Here goes part three
Hope Porco is how yow imagined him
The Brazen Bastards
A Beginning
Part 3
Porco Dio
The meat tasted good. He ripped another mouthful from the leg he was holding. Enjoying the feel of the juices running down his chin, he grunted in satisfaction. Yes. Say what you like about this weird No-Sun place, at least there was plenty of food.
He took another mouthful. The animals almost seemed to want to get caught. The boar had obligingly thrown itself onto ‘Spitter’. He chewed happily. He had missed this in the other place. There was no food there. Not that he had ever got hungry. No. He had never even got tired. He had just fought. One fight blending into another. It had just been butchery. He snorted at his own joke. He had never liked butchery. No. No one could have liked it there. Except maybe Karpork, or whatever he called himself. He looked over at the savage. Yep, he would have enjoyed it. You could see it in him. The madness just behind the eyes. Yep. He would have loved it. He knew the look. The gors had it. The bloodlust. Useful of course. Particularly if you wanted someone to break a shield wall. But you did not want to get too close to them. Just in case. That and they tended not to live long. He liked to live. He had lived a long time. A very long, time. He looked round at the others. Yes. He knew most of their types. The new guy. Zeekward was it? He knew him. He had marched with his type when he went West in the Grudge Wars. Cold bastards. They did not love killing like Karpork. They just did not care. They did not care about their friends, their enemies, their staff. He suppressed a snarl. Really, after all these years it still got to him? Yes. He knew the type. Cold, arrogant, narcissistic, bastards. Even their commanders hated them. They were survivors though. He would give them that. He had seen them lead 100 legionaries on an assault and come back, alone, unharmed. Then casually complain about the food. Bastards. They were the reason he had left. No. One of the reasons. He gave a sort of snuffling grunting chuckle. Survivors? Ha. They knew nothing. He had shown them. ‘Stupid Kigour, Slow Kigour. Stick to the kitchen Kigour. You wouldn’t last a minute out there, Kigour’. Wouldn’t he? Where were they now? Dust and dung. Dust and dung a thousand years. Maybe more. And here he was. Eating roast boar. Eating roast boar and if that windbag sorceror was right, chosen by a God.
He supposed being chosen by a God should make him feel good. He bit another chunk of meat off and chewed it slowly. Well it didn’t. Gods were unpredictable, vindictive, vicious bastards. Well they were in his experience. And he should know. He had been one. Well sort of. He chuckled to himself, though it came out as a sort of grunting snort. The Tilean peasants had thought he was. He hadn’t planned it that way. He had just liked terrifying them. Butcher a few animals here (keeping the best cuts of course). Kill a farmer there (again, keeping the best cuts). Let the survivors see you wearing a bloody animal mask. Before you knew it they were leaving food out for you. Little offerings to ward off the evil spirit. He had never had it so good. It got so he hardly had to kill anyone. He still did of course. Gods rule by fear. Everyone knew that. Nothing like a flayed body to concentrate the mind.
He spat out a bit of gristle. He had had years like that. Till some fancy new Lord decided to prove he was a bandit. Lords were bastards too. He ripped the last bit of meat off the bone with his teeth. The hunters had tracked him down. Thought they would beat him on his territory. Thought they were smarter than him. Well, they were dead too. The last one had nearly got him. He rubbed the side of his face where the blade had cut. Would have died too if the Bray Shaman hadn’t done the thing with the idol. Bastard. Must have thought it was a joke, or a punishment. Give the dwarf pretending to be a pig spirit a pig face. Bastard. Probably thought it was funny. Probably thought it was sodding hilarious. Probably thought he would die laughing. Well, turns out it’s difficult to laugh with someone forcing an idol down your throat.
He tossed the bone away. Strangely the best thing that ever happened to him. He wouldn’t want his old face back now. Wouldn’t recognise it. Anyway, apparently pig faced Dawi Zharr don’t age. So up yours smart arsed Shaman.
The peasants took to calling him Porco Dio after that. The Pig God. Well they did after he and the Beastman herd had burned the Little Lords manor to the ground that is.
Seems that beating a Bray Shaman to death with his own magic trinkets in front of them was impressive.
Porco wiped his snout on his sleeve. That is how he became a God. Sort of. And he had been a right cruel bastard. In his own small way. A right cruel bastard for a thousand years. Stood to reason that Hashut would be one too.
Still, he was alive now. He had outlived all the others. In his experience you just had to be more vicious, more cruel and more callous than the other guy. He looked around at his compatriots. He had out lived all the others. He was pretty sure he could out live this bunch.