Birth of a Tyrant
The Rib Cracka Tribe was forced into subjugation by the Bringers of Mercy. But there was a time when the tribes fate was sealed. The birth of a runt, the declaration of prophecy, a war of attrition ended under one ogor’s fist, and the earning of the title Gutbusta
Author's Notes
So yeah, first multi work in putting effort into. This will totally go well
Prologue
Borug held the fifth child in one of his massive hands, it wasn’t special really. Another girl, the second one. Luggin, maybe? Yeah that could do it. He was running out of names. “There’s another coming.” Grotta grumbled from between bites of the freshly prepared cow chest.
“Then hurry up and push em out den. Da Butcha needs ta get em dere first meal.” The Tyrant of the Rib Cracka tribe dropped Luggin next to her siblings, the other three already beating against each other with weak punches. They were fighters; they were gonna be proper bulls when they got up on both feet. Even Luggin was already joining the brawl.
Before Borug could start egging on the fighting of the newborns, the sound of a crying baby sounded in the tent. Borug felt his blood boil and his anger build, was one of HIS sons crying? REALLY? Spinning around, Grotta nursed in her arms a baby much smaller than any of the others, the cow carcass discarded to the side. “If we get more den one kid, den wez bound ta have a runt.” Borug snarled already reaching for the small child.
Grotta returned the snarl and coveted the runt away. “Sod off, yer not eatin another one. You ate me sister’s runt, dats enough.” Rage once again flared in Borug’s veins as he felt the desire to punch her, take the child, and crunch down on it’s skull. But Grotta rolled from the bed of pelts and hugged the baby tighter to her chest and away from the Tyrant. Her chubby slackjawed face cowling back at him, the grease of the roasted cow still shining on her chins.
“I’m da tyrant, I make da rules”
“An I’m da motha, you think da butcher is gonna loik dat? Da tribe’ll loik da butcha.”
“Youz been sleepin wiff da butcher den?”
“Sah what? Ya sleep wiff plenty.”
“Den ow do I know eez mine den?”
“Da othas are! Eez too pale ta be da dad o this one.”
Borug grumbled again, his fists tightening and untightening in a rhythmic motion. He just wanted to crush that little runt, all he would do is bring down the tribe. Bring down the Rib Cracka name. Gotta name em somethin dumb, somethin no one else would dare to try add onto. A name that’ll make people forgot his pitiful, runty, crying self.
“Aight, e can live. Ez name will be Grug.”
“Das a bad name.”
“It’s ez now. He can live, but ez name will be Grug.”