It is a chilled late winter morning. Frost carpets the ground and Arien's breath mists with every exhalation. Every footstep crunches and imprints of his heavy boots are left in the ground. Hunting has been poor of late, with the bears he usually tracks going into a deep sleep for the season. He is forced to treck from Yew to the mountains to the south, and into the valley there to hunt deer instead. Usually such a lengthy hunting trip into an area as dangerous as this is not worth the risk. Yet to support his wife and child it is very necessary.

The morning so far has been uneventful, seeing the odd rabbit dart for cover, and the occasional squirrel. As of yet no deer though. Arien's mind wanders to other matters than hunting. The Yew Spring Festival brings a warm feeling inside him as he remembers last year's celebrations. Much food, drink and games were had, in stark contrast to his hardships in more recent months.

He stops, eyes flashing to the east. There is but the faintest westerly breeze. A normal person would not have noticed a thing, but Arien's highly sensitive nose picks up the smell of smoke carried on the air. "Oak fire by the smells of it me reckons, mayhaps Ash", he thinks out loud. Noticing the prevelence of both such trees in this area of the forest, he hence concludes the fire is in fairly close proximity. "two, three 'undred lengths oi reckons". He seems incapable of keeping such thoughts from his lips, as if they are more instinct than deliberate processings of his mind. Rational, calculated thought regains control of his body. Why is someone else camping in this region? Hunting maybe, living here, doubtfully. To find any other soul around here is rare in Arien's experience, so he assumes a cautious frame of mind. The possibility of a bandit camp cannot be ruled out.

He proceeds eastward, his footsteps now softer than one of Lord Bristish's appointed ballet dancers. Not a sound does he make as he slips through the woods. He knows the wind is towards him, giving him extra confidence that he will remain undetected by whatever is to be found at the source of the smoke. *Crunch*. A rotten log snaps beneath his foot, he curses lightly but resolves that he is still too far away to be detected by any man.

Wa'uug lies curled under goat skins, a smouldering fire next to him. Too much ale and a feast of goat meat last night laid him into a deep sleep. As he lies there, a faint smell greets his bulging, wart covered nostrils. It is so putrid to him that he is roused immediately from his slumber. His hands wip like lightning under the pile of goat skins, producing his twanga. It is carved of the most supple Yew Tree wood, with tiny inscriptions of ancient war charms and carvings depicting bloody battles littering its body. The twanga string is fashioned from wyrm hair, and made so tought about the bow it could slice through steel.

The smell now is becoming more intense as Wa'uug crouches on all fours, somewhat like a frog ready to jump. His sinewy muscles bulge as if tensed and ready to explode. He wears only a shabby loin cloth made from animal skin and a quiver of arrows strapped across his back. Since leaving the clan to roam and search for his true inner Waagh, he has shed all armour and fancy boots for only things he can provide alone. What crouches there now is a true predator, one that has just sensed its prey.

There is the snap of a breaking log a little way off. The smell now burns his nostrils. The ball of burning sensation travels further up his nose, back into his head. It fills his ears, and brain and now reaches his eyes. >From a dull brown, almost black colour, his eyes errupt into a fiery crimson red. He becomes one with all around him. Every leaf that hits the ground, every squirrel that bites at acorns in its tree, every spider scuttling across its web becomes known to him. Suddenly it grips him, he knows he must move. As if a fuse has finally burnt down to reach gunpowder, his muscles explode, catapulting him over twice a mans height into the sparse forest canopy above.

Arien knows he is close now. The smell of smoke is at its strongest. He can see the vegetation ahead forming a kind of clearing. He creaps so, so slowly up to the bushes surrounding this clearing, of sorts. His hands slip through the foliage and he parts it equally as slowly. A flash of movement too fast to see properly is what he first sees, then a slight thud in a tree nearby, a russle, then nothing.

All is silent. The strange movement and noise he puts down to squirrels darting away. Arien looks back down to the clearing. Whatever may have once been there is certainly there no longer. All that remains is a fire, a small stack of wood next to it and some hides. Flies buzz in a tree next to the clearing. On closer inspection Arien finds a goat carcass, skinned and half stripped of its flesh, hanging from the tree. He is less cautious now, thinking it to be the encampment of another tracker who has left to get an early start, much as he did. He proceeds to rummage through the hides, they carry an odour pungent to his nose. "Whoeva' was 'ere lass noit musta been a smelly 'un", he remarks, chuckling to himself.

Suddenly a feeling of being watched sweeps over his body. The hairs on his neck bristle, a sence of fear and vunerability never experienced before by the man takes him over. His breaths become short and frequent. The hunter becomes the hunted. He looks about the woods around the clearing, turning left, then right, then left again. Arien knows something is watching him, his trusted sences scream it at him.

Arien bolts in the direction he came, running across his tracks already worn and back to where he first sensed the smoke and further past that. He then turns south, running a futher 100 yards in this direction. The reasoning behind his actions was to confuse his observer by running the same track he did before and then crossing his previous tracks, to make it difficult to find the route he'd taken. He stops, panting heavily. The surroundings here are much the same as anywhere in this part of the forest, lots of trees, little in the way of bushes and a few winter plants. All is silent. Any bird song that may have been going has ceased on his noisey arrival.

The sensation is gone. Not for long though. Thirty seconds pass as he stands regaining his breath, then the feeling of eyes booring into his head comes again. This is not good, and Arien knows it. Whatever it is must have a reason for following, and it is probably not to shake hands and greet him politely. Again he surveys the surrounding forest, searching for any distinct silouhette of.... anything. Yet all that he sees is the same, brown trees, leafless and the occasional evergreen. Then movement catched his eye. A form flashed across his field of view at ground level, he tries to follow it yet it is so fast and blends in totally with the surroundings. He loses the figure.

*SNAP* A twig breaks behind him. Arien whips round, only forest greets his eyes, nothing more. Then, a heavy THUD, behind him. He whips round again. Before him stands the form of an orc, at least half a foot taller than he. Arien has just time to see a log in the orcs hand bearing swiftly across to the side of his head. *CRACK*

Arien hits the ground with a thump. Winded, with ears ringing and head very sore Arien lies waiting for the inevitable final blow...... It doesn't come. About a minute passes, Arien has regained his breath, but is still heavily dazed from the blow. He stands, shakily, then gets his balance. Bird song has resumed and the area is bathed in a strangely serene calmness, unbefitting of the actions just occured. Ariens's mind recovers somewhat, as another 2 minutes pass. Has the orc left him alone? Why would it do that? He knows orcs are never normally merciful, especially to the much despised human race. At any rate Arien seems relieved to be alive and the feeling of being watched has subsided. He mutters an oath to the higher being under his breath.

A strange whistling sound is heard before a sickening thud. A pain like Arien has never experienced fills his left leg, just above the knee. Arien screams out in pain. *Whistle*... *THUD!*, a second arrow strikes Arien in the right shoulder. Passing through till hitting the collar bone, shattering it. Arien cries out again, the pain us almost unbearable. "Pleeeaaase! In the name of the higher being noooo! Pleeeeaaass.....". Arien is cut short as he is hoisted upward and chokes, he opens his eyes. The orc is now in front of him, holding him aloft by his neck. The orcs other hand is thrust into Arien's chest, then pulled out. Arien's limp, lifeless form slumps to the ground.

Wa'uug, frenzied by the bloodlust that grips him devours the heart. He proceeds to drain the blood from the uumie, drinking much and showering the rest over himself in tribute to the Blood God. He cries out, so loud that it was heard that morning by the monks of Yew Abbey as they held mass, "WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGHHHHH!!".

This was the day Wa'uug found his inner Waaagh, the true orcish spirit within. This was a very special day in his life.

Arien was discovered by a Waywatcher patrol of the Guardsmen Militia, or his skin was anyway, hung over a signpost outside of the Yew Crossroads. A kind of message from Wa'uug to humans passing by, "nuu uumie sayf frum Wa'uug".