Warriors of the World

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I know this is Fluff I'm writing here is Fantasy but a buddy of mine, whom I affectionately call "Ork", was talking about how it be cool if his Fantasy Orks (as opposed to his 40k Orks) were modeled to look Piratey and I shot back that my High Elves would be the army sworn to hunt them down. And then my fluff oriented brain went to work. So here I am writing it down. If it was decided to make this 40K fluff only my apologies in advance.

Brief note: I haven’t ironed out all the kinks as to how at the very least all the named characters here lost a loved one. (Mainly location problems.) But just assume in your head they were all vacationing at a Eathaine coastal town at the same time when the Ork band attacked.
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The small fire warmed his bones against the chilled night air, his breath coming out in wisps of thin transparent smoke. His head still bowed his eyes moved upwards as his breath traveled up towards the heavens to vanish into the night sky. The stars were bright that night, made even more so by the lack of the moon, for it was a night  with a new moon. He could feel the absence of the goddess in his veins. Like all Archmages it was believed a small portion of his power came directly from Lileath herself. Nights such as these lent credence to the belief. Not for the first time in his life Rainor, Archmage and a Prince of Saphery, felt the sad pain of loss, albeit this pain would ebb when the moon returned.

He was slightly taller then the average elf, possessing their thin wiry build and long jet black hair that fell past his shoulders. He wore simple Loremaster robes, although he was aware that by other civilizations standards they were still ornate, a midnight blue cloak, an engagement gift from his late wife, hung from his shoulders preventing the chilled night air from reaching his back. A wooded staff rested against Rainor's left shoulder. His hands resting along it's shaft. He could feel the reassuring weight on his sword resting against the small of his back. The sword was little over three feet long, recurved to match the shape of a living shoot root, it's hilt was covered in black leather and was barley long enough to be used one handed or two. A simple pair of brass chains held it's simple dark blue scabbard to the back of his belt. To Rainor’s senses it hummed with magical energy ready to unleash it’s power against his enemies. Ignoring the hum of his sword his storm grey eyes drifted down from the stars, on most nights he would have gazed at them and would loose himself in thought but tonight he let his eyes drift around the camp about him and his fire.

All around him were tents and more small fires like his. A few soldiers milled about, some going onto guard duty, others retiring to their tents, a few were sitting around their fires talking, sharing stories. Rainor didn't need to listen to know what it was most of them were talking about. They were telling stories of their families the ones who had sent them on their quest. Not directly Rainor thought, who in their right minds would send out a force as small as theirs, they only numbered few hundred, to hunt down a rogue band of Ork pirates? Especially when tracking them was taking upwards of fifty years? No not directly but each member of this army had lost someone when this Ork band somehow made it to Ulthuan and raided several of it‘s coastal cities. Rainor pushed those memories back from his conscious mind. It wouldn't do him any good to fall into an even more depressed mood on a depressing night. Besides he could hear the sound of horses approaching off in the distance.

Rainor looked up at the sound of approaching foot steps a few minutes later. A figure walked up to him out of the shadows and Rainor recognized him almost instantly. Dagon. The new comer was dressed from head to foot in ornate heavy armor that was inscribed in protective wards and the warrior moved as if he was born wearing it. A crimson cape swayed across the Dagon's back as he moved. The cloak’s movement impeded only by the thick well made shield that was held to his back by a single leather belt. A long sword hung from his thick leather belt, tapping rhythmically against his leg as he walked. The sword was two-handed yet was well made that it could be used one handed in conjunction with the shield across the warrior's back. As the warrior approached he removed his winged helm revealing his sharp features, piercing blue eyes, and long auburn hair tied back in a simple pony tail. Dagon nodded to Rainor.

"The Reavers have returned from their scouting mission.” He said exhaustion evident in his voice. “The shadow warriors have also returned. The other commanders are awaiting in your tent.”

Rainor nodded back to his friend and using his staff pushed himself up from the stump he was using as his perch. “Very well lets see what they have to say.” With a wave of his hand the fire was extinguished.

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Within a few minutes Rainor stood at the head of a makeshift table a detailed hand-drawn map lay spread out on the table, small stones with runic script written on them told those assembled what each stone represented. The head of the Reaver scouts had just finished reporting on Ork placements. As with most Ork movements the troop placement seemed random and incohesive. But after fighting them for over fifty years Rainor knew that didn’t make them any less deadly.

“As we can see our harassment tactics have forced the green skins towards this cliff face.” The scout Thorphen said indicating the jagged line that represented the cliff. “I had a few of my scouts search and they found no foreseeable retreat path.”

“My Shadow Warriors can confirm this.” Duron the Shadow Walker said from the shadows of the tent where he had concealed himself and was only now making his presence known. None at the table even flinched to hear his voice come from out of nowhere. By now they knew on instinct weather or not he was inside the tent. “We have the vermin trapped with nowhere to run.”

Rainor nodded, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “Yes we do. But they know they are trapped. And animals that they may be. A cornered animal will fight all the harder. Even if it’s just to survive a few seconds longer.”

He studied the position of the Ork forces analyzing how best to position his forces to maximize their effectiveness. A quick glance around the table showed that all those present were also thinking along those same lines. Rainor tool a moment and studied his commanders.

There was Knân proud noble of Eathaine. He wore the most ornate armor amongst all of them. His helm shaped to resemble a dragon in flight, a great fur cloak hung suspended from his shoulders. A surprisingly simple great sword hung from a dark stained wooden scabbard at his hip. The Silver Helms answered to him, and rightfully so. He was the best horsemen in the whole army and was unbeaten with a lance. Khân had lost his sole child: a daughter, to the Orks.

Next came the brothers Orn and Tion, master archers both. They were clad in simple leather armor and white robes. Their strung longbows were held in hand. Quivers full of bright green fletched arrows hung over their shoulders. While plain looking long daggers were strapped to their belts. Like Rainor both were from Saphery and had been apart of the local militia within the small city Rainor once called home. When Rainor formed his army they were amongst the first to join leading two small companies of archers. The two of them lost their mother to the green skins.

Then there was Bladelord Malen the best swordsmen in the army next to Dagon. Rainor had seen the two of them spar for hours with neither truly gaining an advantage. Using the full extent of his mastery of High Magic, Rainor could keep up with them when it came to sword play but he knew he was no match for either elf. Like the rest of the force Malen’s armor was painted with red strips to symbolize their lost kin. Sense the majority of the army Rainor had raised was composed of Hoeth’s Swordmasters, Malen was in command of the largest portion of the army. Malen lost a rather close cousin when the Orks attacked.

None in the tent were sure who Duron had lost. He kept to himself whenever he was in counsel with the other commanders. But all of them were sure it was someone of great importance to both him and his fellow shadow warriors, to swear even the briefest of fealties to Rainor and his cause. All they knew was he was a master of stealth and a rivaled Orn and Tion when it came to skill with the bow.

Thorphen stood next to Rainor. He was the youngest at the table yet none there doubted his valor. Nor his skill with bow and spear. Rainor rather liked the young elf’s spirit yet often urged the young one to have patience and to curb his volatile temper. Rainor felt he had succeed somewhat, the number of fights the young elf got himself into had dropped drastically as of late. Thorphen had lost his younger brother.

The last was Dagon. Rainor’s second in command and champion. Rainor had known Dagon since they were children. Their fathers’ owned neighboring estates on the border of Saphery and Eathaine. Rainor still fondly recall all the childish adventures the two of them had before their different callings forced them to walk their separate paths for awhile. Yet when they met again many years later, in the court of the Phoenix King they picked up their friendship as if nothing had happened. When Rainor’s wife and children were killed during one of the first Ork raids Dagon was the first to offer his services to Rainor in his quest. Dagon himself had lost his sister. Rainor‘s wife.

The Archmage studied his commanders faces looking past the exhaustion. Pasted the need for vengeance. Past the hatred. Past the hurt. And saw grim determination and solidarity. And for the first time that night he smiled. And for the first time in a long while he felt complete.

He turned his attention back to the map laid out before him and began to plan.

hmmmmm with the simple fact you have used Ork instead of Orc in your starting fluff we are flung to a Feudal World in the Imperium where Power Swords are treated as magical swords, and armour simulating the Power Armour of the Astartes is sported by the nobility.

Continue please! more please!