Out of Ovruk Pass

Hey there 👋

Here is the first chapter of a short story about the Gruul Nuurvik!

This is a bit of a writing experiment for the sake of Twigg Tales!

I started with a guide for creating character backstories, here.

Then I put the guide to the test and created a backstory for my Avatar in The Kingdom.

This week, I plotted out a short story for Nuurvik that explores some of the themes I set out to encounter when I created this character.

This is a rough draft; I plotted and wrote in one sitting this evening, let me know what you think!

--------------------------------------

Nuurvik emerged from the Rotten Door, their chitinous body still swelling with awe, as it always did after visiting the Gruush. Few were permitted to enter the Maze, and fewer still while armed. Yet they bore the privilege, and its price.

Another might have wished to linger longer in the labyrinth tunnels of the Maze, but they had been given a mission.

It was the will of the hive, and they were best fit for the task. Oh but the stink of the running blue blood adorning the halls, the pulsing charm of the wormwork. It was a testament to better times past, and better times to come.

I was not right to want to indulge in such a manner, that kind of thinking would not restore the glories of the past.

There were important plans to unfold. Even if it involved doing something they detested. Something they had promised themselves they would never do again.

—-------

The capital of Gruul civilization, was Ovruk Pass.

It had been the last defense against the Mystrisen all those centuries ago, and now it was a conglomeration of all that was wrong with Gruul society.

Nuurvik didn't relish any time spent here, hopefully it wouldn't be the capital for long anyway, but that was not important. They were here by the will of The Old One.

Their prey should be passing by any moment. Nuurvik would remain unseen, positioned perfectly in that shadowy abscess of the thermal vent. The Rnark politician wouldn’t know what happened until their carapace had been split with a silica arrow.

Within moments the outlander Gruul passed before Nuurvik.

In an instant they verified the target and fired.

With insect precision the dove, propping the seizing body on their shoulder and dragging them to shadows as the silica took effect.

Sparing not a moment, they undressed the Gruul and donned their ridiculous garments, made with colorful fabrics and flashy insect materials. The robes were meant to show individuality, fashioned long and thick to protect against the harsh northern winds outside.

As Nuurvik donned them, their tattoos proclaiming their allegiance to The Old One were covered; the Rnark’s “individuality” would be their downfall.

With a final heave the politician's body plummeted into the thermal vent, Nuurvik heard it disintegrate with a satisfying bubbling sizzle. What a fitting end for something as abhorrent as a politician. Anyone who believed that an individual should have more power than the Gruush was exactly what was holding the Gruul back from their true potential. The potential they had once collectively lived.

Now came the hard part.

Nuurvik quickly made their way to where they knew the politician was planning to meet the outsiders. It was a village-sized pocket in the center of the stalagmite fortress of Ovruk Pass.; a rare semi-neutral territory where visiting merchants and scholars were beginning to feel too comfortable spending time.

Lazing about in the center of the damp cavernous clearing was a group of five Alarian merchants, and what appeared to be a Volkran’dir guide.

Nuurvik clicked their chin in disgust. These humans shouldn't be accepted in the heart of Gruul civilization, it was unforgivable. That the brethren of their mortal enemies were among them was even worse.

Nuurvik would have no problem dispelling these miasmas from the depths of Aesor. Their ancestors has done the same for centuries.

No, that wouldn’t be the hard part.

Their hydraulic limbs tensed as they crept closer to their prey. The party was completely unaware of what was about to befall them.

The perfect predator of the unborn path, the depths of Aesor. Emerging from the shadows, against its will.

Nuurvik loomed behind the outermost Alarian, six eyes all focused on the kill.

The Alarian jumped up and laughed, “You startled me there! Ruhno, I presume?” he asked, reaching out a fleshy hand, apparently in greeting.

“Name’s Bran” he said.

Nuurvik, shook his hand and nodded. The first deception was achieved. They didn’t think the Alarians had ever met Ruhno before, as the Rnark had reportedly spent most of its time in the Pass.

It felt so wrong to be exposed like this, in full view of their prey. Five other pairs of eyes had found their way to Nuurvik.

The Alarians smiled and waved, but the Volkran’dir narrowed their heavy eyebrows and placed one hand on a massive Volkraft warhammer.

“Anything else you need before we make for the surface? I assume you’re in a rush to set up camp beneath the grace of the light before nightfall."

Nuurvik nearly choked on the words as they said them, but this mission was too important. These Alarians thought they would be on the surface in a day's time. They’d never leave the Old One’s grasp.

The squat man looked to his fellow envoy and they shook their heads in turn. At least they could agree on things, that was more than could be said of some Gruul these days, like the one that Nuurvik was impersonating.

Still, they looked ridiculous in their ornate garments, nearly unarmed and unable to see in the dark. How humans had ever come to prominence on Aesor, Nuurvik had no idea.

“We’re off then!” shouted one of the men, who was wearing the most vibrant fabric of the group.

The lumbering Volkran’dir heaved a large pack onto his back. It clanged and rang as metal tools, cookware, and weapons jostled in its depths. With ashy gray skin he stood a few feet taller than even Nuurvik.

Volkran'dir were formidable opponents. It wouldn’t be a problem for Nuurvik though, they had made quick work of many of this creature’s brethren.

The small group of seven made their way through the capital, its grotesque wormwork spires jutting like infected splinters from the tunnel walls. Gruul of all cults, and insects unrecognizable, crawled through the cavern around them.

Soon they were at the gate, and the sparse torchlight of the Alarians was all that kept them safe from Nuurvik’s grasp.

This would be simple, the will of the hive achieved. The Alarians would know the Gruul could not be trusted if even the most progressive of the cults would betray a royal Alarian calling party. The recent trade negotiations would sour like spider bile, sweet sweet spider bile.

These fools thought they were chaperoning a friendly Rnark politician home, but they’d never see their blessed Shattered Light again.

No, the first time that Nuurvik saw the surface, it would be with the full force of the unified hive behind them. And that would never happen as long as these damned outsiders were comfortable.

Nuurvik became more familiar with the caverns the further the group got from the capital. This was their realm, the void below Aesor, the cavity of Kalzamaath’s skull.

As they passed familiar visceral displays of insectoid architecture, living factories and tubes of pulsing endoskeleton, Nuurvik prepared for their next move.

But it was too late, and for the first time ever the darkness went black.

The hunter had been hunted.