(this is just a story and only as canon as the DM wants it to be) According to Morg, there are only four things to seek from life: A strong chief, a strong family, and to die in glorious battle. He accepted Rolf's challenge hoping to show the skulking scoundrel the true meaning of honor and to grant him a noble death in the process. But, the leader of dis-uh-dents showed his true colors, fleeing at the outset of combat like a rabbit flushed from hiding, and soundly striking Morg each time he closed the rift between them. rolf;s blows were fierce, he was strong... yet he was a coward. Morg's people taught him that one is supposed to crash into a battle like a great tide of blood and weather the savageness of the enemy, outmatching it with one's own ferocity. In this way, only the strong win battles, slaughtering the weak. How could this man be strong, grievously wounding Morg with each decisive strike of his magical weapon, yet be weak in that he runs from Morg and slashes at the orc as he closes in? The apparent paradox only fuels Morg's rage as the battle wages on. Morg had come close to death so many times he was unsure if the spirits could take him. Each time it seemed that he would disappear into the black he woke surrounded by his allies, only needing a bit of rest before he was able to return to the battlefield. Morg was suprised that he could still have thoughts at this point. As he started striking back, weathering rolf's blows, the supernatural rage flowing through his body and spirit heightened his awareness. His thoughts were of Neshra and the family they might one day make once she decides to return (for Morg is certain that she will return). He thinks of the chief that Veldrin may one day be if he can fully learn how to lead with strength and honor. Morg doesn't want to live into old age and decrepitude, but doesn't want to die before seeing these things. That is the point, however, as these things are most tangible to Morg when they are in peril. The great gamble of honor by combat makes these treasure glitter all the more, lighting up the empty hole that is Morg's head with unparalleled radiance. After a particularly vicious blow by Rolf, Morg began to notice the many slashes across his body. His life blood littered the ground of the arena, each step a warm wet squish as he changed his footing to continue the fight. The dis-uh-dents ogled silently while Morg's companions watched as well. the visions in Morg's mind were almost alive as rolf raised his windcutter high, preparing for the final strike that would knock Morg to the ground. The orc was no longer seeing and hearing the battle, but feeling it through his hallucination. He could see the future: a scarred Veldrin sitting around a great fire after having learned many important lessons that a chief must know but is forbidden to Morg, Neshra and her young brood, scions of Morg, their faces indistinct and blurry. But, more can feel their strength. he knows they will carry his legacy beyond anything he can imagine. He reaches out for Neshra and feels her hand up on his face... Rolf completes his strike and Morg clatters to the ground. Morg feels a sharp pain in his chest and suddenly everything grows very cold. He lays upon his back in the vast darkness. He see's several skeletal hands pressed against his body from all directions and hears the chattering of bones. These are the angry bones of his dead tribe, bound to him after their destruction. In life they had projected their rage through him, but now they all wait in the strange darkness that's impenetrable to Morg's vision. He feels something watching him from afar and wants to rise and challenge it, but finds himself unable to move... Suddenly a flickering warmth comes from below him and the darkness begins to fill with orange light. He can see familiar silhouettes standing in a circle around him wearing tribal dress. Spiritual ankhegs dance around behind the circle and Morg can see misty trees and impossibly tall mountains further behind them in between flashes of orange flame. this must be the joining of the great hunt that his long dead chief told him about, where one joins the spirit world and sometimes becomes the hunter and then the hunted. Morg feels his strength returning and is able to get to his feet. The shadows of his ancestors reach out and the angry bones lift themselves from him, purging their rage in the fire even though Morg failed to avenge them. they all hold their hands out to Morg and the orc takes a step forward to join his brethren. But, he can still feel the alien presence watching him from the darkness between this life and the afterlife... He wants to turn around and face it like a true warrior, but his final reward beckons. Now is not the time for battle, but for rest. The clan must have a great festival prepared for the arrival of so many new spirits. Morg walks closer to his ancestors but feels a spike of pain shoot through his back. Slimy, slithering claws grapple him and begin dragging him back towards the cold and dark. His ancestors react with horror and draw shadowed weapons. They charge forward but are kept at bay by some spiritual force preventing them from leaving the great beyond. Morg holds out a desperate hand, shouting as he feels the mark on his forehead burn with white hot fire, "NO! Morg is DONE! Morg will DESTROY YOU! YOU CANNOT TAKE MORG!" The tendril-claws pull him further and further from everything he's waited for upon his death in combat until the last flickering of the fire and warmth fades, leaving Morg alone with the terror that he cannot see. A voice that sounds like an old crone whispers, echoing throughout the black with quiet malice, "My, how your soul has ripened since we last met..." Morg's eyes widen with terror as he realizes he's back the clutches of the cave demon that branded him. PART II: A tale of Two Donkeys (coming soon)
