Date: Sun, 5 Mar 2006 09:06:25 -0800
From: The Satyr <the.satyr@gmail.com>
Subject: Stag God is Born: The Stag God's Apostle, Chapter 1

++++++++++++++++++++++++

Hey, all. I've gotten some fantastic feedback from this series, which
I greatly appreciate. Some of you have asked some questions about the
background of this setting, which I have shared with one or two folks.
But, in order to do so, as well as to update you when a new chapter of
this Cycle is available, I have created a group at the following
address:

http://groups.yahoo.com/group/stag-god-cycle/

Join for updates, as well as the occasional short essay on parts of
the world, as well as a place to discuss the Cycle. I'd love to hear
from all of you, and perhaps get some ideas where you might like to
see these cycles go. Any good mythology is built to the needs of the
people it serves, and you are the people this Cycle is written for.

As usual, involves adult situations, with all that entails. You've been warned.

+++++++++++++++++++
This story is (c) The Oaken Satyr, 2006

The Stag God's Apostle
  - A Continuation of the Cycle of Ashlan
++++++++++++++++++++
Chapter One: Fervor Punished

The cloaked and hooded figure drew no notice as he wound his way
through the crowds of people. It was a market day, so the town was
a-bustle with activity -- farmers from all the outlying villages and
farms were here with wagons full of produce, merchants were here with
empty wagons to carry away the goods they bought for a pittance and
sell them for a good deal more than that in the city. Entertainers of
all stripes wandered hither and yon, juggling, singing, dancing for
their suppers, while the children ran among the ruckus, laughing and
chasing one another.

It was, the figure noted, practically the essence of the human
experience, reflected here. He smiled then and found a large stone
used to hitch horses to when the market square wasn't as filled as it
was now. With a strong stride and a short jump, he was atop it, and
some of the people near him looked up at him curiously.

It was they who gasped when he threw back his hood.

Habra of the Tines gave time for the silence to settle among them, the
way it always did. He knew that his appearance was shocking: it wasn't
very often at all that humans had the chance to see an orc who wasn't
a token of war, after all. His long black hair was braided and pulled
into a bundle at his neck, around which he wore a clattering, clanking
necklace made of pieces of cast-off stag antler. His chest was bare
above soft leather breeches and high-laced boots, and the flesh of his
torso was decorated: two lines rose from beneath his belt, climbing up
his muscled belly to fork just below his rib cage, seeming to blossom
into a stylized design that was reminiscent of nothing more than the
tines of some impossibly great stag's antlers.

He bore no weapon, though some of those around him quickly drew
theirs. He smiled at them, and let the silence build, as the shock of
their neighbors drew the attention of more and more people toward him,
like a ripple in a pond where a stone had been dropped. When it had
spread as far as his voice was likely to carry, he spoke.

"Hail," he said, in accented but easily understood human speech. "I
come peacefully, bearing neither arms nor ill-intent. Understand why I
come, placing myself into such danger. I come to speak to you the
words of the Stag God, the God of Seven Tines, whose breath is the
quickening of your pulse and whose miracle is found in the ecstasy of
the flesh."

He let his intention seep into them at that point, and he smiled,
black lips around smallish tusks. The buzzing always began then, as
people reacted in disbelief. Some pressed closer to hear what he had
to say, some fled. These towns along the borders to the orc lands had
all heard of the Stag God, though the lore they knew was untrue, for
the church elders warned them of a horned demon that prowled the orc
forests at night.

"I know you have heard stories," he said, raising his voice in order
to be heard over the din. Quiet eventually settled quickly, with
people shushing those around him. Habra glanced down to see an older
man, wearing the leathers of a hunter, draw near. He was accompanied
by a youth of sixteen winters or so, and both bore large packs of furs
to sell here. Habra smiled and nodded to the man.

"You have all heard stories of the Stag God of Seven Tines, but you do
not know the whole of Him. I have known him, though, in the flesh, and
received his sacrament.

"Once, when I had only just received the rites of manhood from my
tribe, I was assigned to a patrol of scouts at the edge of my tribe's
territory. That night, as I watched from the circle of firelight that
I thought protected me from the forest, the forest claimed me. The
forest, which is the Stag God.

"The Stag God was tall and mighty, with long hair and a mighty set of
antlers, seven tines in all, crowning his brow. Within but a moment,
he snatched me up and carried me away. But I do not come here to tell
you my story. I am here to tell you yours." The people around him
looked confused then. They always did. The hunter seemed to know
something of what he was going to say, though, for he nodded his head
slightly -- he knew that confirmation of stories he'd been hearing for
years was at hand.

"It is your story because the Stag God is like none of the Beast Gods
of my tribe!"

"Demons, you mean!" someone from the crowd yelled.

"Demons, yes!" Habra shouted back at them, shushing the crowd that did
not expect this response. After all, one did not expect someone to
agree when one called his gods demons. "The gods of one people are
often the demons of another. Do you not think that orcish children
grow up hearing frightening tales of the wicked demon god humans
worship, whose evil is too great to look upon?"

The crowd began buzzing angrily then, for that was a misappropriation
of the human god's attributes; he was a god of light and justice, of
civilization, invention and humans. No mortal could gaze upon him, for
his radiant holiness was too much for mortal eyes to bear.

"Do you understand, then, what it means that I come now before you?
For there are many tribes among my people who fear the Stag God
because he wears the face of a human!" This last he yelled at the top
of his lungs, and utter silence met his pronouncement, as did stunned
looks. "Yes, a human. He is not some strange orc demon-god, come to
wage war with humans. He is a god of the orcs who comes from among
humans. Because we are the same! He is the good, red blood beneath the
surface of all our skins. He is the passion that quickens our breath,
the desire to fight to protect those we love. He is the urge that
makes you seize your husband or your wife on the cold winter night, to
bring warmth and love and new life into the world!"

Many of the people around him were staring at him, transfixed. Habra
smiled, then. Here were more willing to hear him.

Unfortunately, he could not see the Keepers ride up to the edge of the
market throng behind him. The hunter did, as did his apprentice. The
boy turned to the older man, who shushed him. This was not the time.

The orc continued to speak while the captain fitted a sling stone in
his sling. The hunter drew his apprentice away from the orc, just as
the high-pitched whine of a sling sounded. Habra turned, too late,
just in time to see the Keeper release the slingstone. It sailed true,
and make a cracking sound at it impacted the orc. The tall, impressive
figure twitched once, his hand darting up to his temple where the
stone struck, before falling from the large stone and into
unconsciousness.

The silence that followed was deafening. The Keepers -- the Great
Church's chosen templars and holy warriors -- were there, and everyone
had been caught listening to basest heresy. A cry of indignation, or
perhaps fear, went up, and several members of the crowd seized up the
fallen orc, intending on tearing him apart to prove their piety.

"Hold!" The Lord Keeper Yosun, the captain of the Keepers, raised his
gauntleted hand, and everyone froze.

"I understand your wrath, good townsfolk," he said, his voice
suggesting that those who'd not reacted with anger and violence to the
heresy they'd just witnessed perhaps had best rethink their curiosity.
"But stay your righteous hands, I beg of you. Patriarch Gerel must
speak with this one."

The crowd began to slowly disperse as the Lord Keeper Yosun waves his
men forward, and the massive mounts threatened to stomp on any who got
in their way. In short order, the market was cleared, and the Lord
Keeper waved two of his men forward.

"Bind it. I have heard enough."

The hunter and his apprentice watched them leave, dragging the
unconscious orc behind them, bound for the holy keep of the local
church, the Hall of Glory.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The clean-shaven jaw of the church patriarch never unclenched while he
prayed. The god of men was not a weak god, and prayer was serious
business. Men had been struck dead while praying, for not following
the proper forms. It was why the church needed priests: strong men
confident in their piety and faith, who could pray to their great
nameless god, and bear the risk to their lives and souls that weaker
men could not.

As a result, the Lord Keeper Yosun was careful to never disturb any of
the priests in prayer -- to do so could be fatal. During his time as an
acolyte, he'd seen another boy throw a rock and strike a praying
brother in the shoulder. The brother fell into convulsions and lapsed
into unconsciousness. When the priest awoke, he was blind, his
eyesight blasted from him for his disrespect to the god they served.
That was, of course, nothing compared to the punishment the acolyte
received.

Patriarch Gerel finally extinguished the gold-hued candle before him
and touched the sanctified salt to his tongue, reminding him of his
humble station as a mere mortal. It was symbolic of mortality, a
recognition of the fact that though he'd just been in spiritual
communion with the great god, he was still destined to die one day.
Patriarch Gerel glanced sideways as Yosun strode up, extending a hand
to help the church elder up.

"There is no one there to help me when I am in the presence of the
god, Yosun," Gerel scowled at the hand, ignoring it and rising to his
feet easily. "Why would I accept help any other time? What is so
trying in the world that can compare with communion with the Great
One?"

"It was just a hand up, Patriarch," Yosun chuckled.

"Yosun, when the day comes that I need help rising from prayer, my
corpse will have fed the graveyard years before that," Gerel chuckled
in return. Yosun had to admit, the patriarch was strong. All the
priests were, of course -- it was tremendously taxing, physically, to
be in the spiritual presence of the Great God. A task for great men,
not the old or weak.

The Patriarch Gerel was certainly not that. His black hair was kept
closely shorn, and he was quite fit. Though he didn't have the muscled
physique that Yosun bore from a lifetime of combat training and
wearing armor, Gerel's youth spent doing taxing menial labor in a
monastery and standing in one place for hours on end, holding the
Glorious Canon of the Great God at arm's length while he chanted his
prayers had all contributed to his strength.

"Tell me," the patriarch said suddenly, his blue eyes fixing the gaze
of the Lord Keeper. "Tell me of the heretic."

Yosun nodded and the two bowed to the altar and backed away the
required thirty steps, then turned and made their way toward the Great
Rectory, where the patriarch's chambers were.

"It is an orc, just as the scouts said," Yosun said. "Moreover, they
were correct -- he was preaching of that stag-god of the orcs. However,
he was saying that it was of human visage. He also spoke in
particularly lustful terms. Apparently, rutting is part of its
so-called sacraments."

The silence from the patriarch was profound. He clearly didn't know
what to make of this. Finally, he turned to look at the Lord Keeper,
his eyes cold.

"Take me to see it."
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The ice-cold water woke Habra with a gasp. The only reason he did not
leap to his feet was because he was incapable. The upper half of his
body lay against some kind of table, the top surface of which was
tilted at perhaps a 45 degree angle from the floor. His arms were
spread out to the side and chained to the rough wooden surface by
thick iron manacles, with a set of leather straps binding his upper
arms. Likewise, his torso, now stripped of his cloak and pack, was
bound to the table's surface by a thick belt.

The device forced Habra to bend at the waist and remain standing on
his feet, which were likewise bound up to posts set in the stone
ground. Unfortunately, his feet were widely placed, forcing him to
stand with legs spread wide apart, without the ability to rest his
weight exclusively on one foot or the other -- an exhausting pose. When
he sagged a little, he was forced to bear the weight on his shoulders
and arms, which felt like they might be wrenched out of their sockets
if continued for too long.

He groaned as they buckled his last foot in place. His boots were
gone, as was his cloak. They'd left him only in his leather breeches.
He looked around, trying to ignore the throbbing at his temple where
the sling stone had struck him.

At the bottom of the staircase into the room stood Lord Keeper Yosun,
with four of his men. The men he'd chosen were not knighted Keepers --
these were the ruffians and sadists who might have ordinarily found no
place in an enlightened society. Fortunately, the Great Church
acknowledged that not all men could be gentle lambs -- expecting them
to be so was folly. The way to a righteous society was to find a way
to channel the basest in men towards godly aims.

Movement above them drew his attention. The quick look upward blurred
his vision and made his head spin. With some effort, his vision
cleared and fell on the staircase that led down into the room. It was
large and wide, L-shaped, with a landing where the steps doubled back
on themselves, rising. On that landing stood the robed form of a
Patriarch of the Great Church.

Habra closed his eyes, then, suddenly exhausted.

"Fuck," he muttered. Well, he'd always known the dangers; he'd simply
become too sloppy. The reception he'd found in other villages had made
him lazy, simply assuming that the words he brought them would sway
them. Of course, he should have known better -- most of those did not
have a real church in their walls, and those that did saw only the
occasional traveling priest.

"Do you understand our speech?" the priest asked. Habra looked
derisively up at him. He wasn't going to dignify that question with an
answer -- if he couldn't speak the human tongue, he wouldn't even be
here. It's hard to preach heresy to people who don't understand you.

The priest smiled at his reaction to the question. Good. He'd intended
to let the thing know what he thought of him.

"Tell me of this demon you proclaim, orc." Habra glanced up at the
priest again and then sagged slightly in his bonds. He was suddenly
very, very tired. The priest spoke again. "Answer me, or things will
go quite the worse for you."

"I doubt things are going to end pleasantly, regardless of what I say,
priest," Habra said, rising his eyes again to the priest. "So why
would I say anything to the likes of you? My message isn't for you."

"Oh," he said, curiosity creeping into your voice. "Who is it for?"

"The living," chuckled Habra. "People who haven't dedicated themselves
to the most evil and degraded faith in all the world."

"You dare!" bellowed the Lord Keeper, taking a step forward, raising
his gauntlet. The sound that followed was sickly, the solid impact of
a metal-wrapped fist solidly striking a face.

"Hold, Lord Keeper," the priest said, in a bored voice. "You call me
evil? I, who adhere to the faith of the Great God, who elevates men
beyond their base urges, towards justice and righteousness? What is
evil in that?"

"They deny what they are in their attempt to be what you want them to
be," Habra said, as though he were explaining a simple idea to a slow
child. "My message is for those who follow your faith, but are still
creatures of this world. People who despair because they will never
live up to your ideals the way you do. After all, they cannot afford
the luxury of giving up breeding to a faith that tells them that the
holiest work their bodies do is evil. They do not have the riches you
do, and so must work in the world where people sweat and piss and shit
and fuck, not locked away in your fine white towers, mumbling your
prayers to a capricious god."

The priest paled then, and Habra smiled. He knew that his end was
near. Let his end be glorious, then.

"My god is the Stag of Seven Tines, priest, and he is the people's
god. When two people find one another, and kiss one another, he is the
hot breath on sweaty skin, he is the pounding of blood that sings
through the veins of the passionate, he is the exquisite death of the
civilized, thinking creature that comes with every orgasm, in every
man and woman. He is these things, and unlike your god, he is come to
tell them that their lives are not disgusting, base, wicked things
that they must rise above. He is come to tell them that their lives
are beautiful and precious and sacred. He is here to tell them that
their lives are not something they must endure while they wait to be
judged by your god -- their lives are the miracle of their existences,
and the highest of holies is in their immersion in that. He tells them
to laugh loudly, to sing boldly, to love without shame and to live
their lives to the fullest they are capable. Those are the words of my
god, priest."

As Habra spoke, his words transformed all who listened. The priest
grew only paler; when Habra was finished speaking, the patriarch was
clutching the railing of the landing, as though it were the only thing
keeping him from falling. The Lord Keeper's visage was a mask of
barely contained terror and hate, and the men who stood around him
shifted from foot to foot, looking at the empty corners of the room.
They wanted to look on the orc, to see the creature that spoke these
words, but were afraid of their reactions.

"Is your god a man?"

"My god is a Beast God of the orcs, human. But like you, he was born,
pink and mewling, to a human woman, sired by a human man. He grew up a
human child, as you did, but he became one of our gods. The antlers
sprout mighty from his brow, marking his divinity, and his stride is
powerful. He shakes the world with his might, little priest, and he is
coming for you. He is coming to set all of your people free, and there
is nothing you can do to stop him."

Even the Lord Keeper had to look up at the priest then. The silence
had gone on for too long. There stood a man with a white face, his
lips gone ashen from lack of blood. His eyes stared at the orc as
though the priest were on the verge of madness, and his knuckles were
white from gripping the railing.

"Lord Keeper," he said after a terrible silence, tearing his gaze away
from the orc and narrowing his eyes in hate. Even the mighty warrior
shrank beneath the force of that gaze. "Teach him the truth of these
glories he espouses."

The Lord Keeper hesitated just a moment, and then nodded, and the
priest turned on his heel and practically fled the room. The Lord
Keeper drew his knife, then and walked slowly to where Habra was
bound.

"Your words inflame the senses," Lord Keeper Yosun whispered to him.
"That is, I suppose, a fine thing when you are building a heresy, but
down here? Where there are only terrible, cruel men at whose mercy you
rest? Perhaps that is not such a fine thing."
He lay the cold flat of the blade on Habra's bare, green skin,
pressing it into him. Then, with a furious motion, he grasped the
waist of the breeches, slipped his blade under the band there and tore
through the soft leather of them, down first one leg and then the
other, leaving small furrows of cut skin that welled thick red blood
where he'd dug too deep. He looked up then, and the men chuckled,
gathering near.

"No. Inflaming the passions of such men?" he said as he carefully
peeled back the frayed strips of leather, exposing Habra's finely
muscled legs, his strong lower back, and the sweet curve of his
buttocks. "Never a good thing."

He stood back, and with a snarl, the men were on him. Habra growled
his anger as the men began to rip the last bits of clothing from him.
One of them, a muscled brute of a man who stood taller than the
others, with a nasty scar down the side of his face, walked around to
the front of the contraption Habra was bound to, kicking a stool up in
front of it, and standing upon it.

"Now, you be nice, tusks," the man said, fishing his massive cock,
already starting to plump up, out of his breeches. "Or I'll break
those jaws of yours and fuck your mouth while it hangs there limp.
It's nicer when you can control it." He grabbed Habra's lower lip,
still somewhat swollen from the abuse earler, and pried his mouth
open, shoving the fat head into it. Habra choked then, not from the
man's cock, but from what was going on behind him.

The other three men, one a shaggy, bearded blonde man, the second a
fairly well-groomed man with a goatee and the third just barely a
youth, with no beard to speak of, had tossed a die to see who had
first shot at his ass -- after all none of them were going to fight the
tall brute for his face. The youth'd won, so he spat on two of his
fingers and dug them into Habra's ass, worming their slick way past
the pucker at his asshole, delving deep into the warm satin of the
orc's asshole.

The brute up front chuckled to see his friends abuse the orc so, and
slowly pumped his cock in and out of the orc's mouth, enjoying the
quick tongue and the slight scraping from the orc's tusks as he did
so.

"This is nice," the big one confided down to the orc at his mercy.
"You keep treating me this nice, and I might not have a shot at that
ass of yours. Might make you choke down some of my juice before I can
get around to it, there."

By that time, the young one was tired of fingering the orc's ass, so
he stepped up, slapped the meaty length of his cock into his palm and
spat, a thin, viscous thread of spittle that splattered over his meat.
He bent at the knees slightly, aligning his cockhead to the orc's
tight asshole, and pushed.

The young one grunted a little and then clenched his teeth, pressing
against the ass. He paused for a moment, spitting on his cock again,
as his fellows laughed and mocked him.

"Can't slip it in him, huh? This one's fucked a god, boy. I don't
reckon you measure up!" his friends crowed.

The boy lined his cock up again and thrust his hips forward, pushing
up against the orc's ass. For a moment, he thought that he'd fail
again, but the tight ring of muscle gave way, and his sloppy cock
slipped into the hot, glorious heat that was the orc's nethers.
Habra would have howled in agony at the invasion, but his mouth was
full of big, brutish, hard cock, so he could only gag, spraying the
brute's groin with a shower of spittle. The big man chuckled and
pumped his hips some more, sliding the slick cock out, giving Habra a
quick breath before plunging his cock back into Habra's mouth,
striking the back of his throat, before sliding it down the tight,
constricting, slimy length of the prisoner's throat.

The boy began pumping then, sliding his cock in and out, gasping at
the sensation. He stopped occasionally to spit, then kept pumping,
while his buddies cheered him on, slapping his ass to encourage him in
between pumps on their own cocks.

"God...god...he's...milking me, or something..." the boy panted, though no one
heard him. His breath grew more and more ragged, until he shoved
himself deep into the orc and stood there, quivering, his back arched
and standing on his tip-toes. Then, he gasped, and withdrew from the
orc's ass with a plop. A thin stream of semen connected the now-gaping
and swollen lips of the orc's asshole with the head of his violator's
cock.
His friends cheered him, and he smiled, pulling away from them.

"Oi, one of you," the brute said from up front, withdrawing his cock
from Habra's mouth completely, allowing the orc to take a deep, ragged
breath and spit out a mouthful of spit. "Come up here. I want a shot
at that orc's nethers, I do."

The big bearded one happily traded places with him, and shoved his
cock quite forcefully into Habra's mouth. He snarled, and slapped the
orc's face, warning him to watch the tusks. Habra could only choke and
cough in return, for the bearded one's cock wasn't as long as the
brute's, but it was significantly thicker, and the head lodged almost
perfectly in the hollow of his mouth just behind his tongue,
threatening to choke him.
"Hey, you've had your turn up front," the muscled, goateed one
complained of the brute when he pushed him out of the way. The brute
sneered at the smaller man, and then plunged his thick, veiny cock
deep into Habra's ass.

"Aaaah," the brute sighed. "I love a freshly fucked hole." He pumped
in and out of the hole, reveling in the sensation of the tight, hot
satin flesh around his massive cock, slickened by the boy's semen. The
goateed man glared at the brute's massive back and pumped his cock
again, glancing over at the youth as though he meant to ravage him
instead.

The young man, catching the glance, let his hand stray to his
knife-hilt and then finished lacing up his breeches, and walked back
over near the Lord Keeper, who watched the entire scene with disgust.
He glanced at the boy with such furious revilement that the boy looked
away, shame-faced and quickly retreat.

"Quit your bitching," the brute said to the man over his shoulder.
"Come here." The goateed man sidled up, only to be spun around. Soon,
though, he and the brute had worked him up along the edge of the
device, between the orc and the device proper. The goateed man faced
outward now, after loosening some of the straps slightly, so that he
and the orc were belly to belly. Then, spreading his legs, the brute
helped him spear his cock, which curved slightly upward anyway, up
into the orc's ass.

The brute stood back and watched as the goatee'd man's thick cock
forced the walls of the orc's ass open, emerging slimy with spit and
semen and ass juices, before slipping back in. The brute then pushed
himself up against the orc and leaned over him, until he was near the
orc's face.

"Know what's going to happen now, greenskin?"

Then, with his goatee'd friend's cock still in the orc's ass, the
brute lay the head of his cock up against the terribly stretched flesh
of the orc's hole, sliding it along the length of his buddy's cock.
Then, he pushed, bringing the head of his cock to a rest pressing up
against the already-tightened ring of muscle.

Habra gagged, spat out the bearded man's cock and howled then, as the
brute's cock slid into his ass alongside the goatee'd man's thick
cock. Both men stopped moving for a moment, so overwhelming was the
sensation of a second cock alongside theirs while in the hot, tight
confines of the ass.

Then, with a sound halfway between a growl and a chuckle, the brute
began hunching Habra's ass, driving his long, thick cock into the
orc's ass, over and over again, punching his hips forward and sinking
in as deeply as their positions would allow. In the meanwhile, the
bearded ruffian had reclaimed his place in Habra's mouth, fucking it
rapidly in long, plunging strokes, until his cock swelled and, nestled
in the hollow of Habra's throat, just behind the tongue, spat rope
after rope of cloying, thick semen down his gullet.

Habra thrashed then in the slightly loosened bonds and the brute
punch-fucked him several time, eliciting groans of pleasure from the
goateed man, whose knees began to quiver. In short order, his cock
erupted its seed deep into Habra's bowels, coating the brute's cock
with fresh hot semen. The brute then groaned on his own and picked up
speed, forcing the goatee'd man's cock from the orc's ass.

Then with a few final, brutal deep plunges of the orc's nethers, he
pressed up against the orc and groaned aloud, as his cock spat his
seed deep within. The brute groaned a second time as he withdrew his
cock, a stream of semen following, trickling out of the orc's badly
stretched ass.

The men gathered their clothes, while the Lord Keeper loosed the bonds
on the device. He then pulled Habra to his feet by his jaw and looked
at him. His brow furrowed when he saw the look of savage amusement on
the orc's face, just before Habra spat a mouthful of semen in the Lord
Keeper's face.

With an angry cry, the Lord Keeper punched the orc dead in the face,
his gauntleted fist making a horrible crunching noise as it came into
contact with the orc's nose. Blood exploded over the orc's face, and
he flew back a foot or so, and came to a rest against the wall. He
spat, and laughed.

"You...you were kind, gentlemen," the orc said as the Lord Keeper
thrashed about, trying to wipe the spittle and cum off his face and
out of his hair, while his ruffians looked on in confusion and fear.
"If you wish to punish me, I suggest you read me some of your priest's
sermons. You will never succeed at breaking me if you would use my own
god's ways. He treated me much more roughly than you ever can."

"Get him out of here!" the Lord Keeper bellowed, and the brute and
goatee'd man snatched the orc up, slamming his head into the wall for
good measure, and drug him away. His laughter echoed down the corridor
as he was dragged away.