Garrison Life (Diary of an orgon, part thumb)


“Deer dairy. Tedday I et meet. It is god.” Blooks brow furled. Then he used the fingernail of his thumb to erase the last word from the piece of wood he was using as ‘paper’. He gripped the piece of charcoal very carefully and, with the tip of his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth, wrote: “Gud!”

“Dat aight, beater?” he said, glancing sideways at Ravennah. “Blook don’t no’ much ’bout writin’, boss.”
“Kinda looks aight to me, big fella,” Ravennah said. Truth be told she wasn’t sure how to spell ‘meat’. But Blook had been sweating over his diary for the last four hours and she didn’t want to make him sad. Besides, there’s two things people can’t stand: One is an ogron sweating. The other is an ogron in love.

That’s why there was a very angry podling in a cage not far away. Someone in the garrison must have mentioned that ‘ladies like flowers’- Ravennah suspected it was Tommok. The ogron and the ogre had a thing going, so to speak. When they didn’t spar with each other, naked, they drank. try as he might, Tommok could never drink as Blook, only Delvar managed that (and Delvar was dead … ish).

“Blook no good at dis,” Blook sighed deeply. “I wanna hit dis stopid wood!”
“Ain’t too bad, big boy,” Ravennah said and managed to stiffle a chuckle. Then she perched up and said, all of a sudden reminded of what Carlin Redpath had once told her: “U’no Blook, dere’s a trick to spellin’. See, trick’ss: Don’ write lak ya taak, aight. See?” She cleared her throat and,careful with every word, she said: Always use more letters than needed. N’ … And … Da … That, I mean. That is it.”
“Moar words?”
“Dat stupid!”
“Less go beat someone!” He grinned. “Betcha can beat Blook yeh!? Wanna dance, missus!?”
“I wish I could … ” Ravennah sighed, then she very gently stroked Blooks chin and pretended not to see the beads of sweat dripping from his armpits. “But I’m suppa to go on pod patrol, mate.”
“Yeh yeh, gotta do wadagotta do eh?” He nodded. “Fugeddaboutit!”

He watched Ravennah smile, stand up and saunter off. After a little while he placed both his hand tight between his legs, nervous that something might show. Truth be told he hardly knew what that thing was. He used it for some things, usually when he had to go and sometimes when something had to go, but …

Things stirred inside him. He wasn’t sure what. An ogrons life is very simple: Grow up (if your siblings don’t eat you or the botani don’t catch you). Then beat things. Then die. That was all it was, really. Back to the dust when time came. When he sometimes thought about it he summed it up with: Blook needs a beatin’ (because that’s what other ogron always said when they saw him).

No one but weak meat had come to the Overlook for years. He’d been standing (or sitting, or laying down) up there or ages. Dreamy eye staring at Talador, wanting to go there but, you know, courage, right? Besides. Talador was Blue Country. No one ever came back from there!

Strange blues had come. Like the one who beat him up and then said “ey mate, ‘f ya wanna we can use some mussle aight?”. Then she had … smiled at him. It was the first time someone had ever smiled at him. Then she pulled out a piece of elongated cloth and after a while managed to convince him that the cloth would actually help him on the mend. She had cut a ReallyBad Gash in his leg – which is why she bandaged it. Sayng she was sorry “but ya did try to kill me ya big lunk!”.

Dat smile. He sighed. No one could ever know it, not ever! Ogron don’t love. But he did. At least he thought he did … The Commander, the pale blueskin everyone called Crusader Shuanna (“Yes ma’aam! Right away ma’aam!”), told him so. She said, she did, “You’re a monster. But you’re a useful monster. That’s why I let you live. Don’t get cheeky, rock. Or I’ll break you.”

He knew she would. Everyone would. Because he … well … he was The Runt. His own mother had tried to eat him!

“Blook weak,” he said, feeling morose. He always felt like that when he lost sight of Ravennah. His right testicle was still swollen but he didn’t mind. Anyone who kicks an ogron on the nuts deserves to be loved. That’s the ogron way.

“Oi, Pebblehead!” The shout echoed across the garrison. Dwarves and humans looked up, then went back to what they were doing. They had grown used to Tommok yelling. He either spoke in slurs or not at all. It was an ogre thing (he could be polite but rarely saw the point of being polite, especially around Phylarch). “Drop your dick mate! The queen blue bitch wants orcs killed!”

“Blook don’ feel gud,” Blook said, embarassed that he lied to a friend. He was feeling just fine. He would sleep well later on, thinking about how Ravennahs behind moved to her steps as she walked down the stretch of the garrison Main Street. “Gunna stand ye up, mate. Don’ wanna ogron shitting on you.”
“Yeah, well,” Tommok spit. “Go fuck yourself then.”
“Ya sholda try be nice once inna while Tom.”
“Nice ain’t killed no one.”
“Mebbe dats da problim.” Blook sighed.
“You stop liss’ning to them blues, Pebblehead. They’re fucking you up.”
“Mebbe Blook don’ wanna fight!?”
“You’re an ogron. Fuck yeah you wanna fight.”
“No.” Blook sighed. “Well yeah … but not now.”
“Then fuck off.”

Blook shrugged. He slumped back against the treetrunk behind him and gradually spread his legs. Then he thought better of it all. The first few days in this strange new place he had ended up in had been … educational. First of all: You’re not supposed to Do What You Fell Like Doing Right Now While Thinking of Ravennah the Night Elf Draenei (“it’s complicated”). People tend to … well.

When he showed up at the garrison gates – and getting there was quite an adventure – they shot at him! He wasn’t badly hurt, the guardsmens crossbow bolts bounced of him. Then there was a tense moment as he kneeled in front of the gates keeping his eye on the Giant Gun. The small ones were called dwarves (Bruma told him that later, once she had stopped kicking his nuts). The tiny one’s were gnomes (Blook feared them because they were so small but yet so deadly). Then … She came.

Blook Beater. The one everyone said was … weird. Well, Blook knew weird. He was an ogron in a garrison, after all. When no one wanted to give him water, she gave him water. When no one dared to feed him, she led him out of the garrison up to an ancient and very tast elekk. He even gave her a piece of meat (she wasted it on a fire, though the sauce she used was not too bad – it tasted like savage blood).

“Tom?” Blook said, because Tommok lingered, even though there were orcs to kill. “Ogre gladdy?”
“I dunno … I gave’er a flower butta podlings angry. What you think..?”
“Get her drunk and fuck her. Works on ogres.” Tommok did sound a little bit insecure. “I mean … Oh fugeddabouit!”
“Mebbe I shul’ ask goblin Kim?”
“Green, blue … Do I look like a fucking priest, Blook!?”
“Mabbe I shou’fin’ ‘er a tree. Rave likes trees. She cuts them down.”

Blook pondered. Then, as he stood up intent on finding himself a tree, he felt someone staring.

Phylarch was not amused.


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