Snubson

....he looked upon the fields below him. The packs of Clefthoof eating grass from the front with their flat, yet excessively effiencient teeth, pounding what was left behind them, with yet again, flat objects, known as their feet. The amount they ate was amazing that there still was such lush and healthy levels of grass in Negrand at all. Yet, in this place, he could feel the strength of the power of nature more than ever, he knew all here, almost everything was balanced in almost perfection.

He approached Garadar at a fair pace, the guards on the gate spotted him on the horizon and were prepared. The poles of their weapons crossed in a defensive stance, seeing the being not slowing once on his approach. A low guttral growl started, partly in annoyance, mostly in frustration. Always the same actions, always the same results, the patience in his already lackluster reservoir had almost ran out by now. Nearly upon the guards, he lept, a low howl at first, rising sharply as his ascent neared the top, came from his lips and with a sharp crack of his neck, he landed upon two feet, clad firmly in mail, entirely different from the ghostlike four paws he had left the ground almost a second ago from. The howl had changed significantly, to a annoyed grumble.

The guards relaxed ever so slightly, eyeing him still as an enemy, their weapons still clasped firmly between their hands, blades facing towards his open, unprotected face. The grumble changed from being almost unaudiable, to one sentence:

"If yer think I look blue, belong in a lake, an' be havin' some strange appendices...yer best be trying to hit me now, if not, shift yer silly youn' arms from me way, afore I be rippin' em arms from yer sockets...I be one of yer...bloody idiots yer are."

The guards looked him up and down once more, almost with contempt, the two weapons hanging from his belt, one a large worn axe, almost big enough to be considered to be used with two hands, the other, merely almost that alone, a severed claw, slight meaty tendrils looking as though twas still attached to the beast it was ripped from. The bloody mess of his armour and his hair, the blood aging and turning from the deep crimson of a fresh kill to the old worn brown. Their looks crossed each other, nodding slightly, they stood back and allowed the orc into their village....


....later that day, as he rinsed his armour in the lake, trying to extract an annoying piece of meat, unknown was its original owner, a member of the forsaken approached him:

"Yer Snub? I heard your skills in the ways of enchanting are beyond many...can I have the services of such reknowned skills?"

With a heavy sigh, he laid the piece of chainmail upon a stone, with almost revered gentility, ensuring the days sun would only dry it slowly, but yet still not rust the metals in the piece and sighed inwardly. It was going to be one of those days yet again, he turned, his face evolving from the concentration of the process of cleaning the armour, to that of a slow, dimwitted and overall, honest...pleb:

"Yar!....Me snub!"


Inwardly, he notched up another reason to be removing his axe from a dwarves back later in the day.