Svelk-Rozgum: World Birth (Patreon)

The following is a story I wrote a few years ago, detailing a half-orc bard sharing the creation myth of the tribe he grew up in, with some "localized translations". 

Orkil bowed with a flourish as the tavern erupted into applause. Thaleod ul Anlyn1 was always a popular tale in elven cities such as this one. Even better, he was now skilled enough in the main elven language that he was able to sing the entire tale without any laughter from his audience.

With a pleased smile, Orkil descended the stairs to the side of the stage as a young elven lady headed up. Taking a seat at the bar, Orkil ordered a glass of middling quality wine and listened to the soft voice of the elven lady as she sang Alarhad Gyer Gharia2, an old song of bittersweet love. A little gloomy after his tale of valor, but a good song none the less.

“So minstrel, where does a goat herder learn old elvish tales?” a soft, yet masculine voice to Orkil’s left inquired.

Orkil turned to face the questioner. An elf male, perhaps a little ways into his second century if Orkil was reading the man’s features and stance correctly. But in any-case, it was a valid question.

Adjusting his stool so that he faced the stranger without bending his back, Orkil took a sip of his newly arrived wine before providing his answer, “When I was with my clan, Hiz’rych Kopjad3, I was the student of the clan’s historian. So many wonderful stories, so much history, yet they only covered a small part of the history of the lands we traveled. I needed to see more, learn more, hear more. So with great regret, I aided my teacher in finding a replacement before I left the clan. I first heard Thaleod ul Anlyn about two years ago, and I am pleased to say that my telling of it has greatly improved. Why, had this been my first telling I imagine I would have been run out of town for using Thuleod4 instead of Thaleod.”

The elven man raised an eyebrow before allowing a small, amused smile.

“Still, all things considered I have been lucky. Not all half-breeds are given the chance to rise as high as I was,” Orkil conceded, his mind going back to the historian’s smoky tent.

“Half-breed? You look to be full orc, if a little on the thin side,” the elf observed.

Hiding back a smile, Orkil got the sense that he’d get to share some of his older tales with his audience after all. Still, before he could do that he had to give the man an explanation to the question he left unasked.

“My mother was human and my father was the clan chief. She was part of a large group of bandits that the clan had been having trouble with. While the clan primarily lives off of spear-fishing, dairy and red meat are still key aspects of the clan’s diet. Fed up with the clan’s livestock being poached, the then clan chief, my grandfather, ordered the clan’s warriors to hunt down the bandits.

“To make a long story short, mostly because it was all that I was ever told, the bandits lost and by ancient clan law the lives of the survivors belonged to the clan’s warriors. Each warrior got to pick one survivor, the one with the most kills got first pick while the one with the least got last. My father was third to pick, and he picked my mother.

“By the laws of most nations, it would be slavery. However, no one is going to mess with a full clan of orcs over some bandits. In any case, my father eventually was wed to an orc woman from the Uilij Laqhain5 clan. I was born about six months after the wedding, and my half-sister was born about a month after me.”

“So you’re the son of a slave? How’d you end up the student of the historian?”

“Because of the different attitudes towards slavery. In orc clans, slaves always become such because they fought against the clan and lost. The penalty for such is a forfeit life. If you die in battle against the clan, then the penalty is paid. If you survive, then your life is no longer your own but the clan’s. However, the penalty ends with you. Any children you have are not part of that, and are not subject to the same restrictions.

“That’s how it works in theory, in practice it doesn’t always turn out that way. In my case, I was bullied as a small child but not for being borok rogdenor, slave-borne, but because I lost every athletic competition I was in.”

“So you were bullied because you were weaker, not because your mother was a slave?”

“Exactly, in the Santolg Danuji6 clan I would have been a slave in all but name, in the Uilij Laqhain clan I would have been treated as a member of the chieftain’s family without the possibility of being his heir, and in the Tanlu nuj Merykh7 clan I’d probably be dead fighting hobgoblins and my corpse raised to keep fighting.”

The elf’s eyes widened in horror before shivering in revulsion. Orkil knew how he felt, but decided now was the time to see if he’d get to tell an orc story.

“Perhaps I should tell another story, maybe one from my old clan?”

“Please,” the elf said before realizing what he was agreeing to.

“Wonderful! I think I should start at the beginning, the very beginning. If you will give me a moment to prepare my vocals and magic, I’ll be able to both show and narrate,” Orkil said with a grin as he finished his glass of wine and made his way back to the stage.

As he reached the steps leading to the stage, the elven lady who sang after him was coming down. With a roguish smile, he bowed and placed a kiss upon her hand before whispering, “A moving performance my lady, may I hear more of your splendid talent later?”

A rosy blush dusted her cheeks, as she stammered slightly before nodding. With a whispered room number, she dashed back to her table as Orkil ascended the stairs to the stage.

Turning to face the tavern, Orkil mentally translated the story he was planning to tell as he addressed the audience, “I beg your forgiveness for coming up here twice in one evening, but a curious fellow asked me to tell a tale from beyond the city’s walls. I thought about performing a rendition of Gor Sikadzas Elvek8, but then I remembered where I was.”

Drunken laughter filled the tavern, and Orkil’s grin grew wider, “So instead I decided to share with you the first story I learned: Svelk-Rozgum9.”

With that, Orkil began to stomp his right heel on the stage to provide a rhythm; at the same time, he brought his hands up while chanting in an ancient orc language that only the clan elders and historians knew. As the audience watched him, the stomps began to sound like a heartbeat, and they could almost see more than a dozen figures in battle armor so fine, so detailed, that no mortal hand could have crafted them. The beat drew them in, and the images pulled their thoughts away from the waking world to a time long since past.

Long ago, before time had settled into the flow it is now; before rain, sun, or snow; before elf, human, dwarf, goblin, or orc; before fire or iron, the gods were at war. Not at war with demons, for demons had not yet raged; not at war with devils, for devils had not yet corrupted; not at war with each other, for they had not yet split. They warred against Caraavran, a beast the likes of which mortal minds can barely comprehend.

Caraavran had no set form, instead shifting new appendages, be they arms, legs, claws, tentacles, wings, or tails, when doing so suited the moment in battle. His size was such that no one living or dead had ever seen its entire form.

The gods were unable to slay Caraavran in outright battle, so they gathered to devise a new strategy. Moros, the mightiest warrior amongst them, suggested dismembering the beast. Zarth suggested killing it before it knew they were there. For ages and ages they argued, each unable to agree on a plan. Then Erb, the Father of the Gods, spoke after having remained silent until that point.

“We will kill Caraavran, and this is how. Moros, my daughter, you shall lead your brothers and sisters into battle. When it grows new limbs you will sever them. When it grows new eyes you will blind them. When it grows new maws, you will break them. Aelma and I shall deliver the killing blow.”

None, not even Zarth who hated Erb with a passion unmatched before or since, dared argue. The gods set out, preparing themselves for the battle to come. Aelma and Erb watched as their children fought Caraavran with a zeal beyond their previous battles. They knew that this would be the day that Caraavran fell.

The battle raged for an age, the gods never tiring, Caraavran never slowing, Aelma and Erb never attacking. Doubt began to creep into the minds of the gods. Would their parents ever strike? What were they waiting for? Was there some plan that they had not been told about?

Despite their doubt, the gods did not let up, but neither did Caraavran. One had to give, and like every battle before, it was not Caraavran. Gulaman, the youngest of the gods, over extended his blade and a maw ringed in tentacles lashed out and swallowed the young god whole. His siblings roared in agony, but their roar was dwarfed by that of Caraavran.

As Caraavran killed their son, Aelma and Erb struck. Their combined magic was enough to kill the beast, but not when it was actively defending against them. Their children were the distraction so that Caraavran would take his attention off of them, and be unable to defend against their might.

Outraged, the gods turned to their parents to demand an explanation. They could have saved Gulaman, but didn’t. It surely was within their power to do so, so why didn’t they. Aelma, grief-stricken Aelma, was the one to explain. Her and Erb’s powers combined was barely enough to kill Caraavran, if they had used any to save Gulaman, then what they had left would not have been able to kill the beast. The trick of drawing its attention away from them would not work twice, and if they wasted the chance Gulaman gave them then Caraavran would never be defeated.

Some of their children accepted this, some did so reluctantly, others however did not accept their parent’s reasoning. One, Shynkar, declared that one day, he would take all that Aelma and Erb cherished from them before cutting them down. Hearing this, Erb’s eyes narrowed, searching his son to determine how much truth there was in his declaration. Upon reaching his conclusion, Erb spoke.

“If that is your decision, then this is mine. Should you not renounce your vendetta then you will be stripped of your power and cast out from my House. You will dwell with vermin and corpses, and shall never again know my favor or love.”

Shynkar’s response was to attack Erb with all of his might. Even having spent most of his energy killing Caraavran, Erb simply batted aside his furious son. Wrapping Shynkar in tendrils of darkness deeper than the inside of a coffin on a moonless night, Erb drained Shynkar of his power. Leaving him weaker than a newborn, yet still immortal. Punishment complete, Erb turned to the rest of his family, eyes conveying a warning: ‘Cross me and I will do to you what I did to my son.’

The gods uneasily set to work. When the war against Caraavran began, they had made plans for the beast’s death. Though their number was lesser by two, they still set about the plan as best they were able.

From Caraavran’s two remaining eyes, the gods crafted the moons. One, large and bright and silver, Maidanaa took as her home. The other, small and bloodshot and filled with hidden power, Lyc claimed for his own.

The stomach, Aelma placed in the sky and used her power to make Gulaman’s body shine as bright as her love for him, and as painfully as her grief for letting him die. She swore to care for her son’s remains until such time as she could forgive herself. There she remains to this day, tending the sun.

From Caraavran’s flesh and bone, the gods formed the land and mountains. From his blood, they formed the oceans. Taking Caraavran’s hairs, the gods created plantlife. Using his remaining organs, the gods ground them together and used the meat to fashion all the myriad of animals that roam the world today.

Still their work seemed incomplete. Again, the gods met to determine what was missing. Unlike the last such gathering, this gathering was peaceful, and was soon resolved. From the scattered remains of Caraavran’s thoughts, the gods fashioned the mortal races. Some they made big, some small. Some they made wise, some foolhardy. Some they made mighty, some weak.

Then, just when they thought their work finished, the gods noticed a presence upon the world that they did not create. Investigating these entities, the gods soon realized what had happened. These spirits, each linked to a feature of the world, or an animal, or a plant, were fragments of Caraavran’s soul. The gods spoke to these new spirits, and were relieved to learn that while the spirits were part of Caraavran, they were too small to be a concern.

With that, Orkil dispelled the illusionary pictures and heel stomping. Taking a moment to catch his breath, a winning grin spread across his face as the tavern broke into a thunderous applause. There were times when he loved his life.

1.) An elven ballad whose title roughly translates to The Ballad of Silver-Steel, it is a tale of elven heroes defeating a dragon in silver plated armor.

2.) An elven love song, the title roughly translates to Lament of Lost Love.

3.) One of the four remaining orc clans, Hiz’rych Kopjad loosely translates to Swift Spears.

4.) Thuleod is a crude elven word, not quite a curse but not something used in formal settings.

5.) The largest of the remaining orc clans, Uilij Laqhain loosely translates to Weeping Pit, after the tradition of the clan chief’s heir of removing his left eye to gain visions of the future.

6.) Another of the remaining orc clans, Santolg Danuji could be translated to Shadow Dancers, but with a strong note of reverence.

7.) The smallest of the remaining orc clans, Tanlu nuj Merykh translates to Dancing Dead. The clan turned to necromancy and animating the dead so as to defend themselves from the legions of the hobgoblin nation.

8.) A dwarven drinking song basically saying that elves have their noses so far up in the air that they can tickle the armpits of giants.

9.) An orc myth, the name translates to World-Birth.