The front line of both teams were destroyed, crushed against one another by the frantic attempts of the other ranks to join the fray, knocked out before they had a chance to throw a single punch.

The second line fared better, though not by much, what they did manage to do was break the battle lines as a particularly large orc of the muds managed to thrust himself deep into the enemy battle lines before the cleans could take him out. But the damage was already done.

Takarn and many of the other orcs of the third, fourth and fifth rank poured into the gap changing the battle from to organised lines into a chaotic melee. And chaos did reign.

Takarn had been surging through the lines for a short while before finally taking the chance to look back, what he saw was madness, the two teams had descended into a disorganised horde stopping any semblance of organised fighting instead opting for 1 on 1 duels.

Takarn made a decision, he needed to distinguish himself, and so he would fight, even if he had to beat his enemies with his own severed arms he would fight.

His first opponent was a large fat orc, he lasted a grand total of 3 seconds. Takarn torqued a vicious left hook right into the fat orc’s jaw. He felt bone crumble and teeth get knocked back into the orc’s throat, he would find later that the orc died from chocking on his own teeth, but Takarn cared not. There was still a battle to be won.

Takarn was a storm of blows, reigning down pain and fury down upon The Cleans. The next enemy went down to a knee to the ribs. The next after he ripped the tusks of a downed orc and then stuffed them into his enemy’s eyes.

Takarn let the blood rage overtake him he crushed skulls, tore flesh, broke limbs, gouged eyes, and mauled necks in a frenzied storm of blood and carnage.

He came back to sobriety and realised he was surrounded by a contingent of the Cleans, it seemed he was a big enough threat to deserve special treatment, he looked at his opponents and they looked back at him, their fear pungent in his nose.

“What are you doing you fools?! Kill the monster!” Yelled a large female orc as she pushed a smaller orc toward me while another group charged from behind. Big mistake.

I grabbed the smaller orc by the waist, and then turned around swiftly throwing him into the group behind him.

They collided with a satisfying crunch.

The fight continued like this for the next several minutes but no warrior no matter how strong can survive forever Takarn went down under a storm of blows but not before he had accumulated a small mountain of bodies beneath him, some dead some writhing in pain.

He charged his enemies in a final roar of defiance before a swift kick to the head silenced him

-----

Mirabelle walked purposefully down the ornate hallways of Bellmonte Castle.

Bellmonte was the capital of the human kingdom of Belandier famed for its culture and wine.

Servants bowed and prostrated themselves before her as she walked down the marble hallways, any other day she would be stopping to bask in their admiration, but not today, today she had bigger things on her mind.

She walked into her husband’s study with a pout on her face and rage in her heart, he was going to pay.

Her husband King Altaier of Belandier was a slight bookish man, always reading some treatise or another, always to wary of the opinions of his subjects, too afraid of what someone might think to make a proper decision. In short, a bad king.

“Altaier!” She whined. “Why did you send away the court minstrel, he was funny!” She said while weakly banging her fists against him in a fake tantrum.

He looked up from the book he was reading, Treatise on the War of Belador. She remembered that war, it was the one in which her ancestors had subjugated the plains orcs, destroying the last, great war band and putting an end to the orcs as a legitimate threat.

She smiled as her husband looked up at her, they would spend the entire evening discussing the finer points of poetry and more specifically their previous minstrels inadequacy in it.

Little did they know, to the north east, a problem was brewing. One far bigger and more urgent than why the court minstrel doesn’t know a rhyming word for orange.