Pouncival's Bedtime Stories

[Aedon]

The Legand of Heroo Flandroval....


It was a most dangerous time to patrol the moors, Minions of the Enemy had spread like maggots in the past year, darkening the land, making the fear of attack a constant thought on the minds of the people. The great captains of the past were gone. Pulled to battles in the far reaches of the lands or fallen victim to the orc blade.

No one felt safe in these times. Women clutched their children near and huddled in back rooms of houses heavily guarded by the men folk. What few songs being sung, even by the children dealt with death and the end of all most held dear.
Having finished the evening meal, the men of the night watch girded their swords, and headed out of GV to patrol the valley near TR. They carried few provisions save some ointments and bandages, and perhaps a small amount of hard rations. This was a hard watch, and one that had known more casualties to their ranks then all the others combined.

The enemy moved easier in the darkness. Shrouded in shadow they crept upon those stationed to far ahead or behind the main phalanx, leaving little time for help to arrive had the victim been able to get out a cry. Little was left of one that was attacked. What was not hacked to bits was most times carried off in the slathering maws of wargs.

This night was different. The men of the watch could all feel some little something which gnawed at the base of their brains. Many knew, or feared that this may be their last night on patrol. For this reason during the goodbyes before they left one may have seen a husband giving an extra hug to his wife, a son’s shoulders sagging more or a father drinking in long looks of the faces of the children he may not see come to adulthood.
Night settle in around the men as they rode slowly through the valley and up the hills towards the old keep. In better days it had been the forward post of the Free Peoples in the battle for the Ettenmoors. It stood bow as sad reminder of days of glory. It those times, Captain Ryan could be seen leading his men off towards Hoarhollow-Warsong and Essence often led huge raids deep into the enemy encampments returning with tales of bravery. But long years of battle take their toll, and the great heroes of the past years fade into legend leaving those still hopeful souls scanning the horizon for salvation.

As the men rounded the side of the keep, they were ambushed by a huge contingent of orcs, wargs and spiders. Falling back towards the front of the keep they tried valiantly to fight off the onslaught. Many a man saw a friend fall before his eyes, and found n time to lend aid while fighting to stay alive. Moments turned into minutes, minutes seemed an eternity to the brave Free People as they struggled against a foe of superior numbers. All it would seem was lost when from the direction of the river crossing a horn sounded.
Even the enemy paused at the sound of that horn. Not since the elder days had a horn of that sort slit the night air. Not a horn of alarm, it was a horn of battle. A mighty call it gave, winded by one born to the horse and spear. Those of the Free folk who heard its call could not help but wonder if the Captains long lost to battle had returned in their hour of need. All eyes stayed focused towards the crossing, and through the haze could be seen many mounted men, swords drawn, and shields at the ready.

As they continued to watch, one man rode forward from the rest. Lifting his self out of the saddle, he stood, feet in the stirrups staring towards the battle near the keep. Eyes as deep the night skies, with a mane of hair tied securely at his neck, Heroo Flandroval gave a loud call, and with another blast from his mighty horn his men surged forward and into the fray.
There are many tales of the battle that night, and many songs are still sung around the campfires. Those who were there can only recall the feel of the wind as Heroo and his men paste by them, and engaged the enemy. The enemy, dismayed at the majesty and might displayed broke and ran, only to be ridden down and slaughtered.

The return to GV was victorious, and an air of jubilation not felt for many a year hung over the encampment for many years to come. Many wanted to reward him, offers of riches and lands and not a few daughters were made to him. But Heroo only smiled and said.

“No thanks, it is all in a day’s work.”

Many battles have been fought since that day, and many more victories achieved as Heroo lead the good folk of Middle Earth. And all who looked upon his handsome face and heroic form loved him. But it is said that deep within Gramsfoot the enemy seethes with hatred for him, and plot and plan for the day when his carcass can be drug back to their dens, and consumed.

[Aedon]

The Legend of Chilicheese


There is a time of evening, after the freeps are all eaten and the keeps have settled down to a lovely shade of red. This is sort of a golden time for creeps. A time we can sit around the campfires of Gramsfoot, and tell tales of the battles. Many of these tales center on the lives and times of those great creeps who have cut a swath across the land. Gather close now young ones and I will tell you the tale of just such a great creep.

It was a long while back, before many of you were whelped, or when some were just pups. Creepdom had lost many of their great leaders, and the tribes seemed in great disarray. Gone were the nights when the great Maggotstew led us forth from Grams to wreak havoc on the tarks infesting our lands. Our nightly hunt for food more often than not ended with a trip to the healers and a lot of bruised egos. It was getting to where the young had to settle for a bit of slug meat for supper rather than a nice tasty hobbit. These were dark times indeed, and some of the elders of the tribes searched for a way to bring better fortune to us all.

I remember the night as though it was last year. Myself, Attie, Hithy, Tailmange and a few other wargs were sitting around the west campfire. We were roasting a bit of slug jerky over the flames and thinking. It was a bright night with a full moon hanging lazily in the sky. At one point, between bites, Attie exclaimed.

“What we need is a new raid leader”

“Well we all know that Attie, but who do you suggest?” said Hithy in return

“We need someone like Vinlassis, the freep raid leader.” Replie Tailmange

It was then that I had a sort of epiphany;

“Why just like Vinlassis, what if we took Vinlassis for our own?”

We all looked at one another, and in an instance the decision was made. The full moon would work in our favor, and with a bit of real care, we just might pull it off.

Each of us pulled on a freep skin that was lying around in the den, and then quietly, and stealthily we set out for GV . When we arrived, the usual guards were at the stairs, standing as best we could on our hind legs, we lurched forward and greeted the guards.

“Evening guards, we are three freeps come to sit in GV. No wargs here, no sir.”

Do not ask me how, but the guards swallowed it, and allowed us to pass. As we mounted the stairs, we could smell the prey all over. At one point Hithy actually piddled with excitement. One tark passing by spotted the puddle and looked at us. Quickly we blamed it on a sudden cloud burst, and wondered if it would help the rhubarb. This freep was also convinced by our story leaving us to wonder how they were killing us at all.

Moving through the encampment we spotted him wandering towards the stable. There he stood the great hunter Vinlassis, leader of the free people and reportedly a really good dancer. We did not waste another moment, rushing towards him each of us sunk our teeth into an arm or leg. And of course, being that the moon was full our bite transformed Vinlassis into a werecreep!!

Oh sorry young ones, did not mean to frighten you. What, you do not know what a werecreep is? Well, when any human, dwarf, elf or Hobbit is bit by a rabid warg under the light of the full moon he is transformed. His mind shifts and becomes rather creepy. But, back to the story for now, sit back down here.

Tail and I each put a leg under Vinnie’s arm and led him towards the exit of GV. Attie and Hithy followed behind, swaying a bit and singing Sweet Adeline loudly. At the bottom of the stairs I looked towards one of the guards and growled out;

“Vinnie has had a bit of a snootfull, and we are seeing him outside to puke his guts out.” I said

And then, almost to our ruin Hithy chimes in with;

“Yeah mate, and then we’re gonna eat it.”

Lucky for us, the Guard just laughed and suggested that we all find a place to sleep it off.

We returned to Grams with Vinnie, and by the time we came through the gate, the transformation was well under way. His hair was a glorious stringy black, and the pallor of his skin was a healthy pasty. Ripping off his clothing, and grabbing a nearby loincloth Sars had left hanging on a rock Vinnie roared, then changed to a cleaner loincloth and hopped on a rock in front of the assembled creeps.

“No longer will I be known by the tark name of Vinlassis. It is a name of weakness and I am not weak. From this day forth I am … um… Froktuk…no not that… Grishram… no too silly. I shall be known as Chilicheese, and I shall lead the creeps to victory. Gather round now, we are heading to GV. Meat is back on the menu.”

And so it was that the Great Chilicheese was born into his new life. From that night on he has led us as we lay waste to those who have usurped our lands. And one day, each and every one of you will follow him too.

Now, off to the den with you all, and do not forget to brush your fangs.

[Umbrarg]

<piddling with excitement> Go Pouncey Go!

Loving this, please carry on my good Sir

Love & Hugs

Fluffy Hithy

[mikejeff]

I lol'd......

[tykoshi]

Awesome stuff! Keep it coming!

-Pup-

[Aedon]

Attie and the CIA--

Sitting close to the fire, the warg-pups watched the flaming embers dance slowly upwards, carried by a steady wind blowing through Gramsfoot. Looking towards where the Tyrant stood, they watched anxiously as the veteran white warg received orders for the night’s watch. As he moved towards the quartermaster, one of the young ones called out to him.

“Pouncy, can you tell us another story?”

With a slight smile, the elder turned aside and came over to sit with the young pack.

“Let me see now,” He snarled “How about if I tell you all about the formation and purpose of the CIA?”

The pups yapped enthusiastically as Pouncy settled down and began to speak.

There was a time, in our recent past when we had problems with infiltrators from the enemy. Many nights plans of attack were foiled after someone passed information on to Freep commanders. Many times this led to great loss of life and many huge boo boos. Some of which our defilers lacked the time or skill to properly treat. Many do not know this, but this is what led to Sars becoming a bit shall we say aromatic after he took several arrows and a couple of dwarf axes to his hindquarters.

We tried many times to discern the identities of those passing vital Intel on, but some proved too cleaver, covering their tracks with the skill of a jackal. Losses mounted and those heading out each night suffered a severe drop in morale. A sort of hopelessness filled the air around Gramsfoot.

It was at this time, that one young wargess decided to take matters into her paws. This was in itself an unusual happenstance seeing that most of the young females were spending more time updating their Mawbook pages devoting little time to matters of battle and intrigue.

Ah but this female was different. Dark as night, she found it an easy matter to move within the shadows collecting information on any and all new faces that appeared in Grams. Her quick wit and skill in using the interwebs , which of course was invented by Gobblemoss, allowed her to form a huge databank containing the comings and goings of those suspected of spying. Coming from the family Atuk tul, she chose to do her work under the code name Attie. From the time she came forward with her findings, and up till this day things have changed for the betterment for all Creepdom.

Now she calls her agency the CIA or Creeps Intelligence Agency, and with Attie at the helm many potentially harmful plot shave been exposed. She can and has within the blink of an eye been able to bring to light those who seek to feed creep plans to the enemy. And on a side note, using this information we have been able to feed false plans to Freep Commanders, allowing us to set up traps, and slaughter the foe at every turn.

Oh and she is so good at what she does that it is said that even the Great Eyes calls on her from time to time to aid in some of his own plans of battle.

She sees you where you’re hiding
So don’t you try to Spy
Cause Attie soon will find you out
And report you to the Eye.
She’s watching for creeps
Who seem out of place
Then calling them out
She’s on every case
Attie Paws is watching at Grams.

Now, off to bed with you young whelps, I have a patrol to stalk.

[insanityspetals]

Loving these! Very cute.

[Aedon]

The Legend of Sir Glord

It was a quiet night at Gramsfoot deep in the heart of the Ettenmoors. The evening meal had been consumed, and the nights prowl would soon begin. Sitting at the edge of the northern fires, the white warg raised his head and listened intently for the call to war. He recalled battles of the past bathed in glory and blood. He remembered with relish the taste of the hobbits ears, or a plump leg of man. His musings were suddenly disrupted by the sound of soft whimpering behind him. Turning slowly, the elder growled deeply;

“So whelps, you again disturb my thoughts. What is it you wish now?”

“Tell us another story Mr. Pouncy, Something about the enemy this time.”

The old veteran warg smiled a bit as he regarded the pups. . He had almost come to enjoy these nightly sessions with the young ones. And he thought that perhaps they might learn something from all this which would aid them as they too headed out into the battle one day.

“A story about the enemy you say? Well let me think a moment..”

I have told you already about the captain Heroo Flandroval. But there is another among the leaders of men who you young ones would do well to learn about. He is one that rides alongside Flandroval, but his fighting style is much more ruthless. He is known through the creep nation as Zer Glord. It is believed that the first part of his name is more a title then a name. And many of the warbosses call him Sir Glord.

Sir Glord first appeared at the battle of Lugazag many moons in the past. Flandroval had brought his troops crashing through the front gate of our beloved Tower and many fine orc guards were slain before they had a chance to respond. Luckily, a brave warg had been watching from the shadows, and the call went out that all were needed to face this new onslaught.

The great leaders of Gramsfoot responded sending their best and unfortunately some of the young ones not yet ripe for battle. All moved with purpose, determined to drive out the invaders and save our home once again. Chillicheese approached from the back door with his troops while Ugmog with his phalanx and Puptripps and Hithy with the pack came in behind the Tarks through the front gate. Sandwiched between our glorious forces, it seemed as though our victory was at hand. It was then that a trumpet blast was heard from below the slopes of the hill leading to the keep.

The enemy came on horseback in the manner of the men of Rohan. Stern faced warriors, spears and swords at the ready did not stop at the gate, but drove their horses onward and into the fray. Sir Glord, resplendent as Captains tend to be sang a g of battle which seemed to drive his men into further frenzy. They fell upon our forces, and many young ones were lost that day. Those who were able to fell back to Gramsfoot, where we had to stand and watch from a distance as they raised the accursed blue standard above our Lugz.

The battle is rarely spoken of these days. The memory of all those who fell in the main room and upon the stairs is far too painful for many of the old guard to endure. It is for this reason that you pups are advised never to venture too far from Gramsfoot. We old warriors are the past, but you are the future and the hope of the creep nation. But I believe that this story should be told and our young warned.

He is still out there they say, riding with his men along the ridge looking for those of us who made it back alive. And ever searching for ways to make the final push into Gramsfoot and slay us all, young and old as we sleep.

"Now, off to bed, and pleasant dreams. The hour is late, the horn is sounded and I am called to battle."

[Umbrarg]

<claps paws and widdles excitedly>

Can we have some more Mr. Pouncey?

Love & Hugs

Fluffy Hithy

[Aedon]

Legend of The Warg Pack

The elder paced back and forth along the ridge which traced a line from Dar Gazag to Gramsfoot. Below him were scattered many bodies, and parts of bodies, a gory remnant of the great battle of the night. Following the edge down, he came to the wide dirt path which led from the slug pits, to the campfires and on to the gates of Grams. He did not walk all the way to the gate, but paused at the campfire closest to the carnage of the battle field. He breathed in deeply, relishing the scent of the blood of the many hobbits, men, dwarves and elf-kin kind who had fallen this night to the mighty forces of the Great Eye.

As he stood there in silence, he became aware of the many soft padded foot falls approaching him. The pups seemed hesitant to approach the line which denoted the end range of the archers set about the camp to guard against any invasion. But more than that, they had a fear of approaching the field of battle. They could not understand why the Elder warg had summoned them here this eve. Turning his head a bit, the white warg growled out softly;

“Come closer to me whelps. Sit with me at the edge of glory and hear the tale and lesson I have prepared for you. “

The young ones inched closer and quickly scooted to a sitting position making sure to keep the elder between them and the field. Pouncy chuckled a bit and then looked back to the field.

“Look down there, all of you, and tell me what you see.”

Easing forward, the young wargs looked down to the area at the foot of the hill on which they sat. Below were the bodies of many slain foes, and one other thing which shook the pups to their core. Close by the hill, feet stretched out in desperation towards Grams lay the body of one of the younger wargs. Close at hand lay also the mauled body of a warden, his eyes stared blankly in death, his spear deeply imbedded in the body of the pup.

Hmmp, growled the elder, he was almost home. But more to the point, he should not have left the safety of the den. He was not ready, he was alone. Look upon him and heed the lesson his death brings to you all. You are not safe alone. Most of you will never be scouts or front line assault. You are clumsy and ill trained. But you can still be of service to the Eye. There is safety in the pack, always remember this. Now, harken to me and I will tell you all about the Warg pack.

First rule of Warg Pack is that nobody ever talks about Warg Pack. Well, I do, but it is only to instruct you in the hopes that you will not meet the same fate as your friend down there. Look to the other fire, do you see the two wargs playing dice? The lean mean one is called Puptrippz, and the overly fluffy one is named Hithdraug or Fluffy Hithy. Hmm, what does Hithdraug mean? I believe it is old entish for the cattle are dying. But that does not enter into our tale. This is the story of the great warg pack of ought-twelve months ago.

It was one of the coldest winters in history. The rivers were all frozen over, and the food seemed to be hovering close to their base camp. This was not good for us here at Gramsfoot. The larders were almost empty, and with little to eat coming our way we were all starting to eye the spiders hungrily. Even the orcs could find little to sustain their ranks and had taken to chopping up little chunks of snow and ice, mixing in some leftover eyes of hobbits and calling it eye scream.

It was useless to send out a hunting party. The lumbering orcs could be seen, heard and smelled from ten miles out, and the spiders little feet kept getting stuck in drifts of snow and sludge. It was then that Hithy and Pup called a meeting of all the den masters. They had come up with the idea of sending out a riding party which consisted of all wargs. The best and quickest should be sent, with their only aim being, find food, kill it fast, and carry it back before they could be spotted .

Many names were suggested for this elite group. Some of the ones that were dropped were Alpha Male Hunger Force, Warg Team 6 and Growlies Angles. Instead we settled on the more appropriate and dignified Wargnado. The plans were laid out carefully, and with a full complement of twenty four of the best wargs available, we left Grams and headed across the plains and towards GV.

It was after midnight when we came to the stairs; all the freeps were dreaming sweet dreams without care, when we came to the first little tent in the square.

The attack came fast and furious. Those tarks asleep in the shelters closest to edge of the bushes stood no chance. They were pounced, quickly dispatched and pulled up into the whirlwind of movement teeth and fur. We moved with speed and precision from camp, gobbling up all that stood in your path. In the distance a horn blast could be heard echoing deep within the main camp of the Freepeople. But the alert and the rallying of their forces came too late for our prey. As quickly and the Wargnado hit, it moved on and was past Lumber Camp before the first forces got out to the scene of the battle.

When we returned there was much rejoicing and the feasting went on for hours. We dined on elf ears, and on hobbit feast we had dwarf beard pudding and rare man roast feet. Ah roast feet is a treat I can’t stand in the least.

From that night on, warg packs became a standard part of the hunting parties. And one day each of you will have the chance to prove yourself to the pack and take you place alongside Hithy and Pup. Perhaps even as a member of the Suicidal Warg Squad, our crack kamikaze team. Back in GV it is said that folks still talk about the night when an invisible howling wind swept through the out camps and left none alive in its wake.

Be good, be strong, and be stealthy. Learn all your lessons well, and listen to those who know more then you will ever know. And remember the first rule about warg pack.

Smiling to himself, the elder stood, and slowly ambled towards the gates of Gramstfoot. The pups stood, took one last look towards Hithdraugh and Puptrippz and then followed behind their teacher






Nobody ever talks about Warg Pack..

[tykoshi]

*WAG WAG*

More!

-pup-

[Umbrarg]

<widdles everywhere in glee>

More Mister Pouncey - more!

Love & Hugs

Fluffy Hithy

[Aedon]

The Terror of Xchantz

Mutants — also known as "human-superior" — are an offshoot sub-species of humanity who are born with genetic abnormalities which grants them abilities, an appearance, or powers beyond the normal variation expressed in the human genome. While their appearance, abilities, and attitude towards their evolutionary cohorts vary widely, all Mutants possess the so-called "X-Gene" which expresses itself around puberty and causes the individual mutant's powers to emerge.


The elder warg glanced down at the whelps seated close to him around the fire at Gramsfoot. Did any of you understand at all what I just said? Ah well, from your blank expressions it is clear that I must go further into detail. Hmm, what I need is a good case to point out…ah yes.

There have existed in our time many examples of human mutants. Some have clothed themselves in robes of nobility and sought to lay claim to our lands. Others have taken a more quiet approach. And others still have come in the form of slathering slayers of life, wolves among the sheep. Ah yes, that X factor has exerted itself in many forms through the evolution of the tarks. But never in one so cruel as Xchantx.

Who is this person you may ask, and it is well that you do so. For when your time comes to join the pack you will need always be on your guard against him. He is a demon who brandishes not normal arms, but spears and other sharp objects which appear to be a part of his flesh. With the grace of a cat, he moves through a battle, keeping ever off guard any foe unlucky enough to be caught out alone by him.

There is no way to fight him, for just when you think you have him down, his mutant healing kicks in bringing him back to full health, and leaving the younger wargs scrambling for escape as their life’s blood drains upon the ground. Ever aware, he is able to conceal himself in shadow in order to ambush some poor unsuspecting warg. The force of his mighty weapons pierces flesh and bone with wounds hard to heal.

The pups shivered and huddled closer together. Looking towards the elder, they sought some solace, some relief from the fear which now gripped their hearts. What would they do, how could they survive against such a foe? The old warg laughed softly, and looked at them each in turn.

Do not allow the chill of fear to dampen your hunters drive. I tell you this only so you will be ready to face such a foe. There are those among the pack, such as me, who shall deal with this mutant, will should he come to claim your lives.

Remember always, there is strength in the pack, and do not try to prove yourself before your time. Do not howl before you are ready to bark. And when you lie down tonight, guard your dreams against Xchantz. For it is said, and I am not claiming this to be true, that he can come to you in your sleep, and through his mutant powers can pierce your body, and claim your soul as a trophy.

[Gottapee]

How much are you charging for these wonderful little tales?

I can offer nekid dorf massage, giant flower included in price.

Let me know!

[Aedon]

I will put you on my list Strobe. The only charge for them is that you enjoy the read,.

[Aedon]

The Coming of the Great Burglartarget

The white warg stalked slowly from the furthest corners of Gramsfoot, to the well guarded gate. The night was turning chill, and there was the smell of wood and the days kill burning in the many campfires which lined the ridge. The elder searched his mind for the subject of tonight’s tale. The young whelps seemed thirsty for knowledge that would help them to survive in a world filled with unfriendly Tarks.

As he approached the center fire, he saw the pups waiting and munching happily on the legs of a few hobbits and the odd dwarf arm. Hmmp, I suppose I should keep the tale a bit tamer this evening. He growled in a low voice. I would not wish to make them barf up their supper.

As he reached the place where they sat, the Eld warg sat down slowly and began to speak.

I have told you many things over these past weeks, and I hope that some of it is getting through those thick skulls of yours. And to the one who yelped to the Tyrant that I was scaring you just before bedtime well I hope a warden waits in your den for you and….

Well, let us continue. Tonight I wish to speak of a Warleader, but not just any of them, This is the history of the coming of the great Burglartarget. Let me see now, where to begin…..

It was a warm night in the Ettenmoors, and the heat of battle only added to the extreme discomfort brought about by soaring temperatures. We had been engaged in a great battle for many hours, and losses were mounting on each side. But though we seemed to be holding our line against further advances of the Tarks, the many sneaks who made up their ranks seemed to be slowly wearing down our defenses.

Several of the vilest of their stealthing creatures were there that night, and try as we might, they eluded us as fast as we could track them. And if we followed the trail of one, the rest would pop out of hiding, and lay waste to our rear lines. Now you do understand that in the back of the raid is where those who help keep us healthy and ready to do battle stand. So if they fall, the entire hunting party may be decimated.

We sent a call for help back to the base camp, and those of us still able to fight, retreated slowly, keeping always the foe in our sights. Our fighters were exhausted, and defeat seemed at hand. It was then that a blast of a horn was heard from the front of Gramsfoot. It was not a battle horn, but a clarion call announcing the arrival of a great warrior.

All enemies of Sauron the Great give way, the Mighty Burglartarget is now upon you. Quake before one that brings with him the blessing of the Eye, and see within his gaze your own demise.

He came upon them in a whirlwind of flashing blades. As he moved through our lines, he offered comfort to those around, and inspired the hunting party to do greater deeds. We rallied to his side, and coming within earshot of him, I told him of the sneaks about. No sooner had I spoken these words then the vile things popped out and sought to bring down our hero. But to their shock and dismay they quickly learned how he had come by his name.

He gave a mighty shout, and they cowered before him. His blades cut through their light armor with ease, ripping flesh from their bodies, and staining the ground with their blood. Those he did not fell on the spot sought to flee back to their lines. But our forces had pushed them back beyond our boundaries, and they found their selves stumbling over the many bodies of their fallen friends. With no one to aid them, the band of burglars was quickly consumed.

The battle won, we surrounded our new hero, and offered thanks to the Great Eye for sending one who could deliver us from the sneaking evil of the free peoples of middle earth.

Some years have passed since that battle and still Burglartarget hunts the moors. Within the warband he is seen as one of the greatest warleaders of our time. And among the Tarks he is still feared. Few who have come upon him alone within the moors have lived to carry the tale back to their camp. And it is said among the elders that the Captain General of GV has offered a kings ransom of gold for his head.

[Aedon]

The Sad Tale of Aroun


Now, there are champions and then again there are champions in the ranks of the Tarks. But among these I never thought I would one day see one that seemed akin to a warg.

It was a lazy, sultry day at Gramsfoot, and most of the pack was laying flat out on any rock they could find, trying to cool their selves before time for the evening hunt. I was on my favorite rock just past the campfire and at the edge of the camp when I thought I saw something moving towards the slug pits.

At first glance, it seemed a bit like one of the slugs had managed to make their way out of the pit, and was, for some unknown reason tracing a line between trees. Now it may have been the heat, or perhaps the case of Orc Ale I drank the night before that caused me to see him this way at first, but as I watched the movement it became clear that it was no slug I watched, but a man moving with purpose back and forth between our shrubberies.

I thought to rise, and perhaps go have a look, and perhaps a snack, but the coolness of the rock, and a sudden shift in the winds made me want to lie there for just a bit longer. After all, the hunt was only a few hours away, and one lone tark would never feed the entire warband. This, young ones was my first mistake of the night.

Pounce looked down into the faces of the pups gathered about the rock. Their panting and longing for a place on the cool perch of their elder did not diminish their interest in the tale being told. The old veteran watched them for a moment, and then continued to speak.

This was the first time I, or any other of our kind laid eyes on Aroun. He seemed at first like any other of his ilk. A bit doughy, hair a mess on his head, and cursed, as they all are with a dry, warm nose. Champions, as they are called are a whirling mass of blades and pain that most warbands dispatch as quickly as possible. Left to their own devises, these things can decimate the front lines of any hunting party caught off guard.

Now at the time, I did not know what he was called by his kind, and most of us give all tarks the same name, we call them food. A name for a tark always seemed such a waste of time. After all, one does not name that which is destined for the waste pit.

I became curious about this one though, and drawing the shadows around me, I left my perch, and started to follow him. By the time I reached the trees, he had mounted his horse, and ridden off towards Lugz hill. I kept pace with him, as he crossed the bridge to TA and rode on towards Tirith Rhaw.

In the shadows of the great tower many men made camp. Their fires burned brightly and hanging above them were long eared rats. I suppose this is what a tark eats. I was a bit reviled, but moved as close as I could and listened as the one I followed reported in.

He told them of our camp, and tried to give some account of our numbers. I could not help but chuckle thinking how wrong his guess was. He could not see beyond the fires to the great gates of Gramsfoot. Nor beyond to the many members of the warbands camped within.

As I listened, one of those seated called to him saying, Aroun, come sit and eat. This name shocked me, and at the same time filled me with some questions. Could it be that this champion was not a simply a Tark, but a hybrid of some sort? Coursing within his miserable body might be the true heroic blood of some great Warg leader. I would have to find some way to ask him.

I lay at a distance and watched for many hours. The time of the hunt came and went, and still I watched and waited for Aroun to leave the company of the others who gnawed on their rats, and drank from great flagons of ale. In time he arose, and bidding them all safe passage, he munted his horse, and stated back towards Tol Ascarnan.

As he crossed over ETAB, I attacked from the shadows knocking him from his horse, and sending it running wildly back towards TR. Struggling to his feet, he drew his great blades and made ready to do battle. I stood looking at him, waiting and watching. And then, seeing that he as not going to speak up, I spoke the first greeting to him

ArooOOoOOOoOOo

This did not quite elicit the conversation I thought it would. For instead of replying with the proper greeting, he gave a shout, and charged me. Stepping lightly aside, I raised my paw and brought it down on his head sending him once more to the ground.

AroOOOoOOoOoOOO rooo roo AroOOoooOOoO I said loudly. I was sure that this time Aroun would reply correctly. No, instead he jumped up, gave a yell and made for me again. I truly thought he was looking to cut my head off this time, so I wrapped the shadows around me again, and stepped out of his way. He stood still for just a moment, and then started to slice wildly the air around him.

What manner of warrior can he be that would seek to kill the wind? This was no ordinary champion for sure. If in fact Aroun could kill the air about him, would there be any left to breathe? And if he was as I assumed a descendant of wargs, why did he not speak back to me? AH well, three times pay for all they say, so moving a safe distance I again revealed myself to him and shouted loudly;


AH AH AH ROOoOOooOooOoOOoOOoOooOoOOooOO o

This at least caused him to halt his wind slicing and look at me. I sat down and growled a quick introduction of myself to him. He looked at me as though I were some sort of nut. I scratched the ground beneath my feet, the normal way a warg speaks of home and hearth to other packs met in the wild. He just sat there looking at me, his chest heaving as he breathed loudly and irritatingly at me. I was just beginning to think that he had been too long away from the pack when I heard coming close the blare of a Tark war horn. Standing quickly, I wrapped the shadows around me just as he made a leap forwards, slicing the air around the place I had sat.

Making my way back to Gramsfoot, I informed the Tyrant of what had transpired. I cannot say the leader believed my tale of a warg in freeps clothing, but many nights since the first time I have looked out towards the hills and seen Aroun sitting there, his eyes fixed of the campfires. And I cannot help but feel some measure of sorrow for the warg who cannot return home.

[jackzilla1212]

The Sad Tale of Aroun


Now, there are champions and then again there are champions in the ranks of the Tarks. But among these I never thought I would one day see one that seemed akin to a warg.

It was a lazy, sultry day at Gramsfoot, and most of the pack was laying flat out on any rock they could find, trying to cool their selves before time for the evening hunt. I was on my favorite rock just past the campfire and at the edge of the camp when I thought I saw something moving towards the slug pits.

At first glance, it seemed a bit like one of the slugs had managed to make their way out of the pit, and was, for some unknown reason tracing a line between trees. Now it may have been the heat, or perhaps the case of Orc Ale I drank the night before that caused me to see him this way at first, but as I watched the movement it became clear that it was no slug I watched, but a man moving with purpose back and forth between our shrubberies.

I thought to rise, and perhaps go have a look, and perhaps a snack, but the coolness of the rock, and a sudden shift in the winds made me want to lie there for just a bit longer. After all, the hunt was only a few hours away, and one lone tark would never feed the entire warband. This, young ones was my first mistake of the night.

Pounce looked down into the faces of the pups gathered about the rock. Their panting and longing for a place on the cool perch of their elder did not diminish their interest in the tale being told. The old veteran watched them for a moment, and then continued to speak.

This was the first time I, or any other of our kind laid eyes on Aroun. He seemed at first like any other of his ilk. A bit doughy, hair a mess on his head, and cursed, as they all are with a dry, warm nose. Champions, as they are called are a whirling mass of blades and pain that most warbands dispatch as quickly as possible. Left to their own devises, these things can decimate the front lines of any hunting party caught off guard.

Now at the time, I did not know what he was called by his kind, and most of us give all tarks the same name, we call them food. A name for a tark always seemed such a waste of time. After all, one does not name that which is destined for the waste pit.

I became curious about this one though, and drawing the shadows around me, I left my perch, and started to follow him. By the time I reached the trees, he had mounted his horse, and ridden off towards Lugz hill. I kept pace with him, as he crossed the bridge to TA and rode on towards Tirith Rhaw.

In the shadows of the great tower many men made camp. Their fires burned brightly and hanging above them were long eared rats. I suppose this is what a tark eats. I was a bit reviled, but moved as close as I could and listened as the one I followed reported in.

He told them of our camp, and tried to give some account of our numbers. I could not help but chuckle thinking how wrong his guess was. He could not see beyond the fires to the great gates of Gramsfoot. Nor beyond to the many members of the warbands camped within.

As I listened, one of those seated called to him saying, Aroun, come sit and eat. This name shocked me, and at the same time filled me with some questions. Could it be that this champion was not a simply a Tark, but a hybrid of some sort? Coursing within his miserable body might be the true heroic blood of some great Warg leader. I would have to find some way to ask him.

I lay at a distance and watched for many hours. The time of the hunt came and went, and still I watched and waited for Aroun to leave the company of the others who gnawed on their rats, and drank from great flagons of ale. In time he arose, and bidding them all safe passage, he munted his horse, and stated back towards Tol Ascarnan.

As he crossed over ETAB, I attacked from the shadows knocking him from his horse, and sending it running wildly back towards TR. Struggling to his feet, he drew his great blades and made ready to do battle. I stood looking at him, waiting and watching. And then, seeing that he as not going to speak up, I spoke the first greeting to him

ArooOOoOOOoOOo

This did not quite elicit the conversation I thought it would. For instead of replying with the proper greeting, he gave a shout, and charged me. Stepping lightly aside, I raised my paw and brought it down on his head sending him once more to the ground.

AroOOOoOOoOoOOO rooo roo AroOOoooOOoO I said loudly. I was sure that this time Aroun would reply correctly. No, instead he jumped up, gave a yell and made for me again. I truly thought he was looking to cut my head off this time, so I wrapped the shadows around me again, and stepped out of his way. He stood still for just a moment, and then started to slice wildly the air around him.

What manner of warrior can he be that would seek to kill the wind? This was no ordinary champion for sure. If in fact Aroun could kill the air about him, would there be any left to breathe? And if he was as I assumed a descendant of wargs, why did he not speak back to me? AH well, three times pay for all they say, so moving a safe distance I again revealed myself to him and shouted loudly;


AH AH AH ROOoOOooOooOoOOoOOoOooOoOOooOO o

This at least caused him to halt his wind slicing and look at me. I sat down and growled a quick introduction of myself to him. He looked at me as though I were some sort of nut. I scratched the ground beneath my feet, the normal way a warg speaks of home and hearth to other packs met in the wild. He just sat there looking at me, his chest heaving as he breathed loudly and irritatingly at me. I was just beginning to think that he had been too long away from the pack when I heard coming close the blare of a Tark war horn. Standing quickly, I wrapped the shadows around me just as he made a leap forwards, slicing the air around the place I had sat.

Making my way back to Gramsfoot, I informed the Tyrant of what had transpired. I cannot say the leader believed my tale of a warg in freeps clothing, but many nights since the first time I have looked out towards the hills and seen Aroun sitting there, his eyes fixed of the campfires. And I cannot help but feel some measure of sorrow for the warg who cannot return home.

I loled. Aroun is definitely going to be a flayer warg though... >_>

[Gottapee]

Me waiting for another tale.

[Aedon]

The Stormy Present…..Strobe

It was a moonless night in the Ettenmoors. The west wind howled as it blew forcefully against the tents within Gramsfoot. Huddled inside around a small fire, the pups looked up anxiously at the Elder warg.

I see fear in your eyes, he began. And it is wise that you feel this, and remember the feel of this night. This is no ordinary weather we are feeling here. It is a devise of the enemy meant to throw us off guard, and shake the younger among us to the very core.

Do you feel the crackle? The air itself is charged with energy, a portent of what is to come. Death stalks us all this night young ones. And even the oldest and wisest among us give pause when we feel the approach of this storm.

There are many strong warriors among the foe, and in time each of you may be tested against one whose power you are hard pressed to stand before. But there are few so powerful, so vile so…..electrifying as the dwarf called Strobe.

At first glance, he looks like any other of the bearded tarks. A bit heavy in the head, stocky arms and legs, and brains suited more to delving in the dirt, then leading in battle. But do not be fooled by outer appearances. This one is calculating and shrewd beyond measure. His mind is ripe with battle plans and he knows full well the art of war. Were this all he had to bring, he would not be any more a threat to us than any of the so called captains of men. But this one fights not with steel and shield, but with the powers of nature herself.

It has been said, and I have born witness to this, that Storbe can at his command call down the lightning. And with this great force, he has laid low one of our finest warriors in a single blast from the stones held within his hands. Runes they call them; but I think a more appropriate name for these accursed rocks is ruins. For it is such that he visits upon all caught out when he approaches.

And even if his attack does not kill you on the spot, the effects of the power coursing through your body is long lasting, and may leave you filled with fear, and no longer suitable to the hunt.

Pounce paused a few moments, and listened to the howling wind outside. The pups huddled closer together and looked anxiously towards the elder waiting for some solace in his words. Finally, he looked back to them, and softened the look on his face a bit.

Do not shutter so little ones, for it is in the knowledge that I impart that you may find security and preparedness. It is never good to go out with a warband knowing little of the foe you may face. Yes, Storbe is strong, and a great threat to the survival of us all. And learning to pay heed to the stormy present is what may help you all survive to see the future.

Now, the night grows late so off to the den with you all. This night I will stand guard over you all. Sleep well young ones.

[Gottapee]

Grand story Pouncival! It was worth the wait by far.

In recognition of your literary talents, I will leave you with a gift.








My true form

[Aedon]

Grand story Pouncival! It was worth the wait by far.

In recognition of your literary talents, I will leave you with a gift.

*laughs* Oh dear, I simply must sit this as my desktop. Glad you liked the tale.

[Aedon]

Born to Greatness----Nymerica

It was a moonless night, the air around the plains of Gramsfoot smelled heavily of fire and the odd bits of meat left on the skewers following the evening meal. Within the safety of the camp, denizens of the Eye were settling down for a nap before heading out on the nightly hunt. All about seemed quiet save for the patter of small feet heading towards the northern most fire.

On the edge of the fire the elder warg sat looking out towards Lugazag. His meal had been scant that night, no more than a few scraps of meat. Not that he could not have taken his fill from the runts of the pack, he liked it this way. He preferred to remain lean and hungry for the hunt. Glancing towards the approaching pups he growled low.

Ah good, you are here at last. I was beginning to think you would not be here before my time to depart. Than you would have had to sit and listen not to my tales of battle, but to Sars. I am not sure many of you would enjoy his telling of the coming of the great underoos. Now, what for tonight? Ah yes.

There is safety in the way of the pack. Many of you will soon be joining in an upcoming hunt. We are by nature a communal creature, but there are some who askew the group in favor of a more dangerous hunt. I will tell you of one such warg.

His name is Nymerica, and I am sure you have seen him sitting at supper by the last campfire. His name in the old tongue is defined as this. Ny, meaning solo and Merica, meaning born to greatness. He grew up as most of us had listening totals from the elders about the the great hunts, and the place each of us serve within the warband. But there was something within him which drove him apart from the pack. When hunts were planned and all the tribes of the many dens within Gramsfoot gathered, Nymerica would head out alone in search of prey. It is not uncommon to come upon him, standing near the waters of the Hoardale with two or three dead rat folk at his feet.

It was not that he does not care about the pack. Many times when we were about to stumble into a trap laid by the Tarks, Nymerica would send up a howl of warning, and then join in to help defeat the treacherous foe. It is more a drive within him which that sets him apart as a lone wolf.

I myself will hunt a solo path some nights, but never have I felt driven to the edge of death as Nymerica is. He will not wait to find a foe alone; will not hesitate to attack numbers greater than him. But a wisdom born of many winters, a cunning born of time spend observing his mark, and a courage born of a heart of greatness brings him success uncounted on the fields of glory.

Within this small group there may be one of you who in time will follow this path, and hunt a more solitary path. But I do not suggest that you attempt such a feat until you have weathered many hunts. For few of us have the skills and drive. And it is not often in the lives of the pack that one is born to greatness as Nymerica.

Looking down to the faces of the whelps Pounce almost smiled. It is time for the hunt, and I am assuming many of you must attend sparring practice before repairing to your dens.

[Aedon]

Mist on the Moors-Tailmange and Daizee

The line of young wargs moved steadily towards the front gate. It was well past time for their nightly story, and they had not yet seen the elder story teller. They searched near the campfires, sniffing intently in all directions for some rumor of Pounce. They were about to give up the hunt and retire to their dens for the night when one of them spotted the Elder sitting in the shadows of the spiders hill gazing towards the sky.

When they reached the place where he sat, one of the whelps looked at him and asked softly; “Mr. Pounce, why are you sitting so far from the fires staring into the dark?” Looking down towards the small pack the Elder replied; “Remembering.”

Come along though, and I will tell you a story of not one, but two of the great ones of Gramsfoot. Walking back to the north campfire the Elder settled down and waited till the line of pups had done the same. Closing his eyes a moment, he allows his thoughts to gather, and then opening his eyes, he began to speak.

I have often heard it said that road kill is something of little value. Little more than the gooey puddle left on the road after the free people have ridden their horses with reckless abandon from one keep to another. Most of this mess does not even make the starting of a good meal. But there were two among the pack who to them Roadkill was home and hearth, a place where their pack gathered, and shared the spoils of the nightly hunt.

For many years Tailmange and Daizee shared the duty of tending to the needs and training of their pack. They oversaw the much needed instructions of the pups, and chose who from among their ranks was ready to be elevated to tribe elder. Life within Roadkill was much the same as life within any of the Tribes of Gramsfoot with one small exception. Daizee and Tailmang had come under the gaze of the Great Eye.

It is not uncommon for the lord of us all to observe those who serve him, but in Tailmange and Daizee Sauron saw great potential and a chance to put an end to a foe who had long hunted his minions. Luc, Champion of the Free People had in his time brought about the untimely end of score upon score of the members of our warband. He cut a deadly swath that stretched from Gv to Dar Gazag, through the slug pits and up to the plains of Gramsfoot. From there, he would ride through Isendeep, through Grothum and back towards Tirith Rhaw. Many times we laid traps for this foe, but there was something unearthly about him. Many of the eldest among us claimed that he was a servant of the Tark deity, and was blessed with a long life so long as he devoted his existence to killing our people.

Through Tail and Daiz, for that is what their friends called them, Sauron believed he could vanquish this threat and strike a crippling blow against the free folks. And so it was that on a moonless night, when the stars were veiled and a creeping mist blanked the moors, Tailmange and Daizee stood before the Great Eye. He spoke to them of his plans, and made sure that they understood the ramifications of what they would soon become. He spoke of duty and a greater cause which transcended matters of the Tribe. And he told them that the lives they had lived would forever change, and that in doing this service to all who lived in Gramsfoot, much must be sacrificed to gain peace from this heartless fiend.

They did not think long, they each felt within their hearts what must be done. They thought of their Tribe waiting back in Gramsfoot. And with no words spoken they knew that they would give all that they were to keep safe those who they loved so dearly. Sauron looked inside them and saw their resolve and pain and spoke to them saying; “This I will do for you. To ease the pain of your passing over, your tribe will be wrapped in the care of the Pwnys. There they will believe they have always been, and though they may not recall their lives before, they will remember you two as family Elders. Great in spirit shall you be, and forever a part of their lives. “

Looking towards one another Tailmange and Daizee moved to stand closer to one another, and then bowed before the Great Eye.

For a moment it seemed that time stood still. All about them the winds swirled tossing leaves and thistle about their heads. Then Sauron spoke again saying; I bestow on you both the title Hand of Doom. In your maw there is death. Your eyes and ears shall be keen and your sight far reaching. You will track down this great foe never ceasing. There will be no place he can go that you will not pursue him and slay him to protect all our lands and peoples.

The pups looked up noticing that their Elder had suddenly stopped speaking. It looked to them as though he were lost in a deep and painful memory. And then he looked down to them, and smiled softly. When he started to speak again, his words were measured and controlled.

It was a night such as this when they left Gramsfoot to start their wild hunt. And those who reported in spoke of how they came on Luc from a veil of shadow, and slew first his great horse. And then they gave chase and used all their skills and talents to stay ever within striking distance of him. Never did they go in for the kill as was thought they would and those of us in the know understood that Tail and Daiz had decided to make Luc feel the pain, the biting wounds and final terror of each and every one of his victims. Across the plains of Grams, through the mines, the slug pits, round about every keep they gave chase, and always within his heart Luc knew that death was at hand. Through Grimwood, past Stumpgate all through Hoarhollow and then up the hills past the old River Outpost the chase continued. At long last, in a fit of desperation it is said, Luc lept from a mountain top to escape their onslaught. But Tailmange and Daizee followed him, leaping joyfully in the thrill of the hunt.

Now, I am sure you think this is the end of this tale. That Luc, Tailmange and Daizee were all killed in a fall from the heights. But it is not so, for you see, they never fell to earth, but continued the chase through the starry night sky. Luc was never seen again along his old hunting paths, and a peace of mind long unfelt returned to the denizens of Gramsfoot.

Tail and Daiz never returned to their den. Their pack settled in with me and my tribe and each of you are of their lineage. Strong and true of heart you will all one day join the hunt, and trod in the foot pads of the two that gave all to keep you secure.

I do not forget them, and on moonless nights, I come here to sit, look to the stars and remember. But also with a sense of happiness and hope I await them. For when the stars are in their proper places, and the mist is on the moors, they can sometimes be seen moving slowly along the ridge between DG and Gramsfoot.

[Gottapee]

Tailmange, Daizee & Luc literary novel

Those are names that haven't been seen in awhile, minus Tailmange.

à bientôt tailmange