Author: Luna

From the report of Drudzak the Cunning-Teller, before the throne of Great Chief Kujagur of the Drek-Hhakrall.

Great Chief! Champions! All who stand before the Great Chief, who eat of his gifts, who live because he lets you, who bow to him. Listen!

I have spoken to our wise hunters. I have listened to our cunning spies. I have cheered at the war stories of you, our great Champions. So I have heard and learned, and thought. I have thought of the enemies that we’ve killed. I have though of the enemies that we haven’t yet killed. And I can tell you, all, now of each. I can tell you what their weaknesses are. I can tell you where they have some strength. If you hear what I say, and learn, your next victories will be more bloody, more glorious.

But first, I speak of the greatest warriors. I speak of the mightiest armies. I speak of the fiercest, finest, most ferocious force to tread these lands since the mages fell! I speak first, of us! I speak first of the Drek-Hhakrall!

Who should be spoken of before us? How dare any name be mentioned before ours!

Does anyone have a general as strong as the mighty Great Chief Kujakur? Does any army have Champions as fierce as those who stand here? Do any races or kingdoms command hordes as bloody as ours? No!

So first, let us remember why it is that we are strongest, why it is that we are supreme.

First, we are Orc! In the First Age, when time began, the Always-Chiefs said that Orcs should conquer all. They knew that Orcs are strongest, that Orcs are born to fight and kill, that Orcs will make slaves and rule. It is in our blood to be strongest!

The Pirate Kings of the middle sea, or the peasant Kings of Virten, are they so strong? No! Humans scheme and plot, ride horses so that they can run away, that weave pretty cloths to wear at quiet feasts, sing stupid love songs, learn useless arts. How can such weak creatures stand against us! We do not scheme, but fight. We charge to battle, we do not flee. We wear the hides of beasts that we have killed ourselves. How much stronger are we!

Second, it is not enough that we are Orcs. More, we do not forget that we are Orcs! We remember how to be Orcs! In the First Age, the Always-Chiefs said that Orcs should fight all and rule all. We know this! We roar for this!

The Kartur-Hhakrall, they think that it is their place to serve! They hear of the First Age, and think that the Always-Chiefs want them to snivel and fawn before people they should crush! They have made themselves slaves to humans! You, here, are you stronger than slaves? Yes! Then you are stronger than the Kartur-Hhakrall. You know how to be true Orcs!

The southern Orcs, too. They forget the stories of the First Age. They forget that they should serve great chiefs. Is a fist stronger than a finger? Yes! Is an army stronger than one warrior? Yes! Is a fist stronger when it hangs idle, or when a clever mind commands it? It is so with us. While the southern Orcs fight in little groups, we come together to like a great fist. And we fight at the command of the greatest chief in any land – Kujakur!

But there is one more reason why we are strongest. And it is this! It is because we were so low! Who here, in this hall, was not beaten as a child? We all were! And we are stronger for it! We learned to take pain, and we learned to hate, and we learned to hit back harder. How many scars do we all have, from a battle where a foe was quicker, or used a new move? Many scars! And for each scar we learned a lesson. We learned to be quicker. We learned new moves to watch for. We learned to train harder.

So it is! Anyone who is knocked down will stand more firm when he gets up! Any who is beaten, will hit back with great rage! And we, through the Second Age, we, mighty warriors, were slaves! We were slaves to Elf Wizards!

Other tribes, other people, they say that the Sundering was very bad. They weep that so many died. Pathetic! There is always death! For us, the Sundering made us free! We were freed from slavery, to rise, and rule, and fight, and slaughter or enslave any who dare face us!

From the journal of Barnard of Shelton, master trader in the employ of the Illyria Trade Council, recording his journeys to the Broken Lands.

I was welcomed in Belgorrian with trumpets blaring, a rich carpet rolled out on the dock to great me, and rows of men-at-arms lining my procession to the royal palace. There was a formal presentation to King Ulharadd in his throne room, and then a great feast in the evening.

This, I thought, is a pirate city? I had expected rough cut-throats, carousing in stinking taverns, making threats upon my life. But instead I was being wined and dined in royal style, treated to a display of courtly splendour and shown every respect.

The following day I rode out to hunt with Ulharadd and some of his courtiers.

“We are the true Warrior-Kings of these lands,” he assured me. “Our wealth, it is true, often comes from plunder. But raiding is a traditional noble pass time, a source of wealth and honour, and a training for war. People call us pirates, because we prey upon ships that will not bow before us and offer us due payments. In much the same way land-locked nobles will extract loot from subjects who refuse to bow to them and pay taxes. Are the world’s nobles all bandits? Only then are we pirates.”

Ulharadd’s views of other local rulers was not entirely complementary. He had the highest praise for Ramoar, Surriem and Azoash, the other three so-called Pirate Kings, with whom he is closely allied. But he was dismissive of the Kings of Virten, who he mocked as “commoners without breeding, training or experience, raised above their abilities to rule, unable to cope, reliant upon the College of Silence to secure their election and then twice as reliant on the College’s advisers and spies in order to rule.” In other words, the Kings of the west were, in his view, incompetent puppets, manipulated by the College. For the New Light he had even less kind words, dismissing them as power-mad maniacs. And when I asked about the Drek-Hhakrall he only laughed.

“We have no enmity to these people,” he shrugged, “but we do not pretend that they true kings, such as ourselves.”

Ulharadd explained that his own lands were ruled by men trained for war, taught from birth how to rule, and supported by families with experience in combat, administration and leadership. They were, he said, as any good nobles should be, an elite, superior in breeding and training, ruling over those less capable.

What was unusual, he conceded, that he and his fellow kings laid claim not only to land but also to water – specifically to all the waters around their islands, north as far as the jungle and south to the icy shores. Then he said that he hoped that the Illyria Trade Council would soon become some of his most honoured water-borne subjects – that we would bow to his throne, accept the protection of his fleet, and pay him royally.

The court was spectacular. The food, the entertainments, the quality of courtesy and conversation, the discipline of the troops and the fortifications of the city were all of the highest standard.

But such trappings do not disguise that rulers who blackmail and prey upon honest trade ships are nothing but pirates, and are the enemies of all honest merchants.

The last words of Guldran, called The True Whisperer, Third High Priest of the Cult of the Black Oak, before his execution by order of the New King.

You fools you liars you deaf and blind!

Your life is a gift and you do not care you were saved above millions and you do not care you have your life through their power and only through their power because you stand upon the land that they they held firm when mountains fell!

You call me monster you call me mad you call me and forget and do not listen to yourself you fools you liars!

This is your funeral but you do not dance!

This is your birth but you do not scream!

They hold us all and held us all and do not care because nothing cares and nobody cares!

The bird who eats the maggot who eats the dead bird who had eaten maggots or the rain that falls or the child who eats the flesh that was bought by the gold paid to this executioner standing here nobody cares and it does not care and there is no caring for not caring!

There is truth and there is power and I know and I have seen and if you were with my brethren you would see and hear and know but here I stand and scream what you cannot hear and draw from my heart the pain of truth of joy of so call me call me call me what you will and do not listen and do not see and do not hear and do not learn that I have seen and known and you are blind and know nothing but you are fleshy puppets who dance at your own wakes but cannot see your own corpse lying there and rotting as you dance above!

You are blessed and you turn away and you could have knowledge but you stuff up your minds and you could hear truth but you refuse to hear but rather pay this man to kill because you say I should not kill so swing my executioner swing swing your axe and a thousand brethren will dance as I have danced and all the blood you shed cannot save the blood that will be shed so call me call me call me as I call them call them call them and now swing and swing and swing at once!

From the Teachings of Urgrukt the Blind, first High Priest of the Kartur-Hhakrall.

Pilgrim asked: “How now shall we deal with that last tower of the Order of Silver Light, the Tower of Houergertt?”

Urgrukut answered: “First, ask yourself, what could you do.”

Pilgrim remained silent, and thought.

Urgrukut frowned: “You are Orc! Long thinking is for Elves and cripples. Your heart knows what you should do. When I ask what could you do, let your heart answer!”

Pilgrim asked: “My heart says fight! Is that right?”

Urgrukut answered: “Of course! You are Orc! So how can you fight, and how can you not?”

Pilgrim replied: “I would fight its champion. But it has no champion. I would scale its walls. But they are enchanted. I would kill its lord. But he is dead. I would battle its armies. But they cannot be killed.”

Urgrukut answered: “You say you cannot scale the walls. This is true. No siege engine can scratch them. Curses slay those who climb over them. But you are Orc! If your foe is more skilled that you, you train harder. If your foe has bigger armies, you win more allies. If you want to defeat an enemy, you will always find a way. You are Orc!”

Pilgrim asked: “Is this what I should do? Should I build bigger siege engines? Should I find other wizards to overcome his curses?”

Urgrukut answered: “You could. But why? To break into the castle of a man already dead? There is no glory there, no slaves to be won. It is an empty battle.”

Pilgrim asked: “Should I fight his armies? Each day they return! They cannot be defeated!”

Urgrukut answered: “You are an Orc! Your heart hurts if you cannot fight. Great glory is had in defeating a champion. In blood and pain you find joy. Now, here, the dead wizard’s enchantments provide you endless enemies! Sometimes there will be better battles. Sometimes you will have wars where you can take slaves, win gold, earn glory for your King. But here, always, there is an enemy who will face you. And you want to defeat champions? What greater champions than those who cannot really be slain!”

Pilgrim asked: “So this is what I should do? I should fight?”

Urgrukut answered: “Yes! At times of peace when there is no worthier fight. When you are at full strength and your heart is restless. When your warleaders are bellowing for blood. When your warriors are growing fat or lazy. Then, here, there is an enemy that you can fight. But that is not the first thing that you should do. First, you should give thanks! The Always-Chiefs laid down at the start of time that you should fight. And in your heart your long for war. And here, this dead mage has made it so! Give thanks that this wizard has given you these foes to fight. So, the New King may build a kingdom in peace, and you may serve him with honour, and yet, as the Always-Chiefs demand and as your heart desires, you will always be able to fight!”

From the Teachings of Urgrukt the Blind, first High Priest of the Kartur-Hhakrall.

Pilgrim asked: “What is best for Orcs? We do what we want? We kill? We hunt? What?”

Urgrukut answered: “Here, you ask me, because I am wiser. In war, the warrior asks the champion, because champion is stronger. In the forge, the young maker asks the master maker. In all things, ask the better, and they will teach. In great issues, ask the greatest. Ask the Always-Chiefs, who are elders to all, who are stronger than all, who are wiser than all, who came before all.”

Pilgrim asked: “The Always-Chiefs. What do they want?”

Urgrukut answered: “All Orcs, in all lands, know the stories of the First Age. There were four champions. The greatest was called Orc. He founded our race. He asked the Always-Chiefs what he should do. They said he should fight to make slaves of all the lands.”

Pilgrim asked: “So we should fight? Or we should make slaves? Which is greater?”

Urgrukut answered: “All Orcs know that it is good fight. It is in our blood. We are born knowing it. Great Orcs learn that it is good to make slaves. When a champion first sees slaves bow before him, slaves he has won in blood, then he learns, in his heart, that this is the greatest thing, greater than killing, greater than fighting. So to win slaves is greater, but cannot be without fighting. Many Orcs have learned this. But it is not the greatest thing.”

Pilgrim asked: “So what is the greatest thing?”

Urgrukut asked: “To get his answer, what did Orc do?”

Pilgrim answered: “He asked the Always-Chiefs. He asked those greater.”

Urgrukt said: “He could have no answers without asking those greater. He had no-one to fight for, without serving those greater. It is easy to know that we must fight. It is easy to learn that we should have slaves. Many Orcs understand that. But when Orcs understand no more, when they forget that they must serve, then all Illyria pays the price.”

Pilgrim asked: “So who should we serve? The Always-Chiefs?”

Urgrukut answered: “In your heart, always serve the Always-Chiefs. But the Always-Chiefs have left Illyria. So you must find a mortal master.”

Pilgrim asked: “The priests serve the Always-Chiefs, and hold the secrets of the Always-Chiefs. So should I serve the priests?”

Urgrukut answered: “The priests are just Orcs, like you. Wiser, but not your lords. Do not trust a priest who wants to be your lord. Trust a priest who would be a priest, and find a lord who is the greatest lord.”

Pilgrim asked: “Who, then, should I serve? Who is the greatest lord?”

Urgrukut answered: “Orcs are the greatest warriors. But we are not good at the things a great lord must do. It is in our blood to fight and make slaves. Great lords must build, and maintain.”

Pilgrim asked: “In the Second Age, Orc warriors fought for the Order of the Silver Light. I should find lords like the Order?”

Urgrukut answered: “The wizards of the Silver Light were not great lords. They tried to make slaves, but they were not Orcs, so they were bad at it. When their slaves rebelled, they did what no Orc should do, they destroyed all that they had, wasted all that they had, killed their servants and slaves as well as their enemies. These are not things that a great lord would do. Only serve the greatest lords.”

Pilgrim asked: “So who, then, should I serve?”

Urgrukut answered: “You should serve the New King, raised up by the humans. Of course the humans are weaker, descended from weaker fathers, and birthing weaker children, and so are not as great in war as you. But they are better at the things that a ruler needs to do. They can build, and they can maintain. So, you should be the greatest warrior. But you should serve the greatest lord.”

Pilgrim thought long, and then asked: “What if the New King of the humans is a bad lord? What if he is stupid and destroys those who serve him, like the Silver Light?”

Urgrukut smiled: “Be sure that the New King knows that you are the mightiest, that he fears you and admires you. Be sure that he knows you are loyal. But be sure he knows you will destroy him if he is not the best that he can be. Then he will make sure he is the best ruler that he can be! This is what it is to be an Orc. Be the greatest warrior. Win many victories. Make many slaves. And through your strength, be sure that the lord of the lands is the best lord for the lands!”

From the journal of Barnard of Shelton, master trader in the employ of the Illyria Trade Council, recording his journeys to the Broken Lands.

A visit to these Elves is first perplexing, and then depressing.

They have no collective name. Other groupings in these lands have names, as most sensible people will – the Kartur-Hhakrall, the New Light, and so on – but not here. If one asks ho they are, they simply say “We weep.”

Common courtesy is similarly confounded. In most lands I might say “How are you?” and receive the polite, meaningless response “Fine, thank you.” But not here. Here the polite response is to pause, smile knowingly, nod, and reply, “I weep.”

Their public events, too, are infected with this mawkishness. Other peoples might have parades, or carnivals, or feasts, or present plays or rituals. But here they simply get together to be quietly miserable. For an really important ceremony, I’m told, the most admired of their holy men and women will get together and sob silently for days on end.

At first this is just bizarre. But after a while it gets to you. To spend all day surrounded by joyless, somber Elves, who stalk about with their eyes cast down, never laughing, to walk streets where even children do not play or laugh, where long flute solos or vocal laments drift through the air from each dour tavern, this is just depressing. I truly wish that I would hear at least one song that is not about the horror of the Sundering or the futility of life or our alienation from the divine.

Clearly I am not the only one who is affected by this maudlin atmosphere. I found a human trader, who has lived here for seven years, and he has certainly suffered for it. I asked him, hoping for some glimmer of cheer, how he has found his time here.

“I lost my love of life in the first year,” he told me, sounding as miserable as anyone I’ve ever spoken to. “Then I stopped seeing any purpose in work, and because I stopped bothering I lost my business in the third year. Then I spent two years living on the street as a beggar. But now, well, now I understand.”

Today I became so exasperated that I almost shouted at one local, “But the Sundering was five hundred years ago!” She just looked at me with pity, as one might look at an idiot child, and said softly, “no, it is every day.”

From the journal of Barnard of Shelton, master trader in the employ of the Illyria Trade Council, recording his journeys to the Broken Lands.

On my arrival I was somewhat shocked to find that, as a trader, I was directed to the dingiest, most miserable, labyrinthine maze of alleyways imaginable, in the shadow of the great college itself. In this ramshackle city I found a cramped market, shoddy lodgings, a bustle of traders and laborers and beggars, and, as the narrow streets are also open sewers, an unpleasant stench.

Naturally I made straight for the College itself, proceeded up the broad steps, and at the huge wooden doors I requested an audience with the Mistress. My demand was met with some bemusement, but I was politely allowed in to the great building, which rises above the surrounding squalor like some giant majestic temple.

Within, everything was in contrast with the world outside. The halls were light and airy, with hugely high ceilings supported by slender columns. Few people seemed to work or live here, though a few figures drifted through the halls, books in hand, not speaking. I tried to make conversation with my guide, but he rebuked me, saying: “Within the College we speak only to exchange knowledge. We might exchange knowledge regarding history, diplomacy, magic, engineering, or any other worthy subject. But we do not make idle chatter.”

The Mistress of the college greeted me, also wordlessly, in a room which seemed to be a private library, its walls lined with bookshelves. She sat not on a throne, as a ruler of a great city might, but at a desk strewn with scrolls.

I explained that I had traveled many miles, to establish profitable trade links with the cities of this land, so distant from my own. I’d like to think that it was a pretty slick pitch. But she dismissed all I said with two short sentences.

“Base concerns are dealt with in the alleys. Inside the college we have a higher calling.”

Obviously I was aghast. A higher calling than ensuring the prosperity of her city? What sort of ruler was this? I queried this, of course, and was brushed off again.

“We have a vital duty to perform here,” she frowned. “When the King dies, his successor will be chosen based on who in the lands is most blessed with wisdom, justice, compassion, duty and purpose. It is vital that people understand, and particularly, that the Kartur-Hhakrall understand, who might be worthwhile candidates, what their strengths and weaknesses might be. The whole continuity, peace and stability of the Kingdom relies upon the quality of the King, and so our role is key. During the reign, we simply amass information, and advise if and as we are requested. I am sure that you will understand that compared with this calling, to haggle over commercial transactions is insignificant.”

I tried to remonstrate, of course, but I was cut off with “Here we speak to exchange wisdom. You wish only to exchange gold, and so you should return to the alleys outside. The local merchants will welcome you. Farewell.”

From the journal of Barnard of Shelton, master trader in the employ of the Illyria Trade Council, recording his journeys to the Broken Lands.

When the Sundering ripped across the land at the end of the Second Age, the magics tore trees from the ground, whipped the air into great cyclones, and tore at the earth itself. The lands shook, plains rose up to form ridges, and mountains plunged into an abyss to be swallowed by the sea. For surface dwellers this was a cataclysm. Millions died, and only thousands survived.

But how much worse for races that dwelt beneath the ground! The deep halls of the Dwarf clans collapsed, their tunnels caved in, the entrances to their strongholds were buried. And not only the Dwarves were thus destroyed. In five hundred years no Kobold, those scrawny underground-dwelling greenskins, has been seen in these Broken Lands.

Of all the underground strongholds, only one survived the Sundering. It is a Dwarven hall. Its masters are Clan Dollogh, and they call their home Lasthold.

For five centuries they have dug in, built up, reinforced, defended. They are the last survivors of the Dwarves in these lands, and they will, they insist, endure.

I went to visit Lasthold. I passed through seven sets of gates, set in huge walls, and at each gate I was quizzed, searched, regarded with suspicion and fear. At last I thought that I was in, as I emerged into a broad market square. But then I noticed that there were almost no Dwarves here. And the Dwarves that I did see in the market, were surface-dwellers, from settlements in the lands about, visitors just as I was.

Beyond the market was another set of doors, made not of wood but of granite, set in yet another sturdy wall. I approached, but saw no guards, nobody I could speak to. As I stood there another visitor smiled at me. “That is Lasthold, in there. Nobody gets in, unless you were born there. And you aren’t a Dwarf, so you weren’t born there.”

All the gates and checks I had been through had not even been to get into Lasthold. They were just to get to the market where visitors come to trade.

I returned to the seventh gate, and attempted to engage the sergeant of the guards in conversation. I explained that I wanted to talk to their rulers, about trade deals. He did not answer. I asked who his rulers were. No answer. I pestered for several minutes, until in the end I hit a nerve and he exploded in a rage, shouting at me as his face turned deeper and deeper scarlet. My mistake was to ask how emissaries from “his King” (meaning the King of Virten) gained access to Lasthold.

“A thousand years,” he fumed, “a thousand years! For a thousand years we were slaves to Elf wizards, duped by their human servants, and abused by their Orc dogs! For a thousand years we were tortured, forced to work until we died. And then we were killed. All of us. When the mountains fell everyone died except five hundred Dwarves here, and a few thousand out on the surface! My people here, my forbears, they clawed through the cave-ins with their bare hands, and rebuilt! Now you think some human Orc-lackey is our King! He’s your King! Or he’s the Orcs’ King! You think after everything we’ve been through, we’ll let some human peasant, raised up by the Kartur-Hhakrall, tell us what to do? Out there, he’s your King. In here, we are free, and we will stay that way even if the mountains fall again!”

Hello Illyrians,

With the announcement of the Broken Lands expansion, and the introduction of an entirely new continent to explore, many new factions are coming to the world. Get to know them here, before they appear in game, with regular updates to the Broken Lands Factions category on the dev blog. The first faction that you’ll get to know in the Broken Lands is Virten. Their knights maintain peace in areas of the Broken Lands. Check back for regular updates!

GM Luna

Virten

The First Decree of King Lucios I, the New King, founder of the Kingdom of Virten, at the dawn of the present age:

Let no man be King because he is mighty. Let no man be King because of his birth.

Neither the amassing of power nor the practice of warlike arts will guarantee that a man be just. No parentage or lineage will guarantee that he be wise.

Each of you who stand before me today, have lost family and friends in the Sundering. For each of you who stands here, a hundred have been killed by tyrants, who believed that their lineage and power gave them the right to rule as they wished, to abuse who they wished, to slaughter wherever they wished.

As you grieve for those whom you loved, as you give thanks for your own survival, and as you pray for a better future, each of you will swear now, and each of you will swear again each year, and each of your descendants will swear every year until the end of time, that you will uphold this decree.

The daughter of the King shall inherit the land, but shall not rule.

The daughter of the King will marry whatsoever man be foremost in the kingdom in justice and wisdom. Her husband must be calm and purposeful, able to resist the temptations of the highest office, not afraid of acting without sentiment if needs be, but striving always to aim for the highest standards of morality, conducting himself with absolute integrity, ruling always for the good of the land.

The husband thus taken will be King, and will rule.

This is my first decree.

Thus may we hope that a new kingdom, a better way of life, will rise from the atrocity of the Sundering. It is a hope that you and your children must be ready to fight for, and perhaps to die for. But in this way we may hope that the tyranny and destruction of the last age will never be repeated, and that we can build a future of peace, wisdom and justice for our descendants.