Blackmount Chronicle - View From A Bluff
This just wasn't the week for warfare, Marshall Grekk resolved, looking out from his concealed position on the valley rim above Vanaeron's eastern frontier province. His forces had been stewing in their own juices for going-on eight days awaiting Grekk's official order to reduce the idyllic little farming village below to screaming and cinders, but something about it all just felt... wrong. It wasn't his grunts and mankillers, they were undeniably of the finest greenskin stock in the 4th Fist of the Stonetusk Clan. It wasn't the wind or the starsigns, even the orders were straightforward and unambiguous as to the negligible threat posed by the roughly two-dozen able-bodied pinkskins the village could muster, rudimentarily armed with whatever tools of agriculture might be bent to the purposes of war at a moment's notice.
The villagers, Grekk decided, were the problem. They simply weren't afraid enough. He knew for a fact they were aware of the Horde invasion, knew further still that more than one of his scouts had been spotted in the past week. The lack of substantive orders from the marshall was making the even best grunts careless and the worst outright mutinous, all of them on one level or another hoping for a catalyst event after which the engage order would become inevitable and getting sloppy about remaining hidden in order to provoke one. Still, the villagers were unshaken. Not even an attempt at rudimentary fortification made Grekk uneasy, their livestock tended, their fields sown as if the harvest would ever come in their lifetimes! No, something was not at all right with the world he was seeing, and before the marshall committed his force to the business of their slaughter, Grekk needed to understand the cause of the villagers' apparent unconcern.
It took him until he had picked his way halfway down the steep sandy wall of the valley to abandon the tedium of stealth, deciding that he might learn more through discovery than subterfuge anyway, and what could a few farmers do about his presence even if they did notice the figure of savage bureaucratic majesty striding across the scrub plains toward their homes. Once, he thought he had been spotted by a herdsman wearing ragged clothes, but as the dog-tended sheep were steered away from the newcomer, the herdsman was revealed to be nothing more than a crude human figure with outstretched arms, planted amid the row of beans the sheep had been illicitly decimating. Probably a religious icon of some kind, perhaps an offering to their no-doubt-pink little gods to drive away the horror awaiting them in the hills.
It wasn't until Grekk had reached the closed doors of the town's wooden meetinghouse that he detected the first actual inhabitant of the village. They must be huddled inside for safety, he chuckled, giving a derisive snort at the idea of this little barn-like wooden building providing any real protection against trained grunts, and the fire they would be delighted to feed such a structure to. His eyes paused briefly at the fresh circle of silver paint on the thin and aging doors, a pang of the old uncertainty rising momentarily like a bite-fly buzzing around the back of his mind, but it wasn't the doubt that chilled his blood in the afternoon sun that day, nearly so much as the words that drifted forth from within that hollow shell of wood and dust that moments before had seemed so vulnerable.
"A few more days priestess. Decency begs us stay our hand and let them live just a while longer. Perhaps in that time the invaders will suffer a change of heart and realize they are no match for us. To end so many unsuspecting lives without offering due chance for escape would be uncivilized." Grekk froze at the words, his hand only inches from the door handle.
A whisper from behind him nearly made the marshall jump free of his own skin, but instead he managed to show only the mild alarm he could not banish from his face after his most troubling recent eavesdrop. He turned slowly to discover Captain Hulthaag and the score of grunts in his direct command assembled by the well behind him.
"We thought you were going to steal the glory for yourself." Hulthaag growled, his eyes betraying the concern for his superior officer's safety that had truly motivated this deviation from patrol. "The men were eager for their share of it." He compounded the lie for both their dignity's sake, but was not prepared for the speed with which Grekk descended the wooden steps and nearly flung himself into Hulthaag's proximity. "We have to leave this valley. Now." the low-whispered words tumbled over themselves to escape Grekk's mouth. Met with only the confused countenance of the junior officer and his men, Grekk attempted, somewhat badly, to elaborate but faltered again as the sound of shouting men roaring some stomp-punctuated unison oath about triumph or-some-such-thing shook the poor meetinghouse's frail construction.
Instead of continuing to explain, Grekk simply pointed back behind him at the building by way of proof. "They are planning something." Grekk said simply. "And they mean to kill us all to a man, but for their mercy we would be dead already in our beds, collecting flies." The captain's brows knitted, but he nodded. "What do we do?" Hulthaag finally asked, becoming gradually more unnerved as the chanting echoed Grekk's appraisal of its source's intent. "Can they even hurt us?" Hulthaag asked without inflection. "They seem to think they can. And easily, as if not to do so would be mercy, not defeat." Grekk answered, looking into the faces of the assembled grunts and seeing now his own misgivings taking root behind every one. "I say we leave quietly, this time with real concealment. If we leave no trail, they will have no way to chase us when we have gone." He said finally. He was answered with curt nods and a pace from the grunts that belied anxiety and relief, unfamiliar sensations no doubt to all of them.
By nightfall, the Fourth Fist of Clan Stonetusk was beating a torchless retreat back into the mountains to regroup with the larger force headed North to the siege of Eppswere.
"So it worked then, they believed us?" Tylic smirked his trademark lopsided grin at Janna who slid her back down the podium to connect firmly with the floor. "I think," the only-newly-minted 'high priestess' looked around the room at the unsure faces of all those taking shelter there and realized that the shape of their outlooks rested squarely on the words she would utter in the moment she'd been about to let fly by unshaped, "I think they're lucky they fell for it." The smile on her face began as a false one, made soley from bravado, but as the cheers began and restored confidence started to take hold in those faces and the hearts they represented, that smile lost all dishonesty in spite of itself and she found herself reassured by the very people she had put it on to inspire. Maybe that was the lesson of this last harrowing week, all of them feigning unconcern in the shadow of the Horde. Sometimes even a thing that begins as complete fabrication can be made real enough to divert armies. In war, and possibly other things, what shapes events is not what you are, but what you appear to be.
On the roof of the chapel, between the twin shimmers of two outstretched wings, existed for a moment quite vivid thoughts of just how true their bearer would have made that bluff, should his priestess have faced the threat of real harm. Some truths, the best ones by the angel's reckoning, only appear immaterial because they are flattered at being believed-in unseen.
The villagers, Grekk decided, were the problem. They simply weren't afraid enough. He knew for a fact they were aware of the Horde invasion, knew further still that more than one of his scouts had been spotted in the past week. The lack of substantive orders from the marshall was making the even best grunts careless and the worst outright mutinous, all of them on one level or another hoping for a catalyst event after which the engage order would become inevitable and getting sloppy about remaining hidden in order to provoke one. Still, the villagers were unshaken. Not even an attempt at rudimentary fortification made Grekk uneasy, their livestock tended, their fields sown as if the harvest would ever come in their lifetimes! No, something was not at all right with the world he was seeing, and before the marshall committed his force to the business of their slaughter, Grekk needed to understand the cause of the villagers' apparent unconcern.
It took him until he had picked his way halfway down the steep sandy wall of the valley to abandon the tedium of stealth, deciding that he might learn more through discovery than subterfuge anyway, and what could a few farmers do about his presence even if they did notice the figure of savage bureaucratic majesty striding across the scrub plains toward their homes. Once, he thought he had been spotted by a herdsman wearing ragged clothes, but as the dog-tended sheep were steered away from the newcomer, the herdsman was revealed to be nothing more than a crude human figure with outstretched arms, planted amid the row of beans the sheep had been illicitly decimating. Probably a religious icon of some kind, perhaps an offering to their no-doubt-pink little gods to drive away the horror awaiting them in the hills.
It wasn't until Grekk had reached the closed doors of the town's wooden meetinghouse that he detected the first actual inhabitant of the village. They must be huddled inside for safety, he chuckled, giving a derisive snort at the idea of this little barn-like wooden building providing any real protection against trained grunts, and the fire they would be delighted to feed such a structure to. His eyes paused briefly at the fresh circle of silver paint on the thin and aging doors, a pang of the old uncertainty rising momentarily like a bite-fly buzzing around the back of his mind, but it wasn't the doubt that chilled his blood in the afternoon sun that day, nearly so much as the words that drifted forth from within that hollow shell of wood and dust that moments before had seemed so vulnerable.
"A few more days priestess. Decency begs us stay our hand and let them live just a while longer. Perhaps in that time the invaders will suffer a change of heart and realize they are no match for us. To end so many unsuspecting lives without offering due chance for escape would be uncivilized." Grekk froze at the words, his hand only inches from the door handle.
A whisper from behind him nearly made the marshall jump free of his own skin, but instead he managed to show only the mild alarm he could not banish from his face after his most troubling recent eavesdrop. He turned slowly to discover Captain Hulthaag and the score of grunts in his direct command assembled by the well behind him.
"We thought you were going to steal the glory for yourself." Hulthaag growled, his eyes betraying the concern for his superior officer's safety that had truly motivated this deviation from patrol. "The men were eager for their share of it." He compounded the lie for both their dignity's sake, but was not prepared for the speed with which Grekk descended the wooden steps and nearly flung himself into Hulthaag's proximity. "We have to leave this valley. Now." the low-whispered words tumbled over themselves to escape Grekk's mouth. Met with only the confused countenance of the junior officer and his men, Grekk attempted, somewhat badly, to elaborate but faltered again as the sound of shouting men roaring some stomp-punctuated unison oath about triumph or-some-such-thing shook the poor meetinghouse's frail construction.
Instead of continuing to explain, Grekk simply pointed back behind him at the building by way of proof. "They are planning something." Grekk said simply. "And they mean to kill us all to a man, but for their mercy we would be dead already in our beds, collecting flies." The captain's brows knitted, but he nodded. "What do we do?" Hulthaag finally asked, becoming gradually more unnerved as the chanting echoed Grekk's appraisal of its source's intent. "Can they even hurt us?" Hulthaag asked without inflection. "They seem to think they can. And easily, as if not to do so would be mercy, not defeat." Grekk answered, looking into the faces of the assembled grunts and seeing now his own misgivings taking root behind every one. "I say we leave quietly, this time with real concealment. If we leave no trail, they will have no way to chase us when we have gone." He said finally. He was answered with curt nods and a pace from the grunts that belied anxiety and relief, unfamiliar sensations no doubt to all of them.
By nightfall, the Fourth Fist of Clan Stonetusk was beating a torchless retreat back into the mountains to regroup with the larger force headed North to the siege of Eppswere.
"So it worked then, they believed us?" Tylic smirked his trademark lopsided grin at Janna who slid her back down the podium to connect firmly with the floor. "I think," the only-newly-minted 'high priestess' looked around the room at the unsure faces of all those taking shelter there and realized that the shape of their outlooks rested squarely on the words she would utter in the moment she'd been about to let fly by unshaped, "I think they're lucky they fell for it." The smile on her face began as a false one, made soley from bravado, but as the cheers began and restored confidence started to take hold in those faces and the hearts they represented, that smile lost all dishonesty in spite of itself and she found herself reassured by the very people she had put it on to inspire. Maybe that was the lesson of this last harrowing week, all of them feigning unconcern in the shadow of the Horde. Sometimes even a thing that begins as complete fabrication can be made real enough to divert armies. In war, and possibly other things, what shapes events is not what you are, but what you appear to be.
On the roof of the chapel, between the twin shimmers of two outstretched wings, existed for a moment quite vivid thoughts of just how true their bearer would have made that bluff, should his priestess have faced the threat of real harm. Some truths, the best ones by the angel's reckoning, only appear immaterial because they are flattered at being believed-in unseen.