The world: Gai-len
Gai-len is a world different from those most are familiar with. The greatest and most flourishing civilizations consist of Orcs and Goblinoids, which live in relative peace alongside plenty strong and proud tribes of Giants of all sorts, Kobolds, Lizardfolk and many more monstrous beings. The element that disrupts the peace of this world the most is the relatively small and scattered population of Humans, Elves and Dwarves. Gnomes and Halflings exist, but only in captivity. They are being cultivated by the Orcs for their superior qualities as servants and mobile side tables.
Ages ago, the monstrous humanoids (this includes Orcs, Goblins, etc.) decided that the Humans, Elves and Dwarves deserved a place of their own. All humanoids were provided with free passage to a continent far overseas where they were left in peace, as promised. In return, being regarded a pest, the humanoids were outlawed in all other continents and mercilessly hunted down. Being once, in a distant past, the dominant creatures of this world, the humanoids slowly developed a sense of entitlement, however. This was their world and they felt they had every right to be wherever they wanted to be.
Over many, many years the humanoids developed a tradition in which the second and fourth born son and daughter in every family underwent rigorous military training and was then sent off to the continents of the monstrous humanoids. Their mission was simple: through whatever means necessary, which usually implied guerrilla warfare, attempt to disrupt the monstrous humanoid society and, if possible, start settlements. One important element of this tradition is that this is a one-way trip. Return to the humanoid homeland is not an option: A simple matter of pride. The main characters in this story are guerrilla warriors sent to the monstrous continents, and about to find out that the repopulation tactic of their ancestors had not quite been successful.
Introduction
Two and a half months at sea had taken its toll on most of the troop you were sent with. Out of 50 men and women, 20 had died of malnutrition and disease. The remaining warriors were weakened, yet determined to succeed. Each and every one of them wanted to slay at least three monsters for every friend they had lost. No one, nothing would stop them from doing so.
The giants that were travelling alongside the sun-scarred beaches disagreed, however. After landing and leaving their vessel, and after congratulating one another on surviving the trip the warriors set out on the beach, discussing the next step.
As if through magic they were surrounded by four colossal dwarves. Although....as if? Their pitch black skins were only visible on their with fierce red hair covered forearms, the rest of their bodies were covered with chain armor. Four devastating sweeps with huge hammers and a few seconds later only a few of the proud warriors remained. Swiftly running back to their boat, they managed to evade a certain death. The giants were not planning on entering the water. Dozens of bodies were stripped of valuables and the band set off, leaving the disillusioned warriors afloat.
You are these warriors. There was one more, Durgol, a dwarven barbarian. In almost all ways a typical dwarf: stout, strong, far from comely and with a determination only surpassed by the length of his pitch black beard. He only lacked the sense of organization and calm typical for his kin. Too terrified to enter the beach again, you stayed afloat for two days. During the second day you noticed two small vessels, quicker than and with more maneuverability than your ship, approaching you, packed with Orcs. If it weren’t for your shattered morale, you would have gone down fighting.
Shortly after your incarceration the Orcs found out about your abilities as magicians and escape artists, which made them decide to transport you bound and gagged. As long as you stay calm you can breathe through your noses and, if necessary, you can communicate using variations on ‘murr’, ‘hnng’ and ‘gaah’. Your feet are tied by ropes to one another, leaving just over one foot of room for careful treading. Your hands are bound behind your backs with small manacle-like contraptions and, in order to make sure none of you wiggles out, they are fit so tight that your skin is torn beneath the edges. Every movement of your hands leaves you in fear of breaking your wrists. These precautions made them so confident to decide to have you escorted by only four Orcs, two of which look distinctly daft. Moreover, you are carrying your own equipment: you seem harmless and it saves them energy.
During the past two weeks you have been escorted through what strikes you as a savannah, travelling from one source of water to the other. The frequency and density of the bushes is slowly diminishing and you realise you are heading towards a desert. You are heading perhaps towards a mine of some sort to be put to labour or maybe to tribes living on the other side of the desert to be sold as slaves. Durgol, the dwarf, is the only other captive on this transport. You have noticed that with every day his face looks more and more grim. During the past three days you have been hearing distinct whimpering... he is either in a lot of pain, or he is about to crack mentally. Or both. Then, right after a short stop in which the Orcs drank some water and offered you and the dwarf a sip of a mixture of sand and water, a most peculiar event takes place.
It all started with a faint snap, or was it the feral roar? Either way, right after, Durgol leaps forward towards the two Orcs in front of you as you see the manacles hanging from his left wrist and a bloody stump on the end of his right arm. Raging and howling the dwarf smacks the manacles, as if it were a flail, into the back of the head of one of the Orcs. The Orc topples as the dwarf turns his attention to the other Orc. The two Orcs behind you shout and draw their axes while they see the berserker effortlessly snapping the neck of the terrified Orc. Both remaining Orcs charge at Durgol and probably due to his uncertain footing in the sand the first Orc fumbles his attack horribly, cleaving his buddy in half. For a short moment the dwarf and the last remaining Orc gauge one another as Durgol decides to reach for the axe of one of the dead Orcs. His lapse of defence proves fatal when the rusty blade of a greataxe gets planted in the side of his head.
Merely 10 seconds after the snap and the roar, the Orc pulls the axe out of the dwarf’s head with some effort. He turns around and glares at the both of you. “So...let that be a warning for you” he grunts in the Orcish language. “Let’s move, pinkskins”. As the Orc reaches out to collect the few valuables he can carry this story starts....