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Fiction SoB-The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl-FINISHED AT LAST (1st draft)
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Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl -Ch15.2 Br
Oh Scalenex. I have barely begun.........
Oh Scalenex. I have barely begun.........
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Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl - Ch15 Don
See Scalenex. You really had nothing to complain about with section 16.2
See Scalenex. You really had nothing to complain about with section 16.2
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Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl - Ch15 Don
Sorry. Late with the image.
OK Rychek. Now we are going to play a game.
It's called "Who is your daddy, and what does he do?"
Hasta la Vista. Baby.
Sorry. Late with the image.
OK Rychek. Now we are going to play a game.
It's called "Who is your daddy, and what does he do?"
Hasta la Vista. Baby.
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spawning of Bob
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Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl - Ch15 Don
Chapter 16 - The Mountains of Mourn
After the defeat of the dark fleet, the Maw's Jaws sailed uneventfully back to the Northern Great Ocean, slipping to the east of Ulthuan. Welhung Thunderloin's primary mission, the acquisition of the slann for his wife, Hellun, had been completed, but it was considered bad luck and poor economics for an ogre ship to return to port with an empty hold. Hellun would not give birth until a sacrifice was made to the Great Maw. Welhung's household attendants could attempt to satisfy her whims in the interim.
To fill her cavernous hold, the ogre hulk terrorized the islands and hinterland from Norsca to Araby. The raiders would put ashore, ransack cheerfully and cast off again before effective resistance could be mounted. One does not simply repel an ogre war party with anything less than an army.
By the time the Maw's Jaws groaned around Southlands Cape and entered the Sea of Dread, she was already wallowing low in the water. After raiding her way up the coastline of Ind, she was close to going under.
The hardest part of the sea voyage was the passage of the Scalded Delta of the River Ruin. The sluggish waters wound through shifting channels and stinking mats of grey reeds. With such a convoluted route, and many false turns, it was impossible to make way under sail. The crew had to pole the vessel along using her great sweeps. Eventually they left the foetid marshes behind and made sail to Bigbarter.
To call Bigbarter a city, would have been to call a Skaven slave courageous. The settlement was permanent, in the sense that its location did not change, but the inhabitants were in a constant state of flux. No one claimed this armpit as home. Certainly no one expended any effort on civic works or beautification projects.
Bigbarter straddled the River Ruin and the Southern Spice Route which linked the Old World with Ind, Grand Cathay and beyond. The trading hub was nominally under the protection of the Ogre Kingdoms. A mutually beneficial relationship had been established with the nomadic traders which rarely involved wholesale slaughter and looting.
For the Ogres, Bigbarter provided a market for their captured slaves and beasts, and a source of ceramics, silver and spices. As long as the ogre crews had ready access to vast quantities of food and drink while their captains haggled, they rarely did more than smash up the dock area.
Welhung ordered the Maw's Jaws be dragged ashore and dry docked. He converted the remnant of the Naggarothii captives into condiments and cheap tableware, and arranged hire of a number of large wagons to supplement his freight capacity. He did not tarry, because his love awaited him in the broad pass between Fire Mouth and Golgfag's tribal lands, far to the north.
Although the River Ruin was navigable as far north as Greasus Goldtooth's kingdom. The hazards of the river were legendary. Whatever didn't eat you usually charged exhorbitant taxes. The was no way to sail past the cannons of Black Fortress without paying the steep toll. Greasus himself would take a large slice of pie when they reached his holdings.
West of Bigbarter, the caravan route curved sharply north to the Sentinels. The inhabitants of this ancient fortress were as greedy as King Greasus and somewhat less trustworthy.
Although not the fastest or easiest route, striking out across the Dark Lands presented a course with few significant natural barriers and no tolls. An ogre force the size of Wellhung's had little to fear from the nomadic greenskins of that area, and the necromantic sorcerers tended not to move out of the territories they had established, and were thus easily avoided.
(image)
During the months of raiding, the crew's attitude towards their Lucky Chef, Caneghem, went from grudging respect to adoration. That he had saved the ship and crew from certain destruction was a secondary consideration. It was what he could do in the kitchen which garnered their praise.
On the open sea, his culinary creativeness was hampered by seasickness and a monotonous supply of ingredients. Whenever the Maw's Jaws made landfall, Caneghem shone.
Wherever the raiders camped, a palatial kitchen tent was set up. The little skink was placed on a raised platform so that he could see over the brims of the huge pots that bubbled around him. Swarms of gnoblar kitchen hands hung on his words, and scribes recorded them. It seemed he could do no wrong.
An encounter in the citrus grove of a Bretonnian noble could have ended in badly when glittering knights galloped into view. This potential disaster was turned into gastronomic triumph with the creation of the recipe, Duke a l'Orange.
Later, the ogres crossed swords with an undead host north-east of Tilea. The outcome was uncertain, because undead forces are very tough. However, under Caneghem's inspiring leadership, the tenderizing blows of ogre clubs and three days of broiling, the ensuing Ghoulash melted in the mouth.
In similar fashion, the ogre's palates were enlivened by such delicacies as Chicken Kislev, Quiche Loren, Gorgonzola and Altdorf Salad. This last recipe is similar to traditional green-skin salad, but it also contains empire flagellants. The nuts give it a delicious crunch.
(image)
Welhung's convoy eventually snaked its way out of the Dark Lands and ascended the unimaginatively named "Pass to the East" north of the Lake of Eyes valley. At a natural chokepoint, the way was barred by a stone wall guarded by a garrison of ogryn troops..
Welhung strode up to the bristling defences with his honour guard of Ironguts. A stout captain shouted the traditional challenge, "Who goes there? Friend or Food?"
Argsplat bellowed the traditional reply, "Its me, you Gormless Halfwit! Open the Gate!"
The iron bound portcullis creaked upwards and the caravan trundled through. From his perch on Welhung's wain Caneghem thought the yawning gate with its fringe of spikes looked ominously like a ravenous mouth.
Welhung and Argsplat watched the wagons rumble through the shadow of the gate.
"These one's are mine," the Irongut captain declared at he hooked a chest and large bag of loot from bed of the last wain.
"So. Next raiding season?" Welhung enquired gruffly.
"Maybe not. I'm finking about retiring. My Dam is needing more 'elp around the house, what wif her not 'aving any arms or legs, and all."
The ogre tyrant clasped Argsplat's forearm. "Maw's blessings. I'll get you transferred to the wall guards. The Ironguts 'ere could use some extra 'ands.... 'and. They look weak." Welhung eyed the border guards critically. They were looking thin. Their hides hung slackly from their bones, and he fancied that he could see the occasional rib. In comparison, the ogres of the war party were plump and in peak condition.
As the convoy rumbled further along the Path to the East, it dwindled in size as each raider took his share plunder and drifted back to his home and family. By the time Welhung halted in the courtyard of a large villa, he was left with a single overloaded wagon driven by his faithful lieutenant, Rodekhil Offaleater. The young bull rhinox which drew the wagon stamped nervously in its traces as Rodekhil vaulted off the board and fled back to the shadow of the gate. Welhung was finally home.
(image)
Welhung tramped up to the door of his villa and flung wide the door. "'Ello?" he called.
There was a piercing squeal, "Daddy's 'ome!" followed by a stampede of heavy feet. Welhung spread his arms wide to block the doorway and braced himself as his offspring thundered toward him. Try as he might, he was unable to intercept a single child for a hug. Like so many greased piglets, the whole mob squeezed past him and swarmed the wagon.
Shaking his head affectionately, the proud father mounted the stairs in search of his wife. He entered a darkened chamber on the second floor.
"IS THAT YOU, CUPCAKE?" Every crow and vulture within a league of the ear shredding voice took to the air in alarm as the sound reverberated around the mountains. In the higher peaks devastating avalanches were triggered.
Welhung threw open the curtains, found Hellun's hand and squeezed it. He was very concerned. Despite her advanced pregnancy, she had lost weight in the months since he had last seen her, and her voice seemed terribly weak.
"I've brought you the slann, my sweet," he said nervously.
"NAH. I'M NOT 'UNGRY."
Now Welhung was really worried. He studied her slack face and was about to speak when he was interrupted by a high pitched squeal, followed by the staccato patter of fleshy feet. One of his brood rushed wailing into the room and seized his leg. He enveloped the child in an embrace. "What is it? What 'ave you hurt?"
The infant paused momentarily and pointed at her mouth before burying her face in her father's thigh again. There was another distressed squeal, and another child pattered in and latched onto his other leg. A third scream emanated from outside the villa. Welhung went to the window to investigate as quickly as his encumbered legs could carry him.
The wagon was trashed. Durable items were scattered far and wide about the courtyard. Edible goods had already been devoured. The young bull rhinox had been reduced to a heap of gnawed bones in its traces.
Welhung arrived at the window just in time to see one of his young attempt to take a large chomp out of the Lucky Chef who was standing miserably in the ruins of the wagon. Black sparks flared from the skink priest's skin as the magical ward from the Pendant of Khaeleth protected him from the infant's teeth. The child reeled back with a squeal, hands clamped over stinging mouth, and eyes wide and brimming with tears.
Seconds later, an older boy managed to clamber up onto Taisteslaikck'ken's palanquin intending to sample space frog. The result was even more spectacular. A rainbow of glowing energies erupted and hurled the lad back to lodge in a sturdy tree.
"Rodekhil!" Welhung called to his lieutenant who was still lurking in the shadow of the gate. "Take that pair to King's Kitchen. They can't stay 'ere."
Rodekhil nodded in aquiescence and pushed the floating throne back down the hill with two fingertips. Caneghem trotted to keep up. The ogre whistled tunelessly as he went. No doubt his master had intended for the cold bloods to be delivered as ingredients, but Rodekhil had a cunning plan. The scheme required the skink to stay out of the frying pan. He would go into the fire instead.
(image)
The Ogre Kingdoms were a loose confederation in uneasy equilibrium. Each noble house had a long and proud history. Each felt it had claim to the overlord-ship of its peers. The Ogre Over-Tyrant at this time was the fierce Marbutt Hurrtz father of none other than Hellun of Troyarg, Wellhung's bride.
Tyrant Marbutt had a plan to keeps hold of the reins of power. If he kept his thralls focused on external foes, and on their bellies, there would be no change to the status quo. He was right, and wrong at the same time. His plan was sound, and effective. It was just that, despite appearances, it was not HIS plan. The real power behind the throne were the Great Kitchens.
The ogres might plan their affairs and prosecute war against their enemies. Exactly what they were up to was all but irrelevant to the Lord Chefs of the Great Kitchens of Ogeros. There were seven great kitchens, with feudal lordship. Minor kitchens swore fealty to the great kitchens, who in their turn were vassals to the Iron Chef in King's kitchen.
This arrangement had persisted for three centuries, with Aerys the Second of House Tarragon currently wearing the golden toque. The great houses under his subjugation were hampered by rivalry, and with all the plotting and intrigue that went on to gain influence at King's Kitchen, every action they took seemed to seemed designed to favour the consolidation of power rather than the provision of nutritious fare to their ogre overlords.
Each of the Great Kitchens had a motto, the origins of which were shrouded in the mists of time. It is likely that they were never intended to influence recipe selection, but over time they came to represent all that was good, and bad, about the cuisine of each kitchen.
The motto for Kitchen Tarragon was "Fire and Blood." On the face of it, adding excessive amounts of chilli pepper to black pudding may seem like a good idea, but after three hundred years, the palate yearns for a change. Certainly, Ogre Over-Tyrant Marbutt Hurrtz, had found the fare to have painful after effects, and his "throne" room was shunned by his subjects.
In similar fashion the other kitchens, both great and minor, rigidly adhered to their mottos. The bumbling Kitchen Graveyjoy declared on its menus, "We do not saute." The Pannister's had "A Pannister always Boils his Eggs." Steak Kitchen of Winterfull wistfully noted that "Supper is Coming" and before each dish was prepared, the Great Chefs of Swedia enigmatically proclaimed, " Yorn desh born, der ritt de gitt der gue, Orn desh, dee born desh, de umn bork! bork! bork!"
The only Great Kitchen to ignore the intrigue and politicking to the south was Kitchen Black. Under the stern direction of Great Chef Arli, those cooks who "take the black" renounce all ties to Lord or family, and devote their lives to protecting the community from the sellers of online modular kitchens which constantly probe for weaknesses in the Fire Wall. The Fire Wall spans the realm and protects the unknowing civilized world from the horrors of the World Wide Chaos which would otherwise beset them. Kitchen Black has no house motto, but unofficially, their raison d'etre could be summarized as "Spam Us Not."
Rodekhil Offaleater was a good deal more astute than he looked. During his brief time back in the kingdom with his lord, he had seen that the ogre populace were failing. From babe to crone, the people were suffering from malnutrition, but yet they did not hunger. Through neglect or design, the Great Kitchens had obviously failed to nourish the ogre kingdoms. He doubted that the ogres, in their weakened state, could now stand against an external threat.
If nothing else, Rodekhil was confident that the Lustrian Chef would shake up the status quo.
(image)
The court was in session as Rodekhil pushed Caneghem quietly into the back of King's Kitchen. The room was as magnificent as any throne room. Columns ringed by flames supported a ceiling so far above as to be lost in shadows. Over the flames were enormous griddles and cauldrons which hissed and bubbled evilly. There were some ogres in the room, mostly those dressed in the gold of the Kitchen Guard. The others in the room were a hotchpotch of other races, lords and dignitaries of all of the Great Kitchens, as well as many of the minor ones.
From his dais, the mad Iron Chef Aeyrs Tarragon II harangued the subdued cooks with his crazy recipe ideas. "Fire and Blood! And more fire! Yeah! With Blood!"
No dissenting voice was heard, until, "This is unpalateable!"
Iron Chef Tarragon boggled, and the cooks in the room quickly shuffled away from the lone dissenter. He was a small blue reptile. Caneghem.
The Lustrian Chef strode to the centre of the room, and stood before the dais with his claws on his hips. He could not allow this injustice to continue. "This is unpalateable!" he repeated, "Without using oatmeal as a thickener, and pork fat (or beef suet) for shortening, the black pudding you describe will become a crumbly mess. And did you not think to add onion for flavour? Or salt and pepper? Have you no pride in your work? Have you no love for your patrons?"
This declaration of revolt was echoed by... silence. Aerys scanned the room with his mad eyes. "Will any here speak in support of this... chef? Everything you say will be heard and understood. I swear that any of you may speak freely......."
The Lord Chef of Kitchen Swedia bowed and stepped forward. His eyes were invisible beneath his bushy eyebrows, but none doubted his passion as he launched into an earnest speech, " Gersh gurndy morn-dee burn-dee, burn-dee, flip-flip-flip-flip-flip-flip-flip-flip-flip..."
"...except for you." Iron Chef Tarragon rolled his eyes.
"If no one will speak intelligibly for this chef..." he paused dramatically and squinted at the skink. "By my divine right, there will be Fire and Blood! Yours!" With one hand he pointed a wooden spoon at Caneghem, and with the other, he pulled a lever at his side. Two paces to the skink's right a trapdoor opened with a loud clunk.
"Mmmf! Not that one!" Aerys pulled another lever.
A huge axe blade swung from the ceiling and scattered the Pannister contingent. "Aieeee!" One of their number, a beardless dwarf, was caught flat footed and had his faced sliced open by the massive blade.
"Sorry!" Aerys pulled the last lever and a gout of burning oil poured from the rafters to cloak Caneghem in flames.
"Burn them! Burn them all! With extra blood! Muahahahahahaha!....Huh?"
The flaming skink stood calmly tapping his foot. "Was that really necessary?"
The Swedish Chef had obviously had enough of the Iron Chef's antics. He seized the High chef's own black pudding and clubbed him down with it. "Ekky-thoomp bork bork!"
The kitchen exploded with protests and exclamations, with each cook and apprentice vying to be heard above everyone else. There had been no contested succession for centuries. Even with alliances, the kitchens simply did not have the military might to launch a civil war to resolve the power vacuum. Dominance would need to be established in Kitchen Stadium through a series of cook offs.
Who's cuisine would reign supreme?
(image)
The Maitre-des of the Great Kitchens met in council. They agreed that the cook offs would occur in one week's time. Each kitchen would select their own champion, and challenge the champion of King's Kitchen with their signature dish. Losers would swear fealty and surrender their utensils to the victor.
Each contingent retired to their quarters to choose their champion, and more importantly, their recipes.
(image)
In the tense week that followed, it became clear that decades of monotonous black pudding production had stripped all creative cooking skill from the chefs of King's Kitchen. By default, Caneghem was chosen as champion.
Various weird and wonderful family recipes were foisted on him, but he could not follow them. It was almost a savant, or gift from the Old Ones that he could spontaneously create miracles with whatever ingredients were to hand, but he had no aptitude for following recipes. While the other champions prepared and practiced (and sabotaged their rivals), there was nothing the Champion of King's Kitchen could do except anxiously wait.
The day of the battle arrived. For Caneghem, the early rounds passed in a haze. He couldn't even remember what he had made, but he did recall congratulatory slaps on the shoulder and loud cheers as the champions of each kitchen bowed low and offered their utensils up to him.
By day's end, there was only one challenger standing between the Lucky Chef and victory. Jaime Pannister. The Champion of Kitchen Pannister was a blonde haired ogre. His affection for his family was famous, and his commitment to his craft even more so. He had even had one of his arms removed and replaced with an iron crook which he could use to lift scorching hot irons and stir pots full of seething broth.
Jaime opened the challenge with a flawless rendition of his signature dish, Ratatouille. "Lovely Jubbly!" he declared as he retired to let the judges taste. He had never been defeated, and he knew he was at the peak of his powers.
The Kitchen Stadium now belonged to Caneghem. The cooking area was a square, roped off platform surrounded by a baying crowd. He stood alone, wearing his oven mitts and gawking at all of the rich ingredients on offer. There was too much to choose from. A bell rang. For three minutes he dithered ineffectually before the bell mercifully ended the round.
"Yuoo cun du it! Stey fucoosed!" The chef from Swedia dragged Caneghem back to a roped corner, forced him down onto a wooden stool and draped a teatowel over his shoulders. A nervous kitchen hand held up a bucket for their champ to spit into.
"I can't... there's too much..."
The swede slapped him to get his attention. "Remoomber zee ploon! Keep it seemple!"
"Right...simple. Something traditional...okay."
A bell rang twice. Caneghem struggled to his feet, and froze. He could not step out of his corner.
The crowd began to jeer. A torrent of abuse and booing swept over the skink and what shreds of confidence he had gained were swept away like wisps of smoke.
"Hey what are you? A chicken?" One of the Pannisters had started the cry, but others took it up. "Chicken! Chicken!" the slow chant began.
Another voice rang out clearly over the top of the hecklers. "Bork bork! Bork bork!"
Caneghem spun around to face the Swedish Chef. "Bork bork!" The swede had his arms tucked into his sides and was flapping them like wings. "Bork bork!"
"Not you too," Caneghem's shoulders slumped in despair at the betrayal.
"Nuuu! Meke-a zee bork bork! Cuuk ze bork bork!"
The skink's eyes lit up and strength flowed back into his body. He danced back out into the kitchen and, for the next eleven rounds, put in a dominant performance.
In the end, Caneghem's Southern Fried Chicken won by a unanimous points decision. The utensils of the defeated chefs were beaten and melted together and formed into an impressive chair. The new Iron Chef climbed up to begin his uncomfortable reign on the Iron Throne.
Next Chapter: 17 - The Great Maw
Chapter 16 - The Mountains of Mourn
After the defeat of the dark fleet, the Maw's Jaws sailed uneventfully back to the Northern Great Ocean, slipping to the east of Ulthuan. Welhung Thunderloin's primary mission, the acquisition of the slann for his wife, Hellun, had been completed, but it was considered bad luck and poor economics for an ogre ship to return to port with an empty hold. Hellun would not give birth until a sacrifice was made to the Great Maw. Welhung's household attendants could attempt to satisfy her whims in the interim.
To fill her cavernous hold, the ogre hulk terrorized the islands and hinterland from Norsca to Araby. The raiders would put ashore, ransack cheerfully and cast off again before effective resistance could be mounted. One does not simply repel an ogre war party with anything less than an army.
By the time the Maw's Jaws groaned around Southlands Cape and entered the Sea of Dread, she was already wallowing low in the water. After raiding her way up the coastline of Ind, she was close to going under.
The hardest part of the sea voyage was the passage of the Scalded Delta of the River Ruin. The sluggish waters wound through shifting channels and stinking mats of grey reeds. With such a convoluted route, and many false turns, it was impossible to make way under sail. The crew had to pole the vessel along using her great sweeps. Eventually they left the foetid marshes behind and made sail to Bigbarter.
To call Bigbarter a city, would have been to call a Skaven slave courageous. The settlement was permanent, in the sense that its location did not change, but the inhabitants were in a constant state of flux. No one claimed this armpit as home. Certainly no one expended any effort on civic works or beautification projects.
Bigbarter straddled the River Ruin and the Southern Spice Route which linked the Old World with Ind, Grand Cathay and beyond. The trading hub was nominally under the protection of the Ogre Kingdoms. A mutually beneficial relationship had been established with the nomadic traders which rarely involved wholesale slaughter and looting.
For the Ogres, Bigbarter provided a market for their captured slaves and beasts, and a source of ceramics, silver and spices. As long as the ogre crews had ready access to vast quantities of food and drink while their captains haggled, they rarely did more than smash up the dock area.
Welhung ordered the Maw's Jaws be dragged ashore and dry docked. He converted the remnant of the Naggarothii captives into condiments and cheap tableware, and arranged hire of a number of large wagons to supplement his freight capacity. He did not tarry, because his love awaited him in the broad pass between Fire Mouth and Golgfag's tribal lands, far to the north.
Although the River Ruin was navigable as far north as Greasus Goldtooth's kingdom. The hazards of the river were legendary. Whatever didn't eat you usually charged exhorbitant taxes. The was no way to sail past the cannons of Black Fortress without paying the steep toll. Greasus himself would take a large slice of pie when they reached his holdings.
West of Bigbarter, the caravan route curved sharply north to the Sentinels. The inhabitants of this ancient fortress were as greedy as King Greasus and somewhat less trustworthy.
Although not the fastest or easiest route, striking out across the Dark Lands presented a course with few significant natural barriers and no tolls. An ogre force the size of Wellhung's had little to fear from the nomadic greenskins of that area, and the necromantic sorcerers tended not to move out of the territories they had established, and were thus easily avoided.
(image)
During the months of raiding, the crew's attitude towards their Lucky Chef, Caneghem, went from grudging respect to adoration. That he had saved the ship and crew from certain destruction was a secondary consideration. It was what he could do in the kitchen which garnered their praise.
On the open sea, his culinary creativeness was hampered by seasickness and a monotonous supply of ingredients. Whenever the Maw's Jaws made landfall, Caneghem shone.
Wherever the raiders camped, a palatial kitchen tent was set up. The little skink was placed on a raised platform so that he could see over the brims of the huge pots that bubbled around him. Swarms of gnoblar kitchen hands hung on his words, and scribes recorded them. It seemed he could do no wrong.
An encounter in the citrus grove of a Bretonnian noble could have ended in badly when glittering knights galloped into view. This potential disaster was turned into gastronomic triumph with the creation of the recipe, Duke a l'Orange.
Later, the ogres crossed swords with an undead host north-east of Tilea. The outcome was uncertain, because undead forces are very tough. However, under Caneghem's inspiring leadership, the tenderizing blows of ogre clubs and three days of broiling, the ensuing Ghoulash melted in the mouth.
In similar fashion, the ogre's palates were enlivened by such delicacies as Chicken Kislev, Quiche Loren, Gorgonzola and Altdorf Salad. This last recipe is similar to traditional green-skin salad, but it also contains empire flagellants. The nuts give it a delicious crunch.
(image)
Welhung's convoy eventually snaked its way out of the Dark Lands and ascended the unimaginatively named "Pass to the East" north of the Lake of Eyes valley. At a natural chokepoint, the way was barred by a stone wall guarded by a garrison of ogryn troops..
Welhung strode up to the bristling defences with his honour guard of Ironguts. A stout captain shouted the traditional challenge, "Who goes there? Friend or Food?"
Argsplat bellowed the traditional reply, "Its me, you Gormless Halfwit! Open the Gate!"
The iron bound portcullis creaked upwards and the caravan trundled through. From his perch on Welhung's wain Caneghem thought the yawning gate with its fringe of spikes looked ominously like a ravenous mouth.
Welhung and Argsplat watched the wagons rumble through the shadow of the gate.
"These one's are mine," the Irongut captain declared at he hooked a chest and large bag of loot from bed of the last wain.
"So. Next raiding season?" Welhung enquired gruffly.
"Maybe not. I'm finking about retiring. My Dam is needing more 'elp around the house, what wif her not 'aving any arms or legs, and all."
The ogre tyrant clasped Argsplat's forearm. "Maw's blessings. I'll get you transferred to the wall guards. The Ironguts 'ere could use some extra 'ands.... 'and. They look weak." Welhung eyed the border guards critically. They were looking thin. Their hides hung slackly from their bones, and he fancied that he could see the occasional rib. In comparison, the ogres of the war party were plump and in peak condition.
As the convoy rumbled further along the Path to the East, it dwindled in size as each raider took his share plunder and drifted back to his home and family. By the time Welhung halted in the courtyard of a large villa, he was left with a single overloaded wagon driven by his faithful lieutenant, Rodekhil Offaleater. The young bull rhinox which drew the wagon stamped nervously in its traces as Rodekhil vaulted off the board and fled back to the shadow of the gate. Welhung was finally home.
(image)
Welhung tramped up to the door of his villa and flung wide the door. "'Ello?" he called.
There was a piercing squeal, "Daddy's 'ome!" followed by a stampede of heavy feet. Welhung spread his arms wide to block the doorway and braced himself as his offspring thundered toward him. Try as he might, he was unable to intercept a single child for a hug. Like so many greased piglets, the whole mob squeezed past him and swarmed the wagon.
Shaking his head affectionately, the proud father mounted the stairs in search of his wife. He entered a darkened chamber on the second floor.
"IS THAT YOU, CUPCAKE?" Every crow and vulture within a league of the ear shredding voice took to the air in alarm as the sound reverberated around the mountains. In the higher peaks devastating avalanches were triggered.
Welhung threw open the curtains, found Hellun's hand and squeezed it. He was very concerned. Despite her advanced pregnancy, she had lost weight in the months since he had last seen her, and her voice seemed terribly weak.
"I've brought you the slann, my sweet," he said nervously.
"NAH. I'M NOT 'UNGRY."
Now Welhung was really worried. He studied her slack face and was about to speak when he was interrupted by a high pitched squeal, followed by the staccato patter of fleshy feet. One of his brood rushed wailing into the room and seized his leg. He enveloped the child in an embrace. "What is it? What 'ave you hurt?"
The infant paused momentarily and pointed at her mouth before burying her face in her father's thigh again. There was another distressed squeal, and another child pattered in and latched onto his other leg. A third scream emanated from outside the villa. Welhung went to the window to investigate as quickly as his encumbered legs could carry him.
The wagon was trashed. Durable items were scattered far and wide about the courtyard. Edible goods had already been devoured. The young bull rhinox had been reduced to a heap of gnawed bones in its traces.
Welhung arrived at the window just in time to see one of his young attempt to take a large chomp out of the Lucky Chef who was standing miserably in the ruins of the wagon. Black sparks flared from the skink priest's skin as the magical ward from the Pendant of Khaeleth protected him from the infant's teeth. The child reeled back with a squeal, hands clamped over stinging mouth, and eyes wide and brimming with tears.
Seconds later, an older boy managed to clamber up onto Taisteslaikck'ken's palanquin intending to sample space frog. The result was even more spectacular. A rainbow of glowing energies erupted and hurled the lad back to lodge in a sturdy tree.
"Rodekhil!" Welhung called to his lieutenant who was still lurking in the shadow of the gate. "Take that pair to King's Kitchen. They can't stay 'ere."
Rodekhil nodded in aquiescence and pushed the floating throne back down the hill with two fingertips. Caneghem trotted to keep up. The ogre whistled tunelessly as he went. No doubt his master had intended for the cold bloods to be delivered as ingredients, but Rodekhil had a cunning plan. The scheme required the skink to stay out of the frying pan. He would go into the fire instead.
(image)
The Ogre Kingdoms were a loose confederation in uneasy equilibrium. Each noble house had a long and proud history. Each felt it had claim to the overlord-ship of its peers. The Ogre Over-Tyrant at this time was the fierce Marbutt Hurrtz father of none other than Hellun of Troyarg, Wellhung's bride.
Tyrant Marbutt had a plan to keeps hold of the reins of power. If he kept his thralls focused on external foes, and on their bellies, there would be no change to the status quo. He was right, and wrong at the same time. His plan was sound, and effective. It was just that, despite appearances, it was not HIS plan. The real power behind the throne were the Great Kitchens.
The ogres might plan their affairs and prosecute war against their enemies. Exactly what they were up to was all but irrelevant to the Lord Chefs of the Great Kitchens of Ogeros. There were seven great kitchens, with feudal lordship. Minor kitchens swore fealty to the great kitchens, who in their turn were vassals to the Iron Chef in King's kitchen.
This arrangement had persisted for three centuries, with Aerys the Second of House Tarragon currently wearing the golden toque. The great houses under his subjugation were hampered by rivalry, and with all the plotting and intrigue that went on to gain influence at King's Kitchen, every action they took seemed to seemed designed to favour the consolidation of power rather than the provision of nutritious fare to their ogre overlords.
Each of the Great Kitchens had a motto, the origins of which were shrouded in the mists of time. It is likely that they were never intended to influence recipe selection, but over time they came to represent all that was good, and bad, about the cuisine of each kitchen.
The motto for Kitchen Tarragon was "Fire and Blood." On the face of it, adding excessive amounts of chilli pepper to black pudding may seem like a good idea, but after three hundred years, the palate yearns for a change. Certainly, Ogre Over-Tyrant Marbutt Hurrtz, had found the fare to have painful after effects, and his "throne" room was shunned by his subjects.
In similar fashion the other kitchens, both great and minor, rigidly adhered to their mottos. The bumbling Kitchen Graveyjoy declared on its menus, "We do not saute." The Pannister's had "A Pannister always Boils his Eggs." Steak Kitchen of Winterfull wistfully noted that "Supper is Coming" and before each dish was prepared, the Great Chefs of Swedia enigmatically proclaimed, " Yorn desh born, der ritt de gitt der gue, Orn desh, dee born desh, de umn bork! bork! bork!"
The only Great Kitchen to ignore the intrigue and politicking to the south was Kitchen Black. Under the stern direction of Great Chef Arli, those cooks who "take the black" renounce all ties to Lord or family, and devote their lives to protecting the community from the sellers of online modular kitchens which constantly probe for weaknesses in the Fire Wall. The Fire Wall spans the realm and protects the unknowing civilized world from the horrors of the World Wide Chaos which would otherwise beset them. Kitchen Black has no house motto, but unofficially, their raison d'etre could be summarized as "Spam Us Not."
Rodekhil Offaleater was a good deal more astute than he looked. During his brief time back in the kingdom with his lord, he had seen that the ogre populace were failing. From babe to crone, the people were suffering from malnutrition, but yet they did not hunger. Through neglect or design, the Great Kitchens had obviously failed to nourish the ogre kingdoms. He doubted that the ogres, in their weakened state, could now stand against an external threat.
If nothing else, Rodekhil was confident that the Lustrian Chef would shake up the status quo.
(image)
The court was in session as Rodekhil pushed Caneghem quietly into the back of King's Kitchen. The room was as magnificent as any throne room. Columns ringed by flames supported a ceiling so far above as to be lost in shadows. Over the flames were enormous griddles and cauldrons which hissed and bubbled evilly. There were some ogres in the room, mostly those dressed in the gold of the Kitchen Guard. The others in the room were a hotchpotch of other races, lords and dignitaries of all of the Great Kitchens, as well as many of the minor ones.
From his dais, the mad Iron Chef Aeyrs Tarragon II harangued the subdued cooks with his crazy recipe ideas. "Fire and Blood! And more fire! Yeah! With Blood!"
No dissenting voice was heard, until, "This is unpalateable!"
Iron Chef Tarragon boggled, and the cooks in the room quickly shuffled away from the lone dissenter. He was a small blue reptile. Caneghem.
The Lustrian Chef strode to the centre of the room, and stood before the dais with his claws on his hips. He could not allow this injustice to continue. "This is unpalateable!" he repeated, "Without using oatmeal as a thickener, and pork fat (or beef suet) for shortening, the black pudding you describe will become a crumbly mess. And did you not think to add onion for flavour? Or salt and pepper? Have you no pride in your work? Have you no love for your patrons?"
This declaration of revolt was echoed by... silence. Aerys scanned the room with his mad eyes. "Will any here speak in support of this... chef? Everything you say will be heard and understood. I swear that any of you may speak freely......."
The Lord Chef of Kitchen Swedia bowed and stepped forward. His eyes were invisible beneath his bushy eyebrows, but none doubted his passion as he launched into an earnest speech, " Gersh gurndy morn-dee burn-dee, burn-dee, flip-flip-flip-flip-flip-flip-flip-flip-flip..."
"...except for you." Iron Chef Tarragon rolled his eyes.
"If no one will speak intelligibly for this chef..." he paused dramatically and squinted at the skink. "By my divine right, there will be Fire and Blood! Yours!" With one hand he pointed a wooden spoon at Caneghem, and with the other, he pulled a lever at his side. Two paces to the skink's right a trapdoor opened with a loud clunk.
"Mmmf! Not that one!" Aerys pulled another lever.
A huge axe blade swung from the ceiling and scattered the Pannister contingent. "Aieeee!" One of their number, a beardless dwarf, was caught flat footed and had his faced sliced open by the massive blade.
"Sorry!" Aerys pulled the last lever and a gout of burning oil poured from the rafters to cloak Caneghem in flames.
"Burn them! Burn them all! With extra blood! Muahahahahahaha!....Huh?"
The flaming skink stood calmly tapping his foot. "Was that really necessary?"
The Swedish Chef had obviously had enough of the Iron Chef's antics. He seized the High chef's own black pudding and clubbed him down with it. "Ekky-thoomp bork bork!"
The kitchen exploded with protests and exclamations, with each cook and apprentice vying to be heard above everyone else. There had been no contested succession for centuries. Even with alliances, the kitchens simply did not have the military might to launch a civil war to resolve the power vacuum. Dominance would need to be established in Kitchen Stadium through a series of cook offs.
Who's cuisine would reign supreme?
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The Maitre-des of the Great Kitchens met in council. They agreed that the cook offs would occur in one week's time. Each kitchen would select their own champion, and challenge the champion of King's Kitchen with their signature dish. Losers would swear fealty and surrender their utensils to the victor.
Each contingent retired to their quarters to choose their champion, and more importantly, their recipes.
(image)
In the tense week that followed, it became clear that decades of monotonous black pudding production had stripped all creative cooking skill from the chefs of King's Kitchen. By default, Caneghem was chosen as champion.
Various weird and wonderful family recipes were foisted on him, but he could not follow them. It was almost a savant, or gift from the Old Ones that he could spontaneously create miracles with whatever ingredients were to hand, but he had no aptitude for following recipes. While the other champions prepared and practiced (and sabotaged their rivals), there was nothing the Champion of King's Kitchen could do except anxiously wait.
The day of the battle arrived. For Caneghem, the early rounds passed in a haze. He couldn't even remember what he had made, but he did recall congratulatory slaps on the shoulder and loud cheers as the champions of each kitchen bowed low and offered their utensils up to him.
By day's end, there was only one challenger standing between the Lucky Chef and victory. Jaime Pannister. The Champion of Kitchen Pannister was a blonde haired ogre. His affection for his family was famous, and his commitment to his craft even more so. He had even had one of his arms removed and replaced with an iron crook which he could use to lift scorching hot irons and stir pots full of seething broth.
Jaime opened the challenge with a flawless rendition of his signature dish, Ratatouille. "Lovely Jubbly!" he declared as he retired to let the judges taste. He had never been defeated, and he knew he was at the peak of his powers.
The Kitchen Stadium now belonged to Caneghem. The cooking area was a square, roped off platform surrounded by a baying crowd. He stood alone, wearing his oven mitts and gawking at all of the rich ingredients on offer. There was too much to choose from. A bell rang. For three minutes he dithered ineffectually before the bell mercifully ended the round.
"Yuoo cun du it! Stey fucoosed!" The chef from Swedia dragged Caneghem back to a roped corner, forced him down onto a wooden stool and draped a teatowel over his shoulders. A nervous kitchen hand held up a bucket for their champ to spit into.
"I can't... there's too much..."
The swede slapped him to get his attention. "Remoomber zee ploon! Keep it seemple!"
"Right...simple. Something traditional...okay."
A bell rang twice. Caneghem struggled to his feet, and froze. He could not step out of his corner.
The crowd began to jeer. A torrent of abuse and booing swept over the skink and what shreds of confidence he had gained were swept away like wisps of smoke.
"Hey what are you? A chicken?" One of the Pannisters had started the cry, but others took it up. "Chicken! Chicken!" the slow chant began.
Another voice rang out clearly over the top of the hecklers. "Bork bork! Bork bork!"
Caneghem spun around to face the Swedish Chef. "Bork bork!" The swede had his arms tucked into his sides and was flapping them like wings. "Bork bork!"
"Not you too," Caneghem's shoulders slumped in despair at the betrayal.
"Nuuu! Meke-a zee bork bork! Cuuk ze bork bork!"
The skink's eyes lit up and strength flowed back into his body. He danced back out into the kitchen and, for the next eleven rounds, put in a dominant performance.
In the end, Caneghem's Southern Fried Chicken won by a unanimous points decision. The utensils of the defeated chefs were beaten and melted together and formed into an impressive chair. The new Iron Chef climbed up to begin his uncomfortable reign on the Iron Throne.
Next Chapter: 17 - The Great Maw
Temple Guard
Silverbolt
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Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl - Ch16 vs
Just got caught up on the dwarf chapter and the VC chapter. Reading two completely finished chapters back to back is a pretty funny way to start your day
Loved the Fellowship stuff, especially the Balrog.
Despite being biased, the Temple City of Dislexia was great! Arnold and Rick were great. I kept hearing Terminator Arnold and Toy Story Potato Head in my head when I read their lines. Really a fun chapter
Just got caught up on the dwarf chapter and the VC chapter. Reading two completely finished chapters back to back is a pretty funny way to start your day
Loved the Fellowship stuff, especially the Balrog.
Despite being biased, the Temple City of Dislexia was great! Arnold and Rick were great. I kept hearing Terminator Arnold and Toy Story Potato Head in my head when I read their lines. Really a fun chapter
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spawning of Bob
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Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl- Ch16 done
Chapter 16 is done, on page eleven.
Way back in August, Silverbolt commented that he appreciated the distinct dialects of the different races. I've sort of become stuck with them, and it has taken me to some pretty silly places, with you all dragged kicking and screaming along for the ride. I wish I had found this website a lot earlier.
Dialectizer
It translates English to Redneck, Jive, Cockney, Elmer Fudd, Swedish Chef, Pig Latin......
If they add modules for orc, ogre and Bretonnian, the dialogue will just write itself!
Chapter 16 is done, on page eleven.
Way back in August, Silverbolt commented that he appreciated the distinct dialects of the different races. I've sort of become stuck with them, and it has taken me to some pretty silly places, with you all dragged kicking and screaming along for the ride. I wish I had found this website a lot earlier.
Dialectizer
It translates English to Redneck, Jive, Cockney, Elmer Fudd, Swedish Chef, Pig Latin......
If they add modules for orc, ogre and Bretonnian, the dialogue will just write itself!
Scar-Veteran
spawning of Bob
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Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl- Ch16 done
All that effort, just to do the Iron Throne visual gag. I tried to draw Caneghem holding a crossbow, but the background was too busy
All that effort, just to do the Iron Throne visual gag. I tried to draw Caneghem holding a crossbow, but the background was too busy
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spawning of Bob
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Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl- Ch16 done
Chapter 17 - The Great Maw
Bessie and her riders were accompanied for the next leg of their journey by a troop of Dyslexic Chameloen skniks who had been provided by Scalenex. The nearly invisible escorts ranged far ahead seeking signs of the ogre warband.
Scalenex had become an unofficial leader of the freshly spawned Dyslexians. His first act had been to index the extensive library of plaques that he had found in the pyramid vault. New spawnlings flocked to his tactica index to develop their combat readiness.
Rychek had taken council with Scalenex about their planned route. Rychek appreciated having someone sensible to discuss tactics with. (Bob was sadly lacking in this regard). The two skinks agreed that the party should take a south easterly heading to intercept the ogre's trail. This would occur regardless of whether the warband had continued east, or if it had veered north again after bypassing Victor's domain.
After a day of travel, one of their guides materialized unexpectedly with a chip of rhinox dung clenched in his claw. He chirped excitedly and beckoned. The ogres had indeed turned north again, but the pursuers had lost several days.
Rychek saluted the escort with a raised crest. Bob and Joe roared, and Mahtis beat his breast with rocklike fists. In return the chameloen displayed a cascade of bright colors on his scaly flank.
After the scout had ghosted away, Bob observed croakily, "I know we've been making a special effort with the non verbal signs of communication in honour of Scalenex's attention to detail, but those guys just outclass us." Mahtis nodded and rubbed his bruised chest.
The trail led them to the mouth of the Pass to the East.
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Atop the wall which controlled the eastern border of the realm, ogre guard number 1 shielded his eyes. "Is that a thundertusk? I didn't think any 'unters were out."
Ogre guard number 2 squinted against the ruddy light of the setting sun. "Funny looking for a tusk." When the monster came within hailing distance he bellowed, "Who goes there? Friend or food?"
One of the monster riders dismounted and scurried forwards, "Friend! Friend!" he cried holding up blue scaly claws.
Guard number 2 leaned over to his colleague and asked, " 'Ave we changed the password?" in a low voice.
"No. I fink it's still, "It's me, you gormless 'alfwit! Open the gate! 'E must be food."
" 'E's not very big. Just a snack...."
"Maybe a hors d'oeuvre?"
Guard number 2 shuddered. "Oh, I don't like 'orse doovers! Not unless the rest of the 'orse is still attached. Call the captain. Let 'im deal with it." He kept a jaundiced eye on the visitors as guard number one tromped down the stairs. The messenger returned minute later with the iron gut captain of the watch.
The captain absently scratched a livid scar below his empty eye socket with an iron hook. "That 'orse doover looks a lot like the lucky chef. The two warriors remind me of some statues I saw in Lustria. The big un might be an 'andful, and I don't like the look of that monster. Give me a minute to get the lads, then open the teeth.
The iron toothed portcullis soon creaked open and swallowed Bessie and her riders. In the courtyard beyond they were greeted by a score of very efficient looking iron guts.
Rychek cleared his throat. "We are but poor lost circus performers......"
The ogre leader held up a hook. "Not my concern. To the kitchen with you."
Joe gulped. "This is not promising...."
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Any thoughts of fighting their way clear soon evaporated. The ogres were well disciplined, well armed and in peak physical condition. Their escape was barred by the iron teeth of the gate. The iron guts were very obviously elites. Every other ogre the fellowship saw were scrawny and sickly in comparison.
The captain was obviously a veteran of many campaigns. He certainly had no fear of the lizardmen as he clambered aboard the howdah to take the load off his pegs. The lizards were guarded in their responses to his questions, but he did establish that they had travelled long and far on some kind of quest.
He sighed. "I used to be an adventurer like you, until I took a chopstick to the eye, some flames to the feet, a shark to the 'and, and an 'ook to ear."
"What happened to your nose?" enquired Joe innocently.
The guard captain winced. "Don't ask."
(Image)
Caneghem ruled uneasily from His Iron Throne. Without any doubt, his gift of culinary prowess set him apart from his peers, but jealousy and intrigue made the whole atmosphere of King's Kitchen tense and hostile. At least he had free access to his lord. The Slann had been accepted as a welcome addition to the kitchen. The stegadon horns which embellished his palanquin were useful to hang wet tea towels on.
The skink would occasionally attempt to rouse the slann by speaking to him, but Taisteslaikch'ken continued his contemplations. If Caneghem had wished to shake his lord awake, he could not even touch him due to the clashing auras of the geomantic web and the Pendant of Khaeleth. He would not remove the talisman for an instant in this nest of vipers. A poisoned chalice or carelessly flung meat cleaver could cut short the reign of an inattentive Iron Chef. He needed to stay alive, ready to serve his lord when he awoke.
To protect himself and the slann he spent more and more time huddled in his private audience chamber, with access restricted to his most trusted allies. He was surprised and pleased when the familiar misshapen figure of his fellow traveller, Argsplat the Irongut stumped into the chamber with Rodekhil.
"Oi, Lucky Chef. I've brought some strangers to see you."
Caneghem narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Who are they? What do they want? What are their credentials?"
"I dunno. One of them says he comes from "Where folks know what picante sauce should taste like"...."
Caneghem almost knocked Argsplat off his pegs in his haste greet his compatriots.
(Image)
The skink priests of Lustria rarely mingled with the beast class skinks, although Caneghem had a vague recollection of Rychek and Mahtis. Bob and Joe he knew by reputation. He was careful to stand as far away from the pair as possible just in case they somehow managed to cause a mishap and destroy his kitchen.
The questers were awestruck to be in the presence of their lord Taisteslaikch'ken. They had never heard him speak, or seen him up close before. They had, however, seen his sorcerous power unleashed in battle and seen the bloody smoking aftermath. They bowed low before his floating throne.
After an uncomfortable period of silence Joe stretched his acheing knees. "Now that we've rescued him, what should we do? he asked Caneghem, who was lounging against the palanquin.
"Rescued him? Our lord doesn't need rescuing. He is quite content with the current situation."
"Content? He's been kidnapped and dragged halfway across the world against his will and subjected to uncounted perils."
Caneghem snorted. "You've never seen him extend his power like I have. If there had been any real threat to himself or the Great Plan, he would have reacted decisively."
"How? He is asleep."
"No," Caneghem shook his head. "Not asleep. He is just...elsewhere. Wherever his will is now, and whatever he is doing, I would say it is all going pretty well."
Taisteslaikch'ken's face indeed shone with smug contentedness.
The tall doors of the chamber suddenly crashed open. The imposing figure of Welhung Thunderloin stood framed in the doorway. "You. Chef. You are a wizard of your people?"
Caneghem bowed, "Yes, I am."
"You 'ave access to knowledge that is hidden to others?"
"Well.... I have picked up a bit here and there..." Caneghem began modestly.
"You 'ave studied the cycles of life and nature?"
"Indeed!" The skink priest bowed again.
"Then you are an expert on reproduction and pregnancy?"
Caneghem's jaw dropped. He stammered inaudibly.
"Are you?" Welhung was clearly upset, and not inclined to patience.
Joe stepped in for his priest. "Of course he is! In fact we are all experts in rearprojection!"
Welhung glowered at him. He seemed unconvinced.
"... and Bob here...why! He was pregnant just last week!"
Bob beamed and waved at the ogre tyrant. "Come. All of you." Welhung span on his heel and thundered out of the room.
"Well, that's lucky. Still on his good side. What's reproduction, Caneghem?"
Caneghem looked sick. He whispered where Joe's ear should have been. Joes lidless eyes grew large. "Where do they incubate the eggs?"
Caneghem whispered again.
Joes eyes went from large to plate sized. "Warm bloods are SO disgusting!"
" 'Urry up!" a thunderous voice bellowed from the doorway.
(image)
In the weeks since returning to his homeland, Welhung had watched his people growing weaker. Even his voracious children were not thriving as they should. They should have been devouring everything that they could lay hands on, but they had become fussy eaters.
Hellun seemed to be worst hit. She would barely eat, and the child grew inside her like a parasite. Welhung was worried sick.
The five lizards had to scurry to keep up with the ogre's purposeful strides. Presently, he arrived at his destination with the panting reptiles in his wake. He crossed his belly and passed under the arches of the Shrine of the Great Maw.
The belly crossing gesture starts with fingertips together in front of the navel, and then curves up until arms are stretched above the shoulders. The hands are then lowered out to the sides. Effectively the entire movement describes a tall curving "M" shape. The salute reflects the elegant curves of the golden arches of the Temple of the Great Maw many leagues to the east.
He strode confidently past the butchers and lesser priests of the Great Maw and entered the chamber of sacrifice. The pit of sacrifice, in the centre of the room, was a fang lined representation of the bottomless Maw.
At its edge he found the High Slaughtermaster, Ironjaw Censor-Bearer. Ironjaw was well named. His lower jaw was indeed a wrought from iron, complete with blade like teeth. His current appearance was daunting, but in fact, prior to his extensive orthodontic work his protruding fangs were far more sinister. He had previously been known as "Sharky". The absence of lips on his metal jaw made him a very messy eater, and he wore a food spattered apron which trailed to the floor.
(image)
When Ironjaw realized that it was Welhung who had burst in on his contemplations, he sighed and rolled his eyes. "I'm not sure 'ow many other ways I can explain this, my lad, but I will try again." He cleared his throat dramatically. "It's like the bees and the flowers. When a daddy ogre likes a mummy ogre very much they....."
Welhung held up his meaty hand and cut the explanation mercifully short. "That's not why I'm here this time. What is wrong with the people?"
Ironjaw's great shoulders slumped. "You mean the Malaise. It began 'alf a year ago, and with every full of the Chaos Moon it grows worse. Surely you felt it wherever you were."
Welhung patted his belly gently. "When Morrslieb is full, my stomach churns."
"Yes. It is the same 'ere. Each month it gets worse. Our people have lost their appetite. We weaken."
"Why are my ogres immune?"
"I don't know why you've eaten so well. 'Ave you been given unusually tasty food?"
Welhung graced the Lucky Chef with a grateful nod before continuing his interrogation. "My wife, Hellun, is weaker than the others. Why?"
"She is with child. She withers from the influence of the Chaos Moon, and her babe devours her from inside. They will not last long."
"Then I must make the natal sacrifice! It is a little early, but..."
Ironjaw held up his hands to hush the tyrant. "The Maw no longer accepts our sacrifices. He has abandoned this temple."
"What? I don't believe it!"
"Let me show you." Ironjaw bellowed to his acolytes. "Bring the Persian!"
A gold cloaked, dark skinned human was frogmarched in and placed in front of the pit of sacrifice. He carried with him a string of crowned skulls. His dark eyes flashed with arrogant hostility.
"This is madness!" he hissed.
"Madness? No! This....Is....Slaughta!" Ironjaw placed his foot against the Persian's chest and shoved him into the pit.
"Aieeeee!......" the Persian's voice trailed away to nothing. A moment later he called, "That was really irresponsible! I could have sprained my ankle!" He poked his head up at the edge of the pit. Ironjaw absently stomped on it. "Hey!" The Persian envoy stayed down.
Bob trundled over to examine the pit of sacrifice. "A better sacrifice, maybe? Of noble blood?"
"Hey! I'm totally of royal blood! Do you take me for some common yokel?" Bob stamped on the Persian's fingers which were curled over the edge of the shaft. "Owww!....." The voice trailed away again.
"Why not go to the Maw itself?" asked Joe. The ogres gasped. "It won't accept sacrifices here, but surely it wouldn't reject something put directly into its mouth."
"We ogres do not often go to the Great Maw," Ironjaw explained slowly, "His hunger is to be...respected. Preferably from a distance."
"It could work. If you went to the Maw with a really good sacrifice, like a battle standard bearer, or a powerful general, or wizard, or something," Bob mused. Rychek was doing throat cutting gestures to shut him up.
"Or all three!" Joe chimed in. Rychek's face palm echoed through the large chamber.
Welhung snapped his fingers. "Yes! I will take that slann frog and jam it down the Maw's gullet, and I will hold it there until he accepts it." He was reenergised. "Rodekhil, harness a rhinox! Get Argsplat to muster the ironguts! Chef!" he jabbed a finger at Caneghem. "It is an arduous journey. Organize your kitchen hands and supplies. We leave at dawn."
(image)
Caneghem wandered through his darkened kitchen. He had set his brethren to loading supplies onto Bessie, and, for the moment, he was alone with his thoughts. Suddenly a dark figure loomed out of the shadows.
"Huh? Oh, Theon. Theon Gravyjoy, you gave me a fright. What is it?"
Theon looked around furtively. "I have been an apprentice in this kitchen for most of my life. Sell me the secret of your southern fried chicken... the secret eleven herbs and spices. I have gold!"
"What? The recipe can't be bought with gold."
"Then I will pay the iron price." He thrust something hard and metallic under Caneghem's chin.
"What? What is that?"
"My waffle iron. It's a really good one. See, it has dwarfish runes of non-sticking. You can have it if you give me the secret recipe!"
Caneghem pushed the waffle iron aside and put his arm around Theon's shoulders. "You seem like a competent and trustworthy lad. I am leaving Kings Kitchen, and I don't know if I will return. I will leave you in charge, and you can have all the recipes. Make a special effort not to annoy anyone who is holding a flensing knife and everything is sure to work out just fine."
(image)
The group that left Welhung's estate that morning was no huge war party. Rodekhil Offaleater was perched on the massive shoulders of a bull rhinox. The covered wagon the beast drew contained Welhung who was anxiously holding the hand of his wife, Hellun. Close behind the rhinox was the bastiladon, Bessie. Along with her crew and Chotec's engine, she was burdened with sacks of supplies and the negligible weight of the slann's palanquin.
A score of ogre ironguts, under the command of the faithful Argsplat provided a small but potent escort. No brigand or beast of the mountains would threaten this caravan or its precious cargo.
During her brief rest in the ogre lands, Bessie had been pastured with the local warbeasts and monsters. She quickly demonstrated the effectiveness of a rocklike hide and a clublike tail in asserting dominance.
Most of the beasts kept their distance, particularly a foolish thundertusk which had found its numbing chill to be no match for the heat of the solar engine. The poor creature developed a fear of bright lights and loud noises which persisted until the end of its days.
The one exception was the bull rhinox which now accompanied her. Rudolph had taken to following her around and sniffing her armoured backside. The several times that her tail connected with his head did little to deter him. Eventually, she got used to his cross eyed attention, and the pair would often be seen shoulder to shoulder as they stripped the last of the autumn grass from the meadow.
Once again, the ogres avoided Greasus Goldtooth's Kingdom. The party followed the fortuitously named Path to the East to the Eastern Steppes. They watchfully skirted the southern edge of the Chaos Wastes before climbing back into the mountains to the Ancient Giant Lands. What had once been a fertile plateau ringed by mighty peaks was now a withered desolation. Here and there, fragments of massive stonework stood like tombstones commemorating the long extinct Sky Titans who had raised them.
They did not linger in the haunted ruins of the Vale of the Titans. When they struck the silk road to Grand Cathay, they followed it until they neared their destination. Where the main highway made a wide detour to the north of the Great Maw, Rodekhil guided his group on a lesser way which led east.
This road had been engineered to a high standard at some point in the distant past, but now it was blocked here and there by rock falls and land slips. It was not unusual for members of the party on foot to feel the earth tremble beneath their soles. The whole region was among the most geologically active on the planet.
Eventually, the party crossed the final ridge, and the Great Maw was laid out below them like a tableau. The plain at the base of the ridge fell abruptly away. The cliffs swept in an almost imperceptible curve to the north and south, where they were lost to view in the haze of distance. There was no way that the opposite side of the gulf could be seen.
At irregular intervals ivory coloured spires thrust upwards from margin of the unfathomable depths. They rose to acute points which rivaled the surrounding peaks in height.
The scale of the vista was hard to judge until Rodekhil pointed out a huge building which looked like a toy beside the nearest tooth. "The Temple of the Great Maw. See the golden arches? They represent greed and rapacity."
Even from their vantage, many leagues away, the party could hear a continuous groaning, grinding sound from the Maw.
As the beasts and their escort picked their way down through the rubble of the slope, details of the structure became clear. A broad concourse sloped upwards toward an open gate which was, unsurprisingly, shaped like a toothy mouth. The gate led into a massive stone chamber. This blocky chamber was the anchor for braided steel cables which ran over the top of two golden arches which swept elegantly skywards from the very brink of the Maw. The cables and arched pylons suspended a cantilevered deck which looked like the first half of a mighty bridge. There was no other half. The deck ended hundreds of feet beyond the lip of the maw, poised above the abyss.
It was late in the afternoon when Welhung helped his wife down from the wagon. He directed Rodekhil to drag along the slann's palanquin as he assisted Hellun to stagger through the gate. Caneghem followed inconspicuously, leaving the beasts, lizards and ogres to make camp on the concourse.
Inside the chamber was a huge disk of tarnished bronze suspended by mighty chains. The disk was too large to fit through the gate. The building must have been constructed around it. On a dais there was what appeared to be a great weapon. It's sturdy wooden shaft was crowned with a leather wrapped sphere. Caneghem paused to examine it. He imagined that the weapon could be used to strike the disk.
"The Dinner Gong," Rodekhil explained as he maneuvered Taistelaikch'ken's spiky palanquin past the awestruck skink.
The pair were startled by an ear shattering howl. Hellun was slumped about halfway along the deck with Welhung cradling her with his arms. She howled again, her eyes screwed shut with agony.
"What is it? What is happening?" The ogre tyrant asked helplessly.
"She labours." Caneghem declared in a quiet voice.
" 'Ow did this happen?"
Rodekhil gently put his hand on his general's shoulder. "You remember? It's jus' like the bees and the flowers....."
"No! Not that! I mean, there has been no sacrifice. The babe can't come out. If she labours now...."
Caneghem shook his head and lowered his eyes, "I'm sorry."
"No no no no no! Rodekhil! Throw that slimy toad into the Maw! Do it now!"
Welhung's lieutenant rushed to comply. He seized the horns of the palanquin with both hands and dragged it to the end of the deck. Like a hammer thrower of old Olympus, he spun around three times and flung the slann out into the void with a roar of effort.
As the palanquin gently drifted above the abyss, Rodekhil scratched his head. "I might not 'ave thought that through carefully enough."
(image)
Next - Chapter 18 - The False Moon War
Chapter 17 - The Great Maw
Bessie and her riders were accompanied for the next leg of their journey by a troop of Dyslexic Chameloen skniks who had been provided by Scalenex. The nearly invisible escorts ranged far ahead seeking signs of the ogre warband.
Scalenex had become an unofficial leader of the freshly spawned Dyslexians. His first act had been to index the extensive library of plaques that he had found in the pyramid vault. New spawnlings flocked to his tactica index to develop their combat readiness.
Rychek had taken council with Scalenex about their planned route. Rychek appreciated having someone sensible to discuss tactics with. (Bob was sadly lacking in this regard). The two skinks agreed that the party should take a south easterly heading to intercept the ogre's trail. This would occur regardless of whether the warband had continued east, or if it had veered north again after bypassing Victor's domain.
After a day of travel, one of their guides materialized unexpectedly with a chip of rhinox dung clenched in his claw. He chirped excitedly and beckoned. The ogres had indeed turned north again, but the pursuers had lost several days.
Rychek saluted the escort with a raised crest. Bob and Joe roared, and Mahtis beat his breast with rocklike fists. In return the chameloen displayed a cascade of bright colors on his scaly flank.
After the scout had ghosted away, Bob observed croakily, "I know we've been making a special effort with the non verbal signs of communication in honour of Scalenex's attention to detail, but those guys just outclass us." Mahtis nodded and rubbed his bruised chest.
The trail led them to the mouth of the Pass to the East.
(image)
Atop the wall which controlled the eastern border of the realm, ogre guard number 1 shielded his eyes. "Is that a thundertusk? I didn't think any 'unters were out."
Ogre guard number 2 squinted against the ruddy light of the setting sun. "Funny looking for a tusk." When the monster came within hailing distance he bellowed, "Who goes there? Friend or food?"
One of the monster riders dismounted and scurried forwards, "Friend! Friend!" he cried holding up blue scaly claws.
Guard number 2 leaned over to his colleague and asked, " 'Ave we changed the password?" in a low voice.
"No. I fink it's still, "It's me, you gormless 'alfwit! Open the gate! 'E must be food."
" 'E's not very big. Just a snack...."
"Maybe a hors d'oeuvre?"
Guard number 2 shuddered. "Oh, I don't like 'orse doovers! Not unless the rest of the 'orse is still attached. Call the captain. Let 'im deal with it." He kept a jaundiced eye on the visitors as guard number one tromped down the stairs. The messenger returned minute later with the iron gut captain of the watch.
The captain absently scratched a livid scar below his empty eye socket with an iron hook. "That 'orse doover looks a lot like the lucky chef. The two warriors remind me of some statues I saw in Lustria. The big un might be an 'andful, and I don't like the look of that monster. Give me a minute to get the lads, then open the teeth.
The iron toothed portcullis soon creaked open and swallowed Bessie and her riders. In the courtyard beyond they were greeted by a score of very efficient looking iron guts.
Rychek cleared his throat. "We are but poor lost circus performers......"
The ogre leader held up a hook. "Not my concern. To the kitchen with you."
Joe gulped. "This is not promising...."
(Image)
Any thoughts of fighting their way clear soon evaporated. The ogres were well disciplined, well armed and in peak physical condition. Their escape was barred by the iron teeth of the gate. The iron guts were very obviously elites. Every other ogre the fellowship saw were scrawny and sickly in comparison.
The captain was obviously a veteran of many campaigns. He certainly had no fear of the lizardmen as he clambered aboard the howdah to take the load off his pegs. The lizards were guarded in their responses to his questions, but he did establish that they had travelled long and far on some kind of quest.
He sighed. "I used to be an adventurer like you, until I took a chopstick to the eye, some flames to the feet, a shark to the 'and, and an 'ook to ear."
"What happened to your nose?" enquired Joe innocently.
The guard captain winced. "Don't ask."
(Image)
Caneghem ruled uneasily from His Iron Throne. Without any doubt, his gift of culinary prowess set him apart from his peers, but jealousy and intrigue made the whole atmosphere of King's Kitchen tense and hostile. At least he had free access to his lord. The Slann had been accepted as a welcome addition to the kitchen. The stegadon horns which embellished his palanquin were useful to hang wet tea towels on.
The skink would occasionally attempt to rouse the slann by speaking to him, but Taisteslaikch'ken continued his contemplations. If Caneghem had wished to shake his lord awake, he could not even touch him due to the clashing auras of the geomantic web and the Pendant of Khaeleth. He would not remove the talisman for an instant in this nest of vipers. A poisoned chalice or carelessly flung meat cleaver could cut short the reign of an inattentive Iron Chef. He needed to stay alive, ready to serve his lord when he awoke.
To protect himself and the slann he spent more and more time huddled in his private audience chamber, with access restricted to his most trusted allies. He was surprised and pleased when the familiar misshapen figure of his fellow traveller, Argsplat the Irongut stumped into the chamber with Rodekhil.
"Oi, Lucky Chef. I've brought some strangers to see you."
Caneghem narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Who are they? What do they want? What are their credentials?"
"I dunno. One of them says he comes from "Where folks know what picante sauce should taste like"...."
Caneghem almost knocked Argsplat off his pegs in his haste greet his compatriots.
(Image)
The skink priests of Lustria rarely mingled with the beast class skinks, although Caneghem had a vague recollection of Rychek and Mahtis. Bob and Joe he knew by reputation. He was careful to stand as far away from the pair as possible just in case they somehow managed to cause a mishap and destroy his kitchen.
The questers were awestruck to be in the presence of their lord Taisteslaikch'ken. They had never heard him speak, or seen him up close before. They had, however, seen his sorcerous power unleashed in battle and seen the bloody smoking aftermath. They bowed low before his floating throne.
After an uncomfortable period of silence Joe stretched his acheing knees. "Now that we've rescued him, what should we do? he asked Caneghem, who was lounging against the palanquin.
"Rescued him? Our lord doesn't need rescuing. He is quite content with the current situation."
"Content? He's been kidnapped and dragged halfway across the world against his will and subjected to uncounted perils."
Caneghem snorted. "You've never seen him extend his power like I have. If there had been any real threat to himself or the Great Plan, he would have reacted decisively."
"How? He is asleep."
"No," Caneghem shook his head. "Not asleep. He is just...elsewhere. Wherever his will is now, and whatever he is doing, I would say it is all going pretty well."
Taisteslaikch'ken's face indeed shone with smug contentedness.
The tall doors of the chamber suddenly crashed open. The imposing figure of Welhung Thunderloin stood framed in the doorway. "You. Chef. You are a wizard of your people?"
Caneghem bowed, "Yes, I am."
"You 'ave access to knowledge that is hidden to others?"
"Well.... I have picked up a bit here and there..." Caneghem began modestly.
"You 'ave studied the cycles of life and nature?"
"Indeed!" The skink priest bowed again.
"Then you are an expert on reproduction and pregnancy?"
Caneghem's jaw dropped. He stammered inaudibly.
"Are you?" Welhung was clearly upset, and not inclined to patience.
Joe stepped in for his priest. "Of course he is! In fact we are all experts in rearprojection!"
Welhung glowered at him. He seemed unconvinced.
"... and Bob here...why! He was pregnant just last week!"
Bob beamed and waved at the ogre tyrant. "Come. All of you." Welhung span on his heel and thundered out of the room.
"Well, that's lucky. Still on his good side. What's reproduction, Caneghem?"
Caneghem looked sick. He whispered where Joe's ear should have been. Joes lidless eyes grew large. "Where do they incubate the eggs?"
Caneghem whispered again.
Joes eyes went from large to plate sized. "Warm bloods are SO disgusting!"
" 'Urry up!" a thunderous voice bellowed from the doorway.
(image)
In the weeks since returning to his homeland, Welhung had watched his people growing weaker. Even his voracious children were not thriving as they should. They should have been devouring everything that they could lay hands on, but they had become fussy eaters.
Hellun seemed to be worst hit. She would barely eat, and the child grew inside her like a parasite. Welhung was worried sick.
The five lizards had to scurry to keep up with the ogre's purposeful strides. Presently, he arrived at his destination with the panting reptiles in his wake. He crossed his belly and passed under the arches of the Shrine of the Great Maw.
The belly crossing gesture starts with fingertips together in front of the navel, and then curves up until arms are stretched above the shoulders. The hands are then lowered out to the sides. Effectively the entire movement describes a tall curving "M" shape. The salute reflects the elegant curves of the golden arches of the Temple of the Great Maw many leagues to the east.
He strode confidently past the butchers and lesser priests of the Great Maw and entered the chamber of sacrifice. The pit of sacrifice, in the centre of the room, was a fang lined representation of the bottomless Maw.
At its edge he found the High Slaughtermaster, Ironjaw Censor-Bearer. Ironjaw was well named. His lower jaw was indeed a wrought from iron, complete with blade like teeth. His current appearance was daunting, but in fact, prior to his extensive orthodontic work his protruding fangs were far more sinister. He had previously been known as "Sharky". The absence of lips on his metal jaw made him a very messy eater, and he wore a food spattered apron which trailed to the floor.
(image)
When Ironjaw realized that it was Welhung who had burst in on his contemplations, he sighed and rolled his eyes. "I'm not sure 'ow many other ways I can explain this, my lad, but I will try again." He cleared his throat dramatically. "It's like the bees and the flowers. When a daddy ogre likes a mummy ogre very much they....."
Welhung held up his meaty hand and cut the explanation mercifully short. "That's not why I'm here this time. What is wrong with the people?"
Ironjaw's great shoulders slumped. "You mean the Malaise. It began 'alf a year ago, and with every full of the Chaos Moon it grows worse. Surely you felt it wherever you were."
Welhung patted his belly gently. "When Morrslieb is full, my stomach churns."
"Yes. It is the same 'ere. Each month it gets worse. Our people have lost their appetite. We weaken."
"Why are my ogres immune?"
"I don't know why you've eaten so well. 'Ave you been given unusually tasty food?"
Welhung graced the Lucky Chef with a grateful nod before continuing his interrogation. "My wife, Hellun, is weaker than the others. Why?"
"She is with child. She withers from the influence of the Chaos Moon, and her babe devours her from inside. They will not last long."
"Then I must make the natal sacrifice! It is a little early, but..."
Ironjaw held up his hands to hush the tyrant. "The Maw no longer accepts our sacrifices. He has abandoned this temple."
"What? I don't believe it!"
"Let me show you." Ironjaw bellowed to his acolytes. "Bring the Persian!"
A gold cloaked, dark skinned human was frogmarched in and placed in front of the pit of sacrifice. He carried with him a string of crowned skulls. His dark eyes flashed with arrogant hostility.
"This is madness!" he hissed.
"Madness? No! This....Is....Slaughta!" Ironjaw placed his foot against the Persian's chest and shoved him into the pit.
"Aieeeee!......" the Persian's voice trailed away to nothing. A moment later he called, "That was really irresponsible! I could have sprained my ankle!" He poked his head up at the edge of the pit. Ironjaw absently stomped on it. "Hey!" The Persian envoy stayed down.
Bob trundled over to examine the pit of sacrifice. "A better sacrifice, maybe? Of noble blood?"
"Hey! I'm totally of royal blood! Do you take me for some common yokel?" Bob stamped on the Persian's fingers which were curled over the edge of the shaft. "Owww!....." The voice trailed away again.
"Why not go to the Maw itself?" asked Joe. The ogres gasped. "It won't accept sacrifices here, but surely it wouldn't reject something put directly into its mouth."
"We ogres do not often go to the Great Maw," Ironjaw explained slowly, "His hunger is to be...respected. Preferably from a distance."
"It could work. If you went to the Maw with a really good sacrifice, like a battle standard bearer, or a powerful general, or wizard, or something," Bob mused. Rychek was doing throat cutting gestures to shut him up.
"Or all three!" Joe chimed in. Rychek's face palm echoed through the large chamber.
Welhung snapped his fingers. "Yes! I will take that slann frog and jam it down the Maw's gullet, and I will hold it there until he accepts it." He was reenergised. "Rodekhil, harness a rhinox! Get Argsplat to muster the ironguts! Chef!" he jabbed a finger at Caneghem. "It is an arduous journey. Organize your kitchen hands and supplies. We leave at dawn."
(image)
Caneghem wandered through his darkened kitchen. He had set his brethren to loading supplies onto Bessie, and, for the moment, he was alone with his thoughts. Suddenly a dark figure loomed out of the shadows.
"Huh? Oh, Theon. Theon Gravyjoy, you gave me a fright. What is it?"
Theon looked around furtively. "I have been an apprentice in this kitchen for most of my life. Sell me the secret of your southern fried chicken... the secret eleven herbs and spices. I have gold!"
"What? The recipe can't be bought with gold."
"Then I will pay the iron price." He thrust something hard and metallic under Caneghem's chin.
"What? What is that?"
"My waffle iron. It's a really good one. See, it has dwarfish runes of non-sticking. You can have it if you give me the secret recipe!"
Caneghem pushed the waffle iron aside and put his arm around Theon's shoulders. "You seem like a competent and trustworthy lad. I am leaving Kings Kitchen, and I don't know if I will return. I will leave you in charge, and you can have all the recipes. Make a special effort not to annoy anyone who is holding a flensing knife and everything is sure to work out just fine."
(image)
The group that left Welhung's estate that morning was no huge war party. Rodekhil Offaleater was perched on the massive shoulders of a bull rhinox. The covered wagon the beast drew contained Welhung who was anxiously holding the hand of his wife, Hellun. Close behind the rhinox was the bastiladon, Bessie. Along with her crew and Chotec's engine, she was burdened with sacks of supplies and the negligible weight of the slann's palanquin.
A score of ogre ironguts, under the command of the faithful Argsplat provided a small but potent escort. No brigand or beast of the mountains would threaten this caravan or its precious cargo.
During her brief rest in the ogre lands, Bessie had been pastured with the local warbeasts and monsters. She quickly demonstrated the effectiveness of a rocklike hide and a clublike tail in asserting dominance.
Most of the beasts kept their distance, particularly a foolish thundertusk which had found its numbing chill to be no match for the heat of the solar engine. The poor creature developed a fear of bright lights and loud noises which persisted until the end of its days.
The one exception was the bull rhinox which now accompanied her. Rudolph had taken to following her around and sniffing her armoured backside. The several times that her tail connected with his head did little to deter him. Eventually, she got used to his cross eyed attention, and the pair would often be seen shoulder to shoulder as they stripped the last of the autumn grass from the meadow.
Once again, the ogres avoided Greasus Goldtooth's Kingdom. The party followed the fortuitously named Path to the East to the Eastern Steppes. They watchfully skirted the southern edge of the Chaos Wastes before climbing back into the mountains to the Ancient Giant Lands. What had once been a fertile plateau ringed by mighty peaks was now a withered desolation. Here and there, fragments of massive stonework stood like tombstones commemorating the long extinct Sky Titans who had raised them.
They did not linger in the haunted ruins of the Vale of the Titans. When they struck the silk road to Grand Cathay, they followed it until they neared their destination. Where the main highway made a wide detour to the north of the Great Maw, Rodekhil guided his group on a lesser way which led east.
This road had been engineered to a high standard at some point in the distant past, but now it was blocked here and there by rock falls and land slips. It was not unusual for members of the party on foot to feel the earth tremble beneath their soles. The whole region was among the most geologically active on the planet.
Eventually, the party crossed the final ridge, and the Great Maw was laid out below them like a tableau. The plain at the base of the ridge fell abruptly away. The cliffs swept in an almost imperceptible curve to the north and south, where they were lost to view in the haze of distance. There was no way that the opposite side of the gulf could be seen.
At irregular intervals ivory coloured spires thrust upwards from margin of the unfathomable depths. They rose to acute points which rivaled the surrounding peaks in height.
The scale of the vista was hard to judge until Rodekhil pointed out a huge building which looked like a toy beside the nearest tooth. "The Temple of the Great Maw. See the golden arches? They represent greed and rapacity."
Even from their vantage, many leagues away, the party could hear a continuous groaning, grinding sound from the Maw.
As the beasts and their escort picked their way down through the rubble of the slope, details of the structure became clear. A broad concourse sloped upwards toward an open gate which was, unsurprisingly, shaped like a toothy mouth. The gate led into a massive stone chamber. This blocky chamber was the anchor for braided steel cables which ran over the top of two golden arches which swept elegantly skywards from the very brink of the Maw. The cables and arched pylons suspended a cantilevered deck which looked like the first half of a mighty bridge. There was no other half. The deck ended hundreds of feet beyond the lip of the maw, poised above the abyss.
It was late in the afternoon when Welhung helped his wife down from the wagon. He directed Rodekhil to drag along the slann's palanquin as he assisted Hellun to stagger through the gate. Caneghem followed inconspicuously, leaving the beasts, lizards and ogres to make camp on the concourse.
Inside the chamber was a huge disk of tarnished bronze suspended by mighty chains. The disk was too large to fit through the gate. The building must have been constructed around it. On a dais there was what appeared to be a great weapon. It's sturdy wooden shaft was crowned with a leather wrapped sphere. Caneghem paused to examine it. He imagined that the weapon could be used to strike the disk.
"The Dinner Gong," Rodekhil explained as he maneuvered Taistelaikch'ken's spiky palanquin past the awestruck skink.
The pair were startled by an ear shattering howl. Hellun was slumped about halfway along the deck with Welhung cradling her with his arms. She howled again, her eyes screwed shut with agony.
"What is it? What is happening?" The ogre tyrant asked helplessly.
"She labours." Caneghem declared in a quiet voice.
" 'Ow did this happen?"
Rodekhil gently put his hand on his general's shoulder. "You remember? It's jus' like the bees and the flowers....."
"No! Not that! I mean, there has been no sacrifice. The babe can't come out. If she labours now...."
Caneghem shook his head and lowered his eyes, "I'm sorry."
"No no no no no! Rodekhil! Throw that slimy toad into the Maw! Do it now!"
Welhung's lieutenant rushed to comply. He seized the horns of the palanquin with both hands and dragged it to the end of the deck. Like a hammer thrower of old Olympus, he spun around three times and flung the slann out into the void with a roar of effort.
As the palanquin gently drifted above the abyss, Rodekhil scratched his head. "I might not 'ave thought that through carefully enough."
(image)
Next - Chapter 18 - The False Moon War
Scar-Veteran
spawning of Bob
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Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl- Ch17 done
Spoiler alert!
Don't suddenly read page 27 of the Lizardmen Army Book - if you do, you will know what happens for the rest of the story!
Spoiler alert!
Don't suddenly read page 27 of the Lizardmen Army Book - if you do, you will know what happens for the rest of the story!
Slann
Scalenex
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Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl- Ch17 done
Which one of the historical events is it? I know "Spawning of Bob referred his fans to a page with over 25 separate historical events and then used none of them instead opting for a Monty Python reference'."
In any event I'm glad the references to Scalenex are becoming more favorable.
spawning of Bob said:
Which one of the historical events is it? I know "Spawning of Bob referred his fans to a page with over 25 separate historical events and then used none of them instead opting for a Monty Python reference'."
In any event I'm glad the references to Scalenex are becoming more favorable.
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spawning of Bob
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Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl- Ch17 done
2418 The False Moon War: King Arthur and his knights must cross the Bridge of Death. The old man from Page 27 asks each person 3 questions (or is it 5?) that they must answer correctly, or they will be cast into the Gorge of Eternal Peril.
"What..... is your second question?"
2418 The False Moon War: King Arthur and his knights must cross the Bridge of Death. The old man from Page 27 asks each person 3 questions (or is it 5?) that they must answer correctly, or they will be cast into the Gorge of Eternal Peril.
"What..... is your second question?"