S
Sitting Sock
Guest
Hiya,
I don't play UO more, but I was with you for a couple of months in early 2007. I was messing around on my old computer and came across two short stories I had written, but never "published". They were supposed to be accompanied by flash comic strips for illustration, but when I gave up on being an orc after a week or two, nothing came of it
The idea was that the orcs had captured some hapless adventurer, who then went on to write his "last words" at every surface he could find, expecting to die, but never actually dieing.
Anyway, in hoping they might humour you I've decided to put them here and say good bye to you again.
Rock on Siege Perilous!
***
*illustration: green hands flicking through a diary*
If you're reading this then I must already be dead. I had never thought I'd face my end at an orc encampment living my last hours in a crude, oakwood cage. Make no mistake, you could just as easily have found yourself in my position, for I was once such as yourself. I was just a regular tankmage tamer happily adventuring my way across the lands in search of fame and fortune.
I was having trouble with a particularly persistent foe that day, when a most unlikely ally showed up from out of the wilderness to my aid dealing a lethal blow to my foe. Wiping sweat from my eyes I looked up at this curious stranger while hailing him. "Tribuut" the orc said sounding like he had difficulty pronouncing the word correctly. As I reached for my backpack I smiled and politely corrected his pronunciation. He must've felt encouraged to learn more because he raised an eyebrow before grunting "Gib shinies nuw!" Shinies, I figured, must surely mean words of wisdom.
I was about to reply before I noticed the unlikely light weight of my pack. How could it be? I was sure I had left town that morning with it stocked full of supplies and gold. Why, I even remember joking about it with my fellow adventurers as I passed them on the road, explaining how I probably would be back before the evening considering how exhausted I'd be carrying that heavy load. I didn't know what to do. "I beg your pardon, sir, but I appear to have lost my items. I offer my deepest gratitude for your timely assistance, but alas I must be off to see if they fell out of my backpack earlier."
*illustration: pointy hatted adventurer leaving town with huge backpack while hailing thieves lurking to his left and right*
Much to my surprise, the helpful orc grabbed my pack and turned it upside down shaking it to see if something was left inside. "Don't worry, friend" I said, "this is not your fault." He gave a start and for a moment looked confused at me. I reached up to pat him on the shoulder, but was interrupted by a sharp, burning sensation to the side of my head. He had just slapped me! "Why, sir, I beg your pardon!?" I could not help the insulting tone, although I regretted it instantly when seeing him swing the broadside of his cleaver in my direction. My skull felt like it would explode from the inside as white stars danced before me.
The oddest feeling of weightlessness woke me up. How I wished I would have stayed unconscious when I felt every bone in my body aching. I was gagged with my own hat, hands and feet bound and hanging over the shoulder of my former friend. Puzzled by the recent turn of events I decided to face the truth, I had clearly insulted him and was now to be brought somewhere for something. Maybe he was a noble among his people, and I would have to apologise to his court? That might be fun.
"Lat stop muving or meeb klompz lat more!" I eased myself trying to decipher the meaning of his words. Apparently I was to be still or he would hit me again. He must really have been angry with me. Sighing to myself I took in a detailed look at the orc, or at least what I could see hanging down his back. Tinker tools decorated the worn belt over his stained leather leggings. Shrugging off the fascinating multitude of oily dirt and ash on his bare arms I noticed something written on the rusted plate of his cuirass. "Kick meeb!" it said, in unsteady red letters.
Apparently this orc was more than met the eyes. Not only a helpful, but extraordinarily impatient protector, he must be some sort of craftsman. Although the state of his equipment suggested he wasn't the most observant, or maybe he couldn't be bothered to tidy them and remove the prank message. Surely he must know it's there?
I was soon to find myself with other worries. As night fell, the orc began to set up camp. This was when I first saw just how crafty this individual was. I found it odd, but didn't complain when he forced me into the makeshift cage I had watched him put together. Then, using an alarmingly rotten rope, he hung my cage and I from a tree. Fascinatingly, he opted not to make a fire before laying down on the ground with my backpack for a pillow where he fell to sleep in minutes. Clearly he didn't fear wild beasts.
I could tell you how that was the longest night of my life, spent half awake listening to crickets and grading the strength of the gasses occasionally flowing from the nearby orc, but it really wasn't that bad, at least not compared to the present. After waking, the orc and I find ourselves spending this morning acting nonchalant, but have no illusions; he clearly wants me for breakfast. I can feel cold shivers going down my spine as I write this just now while watching him follow every movement I make.
Is this it? Why doesn't he end me already? Anything would be better than this wait. I can only hope death will come swiftly. He moved again! Uncomfortable with his sitting position the orc is shifting his weight back and forth on his cheeks. Oh no. This is it. He's getting up!
*illustration: orc moving to cage, grabbing adventurers diary, moving behind a tree, squatting down, flipping through the pages ripping them out for toilet paper*
***
*illustration: fatty fingerpainted text on a shattered mirror*
If you're reading this then I must already be dead. I had never thought I'd face my end at what I can only assume is some sort of orc dressing room.
Make no mistake; I was once such as you. The last chapter of my life started when a cultural misunderstanding over tributes degraded my standing in life to that of a slave for the Gouged Eye Tribe orcs.
I have since learned the identity of my captor. "Stuk'Ga da mak'r" they call him. Evidently a working class citizen of the tribe, these last month in his care has mostly consisted of fetching "bomms", "glowy juices" and all sorts of "bitz" as he constructs everything from armour to alchemy potions all of highly questionable consistency.
Apparently the tribal leader, warboss Mo'Gluk was looking for "breedurz" and Stuk'Ga had offered me to him, quite literally with a pink bonnet, at which point we were both schooled in the nature of breedurz and its stark conflict with male "humies". Stuk'Ga escorted me back out with a sullen look and decided that now that I was already here I might as well pay off the tribute by assisting him in his workshop. Put strong emphasis on the word "workshop" when you read it as the place hardly qualified to anything else than a glorified outhouse, with matching sanitary conditions.
Since we arrived at their fort in the middle of nowhere, Stuk'Ga has changed into another outfit, surprisingly even more dirty than his adventuring kit and also sporting "kick meeb" scribbled in red paint on the back of what I can only assume has once been a rudimentary tunic.
I believe I may be suffering from what scholars refer to as the "Rockholm Syndrome". I find myself empathizing with Stuk'Ga. I first realized this the other day in his workshop. As apparently is popular with orc tinkerers, Stuk'Ga spends much of what could otherwise be fruitful working hours dedicated to inventing items that rarely if ever work as intended. That's not to say they don't do something, but the results, even though claimed to be unrivalled successes, tends to be side effects or miniature-scale environmental disasters. The invention in question what just such an example.
As ordered by Stuk'Ga I had brought him a keg of bomm-juice. For some reason he thought if he could make a potion that'd cause orc speak to sound like human speak, his tribe could perform some sort of sneaky raid at a previously unimaginable level. I did mention how orc fumes, not to mention physical attributes, might be a dead giveaway, but he would have none of it. In line with his research he'd been mixing reagents and mixtures, and then drinking them "tu see wut dey du". How he was still alive could only be sign of how there must be some inherent genius in madness. Although this day nearly changed all that, when bringing him his treasured bomm-juice, otherwise known as explosive potions, it didn't take him long to mix some of it into the soup of chemicals he was currently working on, and then drinking it all. Teeth, bits of flesh and everything he'd consumed the last few hours was flying out his mouth together with what a bard would call an orgy of rainbow colours and flammable gasses. I truly felt to blame and made sure he got his healin-juice. I have to give him credit though, before the massive blisters and his throat started swelling, he did sound much closer to a human than I'd heard since I met him.
Why have I not tried to escape? you might ask yourself. As a tankmage tamer of high standing it is below me to do something so distasteful. Out of respect to Stuk'Ga I have decided to pay off my debt to him before I return to my adventures. Well, that was at least my intentions before this fateful day. Having lost my journal to Stuk'Ga's personal hygienic needs I am forced to detail the last moments of my life on a broken mirror with the mere fat stains on my fingers. Quite fortunately, after a month living the orc lifestyle said fat stains are rather persistent. Unsurprisingly, the word soap isn't part of the orc vocabulary.
I can hear them talking in the other room. Have they noticed that I slipped into this room? Imagine my surprise after thinking everything would work out, when I heard guttural roars throughout the fort and was dragged with Stuk'Ga into the tribe's armoury. I had never seen the orcs this exited, not to mention agitated. They've been wrestling and yelling themselves hoarse singing some sort of battle hymn. I can only assume I am to be the victim of some sort of ritualistic offering to an orc deity. Yes, they must've noticed that I'm missing. Even through the noise I can hear heavy footsteps coming in the direction of this room. Oh, how I wish there had been a window to claim out of to escape certain death. It's Mo'Gluk! I must stop writing; I really must, but know this: I regret nothing!
*illustration: huge orc coming into wardrobe room. Finds adventurer scribbling on mirror. Forces adventurer to dress up in costume and join a show the orcs were making outside*
I don't play UO more, but I was with you for a couple of months in early 2007. I was messing around on my old computer and came across two short stories I had written, but never "published". They were supposed to be accompanied by flash comic strips for illustration, but when I gave up on being an orc after a week or two, nothing came of it
The idea was that the orcs had captured some hapless adventurer, who then went on to write his "last words" at every surface he could find, expecting to die, but never actually dieing.
Anyway, in hoping they might humour you I've decided to put them here and say good bye to you again.
Rock on Siege Perilous!
***
*illustration: green hands flicking through a diary*
If you're reading this then I must already be dead. I had never thought I'd face my end at an orc encampment living my last hours in a crude, oakwood cage. Make no mistake, you could just as easily have found yourself in my position, for I was once such as yourself. I was just a regular tankmage tamer happily adventuring my way across the lands in search of fame and fortune.
I was having trouble with a particularly persistent foe that day, when a most unlikely ally showed up from out of the wilderness to my aid dealing a lethal blow to my foe. Wiping sweat from my eyes I looked up at this curious stranger while hailing him. "Tribuut" the orc said sounding like he had difficulty pronouncing the word correctly. As I reached for my backpack I smiled and politely corrected his pronunciation. He must've felt encouraged to learn more because he raised an eyebrow before grunting "Gib shinies nuw!" Shinies, I figured, must surely mean words of wisdom.
I was about to reply before I noticed the unlikely light weight of my pack. How could it be? I was sure I had left town that morning with it stocked full of supplies and gold. Why, I even remember joking about it with my fellow adventurers as I passed them on the road, explaining how I probably would be back before the evening considering how exhausted I'd be carrying that heavy load. I didn't know what to do. "I beg your pardon, sir, but I appear to have lost my items. I offer my deepest gratitude for your timely assistance, but alas I must be off to see if they fell out of my backpack earlier."
*illustration: pointy hatted adventurer leaving town with huge backpack while hailing thieves lurking to his left and right*
Much to my surprise, the helpful orc grabbed my pack and turned it upside down shaking it to see if something was left inside. "Don't worry, friend" I said, "this is not your fault." He gave a start and for a moment looked confused at me. I reached up to pat him on the shoulder, but was interrupted by a sharp, burning sensation to the side of my head. He had just slapped me! "Why, sir, I beg your pardon!?" I could not help the insulting tone, although I regretted it instantly when seeing him swing the broadside of his cleaver in my direction. My skull felt like it would explode from the inside as white stars danced before me.
The oddest feeling of weightlessness woke me up. How I wished I would have stayed unconscious when I felt every bone in my body aching. I was gagged with my own hat, hands and feet bound and hanging over the shoulder of my former friend. Puzzled by the recent turn of events I decided to face the truth, I had clearly insulted him and was now to be brought somewhere for something. Maybe he was a noble among his people, and I would have to apologise to his court? That might be fun.
"Lat stop muving or meeb klompz lat more!" I eased myself trying to decipher the meaning of his words. Apparently I was to be still or he would hit me again. He must really have been angry with me. Sighing to myself I took in a detailed look at the orc, or at least what I could see hanging down his back. Tinker tools decorated the worn belt over his stained leather leggings. Shrugging off the fascinating multitude of oily dirt and ash on his bare arms I noticed something written on the rusted plate of his cuirass. "Kick meeb!" it said, in unsteady red letters.
Apparently this orc was more than met the eyes. Not only a helpful, but extraordinarily impatient protector, he must be some sort of craftsman. Although the state of his equipment suggested he wasn't the most observant, or maybe he couldn't be bothered to tidy them and remove the prank message. Surely he must know it's there?
I was soon to find myself with other worries. As night fell, the orc began to set up camp. This was when I first saw just how crafty this individual was. I found it odd, but didn't complain when he forced me into the makeshift cage I had watched him put together. Then, using an alarmingly rotten rope, he hung my cage and I from a tree. Fascinatingly, he opted not to make a fire before laying down on the ground with my backpack for a pillow where he fell to sleep in minutes. Clearly he didn't fear wild beasts.
I could tell you how that was the longest night of my life, spent half awake listening to crickets and grading the strength of the gasses occasionally flowing from the nearby orc, but it really wasn't that bad, at least not compared to the present. After waking, the orc and I find ourselves spending this morning acting nonchalant, but have no illusions; he clearly wants me for breakfast. I can feel cold shivers going down my spine as I write this just now while watching him follow every movement I make.
Is this it? Why doesn't he end me already? Anything would be better than this wait. I can only hope death will come swiftly. He moved again! Uncomfortable with his sitting position the orc is shifting his weight back and forth on his cheeks. Oh no. This is it. He's getting up!
*illustration: orc moving to cage, grabbing adventurers diary, moving behind a tree, squatting down, flipping through the pages ripping them out for toilet paper*
***
*illustration: fatty fingerpainted text on a shattered mirror*
If you're reading this then I must already be dead. I had never thought I'd face my end at what I can only assume is some sort of orc dressing room.
Make no mistake; I was once such as you. The last chapter of my life started when a cultural misunderstanding over tributes degraded my standing in life to that of a slave for the Gouged Eye Tribe orcs.
I have since learned the identity of my captor. "Stuk'Ga da mak'r" they call him. Evidently a working class citizen of the tribe, these last month in his care has mostly consisted of fetching "bomms", "glowy juices" and all sorts of "bitz" as he constructs everything from armour to alchemy potions all of highly questionable consistency.
Apparently the tribal leader, warboss Mo'Gluk was looking for "breedurz" and Stuk'Ga had offered me to him, quite literally with a pink bonnet, at which point we were both schooled in the nature of breedurz and its stark conflict with male "humies". Stuk'Ga escorted me back out with a sullen look and decided that now that I was already here I might as well pay off the tribute by assisting him in his workshop. Put strong emphasis on the word "workshop" when you read it as the place hardly qualified to anything else than a glorified outhouse, with matching sanitary conditions.
Since we arrived at their fort in the middle of nowhere, Stuk'Ga has changed into another outfit, surprisingly even more dirty than his adventuring kit and also sporting "kick meeb" scribbled in red paint on the back of what I can only assume has once been a rudimentary tunic.
I believe I may be suffering from what scholars refer to as the "Rockholm Syndrome". I find myself empathizing with Stuk'Ga. I first realized this the other day in his workshop. As apparently is popular with orc tinkerers, Stuk'Ga spends much of what could otherwise be fruitful working hours dedicated to inventing items that rarely if ever work as intended. That's not to say they don't do something, but the results, even though claimed to be unrivalled successes, tends to be side effects or miniature-scale environmental disasters. The invention in question what just such an example.
As ordered by Stuk'Ga I had brought him a keg of bomm-juice. For some reason he thought if he could make a potion that'd cause orc speak to sound like human speak, his tribe could perform some sort of sneaky raid at a previously unimaginable level. I did mention how orc fumes, not to mention physical attributes, might be a dead giveaway, but he would have none of it. In line with his research he'd been mixing reagents and mixtures, and then drinking them "tu see wut dey du". How he was still alive could only be sign of how there must be some inherent genius in madness. Although this day nearly changed all that, when bringing him his treasured bomm-juice, otherwise known as explosive potions, it didn't take him long to mix some of it into the soup of chemicals he was currently working on, and then drinking it all. Teeth, bits of flesh and everything he'd consumed the last few hours was flying out his mouth together with what a bard would call an orgy of rainbow colours and flammable gasses. I truly felt to blame and made sure he got his healin-juice. I have to give him credit though, before the massive blisters and his throat started swelling, he did sound much closer to a human than I'd heard since I met him.
Why have I not tried to escape? you might ask yourself. As a tankmage tamer of high standing it is below me to do something so distasteful. Out of respect to Stuk'Ga I have decided to pay off my debt to him before I return to my adventures. Well, that was at least my intentions before this fateful day. Having lost my journal to Stuk'Ga's personal hygienic needs I am forced to detail the last moments of my life on a broken mirror with the mere fat stains on my fingers. Quite fortunately, after a month living the orc lifestyle said fat stains are rather persistent. Unsurprisingly, the word soap isn't part of the orc vocabulary.
I can hear them talking in the other room. Have they noticed that I slipped into this room? Imagine my surprise after thinking everything would work out, when I heard guttural roars throughout the fort and was dragged with Stuk'Ga into the tribe's armoury. I had never seen the orcs this exited, not to mention agitated. They've been wrestling and yelling themselves hoarse singing some sort of battle hymn. I can only assume I am to be the victim of some sort of ritualistic offering to an orc deity. Yes, they must've noticed that I'm missing. Even through the noise I can hear heavy footsteps coming in the direction of this room. Oh, how I wish there had been a window to claim out of to escape certain death. It's Mo'Gluk! I must stop writing; I really must, but know this: I regret nothing!
*illustration: huge orc coming into wardrobe room. Finds adventurer scribbling on mirror. Forces adventurer to dress up in costume and join a show the orcs were making outside*
