Some Post-Battle Lore
In the battle's aftermath, survivors began to trickle in. Gruuma managed to wrangle what was left of the boyz mob, by some forceful negotiations. To Gruuma's surprise Krekka lived, as did a majority of his Red Stikkaz, when they came skulking into camp one night. Fear soon became anger. Fights broke out amongst the greenskins as long-standing feuds were brought out to be settled. You see, orcs, despite their brutish nature, are similar to the spotted hounds of the Southlands. They see blood, they sense weakness, and they will pounce and tear you to shreds. It takes strength to keep a warband in line, and the ability to channel that energy. Otherwise the cycle of infighting persists. This is what elevates a boss to a warboss.
The sun had begun to set behind the mountains and painted the camp in a pinkish-orange light. The air was crisp; the mountain chill mixed with scents of spruce, smoke, and dung. Around the main fire sat Gruuma with the warband's various big 'uns to discuss what they should do next, unaware his grip on the warband was about to be tested. In the time since their retreat his physique had grown substantially, adapting and reacting to the process of subjugating the warband's more ambitious members. His armor and furs sat tight against him now.
Brokrat, the mangled pig-faced brute who led the footsloggin' lads simply known as Brokrat's Bullies, argued with Krekka over who deserved first pick of the spoils. Typically an orc would remind a goblin his place without any question, but the odd git had proven his worth time and time again. Gruuma would never openly admit it, but would gladly trade Brokrat's ugly mug for two more Krekkas if needed.
"Yer loons cost us da right flank," Brokrat growled, jabbing a thick finger at the shaman. "Bein' as we did da real fightin', da next spoils oughta be ours first."
Krekka didn't so much as flinch. A dry, wheezing cackle rattled out of him, mushroom spores still crusted in the corner of his grin. "Where was dat fightin' spirit when da riders was cuttin' down yer lads while they ran squealin' like stuck pigs?" He rolled a shriveled cap between two fingers, sniffing it once before it vanished into his robes. "Keep runnin' yer gob, Brokrat, and I'll slip somethin' special in yer grog. Won't taste no different goin' down... but ya won't wake up neither."
"Now daz how yer greet yer bozz no iz it?" the snarl of a voice cut through the argument and silenced all around the fire. Gruuma looked toward the edge of camp to see Ugag lumbering toward him with a dozen or so greenskin in tow. A group of snotlings scurried out of his path, one too slow to dodge, catching a metal boot square in the ribs; Ugag punting it clean out of its snotty skin.
The fire crackled in the silence that followed. Every eye around it turned first to Ugag, then to Gruuma, waiting to see which way the wind would blow. Gruuma rose slow, unhurried, and let the silence stretch. He'd grown since Ugag had last stood in this camp: broader through the chest, taller by a head, and for the first time, he could look Ugag in the eye.
"Didn't expect ya crawlin' back," Gruuma said, voice flat, giving nothing away. "Figured da fanatics finally got a taste dey liked."
Ugag's grin didn't waver, though something behind his eyes did. "Takes more'n a bunch of farmers wiv pitchforks to put Ugag in da ground." He jerked his chin toward the fire, toward the space Gruuma had occupied at its head. "Looks like ya been keepin' my seat warm. Why don't you fetch me sum grog, eh?"
A few of the newer boyz laughed. The kind of laugh that comes from not knowing any better. Krekka didn't. Brokrat didn't. They just watched Gruuma, waiting.
Gruuma didn't move for the grog. He didn't move at all, save for his hand, which drifted slow and deliberate to the haft of the chopper at his belt. "Fetch it yerself," he said, voice flat. "Or has runnin' from farmers made ya forget how ta walk?"
The laughter died fast.
Ugag's smile finally cracked. "Careful how ya talk to yer bozz, Gruuma. I made ya. Pulled ya outta da runt pile and put an axe in yer hand." His own hand found the haft of his cleaver. "Don't much fancy watchin' a pup forget who's da dog."
"Den it's a good ting," Gruuma said, drawing his chopper in one smooth motion, "I ain't a pup no more."
Ugag moved first, a wild overhead swing meant to end it before it started. It was the same reckless fury that had gotten him lost in every battle he'd ever fought. Gruuma had watched that fury for two years. He knew its shape better than Ugag knew his own.
He didn't meet the blow. He stepped inside it.
The cleaver whistled past his ear and buried itself in the dirt where Gruuma had stood a heartbeat before. By the time Ugag wrenched it free, Gruuma's shoulder was already driving into his chest, and the old boss went down hard among the sparks and scattering coals.
The camp didn't move. No orc reached for a weapon, no goblin dared to run. A warband settling its true business was not something you interrupted, not if you wanted to keep your teeth.
Ugag rolled clear, spitting ash, and came up snarling. "Dat all ya got?"
"Nah." Gruuma's voice was calm, almost bored, the way a boss's voice should be when there was no longer any question how this ended. "Just gettin' started."
Ugag charged again, sloppier this time, strength outrunning sense, same as it always had. Gruuma let the chopper do the thinking his old boss never had. He caught the cleaver on his blade, twisted, and felt the weapon spin free of Ugag's grip and vanish into the dark beyond the fire.
For a moment Ugag just stood there, empty-handed, staring at his own fingers like they'd betrayed him.
"Should've stayed wiv da village," Gruuma said. "Farmers don't ask questions before dey kill ya."
The chopper came down before Ugag could answer. It was not clean, and it was not quick, but it was final. The old boss's head striking the dirt and rolling to a stop at Brokrat's feet, firelight still flickering in eyes that could no longer see.
Gruuma planted his boot on Ugag's chest, hauled the head up by what remained of its jaw, and held it high enough that every greenskin around that fire could see it plain. Blood ran black down his forearm and hissed where it dripped into the coals.
"Ugag's dead." He let the words sit, let them settle over the warband like smoke. "And dis ain't Ugag's mob no more."
It was Krekka, of all of them, who broke the silence. His same dry, wheezing cackle, delighted rather than afraid. "Den whose mob iz it?"
Gruuma looked down at the head in his fist, then out at the firelit ring of faces waiting on his word: Brokrat's raiders, Krekka's Red Stikkaz, the boyz who'd bled on the mountain and the ones who'd run from it... all of them his now, whether they liked it or not.
He turned from the fire and crossed to where his boar stood tethered, its tusks still crusted with dried blood from the battle. Gruuma looped a fist of rope through Ugag's jaw and lashed the head to the saddle, letting it hang loose against the boar's flank. A trophy, a warning, a promise, all in one.
"Gruuma's," he said. "Gruuma da Skullsplitta. And any git wiv a problem wiv dat can come tell Ugag about it."
The boar snorted and stamped, sensing the blood, and around the warband, one by one, the boyz began to roar his name.
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| Gruuma stands victorious by Sam |
