Maris awoke into a new world of pain. Being a skeleton he sometimes thought that being able to feel pain was a little odd, since he didn't have nerves. However such thoughts inevitably led to wondering how one might be able to see without the benefit of eyes, or question the ability of speech in the absence of a throat. Finally of course you started to wonder how it was you could even think without actually having a brain. Usually around this point Maris would find something else to think about, just in case he turned out to be right and couldn't actually think at all.
The eternal dilemma of the walking dead. I think therefore I might not actually be.
It was far to early and he far too powerful a headache to worry about complicated philosophical questions of existence. Well, it felt early anyway. It was kind of hard to tell from his current position Which appeared to be upside down in a mine cart. What was he doing there?
He painfully righted himself, studiously ignoring the protesting muscles he didn't actually have, and looked around. The cart sat at the end of it's track, near one of the entrances to the mine levels. There didn't appear to be signs of a struggle. No charred lumps of flesh, no suspicious blood stains. He checked himself. Whilst slightly dishevelled he appeared undamaged. What had he been doing the night before?
"The Orcs", he thought to himself. "Oh dear. The Orcs". He'd been invited to a celebration. Brodnak was throwing himself a naming party to commemorate his newly claimed title of The Desecrator. Maris of course, was guest of honour, having somehow been the one who bestowed the title in the first place.
In order to successfully claim his new title, Brodnak had to prove his deeds in front of his tribe. Aside from Maris' own testimony however he had an ace up his sleeve. Or rather his trousers. The Elf skull codpiece went down very well. Particularly when Brodnak had demonstrated the release catch which caused the jaw to open. Maris assumed it was supposed to look like the skull was sticking it's tongue out at you.
It has been previously noted that the Orcs are not necessarily the most sophisticated bunch.
The Orcs had brewed up a special concoction that contained, among other things, a powerful hallucinogenic fungus commonly referred to as Screaming Mind Raper. The effect of this disgustingly hued toadstool on most creatures to violently blast their sanity out through their own eye sockets, swiftly followed by their internal organs. Orcs simply referred to it as "Spicy".
From there off course, things had gone downhill pretty quickly. Brodnak had started lamenting the limited opportunities for advancement and glory available to an Orc in his position, and Maris had started drunkenly critiquing the organisational foibles of the dungeon complex.
"I mean," slurred the orc "how many times do you think I get to have a proper fight eh? EH?"
"Five?"
The Orc held up his hand and regarded the number of fingers it seemed to have for a long moment before giving the whole business up as overly complicated.
"I dunno. But here we are, sitting down here in this..." he gestured vaguely around him with a tankard as he grappled for the appropriate word.
"This... place. But the bloody Rat-Things get to sit up on the first level and fight whoever shows up. And they can't even fight. How come they get all the fun?"
Maris thought about this for a moment. He wasn't entirely convinced the Rat-Things regarded being attacked by every band of half-crazed do-gooders to wander in as fun. It had always struck him as a little odd to have them as the first line of defence. I mean, if you wanted to keep people out then why not post some competent guards, like an Orc battalion, or a couple of Death Hulks or something? And if you didn't want to keep people out why have guards at all? Slowly, oiled by the smoking beverage in the lead tankard in front of him, wheels began to turn in his mind.
"You'd never work on level one, would you?" Spoke the Deathmage from somewhere in a dark cloud of inebriated revelations. "You're too tall".
Brodnak had long passed the stage where even elementary concepts such tables became confusing. This last statement was simply not something his mind was prepared for. About the only thing his mind was actually prepared for at this stage was preserving in a jar.
"Think about it" Maris began to elaborate with great concentration, desperately trying to keep a grip in this new idea. "All you lot" he gestured in what he hoped was a direction "Are accorded your station, rank and duties based on height" He sat back, pleased as much with actually finishing the sentance as with the idea it was trying to articulate.
"What?" queried Brodnak from somewhere under the table. To be fair this could have meant "What am I doing under the table?" as much as "What are you talking about?" but Maris decided to press on nonetheless.
"Everyone's ranked by height. You've got the bloody Rat-Things up on level one right? Tiny buggers, don't come up past your knee half the time. And they're about as low as you can get right? Nobody's ever been promoted to Rat-Thing."
"Whabout that guy?" asked a voice from below.
"That wasn't a promotion was it? He was... What do you call it?"
"Buggered?"
"Yeah, that was it. No! The other thing. Cursed! That was it. Anyway, the point remains. So, after the Rat-Things, what do you find?"
"More Rat-Things? Horny bastards they are."
"No, it's the Gobbos isn't it? Slightly taller ain't they?
Brodnak began softly singing an Orcish lullaby to himself. It was called "Shut up and piss off you little bastard, I'm trying to have a drink here". Brodnak often got sentimental when he was drunk.
"And.... So on. Deeper you go, the taller everyone gets.After the Gobbos there's that thing right? That's only like 4 foot tall."
"That thing with the arms or the thing with the legs" asked Brodnak clambering back into his seat and trying unsuccessfully to focus on whatever it was he was currently talking to.
"The thing with the legs. The with arms is much lower down. Climbs up the walls and all that."
"Yeah. Yeah. Creepy."
"Then you run into you lot and the zombies and that, all around normal sorta height right? And the lower you go the taller everyone gets, like the Trollgers and the Death Hulks and everything."
A thought flittered across the surface of whatever it was that was left of Brodnaks mind. "What about that squid? He's not tall is he?"
"He's a... A FISH" Maris laboured. "He's lying down isn't he? If he stood up on all them tentacles he'd well tall"
"But.... Wouldn't he be like TOO tall then? He'd have to go down wouldn't he? Get promoted."
"Nononono. No. See, since he's lying down all the time it averages out doesn't it? I bet they've got a formula for working these things out somewhere. There's probably a grimoire for it."
"But......" Struggled Brodnak in one last attempt at coherent thought. "WHY?"
Maris sighed. "Buggered if I know. Why did we have to beat that guy sixty seven times with the hind leg of a cow and then throw him down the pit?"
"For a laugh?" Posited the Orc.
"Meh, close enough. Who's round is it?"
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