DORULL SAGA - SWAMP OF DEATH
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Comfortably reclined in the bed made out of straw, Moorg rested almost the entire afternoon. He ordered not to be disturbed, losing himself in the daydreams. He became the king, and in his colorful thoughts, the number of the heroic deeds he was about to accomplish, were neverending. Although he never before ventured outside of Tanmar, he fantasized about many other faraway places. The desire for adventurous life grew inside of him, ever since he was a little boy, while he was listening to the stories from his father, Toorg.
He
remembered the numerous, mystical seances, which tested his body and mind. He
wasn’t understanding the meaning of those exercises then, nor the secrecy of
them, but was eager to fulfill every father’s task. Throughout the years,
training became harder, but Moorg remained persistent in his premeditation, not
to fail Toorg. And in the end, it paid off because otherwise, he would not be
able to carry his father’s energy, which grew stronger inside of him with every
passing second.
Moorg
flinched a bit, when he heard ever so louder kicking of the drums, coming somewhere
from beyond the hallways and nearest caverns. Celebration ceremony was about to
begin, which prompted him to get up. Beside him, on the bed, layed a festive
cape, decorated with colorful, glittering strips and buttons, especially made
for this occasion. He quickly put it on, pleased to see how good it looked on
him. But before he decided to go outside of his quarters, he was drawn to the
small object in the pocket of his worn, crudely sewn pants.
That of a
beautiful, silver medallion. It pulsated in a dimm, weak, reddish light, as if
it was radiating some kind of energy. He looked at it with a strange kind of
affection, basking in delight of having it in his possession. He adored it. He
worshiped it. He couldn’t let it out of his hands. He watched it for a bit
more, before putting the amulet safely back into his pocket.
He could
now hear the voices coming from inside the king’s hall, it was time for him to
appear. And again, his attention averted. This time, towards the pile of
various things, he snatched it from the orcs. There was still time to check
some of them. After all he was king, he could afford to be late. Immediately,
Moorg went for the curvy, wooden cane. For the orcish shaman’s staff. Slight
tingling of the energetic pulses flew through his entire body. For a moment he
had second thoughts, but his greed won after all, as he grabbed the stick,
lifting it up. Their energies intertwined in an instant burst, overpowering
him. A large smile appeared on the goblin’s face. He was delighted. Even cheerful.
But just for a few moments. For in the next one, it all changed drastically, as
it was replaced with a painful grimace.
Moorg
screamed, throwing the cane away, horrified once he realized his palms are
filled with blisters, scratches and wounds, oozing blood and puss out of it. In
panic, he started to wrap his hands in the new cape. Goblin contemplated using
his healing powers, similar to what he did during the duel. But as it began,
the horrible pain suddenly disappeared. And to his surprise, so were the
wounds. Initial shock and disbelief subsided, as Moorg angrily spat towards the
orc’s staff, storming out of his private quarters, through the massive, stone
doors. He waited for a few moments in a small, narrow corridor, regaining his
composure, taking a few deep breaths, before he marched in the hall, with his
head held high.
Thundering
clapping and cheering would not subside, until Moorg reached the throne. In a
short, formal procedure, he was officially pronounced the king. Standing in
line, every goblin was waiting his turn to pay respects. To take a bow. Half an
hour later, everything was in order to begin with the festivities. In an
absolute silence, goblins were expecting for the king to commence with his
speech. Moorg knew that very well, enjoying the moment. But decided not to
bother them with it. He knew very well, they were here mostly for the feast.
“Let the
celebrations begin!” the new goblin king yelled with authority.
Singing
soon spread throughout the entire underground city. First of the young
fighters, eager to prove themselves, entered the battle arena of the royal
hall. As an entertainment, while the rest begin devouring the piles of food,
and countless barrels of strong goblin mead. Soon enough they turned to a
dissolute bunch, depraved of inhibitions and reasoning. Comfortable in his
seat, sipping his drink, Moorg was smiling, as he watched the orgy below him.
At least because of this, he knew it was all worth it. He pinched his leg. It
was not a dream, he did become the king.
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