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Prelude - Part 1 of 4

This is the journal of Word-Knower the Tall. This is my name, and it has been for some time now. How long is hard to tell, for the Ogres of the Ochre Banners, who are my masters and my travel-companions, place little importance on the passing of time and its measurement. I am writing this journal that, when I am finally able to escape this life, I will be better equipped to tell my story.

I will state for the record that I am a man - a human born in the light of Sigmar's blessings. I am no fierce warrior, no wise wizard, nor have I ever been. In a different time, commerce was my trade - I was a merchant of the Empire, buying and selling food, weapons, materials, trinkets and more across my beloved homeland and beyond. But this was a different time. Though my Ogre overlords understand that I am a human, and not a Gnoblar, for all intents and purposes that is now my role within society - that of a lowly Gnoblar.

I should take this opportunity to express also that I am in fact not Word-Knower the Tall, for this name is only used by Gohrte the Slaughtermaster, my mistress, and by my fellow Gnoblar servants. The vast majority of this society knows me as Gohrte’s Gnoblar, or Gohrte’s Tall Gnoblar, if they are feeling particularly polite (which I should note is a rare occasion).

But perhaps I am getting ahead of myself. Indeed I should start at the beginning. The day I became a captive of the Ochre Banners.

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Hello All, what you've just read is the beginning of a running series of Ogre-based fan-fiction from an avid Ogre player. I've read all the Fantasy armybooks for Ogres (yes,, all two of them!), and write out of a love of history, anthropology, the original Warhammer Fantasy universe, and especially a love of Ogres.

Feel free to ask any questions as we go along - I have quite a few chapters written already, but I'll upload them weekly on a Monday to have time to edit them properly before releasing them to the public.

Thank you all for reading - may the Great Maw guide ye!

Prelude - Part 2 of 4

I must begin by admitting that my memory of the events that led to my current life are unclear and contradictory, even unto me. The ordeals this life has brought have dulled my mental capacities, and it has taken me some time to work up the courage to write again, as I once did regularly. True enough, it seems hard to believe there ever was a time when I did not sleep huddled in a pile with greenskins half my size; when I ate more than choice scraps and raw meat, and didn't cherish the opportunity to drink the gunky froth of Ogor Ale that is deemed too unsavoury for my masters. This life breeds little room for memory and reminiscence. Nevertheless, I will venture to illustrate my tale as best I can.

I was aware of whom the Ochre Banner Tribes were - I had in fact seen them once before, far in the distance on a dusty summer day. A nomadic collection of Ogre tribes that for years - perhaps decades - have travelled aimlessly across the Badlands, occasionally venturing north through the lands of the Border Princes, following distinctive yellow banners that herald their approach, as lightning heralds thunder. Me and my fellow traders from the Empire thought them savages bent on nothing but plunder and destruction, though perhaps a more welcome kind of savage than the war-mad Ork or the drug-crazed Goblin. It was known that the Ochre Tribes are not above sparing the life of a city or a traveller should a generous tribute be offered, which made them a far less despairing prospect than the odious Greenskins and their warmongering worship of heathen gods.

Yet I am the teller of a time when tribute was not offered, for which the consequences were dire.

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Week two and I'm already a day late with the upload! Was really busy with uni this week and it slipped my mind -_-

I didn't know how to remove the yellow highlight from 'raw'

Hope people enjoy it!

Prelude - Part 3 of 4

Panic ran through the streets as we heard the thunderous crashing of the gates. The brave defenders of the city did their best to stop the advancing horde of flesh, but its fury was unmatched by wizardry or vigour. They set two of the city’s quarters ablaze before they tired of their plundering and retreated. I watched the burning houses grow smaller in the distance, gripping the cold steel of my cage with a chorus of wails and frightened screams all around me.

It is hard to say how long I lived in those cages, hanging on the hide of fearsome beasts or on the backs of rickety carts, as the Ochre Banners journeyed their never-ending voyage. Many of my fellow captives died of wounds sustained during the sacking of the city, or illness, or were eaten for snacks, or killed for being too noisy. Those of us that survived had but one purpose - to be sold into slavery. It surprised me to learn during my captivity what a thriving economy of slaves exists beyond the reach of Sigmar’s light. Necromancers bought us for their undead courts, Chaos-worshipers for their macabre rituals, and mysterious Beastmen of a sort I'd never seen before - half man, half rat - purchased slaves for unknown purposes I shudder to imagine. The Ogres had truly made a name for themselves, for even the ruinous followers of the blood god would at times seek to trade with rather than challenge the Ochre horde.

Every day was a struggle for survival. We fought like rats over whatever scraps our captors might bestow, and huddled like family to try and stave off the nightly cold. I barely knew any of my fellow slave’s names, for the fear of incurring the Ogre’s wrath stopped us from speaking anything above a whisper. There was one, however, with whom I found common ground. A Dwarf by the name of Gendri, who had been in captivity yet longer than I. He had been a warrior and a traveller in days prior, and we shared stories of the lands we had visited, of noteworthy drinking houses, and of the tiresome pride of the Elves. But my friend Gendri was ultimately unlike me. He did not have the will to survive whatever the cost - or perhaps he had too much pride to. One day he resolved to change his fate. He had observed that above all our overlords respected strength, and was set on making such a display that they would surely let him go free. He was a good and honourable dwarf, if a foolish one.

Prelude - Part 4 of 4

My friend Gendri finally got his wish. During a feast night - when the Ogres would be most given to sport and entertainment - Gendri took the opportunity to challenge our masters for his freedom. At first he was met by laughter and insult, but one of the Ogres was curious and bored enough to accept his offer. An Irongut stood up to take him on in a wrestling match. Gendri was let out, and the Ogre dispensed of all his cumbersome pieces of looted and roughly cobbled together armour, revealing a paunch of daunting size. A circle was formed around them, and though it was hard to see past the screaming giants, I can at least say with confidence that the Dwarf put up a fierce fight. But for all his bravery and conviction, his foe was many times his size, and a renowned and accomplished warrior besides. When the fight was over, and the circle of brutes dispersed, nothing was there left of my friend but his long brown hair and beard - the only parts deemed too unsavoury to eat.

I had all but lost hope by this time. I know at least that I had lived for months in this bestial state. I knew what Gendri had thought was true - that strength could set me free. But I had no hope of ever besting even a child-Ogre in single combat. I had however observed that amongst the Ogre thrived another creature, smaller and weaker than myself, and yet able to travel with the giants freely, and in greater safety than I enjoyed. A race of lowly greenskins known as Gnoblars.

Gnoblars are truly unremarkable to behold. They are small, their arms and legs are thin and scrawny, and about half their body-weight is taken by their long ears and prominent noses that so deform the face they barely share a resemblance to any thinking creature. And yet every beast in the horde has a handful of these creatures hanging onto their hides. Every machine is maintained by them, and every Ogre of renown has at least one of these verminous pests perched about their shoulders, or hanging from oversized pockets as they travel. The Ogre does not merely tolerate the Gnoblar - it forms a valuable part of his society and tribal lifestyle. 'very well then' I resolved to myself, as I watched my friend Gendri's skull shatter in the mandibles of the merciless Irongut. 'If that is what it takes to survive…'

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One full chapter down, and I don't think I met the Monday deadline once

I hope some people are reading and enjoying this piece - please feel free to drop comments/criticisms/death-threats!

Becoming a Gnoblar - Part 1 of 3

My plan was simple, but in that simplicity lay my problem. I must somehow convince one of these giants that I was useful. That I was of more worth to them alive than as food, and more worth as a companion than property to be sold - a task much easier said than done, for the Ogre is a remarkably dull and stubborn creature by nature. I waited a long time for an opportunity to present itself - I was not as strong as a beast of burden, and my mechanical expertise was dwarfed by the surprising ingenuity of the Gnoblar. My talents lay in trade - that was the primary matter of my life before captivity. I waited for an opportunity to prove my value, but no opportunity ever came. In time, I became desperate. I had a pain in my stomach that grew worse day by day, and I feared the end might be near. But it all changed one evening, as the darkness was setting in.

A band of young Ogre Bulls returned to camp after raiding some unhappy town. They brought their loot to the centre of the camp, where their seniors gathered to take what part of the loot they saw fit, as was the custom. The young raiders were then free to split the rest between themselves. I watched as I clutched at my burning stomach. They dumped their loot on the muddy, torch-lit ground. The Ironguts and Bruisers picked their way through the trinkets and peasant food, taking what little there was of value. One of the Bruisers opened a bag, and drew a book from within - this was when I snapped. Perhaps it was my aching entrails, or my foolish desperation, but I screamt out ‘I can read!’

Becoming a Gnoblar - Part 2 of 3

Nobody heard. I screamt as loud as I could, but the Ogres were too loud and dumb to notice. I took up a large bone that had been left in my cage and struck it hard against the cage until it snapped. I kept on screaming and screaming my statement, until I realised everyone had turned to look my way. Though there was the fierceness of a lion in the Bruiser's gaze, I somehow kept screaming. ‘I can read! I can read that book for you!’ The Bruiser tilted his head towards a Gnoblar perched on his armour, who whispered something in his ear. ‘I can read 5 languages - elvish, dwarvish, I can read that book for you! Please!’ The few Ogres who could understand me started laughing. They made jokes and spat at me. I screamed again, and this time the Bruiser lost his nerve. He threw the book down and marched towards me. He tore open the steel cage with his hands, grabbed my neck and pulled me out. The world spun around me. The sweaty hand of the brute was warm, with skin so rough I could hardly believe it wasn’t leather. The Ogor screamed all around me. I felt his grip tighten. Then suddenly everyone fell silent. A sharp, high pitched metallic sound cut through the air. I heard something approaching from behind me, sharpening a sword or an axe. The sickening shrill growl of a Gnoblar addressed me. ‘You can read?’ It asked me. Barely conscious, I struggled through my neck a faint ‘yes…’ There followed a short argument between the Bruiser and another Ogor behind me. Then silence.

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Double entry today because I missed last week!