The Journal of Khazak Uzi'lag, Chapter 1 (Patreon)

Solisday,  Leus 14th, 4623

I always feel as though I am supposed to write something profound when I start writing in a new journal, but I have never been very skilled with pretty words. It has been a long day, one that began with the loss of my previous journal. It happened earlier today, during a hunt with Riktal, my best friend and second-in-command.

We had tracked a buck through the forest in the early morning, eager to bring it back to the camp in time for breakfast. Its trail wound in and out of the trees until it led us across a small river. Riktal jumped across, and when I attempted to follow, the toe of my boot caught on a large tree root and instead I fell in. I lost about half the contents of my pack to the waters, including my old journal.

Calbrath has told me that losing it and having to start a new one is a sign, one that says that change is on the horizon. I am not sure how much I believe the shaman’s words, but he has not steered us wrong yet, so it may be something to think about. I am largely just annoyed to lose all the writing I had filled the previous journal with.

Still, a new journal often feels like a new friend, so forgive me if my explanations seem long-winded. I like to record my thoughts, write them out so I can read them back later with fresh eyes. When you are charged with leading an entire tribe of orcs, you take your wisdom everywhere you can get it - including from yourself.

It has been three years since my father’s passing, when the mantle of Tribal Chief was pissed down to me. The man was a great leader, the Proudhunter Clan thriving under his rule, and I have done my best to continue that legacy. For almost ten years now, our hunts have been plentiful, our territory has expanded, and new babies are born every month.

Not content to simply follow in my father’s footsteps, I have sought to broker long-lasting peace between us and the other orc tribes living in the Durgash Forest. For the past two years, we have maintained trading relations with the Swiftrunner tribe, and just last year members of the Firesoul tribe began reaching out to our shaman’s for medical assistance when a number of their women began to experience difficult childbirths. Next week, I am due to meet with a representative from the Woodspirit tribe to discuss

Of course, not everyone is as eager to work together for the betterment of our people. The Ragebloods in particular have been a thorn in my side for some time now. Every time our borders have expanded, they have been on the other side, gnashing their teeth in anger. They have shot down every attempt at a peaceful discussion between our tribes. At least once a month, a battle will break out between two hunting parties that just happened to cross paths.

No longer content with these minor skirmishes in the forest, the Ragebloods have begun to attack our camps directly. At first we were taken by surprise, but have begun to anticipate them via information gathered by either our spies or allies. Even now, we are expecting an attack any day--

Lunaday,  Leus 15th, 4623

I apologize for the abrupt end to my previous entry. It would seem I am something of a psychic - just as I was detailing the anticipated attack, the Ragebloods struck. There were over a dozen of them, dressed in their familiar black armor. With the element of surprise, they managed to slay a few of my men before the alarm was raised. But as soon as the call for help was heard, the Proudhunters grabbed their weapons and began to fight back.

What followed was quick and bloody. Even with their numbers, they were vastly outmanned, and it did not take long to turn the battle in our favor. At first I was not even sure what they were hoping to accomplish with the attack, at least until two of the attackers locked eyes with me - and then dropped everything to charge at me. It was me - I was their target.

Though they stood no chance against the full might of our tribe, taking me out would cause enough instability for the Ragebloods to launch an even larger attack - or at least that is what I surmised, our attackers not exactly forthcoming during our fight. While I was able to deflect the blows of my two initial attackers, the others began to turn on me as well, dropping everything to target me.

Thankfully my tribe was there to defend me. With the Ragebloods distracted by my appearance, my own men were able to put each of them down, slaying about half of them while capturing the rest. I took the last one down myself, his frame more slight than his companions, his dark brown eyes glaring up at me in anger as I pressed him to the dirt with my boot. The damage done to our camp was minimal, but we still lost a few members of the tribe.

I would later learn that this orc was the leader of this small warband, though not much else. He only glared in response to any of our questions. It was only after we placed him and his companions in irons that he finally spoke - to challenge us to a glorcha for their freedom. Riktal laughed right in his face, but our tribe follows the same traditions regarding prisoners of war as the others. If they want to risk facing the consequences that come with losing that battle, I am more than happy to grant his request, and as the one who personally captured the small spitfire, I will be the opponent he faces - and the one to reap the rewards of his choice once he fails. I am already looking forward to tomorrow's fights.

Ignisday,  Leus 16th, 4623

Good evening, journal. It has been a long, exhausting, and overall satisfying day. Though I cannot help but have some mixed feelings regarding how it ended.

There was no breakfast this morning. As is tradition, the tribe fasted through the meal as a sign of respect to the Proudhutners who fell yesterday. Instead, a small funeral was held, Shaman Calbrath performing their last rights as their graves were covered. I prayed to the Sky-Father for his guidance into the afterlife, where they will be blessed with many hunts in the Eternal Forest.

Following the gloomy morning affair, we worked to make repairs to the camp after yesterday’s attack. There was not much damage, mainly a few snapped tent poles and some torn leather panels, which were easy enough to replace. But it was still enough to  raise my hackles and have me grumbling to myself as the evening’s glorcha battles drew closer.

Glorcha is a tradition that dates back further than any of the six tribes can remember, steeped in strength and subjugation. As our prisoners, the Ragebloods would have been used for hard labor, but otherwise fed, given shelter, and left alone. But by challenging us, their captors, to a glorcha, they risk not only all of that, but their pride and honor as well.

If they were to win, they would be free to leave, without any fear of reprisal as they return to their own tribe. But if they should lose? Then they would become ours, to use and do with however we pleased. And after that happens, these battles all tend to end the same way.

So let me tell you how mine went.

We waited until the evening, after dark, so that the tribe’s children could be put to bed and those with gentler dispositions would not be forced to witness the proceedings. Those of us participating moved to our camp’s fighting ring, including our prisoners. Those of us fighting had not yet had dinner, though there would be plenty for us to eat after the battles ended. In more ways than one.

There were no weapons to be used, as is tradition for a glorcha, only fists and your own strength. I knew it would not be much of a challenge. We already had an advantage: we may have skipped dinner, but the Ragebloods had not eaten since before their capture, and I doubt they were well-rested either.

And so the battles began. As Chief, I would be going last, and so one by one, I watched as the captured Ragebloods fought their Proudhunter captors. And one by one, the Ragebloods fell. Some lasted longer than others, but once my tribesmen were able to pin them to the ground, it was over. Immediately after their defeat, the losers are removed from the battlefield by their new owners, who are no doubt eager to begin some of the after-battle activities.

From across the ring, I watched my future opponent as he witnessed each of his companions fail. When he met my eyes, I could not help but smirk, but I will say this: if he was at all feeling nervous, he did not show it. So steeled my gaze and bided my time.

Finally, it was our turn. After his irons were removed, we both entered the ring. All around us, my men start to cheer me, and jeer him. With all of his men currently occupied and humiliated, I finally saw his confidence falter for the first time.

We slowly circled, our focus drowning out everything but one another. He struck first, aiming for a blow to my stomach, but I managed to dodge back in time. However, I did not see the second punch coming right at my jaw, pain blossoming across my face. Shaking it off, I grabbed him by the arm and threw him across our small arena.

He was back up quickly and charged at me again, this time with his shoulder. He connected with my chest and succeeded in knocking me back, but not over. He appeared to weigh maybe two-thirds of my own weight, and he would need much more leverage than that to topple me over.

Seeing as he was so intent on grappling me, I grappled him next in return. Struggling in my grip, I threw him to the ground before quickly pouncing onto his prone body. We wrestled like that until I was able to flip him onto his stomach. Then, after climbing over him, I twisted one of his arms behind his back. Grabbing him roughly by the hair with my free hand, I slammed his face down into the ground before pulling it back up.

“Do you yield?” I asked him angrily.

“Fuck you,” he spit back.

So I slammed his face into the dirt again.

“Do you yield?” I ask again, my grip on his hair getting even tighter.

The response I received that time was silence. For a moment, I expected him to continue fighting me, to try and buck me off his back, but instead I felt his body sag beneath me. As if the fight had physically drained out of him.

Taking advantage of his surrender, I quickly flipped him onto his back. When he bares his neck in submission instead of kicking up at me, I was surprised again. The hatred in his eyes was evident, but there was something else there, too.

Suddenly, a whistle on my right distracted me: Riktal. He held up a small knife with a devilish grin, throwing it blade first into the dirt at my side. From the look he and the others were giving me, it seemed like they were expecting a show. One I was happy to provide.

Pulling the knife from the ground, I started to cut off my captive’s clothing, all while he glared up at me in silent rage. It was at this point that I realized I had not yet learned my soon-to-be slave’s name, something I would have to remember to ask for later. At the moment, I had other things on my mind.

Once he was naked (or at least as naked as I needed to be), I kneeled up over him.

“On all fours,” I ordered. “I am sure you know the position.”

Forcing him to move into place on his own was yet another humiliation tactic, but rather than show any embarrassment, he started to move with a surprising amount of grace. The only indication of his true feelings was the glare he still wore, making sure to throw at me over his shoulder. We locked eyes, and again I get the feeling that there is something else there, beyond his anger, some sort of connection, but I am not sure what it means.

Something lightly struck my left thigh, pulling me back to the task at hand. I looked down to see a small and familiar looking leather pouch, one I knew to be filled with a slick, white-colroed cream that we frequently use as lubricant. Opening the ties on top, I scoop some out onto my fingers, grinning at Riktal knowingly.

I used some of the cream to slick up my cock, and then applied the rest to his hole. He seemed surprised by the preparation, no doubt expecting something much rougher and larger than my fingers entering him. Truth be told, I was not trying to be gentle, even attempting to be a little rougher than necessary with my hands to give my men a show, but I am not a complete monster. This would not be enjoyable even for me if I was to take him dry.

Satisfied with my preparation, I shuffled forwards, taking the thick green rump before me in my hands and squeezing the flesh. I pried his cheeks apart to see the dark layer of hair that lined his crack, his hole slick, dark, and furled at the center.

As the head of my cock pressed against his hole, he was finally forced to look away as a blush crawling up his cheeks. He steeled himself as I pushed my inside, staring forward into the dark forest and ignoring the catcalls of my tribesmen. I groaned, enjoying the tight heat of his ass squeezing me as I bottomed out. Not even giving him a moment to adjust, I pulled back almost entirely before slamming back in and making him gasp.

I started to roughly pound away at him, enjoying the way this seemed to throw him off balance. Feeling a surge of cockiness, I smacked his ass roughly, making him cry out in surprise. He immediately tried to return to his silent stoicism, but the damage is done, my men all whooping at the sounds I’ve forced from his mouth

Having power like this can lead to a vicious cycle. The harder I fucked my captive, the less he was able to disguise his humilaition over the act, which only pushed me to want to fuck him even harder. He was soon unable to prevent further noises of pleasure falling from his mouth, and more than that, I could feel that he had begun to enjoy his subjugation, no doubt to his chagrin. Perhaps it was subconscious, but his hips began moving back to meet any thrusts, and I could feel a familiar fluttering start in his hole.

Just to make sure, I reached under him to feel his cock, finding it half hard and leaking. Letting out a bellow of victory, I continued my steady pace of thrusting, continuing to build pressure in my partner’s lower half. When the dry orgasm finally washes over him, his arms were no longer able to support his weight and his chest hit the ground, his head lolling to the side.

There were more cheers as my bitch finally seemed to accept his new lot in life, openly rutting back to take more of my cock. I am not sure for exactly how long I fucked him, but we kept at it for some time. As I felt my own rogasm start to build, I adjusted my angle, climbing over his body to flatten him beneath me as I fucked him into the dirt. As I finally crossed the threshold, I growled low before biting rough into his shoulder, hard enough to break the skin.

When I was finished unloading, I released the hold my jaw had on his shoulder, pulling back to see the bloodied bite left by my teeth and tusks. Something goes through me at the site, and I found myself licking my lips free of his blood, my lust already starting to return. However, it was getting late..

I stood, my captive continuing to lay still in the dirt, catching his breath. With no further fights to come, we were finished for the evening, which meant it was time for dinner and then bed. After congratulating me, the gathered Proudhunters split up to their own meals and tents, but before I could join them, I needed to take care of my new charge.

I helped him to stand, giving him a moment to adjust to his unsteady feet before leading him towards the river and our camp’s bathing area. We boh enter the water to clean ourselves of the aftermath of the glorcha. Though I am sure he was considering a possible escape, the ginger way he walked had me confident he would not be going very far tonight.

Here, away from the rest of the tribe, the energy between us once again felt different. Calmer, obviously, but there was something else, something I could not put a word to. I still cannot. My captive was unable to meet my eyes, not looking at anything but the water as we bathed. Back on the shore, I redressed, but as his clothing was all torn off after our fight, he can only shiver in the cold night air.

“Here.” I do not know what came over me, but rather than pull my shirt back on, I handed it to him to dry with.

“...Thank you.” He begrudgingly accepted the offering and began to dry his cold skin.

“What is your name?” I finally asked, now that I had the chance.

He was reluctant to tell me, and at first I thought I might not get an answer, but after a pause, he responded. “Vakesh.”

“I am Khazak,” I offered freely.

“I know who you are.” With those five words, he was back to glaring at me with daggers in his eyes.

Laughing at his impudence, I led him back into camp, and my tent. After re-securing his irons, I retrieved dinner for the both of us, which he once again accepts with trepidation. After dinner, he moves to my bedroll, no doubt expecting a second round as my new bed warmer, and he is surprised when I give him his own bedroll and point to the opposite side of my large tent. That is where he is right now as I write this, falling asleep after giving me one last pointed glare.

Good. I would have hated to put out that fire. It will make him that much more fun to train.