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Phase I of Alpha Two testing will occur on weekends. Each weekend is scheduled to start on Fridays at 10 AM PT and end on Sundays at 10 PM PT. Find out more here.
Check out Alpha Two Announcements here to see the latest Alpha Two news and update notes.
Our quickest Alpha Two updates are in Discord. Testers with Alpha Two access can chat in Alpha Two channels by connecting your Discord and Intrepid accounts here.
A Kaivek Story: Bohr's Banquet, Part 1
Acarith
Member, Alpha Two, Early Alpha Two
A surging cross wind in the evening twilight pushes plumes of dark gray mist and cloud across deep green seas of billowing long grass on the shallow hills outside Truvek. Leaning onward into the gust and spray, long tusked, and pulsed breathing is an orc. Moss skinned, stern faced with bruises caked black into his skin covered with dirt producing a gothic blush. His muscular arms flexing with every step to offset the swing of the sack over his shoulder. Looking with eyes darker then the evening sky he spots his quarry, a hefty rock.
“Hmm, too wet to be mud cake...” He observes as he scratches it in the drizzle. Pulling back he lifts his heel and kicks it destroying the sole of his shoe, but splits the rock in two. Obviously it was a weak rock. Disgusted by its meagerness he lets out a scoff and a sigh, throwing it in his sac anyways. Weighed down from a few dozen other failures he turns and heads towards the village of Truvek.
Bohr’chiyel is a simple orc of the Draakath isle in northern Verra. Just entering his prime he goes mostly unnoticed by his clan chief and lives with his mother Dul’rin. At the entrance to Truvek lies the baiting pools, blood stained soil and putrid burgundy mud baths fester and cake against cobblestone walls. Methane bubbles amongst the skeleton remains of herd game. Large ribs of dead hoofed balemane, an equine creature with three foot long tusks, mar the pool in various sizes. The opening of square duct channels are spread five yards apart in the wall. Rodents scurry along the step to the wall sleuth, a stone gutter separating the blood of the pools from either side of the village gates. Large oak doors, lined and riveted with alkaline metals, tower 3 yards high before the matted grass plot at the entrance. Each adorning half of the split, metallic, Truvek crest, a forge war hammer pronged with the tusks and facial of twin orcs.
Staggering in steady uneven footsteps, his height rising and falling, Bohr’chiyel approaches the gate half bearfoot. Gleaming into the light of the torch sconce fitted to the right gate, he locks his eye on the view port. “You may hide, but I provide.” -shouts Bohr, his deep voice resonating with pride after his first expedition as a Truvek hunter. “You are weak, do not speak!” booms the guard on the other side. “Open the gate or your lives are at stake,” Bohr replied, designating the end of this ritualistic argument. The view port opened, and brown marble eyes appeared. “Open it yourself,” the figure said as he shut the port. Bohr put his sack down and pressed against the gate. It budged and creaked for about an inch and then went stiff. He then began to lean into it with his whole weight; it creaked a bit more but didn’t move much further. The nights gale had not let up. Wind whistled through the gate and a heavier downpour was coming. After a hefty shoulder charge Bohr figured it was locked. “Remove the bar!” he yelled in frustration. *Thud*, a heavy wooden crash and metallic clamor rumbled against the back of the gate. “I just locked it,” said the guard as he opened the view port. “What do you provide Truvek?” he asked, eyeing Bohr’s sack. “My strength.” said Bohr as he pulled out a rock and crushed it in his hand. “Too little to eat, and too pitiful to step inside. Go away until you're useful,” the guard shut the port. Angered, Bohr started kicking at the gate with his good shoe.
An hour later he paused. Soaked by rain, the night had become a storm and the breeze produced a moan. While thinking as to how to break the gate down, he realized he was hungry. Food as of recently had been scarce in the village. Most of the hunters along with the clan chief, Kal Jab’na, had been summoned to Draakath’s capital, Draalnur. Murmuring insults at the guard, Bohr left his sack and hopped over into the baiting pools. Step by step through maggots, blood, and rot, he scanned through the bones for something to eat. The mass of mud was generally shivering from the mass of insects and gas within. A few brown mushrooms had popped up like barnacles along the length of some skeletons. Stomach growling, Bohr reached for one and as his hand got close it screamed and bit his finger. Suddenly the line of them got up and jumped into the blood muck disappearing except for one. Bohr honed in on it and smashed it with his fist. A squeak let out as he started gobbling it up with a soft satisfying chew. It tasted like a sweet tea, paprika seasoned marshmallow. He figured it would go better with some meat and continued searching through the pool.
A few small frogs hopped about catching flies, but nothing large enough to make a meal of. The puddles he stepped in earlier were already causing his bare foot to tingle and itch, the baiting pools were making it worse. He stopped to sit on a balemane skull and rub his foot. The wind had become a loud howl that was echoing greater and greater. Ants had begun scattering out the mouth and eyes of the skull and covering his legs. As he brushed them off, he looked up and could see fireflies start to gather and get blown around. Suddenly a pair of them jumped at him jamming two inch k-9s into his leg. He let out a loud sustained grunt, frowning as he stared into the eyes of a wolf. Facepalming, as the growling beast dragged him off the skull. Bohr became even angrier with the guard for leaving him out here and began to roar wildly. Surrounded, the innocent looking glows got closer revealing dark masses of fur and teeth. Now in a snarling uproar, the second one of the beasts grabbed Bohr’chiyel’s right arm as he went to punch the wolf on his leg. The two dragged him on his back through the muck. Dirt getting in his face, as bone and more teeth jammed into his hip. With one arm he dead lifted the wolf on his right and smashed it into the one now attacking his side. It didn’t let go, as another lunged for his neck.
There was a quick flash and blood splattered everywhere covering his torso. He felt a release on his leg as the prancing of wolves started scurrying and the tumult of barks became wimpers. He looked down at the wolf that had tried for his life, an axe was logged into its collar. Bohr grabbed it with his left hand and smashed it into the snout of the wolf that was refusing to release his right arm. Lucky for it that it was the back of the axe. The thing let go and ran like the rest of the wolves. A voice cried out, “See? I too can be a hunter. Not to say you’re much of one…” Bohr got to his feet and looked up, it was the bastard brown eyed guard Tur’lok at the top of the wall. “Next time don’t lock me out! My mother would have killed me if I died.” Bohr yelled. “No worries, I’ll unlock the gate now,” said Tur’lok as he disappeared from the edge of the wall.
Bohr threw the dead wolf on his back. He gladly figured he would at least get dinner out of the experience. Now with a real, full blown limp Bohr returned and fetched his sack at the gate. The twin orcs parted ways as the oak doors opened being pushed by Tur’lok revealing Elder Gerb’sa next to the Guard station. He was wearing a gleaming onyx robe embroidered with a crimson hem. Walking stick in hand, he laughed at the sight of Bohr. “So you returned with bounty from your first hunt,” the Elder said smiling. Bohr straightened his back a bit. “I…” began Bohr. “He did nothing. It was my kill.” Tur’lok interrupted, pushing him over. The wolf’s corpse rolled away from Bohr as rocks spilled from his sack. “I see… A Truvek hunter would not let his spoil fall over so easily.” stated Elder Gerb. “I collected a lot of rocks and was offset a bit. If I wasn’t locked out it would be a different story.” replied Bohr. “You're right, it would be a different story. We wouldn’t have this meat.” Tur’lok said as he picked up the wolf under his arm. Bohr talked and grit his teeth, “I wanted that…” Tur’lok shook his head. “Sorry. Plenty of wolves out there if you want to go back to being bait, but I’m saving this for the elders.” Elder Gerb smiled. “Thank you Tur’lok, it appears Bohr’chiyel would have fed the wolves more than he’d feed us.” The elder poked at the fallen rocks with his stick. “And I was the one who blocked your entry earlier with my cane. I didn’t want the evening breeze blowing the gate open. I figured any normal Kal could break it open if they were in a hurry.”
Bohr wobbled to his knees and started recollecting the rocks then turned to ask Tur’lok a simple question, “Why did you lock the gate?” Tur’lok shrugged. “Because I told him to.” answered Elder Gerb, his face turned stern. Tur’lok began to explain, “Worse than the gate being blown open, is a hunter returning empty handed when we’re all hungry.” Bohr was insulted and grumbling. He got to his feet and tried to speak, but before he could utter a syllable Elder Gerb wacked him in the knee. “Straighten out that limp. Only the weak feel pain, the strong feel power.” Bohr was mad. He had never before received such a bad reception at the gate. “Where’s my axe, bait?” Tur’lok asked as he played with one of the rocks in his free hand. “It’s outside, fetch…” hammered Bohr, taking the rock from him. “Go get it! I need it for my shift,” griped Tur’lok. Both dropped their loads preparing to fight. Elder Gerb stepped between them. “Tur’lok, take the wolf to the clan den. You can borrow another axe from the guard station. While it's never acceptable for a hunter to lose his weapon, I’m not sure this one is fit for it.” said Elder Gerb, causing Tur’lok to scoff. The two walked off. Wet, injured, and a little bit stinky, Bohr'chiyel took his sack and went back home.
The moss covered wood house was slightly tilted from years battered by storms. Holes had formed all throughout that were patched by mud and clay. The right side of the house was buried in a mound from all the repairs. A gutter trailed along the front edge of the roof into a massive ceramic water pot left of the doorway. A long tan hide made for a door. Bohr put his sack down to the right of the entrance and brushed the curtain aside entering his kitchen. The house was small. His mom’s cot was on the left side of the house, while his was on the right. There was a sizable stone slab in an open chimney that made for a counter and stove. In front of it was a wooden table with crates underneath, surrounded by vessels. A chair was on either side of the table.
Across from Bohr’s chair his mom sat snoring with a bowl of vegetable soup and a cup of water in front of her. She was wearing her good furs for some reason, and part of them were getting messy partly hanging into the soup. He moved the soup, grabbed her cup and splashed it. She awoke, punching him in the face. “How was the hunt?” She asked with enthusiasm looking down to rub the smear off her coat. “I didn’t catch anything yet. But tomorrow should go better,” replied Bohr. Dul’rin’s light smile turned into a smirk as she reserved herself. “Guess we’re having the last of the whelk tonight,” she said, pulling out and opening a crate from under the table. Where’s all that blood from?“ She questioned, just noticing Bohr’s limp as she struck a stone hammer to a blue spiral whelk shell. “Most of it is from the pools. Some of it is my own, but I did help kill a wolf that was taken for the Elders,” expressed Bohr, sighing as he realized she meant to celebrate his kill. Dul’rin put the shattered whelk on a plate and passed it to his side of the table. “I’m going to get some water,” he said, grabbing a cup. He stepped back outside through the curtain.
The night sky was still pouring, but the clouds were thin enough to still pass through the glare of the moon. Bohr could see the fires of the village’s wall forges burning in the distance. He wondered why the blacksmiths were working so late. Dragging the water pot out the way, Bohr took a moment to wash his wounds with the downpour of the gutter. He filled the deeper gouges with mud, rubbing them in before dragging the pot back and filling his cup. He started to smell grilled meat on the wind, and knew it was the wolf from tonight's fight. It made his stomach growl hungrier. He stepped back inside and found his plate empty. A slime trail left off the plate, onto his chair, leading to a wounded whelk trying to slip past his foot. “You didn’t bash it hard enough.” Bohr said, stomping out its life and scraping it up with his plate. Dul’rin pouted. “Well if we had a strong Kal in the house, maybe I wouldn’t have to work so hard on an empty stomach.” She said while downing her soup. Bohr’chiyel’s face turned sour. “Any other Kal would have been dead today,” he exclaimed, taking a seat in his chair. Dul’rin laughed. “You do look over chewed. Maybe you should stop being a hunter and go work the forge,” she said, peering over the bite marks that covered his body. Bohr wanted to stay a hunter, but he knew he needed a weapon. “I’ll go by the forge tomorrow and see what I can make,” he garbled out, slurping the tail of the welk. She hit him over the head with her fist. “We need food, you whelk loving pup! Stay as a hunter…” she cried. “I’ll go catch something tomorrow,” Bohr said coughing out a bit of whelk. Dul’rin was taken aback. She leaned in close, squinting to look at her son before striking him in the chest. “Quit being so agreeable. Your elf ears are showing.” Bohr shook his head, he didn’t have anything to say.
After dinner Bohr stepped behind his curtain and changed into a brown tunic from out his trunk. He tore a bit of pelt from off his bedding and sewed it onto the bottom of his broken shoe. He then took a heated vessel of bledge sap smearing some on a piece of whelk shell, before fitting it on the leather of his shoe for a new sole. Tired, Bohr crawled to the top of his bed, face planting into a soft fluffy puddle. He rolled over. *Drip…* Splattering against his face from the sealing was a leak. Bohr turned to his side with it dripping on his ear. It needed more mud, he figured, closing his eyes and going to sleep.
“Hmm, too wet to be mud cake...” He observes as he scratches it in the drizzle. Pulling back he lifts his heel and kicks it destroying the sole of his shoe, but splits the rock in two. Obviously it was a weak rock. Disgusted by its meagerness he lets out a scoff and a sigh, throwing it in his sac anyways. Weighed down from a few dozen other failures he turns and heads towards the village of Truvek.
Bohr’chiyel is a simple orc of the Draakath isle in northern Verra. Just entering his prime he goes mostly unnoticed by his clan chief and lives with his mother Dul’rin. At the entrance to Truvek lies the baiting pools, blood stained soil and putrid burgundy mud baths fester and cake against cobblestone walls. Methane bubbles amongst the skeleton remains of herd game. Large ribs of dead hoofed balemane, an equine creature with three foot long tusks, mar the pool in various sizes. The opening of square duct channels are spread five yards apart in the wall. Rodents scurry along the step to the wall sleuth, a stone gutter separating the blood of the pools from either side of the village gates. Large oak doors, lined and riveted with alkaline metals, tower 3 yards high before the matted grass plot at the entrance. Each adorning half of the split, metallic, Truvek crest, a forge war hammer pronged with the tusks and facial of twin orcs.
Staggering in steady uneven footsteps, his height rising and falling, Bohr’chiyel approaches the gate half bearfoot. Gleaming into the light of the torch sconce fitted to the right gate, he locks his eye on the view port. “You may hide, but I provide.” -shouts Bohr, his deep voice resonating with pride after his first expedition as a Truvek hunter. “You are weak, do not speak!” booms the guard on the other side. “Open the gate or your lives are at stake,” Bohr replied, designating the end of this ritualistic argument. The view port opened, and brown marble eyes appeared. “Open it yourself,” the figure said as he shut the port. Bohr put his sack down and pressed against the gate. It budged and creaked for about an inch and then went stiff. He then began to lean into it with his whole weight; it creaked a bit more but didn’t move much further. The nights gale had not let up. Wind whistled through the gate and a heavier downpour was coming. After a hefty shoulder charge Bohr figured it was locked. “Remove the bar!” he yelled in frustration. *Thud*, a heavy wooden crash and metallic clamor rumbled against the back of the gate. “I just locked it,” said the guard as he opened the view port. “What do you provide Truvek?” he asked, eyeing Bohr’s sack. “My strength.” said Bohr as he pulled out a rock and crushed it in his hand. “Too little to eat, and too pitiful to step inside. Go away until you're useful,” the guard shut the port. Angered, Bohr started kicking at the gate with his good shoe.
An hour later he paused. Soaked by rain, the night had become a storm and the breeze produced a moan. While thinking as to how to break the gate down, he realized he was hungry. Food as of recently had been scarce in the village. Most of the hunters along with the clan chief, Kal Jab’na, had been summoned to Draakath’s capital, Draalnur. Murmuring insults at the guard, Bohr left his sack and hopped over into the baiting pools. Step by step through maggots, blood, and rot, he scanned through the bones for something to eat. The mass of mud was generally shivering from the mass of insects and gas within. A few brown mushrooms had popped up like barnacles along the length of some skeletons. Stomach growling, Bohr reached for one and as his hand got close it screamed and bit his finger. Suddenly the line of them got up and jumped into the blood muck disappearing except for one. Bohr honed in on it and smashed it with his fist. A squeak let out as he started gobbling it up with a soft satisfying chew. It tasted like a sweet tea, paprika seasoned marshmallow. He figured it would go better with some meat and continued searching through the pool.
A few small frogs hopped about catching flies, but nothing large enough to make a meal of. The puddles he stepped in earlier were already causing his bare foot to tingle and itch, the baiting pools were making it worse. He stopped to sit on a balemane skull and rub his foot. The wind had become a loud howl that was echoing greater and greater. Ants had begun scattering out the mouth and eyes of the skull and covering his legs. As he brushed them off, he looked up and could see fireflies start to gather and get blown around. Suddenly a pair of them jumped at him jamming two inch k-9s into his leg. He let out a loud sustained grunt, frowning as he stared into the eyes of a wolf. Facepalming, as the growling beast dragged him off the skull. Bohr became even angrier with the guard for leaving him out here and began to roar wildly. Surrounded, the innocent looking glows got closer revealing dark masses of fur and teeth. Now in a snarling uproar, the second one of the beasts grabbed Bohr’chiyel’s right arm as he went to punch the wolf on his leg. The two dragged him on his back through the muck. Dirt getting in his face, as bone and more teeth jammed into his hip. With one arm he dead lifted the wolf on his right and smashed it into the one now attacking his side. It didn’t let go, as another lunged for his neck.
There was a quick flash and blood splattered everywhere covering his torso. He felt a release on his leg as the prancing of wolves started scurrying and the tumult of barks became wimpers. He looked down at the wolf that had tried for his life, an axe was logged into its collar. Bohr grabbed it with his left hand and smashed it into the snout of the wolf that was refusing to release his right arm. Lucky for it that it was the back of the axe. The thing let go and ran like the rest of the wolves. A voice cried out, “See? I too can be a hunter. Not to say you’re much of one…” Bohr got to his feet and looked up, it was the bastard brown eyed guard Tur’lok at the top of the wall. “Next time don’t lock me out! My mother would have killed me if I died.” Bohr yelled. “No worries, I’ll unlock the gate now,” said Tur’lok as he disappeared from the edge of the wall.
Bohr threw the dead wolf on his back. He gladly figured he would at least get dinner out of the experience. Now with a real, full blown limp Bohr returned and fetched his sack at the gate. The twin orcs parted ways as the oak doors opened being pushed by Tur’lok revealing Elder Gerb’sa next to the Guard station. He was wearing a gleaming onyx robe embroidered with a crimson hem. Walking stick in hand, he laughed at the sight of Bohr. “So you returned with bounty from your first hunt,” the Elder said smiling. Bohr straightened his back a bit. “I…” began Bohr. “He did nothing. It was my kill.” Tur’lok interrupted, pushing him over. The wolf’s corpse rolled away from Bohr as rocks spilled from his sack. “I see… A Truvek hunter would not let his spoil fall over so easily.” stated Elder Gerb. “I collected a lot of rocks and was offset a bit. If I wasn’t locked out it would be a different story.” replied Bohr. “You're right, it would be a different story. We wouldn’t have this meat.” Tur’lok said as he picked up the wolf under his arm. Bohr talked and grit his teeth, “I wanted that…” Tur’lok shook his head. “Sorry. Plenty of wolves out there if you want to go back to being bait, but I’m saving this for the elders.” Elder Gerb smiled. “Thank you Tur’lok, it appears Bohr’chiyel would have fed the wolves more than he’d feed us.” The elder poked at the fallen rocks with his stick. “And I was the one who blocked your entry earlier with my cane. I didn’t want the evening breeze blowing the gate open. I figured any normal Kal could break it open if they were in a hurry.”
Bohr wobbled to his knees and started recollecting the rocks then turned to ask Tur’lok a simple question, “Why did you lock the gate?” Tur’lok shrugged. “Because I told him to.” answered Elder Gerb, his face turned stern. Tur’lok began to explain, “Worse than the gate being blown open, is a hunter returning empty handed when we’re all hungry.” Bohr was insulted and grumbling. He got to his feet and tried to speak, but before he could utter a syllable Elder Gerb wacked him in the knee. “Straighten out that limp. Only the weak feel pain, the strong feel power.” Bohr was mad. He had never before received such a bad reception at the gate. “Where’s my axe, bait?” Tur’lok asked as he played with one of the rocks in his free hand. “It’s outside, fetch…” hammered Bohr, taking the rock from him. “Go get it! I need it for my shift,” griped Tur’lok. Both dropped their loads preparing to fight. Elder Gerb stepped between them. “Tur’lok, take the wolf to the clan den. You can borrow another axe from the guard station. While it's never acceptable for a hunter to lose his weapon, I’m not sure this one is fit for it.” said Elder Gerb, causing Tur’lok to scoff. The two walked off. Wet, injured, and a little bit stinky, Bohr'chiyel took his sack and went back home.
The moss covered wood house was slightly tilted from years battered by storms. Holes had formed all throughout that were patched by mud and clay. The right side of the house was buried in a mound from all the repairs. A gutter trailed along the front edge of the roof into a massive ceramic water pot left of the doorway. A long tan hide made for a door. Bohr put his sack down to the right of the entrance and brushed the curtain aside entering his kitchen. The house was small. His mom’s cot was on the left side of the house, while his was on the right. There was a sizable stone slab in an open chimney that made for a counter and stove. In front of it was a wooden table with crates underneath, surrounded by vessels. A chair was on either side of the table.
Across from Bohr’s chair his mom sat snoring with a bowl of vegetable soup and a cup of water in front of her. She was wearing her good furs for some reason, and part of them were getting messy partly hanging into the soup. He moved the soup, grabbed her cup and splashed it. She awoke, punching him in the face. “How was the hunt?” She asked with enthusiasm looking down to rub the smear off her coat. “I didn’t catch anything yet. But tomorrow should go better,” replied Bohr. Dul’rin’s light smile turned into a smirk as she reserved herself. “Guess we’re having the last of the whelk tonight,” she said, pulling out and opening a crate from under the table. Where’s all that blood from?“ She questioned, just noticing Bohr’s limp as she struck a stone hammer to a blue spiral whelk shell. “Most of it is from the pools. Some of it is my own, but I did help kill a wolf that was taken for the Elders,” expressed Bohr, sighing as he realized she meant to celebrate his kill. Dul’rin put the shattered whelk on a plate and passed it to his side of the table. “I’m going to get some water,” he said, grabbing a cup. He stepped back outside through the curtain.
The night sky was still pouring, but the clouds were thin enough to still pass through the glare of the moon. Bohr could see the fires of the village’s wall forges burning in the distance. He wondered why the blacksmiths were working so late. Dragging the water pot out the way, Bohr took a moment to wash his wounds with the downpour of the gutter. He filled the deeper gouges with mud, rubbing them in before dragging the pot back and filling his cup. He started to smell grilled meat on the wind, and knew it was the wolf from tonight's fight. It made his stomach growl hungrier. He stepped back inside and found his plate empty. A slime trail left off the plate, onto his chair, leading to a wounded whelk trying to slip past his foot. “You didn’t bash it hard enough.” Bohr said, stomping out its life and scraping it up with his plate. Dul’rin pouted. “Well if we had a strong Kal in the house, maybe I wouldn’t have to work so hard on an empty stomach.” She said while downing her soup. Bohr’chiyel’s face turned sour. “Any other Kal would have been dead today,” he exclaimed, taking a seat in his chair. Dul’rin laughed. “You do look over chewed. Maybe you should stop being a hunter and go work the forge,” she said, peering over the bite marks that covered his body. Bohr wanted to stay a hunter, but he knew he needed a weapon. “I’ll go by the forge tomorrow and see what I can make,” he garbled out, slurping the tail of the welk. She hit him over the head with her fist. “We need food, you whelk loving pup! Stay as a hunter…” she cried. “I’ll go catch something tomorrow,” Bohr said coughing out a bit of whelk. Dul’rin was taken aback. She leaned in close, squinting to look at her son before striking him in the chest. “Quit being so agreeable. Your elf ears are showing.” Bohr shook his head, he didn’t have anything to say.
After dinner Bohr stepped behind his curtain and changed into a brown tunic from out his trunk. He tore a bit of pelt from off his bedding and sewed it onto the bottom of his broken shoe. He then took a heated vessel of bledge sap smearing some on a piece of whelk shell, before fitting it on the leather of his shoe for a new sole. Tired, Bohr crawled to the top of his bed, face planting into a soft fluffy puddle. He rolled over. *Drip…* Splattering against his face from the sealing was a leak. Bohr turned to his side with it dripping on his ear. It needed more mud, he figured, closing his eyes and going to sleep.
A guy who came from ESO.
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