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Snippet #2815271

located in Zoltia, a part of The Gala-Dor Expedition, one of the many universes on RPG.

Zoltia

None

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Ashera Vallenai Character Portrait: Esther Alfsson Character Portrait: Serena L'aporte Character Portrait: Maria Solaster
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"Dushum ghashan," was the muttering behind the door... over and over. There was a notable pause in both the scribbling and the orc's muttering as Serena barked from the other side of the door.

"Hmm... impeccable grammar. 'Badzurz' is a command though, say it with your diaphragm... like... like oh!
Like you're gonna crush my skull between your thigh muscles,"
he corrected in a rumbling baritone. The scribbling resumed in silence for a long moment before the rustling sound of an enormous weight lifting itself to its feet thudded through the wall. He cleared his throat several times.

"BadZURZ!!" he bellowed, flinging the door open and taking a step towards them... at least as much of a step as the door frame would allow at least. "Hmm," he stroked his blood crusted beard for a moment before attempting to stuff his considerable girth through the door. He made several attempts to come through, including one where he backed towards them until he managed to slide himself through onto their side.

"Attention, puny mortals, it is I, Orcimedes, ruler of the Western Pass! Terror of Thum-Dor! Inconvenience of the slightly farther away Ruzmok-Dor! Mightiest of Shaman," he announced, sweeping his enormous staff grandiosely over their heads. "You tread upon the domain of I and my Warband, the Red Hatchets. But fear not, though one of my warboiz has succumbed to an evil spirit, I have contained it safely in the room thither," he explained, motioning behind him.

Indeed, behind him in the room, scrawled across the door and much of the floor was a fully realized magic circle with complete and accurate array tracing intersecting with the original seal in the center of the room... or at least it would be if the sigils inscribed resembled any known arcane language and not roughly sketched animals.

The orc slid himself gracelessly to the ground before them with a grunt and crossed his legs, laying his staff across his lap like an adolescent tree. Behind him, the battered door finally fell off its hinges.

"What is it you wish to speak of?"