In the dreary realm of Arghul, where the skies perpetually draped themselves in a bleak, ashy gray, our not-so-heroic protagonist lumbered through the muck of his swampy abode. Grog the Gruff, an orc of considerable stature (if you considered twice the size of a barrel of rancid ale considerable), was having an exceptionally bad day. To be fair, Grog’s bad days typically eclipsed those of average folk, but this one was particularly special. The universe, it seemed, was determined to remind him of his station in life.
Grog was a proud inhabitant of the Bulgeback Clan, notorious for their particular brand of brutish charm—if you could call it that. The orcish culture championed the pursuit of might, while simultaneously scoffing at such frivolities as “table manners” or “not terrifying the local peasants.” Grog was an apt student of these traditions, yet he often found himself unceremoniously thrust into positions where his brute strength was more of a handicap than an asset. After all, smashing heads was not overly effective when negotiating contracts.
It began, as these things often do, on a particularly dreary morning as Grog was contemplating the merits of consuming a particularly dubious-looking fungus. He’d made it this far into the day without committing any grievous errors, so surely a little nibble wouldn’t hurt? Just as he plucked the moldy delight from the muck, a shriek shattered the tranquility of his swampy realm and sent the fungus tumbling into the mud.
“Grog!” It was Grizzak, his esteemed cousin and a rather unfortunate embodiment of all the clan’s worst traits. Grizzak was a little smaller than Grog but compensated with an abundance of enthusiasm—an enthusiasm usually aimed at starting fights or, more often than not, getting into trouble.
“WHAT?!” Grog bellowed, his patience teetering on the brink.
“You’ll never guess what happened!” Grizzak’s beady eyes sparkled with the glimmer of utter nonsense. “A band of adventurers has arrived! They’re in the village, boasting about slaying dragons! They think they can just wander in here with their shiny swords and claim our land like they own the place!”
At this, Grog’s interest piqued. It had been ages since he’d had the chance to interact with well-armed humans. “What do they look like? Do they have shiny armor?”
“Very shiny! And you should see their hair! All perfectly coiffed! They look like they just walked out of a flower market!” Grizzak gestured wildly, clearly more obsessed with aesthetics than practicality.
“Ah yes, let me guess,” Grog replied, rolling his eyes. “They probably have no idea what a proper battle is like, do they? No gnashing of teeth or breaking of bones. Just sparkling swords and flowery nonsense!”
“Exactly!” Grizzak’s excitement bubbled over, casting aside any semblance of orcish dignity. “We should show them what true warriors look like! Let’s take back what’s ours!”
“Oh, splendid idea!” Grog replied, his sarcasm dripping like a leaky roof. “A fair fight with the hair gel enthusiasts! What could possibly go wrong?”
Nevertheless, the prospect of a skirmish—however ludicrous it seemed—had an undeniable appeal. Grog had spent the last week squishing insects and contemplating the meaning of life, or more accurately, the absence of it. Noticing the disdain in his cousin’s face for mere contemplation, he decided that perhaps engaging in a battle might serve to distract him from the crushing monotony of existence.
The two orcs lumbered through the village, and soon they found themselves amidst the gathering of adventurous folk. There they were, the shiny souls of the narrative—a band of four. One was preening as if he were a peacock caught in the springtime sun, adjusting the straps of what Grog assumed was a “battle outfit,” consisting of far more fabric than armor. Beside him, a stout dwarf with a beard that could house a family of rats was telling an exaggerated tale of their last conquest.
“…and then I smashed the dragon’s head with a single blow!” the dwarf exclaimed, arms gesturing like a bard at a festival.
“Oh, glorious!” Grizzak whispered, his eyes gleaming with admiration. “We should ask them to join our clan to help us take back our rightful land!”
Grog gave Grizzak a sidelong look. “Rightful land? Last I checked, our ‘rightful land’ consisted of swamp muck and questionable vegetation.”
But curiosity got the better of Grog, and with a heavy sigh that echoed through the air like a storm cloud, he trudged over to the merry band, leaving Grizzak to starve on his dreams of heroism. “Oi! You lot!” he bellowed, prompting several heads to turn in confusion.
“Who let the hairball in?” the peacock adorned in sparkling armor scoffed, visibly annoyed by Grog’s presence.
“Why don’t you take that pretty little sword of yours and come over here where I can see if it shines as beautifully as your hair?” Grog shot back, his bravado boosted by sheer orcish stubbornness.
The adventurers exchanged wary glances and then, in a moment calculated to display the bravery expected from heroes, they stepped forward. “What do you want, orc?” the dwarf asked, clearly trying to sound gruff but failing miserably.
“What I want?” Grog paused dramatically, an air of faux seriousness enveloping him. “I’d like to know when you’ll be leaving my swamp, but honestly, I’ve been meaning to ask if you mind terribly if I smash you into dust before you go.”
Laughter erupted among the adventurers, a sound that made Grog momentarily reconsider his career choices. It wasn’t often that simple methods of intimidation fell flat, but these buffoons seemed impervious to it. “You think you can take us on?” the peacock laughed, adjusting his shiny armor with a flick of his wrist.
“Oh, absolutely,” Grog replied, a predatory grin stretching across his green face. “But I warn you, I tend to get carried away.”
Before further foolish words could be exchanged, Grizzak swung into the fray, declaring to the world (and potentially to the heavens above, if he believed in that sort of thing) that the Bulgeback Clan would not kneel to mere mortals anymore. In truth, he wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but it stirred a wild sense of excitement.
The adventurers looked bewildered, and just like that, the contest of wit devolved into chaos. Sword met tooth, and axes swung wildly as the orcs charged with surprising zeal. The adventurers, in their dazzling display of heroics, were better equipped for a stage than a battlefield, and as swords clanged against Grog’s toughened skin, he couldn’t help but appreciate the irony: here they were, the mighty heroes, flailing about like fish out of water.
After what seemed like an eternity of pandemonium, the realization struck Grog—and likely the adventurers too—that brawling was much more fun when the other side didn’t know how to fight. One by one, they fell, tripping over their own feet and making what could only be described as unholy squawking noises.
Amidst the ruckus, a glimmer of recognition flashed across the peacock’s face, and he shouted, “Wait! This isn’t how it’s supposed to go!”
And with that, Grog delivered a swift kick that sent the poor soul sprawling into the mud.
As the dust settled, and the adventurers lay scattered amongst the swamp’s delightful filth—now undoubtedly more familiar with the muck than they ever wished to be—Grog stood tall, chest puffed out like a victorious rooster. “Well, that was refreshing!” he chuckled, glancing at Grizzak, who was scoring imaginary points as he pretended to orchestrate the chaos like some demented bard.
The victorious orc looked down at the peacock, who was still trying to disentangle himself from a tangle of muddy weeds. Grog couldn’t help but feel a smidge proud. “You lot should really consider a career change. Perhaps flower arranging instead?”
With that, the orc ambled back to his swamp, reveling in the indescribable glory of having crushed the dreams of more polished heroes with far less effort than he anticipated. After all, who needed shiny swords and grand tales when you had a swamp and the perfect opportunity to eat some questionable fungus in peace?
And as Grog settled back down into the muck, a thought crossed his mind—that perhaps there was more to life than just smashing things. But that thought faded as quickly as it came, replaced by the immediate urge to celebrate with a hearty meal.
After all, there would always be more adventurers.
Author: Opney. Illustrator: Stab. Publisher: Cyber.
