#i mean look at Orgim

[downinsomanyfandoms]

Ok, my English isn’t good so please bear with me with this HK’s timeline discussion

Just a little reminder that following the game timeline and Quirrel dialog in his first meeting: “For so long I've felt drawn here. So many tales full of wonders and horrors. No longer could I resist. I just had to see it for myself.

And what a time I chose to arrive! This dead world has sprung to life.”

As well as the Dreamers second encounter dialog:

“Would the Seals break?

They cannot be undone.

But the Vessel weakens.

That plague springs anew.

They must be undone.”

“The vessel weakens” means PK plans did success to a degree, where THK hold Radiance power in check for sometime. Which is the most plausible thing possible, seeing how in the first cutscene, we saw Radiance tried to broke out of the seal, when THK is all ragged and tattered, which can only happen when a long time has passes.

It means that THK’s plan had, presumably, worked for awhile, for decades at best. Which also mean during that meantime, Pale King has no reasons as long as we know to abandon the kingdom he had saved, and THK and Dreamers memorial were made during that time. None of us actually know what the heck was going on inside that Wyrm head, while White Lady’s reason for leaving is plausible, I really don’t think PK did what he does out of cowardice because he he really a coward he would just screwed it all from the beginning. THK plan is a desperate attempt, and White Lady is also convince that Hallownest must live without Radiance influences (White Lady’s cut dialog). And also, remember that PK has foresight, and apparently, he did know that his plan will fail: A giant hidden mushroom can be found in the Fungal Core. When struck with the Dream Nail the following message is shown:

"Pale Wyrm...What good to foresee a demise unavoidable?"

Conclusion: Until Team Cherry confirm PK fates and his decisions in Silksong dlc, we absolutely can’t say for sure why PK hid away, whether is it out of shame of his THK’s plan like White Lady did, or out of superior motive (like a theory on PK somehow plan our Knight is Radiance downfall for example).

To be honest all I want to say is while Pale King maybe isn’t the number one parent in the whole freaking universe, he sure tried his best to not let his kingdom reverts back to static state like it did under Radiance time, bugkingcaptured in a hive mind with no freewill, keep in primal state, forever in stagnation, but it’s a safe solution for bug for when they’re in a hive mind, they won’t suffer. When PK came along, he gave bugkind a choice between Radiance or following him, in exchange for free will which resulted in progress and construction of Hallownest. Both of them are god who thought their own way of thinking and both believeing they were right. There’s no such thing as black and white thinking in this game and you guys need to stop bashing on Pale King so much, the guys doesn’t truly deserve it for all he did for Hallownest

[veleth95]

The Escape of Doomhammer

Lordaeron did not make much use of the gibbet in their dungeons. In fact “the Light’s Kingdom” hardly made any use of them at all, thinking the practice to be a barbaric show of violence. Only in the most extreme cases, for those who were deemed too dangerous or who were to be put to death anyway, was it used so that there was no threat to the guards.

Orgim Doomhammer was not only in a gibbet, but it was spiked. For months since his failed invasion of the Northlands Doomhammer hung in the dungeons of Lordaeron’s palace, his body withering lest he impale himself with any sudden movement. As if to taunt the warchief they placed his armor and namesake weapon not ten feet from his cage, the dulled bronze too far out of reach even if he could shoulder it again.

At first the king of Lordaeron would frequent his trophy, speaking to him at length about peace and disbanding of the Orcish Horde. But as Orgrim’s confinement dragged on the king had stopped his visitations, giving Doomhammer the tranquility to think to himself.

Suddenly a clamor arose from the halls leading to his dungeon, and Orgrim’s ears perked up at the frenzied cries of what was sure to be his newest companion. He had grown used to the sound, those found guilty of treason or other offenses against the crown were often sent to him before their execution. The guards thought that Doomhammer would intimidate them, so the last months of their miserable lives would be spent in fear that one day Orgrim would somehow break free of his cage and kill them himself. How a man that was already destined to be executed could still fear death was beyond him, but then again so was the idea of fearing death itself.

The prisoner let out a last few frantic, pitiful pleas for mercy as he was being hoisted into the air beside the orc, then his escort turned about face and left the two until it was time for feeding. They them sat in silence for hours until the man had regained some measure of composure and his cage had stopped rattling. Calmly, Orgrim was the first to speak. “So you have been sentenced to die. What is it you…”

He was cut off by the man, who wore a distinct look of shock. “You can speak the Common tongue?”

“And read it too, how else would I understand what my spies brought to me? Now I shall ask again, what did you…”

Rage twisted the man’s features. “You, your kind, slaughtered everyone in Grand Hamlet. You think I owe you anything?!”

“You are from ‘Grand Hamlet’ then. I remember some of your people speaking of it.”

“Speaking of it?! You lead the attack!”

Doomhammer looked the man dead in the eye and spoke flatly, “I do not recall any spies so early in the war, whelp. Do tell me where you heard this information.” The two of them sat there, the man dumbfounded, before Orgrim continued. “I had no part in that battle. The orc who ordered your home sacked was Blackhand, my superior and warchief, before I killed him.” The truth of his involvement was irrelevant, but it is what the man needed to hear.

The man laughed a bit at that. “So you are a disloyal dog then?”

“Listen, or don’t. But I do not think you have much of a choice with us being here together.”

Doomhammer spoke to the man at length about his homeland of Draenor, and of the Horde’s exodus. He told of the Shadow Council and Gul’dan, of the demons who manipulated the Horde into attacking Stormwind instead of settling peacefully in Azeroth. It did not excuse Doomhammer’s war, but it was enough to make things uncomfortably grey for the man. Before long the hatred in his eyes had turned to confusion and self-doubt.

Good. This was the opening that Doomhammer had been looking so long for. And after all, the Horde’s secrets would die when this man met his sentencing. “Now tell me, child of man, who are you and what did you do to join me here?”

“Aranesh Smithson. I was caught looting during your invasion of the city and killed some people trying to escape. They caught me pawning off the last of the trinkets just a few weeks ago.”

“Well Smithson, get comfortable. I believe we are to be here for a very long time.”

And so the months passed. The days became a blur for the two so deep into the dungeons. They talked at length, often waking each other to do so, and after some time Aranesh began to understand Doomhammer. The doomed man found him to be a reliable confidant, something Orgrim knew he could use should the situation call for it.

Through Aranesh he learned of the fate of the orcs, kept in camps and watched over by either power hungry nobles or the third sons of bastards who saw their post as the only work available to them. Doomhammer marked every word, playing disillusioned or defeated to lull Smithson into a sense of security. That he too was tame, and beaten. That he was safe despite all the man knew of orcs. All the while Orgrim planned his escape, and how his partner would now fit into it.

But until Smithson was released, the cycle of monotony continued day by day. The only constant for them was feeding. Twice a day the guards would lower them, place a tray of questionable food through the bars of the gibbets, and return them to their original height. Doomhammer made note of their patterns, and soon enough Aranesh came to recognize certain guards as well.

The two of them both dreaded the arrival of the warden overseeing their imprisonment, though for different reasons. The man was much like what Aranesh described of those watching over the internment camps, though with an ego and sense of self-entitlement that announced his presence before the man was ever seen. Doomhammer saw him as an annoying prick with a hideous beard. Aranesh was genuinely terrified by the potential cruelties that the warden could inflict upon them at a whim.

It seemed that this was a day when one of those whims found a fancy in him, as when the warden lowered the two for their food he had his men hold it tauntingly out of reach. At first Smithson’s pride won out, but the hunger began gnawing at him until he began to reach from the cage like a begging animal. It continued for several minutes until the warden got bored of the man, then turned with a cruel smile to Doomhammer.

Once again he held the tray just out of reach, knowing that Doomhammer would have to lean into the spikes for his food. He was laughing to himself until the guards joined in, all the while Doomhammer looked on with a cold, steeled glare.

The warden thought he was safe, that the spikes would give him some room to escape should Doomhammer grasp for his food. He overestimated himself. With a lunge of such speed that seemed impossible Orgrim shot out a hand, impaling himself to get a hold of not his food, but the warden himself. He pulled the small man back to his cage, dazing him before throwing his keeper to the ground hard. A loud metallic crack could be heard from the man’s armor, and for several seconds he was fighting just to get air back in his own lungs before scampering off like a rat back to the darkness from whence he came.

Orgrim did not eat that night, nor the day after. But when the next meals for the two came it was another warden altogether. Orgrim’s wounds healed in time, but the satisfaction in his victory faded even slower than the fire in his veins. Despite his passive act Doomhammer was an orc, and he lived for this.

The cessation of torment at the hands of their keepers let Orgrim focus entirely on his plans of escape. Often as Smithson slept he would stay awake, listening purely to the environment around them. Every sensation he could gather from his position was scrutinized in a way he was unable until this very moment. At one point Aranesh noticed his intensity upon waking and asked what was on the orc’s mind.

“Tell me, my friend, what do you know of the sewers of this city?” Doomhammer asked in return.

“What? The Undercity? Not much to tell. The poor flock to it and set up shantytowns, criminals like myself used it to do business, but beyond that it’s just a sewer. Why?”

“I noticed something while I was attacking this city. Indulge me for a moment, would you?”

“I doubt I have much of a choice with us being here together,” Smithson returned, a smirk on his face.

“On the southern edge of the city there are sewer grates beneath your walls, letting out the filth of your lives wash into the lake correct?”

“Yeah, but what are you getting at?”

“I doubt anything could live in a system that slopes downward, and your city has no running water. There has to be some way that you flush it out to begin with. Just listen to the chambers, today should be the day.”

Sure enough within a few hours the two of them could make out the dull rushing of water echoing coming from further down the halls. “So what? We do have running water now?”

“Storm water, if I were to guess. Your kind lets it collect for weeks then releases it all at once, washing out your ‘Undercity’. And whatever means you use to collect it, the water must come from the surface.”

The man’s eyes lit up at the idea, the kind of hope sparked by his kind when they are offered a means to cheat death plain for all to see. “Okay, but how are we supposed to get to the Undercity from here?” The man was pleading, almost begging Orgrim to have an answer. He would oblige.

“Haven’t you listened? The guards regularly gripe whenever they come to serve us. Of the smell of shit, of how far they have to go, and of how your urchins could be hiding in ambush at any time. This dungeon clearly bleeds into your Undercity somewhere. We need only find where and find ourselves one of your runoff pipes, then the two of us are free. But first, we need to escape these cages.”

Doomhammer leaned as close as he could, and whispered only loud enough for his partner to hear. “Listen to me very closely.”

Soon the time came for Aranesh to face his death. The guards came in as usual, but this time only lowered the looting murderer from his suspension. He was clapped in irons, his feet were chained, but finally they opened the door to escort him to the surface.

They did not count on the man having slipped his meals to Doomhammer for weeks. His bony, starved limbs slipped free from the bindings and carried him frantically to the wheel to let Doomhammer down. Then, taking up the Doomhammer itself in a fit of frenzied adrenaline, Aranesh caved in the door to Orgrim’s cage. With the lock shattered the orc burst the door open…

… and threw his puppet head first into the cobblestone, reclaiming his ancestral hammer. The prophecy would not be fulfilled this day.

The four humans that were to escort Smithson were hardly the stuff Lothar was, and either lay in crumpled heaps on the ground or ran to raise the alarm after mere moments of combat. More than enough time was granted to Doomhammer to don the armor rightfully owed to the Warchief of the Orcish Horde, and in short order he began running through the dungeons following the growing stench of human civilization to guide him.

The chaos of the Undercity hid the orc well, even as the clamoring of entire squadrons of Alliance soldiers became apparent through the shantytowns. Panic began to spread, and before long the entire Undercity was in a full-fledged riot over the news that the Warchief of the Horde had escaped. Many would make way for him in fear, or trip, or the occasional brave urchin who fell trying to strike at him with their entire ribcage shattered.

The architecture was ornate, and he crossed through several districts searching for a pipe to lead him to freedom. Finally he found one of them, with a staircase for maintenance not far behind. Unfortunately it seemed that the Alliance had anticipated his plans during the mad dash and were fast approaching. The two opposing forces climbed the stairs on opposite sides, but Doomhammer reached the top first. He bashed the lead guard with his hammer hard enough to send entire lines stumbling back down the stairs.

The maintenance halls were cramped, especially for an orc of his size. It did not matter. In time he found his door, the door into the pipe itself and his ticket to freedom. But it would not open, the weight of water behind it shoving against any attempt to budge it.

It did not matter. The Doomhammer splintered the door in short order and sent a cascade of rushing water back through the halls. Those caught off guard were swept awa, and those behind them were tackled by their comrades. Doomhammer however waded through the rapid water. He would be free.

He would let his people free.