The Heavenly Host

“Lord Tommus, Master of Mount Doom, come now, enter our world of Astlan! Bring forth your hunting party!” Tal Gor shouted. His brother Bor Tal moved towards him to pull his hand from the fire; yet even as he did, the large campfire burst into twice its height, completely engulfing and obscuring the grate with the porridge pot on it.

“My porridge!” Toth Bagg the cook screamed in concern.

The flames continued up and up, overflowing the rocks of the fire pit. The fire was now roaring far louder than should have been possible for the amount of wood present. It was bigger than the largest bonfire Tal Gor had ever seen. Suddenly, the middle of the flames seemed to tear, ripping open into another reality. There was a giant, one-sided hole in the flames! Nearby orcs scrambled to peer into the tear in reality.

Through the hole, one could see what looked to be a large staging area, crowded with a very odd assortment of large, winged orcs with supersized tusks and hooves. There were also what looked like a bunch of huge wargs, also with wings and tusk-like fangs.

Suddenly the large head of Lord Tommus popped through the hole from one side, and then his entire huge body stepped through into the camp. He grinned down at Tal Gor, or at least Tal Gor hoped it was a grin. “Thank you, shaman.” He surveyed the band and the camp, his eyes narrowing slightly, most likely at the rather sorry sight the band presented.

“I am Tommus, Master of Mount Doom,” Tommus announced in his booming voice. Tal Gor had to clench himself; the demon lord was far more terrifying in person than he had been in his dreams. “Mount Doom is preparing for a feast and our hunters need to hunt in the Planes of Orcs once more.” He looked around to the various warriors of the band. “In exchange for the assistance of your shaman” — he gestured to Tal Gor — “we invite twenty of your tribe to hunt with us.” He looked around, obviously noting that none of the tribe were geared for hunting yet. Tal Gor hung his head at his failure.

Suddenly there was movement at the hole as a woman stepped through into the camp. Tal Gor had to blink. Wow! he thought to himself. She had to be the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Okay, so she had wings and hooves, but was she ever gorgeous! Tal Gor looked around and noted that he was not the only man in the camp staring at her. He had heard humans call certain women breathtaking, all orcs had, but this had to be the first time he had ever seen a woman who could literally be said to take one’s breath away.

“Allow me to introduce my commander, Vespa Crooked Stick,” Lord Tommus said.

Crooked Stick? Tal Gor felt his heart thud. This incredible D’Orc woman was blood? How had Crooked Stick blood ever created something like this? He could see several other men shaking their heads with the same thought.

“Shut your gaping holes, morons!” Vespa yelled to the men of the camp whose mouths were open. “You look like you’ve never seen a woman before!” She scowled in disapproval. “I could have gutted each and every one of you vermin by this point.” Tal Gor noted several warriors uncomfortably adjusting their loincloths or pants, depending on what they were wearing.

“Now, I see none of you so-called warriors is ready to hunt.” She shook her head. “Understand this: you are of my tribe. If you ever ignore the instructions of Lord Tommus’s shaman again, you will answer to me. Is that clear?” Several of the warriors nodded; others mumbled acknowledgements.

“I can’t hear you, worms! I asked you a question; I expect an answer. Fail me again, and I will beat you into a coma that will last a quarter month!” Vespa snarled.

The band members answered affirmatively this time with “yes, ma’am,” “yes, Commander,” and other similar verbal responses, many of them quite enthusiastically. Tal Gor had to admit, this woman was an old-style leader, and her charisma and leadership style clearly matched her beauty.

Vespa nodded and glanced to Lord Tommus, who nodded approvingly. Commander Vespa gestured towards the hole for others to come through, and suddenly people had to scramble to make room for the large D’Orc warriors decked out in their hunting gear to come through the inter-dimensional gateway in the middle of their cooking fire.

Tal Gor counted twenty D’Orcs of various ages and bloodlines, some of which he had never seen before. The two tall, thinner, pale white orcs with red eyes were particularly unusual.

“This is Virok Soul Wrecker of Erdnalia III on the Visteroth plane. He is our huntmaster today.” Vespa gestured to the older of the two tall, pale orcs. “In matters of the hunt, his word is my word and law. Do you understand?” She glared at the Crooked Stick orcs.

“Yes, ma’am,” or some variant was heard from each member of the tribe.