An Iron Path: RPG

The dungeons of Kahzor Kazaag were nearly a mile under the surface of the world, completely void of any natural light or sounds. It was said that the prisoners there would often go insane before their sentence was honorably carried out. Gaion, the Earth Mother, grew weak in these troubling days. She was even weaker here, but her children needed her. She did what she could in the unnaturally-hewn stonework, enchanted by alien magic. Mostly it was to keep the former Warchief and his Mor'kragh, his loyal Iron Guard, from mentally devolving like so many before them. The shamans who did not break their oath to Gorthok still spoke to her, and relayed her messages to the warriors and to the others of that flock - their families and the children. With their honor in question and their lives in danger, it was faith in each other, their ancestors, and the elements that kept them going.

It already came to pass that their imprisonment exceeded seven days. Thousands of Orcs, still loyal to Gorthok Bloodstomper, were cast aside and abused - forgotten in the catacombs. Gorthok himself was severely injured, but the elements favored him, and his wounds did not kill him. But they needed far more time to heal than mere blast injuries or even severed limbs. Barrok Thunderhand, the Usurper Warchief, had made a deal with a foreign godlike being. His lust for vengeance made him see nothing but bloodshed in the future, and he converted all of the Orcish land into a giant churning furnace. He was preparing for a war that would bring untold destruction to the world. Barrok saw firsthand the terrors mankind could inflict upon not only their enemies, but themselves. The biological abominations Clan Maverick produced both terrified and disgusted him.

It would only be a matter of time before that ugliness would spread. Humanity and mutantkind would no longer wage wars with their living, but their reanimated dead.

At least such was the horror that awaited the Earth in Barrok's mind, if he did not act. He spoke out against Gorthok twice, once he failed to overthrow the Great Warchief in honorable combat. He wanted Gorthok to ride out once more, to bring the humans and the like to heel through brute force, to unleash millions of Orcs all at once and conquer the world in blood and fire. Yet Gorthok did not see the future in the same light as Barrok. He trusted that their noble sacrifice in Venezuela would bring some categories of existence to light. He trusted in the vision of the leaders of the outside world to be able to comprehend the message Gorthok wanted to bring. Though he failed in breaking the cycle of war through war, perhaps he could do so by showing compassion through honor and death.

Barrok called him weak, and took his most loyal warriors out of Kahzor Kazaag. How he managed to do it, nobody but those select few know. He came back after two days of that self-imposed exile, and challenged Gorthok again. This time he did not impose a simple duel for leadership - he challenged Grak'tha, a Death Combat.

Within seconds of this new battle, Gorthok realized Barrok had changed. No longer was he a simple Orc. He had been infused somehow with another power, changed ultimately and fundamentally. He overthrew Gorthok and blasted his torso out of his back with a strange firearm in a public execution. His words would forever change Kahzor Kazaag and how the Orcs thought, or at least how the majority thought.

"Venezuela was not an exhibition of our strength or honor. We died and the humans and mutants only saw us as monsters and savages. Still they laugh at us, mocking us from behind their fortresses and from underneath their cold laboratories. I am your new Warchief, your Iron Warchief, and this world will no longer suffer under the destructive hand of humanity, or the apocalyptic might of the mutants. We will break down their walls. We will burn their cruel science. The ancestors are dead. The elements are silent. By strength and strength alone can we take this world back. And by my thunderous rage, IT WILL BE DONE!"

It changed the Orcs forever, because it was truly the beginning of the end for their species.

Barrok's siege of the world came quickly. Millions of Orcs heeded his call, and were armed with the same terrifying technology he had bartered with his new god for, his god of steel and death. The Iron Warchief built an army within a week, changing the landscape of Kahzor Kazaag as he did so. No longer were the shamanic waystones respected and nurtured. They were broken down for use in building the furnaces and steelworks. The elements were shackled and enslaved for many purposes, the most abused of them being Incendius who was chained to the deepest and mightiest furnace of all Barrok's twisted divinations and forced to heat the entire mountain range.

His own hand, which had been used to produce the lightning of Raijin in years past, became black and sparked with red instead of natural bluish-white energies. Even Raijin's fury and his sorrow could not break the bonds Barrok laid upon him, and instead manifested as a stranger and more powerful energy for him to manipulate.

The Thunderhand marked portals to make his lasting impression on the world with. He aimed them at Central America, theorizing that if he blazed a path of total war starting there and ending in Canada, then there would be little else capable of standing in his way. As Gorthok and his ilk rotted in the dungeons of Kahzor Kazaag, Barrok shook the world with an uncompromising firestorm. Hundreds of thousands were butchered, mutilated, and taken for slaves. The dreaded Seventh Day passed, and Barrok's campaign of terror had become shockingly different to Gorthok's message of honor and humility. His army descended into Mexico, determined to bring the same carnage.

He stood at the forefront of the black-armored legion, a belt of human skulls in various states of decay draped around his waist and a bandolier stretching over his thick chest bearing many of the same trophies. The smoke of his war machines darkened the sky. His mission was the same genocidal push many feared Gorthok's attack would become. But he had chosen a much different path for himself as Warchief.

He had chosen a Path of cold, unbending Iron.

@thisisgonnahurt:

The Stratosphere; above Greenland

High soared Conrad Kurtz, self-established Bastion of Humanity. Around the world he patrolled, taking care to combat threats grand and small in scale wherever he went. But no conflict drew his attention like that between Orcs, and Humanity. He knew not of their origins, aware only of their attack made on Venezuela a mere week before; all he knew was that they were barbarically violent, and they seemed to seek naught but the destruction of humanity. In many scenarios, Conrad could find himself conflicted; he'd avoided dealing with governments in Third World countries, and had often contemplated how to handle those who seemed at risk of suicide (the latter, he'd found, mostly involved talking, personally, to those close to the one at risk), but when it came to sheer, brutal violence...he knew he was in the right.

Swooping through the atmosphere at speeds that brought shame to lightning bolts, he tore through the clouds, diving low in order to minimize the effect on the weather, as well as to avoid aerial traffic. He sped over the water, a superheated cone of air surrounding him as he approached the army of warriors in Central America. He allowed himself to create a sonic boom over their forces, which were far larger than he estimated. A sea of green and black covered the ground, synchronized marching shaking the land and echoing in his ears. He found their front line, hovering overhead.

"ENOUGH,"

came his response, glowing eyes ripping a massive red-hot trench in the ground before the Orc front line. His command echoed through the air, his voice certain to reach the ears of every last Orc. Endangered civilians, not combat, were his priority; yet with none in sight, he could focus on demoralizing, then finally routing, this alien menace...

@thisisgonnahurt: @bulwark

When Solar Hawk used her White Lantern ring to resurrect the Hawk Lords of old into a new generation, Sentinel Hawk was the first to emerge. The plan was that it would occur over decades but Amun-Ra altered the plan. He shifted the resurrection so that rather than Hawk Lords slowly returning they all returned in a small window of time, starting twenty years ago. If you want to know a secret, Hawk Lords never really get very old even when we manage to live for a long time our bodies rarely age past our twenties. I had no idea so many had come back until a week ago. The Orc attack caused Amun-Ra to summon myself and Solar Hawk to Thanagar for a...briefing. There he presented the Legions of Thanagar...all of them. The Hawk Lords had awoken, we were back, all of us. It goes something like this, when Amun-Ra created the Hawk Lords he created them among one percent of the world population at the time. He increased this number again later when the population expanded and then once more around 500 BC. The number of Hawk Lords at that time reached one percent of the population, or, one million.

We trained them for a week, created leaders of units, we broke them into controllable forces and expected to keep them scattered across the world until a major conflict required their mobilization. The major conflict has come. The sky is already dark, but it grows darker as we approach. Solar Hawk is in Gothic and control of the legion falls to me. We fly in squadrons in an arrow formation, like a massive flock of birds we fill the sky with our vast numbers, a cloud of ancient warriors returned, the one time defenders of Humanity back again in numbers...that can block out the sun. If you've never seen a million people move in formation through the air it's really something to see.

I identified a relatively new hero, at least to me, hovering before the Orc horde and threatening them. This was as good a place as any to begin the first defense. There is no need for me to bark orders or send commands...they may be new, they may not have their ancient memories, but Hawk Lords fight together like few others, we know instinctively when to act and how. As I fly towards Bulwark the Legion follows. The army spreads out as they near the ground and hovers in the air arranged in perfect formation. They raise their weapons and aim them squarely at the Orcs. Each warrior wields an Nth Metal mace but the weapons of old are mostly ceremonial for close combat now. Each warrior carries two pistols that fire Nth Metal rounds and a pair of fifty caliber Nth Metal Thompson style submachine guns. I raise my hand as I fly over next to Bulwark and signal for the Legion to hold its fire so that I may speak to him.

"Hero, Thanagar stands at your side." I tell him, flying next to him and hovering facing the Orcs. "But words will not route them, nor flashy displays of power. Are you ready to fight Hero?" As I speak these words each warrior activates his or her Nth Metal armor and is now fully clad in protective Nth Metal. Our bullets will penetrate their hides and are tipped with armor piercing cores but more importantly, each will be charged with fifty thousand volts of electricity. As for me, I pull out my rifle and flip it around on the axis of its lever action. The weapon promptly transforms into the one shot particle cannon it has always been capable of forming into. It will only fire this way once today, but when it does it will carve a glorious path.

@lunahawk:

He glanced to his left, then behind him, eyeing the massive legion of Hawk Lords hovering behind. Raising an eyebrow, he looked back to the Orc Horde beneath them both. He took a quarter-second to inspect the winged-woman at his side. She had great beauty, of course (who didn't these days), and she wielded a gun of some sort. For a moment, his eyes flashed white, and he saw the atoms that comprised the woman, and those that made up her gear; it was an unrefined technique, but it told him that she was in no way human. Her weapons were made of something he'd never seen before, either. Their force was sizeable...but it didn't match the Horde beneath them. He thought for a moment, silent.

"Crowd control. I'll handle this. Make sure everyone is well-fed and out of harm's way. Whatever's coming could go on for hours, maybe days," he said, without turning to face her. How he wanted to thank her for her presence, and how he wanted to fight alongside her...but now was not amateur hour.

Please be professional, he hoped, silently.

@thisisgonnahurt: @lunahawk: @bulwark

Although no noise was made by his ancient wings Owl dropped majestically from the sky shifting to a rather disturbing Owl/Human hybrid creature with a white owls face, the general body of a humanoid however with many similarities to an owl including claws and strange almost unnatural wings. It wasn't his usual shape, in fact he had rarely used it over his time. It was known as the Owlman. Generally seenseen without the wings, but nevertheless a rather terrifying sight.

He hovered near the Hawk Lord and Bulwark flapping his wings at a disturbingly slow pace. most of him seemed to be in a sort of crouch.

When he spoke it was deep, but also like a whistling hiss, "Greetings Hawk lords, and other. I suppose we're all here for the same reason, to prevent this Orcs from getting what they want."

His mind began strategizing:

'In this form I will have superior speed, flexibility, and equal strength, my claws should pierce their hide quite nicely I think.

Suggested strategies:

Terror. Use the unnatural look of the Owlman and streamline through them wreaking as much havoc as possible. Avoid hits but when hit act as if it did no harm and only increased my fury. Use the death stare to paralyze opponents which shall disturb more.

Since this form is also more durable I will be able to take most of their attacks and continue.'

In fact in this form he had a number of abilities that were more dangerous than usual:

Death glare: This happens when he makes eye contact with something else that has eyes. While a "mindless" beast might either die on the spot or not be effected any normal thing with a reletively complicated thinking would likely get paralyzed on the spot.

Extremely difficult to kill: No one has actually ever gotten close to kill an Owlman. They are so mysteriously unkillable for various reasons. It seems that while a blade may pierce it one minute a bullet couldn't phase it the next. Even when decapitated they seem to continue without a head, however sometimes vanishing possibly to heal.

Claws: Extremely sharp and strong claws. Unlike his normal class which cut through steel these can cut through almost anything if the circumstances are right. Titanium falls apart, Vibranium gets crushed, adamantium get sliced ( it is a bit more uncommon However but on occasion that happens.)

Matching speed: Instead of breaking the sound barrier or travelling through light an Owlman can match nearly any speed and seem to do it at a slow pace.

Mystery: They have been known to be in one place and then in another without any reason to have moved. They also seem to know if someone, or something, is watching or learning about them.

@owl_:

Conrad shot a worried glance to his right, as the voice had surprised even him. With the cacophony beneath, he'd not heard the silent, other bird-person hovering nearby.

Are you with them? he wondered, but kept the thought inside.

"Crowd control," he repeated, not wanting to look directly at the creature at his side. "There are millions of them. You won't make a dent," he continued, his flashing white eyes peering at the massive orc wave. He sought out a commander, an authority figure...but there were so many, it was impossible for him to inspect every single one. "Saving lives is the priority. These creatures won't be terrified by bird...people," he finished, looking side to side. "I want evacuations of all nearby cities. These things are strong and fast. Each squad can overrun a small town, and there are tens of thousands of squads. Even I can't deal with these numbers."

He crossed his arms.

"We wait for them to respond. Until then...crowd control."

@thisisgonnahurt: @bulwark: @owl_

I brought a squad, everyone else brought armies. That suits me just fine. Katraya's helicopter transport landed well behind the defensive line formed by the heroes and the Order of the Sacred Conflict emerged. They walked in step with one another with Katraya at their head as they moved towards the soon to explode conflict. Metal boots clunked against the ground and weapons were prepared. Most carried the OVK, OVK Pistols, grenades and their combat swords. Two carried newly developed weapons, a massive flame thrower that would have taken two normal people to wield properly and an oversized, rapid firing machine gun version of the OVK that had to be held with both hands.

Crowd control huh? You want to give the Orcs the initiative? Katraya and her squad of ten armored women came up in line with the rest. The woman (girl really, she was all of eighteen) wielding the heavier, larger version of the standard OVK lifted her weapon, checked its chain feeding mechanism and drove a round into the chamber. Each one of the women carried a weapon that fired self-propelled, armor piercing mass reactive seventy five caliber shells. The beauty of such a weapon against something with the tough hide of an Orc is that it would penetrate the skin and explode inside, doing untold damage in the process. Katraya glanced over at massed horde of Orcs, then over the hero who loved crowd control.

Crowd control? No. Waiting? Yes, I think I can live with that. Let's get ready.

"Gene-lock girls." She ordered her squads. "Durability level three." The squad followed orders and Katraya and her squad gained the physical durability of much more powerful entities. What their armor wouldn't defend against their new found durability likely would. Unfortunately of course once they gene-locked they were on a two hour time table. It was a necessary procedure though, lest many of them fall in a battle that was only meant to test their abilities in the field.

Katraya closed her eyes and shifted onto her knees. She brought her hands together in front of her and took her prayer beads in them and began to pray. "We stand at the ready to serve or die for you Holy Tyrant. Today we fight for Holy Peace and the restoration of Order. Bless our weapons with your hand, bless our aim with your guidance and deliver us from the inequities of our foes. Grant us the ability to slay many more than our number and lose few in return."

@bulwark: @lunahawk: @Thisisgonnahurt:

An evilish grin spread over his face owl like face, "It doesn't matter if they are all like Ceberus, an Owlman always makes a dent before he goes away." He hissed slash whistled.

He looked over them examining the Orcs and began to slowly and silently inch forwards to be directly over them.

'Multitude of enemies, assistance reccomended for maximum effectiveness.

Situational assistance: Summon Owlmen.

Alternative:

Shift to bigger form of Owlman to create more damage per attack. '

He waited for the orcs to make a move

@katraya:

He glanced down at an approaching squad of heavily-armored warriors. A helicopter had landed behind their lines, unloading the group, which itself possessed a menagerie of dangerous-looking munitions. But they were only a squad, against millions; a quick flash of his atom-sight revealed that there were fewer bullets in their chambers than a tenth of what he estimated the total count of the Orcs to be. His glowing eyes widened ever so slightly in surprise when his sight peered through their armor, revealing the whole force to be comprised of women.

Unusual, he thought, watching their commander kneel in a prayer of some sort. They didn't seem concerned with civilian casualties, either, based on the rounds they were packing. He pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbing his eyes for a fraction of a moment.

"Don't engage," he said, speaking to the bird-creatures at his sides, and also, to the armored women beneath. "Give them a chance to respond. Watch for prisoners. No collateral, or you'll answer to me," he said, loud enough to be heard over the Orc legions.

If I can find their leader, I can end this now...but if they break ranks-!

With renewed haste, he narrowed his eyes, seeking out the Orc commander...

One Week Ago, Gothic City.

"By Hera's Womb! Those're orcs!" Joey cried out, jumping off of his couch to his feet and shaking his entire apartment building at the same time. Fists clenched, he watched the news report, as live feed came in from Venezuela covering the attacks made by the monstrous threat to humanity. Gritting his pearly white teeth, the Herculean man watched the small screen with almost complete dedication as he learned of the whereabouts of the attacks, before coming to a satisfying conclusion- South America.

Nodding his shaggy head in satisfaction, the giant turned towards the small door to his apartment, and ripped off his t-shirt and jeans- revealing the gladiatorial garments underneath. Golden and green this war-skirt was, and tight around Joseph's waist. A gargantuan mass of muscles threatened to break even the thin leather belt that held his trusty mace. Squeezing through the door, the man spent a good ten minutes fumbling with the tiny key to his home before deciding to leave it unlocked, and turned to run down the hallway only to leap out of a (luckily open) window. Joey crashed into the asphalt below, creating cracks in the ground below him, but turned and began to run towards the city's stables (A local farm, that held horses).

In a little under an hour, Joey stood triumphant in a tall chariot led by a team of four muscular warhorses, and grabbed the enchanted mace on his belt. Raising it high over his head, his thick voice boomed out over the horses, causing them to immediately break into a gallop. "TO WAR!"

Today. Mexico.

"We may pity these mortals on many things, Buttercup..." Joseph panted, the hot Mexican sun baking down on him as he held the bucket of water to the horse's mouth. "But their method of transportation is extraordinary." Just then, as if to mock him, a helicopter flew overhead, to the north. With a mighty grunt, Joey turned his head back to the horse, before a strange sight caught his eye, a stark contrast from the pale blue skies around him. Smoke. And not just a normal fire's worth. A practical wall of smoke was before him. Eyes widening, the deity turned his head to the Mexican farmer and instructed him to watch the horses, before grabbing his mace and walking towards the smoke.

Within moments, it became clear, as Joey came up to the top of a small hill. The orcs were here, reaching out as far as the eye could see. Lips immediately pulling back into a grimace, the boy-god started to run down the hill, prepared to take on the whole army of beasts if he could.

"CHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGE!"

Voice like thunder, Joey ran down the hill, going as fast as he could, and charged the electrical energies within the golden mace. The orcs ahead of him got ready to run him through, bracing their spears and pointing them towards the crazed demigod. However, nigh-limitless strength and a passion for bloodshed was greater than even the mightiest Orcish spears. Joey stopped immediately before running straight into the spear, and grabbed the end of it- pulling the orc closer to him, and sending him flying back with an electrifying blow from the mace. Keeping the spear, Joey saw the monsters begin to rush him, and found no traces of fear in their eyes.

Good.

For they would find none in his.

@joey_destroyer_of_worlds:

From his position in front of the Orcish vanguard, Conrad glanced far and away, hearing a mighty battlecry over the din of the Orc's raucous voices. Beneath his feet were the Steel Women, and at his sides and flank were the Winged Warriors. Now, a lone gladiator had joined the war as well, tearing recklessly into a contingent of Orcs around a mile from where the Bastion floated. He seemed to be doing well enough on his own, and a nigh-unnoticeable blast of atomic sight revealed a body type wreathed in what Conrad could only presume to be mystical energies.

He can handle himself. He's alone; perhaps he'll draw out their leader, he thought, clenching and unclenching his fists.

"Steady, everyone," he said, eyes still white as snow...

Urging For The Taste Of His Own Blood

For an entire week Rye has been venturing forward. Something was tugging the crust of his skin pushing him. It swirled the savage fluids that would waterfall through his organs. Striking his thoughts, he would lose his body in this battle. This curse, this body would stroll his mind to where the instincts of a beast would go. But this was different. For an entire week he would have his sanguine liquids impale through his hide towards a location. For an entire week he would run. There was always a purpose when his body's mind would flag him towards a location. All of the times his body would send him somewhere close, but this was the farthest he's ever been.

Annie: "He's been running for awhile now.."

It is said that the flesh of his father was connected to the world and can feel its pain. Somehow with every traveling mile he would believe this. He felt he was getting closer every day. Something was marching inside of his brain. The butchery of a stampeding sound was gouging a dent in his mind. Vibrations of another realm would drill into his joints. The planet was going to have an impeding pain. If only if he could lay his hands on such a gradual feast before it would start he could stop the pain before it would become permanent.

Neck: "Yeah..but what else can we do about it? He's not going to listen to us at this state"

With the passing hour his eyes were shot open in the shivering of his bloudering muscles. He was barely in control of his body, monstrous instincts that he tried contain were leaking out the closer he was getting. What was his purpose here? Why was he called here?

In time he would hear the soaring of capes and heroes in the sky above him and a lone gladiator. They would black out the sun below with their shadows and ring the place with noise as they moved for battle. Rye's eyes would glow red as if it were night since the rays of the sun were barely leaked out. Like a predator hunting in the dark he would continue to move forward towards the marching of the metal warriors. He would not see beasts, as he is one. He would not see savages, as he is one. He would see prey. Not worried about their grueling numbers, the instincts of his true being would nullify most of his thoughts. He couldn't snap out of it.

@katraya: @thisisgonnahurt: @joey_destroyer_of_worlds: @bulwark: @rye: @lunahawk:

"Quite an edgy one aren't you?" Owl asked Conrad rhetorically seeming to appear closer without any time in between places.

In the distance, by those who looked, the disturbing and unnatural shadowy silhouettes of four Owlmen, one North, one South, one East, and one West.

"You know it seems we've almost all been around this longer than you have, so stop trying to play leader. You sound like a comic book character when you do." He added.

He turned back around to face the Orcs and now those attacking them.

@owl_:

In response, Conrad merely shot a glare towards the owl-being, who it seemed had his own way of creeping about silently. He feared nothing, but the unnatural voice and mannerisms of the thing bothered him. He exhaled softly, keeping an eye on the creatures beneath them.

"Watch the snark, bird. Be professional, if nothing else," he remarked, trying to identify any human prisoners among the Orc ranks.

@owl_: @thisisgonnahurt: @joey_destroyer_of_worlds: @bulwark: @rye:

"Inexperienced or not, comic book sounding or not, he's also not wrong." I tell the Owl guy. I think I understand this guy's strategy and it's a weird one but I want to give it a chance to play out. I can feel my Legion struggling to control their desire for battle. This sort of thing is literally what we were made for. I send text message based orders into the HUDs of roughly ten thousand Hawk Lords ordering them to disperse among the area and get the civilians out of the combat zone as fast as possible. The ones I choose are the youngest, they won't be thrilled with the orders but they'll deal with it. My next orders are different and they play out in plain view as the front line of the legion melts back and the ranks behind them move to replace them. They are changing positions so that the shorter ranged smaller weapons are now ready to be the second wave. At the front? High explosive, wide area of effect Nth Metal rocket launchers, ten thousand of them, in fact. Each only carries two rockets but it will put a nice size gap in the line when they do open fire.

As Hawk Lords we know our weapons will eventually run out of ammo but we are made for close combat and will then close in with the Orcs and bring maces to faces. For now we wait to see if the strategy works. I turn my attention to the hovering hero with his shiny ideas and he reminds me a bit of Sentinel Hawk. She's here but mostly to serve as medical aide. All armies have their reserves and support units, even ones crafted by a god to fight wars against monsters.

"Like I said, we're with you." I tell the hero known as Bulwark. "I see where you're going, I'm not sure it will work, but we'll give it a chance before we change strategies."

@bulwark:

"Proffesional requires order, and a proffesional leader." He hissed/whistled without turning around, "Something I don't see in you." He added.

On occasion Owl got a bit to sarcastic and rude when speaking to those he saw as unintelligent enough or unfit for something. Not that it should be too much of an insult, he considered Einstien unfit for his praise and most anyone incompetent.

The Owlmen seemed to simply drift closer in different areas. They could hardly even be tracked. Radars and electronics couldn't detect them. Just the eyes, and even they were decieving.

@lunahawk: He looked back to the slender, winged woman, taking more time to look at her than before. He turned to watch their army mobilize, looking through their ranks with his atomic sight.

What-?

"Your forces. They're...kids," he said, looking back to the mace-wielding fighter at his side.

The oldest among them can't be more than twenty...

@bulwark:

I smile, it was an understandable mistake. "No, we're Hawk Lords. I have lived through eighty two life times. I fought at the side of Amun-Ra, I crossed the Rubicon, I served as the right hand of a Roman Emperor and was one of Charlemagne's lovers. I am literally born for war and the same is true of all of them. For years beyond counting we have been absent from the world save for myself and one other, Amun-Ra saw fit to begin our return twenty years ago." I gesture the massed Hawk Lords with one hand. "Each one of these warriors has the instinctive combat experience and ability of fully trained soldiers and more than twice the durability of a human. We are the mailed fist of Amun-Ra. Don't fear for our lives, there is no one here that can give us a permanent death." I shift my gaze to Joey and almost amend my statement. Technically he's a god so he could but he has no reason to.

@lunahawk:

Listening to the Hawk's story, he nodded.

"That's really...something. I take it you're in command. What do I call you?" he asked, actually turning in mid-air for the first time since they'd joined him.

@bulwark:

I nod once. "Luna Hawk. Ordinarily command of the Legion would fall to Solar Hawk but she has other priorities today. On the off chance you need medical attention today Sentinel Hawk is in the back working with civilians and setting up medical stations." I grin a little. "All our names reflect something of who we are." Titles actually, not names, but people don't get to know our names unless we see fit to provide them. I don't know this guy well enough for something like that. "And you? I assume you have a title or a name."

@lunahawk: @thisisgonnahurt: @joey_destroyer_of_worlds: @bulwark: @rye:

"I told you we were all older than you," Owl told Conrad drifting eerily over, "You're basically a child."

Again the four Owlmen continued to close in getting closer and closer to the horde of orcs and to the strange group of heroes.

@lunahawk:

Conrad, he thought.

"Bastion," he replied, offering a smile for the first time since they'd approached the Horde. "We can get acquainted later, Luna-Hawk. Right now, we've got lives to save," he said, turning back to the endless legions before them...

"Funny, then, that I'm the one acting mature around here," he said, without so much as looking at the Owl-thing this time. "Focus on what's important, bird," he finished, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Luna's friendly, and familiar somehow. Might've seen an interview with her once. The bird's...edgy. I'll give him that. Edgy and unprofessional.

He resumed his search for the Orc commanders.

@bulwark:

"Maturity is reletive. You also miscalculated, there is a multitude around here with a high probability plenty are acting mature." He corrected, "You are also the one saying steady even though no one was actually doing anything yet. Psycologically generally a reverse effect in tense situations as well as being commonly used in fiction by leaders, I have never actually seen an effective leader use that phrase in similar context."

Owls more sarcastic part was starting to fade and his logic/science criticism was kicking in.

"Also, you might want to be careful with nicknames. While I, probably, won't kill you plenty of people would for that. Namecalling a person 'bird' is counter productive and may actually cause a want to change sides for less sincere 'heroes' with a high emotional sensitivity just to fight you." He added.

Keeping this kind of mind while in this body was uncommon. Soon he would likely change form or change subject.

And so it was, on the Seventh Day of Doom, that the deserts of Mexico witnessed a tragedy unfold. Where tradition and ancestral honor had once commanded the Orcs who so desperately clung to life on this violent world, now it was replaced with a refreshed and heated rage. This emotion had been long tempered in the fires of the Orcish soul and only now had it been refined, and forged into a true and terrifying weapon. Orcs had forever been respectful and even admired the sacred Bloodlust that inflicted their warriors in the direst of times, but those were always suicidal charges into the enemy ranks. Through alien technology and foreign magics, the same strength from that mindset had been applied, multiplying the strength of the beasts many times over. And yet they still possessed their wits and the willingness to fight using structure and order.

Although Orcs were never truly savages and barbarians, this Iron Warchief had made them into something truly terrifying.

Without saying a word in reply to the gestures and demands of their foes, the horde collapsed their shields into a functioning wall of metal that possessed leniency and flexibility. These blocks of iron were heavier than anything a normal man could wield alone, as they were veritable slabs of material. Yet the strength of this new breed of Orc carried it as if it were nothing. The same could be said of their weapons and armor, for not even Gorthok's Mor'kragh, his Iron Guard, could manage something so perfectly defensible and intimidating. True beasts, all of them, the ranks were divided in unison. As of right now, the heroes faced but one part of the massive surge of landfaring warriors. Even more were tunneling underneath and yet more were traveling by warship across the harbors and waterways of the coastlines, bombarding population centers and taking as many slaves as they could in piratical sieges that lasted mere moments.

Barrok Thunderhand stood at the forefront of his million warriors, though there were many more on the way and in the process of surrounding them all as was mentioned earlier. Blockaded from sight by his Black Vanguard, the Iron Warchief strode into plain sight, a monster of a creature. Almost ten feet tall at the shoulder and molded from thick pads of muscle, the behemoth seemed to be incredibly slow due to both his size as well as the massive warhammer he carried. It had been forged from the steel of Gorthok's axe, a final insult to the crime of defying his usurper's right to rule. But now it burned with strange eldritch energies, the very stuff of a hellish domain unbeknownst to all save for him. It was a gift from his god of steel and death, a weapon that would never die out, a channeling emblem for his own dark nature as well as his devilish magic.

The elements favored Gorthok, but Barrok twisted their more heinous aspects to his will. If he could not have their power, then no one would. He swore death to all those who defied him, even the immortal spirits of nature. Incendius tried to escape, but was chained to the heart of Kahzor Kazaag to power its many new furnaces. Such was the imagery reflected in the warhammer, for it burnt and smoked without fuel, as if still churning in molten heat yet solid as the most durable materials known to man. His eyes smouldered with that same energy. He was no mere brute, but a callous and cunning warrior, a veteran of as many battles as he had warriors at his disposal. They were all drilled and trained for this war - any war. He had confidence enough to crush this world and a thousand beside if it meant his Orcs would be able to live free lives away from the misconceptions of humanity and the dangers of mutantkind.

His god demanded it.

"You stand in the way of progress," he opened up, his voice accented with a crack of crimson lightning above them. A storm started brewing, speaking naught of rain but of a demonic thunder brewing at its core. This was Barrok's storm, summoned to this battle by the will of his smouldering hand. It would do considerable damage to those within reach - especially those capable of flying.

"Move aside or die here and now, it makes no difference," his eloquent and harsh way of talking commanded attention. Before the combined defenders was not the sadistic barbarian many thought he would be. Even while remaining completely still he possessed an absolutely demoralizing aura of strength and charisma. His warriors would fight and die for him this day. That much was certain.

With a simple gesture he tore the warhammer from its idle position in the ground. Just from sitting there, it had worn a deep crack in the earth without even the slightest bit of motivation from Barrok's own monstrous strength. And it was a true demonstration of that power that caused the weapon to be taken out of its self-imposed crater and onto Barrok's shoulders. For him it was a simple exercise in preparation for a fight. For those who were not accustomed to the sight of the beast, it must have seemed like a giant heaping a skyscraper onto his back and walking forwards with the intent to kill.

Indeed, he moved forward. The legions around him were not intent on swarming around him, but tactically positioning themselves further. Phalanxes moved and divided with devious ploys behind their motions. With so many Orcs at his beck and call, Barrok's strategy choked the horizon from end to perceivable end. It would be a long and bitter battle, but the Orcs would not retreat. He had given up on the humans and mutants. He had given up on this world. If he could not exterminate them all, then he would destroy everything he saw in the process and rebuild a planet of cold, unfeeling iron.

With the blaring of horns and the rhythmic, apocalyptic stamping of feet and drums, the armies of the Iron Warchief assembled in perfect harmony and began their stoic advance.

In response to the obvious aerial and ranged superiority of the winged warriors, formations of blunderbusses ran out ahead - skirmishers equipped with axes in the event they should be blindsided. But their main weapons were already bayoneted and deadly on their own. The accuracy of one shot was abysmal, yet its power was unlike anything previously seen. Barrok studied the guns of humans following Venezuela, even going so far as to dissect the captured tanks and improve on their design. One shot from a blunderbuss obliterated thick layers of kevlar, and turned the ammunition in question into rampaging white pellets of searing-hot death. If the pure concussive impact didn't outright slay a target, the resulting burn would be devastating. And they were being fired in volleys of hundreds of thousands at a single time, tides of bullets screaming bloody murder as the air shattered around them.

This same concept stood for the lumbering smoke-belching behemoths rolling into position on elevated platforms of solid rock. Battle cannons proportionately larger than most cars sat as the most prominent feature of these hulks. One after another, rank upon rank, these mobile artillery pieces shot into a fearsome arc looking to at least soften up what had become the densest concentration of enemy soldiers seen in quite a while. Even more of Barrok's inventions were well on their way to the conflict zone, but for right now the chaos had come to a crescendo and all reliance on remembering such trivia became a distant memory. The Orcs burst through the smoke unearthed by the first salvo, Barrok at the head of the column, striking out with his warhammer just as a titanic bolt of red lightning exploded in the sky.

@thisisgonnahurt:

Orcs are not savages.

This thought held true in Mask's mind as his forces approached the inevitable blood bath. He had brought a small army with another waiting to be deployed should Mask's hunch be proven true. What hunch was this, hmmm, these orcs were not the same as the orcs in Venezuela. From the intel in his possession he could tell a few things but the primary one was that they acted differently. They didn't spare civilians they gutted them, they didn't use a similar strategy they used intimidation. These facts led him to one assumption, they were under new leadership. This meant that either their previous leader died on the battlefield that day, or that something a bit more twisted was underway. Either way Mask needed answers and the only way to get the truth was to probe the mind of their commander. How would he do that, well lets just say that it was a very...risky idea.

The battlefield was ablaze with gunfire and actual...fire, Red lighting hung overhead which prevented his ships from getting any closer so here was the drop point, Mask himself dropped from his helicopter, behind him a group of 50 drop ships filled the skies like a flock of birds. IN these drop ships was what he considered a small army, yet it paled in comparison to the orcs forces. At least that was how it looked, in truth these were newly designed units, weapons built for this kind of war. These were his newest creations, as the ships grew closer it became visibly clear they were carying something, ten somethings to be exact. Ten per ship, fifty ships, a total of five hundred war machines.

From the sky these things were released, falling though the air and landing with a boom on the ground below. A dust cloud kicked up, obscuring vision of them. Mask checked his watch before letting out a single command.

"charge"

The sound of engines kicking to life blew away the cloud and when the visibility was clear they rushed forward. The Knight MK II a mecha frame that weilded a 70 mm anti aircraft gun as it's primary weapon and stood 12 ft tall. The first hundred formed a defensive line, a last resort should the orcs push far enough. The other four ran in to the frey,

"Switch to explosive rounds, kill them quickly."

What the eyes can't see isn't there

Mask on the other hand would utilize his own powers to aid in the fight. He used his all seeing eye to scan the crowd for their leader, this time he wasn't hard to find. He made himself known, Mask used his all controlling eye to turn himself invisible to anyone within a three mile radius of his position. He approached the 'great' orcish general making his presence known only to that one in particular.

"SO here we are again, except your not the orc who led Venezuela. No those were honorable beasts, martyr's who sought a greater goal. What do you seek, wait, before you blast me to the next life let me say this. I INVOKE HONORABLE COMBAT, I WILL REPRESENT HUMANITY AND YOU THE ORCS."

Mask dropped his illusion as he spoke those words, the orcs around him didn't move in pure shock that such a puny human would do such a thing. Mask himself began unbuttoning his suit, removing the jacket before removing his blue shirt. His body was visibly scarred, hundreds of them covered his arms, torso, and neck. Mask's hands then moved up to his head, grasping his helmet as it whirred and clicked. Mechanisms releasing the mechanical peice and allowing him to slowly pull it from his head. It fell to the ground with a thud, Mask's true face was shown to the Orcs. On his head a large scar sat in the middle of his forehead, it went from his hairline to just above his eyebrows.

"As a sign of respect I shall fight you face to face. My name is Alexander Cross, the last of the Cross family and owner of all 242 eyes of my 121 family members. This face shall be the last face you see."

The large scar on hsi forehead began to open, slowly it reveled something red in color that matched his glowing eyes. This red object was his fabled third eye, his most powerful tool. Once it completely opened the scars on his body began to do the same, each scar revealing another eye until his arms, torso, and neck were covered with them. He looked towards the orc, hoping the beast would look into the eye on his forehead allowing him to use it's powers.

"Shall we begin orc."

@thisisgonnahurt: @lunahawk: @bulwark:

Owl watched and turned to Lunahawk and Conrad, "I found the commander," He said pointing to him.

He began drifting right into the storm. Never a good idea to use a storm on an Owlman, they are monsters of terror and storms and mists are refuges.

The four Owlmen appeared right outside the walls of the Orcs cutting through the shields with their massive claws. But instead of finishing to get through they seemed to just appear just inside the ranks to grab one of them lift them up and squeeze off their heads. One of the Owlmen was too slow however, an Orc blew off his head and torso followed by a terrifying screech that bursted the eardrums of the closer Orcs. And the body had vanished.

The other three seemed to learn from its mistake not spending more than one to three seconds on an orc. They kept moving their enormous bodies. Even to the tall Orcs they were equal or giants, however only a third of the actual size, but their strength was massive. Always equal to or above the Orcs, especially with leverage.

One of them got a huge axe plunged at least halfway into his head by a larger orc. He cocked his head to look at him and practically exploded in hisses as he shred him to pieces before getting blown apart by another two Orcs well aimed hits.

Owl still hadn't actually made an appearence on the battle field yet. Not even a shadow in the clouds showed he even remained there. But it was deceptive. He was waiting untill the Owlmen did what they could before he came in to do his own work. He had a plan ahead, whether it worked or not was up to the efficiency of the Orcs and of the Hawk lords.

@lunahawk: @thisisgonnahurt: @owl_:

The storm whipped up around the cadre of defenders, hot metal filling the air as the Orcs began their advance. Below them, a lone warrior challenged their leader to single combat, revealing a scarred physique, and hopefully, a noble intent. The world slowed down around Conrad, though, and even as he prepared to dive into the enemy ranks...

Screams. Civilains-!

"The Orc legion extends far beyond this simple field. They're raiding the coastlines!" he said, flying backwards to face both the elegant hawk and the bothersome owl. "Hold this line...I'll be back!" he said, eyes blazing red. And suddenly, he was gone from his prior position, arms extended forwards as he tore through the air due East. The sheer speed of his body created massive turbulence on the Orc forces beneath, the wake he generated ripping Orcs from their positions and carrying them into the air at velocities that would liquefy ordinary human beings. Even as he flew, his eyes blazed with power, kinetic energy repulsing the Orc waves and hurtling entire contingents hundreds of meters backwards. But he had no time to face the main force when the auxiliary threatened civilians. He weaved through fired artillery and mighty storm, exiting the main landmass and coming to bear on the Orc ships.

Hundreds of vessels rowed beneath, engaging the military forces mustered to oppose them. They'd never faced anything like Orcs, though, and even their combined powers would never be enough. Hesitating, he scanned the ships with his atomic sight, seeking any human-shaped silhouettes.

Hostages, he realized, before diving into action a half-second later.

Orc ships without humans aboard were cast aside without second thought, torn asunder by the gale-force winds that accompanied the Bastion's flight. The most unfortunate ships were subject to physical trauma, with the golden-clad crusader flying directly through the hull. Those that were too far away from Conrad were destroyed by the nuclear vision, crimson rays setting sails alight and blasting Orcs into the ocean. Turning, he identified a prisoner ship, descending directly through the deck into the hold beneath.

Without turning, he casually rapped an Orc with his knuckles, sending him careening through the side of the ship. Another charged him from behind, and was repelled in kind. Rather than strike him with a closed fist, Conrad simply placed a palm on the Orc's chest faster than it could think, propelling it through a cannon and out the other side of the boat. After that, he cleared the deck, a blast of his nuclear rays propelling the remainder of the crew into the air.

All of these maneuvers were done with non-lethal intent; Orcs, he reasoned would be proud to die for their culture. Being humiliated in battle, cast aside like it was nothing? Hopefully that would break their spirit.

Prisoners, he remembered, turning to the cages. A flash of his atomic vision revealed that they were traumatized, but largely unharmed. Nobody would need immediate medical attention.

"Don't panic. Everything's fine," he said, before willing himself downwards through the floor. Before the boat could even begin to sink, he'd picked it up, flying it back to the mainland. Through the air they soared, until finally, he reached a hospital. Setting the vessel down, he returned to the sky. The raiding fleet would have been greatly diminished; now, he sought the Orcs on land. Tearing through coastal cities, he initiated a literal blitz of the enemy forces, never once stopping in his course through their ranks. For each Orc, he targeted their tendons and face, guessing that their bodies operated at least similarly to a human. After the Bastion was done with an Orc, it would be crippled for life, unable to wield a weapon ever again. Before him were legions of Orc raiders; in his wake, he left piles of defeated foes.

That was not to say that it was easy.

With every blow inflicted on Orcish flesh, Conrad felt his own skin developing callouses. Moreover, it was difficult to hold back; the constant cycling between fast and slow was becoming exhausting. It would be easier to go all-out, to vaporize Orcs with strikes from his knuckles; instead, he insisted on "gently" applying high-speed pressure to their limbs, targeting each Orc's weakest points. Occasionally, one would time a swing at him with their weapon, and it would shatter on his skin...but it distracted him, buying cumulative seconds for each other warrior to mobilize. When dealing with such grand numbers, the impact it had was considerable. Eyes aglow, he continued his rampage, shattering jaws and melting weaponry...

...but always taking care to hold back.

@thisisgonnahurt:

His mind was being swept away by the river of hatred his body was emitting. Being cast away into a void, he was lost. He couldn't find himself anymore. The body just kept moving forward towards the black ravine of orcs. His limbs were shackling, Muscles tense. The instinct for battle has hooked him in the beautiful sight of all of these enemies. This was not seen as bravery, nor was it courage. Rye was isolated in his thoughts. This was a lonely day. It was the most lonely day of his life. The artisans motivation for creating him finally had purpose, a purpose that Rye did not want at all.

It assaulted his spirit as a being that he barely had control of his mind, and now he could hardly contain this thirst that has awakened inside of him. In his inner being he would cry in silence. He never wanted to be like this in shape or form. Something that couldn't be fixed or helped anymore. All Rye could do now is feed his addiction. In his movements anyone could see that he was in pain as he struggled to move.

Annie: "Just embrace it Rye...It hurts seeing you like this." Every muscle was tense as his mind kept telling it to retreat but the force that created him had absolute control. It drove his flesh towards the battle. Even his inner voices were worried about the tiny mental state he had would finally be broken. The arrest of his body to the monster that laid deep inside of him slowly crawled its way out. Slowly peaking its eye out to the surface world, the monster would awaken inside Rye's body.

He suddenly stopped struggling as the storm began to brew.

Annie: "There you go Rye...That's it..just like that.." He stood alone on the ground against the front lines of the orc army. The shadows cast upon him, the bouldering figure would be rinsed with red violent lights from the sky showing his barbaric appearance. An appearance that could only be constructed by the malice of the human worlds deepest desires. They would face a true tumultuous creation. The antipathy that the orcs had towards humanity after seeing Mavericks creations of M.O.R's would grow even stronger by seeing an angelic creation of Doctor Wheatley.

Rye charged towards the front lines alone. He sped through filling in the gap between them as a very small portion of orcs would begin to charge back at him. He felt an aggravating singed as his body was adventured with a hail of searing projectiles. The sizzling pellets smoked his flesh and gradually sliced through his right arm muscles. It would crash against his torso cooking his beef in a mist of burnt red flesh and orange embers of what remained of his chest cavity. This was just a creak of pain that Rye could bluntly shrug off and the bloodied brute would still charge forward without even the thought of evading the delivering blows.

The pellets only fueled his roaring potential and he tackled himself into their shields and spears with only half of his remaining body that was taking more damage that it could heal. With one remaining arm he would gouge the eyes of the orc he was laying on top of with his entire fist going through its skull. The rest of the orcs rapidly hacked the meat of his back with heavy axes. The blades were huge and in enough time they eventually disconnected his legs from his torso. What remained of Rye was just his torso, head and arm. But with the touch of Orc blood he had obtained had enough strength in it to fulfill his craving. The fountain of blood from the orcs eye showered Ryes face with their tainted fluids and he swallowed it all through his exposed injuries. The searing flesh and missing meat was quickly recovered. He has evolved by the orcs blood and with every other Orc kill he would become even stronger. The orcs that was piled on top of him were instantly pushed off and were sent into the air.

Rye had instantly changed, reinforced bone blades and armor were now cursed on him. He would continue to charge forward with his new strength and penetrate their shields and metal with his durable spikes and combined strength. With each stab the bones acted like a needle and siphoned the liquids inside of them. This was not easy though. With each attack he could make he was met with hundreds of other swings that would crunch his bones and severe his limbs. This was not a struggle for Rye. He had the sustain to continue this forever. This was amusing to him. He was simply at peace.

Blood and blade both traveled in whirlwinds around the lone gladiator, as he started to charge through the ranks of the Orcish threat. However, soon into his duel, he found that going right into the horde might not have been the best idea... Within seconds, Joseph was surrounded, Orcs charging towards him from all sides. When he'd strike one down, at least a dozen spears or other brutish weapons would poke into his skin from all sides, and while his discomfort was starting out as only mild, the army around him was relentless. The beasts made to grab his limbs, wrapping long chains of black steel around his throat and arms to restrain him. Paying no heed to this, the boy-god continued, trudging on and even dragging Orcs with him, as they made to stop the assault.

And, finally, they did. Joseph slowed at first, the strength of those behind him increasing, and those in front of him took their turns trying to pierce his skin- firing blunderbuss rounds into his abdomen, and trying to cut his throat with their blades. Gritting his teeth together with force that could turn coal into diamonds, Joseph looked to see the dozens of chains wrapped around his arms and legs, turning his head to see the orcs that were responsible. With each moment that passed, it seemed that more orcs wrapped grabbed onto the chains, attempting to restrain the deity in any way possible. Slowly, Joseph raised his mace into the air, letting electricity course through it.

Then, as hard as he could possibly swing given his current restraints, Joey slammed the mace against the ground, creating a shockwave that sent orcs all around him flying away. On top of this, a small crater had formed, twenty feet in diameter, around the self-proclaimed Destroyer of Worlds. With a grin, he stepped out of the crater, immediately charging into the trials of combat once more. Whoever led these orcs mattered not to him- for, as long as there were actual orcs still breathing, the problem wouldn't have been eradicated. Not in his eyes. Thus, he payed no heed to the leader of the Orcs, the one who summoned red lightning and led the warband.

Instead, he attracted as many of the monsters as he could to charge at him, to give him everything that they had, to pray to whatever god they held dear to give them strength.

They would need it.

@lunahawk: @thisisgonnahurt:

Aleron shot in extremely fast once he heard the news. He stopped next to Luna Hawk, "Well then, it looks like we aren't on opposing sides this time. I hope." He added coldly referencing their battle in Greece.

He looked at her coldly for a moment before reaching up waiting for a bolt of lightning that finally came. He redirected it into the orcs sending several of them flying against each other.

"I suppose I should thank you for that part, I might not have needed to learn how to do that otherwise." He added.

"Have you noticed that there are rather disturbing Owlmen creatures attacking the Orcs? And that these orcs are also rather different from the ones in Venezuala, that might be important." He hadn't gone anywhere for some reason, "I'm going to likely follow orders if you give them, let's just say I'm in a good mood for that. I would also rather this be a team effort."

He grabbed a spear that was thrown at him but was shoved back by a powerful blast from one of the orcs but absorbing most of the blast,

'good one.' He thought.

@bulwark: @thisisgonnahurt: @owl_: @aleron

War, it's started. The Orc's conjure some sort of magical storm intent on pelting us with lighting of an unnatural sort, against anyone else it would have been a good strategy. Red bolts of lightning slam into the Hawk Lords but immediately dissipate, the Nth Metal absorbing any natural energy while breaking the magical energy of the rest. I smirk when I spot Aleron and nod to him but it's no time for reminiscing. I don't vocalize my orders because I don't want the Orcs to hear them, instead I send them as text messages to the helmets of every warrior. The order to open fire with the high explosive launchers is given.

The sound of ten thousand rockets leaving their tubes plays over even the thunder of the magical storm, they corkscrew through the air followed by gray-white contrails of smoke and explode among the orcs. Each weapon has a blast radius of fifteen feet and its Nth Metal core is charged with 50,000 volts of electricity, spreading electrical charge along the impact zone as well. The launchers drop back behind the regular troops to reload and the rest of the line is given the order to open fire. A dull roar fills the air as the sound of automatic weapons fire rains down from the sky along with tens of thousands of high caliber, electrically charged rounds. With the orcs so densely packed they don't need to aim, just point and spray.

I level my own particle weapon and squeeze the trigger. A tight coherent beam of particles arcs through the air and snaps through a line of Orcs, vaporizing some and plowing through others before it finally runs out of power. I spin my rifle around again on its lever action and revert it back to its standard fire mode. I sling this weapon over my shoulder and remove a modified thompson submachine gun. "Aleron, do you have any rapid long range ability. We'll need to engage them up close eventually but the longer we can delay that the better, we need to use our technology to our advantage as long as we can."

The Blunderbuss come forward and the first actual effect against the Legion of Thanagar is made. A huge cloud of white hot metal fills the air and I see several Hawk Lords forced to fall back with injuries or grabbed out of the air before they can fall by their comrades and taken to the back lines. The Nth Metal armor prevents any of them from being completely shredded but make no mistake, the casualties are mounting and I know it's only a matter of time before some of the Hawk Lords are killed. Those retreating will be healed and taken care of but it puts a strain on the front lines and begins to reduce our numbers, though there are so many of us it will take more than that. Given a priority target my troops need no command to focus their weapons fire on the blunderbuss squadrons.

I narrow my eyes, we're going to eventually need to move back and take up new positions. More than that, we need the power houses to power house some more and start causing an actual dent rather than just punching people in the face a lot. Where are the military forces of the mortals when you need them?

It's funny, people like to point out things to me as if I'm not observant or haven't been doing this for a very long time. Of course I noticed owlmen and the different behavior of the Orcs from what Solar Hawk had reported. I shift my gaze to their leader and compare him to my database, he shows up as an orc that had been engaged in the fighting before but had not been in the major leadership position he seemed to occupy now.

I notice the artillery moving into position and issue the command for my formation to change elevation and spread out. The artillery will be more useful against targets on the ground but we still need to avoid being struck by any of the blasts. The first deaths come in as some of the rounds do explode in the air among the still clustered ranks before they're able to spread out. I shake my head, it doesn't matter, no orc can permanently kill a Hawk Lord, all it does is eventually change the strategy required to fight because they won't be coming back to life for months, maybe years.

Once the rockets are reloaded they move to the front again but this time I divide their shots into two groups. Five thousand of them fire at the artillery pieces while the other half fires at the clustered blunderbuss squadrons. We need to reduce their anti-air as quickly as possible. I also need a plan for when our ammo runs out. We can't just charge headlong into the orcs without help. Hovering in the air I begin to formulate a new strategy while dispatching several hundred of my reserves to help @bulwark fight off the flanking forces.

"Aleron, no army can fight without leadership. Find the various leaders, squad leaders, platoon leaders and so on and kill them." I tell him.

@thisisgonnahurt: @bulwark@aleron

Katraya rose from her prayer as the war began. She smiled at the sounds of battle and ordered her squad to disperse. Their simulated vibranium armor would absorb the occasional stray lightning strike though getting hit too many times would soon become problematic. "Alright, find the leadership and execute it." She ordered. Katraya waited and held her squad back. Finally Barrok came charging forward with his arm and they opened fire. Seventy five caliber rounds shot down range, seeking Orc flesh to explode inside of. The Heavy OVK roared to life and sounded like the apocalypse as it spat oversized shells out at a far too fast of a pace for something so large.

As the Orcs got closer the heavy flame thrower engaged, sending a huge wall of napalm out in an arc that sought to create a flaming wall of death in front of the Order of the Sacred Conflict. The other sisters opened fire with their standard OVKs and Katraya did the same. She stood calmly firing her weapon with one hand.

Artillery exploded to their left and three of her sisters were picked up and thrown like rag dolls. There was a pause before they started back to their feet, their level three durability ensuring their safety from the huge artillery strike. Their armor faltered, flashing several times before establishing itself again. Armor plates were missing though and they would soon have their own problems to deal with. Despite the lack of physical wounds the durability did little to improve their resistance to the sound wave created by the explosion and the three were left with their hearing temporarily disabled. They switched to their combat knives, their weapons destroyed in the attack.

Finally the charge hit home and the squad engaged. Katraya used her free hand to draw her sword, energy arching and snapping along its length. She shouted an order to her squad. "Gene lock, Strength, two hundred tons!" Each of the warriors was now gifted with the strength to push, lift and hit at the two hundred ton range.

@bulwark: @thisisgonnahurt: @lunahawk: @katraya:

"I'll be creative," He told luna hawk going upwards to catch another bolt of lightning and hold it.

He absorbed it to keep it in and use it as an energy beam which he sent crashing into the Orcs killing or majorly wounding them as he drew it across the front lines.

"Leaders, got it." He said searching the Orcs for high ranking ones, "It seems someone beat me to it," He whispered looking at someone challenging what seemed to be the highest Orc, "Best not to try my hand against them yet."

He flew up into the sky again to catch another bolt of lightning. 'There you are,' He though spotting a few.

He dived down lifting up an enormous boulder that he dug from the ground and bringing it up into the air. He sighted the Orc again through it downwards with a blast of his wings. The Orc saw it and shattered it with his massive hand only to find an energy beam right behind it shoving him into the ground, "They are certainly durable."

@rye: @joey_destroyer_of_worlds: @thisisgonnahurt: @katraya: @aleron: @lunahawk:

The Owlmen continued crashing through the Orcs in their random but deadly appearances. Constantly getting more deadly and faster. Then they stopped seeming to be called by something. They seemed to vanish. For a few moments no one saw them. Then there they were, looking upon Barrock Thunderhand. They seemed to vanish again attacking those around him but then once more vanished before anything happened.

From the sky came a brown winged and hooded figure. Antonio with the face of a white owl and long scaled claws for hands along with his booted feet. The wings formed into a large cape around him. He drew out a black and gold fencing sword, not those puny ones used on tv. The much larger kind meant for war. It gleamed in the light as he pointed it towards the army.

He withdrew a device throwing it hard and far into the Orc army. Nth grenades. They exploded with intense power not only killing tens within range but helping to negate the magic of those near it.

"Come to kill me!" He challenged them.

"Disgusting,"

Barrok, the Iron Warchief, roared with the utmost contempt. The representation of "power" according to the infidel before him, yet again, consisted of bodily mutilation and surgical improvements of questionable nature. His mind raced back to Venezuela, how enraged he had become with the abominations of Clan Maverick. Little did he know that these thoughts were being watched and as his eyes probed the surface of his opponent's body, they too probed deep within his mind contorted with anger. With explosive strength, he leaped forward, eschewing the idea of charging and instead preferring to at least strike with deadly concussive force. The sheer weight of his hammer could crush anything set before it into dust, and his mighty downward swing only improved upon this formula. Regardless of its success, Barrok's warhammer could knock aside the dense bodies of his surrounding foes with just the resulting thunderous force caused by its impact with the earth.

He spat on the ground.

"So, you invoke Grak'tha? For leadership of my horde? Ha! Let me tell you something about the Orc who lead us into Venezuela," casually, Barrok strode towards his opponent, the unconventional size of his weapon lending nothing to the uncanny swiftness with which he used it. Within seconds he could strike multiple times, and he did so with unerring power and stamina efficiency.

"He saw the world and knew it had to change. He thought it ran by a code of honor, something that had to be roused out of the humans and mutants like a latent genetic response. That is why he surrendered his position. That is why we died. But that is not what I saw. I saw the downfall of those around us, I saw the deep dark water they were inevitably going to drag everyone around them into. I saw them for who they were, and they had no honor! Gorthok was a fool to trust in the old ways, and he died for those pathetic beliefs!"

A lie, if Mask was able to perceive it quickly enough through the harrying blows set upon him.

And so, the battle raged on. Countless lives were taken that day, so pointlessly. Barrok couldn't have predicted what would happen. He was young, brash, and strong. His arrogance and belief in his own strength cost the Orcs dearly. No one could think of how many would die, however. No one could think of how many would be changed forever. There were those who had a change of heart, once the ships underneath them exploded into debris. Perhaps they always wanted something different. They threw off their armor and took as many prisoners as they could on their backs, and swam to shore, saving as many lives as they had once bound in chains. Meanwhile, there were others who believed so firmly in the cause of their Iron Warchief that even as their plans fell apart around them, they still had the strength of mind to take a rifle and fire at the rogue superhuman tearing their lives to shreds.

It was all such a tragic waste of life. With the lessons of Gorthok, they could have been on the path to peace between their distant cousins. They could have been a family again after so many generations spent apart. Barrok did not destroy it alone. He did not have the foresight to understand or even imagine what the humans were capable of doing inside their cold laboratories, or what the mutants were perfecting in their gladiatorial games.

No, that treachery belonged to another.

He remained behind in Kahzor Kazaag, manipulating the story from behind the scenes and watching it unfold through dark magics. He was a messenger between the spheres, corrupted mind body and soul for a sinister purpose. His name: Zogkrom, and it would be that in the aftermath of this disaster his moniker became that of the Deceiver. But for the moment he was Barrok's most trusted advisor and spiritual guide, a link between this world and the eldritch warship of his new god of steel and death. That mysterious deity, whose identity is impossible to discern, traveled now towards Earth at many times the speed of light, transporting with all dimension-bending haste to its destination. With every passing moment, fueled by the souls of hundreds of Orcs sent screaming into the Void by the war his messenger was told to instigate, this being came ever closer to achieving his ultimate goal.

What that was remained to be seen.

But for now, Zogkrom watched and waited. The moment of the sacrifice would be soon. Every last Orc inside the dungeons of Kahzor Kazaag would be bled dry for the glory of this dangerous entity the Deceiver prayed for. Even Barrok expressly forbade their deaths, seeing them still as Orcs - as brother and sister. But Zogkrom knew that which Barrok did not.

He knew that the Iron Warchief would not last outside this war, and that his word was only as good as the blood flowing through his veins.

And yet, for all his machinations, there was something that Zogkrom did not comprehend or predict. With a fleeting glance, Barrok unconsciously told Mask everything he was aware of, that Gorthok - the honorable Warchief who lead his own attack on Venezuela - was imprisoned deep within Kahzor Kazaag. That one key point would, perhaps, be enough to save the Orc race and prevent further bloodshed from consuming the world.

@thisisgonnahurt:

All According to Plan

IT had worked, the Orc had looked into the third eye. This eye was the key to Mask's abilities, he got a flood of memories that told him exactly what he needed to know. His suspicions were confirmed, this attack was something more then just a war on humans. The Orcs had their own in-fighting going on and it seemed like they were being manipulated. Apparently the Orc who had led the Venezuela assault was named Gorthok and wanted to try and bring humanity together through war. There was more there, another orc named Zogkrom that seemed to be pulling the strings. This needed to be fixed and in order to do so this war needed to stop. The only way to stop this war is to become the one in charge, suddenly there was a lot more on the line from this duel then just information. The survival of not just the Orcs but, the humans as well was at stake here.

Mask was a normal human and when a giant hammer came crashing down he came within inches of death. His brain was fast enough to register the oncoming attack and his legs were powerful enough to move him just out of the way. As the massive piece of metal slammed into the stone below it produced a shock wave, this shock wave slammed into Alexander and sent his body tumbling back. His body tumbled across the stone, he struggled to find his way up to his feet. His eyes saw all, they saw around him and they saw yet another wave of oncoming attacks. This time they were swift and aimed at his skull, the beast wanted to crush his skull. Mask placed his hands on the ground and pushed with a great deal of force rolling him out of the way of the main source of damage.

The hammers impact with the ground sent him flying once more, this time he landed next to the body of a dead orc. Barrok now approached him, Mask could see the pure blood lust radiating from his body. It was unnatural for a being to possess so much hate yet, here it was. Alexander struggled to his feet, staggering as he got up.

"He saw the world and knew it had to change. He thought it ran by a code of honor, something that had to be roused out of the humans and mutants like a latent genetic response. That is why he surrendered his position. That is why we died. But that is not what I saw. I saw the downfall of those around us, I saw the deep dark water they were inevitably going to drag everyone around them into. I saw them for who they were, and they had no honor! Gorthok was a fool to trust in the old ways, and he died for those pathetic beliefs!"

Mask's eyes saw everything, they saw the sudden twitches in his eyes and the way he twiddled his fingers as he spoke. These signs only appearing as he said those last few words. This meant that most of his statement was true, the Orc Gorthok had only pure intentions in Venezuela. However, he was not dead, at least not to this Orc's Knowledge. This only motivated Alexander, it only pushed him to do what had to be done. Once again he would play a dangerous game, he waited standing still as Barrok charged him. The hammer was raised and Mask quickly took in factors, the angle at which he predicted it to fall. The speed it would fall out and the amount of energy it would release. He couldn't dodge it, the best he could do was position himself in a place where he would only lose a hand. As the hammer was brought down, Mask shifted himself forward and lowered his body. As expected his left arm wasn't low enough and the giant bludgeoning weapon struck it's pathetic flesh. Adrenaline kicked in suppressing the pain enough for Alexanders mind to remain clear enough for his plan to succeed. As for the hand, as soon as the weapon struck, it exploded. Fragments of bone mixed with the splatter of blood and shreds of muscle tissue. He had lost one of his families eye's with the hand but it was worth it in the end.

He used the momentum from the blow to his hand to turn his body and bring up his leg, a swift roundhouse kick that wouldn't do anything on it's own. The fact was that human strength paled in comparison to that of the orcs. Which meant that a kick like this would do absolutely nothing, unless the Orc had his pain receptors overloaded to the point where a kick from a human would feel like his torso had been punched through. That was Alexander's true goal, the Orc had looked into his eye and from the beginning Mask had attempted to work this into effect. His third eye allowed him to modify the brain of whoever looked into it, therefore he could, through enough focus, modify the pain signals said brain receives. However Orc's were different then humans which left no guarantee it would work at all, all Mask could do was hope the kick landed and that he was able to affect the pain signals in someway.

@thisisgonnahurt: @lunahawk:

Since the energy blast was not enough Aleron stopped forming his wings into a large tube as he fell from the sky. And from that tube came a concussive soundwave of such massive power it practically exploded the eardrums of the orcs it was aimed at, including the leader who he'd just tried to take down. He dived down slamming his wings through the head of the orcs before they could recover from the blast. Then he launched himself back into the air again.

'Soundwave works well,' He ckntemplated finding another higher orc, flying above him and sending another powerful soundwave from his tube made of wings into them again blowing up their eardrums making his next attack unexpected. Except by an archer who had seen him commit the attack before. The first arrow skidded off his arm but the second slammed right through his cheeck and out the other bringing some of the tongue with it. The pain was incredible as his blood and flesh flew down onto the orcs below, and even worse than it should have been.

'The arrow was poisened!' He realized flying into the air as high as he could. 'Sure my enhanced healing will help, but what if it can't take care of it completely. Oh you've been a fool! Forgot sometimes people do that, and Orcs apparently have incredible aim!'

He flew to Lunahawk making sure she knew what happened, since he couldn't just tell her because it took some of his tongue. The wound wasn't healing yet. Definitely poisoned. The blurring vision confirmed that.

He shot off trying to get to full speed at mach 20 back to the STRIKE carrier before it took full effect on him.

Rendar was a child of the Slaincrow Tribe. When their young were brought into the world, it was ritual and tradition to have their left hand mutilated and removed. They did this because long ago, the Slaincrow served an eldritch horror hiding within the depths of the earth. They grew fearful, and developed black welts on their left palms that meant if they left - they died. When they met and made alliances with the other Orc tribes, the eldritch terror was defeated and cast back into the Void. Yet the Slaincrow do not forget the sacrifices of their ancestors, and do the same as they did to honor the debt that is still owed to this day.

"A Slain Crow does not fly," he murmured in the heart of the battle, looking between his bladed hand and the champion who now affixed himself before the giant Orc warlord.

"But it will fight on its way to the end,"

He prepared himself to die. This was the last chance he and his people had to prove their worth. If they could not win their place in the world with honor, then they could do it with violence. That is what Barrok hammered into their minds. That is what he wanted them to believe. Or at least, that is what it seemed. He raised his bladed hand, ready to perish like so many before him.

"But it is not the end. Even while falling, a Slain Crow still soars higher than others around him. That is what the ancestors taught us. Do you so easily forget those lessons, Rendar?"

He stopped just short of the Olympian's rampage. He was in sight of the immense humanoid, and their comparable bulks were burning with tangible auras of aggression and tenacious courage in the heart of a bloody storm. This wasn't right. He didn't bury those honorable soldiers with his own warriors for nothing. He didn't go to Venezuela and shake the heavens with the traditional Orc songs of mourning - for humans no less. They were more than this. Orcs, humans, mutants, it didn't matter. This fight didn't matter.

With a face of searing hot rage, not for his apparent foe but for himself for being so weak-minded, he tore off the weaponized prosthetic arm that was nailed into the stump that was his left hand. For years he had looked upon the wounds, thinking he would add yet more scars of honor. But whatever wounds he achieved here and now he would only view with contempt. He threw down his weapon and held up his bloodied handicap.

"I am Rendar! Of Clan Slaincrow! Know my name, champion - ALL OF YOU - and hold your weapons still,"

For those within earshot of the mighty Orc warrior, they stopped at not the calming sensation of his voice - but rather the overwhelming emotive anger and hints of sorrow plaguing his tone. These were not the words of an undefeated tyrant. They were the words of a concerned brother, a father, and a friend.

"I refuse to fight anymore. This cause is ugly, and barbaric. It represents nothing of what it means to truly be called an Orc. AND YOU KNOW IT!" he addressed the crowd, and they dropped their chains and weapons from around the Herculean. Some even apologized with forlorn glances and hushed words.

"We have all known it," he reflected some blame back upon himself. "With every so-called 'victory' we slowly became ever more aware that it would come to either our extinction or our eternal vilification. I'm afraid it will result in both of those things. I can do nothing but accept that fate willingly - but I will accept it with the pride knowing that I have finally chosen the right path."

Rendar raised his only hand towards the champion, partly hoping for an embrace - partly knowing it was impossible.

"Barrok, the Warchief responsible for this army, has brought up portals a mile south of here. They continually bring new warriors, munitions, and supplies to the front lines. They're your best chance of stopping this - but I must warn you..."

And so Rendar spun the tale of Gorthok's betrayal at the hands of Barrok, the unfair Grak'tha - Death Combat - that the Thunderhand invoked. Little did he know, but a faint whisper of Tempestus of the Winds carried the Slaincrow's words across the length and breadth of the battlefield. Many of the Orcs who assumed that Barrok won the Grak'tha on even terms were mortified, mostly due to their own actions on the Iron Warchief's behalf. The carnage soon became a hushed awe as the message started as a whisper and emerged into a dull roar. Not even the corrupted lightning of Raijin could keep the voice of Tempestus at bay. They were close, like brothers, on the elemental plane. Even in his twisted form, Raijin still amplified his brother's whispers and carried them on the very thunderbolts!

Barrok, surrounded now by his Iron Vanguard and a mound of corpses, was made an effigy of the madness he had created.

But, also, Tempestus carried more than ever the urgency of Gorthok's imprisonment. Unbeknownst to even Barrok, his co-conspirator Zogkrom was preparing a dark ritual that would end the world. The portents of the old ways saw the disaster unfolding, and Rendar finally brought them to light. Barrok long dismissed those evil fortunes as misgivings and ugly reminders of the uncultured and savage past. Little did he know that he had become even more savage than the monsters he painted in his own mind. Those cities he ravaged and lives he took were not in the way of a true warrior - they were done with a tyrant's hands! Little more than a beast or wild animal!

"The fiend you left at the helm of our homeland is going to do something to Gorthok and the shaman you said 'left to save what they could of nature'. Did you expect the Twilight Elves to help? Or the Thrae? They are more silent that we have ever been, Barrok. You knew of Zogkrom's evil and yet you did nothing!"

"Stay your hand from your Warchief!" his Vanguard commanded, pushing away the encroaching warriors who threw down their helmets and armor made with a tyrant's blessing. They roared in defiance, punching and kicking with their honor still intact.

"Rendar," the Thunderhand bellowed through the ringing of the Masked One's kick still assaulting his mind, even as his Vanguard defended him in the midst of his Death Combat. "I will remember this."

With a smaller portal than anyone realized he had access to, Barrok disappeared along with his Vanguard - without a trace.

"And yet I did nothing," Rendar muttered, the power of the elements gone from his accusing voice. "I have no honor left,"

He looked again towards his bladed hand as it gleamed, having landed edge-up. There was only one option left in his mind.

"I must atone,"

Those hundred-thousand or so Orcs who remained, their numbers dwindled by pockets of betrayal and resistance or personal escape portals much like Barrok, heeded the words of Rendar with the utmost urgency.

He snapped the bladed prosthetic back into place, holding it up high for all to see as he scaled the jagged rock upon which the Iron Warchief planted his banners. He hacked them down.

"Hear me! Brothers and sisters, both of like blood and those of whom I have yet to meet! We were slaves, once. Slaves of fear and contempt. Slaves of anger and resentment. Today we have been slaves of cruelty. We have been slaves of bloodshed. Tell me now, who among you desires vengeance for the wrongs done upon not only us - but those done upon those we have hurt in kind? Forget not the innocents lost to this causeless war. Without the anger of the Iron Warchief, this war machine has lost its only purpose. We are witness to our sins, the blood on our hands. Are you proud of that? Are you willing to say what you will tell your children of these dark days?"

It seemed unreal. The momentum of violence was completely stemmed into a sea of realization and remorse. It was not the words of Rendar that did this, but rather the purpose behind them calling the combined purpose of the Orcs into question. And, to many, that was the only reason why they were here now - because Barrok told them to be here. He convinced them totally and utterly that the humans and mutants were planning to exterminate the Orcs. Having been told that, they were prepared for resistance of the worst kind - abominations of science and demonic monsters summoned from the very chasms of un-life. But now, they looked upon the defenses of the world, and saw...people. They saw humanoid lifeforms, gifted with godlike powers but they were still passable for people. That's all they were. They were comparable to Orcs, they were familiar, they were friendly in most aspects.

Even at the core of the worst of them, there could be seen a glimmer of kindness and the hope for a better person underneath the layers of hate.

"The portals back to Kahzor Kazaag will not close for another day. Barrok has probably already ordered most of his armies back through, to defend his furnaces and foundries. If you still want a fight, champions," Rendar proclaimed, gesturing at those around him. "It will be there. I cannot say for certain what Zogkrom has been planning all this time, but our true Warchief and those who still love this world are in danger. We will fight to the end if we have to," he saluted.

"For a Slain Crow never lies. It does not have the time to."

@thisisgonnahurt:

Owl ceased fighting. He let the tip of his sword touch the ground.

"Well done," He whispered. The whisper carried across to Rendar's ears though seemed to not be heard anywhere in between.

He replaced his sword and in a flurry of wings and his cape, vanished. Leaving no more sign of his battle, except those who fell to his power.

@thisisgonnahurt: It was over, the battle had ended, no more lives needed to be lost. No doubt after that big leak the Orcs and humans would work together. This revelation allowed Mask to breathe a sigh of relief, then his body fell to he ground. The eyes on his torso closed the scars coming back. The combination of his ultimate ability and the loss of blood from the stump that had once been his hand caused his body to quit. He was at the brink of death his vision was blurring, another side effect of using his ocular ability. He would be blind and in a coma for the next week.

One of his soldiers used their mech frame to lift his body and carry him back. The rest of the Blue Order pulled out as well, they had done their job and without Mask in an active condition, it was time to leave.