in ill-repair, were still full. Every single of the slaves, named players by a few assuming individuals among them, were still alive. Aye, bones had been broken, tiny skulls concussed, grapling fingers lost. But all still drew breath from this world. His unholy promise to the god unnamed demanded blood. Gallons of it. And against iron shod gladiators, spiked killers on a bloodbowl pitch, his assembly of unlikely "players" should have been torn limb from green limb.
Instead the blood had been that of his minions victims. Though it pained him, he forced himself to rummage through his memories. Why had this gone askew?
On a blasted field of coarse gravel, a tribe-team of goats and fanatics should have made any further appearances un-needed. They should have sung their gurgling praises to Khorne, while his players bled out their miserable lives. The trolls had not gotten the message... enraged by the braying and chanting, they had ravaged the opposition.True, the Marauders of the Ice Tooth had played better, and the touchdowns had been conceeded. But when the referee let sound the gong, half the Khornates were victims of heavy troll hands and lesser green hands, spiked in steel for the occasion.
After this, ill begotten ideas spread amongst the slaves like dhiarrea in an orc-tavern. Could this game be learned? They would pay for their naive assumptions. Although blood was spilt, and a touchdown scored, the uncomprehensible elf team(owned by a dwarf!) won the next game comfortably, and even the dimmunitive creatures styling themselves "Fighting Cooks" won against the Skraelings. Emkerch chuckeled. That had been the first game where the opposition started spilling the blood of his underlings. Ah, the spirit they had shown. The souls of the Cooks slain would be valuable sacrifices to his god. They had harboured the spirit of creatures far exceeding their size.
The following defeat, at the hands of the elven Vinnskor Storm was overshadowed by a legendary death. In the middle of a particularly tenacious fight around the ball, the legendary killer elf Lionclaw found himself on all fours on the blood saturated grass. What last thoughts he had will never be known, for Ghorpondurt, opportunistic as always, put the tip of his spiked boot through the side of the prone Rodors skull. The festivities of whoring and drink that followed their defeats were marred by various funeral rites and formalities following this incident. He grudgingly sent a thought of respect to the fallen elf, though it sickende him.
How his team had managed to claw itself to a draw in the last game, against the despicable dwarfs of Microdorf, still eluded him. At least the hairy ab-men had given the pain his team had eluded throughout the season. Still, hardly any of the injuries had been serious, and now the slaves were already speaking of the next season amongst themselves in their cages. NEXT SEASON! There shouldnt have been a next season...
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