Tamoachan

History

The Tale of Roshak

Roshak the Silent mused. He ran his wide, green fingers over the miniature buildings absentmindedly, lost in thought. Tiny homes, workshops, and farming fields filled the room, a microcosm of the clan he had forged and nurtured into prosperity. Surrounded by the massive scale model of his own city, Roshak often came here to think… and those trips became more frequent with each passing month.   For three decades he had been chieftain of the Olmen, and under his leadership the clan had prospered. His body still bore the scars of Chok’Logar, when the humans had sundered the mountains. Entire tribes had been buried that day, and the survivors had retreated north. The orcs did what they always did--plan their bloody revenge on the paleskins, but inevitably slide into bickering and in-fighting.   Roshak was different. His clan, the Bleeding Skull, had borne the brunt of the casualties. The chieftain was dead, and the top lieutenants each cried their claim. Vengeance. Brutality. A war without end. And as they drew axes and took sides, Roshak had an epiphany--he would end the cycle.   So he took his tribal faction and left. Left the hearths and garrisons, left the blood rituals and the engines of war. His people, the Olmen, would forsake their shaman gods as the gods had forsaken them. His tribe protested at first, especially those that still bore the Bleeding Skull tattoos. But they were old, or injured, or cowards, and while Roshak was sparing with words, all knew that his murderous efficiency with an axe spoke volumes.   The Olmen traveled south, nearly to the edge of the Teeth themselves. And they traded their axes for plowshares, tilling land that had only ever been watered with the blood of battle. It wasn’t glorious, but it was prosperous. The Olmen grew, and the lust for war faded.   A chitinous squawk lifted Roshak from his reverie. Smiling, he tossed a fish toward the corner of the room, where a massive crab began consuming it noisily. “Guard these halls well, Kalka-Kylla. I fear your vigilance will be needed in the coming days.”   Their troubles began with the blade. One of the children found the crater while climbing, and Roshak had been summoned to examine it. The black blade drank in the light, yet it gleamed--he did not need his shamans to tell him it was something ancient, something… special.   A portent of doom, as it turned out. Roshak left the blade there, against the protestations of his advisors. Riuzz the Lame was especially vocal. The “Lord of Snails,” as the children mockingly called him--he had hobbled behind Roshak, keeping pace as best he could, warning the chieftain that wielding such power was better than leaving it alone. Roshak had hoped the blade would stay unnoticed in the obscurity of the vast Northland wilderness, but artifacts of such power never do.   What arrived was even worse than he had feared. A human, one of the Northmen--an Epinoin--stumbled into the camp, cutting down every man, woman, and child in his efforts to find the blade. But he wasn’t… human. Nearly a dozen orc warriors fell until Roshak was able to lodge his axe in the man’s brain. And even after, the body continued to move, to heal, and it was then that Roshak knew--this was a thrall.   The Ageless were coming.   Roshak moved his tribe into the mountain catacombs. They could not run. They could not hope to win. They entombed the human thrall behind doors of stone and magic, and waited for what would come. The shamans worked night and day to find some hope of salvation. Roshak instructed them to explore every avenue, even the ancient blood rituals of the Bleeding Skull. They delved into forbidden arts, looking for something--anything that would help them. Death was coming for the Olmen. But Roshak the Silent would shout into the void, and it would hear his battle cry.

The Tale of Loshari

The monstrous seven-legged octopus was a stone statue, inanimate but somehow… aware. The Cthulu-like face bore down on the heroes, watching them, feeling them, its very existence challenging the fabric of reality. Loshari did not know why the orcs had built the statue and he did not care. He had not traveled across the planes of existence to this planet--this mundane mediocrity--for such primitive minds. He would not fail.   Three mewling primitives stood before him now. He grabbed their minds with ease, forcing them to link with him through the astral plane, as simply as one would push aside a small child. Two of them were worthless--pathetic creatures he dismissed without a second thought.   But the third… could it be? The Vol’Shiar just… in the open? Unprotected? Where were her champions? Legions of warriors, cabals of archmages--entire civilizations had defended the Herald on other planets. Did these cretins have no idea what was at stake?   The Herald completed her bargain, blood seeped into the focusing jewel. Loshari was amazed. He hadn’t even needed to tear one of her friends into pieces. To break her will as one crushes a walnut shell. He always liked that part.   He gave her the next piece of the prophecy. The Seal is broken. Bind it with the blood of the Three.   Loshari smirked. He would keep an eye on this planet.