An Orc’s Journey To Omnipotence

Beltan Greatfang opened his crimson eyes, and rose from his muckhole, the pit of sludge he’d claimed as his bedding, and began his stride towards the pile of weapons his tribe had in the middle of their camp, grabbing an immense, ornate hammer, hefting it over his shoulder like a toy, despite it weighing four hundred pounds, with him being one of five Orcs in the tribe able to wield it effectively not on the council, he was free to use it to his whims, to the resentment of many other Orcs, though any who moved on him for it would be met with the same fate, and every time, it would be forgiven by the council in accordance with his might.

As Beltan was beginning to walk his assigned trails, he was making his way through the hefty underbrush, pushing his way through the heavy growth.

As he continued, he eventually reached a familiar cottage, stomping his way up the steps, pushing the creaking, metal door open with some effort, and making his way to the basement of the decrepit home.

Though the basement would make you think otherwise, as it was pristine in its care, countless shelves with shimmering glass panes in their form dotting the walls, and a cellar door he pushed open later, hew facing an enormous collection of assorted alcohols in crates and on the walls.

Well over five thousand bottles of a multitude of high potency beverages he would drink away at whenever he had the opportunity.

As he walked to a previously untouched corner of the cellar, he slid across the wall, sitting next to a large crate, but grabbing a bottle from the wall instead.

As he uncorked the decadent bottle, he took a whiff of its contents, and recoiled in spite of his Orcish resilience, before drinking the entire bottle in a single gulp, before grabbing another, and another.

And after ten minutes, he’d drunk eight of the bottles he had no idea the name of, though the nearby Human settlements and beyond would recognize it as Vodka.

As he was wearily rising from his seated position, he grabbed at the wall beside him, which resulted in a bottle falling to the ground, shattering, as the liquid inside pooled on the ground.

For a second, that is, until it began draining through the floor, drawing the attention of the slightly **** Beltan, as he stomped on the ground a few times, before the fifth, and with that fifth kick, the floor collapsed below him, dropping him thirty feet down, into a cage, as his hammer slammed into the ground beside him, denting into the ground four feet deep.

As he rose to his feet, grabbing his hammer, he walked up to the bars of the decrepit dungeon this cottage had apparently stored. Without a care, Beltan smashed through the cell’s door, making his way through the expansive complex, finding seven different pouches of gold, over two thousand gold within, he was sure.

He eventually made it to a grand chamber, with many cases holding many items, but what caught his attention was the mighty throne at the far end of the chamber.

As he was walking by the cases, he saw a shimmering Dragon leather bag, which he grabbed, and found to be an Infinite Bag, and one of royal quality, considering its ingredients.

He then shoveled the items on his person into the bag, before motioning for whatever was in it before he’d gotten it.

What he received was a ring, a scroll of parchment, and an ornate key.

Beltan placed the key and parchment scroll back into the bag, before trying to affix the ring to his finger, finding it to grow to fit. He then began shoveling all the items in the cases into it, with no concern for its limits, not that it even had one, or for the effects of the ring.

As he finished gathering the items, he cleared his throat, and, in an instant, he just KNEW Elven, without a single reason why, he just had an extra language he understood, and despite his obliviousness, his intelligence, and general eloquence improved, though as he was an Orc, it didn’t have a lot to improve upon.

As he finally approached the throne, he saw a humanoid skeleton upon it, and when he reached within ten feet of it, a prepared message began to play, “Err… Hello, dear Hero, I am Eldesanno Omnisan, The Fifth. As you can obviously tell, I have died, and my line has surely fallen to the Orcish Tyrants of the North. I, the last King, of Omnisan Elysia, grant YOU, the last hope of Humanity, the relics of this chamber, and, regardless of your past, of any mistakes you may have made, I grant you the Title of Hero, and its various benefits, and while my hope is that you shall use this potential to become the resurgence of Omnisan Elysia, and of Humanity, but as long as you slay Orcs, I shall rest happy.”

As the recorded voice finished playing, Beltan began laughing heartily at the arrogance of the long lost king, thinking a Human would dare enter territory claimed by the Northern Tyrants, after his own kingdom was destroyed by them.