Author Note

Enjoy the story of why you see Smee sometimes as an ogre in Azeroth and Outlands, got one of them funky ogre disguise trinkets so thought I'd better explain it for the yarr pee. ;-). Also I'll only answer to Grubtub when I'm in Ogre form :D If ya wanna see what you look like when you use the Ogre Disguise trinket... File:Smeedaogre.jpg

The Curse of the Ogre Loincloth

Smee knelt, regaining his breath as his maces fell heavily onto the ground, sounding as if someone had rang a gong as each hit the floor. Behind him, the last remnants of the ogre fortresses' guards lay battered, their warclubs broken, their armor dented and their flesh sundered. He stood up, chewing on an hand hastily ripped from an ogre's corpse to regain his strength as he wondered what the ogre guards were shouting about. 'You not take sacred thing' they screamed at him 'Is Maulgar's precious'. In his experience, sacred means valuable and precious meant someone would pay dearly, even if the owner was an ogre. His eyes scanned the room before him and fixed on the prize that lay in an alcove, the ornate chest adorned with gronn runes and ogre banners, signifying the precious sacred object they were all bawling about.

He leant down and retrieved his maces, sliding them into the hooks on his belt as he stepped slowly towards the chest, his weary eyes keeping a look about the place for trips and traps. For this was something special, something the ogres didn't want anyone to have, at least, that was what the orc in the tavern told him, the one with a single eye and one leg longer than the other. He smiled grimly as he stepped up to the chest, his nimble fingers cold as ice but as dextrous as if blood flowed through them still, working at the many padlocks on the chest.

After a few minutes, all of the locks had been taken off, the heavy chains laid around the chest like garlands of dirty metal. With hands trembling with anticipation, he lifted the lid, expecting the warm glow of gold, but was instead greeted with a stench worse than an ogre's jockstrap. A smell so bad he was flung back in disgust, the chest's lid flying back to lay open, as Smee stepped backwards. He backed up, and turned, for the first time noticing that the heavy doors behind him had closed without a sound. He tried the doors, again and again, searching for a lock or a device to open them, but nought could be found. As he pounded at the shut doors, a dazzling light shone from behind him, illuminating the room.

Like a angel rising up from the itself, a shining object rose from the chest, the light shining from it signifying its glorious nature. As Smee shielded his eyes from the light, only a silhouette could be seen, some kind of garment, a robe perhaps, or maybe a cape. All too late he realised what it was, the shape forming as it came closer. There was a reason for the smell, for it was indeed an ogre's jockstrap, a loincloth in fact. He stepped back against the doors but could not escape as the loincloth approached, its ponderous approach all the more ominous as a wind picked up within the chamber. Ghostly whispers carried in the wind, whispering in Smee's ears. "Free", "Escape", "Give thanks" they cried in ogre tones, as he span around, searching for an escape from of all things, a loincloth. Alas, there was none, and finally, as the loincloth came closer, Smee was enveloped in white light, and as his vision filled with light, he lost consciousness.

He awoke to find himself in a grand ogre dining hut, a massive boar roasting with a grin on its face over an open fire. There was but one ogre here, a massive example of their race, turning the spit. He looked over at the newly awakened Smee and smiled, motioning for Smee to come join him. Smee shrugged and did so, for an ogre to not kill you on sight is a rare thing indeed. He sat next to the pit, opposite the ogre, who grinned at him, and spoke. "Grubtub want thank Smee. Smee free Grubtub from prison of soul. Many many hunred year Grubtub spend in prison. Nasty warlock magic." Smee stood, jaw agape at the ogre. "Okay, you be free. Now where be I?" he managed to say, "You in you own head. Grubtub now here too. You wearing loincloth. Grubtub soul in loincloth. Me sometime borrow body to eat and have fun!" The ogre replied, grinning inanely. As Smee made to object, the ogre stood up, laughed at Smee, and whacked Smee around the head with his fist, knocking him back into the sickly sweet embrace of unconciousness.

"He dead?" said an ogre voice. "Dunno, smell dead." said another. Cautiously, Smee opened one eye but a sliver to see two ogres standing over him, obviously he had missed a few in his massacre of the fortress. "Him wearing Maulgar's precious, Fug. Best put it back in chest." The ogre leaned down, making to grab at Smee's crotch. He was greeted by a well placed boot in the gob, the ogre falling backwards as Smee sprang to his feet, his maces jumping into his hands as he grinned and looked to the other ogre, who fumbled for his weapon. He made to step forwards, but the world seemed to disagree, Smee falling flat onto his face. The ogre fumbled his weapon into his hands and burst into laughter at the struggling Forsaken, whose normal legguards lay wrapped around his ankles. "Now me make little man splat!" cried the ogre, bringing his weapon down onto the floor where Smee used to be. As Smee rolled, he made to reach for his trousers, yanking them up over the putrid loincloth that had affixed itself to his crotch.

"Stop moving little man. You make it hard to smash!" cried one of the ogres, but the next word out of his mouth was but a whimper, for Smee had brought his spiked mace straight up between the legs of the ogre's massive frame. The other ogre provided little in the way of resistance, being but a fleshy obstacle for the nimble thief. Sitting down, he sighed, holding his head in his hands as he wondered if it was all a dream. Some crazy dream brought on by magic and bloodlust combined. Then, to his horror, an ogre's voice sounded in the silence, "Heh heh heh, Grubtub like you fight! Kill more!". His eyes looked down, for there was but one place that the voice could come from, his putrid underwear. "So ye are me talkin' crotch now??" he exclaimed, "That be just beautiful..." He sighed, he had come for gold, and left with the worst veneral disease ever known.

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