A temporary recall from retirement, this Challenge has got me intrigued, just too bizarre to pass up. I'm thinking of creating a story in the format of a Children's Book, one illustration and one stanza per page, with a map in the end that shows the journey taken.
As a preview to what is planned, here's the story in rhyme - its already written. It has the kind of sing-song style that Tolkien presented in his orc song in The Hobbit.
In case you can't tell, an Orc Christmas is about winning the Race War...
Note: final map is on page 5, post # 42 of this thread
The Twelve Nights of Yuleblood
When nights grow longest, and snows blanket all, tis the season of Yuleblood before Long Night's Fall, when spirit of First Orc visits our door, to decide if his bloodline will settle the score, as first among races in twelve nights, no more.
First night is hardest, a red wyrm we seek, hopefully in slumber atop a great peak, of gold and bright treasure and burnt hero bone, its dung that we want from that dragon sewn, something for spells for the shamaness crone.
Next we enter the Marshes of Men, who live in stone towers beside the Great Fen, taking a daughter or fat farmer's wife, we'll kill all the menfolk in glorious strife, then at midnight, we'll be taking her life.
Third to the forests where old enemy dwells, to those hidden archers and spell-casting elves, we won't chance to see the Woodlands nor Grays, nor their enchantments, nor arrow slays, we'll just put to torch, set their forests ablaze.
Gnashing and tearing, chomping and chewing, dining on halfling that's what we're doing, be better as elf-meat, if we had our due, we'll just settle for halfing, to be filled we need two.
The roots of old mountains, in holes of dwarf clan, where forgers are forging the shields of their band, whose gaunt bearded faces and beer bellied shapes, shall meet orcish spear points to pop them like grapes, we'll sunder their laughter and silence their japes.
Boom, boom bringing their doom, the giants are marching and they're coming soon, big as the mountains, but they're just as dense, we're setting the pitfalls for our needed defense, we'll kill them with guile as they have no sense.
Rotting and stinking with maggoty stares, undead afoot, don't get caught unawares, from battlefields ancient, the fallen of brave, we'll bash in their skulls with stone hammers and stave, and send the arisen back to their graves.
They smell of dragon, these tiny churls do, the kobold's a morsel in any orc stew, we'll track them and snack them and bring them to bear, or drive them to pit traps waiting to snare, since they breed like rabbits there's plenty to share.
Hiding in deep beneath driven snow, beneath even dwarf holds this habit of Drow, these ebon-skinned devils, like their brothers up high, still elvish blood born, an orc can't deny, we hear them and fear them and seek their demise.
On high to the mountains, to village's cold, barbarians raging and bellowing bold, due to the inks under their skin, tattoos are poison they must be flayed thin, an orc must be careful too much means death's grin.
Once all the raiders return from their raiding, we feast on the windfalls still left from our sating and offer the chief's cut to First Orc ancestor, not of the green meat that's started to fester, only the best of halfling, elf or a man's sister.
In winter we orcs go merrily a raiding, to honor the First Orc before spirit's fading, to sing of our endless racial war's fight, one that the orc will win through our might, and celebrate the Yuleblood on this twelve-th night.