Orc Pals

(Technical notes and more at the bottom)

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The atmosphere in the tavern was anything but serene.

                "Barely a fraction of my crops survived just one passover from that horrid beast!"

                "The livestock that weren't eaten have simply been reduced to ash!"

                "If it wasn't for the good nature of my neighbors, my family would be living in the forest! And even they have lost half of their own home to the demons wrath!"

                The Jarl could barely hear himself think through the crescendo of anger of a crowd desperate for any answer to their plight or reassurance of their future.

                "Me and my men are already in the process of forming a plan to strike down the dragon, we just need time to gather our resources after the last attack!" The Jarl explained to the mortified mob that has swarmed his table at the tavern. It was a white lie though, he himself didn't have the heart to tell any of his fellow villagers that he had nothing to offer them in support, he was simply buying time before the royal guard marched into town.

                "What resources!?" The town blacksmith snapped at the grizzled Jarl. "What could you possibly offer in defense against such a foul creature!?"

                "A dragon is empowered by its black, selfish heart! But it is not invincible!" The Jarl doubted his own words, and he was certain the mob could see through him, but he had to keep trying.

                "There has to be someone capable of fighting the beast!" The bartender implored from behind his workstation. "There is no telling when the Royal Guard will descend from their castle, if at all! We need to look for those passing through our town! Someone of great courage! Someone of great strength-"

                "-GIVE ME A DRINK, AND I CAN BE THAT SOMEONE!!"

                The mob staggered at the booming voice. Turning their attention to the end of the front bar, many agitated farmhands and villagers shrunk back, gasping at the sight.

Standing well above their own heads, was a towering, muscular Half-Orc Barbarian! The warriors skin was a sickly green and dotted with war paint while her unkept hair dangled over her shoulders and reached her lower back. The Half-Orc's clothing was a patchwork top over bundles of gauze that smothered her arms and much of her neck beneath a set of necklaces of teeth and braided rings. Below her waist was a pair of trousers held up with a multitude of useless belts, sturdy kneepads and warm yet durable boots. A loincloth was also held aloft by her trousers that sported an odd logo, most likely representing the clan she hails from.

What was most off-putting about the Half-Orc, especially in this weather, was her lack of any real armor! Her abdomen was bare, sporting a horrific scar that ran across her well cut abs. Beyond a pair of gauntlets and elbow plates, the only article of clothing that seemed to be best suited for the Autumn was her flowing fur cape.

                "How... how did you get in my tavern-"

                "HOW CAN YOU CALL YOURSELF A BARKEEP IF YOU DO NOT FOLLOW THE WISHES OF YOUR CUSTOMERS? GIVE ME A PINT!!"

                Taken aback by the Half-Orc's intimidating build and even louder voice, the barkeep nodded in response. "Uh-y-yes si-MA'AM. Th-that will be six gold-" the barkeep yelped as six gold coins hit him in the stomach like birdshot from a blunderbuss. Swiping the newly filled mug off the bar top and swigging the entire pint in one go.

                "First a dragon, now a Half-Orc?!" One of the local guards piped up, hoping the villagers strength in numbers could deter the Half-Orc's versatility with the massive bastard-sword slung over her shoulder.

                "Get the hell out of here!"

                "Crawl back to the hole you came from, wench!"

Seeing a potential distraction from the current matters at hand, The Jarl raised his hands to quell the dissenting voices of his townspeople. "A dragons wrath is hard to ignore, even more so is the challenge it may pose to a Half-Orc-"

                "ARE YOU IMPLYING I AM A RECRUIT VYING FOR THE ATTENTION OF MY CLAN WHEN I HAVE DONE SO YEARS PRIOR-"

                "-That was not my intention-!"

                "UNLESS YOU WANT ME TO CONTINUE STIMULATING YOUR SHATTERED ECONOMY THEN I CAN TAKE MY DRAGON-SLAYING BUSINESS ELSEWHERE!!" The Half-Orc boomed, slamming her empty mug on the bartop. getting no response from the barkeep, she slammed it down again, resulting in another refill, another shot of six gold to the stomach and another swig.

                "F-forgive my ill-advised choice of words, I had no intention of belittling a Half-Orc of high regard like yourself!" Jarl Leubeck almost pleaded, desperate for any chance to turn the villagers anger away from his table. Clearing his throat, Jarl Leubeck stood up and beckoned for his aids. "These are desperate times, and there is no telling when the dragon will return! So I have no choice but to call for desperate measures! I will gladly-"

                "How could you, Jarl Leubeck!?"

                "The moment we hire this barbarian, the moment we forfeit the lives lost to the rampage of years past! How could anyone in this town forget the bloodshed!?"

Jarl Leubeck recoiled in defeat, realizing his villagers were willing to hold onto their hatred then they were their own livelihoods. An Orc did indeed rampage through their town many years ago, but the damage inflicted on that fateful day was a far-cry to the chaos inflicted in the last several hours.

                "I will never forget the carnage I have witnessed on Red Thursday!" Jarl Leubeck snapped at the angry crowd. "However, right now! Is the time to relinquish our bitter judgment and put our livelihoods in the hands of those who are capable and willing to-"

                "If you hold the dead in such high regard, why do you sully their memory by giving this hellspawn the blessing to stand in our town with it's head held high!"

                "EVEN IF MY HEAD WAS LOW, IT WOULD TOWER OVER YOU TINY URCHINS." The Half-Orc boomed once more, swigging another pint in one gulp. "BUT IF YOU WISH TO BURN TO CINDER RATHER THEN GAZE AT MY CHIZZLED CHEST, THEN BY ALL MEANS."

                "By all means, leave!" One of the local guards piped up, stamping forward against the objections of the Jarl. "I have lost a friend too many on that horrible day, and your horrific presence in our town is an insult to those who died!" The guardsman readied his sword and held it to the bemused Half-Orc's chin. "The Royal Guard will savor the battle with the mighty dragon and you will turn back to where you came or face your petty demise at the end of my sword!" Chuckling in response, The Half-Orc flicked the edge of the sword grazing her chin and bared her tusks with a good laugh.

                "HOW DO YOU EXPECT TO STRIKE FEAR INTO MY HEART WITH A RUSTY BUTTER KNIFE!!?" The Half-Orc laughed, taking another swig from her pint as the guardsman ignored the cries of the Jarl, readying his swing-

                KABOOM

The entire crowd squealed and shrieked at the resounding explosion that filled their tavern. Stumbling back in horror, the guardsman couldn't help but notice his sword has gotten significantly lighter, looking down, he gasped in horror.

His sword was cleaved in two! And the Half-Orc hadn't even raised a finger!

                "Wh-what is this foul magic!?" He sputtered in horror, dropping his now useless sword as another voice chuckled from the shadows of the entrance hall. Turning their eyes to the new intruder. The townsfolk shied back from the figure who hid herself from view.

The only object they could see on her person, was the smoking blunderbuss in her powerful hands.

                "Now now, that is no way to be treating a guest in the presence of Jarl Leubeck." The voice cooed, leveling her intricate firearm at her waist. This voice, while deep and menacing, was far calmer and articulate then that of the Half-Orc, and seemed more inclined to let calm heads prevail over that of the furious mob.

                "N-nonsense! Leubeck, Jarl of Luardenwood, relishes the sight of Orc blood spilling in-" The guardsman started, before a quick glance back at his furious superior brought him back to reality.

                "THAT'S A GOOD BOY!!" The Half-Orc sneered with vigor, taking another swig of her pint.

                "Argrorg." The shadowy figure muttered, stepping forward out of the comfort of the shadows with simple strides. "Indoor voice, please."

Much to the dismay of the crowd, the owner of the calm and collective voice was none other than a full-blooded Orc! Her skin a stunningly dark olive green under her detailed warpaint and her hair was sticking up well past her own head in a well-maintained black mohawk.

While shorter then Argrorg, her frame was just as muscular but far more intricately dressed. In fact, this Orc was sporting equipment and armor that far surpassed anything the Jarl or anybody in town possessed! The floorboards creaked under her durable black lace-up knee-high boots, deep-pocketed trousers, kneeplates, weapon and ammo bandoliers, a wicked cuirass composed of unknown materials sporting scratches and patchwork, long black gloves and a flowing trenchcoat that trailed behind her.

                "Jarl Leubeck." The Orc smirked before racking the handle of her shotgun loudly, sending a smoking buckshot casing to the floor. "My name is Dura Gra'Sumba. My compatriot here is Argrorg Psychopunch. Don't snicker, there's a reason she goes by that name."

                "A pleasure to meet your acquaintance." the Jarl spoke with admiration at the sight of the sophisticated Orc. "What brings you to this terror-stricken town?"

                Dura chuckled, resting the shell release of her shotgun on her shoulder as Argrorg threw her mug away and reached for the handle of her bastard sword, ready to pose next to her companion with pride. "We're here to clip your dragons wings."

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                "SO WHAT IS THE PLAN!!?"

                "Indoor voice-"

                "WE'RE OUTSIDE, GENIUS!!"

                "Quiet voice, please."

Argrorg shrugged once more, stomping through the dry leaves as the two marched up the hill against the brisk autumn breeze that picked up the trail ends of the two Orc's coats and tossed their hair asunder. Shivering as the cold dew-ridden grass brushed against her boots, Dura marched further through the grass before reaching a bush not far from the road. Kneeling down, the Orc began to pull at the vegetation and dug her gloves into the soft dirt.

                "I take it this time we are doing things your way?" Argrorg asked indulgently, obviously not used to speaking softly. "I will certainly mourn the loss of blood that my sword will abstain from today." Dura smirked, passing her companion a wink.

                "That is not entirely out of the question. Brute force got me where I am today, being tactical and cunning will get me further."

                "Brutal strength can serve you well, if our first meeting is anything to go by." Argrorg smirked with a hint of animosity. Dura knew it was more of a challenge then any real sense of hostility. Argrorg saw any beast or otherworldly horror as a challenge to vanquish, and lately, it has been the Half-Orc's will to conquer Dura's extensive vocabulary.

And much to the full-blooded Orc's surprise, Argrorg has been doing a fine job using her articulation thoughtfully and cohesively. That's not to say that isn't the only thing Argrorg has been studying. While easy to put down Dura's tactical analysis, she does appreciate how the Orc brings her words to life in combat, holding back her shock and awe at a well-executed headshot or taking out the knee of a Giant with a well-placed kick rather than an uppercut to the jaw.

Dura snickered in response. "That it will, especially today. Time to combine brutality with tactical cohesion." Dura replied, pulling a buried rucksack out of the dirt and peeling away at the string. Argrorg looked on with curiosity building, just as Dura unraveled the devise that her companion had hidden as the Half-Orc barged into the towns tavern. "Now is the time to combine our traits, per-say."

                Argrorg chuckled. "How so?"

                "Through the advancement in killing our fellow sentient brothers and sisters. Today, it will serve to vanquish a beast that it's designers believe to just be a myth." Dura sneered, producing a long tube-like device from the dirty-rucksack. Green and dotted in white markers detailing instructions and odd numbers, the device held a trigger much like Dura's 12-gauge blunderbuss. "My Ithaca-37 is a pea-shooter in comparison."

                Those words ensnared Argrorgs attention immediately. While appreciating the damage the Ithaca inflicted on were-bears in the previous town, Argrorg was more hands-on then her companion, relishing the blood that drenched her body  and sword rather than the blood that coated the environment. It was the legacy of her clan after all, to soak in the anguish of her opponents. The Ithaca made quick work (and brought in the gold), but there was something personal lacking from the kill... excitement...

                Something that was almost emanating from the otherwise ordinary tube.

                Her attention was cut short, however, as a blood-curdling roar pierced the overcast sky. Descending through the clouds, their intended quarry soared over the town and grazed the hillside nearby and brought a sadistic smile to Dura's face.

                "There was an old saying, back where I acquired this weapon." Dura started. "Shock and awe, that was how their old-world military called the effect their heavy hitters had on their enemies. While I myself doubt this Dragon will bat an eye at a larger fireball then it can conjure, the townsfolk scurrying for safety behind us will be ramping up our bounty-"

                "We settled on two thousand gold, did we not!?" Argrorg snapped, her voice rising as the dragon soared over their heads, fighting the urge to reach for her sword in Dura's presence.

                "We did." Dura admitted. Argrorg was a hard companion to travel alongside, due to her upfront attitude and blunt personality. One key trait Dura has found nigh unbearable was her total lack of regard for money. Haggling was an alien concept for her and in due course, has thrown away more gold for overpriced wares faster than their own bar-tabs combined. "But this weapon will make those barrels of gunpowder they set off during the new-year festival look like firecrackers in hindsight." Dura stepped forward as a gust of wind picked up the trail end of her coat.

                "What do you mean by that!?" Argrorg demanded, growing more tense by the second. Turning back briefly, Dura smiled as she leveled the weapon on her shoulder.

                "Boom." Dura spat, tapping her finger against the white label on the side of the elongated tube.

                'M67 Recoilless Rifle'. The words were as bright as the sun in Argrorgs eyes.

                Boom.

                Recoilless Rifle.

                Shock and Awe.

As Dura waltzed forward, raising her shotgun with her free hand and firing in the direction of the beast to signal it's attention. Argrorg's own face began to bare a sadistic smile as her heart began to race and her muscles tensed. She could barely hear the orders or the plan Dura was trying to share with her as she shifted her shoulders to let her sword fall to the ground.

Up ahead, the dragon glanced back at the sound of the Ithaca, barely recognizing the buckshot that glanced off its scales. Bearing it's maw lined with razor-sharp teeth, the dragon snorted flames and grazed the ground with its tail as it made a pass over the treeline, it's eyes set on its newfound prey.

                "-You got that Argrorg!?" Dura barked bacl as she readied the M67 to fire. The Half-Orc, having not heard a single word that came out of Dura's mouth, snagged the tail end of the recoilless rifle and plucked it out of her gloved hands. "-WAIT, WHAT ARE YOU DOING-!!?"

                "HOLD MY CAPE FOR ME!!" Argrorg ordered, loosening the knot around her neck and letting it catch in the wind, ensnarling Dura and sending her tumbling to the grass. Pulling at the cape shielding her eyes, Dura scrambled to her feet in anger.

                "ARGRORG, YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW HOW TO OPERATE THAT THING!!"

                "I'M A QUICK LEARNER!!" Argrorg roared, spinning the tube around in her hand as she fumbled over the scope and trigger with little regard for her own safety. Dura gave chase through the tall grass, tripping once more and losing her grip on her Ithaca in the process.

The dragon watched with mild curiosity as its prey raced for him like a meal on wheels. Careening to the ground, the beast dug it's claws into the dirt, taking some time out of its day to entertain itself with the villagers futile attempts of defense.

                "YOU STUPID ASS!! DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHICH WAY TO FIRE THE DAMN THING-!?" Dura cried out as Argrorg leapt across the dirt and readied the M67 awkwardly.

                "WHICHEVER WAY EXPLODES!! I LIVE AND LEARN!!" Argrorg roared, raising the recoilless rifle high, the dragon less than a hundred feet away as she fumbled with the trigger. "I'LL BE FRYING UP SOME DRAGON SIRLOIN  TONIGHT!! I HOPE YOU PACKED THE STEAK KNIVES, DURA!!" the full-blooded Orc responded with a frustrated shriek that probably had nothing to do with dinner that night, Argrorg paid no mind, squeezing the trigger with a mad grin on her face.

Falling to her knees in the grass as she shielded her eyes, Dura yelped in pain as her ears began to ring when the concussive force hit her dead in the chest, resulting in a searing pain that ran across her scalp as the Orc's vision filled with smoke.

Running her gloves over her face and holding her head to contain her headache, Dura groaned and swore, moments before realizing the searing pain on her scalp was growing warmer. Snapping her eyes back to Argrorg, Dura bit her lip to contain any further cursing.

Argrorg held the damn RPG backwards, resulting in a back blast charging for the Dragons position, only to stop sixty feet short of its target. The Half-Orc didn't say a word as she lowered the tail-end of the M67 a couple inches.

                "Dura..." Argrorg muttered through clenched teeth as the dragon ahead on with mild curiosity. The Orc was in no mood to chat, as she suddenly realized her own mohawk was on fire. "THIS RIFLE SUCKS!!" Argorg boomed, throwing the weapon to the ground with unadulterated fury.  "DURA-!!" the Half-Orc whipped around, watching as her companion patted down the flames on her once vibrant mohawk while the rocket she had fired zig-zagged through the sky before striking the towns clocktower. "-WE WILL BE PAYING FOR ADDITIONAL DAMAGES AGAIN!!"

                "IT'S NOT LIKE YOU GIVE A SHIT!!" Dura snapped angrily, staggering to her feet as the dragon let out a deafening roar.

                "TRUE!!" Argrorg replied quickly, turning her attention to the monster bearing down on them, having let it's curiosity fall to the wayside as it let it's hunger take control. "WHAT PLAN OF ACTION SHOULD WE TAKE!!? THE TACTICAL WAY, OR THE FUN WAY!!?" With no heavy weapons on hand and no time to reload the M67 rifle in time, Dura thought quickly as she tensed up at their encroaching doom.

                "QUICK!!" Dura snapped. "I'LL DISTRACT HIM, YOU GRAB THE M67-" Dura bellowed, just as the Dragon unleashed a fiery downpour.

                "DULY NOTED, THE FUN WAY IT IS!!" Argrorg roared with renowned vigor as she sprinted forward, leaping off a nearby rock with adrenaline pumping through her veins. Swearing loudly, Dura threw herself to the dirt, using the rock as cover just as the flames nearly engulfed her.

Wincing as the dragon let out a blood curdling roar, Dura patted her head out of reflex, sighing in relief once finding that the remnants of her mohawk are not being consumed by flames once more. This relief was short lived, however, as the unmistakable sounds of battle raged on. Peering over the smoldering rock she had used as cover, Dura could barely hold her surprise.

Argrorg had leaped onto the dragon and had begun mutilating the damned beast with her bare hands. Letting loose a battle cry that dwarfed the agonizing whines of the dragon as the Half-Orc took a massive bite out of the dragons left eye.

                "DON'T JUST STAND THERE!!" Argrorg demanded. "JOIN THE PARTY!! RIP AND TEAR!!"

Dura simply blinked and the sheer insanity Argrorg radiated during battle. Dura turned on her heel and caught glimpses of the villagers piling out of their homes and business to calculate the damages from the missile that Argorg had fired their way. However, their attention was soon throttled by the writhing form of the dragon as it tossed and turned in vain to throw Argrorg off it's back.

As the Half-Orc Barbarian roared something about how since the dragon was huge it must have huge guts, Dura blinked as more people began to point and chat amongst themselves, impressed by their handywork. Dura replied with a quick thumbs up, but withdrew her gesture when she remembered none of them understood what that meant. Gulping, she turned to the scene ahead of her. Thoughts of racing back to retrieve her shotgun or reload her Recoilless rifle came to mind, but they all hit a brick wall.

She was an Orc.

Her muscles were well-toned and her athletic abilities were strong.

She had two handguns at her disposal, and would make quick work of the dragon it they were shoved into the beasts empty eye-socket.

Sighing in defeat, Dura drew her 45. Para-Ordnance P-14 and dug her boot heels into the dirt.

                "Oh... what the hell. Why not?" Dura shrugged, shoving the handgun into her mouth and biting down into the slide, Dura kicked off and broke into a sprint. Jumping and leaping off the rock in one bound, Dura soared through the air, latching onto the flailing tail of the dragon as Argrorg shoved her arm up to her shoulder into the dragons frontal-lobe.

                The Jarl watched from affair, popcorn in hand. If he had to lose the clocktower to enjoy the show, he paid no mind. He was uncertain if there would be much left of the poor creature by the time the Royal Guard showed up.

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Wow, how long has it been again?

Whatever the case, it's about damn time I uploaded this picture!

I must have completed this weeks ago, but my scanner was being a massive ass and has been stretching the scanned sketch for some reason, hence why our Orc ladies above look a little pudgy. Thankfully, with a little tweaking I managed to tone down the stretching a bit, but only after a week or so of trying to figure out the odds and ends of my all-in-one scanner (seriously, never buy a damn all-in-one anything)

That, and I was working on the story for this piece, including a rewrited or two ^.^

Anyway!

This is my part of a trade (again, super belated D: ) with   character Argrorg Psychopunch, a Half-Orc Barbarian from a D&D campaign she played in. This isn't the first Argrorg and Dura have been together, who can forget the time they first met? toastsamurai.deviantart.com/ar… Good times, I say ^^

Drawing this has been a blast, even if it was a tricky one. For starters, I had roughly a billion references to get Argrorg right and halfway I had to abandon them and go solo when none of them were working for me. But I have to say, it was fun drawing all those needless belts and seams on such a bulky character like Argrorg, not to mention writing her blunt personality was a lot of fun!

The references alone weren't everything. That m67 recoilless rifle was insanely hard to nail down right. I think I only had a handful of references for the rear, and practically none of them were useful beyond one. Hence why the front end of it disappears into Argrorgs hair. Lazy, I know. But it sure beats tearing a hole through my papers now, doesn't it? XD
Along with that, I had trouble settling on the background. First it was a village, then a mountside before finally settling on a field with mountains and evergreens in the far background.

Dura on the other hand was a lot easier to draw, what with a more subdued sense of style, even with a mohawk currently in flames. One of these days I want to draw her with a more stone-cut face. I went the cartoony route to emphasis that she isn't a big fan of being set on fire, hence why her cheeks and chin are more curvy then the straight cigar-chomping jaw on Argrorg.

All in all, this was delayed way too much and I apologize for that, Toasty. Maybe next time we trade it won't take a gazillion years.

Writing for Argrorg was super fun though, Cheers! And have a great week!

Dura Gra'Sumba - Me

Argrorg Psychopunch -