The Savage Keen

[Lampir]

She liked the hot copper taste of blood. It was nostalgic of her charge into adulthood, her first kill, her first fight. She had, by instinct alone, found a move not unlike a wolf’s killing blow. It was this harsh clamping of tusk and teeth around the tender flesh of a throat that she found herself in now.

Emotions were the key. The two orcs rode them like velvet sky larks, thrilled in the taste and smell, relished the adrenaline coursing through their veins. He was a scrawny weak male, Barnak. She was a scrawny weak female, Kaltyra. They were together, walking side by side, hunting. It was after their kill, as she knelt, that he had grappled her and they had... well... The point was, Barnak’s advance did not come without cost. He made the mistake of losing focus at the end and she had lashed out with tooth and claw.

So now she lay with him, twined – his hands around her throat, her teeth around his.

Grunts turned to gurgles turned to silence.

Our protagonist (for hero she surely is not) stood and studied the limp male before her. There was no remorse, no anger anymore. She just... was. Slowly her golden eyes glanced down the barren tunnel in the distant direction of her home. A decision was made. She dipped down and collected what scraps of clothing she could muster from their combat and what meager goods she could salvage.

It was like any high; a disappointment as one descended from the flights of peaked emotion. The rational part of her mind started taking over once more: practical, predictable, methodical. She wouldn’t go back the way they had come. There were answers to give about the male. There were other reasons, besides. Reasons she didn’t admit to herself or even put to words. Logic had given the excuse for her other motives. So it was that she turned away from her home and headed down into the deeper tunnels, south.

The corpse cooled alone, untended meat to be consumed by the barrows.

........

It was so.. so bright. Kaltyra reeled with the blinding banging ache of sensitive eyes gone awry. She shook her head and tucked back inside the cave mouth, waiting for dusk.

At night she ventured out. Surface life was still mysterious to her, too large, too alien. Her stomach growled angrily. It had been long since the feast of raw giant beetle. Her ears pricked, her nostrils flexed. Her body was on the prowl for food. Smells of cooking drifted subtly in the night air and soon enough she was in distant brush watching the camp of some caravan. She counted the humans. Too many to kill.

She considered her options, then stealthily slipped into one of the covered wagons, foraging for food. There was a box filled with some strange, sweet smelling plant. She bit into one tentatively, found it to her liking and gorged upon them. Thinking quickly, she pulled out much of the leftover plant, stuffing them into corners and under piles of goods. Then, knowing her tunnels had taken her as far as they could, she crawled into the crate and pulled the lid down over herself.

So it was she awoke one night to find herself not in the camp, but in the middle of a churning hell hole of the inferior races. They’d dumped her box on the side, forcing her to struggle out of it. Heads turned, conversations stilled. Kaltyra froze, eyes darting around for attack. She was surrounded! Then she saw it, a door. She jumped up, sending many an adventurer to pulling out swords or clubs. Kaltyra bolted through the inn, barreling through a shrieking barmaid (the path of least resistance) and into the streets of Balder’s Gate.

[Lampir]

Beaten, chased, starving Kaltyra huddled into brush and shadow, clinging to a tattered brown set of clothing. It was a dress, she thought, and had been hanging out to dry. Now it lay damp and depressed in her hands. It didn’t match the dark black cloak she’d found earlier, but it would cover and cover was what she needed.

The cloak was strange against the patched ragged dress, but she pulled them on over her hunting armors. The hood drooped and a bit of torn cloth from the bottom of her cloak covered what the hood’s shadow did not. It wasn’t pretty; in it she felt a fool. But desperate fool she was, in this city.

Thinking herself quite the clever one to disguise herself, Kaltyra curled under a stairwell and slept.

...........

They were inferior races; lacking in the nobility, the honor, the passion of chosen creations. They were, like all others, made for the orcs. Why they were made varied from tribe to tribe. Kaltyra had listened to arguments at communal fires. Some times they were a pestulance to be removed or consumed. An extreme few said they were as useful as the creatures that fought side-by-side with the druids: intelligent, but ultimately unable to understand or attain what the orcs had. Sad, pathetic things to conquer and enslave. They did not accept the world as it should be. They did not do things the right way. Without the orcs, the other races would be lost.

Their world surrounded her now and it frightened her. They were inferior, yes, but any beast can rip you asunder and she had wandered into their den. Her stomach growled, but she pressed on past the well guarded loaves and meats, looking for easy untended things. She followed people to a place that smelled of sick, death and food called a sanctuary.

Laughter and merry talk leaked from inside. Kaltyra shuffled uncertainly, but her stomach growled once more and propelled her inside.

Kaltyra nearly bumped into a man in silver and crimson armor as she pushed through the door. He turned, scrutinizing her with a dark glare. Suddenly Kaltyra was not at all comfortable with her ragged disguise. She ducked her head, trying to hide her amber cats eyes. Eventually, the man grew tired of her and, with a growl, turned to attend his friends.

A woman puttered around with calm happiness tending children and orchestrating the area. She gave Kaltyra food when she asked for it, which just went to show how stupid humans were. Kaltyra was not about to point out that giving food to strangers was an easy way to welcome an enemy. The woman was a human, after all, and not bright enough to really understand. Besides, it meant Kaltyra could hunker into a corner, far from the angry man in silver, and dig into the soup and bread.

She found herself grateful that so many other races, dangerous as they were, were easily tricked.

As she ate she watched the group of armored, well dressed people mill about and chat. The silver man was called Ramas and bragged himself the best swordsman in the area, claiming many a title as well as ancestral descendence from orc killers. The Orcgate wars. Kaltyra made a note to stay far, far away from him. Then there was another who stood out, who pranced with energy and a smile. She called herself Alison, the Harlequin, and seemed no amount afraid to cause mischief. A fool would be a useful tool and with her hunger momentarily abated Kaltyra rose to approach the woman.

Ramas locked eyes on Kaltyra, drumming fingers impatiently along the table. She stopped, the bottom of her stomach dropping away. He was watching her. He must have fought and killed dozens of orcs and he was –watching- her. Her, weak with hunger and dizzy with exhaustion. Her, no match for his sword and steel.

The Fool turned around and seemed to get the gist of what was happening. But, fool she was, she led Kaltyra to another room, alone, to talk. Alison tutted about the squalor of this place and how wrong it was for her friends to eat fine foods and merrily besides with so many in the room next to theirs glad for simply a scrap or two. Kaltyra let the woman rant, finding her a strange thing, but useful. She had given Kaltyra coin, the trade stuff for her city. Gave it to her knowing Kaltyra wanted weapons, armor.

“But,” she had added, “There is a catch. You have to promise not to use what you buy against innocents, ok?”

Kaltyra pondered this in confusion. What innocents? Finally she concluded the Harlequin didn’t want her to kill offspring. Nothing else was really innocent. So she had nodded and, pushing her luck, asked for more food. This time venison and potatoes, hearty food she only chomped on when the others weren’t watching her. It was the first real meal in many days and it felt so, so good.

She listened and drank in what she could of this place, their pitiful politics and unpolished dramas. She never spoke her mind of their world. They wouldn’t understand; she might as well talk to a cave wall. For an orc, Kaltyra was down right diplomatic and keen both in eye and manner.

However, she was not especially skilled in deceiving.

As the groups departed and only two elves remained, the male spoke up. The words sounded like a stone and wood avalanche, but she could make them out, she knew them. She hadn’t heard them spoken in what.. A month? Two?

Just three words in orc. “Tread very carefully.”

Kaltyra startled but the elf casually back-flipped out of his chair, blocking her escape. He was rough, heavy-scarred and claimed to be the second best sword in the land. He spoke of Sharptooths and the woods where he was Councilor. He wasn’t aggressive, but she couldn’t help feel trapped, trapped and foolish for thinking she could sneak by with such a poor disguise.

Then... then he left.

For a time Kaltyra followed the pair, certain they were going to raise alarm or point the Fist to her places she hid. But they simply walked on, beyond the bridge and into the wilderness further south. She exhaled with relief and found a place to sleep.

[Lampir]

[Disclaimer: I forgot to put this on earlier posts, but these are just Kaltyra’s experiences as she sees them and how I can remember. If, excuse me, when I get things wrong please don’t get too upset. I hope I do the events some small justice, if no large one. Thank you to everyone who has made my time on the server so much fun!]


He was... different. He stood two heads above most the humans and towered over her own short stature. She could pass for a stocky human or maybe a freakishly tall dwarf, at a glance, but there was no hiding this one. His skin was sickly green, not the smooth gray of her own. He wore no hood to hide his prominent tusks and frayed mohawk.

She couldn’t stop staring.

He just sat there, inside the circle of firelight, talking amiably in broken common. No one was crying in alarm. No one was drawing arms. Kaltyra was jealous of the half-blood and frowned in hidden frustration.

Another man, in the armor called ‘red field’ or something like that, sighed and threw up his hands. “I’m bored.” He bemoaned.

The half-blood turned slowly and offered casually “We kud praktis fight, ef you wuhnt.”

And they did.

Kaltyra edged around for a better vantage as the two squared up beyond the merchant camp. The pair fought with onlookers; none of whom shouted ‘kill the evil thing!’. She watched, transfixed. The half-blood ducked, barring the way of the human’s great sword and nipping slices here or there with his shorter blade. The human grunted in good nature “Damn shield!” rebounding and trying to get under the half-blood’s guard. Scale and metal clacked, clashed - hollow sounds in the warm summer air. The human growled, the half-blood huffed, neither willing to give the other the satisfaction of shown pain, both taking their beatings.

Finally the human swung down his sword, knocking the shield so hard the strap pulled free of it’s bearings and fell limp to the ground. The half blood rolled back to his feet and backed up. He held up his empty hand in defeat and lowered his sword. They both were covered in sweat and blood, but the half-blood was beginning to have trouble standing upright and his breath came in big gulping waves. The human could have easily taken his foe, but he stopped and lowered his blade too.

Kaltyra stood dumbfounded as the two congratulated each other and patted the others’ shoulder. Then, smiling, both turned to tend to their wounds and damaged gear. Kaltyra crept to a hay pile near the half-blood, certain to speak to him, but he wore a look of concentration and Kaltyra, suddenly no longer sure of herself, could not bring it to herself to utter a word.

She watched him, though.

For a little while.

..........

The world is dangerous, but Kaltyra decided she would trade the deep deep tunnels of her family’s nightmares for the pack of wolves on her tail. They nipped and galloped behind her, two peeling ahead on either side, trying to box her in. At least, she thought, in the tunnels I would know how to escape this mess!

She squinted in the horrid sunlight, searching for something, anything. One wolf tried to leap for her and she had to tumble to one side. There was sharp pain and blood began to seep through her leather armor. She stumbled, but in the blur saw a dark spot along the rock face – a cave! By sheer will she kept upright and beat hell-mell into the cave. Her fleeing steps splashed in dark puddles. She ran blindly, her darkvision gone now, eyes not yet adjusting.

The smell of wolves left her and she was alone.

Kaltyra fell to the ground gasping for air, squeezing her eyes shut to let them take to the gloom faster. Muddy gloves felt for the wound in her leg and closed over it, holding it tightly. Her heart beat slowed, simmered. Her sight returned and the ache in her leg began to pound insistently. She opened her eyes – to find herself staring into the equally golden eyes of a brown bear.

An eternity came and went. Nations were born and fell. All this before Kaltyra could register just what was going on. She was sitting on something warm and crackling, a mildewed leaf pile and the smell of bear was thick. Oh.. lovely.

There were two bears.

Keep very still, she thought. Keep very still and it may lose interest. It just stared at her and her at it. She sniffed at the bear. Female. The bear sniffed her. They stared again. A cub complained in the distance, coming over to see what all the fuss was about. It sniffed Kaltyra before the other bear turned to nose the cub in a gesture Kaltyra could almost read as ‘off with you, scamp’.

The pair lumbered a ways off, so Kaltyra tried to rise. The moment she moved the distant bear growled in warning. So, the orc stayed put. So it went for hours. Eventually, weary, she fell asleep.

........

A cold dead fish fell onto her face. Kaltyra shook her head disoriented. Mother bear loomed above her, snuffing as Kal looked her way. Her stomach growled so, hesitantly, ever the survivor, Kaltyra took the offered fish and ate it. It wasn’t her first or her last raw meal. Food was food.

The cub was playing along the mouth of the cave. It was obvious now why the wolves hadn’t followed her in here. She struggled to her feet, her leg putting up a powerful protest, and limped towards the exit. Mother bear lounged just before the exit, watching her cub and blocking Kaltyra’s path. The orc stopped with a frown, which was met with the bear’s reproachful gaze.

“What, then? I’m not your cub.” Kaltyra said in native exasperation.

The bear snuffed as if in agreement. She rose and turned on Kal who stumbled back, tried to put too much weight on her wounded leg and fell. Warm bear breath huffed across her face and a low strange sound rumbled around her. It might have been the sound of a bear... being amused.

Kal looked down her prone form to find the she-bear standing partly over her. It was at least her size, slimmer than a male bear, but sleek with promise. It lifted a paw and placed it firmly, purposefully, on Kaltyra’s stomach. The movement was matched with a long soulful gaze directly into Kal’s stunned expression.

“Deep Ones,” she cursed in amazement, “how do you know about that?”

[Lampir]

Once, when Kaltyra was only about six, a stranger had wandered into their camp. Strangers were doubled edged swords. They were bearers of much needed news and also strange thoughts that maybe, just maybe, the tribe’s heads wouldn’t want the others to hear. But Kaltyra loved to listen and this orc, with his carapace armor and seemingly tamed Umber Hulk pet, fascinated her.

His name was Stonetooth and he was a druid.

He had shared their leader’s pipe and spoken in hushed tones of news and foreign distant things. He claimed the pet was no pet, but a friend and that the stone teeth, the stalagmites and stalactites of their world, spoke to him and gave him power. Her priest tried to convert the carapaced stranger, but he would hear nothing of it. Lines were laid, rules were set, and the stranger was welcomed for a week’s time to share their fires in return for his tales.

Not everyone liked Stonetooth and his bizarre concepts, but even those who argued most fiercely with his views on the world were enjoying the change of pace. Rocks that thought? Wind that sang? Animals that spoke? The world would do your bidding, he had said, if you but do it’s.

But then, wouldn’t Gruumsh do the same? Someone would ask and the debate would go round and round long past the time when young orcs should sleep. No one noticed or no one cared. It was always an exciting time when a stranger wandered into camp. By the time the stranger packed to be on his way, Kaltyra’s mind was dizzy with new ideas.

She remembered chasing after him as he rounded the bend alone, his companion in tow. They had turned to look at the panting gold-eyed runt. She wanted to ask so many questions. What did rocks think like, and, was the wind a female or a male? But all she could muster was, shyly. “Can I ride your umber hulk?”

Stonetooth had smirked and looked to the umber hulk in question. As if in answer it had knelt down and let Kaltyra climb up, then carried her back to her camp. When it lowered her down chittering, she waved and left them, beaming.

............

There had been a rule back then that Stonetooth had agreed to: While in the camp he must never, ever use his spirits to heal. The head priest had been adamant about this, declaring Gruumsh was the only path to health and happiness in HIS tribe. At the time, Kaltyra hadn’t thought much of this. Now, with a wounded leg, it made her wonder.

The paw on her stomach was warm, and getting warmer. The liquid heat didn’t scald but it spread down her legs, up her chest to her arms and her head until her whole body felt in fever. Her pain lost it’s edge and for a moment Kaltyra would have sworn she heard someone whispering. Then it was gone.

Kile, the mother bear, sat in front of Kaltyra on her haunches. Kaltyra knew that was her name, she didn’t ask why. She did however sit up and touch her leg. It wasn’t sore anymore. Kile and Kaltyra met gazes, then the orc grinned widely.

“Really, I thought you would have been a spider.”

Kile sneezed in response.

Such was the beginning of the duo. To romp, to hide, to hunt and play. To survive and maybe, just yet, prosper.

[Lampir]

[Disclaimer: These are just Kaltyra’s experiences as she sees them and how I can remember. If, excuse me, when I get things wrong please don’t get too upset. I hope I do the events some small justice, if no large one. Thank you to everyone who has made my time on the server so much fun!]

It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

Where was Grah’thok? He should be watching over this suicidal human, not her. Oh, yes, he had told her it was safer if a few of them owed her a favor. It had been how he could move around so freely, but right now, in the scorching sunlight it was getting on her nerves. She glowered at Zacham.

“What do you mean you are not going to kill him?”

“I would rather he not force my hand.”

“How many times does Norris have to try to kill you before he forces your hand?” Kaltyra barked in agitation. It was like talking to a stone wall.

“It would be different,” he explained patiently, “if they attacked my friends or my brethren of the temple. I’ve had more than one attempt on my own life, after all.”

Martyrs. Kaltyra snuffed and threw up her hands. “You want this ended, you kill him. He tries to kill you, you kill him. What do you think will happen, you talk him into being nice??”

“Well... yes, actually. That would be ideal.”

“Fine!” She turned in a boiling anger. “Die then, little man.”

A knight in shining armor, Sir Jonas, lifted one gray brow as the black cloaked figure stalked away. When he looked to Zacham for an explanation, the man just shrugged.

...........

It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

Gnolls fell left, they fell right. Whatever she and her hunting pack set upon it died in claws of steel and bone. The day might not be such a loss after all. She turned, all eager anticipation, to the South. They stalked further and further down the road, the one called Zeke happily trilling about the city beyond and it’s smiths of legend.

Rounding one bend the group scattered as a goblin fell on them with a wicked weapon and a glazed evil grin. “Kile!” Kaltyra keened the name to battle and mother bear was there at her side with the others, hewing and hacking, ducking and dodging the spry accurate thing. It was fast, but they were a force of power and it fell, just like they all fell.

“Hah!” Kaltyra barked, rubbing a blood matted glove through Kile’s fur. “Well done!“

“That’s funny,” said Zeke as he knelt down, “do you hear that hissing noise? It sounds a bit like a fu-”

KABOOM

The world went white. Then it all went dark.

She felt as if in a dream, drifting in some horrid dark wasteland. Then something grabbed her and jerked her back into her body. She gasped and quickly grabbed at her stomach, eyes wide with worry. A priest stood above them, glowing energy still tingling down her body as she curled up protectively.

“There you are.” He said, almost bemused at her scorched form. “Try to be more careful next time.”

Kaltyra decided to return to the relative safety of Balder’s Gate.

...........

It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

She couldn’t find –anyone-. Zacham wouldn’t listen. Sir Jonas wouldn’t help. Grah was missing. Even the Saint wasn’t at her usual post in the silly temple. It was some time into her futile search that Kaltyra’s eyes went wide with a terrible realization – she was looking to spend time.. with.. ugh.. lesser races.

Instantly the old beaten in lessons of her childhood washed her with guilt and self loathing. Was she that low, that she’d rather spend time with.. things like that than be alone? Was she losing herself here – protecting humans and placating elves?

Just where was her place?

It wasn’t here, not here. However she couldn’t just leave. There were exploding goblins and worse. What she needed was a way back into the tunnels. Homesickness washed over her. Long, winding, endless tunnels. Dark, sunlight-free places with skittering beetles and shuffling mycanoids. The moss was always brighter on the other side. Now that she was on the surface, she longed to go back.

Kaltyra sat tucked unobtrusively between some crates grumbling to herself. The camp was quiet and she found it easy to get lost in her dark, angry thoughts.

.............

It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

“Swive.” Shouted a human, preoccupied in his own woes. His fingers dug into his hair, wiped his face as if willing the troubles to wash free. He thumped onto an empty bench in anger and kicked at the dirt before burying his face once more in his hands.

The orc looked up, that single expletive summing up the very heart of her own feelings. She stopped attacking her bread and pulled up her face scarf again. “My sentiments precisely.”

The man looked up in surprise. “Did you lose your job too?”

“Hm. I do not have a job.” She replied in resentful feminine baritones.

“Well, what’s your problem then?” As if daring our protagonist to top his own woes.

“I am far far from home in a strange land with strange, stupid people.” Kaltyra surmised bluntly.

“Heh, to quote you, my sentiments precisely.” The man smiled bitterly.

“You are not from Balder’s Gate?” She asked, finding some kindredness in their plights.

“I’m a long ways off.” He explained a place that made no sense using landmarks and names Kaltyra had never heard of. “Are you from Amn, then?”

“I have heard of Amn, but no. I do not know where I was as to where I am.” She paused then offered what remained of her bread. It wasn’t really hers, as she regularly stopped into that temple for her food. Charity was a fascination she wished to explore. “Hungry?”

The man nodded and she tossed him the bread, smacking him in the face purely by accident.

“What are your woes?” She asked, wanting to steer the conversation away from things of herself.

“They fired me, said the economy was crashing.”

“Crashing into what?”

“Just.. falling apart. The blacksmith said he couldn’t afford me anymore. So now what am I going to do?”

“Starve? Die? Or maybe you will survive.”

“It’s not like I can easily get another job and I’m not going to become a well paid fighter over night.”

“You will not know until the battle. It is the way for runts to be left to survive or die. You have to prove you are worth feeding.” Sometimes Kaltyra forgot to use human terminology for things.

“Easy for you to say. You look like someone who could survive a lot better than me.”

Kaltyra shrugged. “That is because I was a runt. I had to learn or die long ago.”

The man leaned forward, some of the sorrow lost in his curiosity. “I’m Nolan, by the way.”

“Kaltyra.”

He smiled. “Why don’t you tell me your story.”

Uh oh. “My.. story?”

“How you grew up, your life so far.”

Kaltyra thought fast. “I think, maybe, you are distracting yourself from your own problems.”

“I probably am, but mine are simple: No job, little food. End of story.”

“And what will you do?”

“Whell, lad, thar be plenty o’ jobs ‘bout the place ifn yous look hard.” Piped in a vaguely familiar dwarf as he wandered into the fire circle. Thiom of the Shieldcarvers.

Kaltyra lingered back in the conversation, letting the runt human chatter with the dwarf. He was wrinkling his nose as if something stank. It took her a precious few minutes too long to realize what he was scenting and then it was too late.

Thion looked her way and his eyes narrowed, glittering in the firelight. <“I’ve got your stink now, pigface.”> He growled in orc. Kaltyra stiffened, looking for some way to escape without a chase.

“Come then, Nolan. We will get you weapons and you will kill.” She got up a bit too quickly, hurrying towards the bridge. Thiom watched her go darkly.

“What was that about?” Nolan asked, scrambling to catch up.

The orc thought, half distracted with her own nose – was she being followed? “Old.. Bad blood between our families.” She concluded, her improved mood gone. Survival instincts were kicking in.

“You’re not human, are you?”

Kaltyra shook her head.

“Well, what are you then?

“Lost.” The word was spat bitterly.

They pressed into the city, another dwarf shoving by and snarling “Outta te way, pigface!” in common this time. Kaltyra flinched and let out a low growl, pressing hurriedly into the weapons shop. There she dropped a coin pouch in Nolan’s hands.

“The fool gave this to me when I was first here. I was saving to give her the money back, but I think she would like it given to you. It is the way of the fool.”

And so they bought armor and they bought weapons and Kaltyra watched the young human’s shy antics as he bough stock he had hours before been cleaning or sorting. Then they headed back they way they had come. They alas had to pass the camp again on the way out, but Kaltyra felt she had a small but useful shield in Nolan, so steadied herself.

Thiom sniffed and turned, growling something in orc at her. She flicked a gesture at Thiom then hurried on. Nolan glanced behind them. “What did he say?”

“You do not want to know.”

“I do, but you’re not going to tell me.” He concluded resentfully.

“He warned me not to eat you.” said Kaltyra in exasperation.

“Oh, heh, well that’s good. I’m not very tasty.. All stringy and stuff.”

“Not as bad as you might think.” Kaltyra said offhandedly before she could stop.

“Well, now what?” Nolan seemed unafraid.

“Now I throw you to the wolves and we see if you die or live.”

“What will you do?”

“Watch, maybe eat you.” Kaltyra said the words with only a modicum of sarcasm.

“I don’t care what Thiom says. I think you’re rather nice.”

Kaltyra snuffed noncommittally then shooed Nolan into the woods. “Go, go now runt. Let us see who survives.”

............

It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

But, maybe not entirely.

[Lampir]

“What was your first time fighting a human?”

Kaltyra smirked good naturedly at Barnak. “I’m a runt, remember? I do good to help in minor hunting parties like this. It takes to me better than cleaning out the humans.”

“I don’t buy that for a second. Your tribe wanders too close to the surface.”

“Oh, I never said I didn’t encounter them.”

Kaltyra prodded the small moss-chip fire between them. It would die soon and then they would sleep. Barnak was leaning forward and Kaltyra got the sudden sense she had better tell a tale or have to deal with him here and now. Maybe a tale would help dissuade him. She took a breath and began in her smooth sultry baritones.

“It was the spore season and we had migrated to the Patches earlier this year than normal because the blind fish weren’t plentiful enough at the Bend to sustain us. We were first and that let us begin to harvest some of the early fruits while our hunters took early, easy game not chased away by habitation. We were hungry and this bounty was a much needed blessing. The High Priest was held in great respect for his guidance.

But, there were other things besides the prey-creatures that had not yet expected us to be there. Hunting parties came back with reports of dead fires and signs of camp down the east way. At first we thought Drow and our warriors prepared to defend but that wasn’t it at all.

I was fetching more mushrooms one day when a pink-skinned man popped up from the nearby stream. He hadn’t seen me until I shrieked. His eyes got all bug-big and he started to wave his hands. Then he ran forward and tackled me, covering my mouth. I bit him, but he didn’t let go.”

Kaltyra shook her head, smiling at strange youthful days.

“I was scared at the time, but now I just think it’s funny. He wasn’t even a warrior. He said he was a...” her nose wrinkled in thought “He used a lot of bad, bad orc, but I think he was a cave sniffer, or maybe a scout? He had all this equipment and he showed it to me, when he thought I wouldn’t run for help. Lots of paints and books and strange metal tools for circles and lines.

He didn’t seem bad, so I erm.. adopted him. He seemed good at keeping away from our hunters, but he would let me see him and we talk about the plants and what we called them. I put flowers in his hair and he looked funny, all bright skinned and strange. He taught me some of his words and I corrected some of his orc, but we never really fully understood each other. I was just enjoying my secret pet.”

Barnak piped in, trying to keep the disapproving growl out of his voice. “Is that where you learned your common then? Is he still around?”

“We killed him, eventually. I cried that it wasn’t fair, that he was funny and strange but the hunters found him around me and killed him. Then they beat me and sent me to the high priest for my sins. I wouldn’t listen, though. He was my pet, just like Stonetooth had said.”

Barnak shook his head. “Humans aren’t tamed like the beetles or lizards of the camp You can’t play with them.”

Kaltyra snuffed irritably. “Are you going to let me finish my story?”

Barnak settled back with a frown, so she continued.

“The tribe was mad at me, and I was back to scrounging for food while I stayed out of their way. There was much talk of the human and what he had meant. Most agreed he wouldn’t have been alone. They stuck his head on a pike facing the east way, to warn off others that might come, but that didn’t stop them when they did.

They were glowing, bright as night-crystal. The camp frenzied, racing to defend the older, the sicker, the smaller. But even they picked up rocks or spears and did their part. The humans threw rocks that exploded into light and charged into our blinded warriors. Many fell, there was so much blood.. so much screaming...”

Kaltyra shut her eyes to will the images out, but this only invited the scene back in clear detail, the slashing blades, the falling warriors, the spells of Gruumsh flying hard and fast. Sometimes a warrior would rise, and sometimes they would jerk with the power, but remain still and dead. She had tried so, so hard to stay hidden, but when her mother became surround, Kaltyra had thrown rocks like the other children and that had gotten one’s attention. It was like some metal monster splashed with crimson. Kaltyra had screamed in primal terror. She stared at her death made manifest. But another warrior had leapt on the man and he had to fall back, leaving Kaltyra to scuttle and hide from the rest of the battle.

She looked up, now much older, to Bartok who sat with mild impatience at his companion’s daydreaming.

“My tribe suffered for my mistake. I do not know why, but the humans slew many, took the pike and then fled. The High Priest wasn’t done with me though. He took me to the surface, beat me soundly and abandoned me there for bringing the human plague on them.“

Kaltyra’s tones were somber. “I know I deserved it all...”

Barnak grunted. “I don’t think you know that at all. You’re still alive and you’re still with your tribe.”

“You know the way of things. You test the offspring after a great loss in warriors, to train them faster to defend the tribe. The tribe won’t survive if this isn’t done. But the beating and being on the surface, that was plenty bad. I shouldn’t have survived.”

Barnak did not answer, watching Kaltyra seriously. “How did you survive then?”

Kaltyra thought for a moment as the final embers of the fire died. She remembered the hazy events, though even now she wasn’t sure what to make of them.

.............

There had been pain, great pain and she had curled up against a tree trying to escape the sun. Then a great shadow had fallen over her and a hand had picked up her swollen face. Something glass was pressed into her lips. “Consume.” said a voice in broken orc. She had drank it, hoping it was proper poison and that would be the end, but it wasn’t. It had healed her.

Then she was hugging the dead mapmaker who seemed very much alive. He stood there, chuckling in his timid good natured way. Then, like all short-attentioned children, Kaltyra had suddenly remembered all the death in her family and she kicked the man’s shin hard. “Ouch!” He had cried out in no particular language at all.

His companions heard the commotion and strode into the clearing.

“Another one?”

“Well, easily dealt with.” Said another, hefting his ax.

“Woah woah! Don’t make me waste a perfectly good draught!” The mapmaker stepped between the runt and the human, waving his hands. Kaltyra couldn’t understand what was said, but she got the impression the mapmaker wanted her alive for some reason and the other humans weren’t happy about it, gesticulating at her in agitation. Whatever the words, the mapmaker won the argument and the others stomped off angrily. He had turned then and knelt in front of her like he had at the stream so many times. She glowered at him.

“I no start fight.” said the mapmaker in his usual broken orc . He smiled broadly. “I make peace.”

“You killed my family!”

“Not me.” He waved back in the direction of his comrades. “Them.” He thought, the pulled off his satchel and began to empty things from it. “Here. Take this.”

She eyed the bag warily, then took it. It had food, water, a book and a simple dagger.

“You can come with me.” He offered, holding out his hand. “Or you can go home.”

Kaltyra turned and hurried towards where the man had pointed. That had to be the cave.

“You can come back. I like you.” The man had called as Kaltyra disappeared below to her beloved darkness.

.............

Older, now, Kaltyra sat quietly. Bartok watched her with deep suspicion. Finally she shook her head in the darkness and murmured. “Luck. I survived by luck.”

[Lampir]

Maybe at present, good readers, you see little more than a victim and maybe victim she is. As a runt and as a female at that, there is little place for her. Few are lower on the hierarchy than she. Perhaps she is even the lowest for her crimes against the tribe as a youth. She was allowed to stay, having navigated her way back to the tribe. Kaltyra was a true survivor.

However, as our protagonist has mentioned, her mother was a warrior, a cleric of Gruumsh to be precise. She had some influence, even if this daughter was a disgrace that kept her from becoming the next High Priest. Kaltyra’s mother sought a way to bury the old stories of her daughter by sending her away in places of great danger. Either she would come back a hero for the tribe or she would not come back at all. Her mother would win, regardless.

And so, let us begin our tale....

...........

Rain drives in hard sheets across the night swept village. A few lights are still on, glowing defiant orange squares through the windows. The brightest lights are at the Stunned Satyr, where cheerful banter continues unabated by storm.

“Just think of the Duke coming by tomorrow for his grand inspection, all plastered with mud for his trouble. That’ll show the sod to harass us poor farmers.”

The tavern ripples with cheers and laughs. James calls out “Make him think twice about that tax o’ his. What with the landslides and the ground tough as nails. We do good enough ta feed our scrawny selves let alone his fat arse.”

More steins clink together, more drinks. “Aye but ain’t it a poor soul what can’t afford a round o’ drinks with his mates, eh?”

“Here’s to good company and good ale!” Chimes in another. “And here’s a diddy for the favors of friends old an’ new.” Grink spins round, steadies himself, then grabs up his penny whistle, bringing it to his lips.

..........

Pull back now, back through the inn as men sing in various states of off-keyed drunkenness. Drift ever back out the window, so it becomes a tiny dot of comfort in the pouring night. Back until the cheerful piping is carried away by a howling wind. Lightening flashes. There, for a moment, is movement. A great carpet of stones prowling down the mountain.

Another flash and you see that, no, those are no stones. They bare great axes or bows and are clad in shell and fur. Their water-strewn faces are set grimly on the village below. Goats bleat in alarm, dogs bark but no one pays them mind. The storm has unsettled the dumb beasts.

...........

“Til the fat one comes hoooooOOOOOooommmmeee!” Howl the men inside, arm in arm, mugs held high.

Cheers, roars for more, more! Grink grins a cocky grin, downs another slug of ale the lifts his penny whistle once more.

The door explodes inward. Great war-bellows echo storm-thunder. “KAAARRRKAAARROOOOK!” Scream the attackers. Splinters fly outward and men duck behind tables shouting in confusion. Orcs charge through the door like rain-slicked avatars of death. A chaos of ale and blood, wood and weapon fly through the air. Screams cut short, shrieks begin to rise like phantoms in the night, piercing here and there as one by one the houses get taken by smaller bands.

Kaltyra branches into one of these, falling on a herd of goats. She grapples the panicked things, bashing each in the skull with her club. There is a, TWANG, then a wet fleshy, THWIP, as a bolt bites into her side. Kaltyra grabs at it letting out a defiant howl into the night sky. Oh how delicious the dark wave of anger felt.

The human female backs up trying hurriedly to reload. Her eyes widen as she looks up to see the hulking mud-stained orc leap at her from all fours. One whip of the club and.. it all goes black for her. Kaltyra whirls around, ignoring her wound, feeling only the thrill. Pain is just another sharp high note in the orchestra of battle. Her eyes are dilated from the excitement of the raid. Rather than fall back on the goats, she stalks inside, searching for more challenge.

A boy comes at her with a frying pan. She grabs at it and throws him, pan and all, to the side. He starts to get up, so she bounds at him and swings the club. This time the skull cracks open and crimson blood leaks out. The boy stops fighting and Kaltyra, uncaring, moves in search of more.

.............

The village has gone silent once more. Some of the homes that had been warm with light are now burning. Many are being pillaged. Most of the warriors fall to - quenching the end of their battle lust with women or food. Kaltyra grabs for a roasting pig in the tavern. The meat smells intoxicatingly good...

Her hand is slapped and a male shoves her aside grabbing the pig for himself. She rises in protest, but the male turns and lets out a low warning growl. Kaltyra ducks her head submissively. It isn’t a good idea to fight a male in the best of times, let alone right after a battle. Her stomach complains, so she looks for other food, finds bread. She gets it this time, but as she goes to take a bite another male grabs it from her and again she is knocked to the side.

She lets out an impatient irritated sound, growling something in orc. The male, half stuffed with bread, grunts a laugh at the female’s bravado and bends down. What he picks up, an arm, he throws at Kaltyra. She stares at the human limb and sighs inwardly. It isn’t even cooked. But her stomach whines with starvation and she hurries away, lest the others decide to steal this from her too. Finally, in the rain, she eats what meat she can get her hands on.

[Lampir]

It was different, attacking versus being attacked. There was a power and flow to it. You had the upper hand and you were in control. Despite all this, Kaltyra did not fit in with the raiding parties. It wasn’t the violence, exactly. It was the warriors. They were aggressive and dangerous. Kaltyra didn’t like her odds around them when they frenzied. So she snuck away, bartering with the tribe’s hunters to be taught how to hunt by the shifting smells of a cavern. She practiced stone throwing until it became an art to her, being one of the few weapons she was permitted. This got her by so long as she kept her head down and didn’t make too much trouble.

Time was passing and there were smaller orcs to push around. Kaltyra did what any old runt might and pushed around the new ones to better her own life. Let them survive what she had, endure what she had. Let them prove they were worth the precious little food they had. Then they too would have a better place in the tribe. It was a happy time for her. She had overcome the tribe’s trials, tasted blood in battle and proven herself to at least be worth ignoring. She was growing into a short but attractive young female, so she spent many a hunting trip daydreaming of which male might take her for one of his wives.

In all the hardships she endured, all the troubles she faced, Kaltyra never took these as cruelties. It was a hard life and you had to live by hard rules. Their society might not have been as peaceful on the surface as a human’s, but all their ugly was out in the open to be seen. Humans hid their ugly and let it fester into dark cruelties with no rhyme or reason.

Kaltyra knew this because of her mother’s slave.

Her mother had been brought the woman for interrogation long before and had agreed to let the woman live in return for the movements of local surface patrols. Her freedom had not been part of the deal, so the woman was kept as a servant and punching bag.

Sometimes Kaltyra thought the woman was kept alive in the way a cat will bring a live mouse back to it’s kittens. She was to be a training tool, a demonstration of how orcs were supposed to behave. But the woman had learned quickly and Kaltyra had a secret admiration for her survival instincts. The woman soon discovered that Kaltyra could speak some common and bartered tales and lessons for food. She had argued that Kaltyra could infiltrate human villages if her common was good enough and if she knew it fluently, she could detect the subtle gestures and intonations that betrayed a lie or halftruth in interrogation.

That, maybe, just maybe might improve her lot in the tribe, Kaltyra thought. So she agreed and fed the human some scraps from time to time for her lessons. She had no idea that what her tribe had put in store for her.

............

“Give me food.” Demanded a bulky young male, menacing Kaltyra’s perch by the fire. The gray orc lifted one brow incredulously, but the young male balled up his fists preparing to lunge at her. She snorted and held out her hand, planting the palm on the kid’s forehead. She held him back as he swung his fists in the air, unable to reach her. She laughed merrily... then yelped ‘Ouch!” as the offspring twisted back and bit at her wrist. Kaltyra snarled and swung her foot, kicking the male back several feet.

“My food.” She warned, the words half body language.

The male made a rude gesture screamed “Half blood!” and skittered off to evade Kaltyra’s well aimed rock.

“Cursed pests.” She shook her head irritably as her mother approached.

“Your brother.” Froklur corrected, sitting across from her daughter.

“Hardly reason to feed him.”

“You might not think so when he gets bigger than you. Then you might wish you’d tended your warriors better.”

“He should thank me for making life harsh. The world will give no more mercy than I.”

“Are you certain there isn’t more to it?” Her mother gave Kaltyra a level knowing look, bedecked in her ceremonial garb. For the first time, Kal began to wonder if there was more to this talk. They rarely acknowledged each other.

“That is all there needs to be.” She answered warily.

“Would you like to hear what I think?” Kaltyra’s silence sufficed for a response and Froklur continued. “I think the talk is true. I think you have bedded humans, dwarves, anything that catches your eye.”

Kaltyra’s eyes grew wide. “W.. What?!” Her words sputtering as the anger built.

“You’re a human sympathizer, Kaltyra. We all know you have gone against my orders and left the raiding parties. What other reason is there?”

“Wait, the warriors take females all the time in raids!”

Froklur lifted a brow. “Oh, so you have been sleeping with the pink skins.”

“NO!” Kaltyra rose to her feet gesticulating violently. “I am just saying that is what happens on raids!”

The priestess shrugged. “Kaltyra, the difference is those abominations stay in those camps to be destroyed. You have been lucky not to give birth yet. The resulting ritual would be very, very painful.”

Kaltyra could feel her hackles rising. She fought to keep it down, building the fire deep inside. “I have not bedded anything.”

“But you want to.”

“NO!”

Froklur frowned. “That is no way to talk to your better.”

Kaltyra scowled murder but dipped her head, ears flattened.

“What I have not heard,” Froklur continued, stroking a bead in her hair, “is that you want to bed a proper male. That is your duty and your time is long over due. You are big enough now, even for a runt, for a warrior’s furs. Now. Is that what you want, Kaltyra? To be a good, proper part of this tribe?”

“Of course, Froklur.” Kal said with exasperation and relief. Maybe she would finally be made a full functioning part of the tribe. Would she have a daughter as sharp-minded as her? Or maybe a son to grow big and strong and bring pride to her husband. Either way the waiting was finally over.

“Good, because we have found you a husband.”

Kaltyra looked up with excitement. “Who is it? Gornac? Trac’tyr? Maybe-”

A wave silenced Kaltyra. Froklur responded. “You have led a disgraceful life in our tribe. There are no males interested in taking on your shame. You are not strong enough to bare good mighty sons and that makes you useless.”

“But..”

“But, the High Priest and the chief have found a solution. You are aware of the tensions between the local tribes here?” A nod let her continue. “And you are aware we have been seeking ways to keep things peaceful while our warriors numbers are low.” Another nod. “The current chief of the Raz’grok tribe has only managed one son. This will be your husband.”

Lightening pierced Kaltyra’s heart, she looked up, betrayed. “Another tribe?” she squeaked.

“And a husband who knows nothing of your past disgraces. You are welcome.”

“But I don’t wa-”

Froklur leveled a dangerous look on Kaltyra. “You are going, girl. That is the end of things.”

Kaltyra felt a dark rage stir inside her that did not diminish as Froklur rose and left the fire.

[Lampir]

No one was happy that day, except for maybe Froklur. Many of the tribe were skeptical of giving over anything, even a runt, over to another tribe. Kaltyra felt comforted by this and for her hunting companions who stopped to leave small gifts for her and wish her many strong children.

She pointedly refused to show her anger. Instead she tried to envision what her husband would look like. He would be strong, mighty with the blood of a chief running through him. He would be broad and bold so that she would swoon to think of them sharing furs. By the time she had traveled to the point where her escort was to find her, Kaltyra was exceptionally cheered. She’d not had much chance of getting the pick of the warriors to look her way, but now, a chief’s son? A fine, deserving match. He would be the brawn and she the brain and they would rule together. Maybe they would raid her old tribe and they would take her mother and strip her of her title. That would be a good day.

She was led into the new tribe’s camp and pushed to her knees. The chief was exceptionally broad. He had muscles atop muscles and a low short stature. His eyes were pinpricks of red that glowered down at Kaltyra with surprised disgust.

“This is what they send to me?!”

Kaltyra flattened her ears and lowered her head, every survival instinct screaming to evade this orc.

“This.. tiny scrap of a thing?! How will this female make good strong sons??”

Again the female in question remained still and silent.

“This is an insult! Kill her and send back the head.”

That got Kaltyra’s attention. The world around her slowed as that sweet sweet adrenaline supercharged her senses. She could see her escort leaning down to grab her arm. She turned at her waist and swung for all she was worth, slamming her fist into the orc’s solar plexus.

Time sped up again. Kaltyra lept to her feet and grabbed her fallen escort’s greataxe. She swayed under it’s weight - unbalanced and unused to such a massive weapon. Still she compensated, using the heft to power a swing that connected with the orc. He snarled and grabbed her legs, yanking her to the ground. Kal yelped, dropping the ax, then curled in, biting at the arm that held her. He roared and punched at her skull, knocking her off.

Beyond there were strange sounds, a rukus and another high barking noise: bellowing laughter from the chief. The male rose to his feet and kicked Kaltyra in the stomach. She lurched, but grabbed hold of his foot and twisted, sending him sprawling once more. Then the others were there. They formed a circle around the pair, lifting axes and roaring in excitement.

The warrior was having none of this from a runt. He bellowed and swung the ax. Kaltyra rolled to evade, but moved right into the orc’s kick. The breath whooshed out of her and she lay there stunned.

“One head coming right up.” Growled the male, lifting the ax execution style.

“Wait!” The chief called between another bout of deep laughter. “Wait.”

Kaltyra pulled herself to all fours, watching everyone around her, knowing she was doomed. Doomed, maybe, but by the stone teeth she was not going to die without a fight!

The chief shook his head, grinning darkly. “No I think we give her to my son. She will do. HAH! Yes, she will do.”

Kaltyra tried to scramble away from the hands that grabbed her. “Enough, runt,” growled the chief. “You have your life, don’t push me to change my mind again.”

So she went without further protest and was thrown still bruised, filthy and bleeding, into her wedding tent.

[Lampir]

She fell into my room, thrown in by two warriors. What female needed such an escort? She didn’t seem very dangerous. She was small and beaten. Instantly I swore to praise Gruumsh forever for answering my pleas. A female that I could handle! But that was not to be. Oh no. I rose and she swiveled on me. We locked eyes – oh what I would give for the right words for her eyes! Feral, deadly things, the power there just took my breath away.

I just stood there, like a fool. This is why my father doesn’t let me out of my tent anymore. I don’t act like a proper male. I think he will kill me as soon as one of his wives produces another male.

She breaks my thoughts by snarling and baring her tusks at me. “Well?!”

The demand sent shivers up my spine. What a firebomb! I open my mouth to speak, but I could only let out: “Hello...”

Her brow furrowed, scowled at me. “Don’t just stand there, go fetch my mate!”

“Ah... er..”

“GO!” She barked so demandingly I felt myself instantly complying. I didn’t stop until I was outside my tent. The warriors were there giving me long dubious looks.

“What’s wrong?,” asked one, “The devil girl got you running scared, runt?”

“She’s yours now. Do at least -something- right Barnak.” said the other, Prognose, a bit more exasperated.

I sidled up to my friend and whispered low. “I can’t, Prognose, I think she’ll eat me.”

The other roared with laughter. Prognose rubbed his forehead. “Look.” He gesticulated in sharp simple movements with his hand. “This part is simple, eh? You’re the male. You go and you make strong offspring.. or.. at least something. Point is, this is what she’s here for, right? It’s what the females are for, making sons for us. They know it, we know it. Now you just got to know it.”

“I don’t know...”

Prognose sighed, turned me around with a single hefty hand and shoved me back into the tent. “Go learn.”

She was there, arms folded, still battered and frazzled like any wild beast when I stumbled in. “Well?”

I took a deep breath. “Well... I’m your husband.”

She just stood there, staring at me. So long I began to shuffle uncomfortably. Then... she threw back her head and laughed. Laughed! “No really,” she wiped some tears from her face, “where is the chief’s son?”

“I am the chief’s son, Barnak.” I said, trying to puff up and seem confident.

She blinked, confusion clear. Oh no.. No no... Not this all over again. Sure enough she took a deep breath and screamed “WHAT?!”

I groaned and sank back onto my furs, trying to cover my ears as she ranted and paced.

“This is all wrong! I’m supposed to be a warrior’s wife, not with some.. some runt!!”

“Hey!” I barked in sudden anger, feeling the old useless anger rise up. “You’re a runt too!”

She stopped then and frowned. Then she sat down far across from me. “You’re Barnak?” I nodded and she sighed. “Wonderful.”

“No point getting sarcastic.” I growled back. “I didn’t ask for a hellcat for a wife you know.”

“Nnng!” She rolled her head into her arm and snarled at nothing in particular. It was cute, in a scary kind of way. “Our children are going to be runt-runts!” She wailed in frustration.

“Maybe not! You’ve seen my father, maybe...”

She snorted, cutting me off. “I am not having weak offspring that will die inside of a few months anyway. There is no point.”

“The point is you’re a part of this tribe and you’ll be fed and kept safe as part of this tribe. Look, I don’t know what soft life you lived back in your tribe but it’s tough over here.”

She fixed me with a look that might kill. “My tribe has had it far worse than yours. Our chief’s sons don’t get tents to themselves and the runts are lucky to live, let alone get mates.”

“Well, that’s the same here.” I sputtered hurriedly. “I’m fairly certain if I had any brothers I would be lucky to be alive. My father keeps me in here to keep the talk quiet.”

It went quiet then. She was looking me up and down critically, so I repaid her with an equally judging look.

“Maybe we can make both our lives better here.”

I considered this. She was making me a deal, that was clear, and I thought maybe, just maybe she would grow to want me when she realized there was nothing else. “Fine. But know this is your tribe now, your home. That is how things are.” She nodded and I stood, trying to to show her I wasn’t afraid. “I will do what I can to care for you, feed you and guard you. That is my role. .. so.. eventually you will need to fill yours.” I wish it hadn’t come out so uncertain.

She sighed then and began to pick some of the furs and make a resting place. I edged closer inhaling her scent. It smelled so, so nice. The husk of mushroom spores and the tang of limestone water. I must have gotten too close because she turned on me and growled.

“What is your name?” I managed, proud that my voice didn’t waver.

She softened and answered “Kaltyra. Kaltyra of the Dryne Wanderer Tribe.”

“That isn’t your tribe anymore.”

“It is where I grew up. It where I had friends. It will be my tribe until the day I die.”

Gruumsh be damned. She was going to be a handful.

[Lampir]

My name is Kaltyra, of the Dryne Wanderer tribe. There I was born and there will I die, in spirit if not in body.

Humans are indeed a sorry, sorry lot. Just yesterday I found out how deep their filth goes. Did you know they live on top of their own refuse?? I didn’t know what a sewer was, but I do now. What is worse, they let it just pile up and pile up so bad that it had started walking around attacking people. And they call -us- the pigs. HAH! No, we have the sense to stick to water ways and move to let nature deal with things. We don’t stockpile our leavings and sleep atop them like a demented dragon.

To add to the insanity, the humans I was following found a beaten worn statue of a winged human. They began to swear the thing was a real angel, trapped in rock. What did they have to go by all this?? The fact the statue ate magic. It –ate- magic. It didn’t heal people or cause good luck. It was half-destroyed by acidic animated slime. Clearly, obviously, this was a holy-thing that was down on it’s luck.

It’s no wonder Gruumsh killed so many of their pantheons. Apparently human feces is enough to take them down.

We are left with two conclusions. The first is that an angel decided to take a holiday in the human tunnel of filth, ran into animated waste-monsters, and turned to stone. The other is someone decided what this tunnel really needed was a rock-angel to brighten up the place.

Let me propose a more intelligent option, one I posed to the humans with me. The statue was not an angel at all, but a demon artifact shaped like an angel because humans are STUPID and think anything with feathered wings must automatically be good. But, they do not listen to me.

Either way, they carried it all the way back and refused to do the sensible thing and clean up until the stained stone thing was safely tucked into their magic tower. Humans. Dumber than rocks.

At least there is Grah’Thok. He is only as dense as most warriors and has more sense than the humans he stands with. I cannot decide what to do with him. He is the first half-sensible person I have run into, but he is clearly a mountain orc and a half-blood too. An abomination that would have been purged had he been born in our tribe. And his mother? She would have been long dead too.

I have heard a phrase ‘Any port in a storm’. Now that I understand it, it fits well here. He is the most true-orc I have run into. He showed me places to hide, good places, and who to watch out for in the Fist. He helped me find my feet here and for that I found myself grateful to a half-blood. He is strong, very strong, and if he weren’t a half-blood there’d be little keeping me from his furs, I think. Well, except that other thing. ...

I still do not know what to do about that. I am eating more and more so I take that as a sign that it still lives. Luckily my armors are loose and heavily padded, so I am not offering a juicy target to enemies. I would have liked to be back in my tribe, asking for the wisdom of older wives, but I will make due with what I have. I feel strange, not entirely myself. I hope this is to do with my surroundings and not with anything else.

I like being wanted, so I let Grah’Thok grin at me and watch me like a prize find, despite the fact it will not work. I am risking much. Too much temptation and he may come for me. It is a dangerous game to play and I try to stop, but I cannot. I think his mother is what keeps him at bay. She who bid a human warrior to her bed. I thought that was a myth, a very chilling disgusting myth, but there sits beside me proof of it’s truth.

Half-bloods. I might feel shamed if I weren’t so desperate to survive.

[Lampir]

Lucavern

He called himself Lucavern when he wore his mask and just about anything else when he didn’t. It was a clever idea, to hide your identity so it’s truth would be your disguise. She had seen him use it the very night she met him. A serpent-tongue if she had ever heard one.

Grah’Thok had introduced him as ‘good people’ that meaning one who was a good ally and not someone who would kill her on sight. Kaltyra reserved her judgment on him. He was sly and crafty and better, far better, at it that she. However, Grah’Thok had had time to see his sides, and that carried weight with her. She would try befriending this human who talked and thought so much like she.

It was not a week after meeting Lucavern that Kaltyra had a change of heart with this one.

Though Kaltyra had sworn to stay away from Zacham’s insanity, she had been with Grah’Thok when he was called to ambush the man’s assassin. Ambushing being up her ally, Kaltyra came with them and helped hide them while Lucavern walked in disguised to lure Norris out.

What happened when Luca came out again? There was no Norris. Kaltyra sniffed and looked back and forth. No one but Lucavern and his strange silent companion.

“Kaltyra, bring out the others please.”

Kaltyra had wandered out from her place behind crates, then motioned the all-clear to the others.

“What happened?”

That was when men dropped from warehouse roofs and rushed from all directions, pinning them in. Kaltyra drew her weapon as Grah bellowed out a war cry and the world dropped with a curtain of red. Red, delicious red...

The assassins lay dead around them, some groaning but down. Zacham fell into a high pitched whine about how the world was out to get him and his life was ruined and that if evil was the only option, by hell he’d..... It was all whine to Kaltyra. She grabbed his cloak and dragged him out of the docks. “We are sitting targets here. You can cry later!”

She was bleeding and the high pitched thrill of adrenaline was now a low and dying buzz. It wouldn’t be long before her body demanded she stop. She could not take another ambush. Grah’Thok wore the dark frustration of a warrior denied his target. Lucavern? Lucavern lingered back.

.............

Zacham

Zacham was also introduced as ‘good people’ but Kaltyra didn’t see it at all. She tolerated him, even though he had decided to dress as a barbarian for disguise and call himself Zug Zug. Zug Zug wore a thin brown cloak, dark hood, and a few fake looking trinkets. The effect was like a mouse trying to call itself a dire bear. Kaltyra and Grah’Thok had to keep from laughing the entire time he wore his ‘disguise’.

Zug Zug pretty much summed up Kaltyra’s impression of the man. He was flighty, stupid and hopelessly confused. Had he been in her tribe, he wouldn’t have made it a month. He would be too busy debating why people couldn’t be nicer to notice the ax coming down on his head.

Zug Zug sat down at the table of an inn, still wailing about the world gone wrong as Kaltyra turned to bandaging her wounds. She was tired, cross with herself for even helping someone like Zacham. What had it gotten her? Danger. Perhaps, now, she would be a target for future assassinations. Like she needed that on top of her normal problems here.

Did Zacham care? No. She tried to offer him solutions, but he turned on her, saying she didn’t know anything. Grah growled at the man, but Kal was watching Zacham’s eyes. They were turning red.

Just then Lucavern strode into the inn, back in his mask and cloak. “Grah, Zacham. We need to talk. Privately.”

Kal looked around. Of the group who had been a part of the entire ambush, she was the only one left out of this little ‘private talk’. She looked down at the red rags she’d used to clean herself, then clenched her teeth to bite back her anger. “Fine.” she snarled. “I did not want to be a part of this anyway.”

Useless. It had all been pointless. She had bled for them, risked her life for them, and still they treated her as disposable. Grah glanced at Kal, trying to say something but unable. Kal turned on him and sneered. “Go. Go play with your human friends.”

Damned humans. Damned half-bloods.

Grah looked as if he had been stabbed, faltered, then turned to follow Zacham and Lucavern. The treachery was complete.

..............

Grah’Thok

Grah’Thok looked between Luca and Zachem but heard little of what they said.

“You want to kill me??” Zacham was protesting.

“Do you have any idea what your head is worth right now?” Lucavern replied in cool tones, trying to sound calm and logical.

All Grah’Thok was hearing was the bickering, as if it were the first time he’d heard their talk for what it was – pointless human dribble. In the back of his head he could see his hand reaching for his long un-used great-axe and severing both their heads in one clean motion. Problem solved.

“All I could think of.” Grah confessed to Kaltyra “Was how I was going to kill them, if they made me lose you.”

Kaltyra dipped her head sheepishly. A warrior wanted to kill people for her, what female wouldn’t feel just a jump of pleasure at hearing that? She, the runt, made someone want to kill for her. Granted, a half-blood... But you had to start somewhere.

“I think you were right.” Grah went on, a dark frown on his face. “I been too soft around these humans. I let them drag me into stupid games.”

This made Kal hesitate. There was murder in his voice. Normally a wonderful thing, but was he really planning on making war with the humans here? He’d shown her what happened to orcs who tried that. “Maybe they are not all so bad.” She offered, having learned just what had been going on in that talk.

“No. Maybe coming here was mistake. I will make new tribe. You a skin shifter. There way to shift me to be just orc?”

Kaltyra twisted her lips. “There are fire tales, great deeds done for Gruumsh that prove a half blood is worthy of being made whole, but I know not that magic.”

Grah nodded, satisfied. “You are good for me. Remind me of what being orc is ‘bout.”

“You are good for me too.” Kal smiled “Without you, I would not be nearly so well off.”

“I not know what to do, if I lost you.”

Kal sighed, furrowed her brow then just said it. “Grah... I am not looking for a mate.”

“Oh.” Grah’s disappointment was clear. “A friend, maybe?”

“A friend, yes.”


...........

Kaltyra looked up as Zacham, lit with spells and frothing in panic, raced out of the city. “Call the Paladins! Call Jonas and the Saint!” He screamed in blind fear at a woman in knightly armor. Her brow furrowed, but Zacham
was gone, racing away. “Assassins! Everywhere! No one can be trusted!”

Dark pleasure rose in our protagonist, someone was out to kill Zacham. She rose and with broad, loping strides, easily caught up in the chase after Zacham. Tonight, she would watch him die, and she would enjoy it. A shadow loped beside her, lingering behind, darting between brush and tree. She could only make out a silhouette, but it wasn’t after her, so she did not care.

They ended in the ruins of some demonic temple. Zacham with his back pressed against a wall corner, waving his weapon madly. “Stay back! By god I may die but I’ll die fighting!”

Kaltyra didn’t feel the slightest twinge of sympathy as she found an out of the way spot to lean against a wall and watch. She looked for the shadow, but it had evaded her.

“Wha, What is this all about Zacham?!” cried the female knightess.

“They’re after me. It’s starting! Even my own friends have turned on me.”

Maybe if you did not treat them like trash... Kaltyra thought with a growing smirk

“I can explain everything.” Lucavern’s words came fro thin air, the man stepping from a shadow right by Zacham.

Kal may have imagined the little girl scream, or maybe Zacham really did squeal like a piglet.

“You stay the hell away from me!”

“Zacham, calm down.”

“NO! You want me dead!”

“You want him dead?” asked the knightess in confusion.

“I drew a weapon on him, but I stayed my hand.” Lucavern said as if reiterating a point.

“You’re working for them!”

“It’s all a bit complicated.” Lucavern purred. “Let’s talk about this privately.”

“Like hell!”

“Just kill him and be done with it.” Kaltyra said flatly from her perch.

But, alas, they did not. No, but she did learn some very interesting things about what had happened and why she had been excluded. This did not abate her anger at the humans, that would last for some time to come.

[Lampir]

She had sat beside Grah’Thok, a dangerous habit that was making her disguise as thin as gauze. A tiefling had laid along a bench, while his friend stood across, enjoying the fire. To another side was another female, most likely a half-orc, but she was covered as Kaltyra so who knew? They kept to themselves, talking in low whispers until one of the men spoke up.

“You orcs whisper loud as hell.”

Kaltyra suppressed a grimace as the men began goading Grah’Thok and herself into a fight. It was escalating, to the point that one was casting spells on himself, glowing like a night’s star. A dwarf, the same Kaltyra had run into before, had joined to watch the proceedings, the group of onlookers was growing larger. Kaltyra’s instinct to run was rising. She had to leave, to protect herself, hide, but Grah was having none of that. She rose, trying to get Grah to leave, but he remained.

“Ah, now we have an audience.” purred one of the instigators, the tiefling. “You have to fight now, mm? No point leaving them waiting.”

Kaltyra’s lips curled in a snarl under her scarf. “I fear your audience will find themselves as wanting as your women. All flash and no bang.”

Several around the fire snickered at this, but the victory was short, oh so painfully short. Not a minute later a woman came by with a body, dropping it down for all to see. It was the female half-orc that had shared the fire earlier. Kaltyra stepped forward. “I will take the body.”

But that dwarf was there again, giving the body a thoughtful look. “It’s too far dead.” He picked it up and before Kaltyra could do anything, he threw the corpse onto the communal fire.

Kal gasped, Grah lifted his lips in a snarl of his own. Laughter, complaints of the smell of burnt pig. The pair left hurriedly, seething at the crowd’s dark delight.

“It is not the violence or the words that bother me!” Kal yelled as they stormed away, seeking refuge in a hunt, “It is that I cannot do anything!”

“That man a coward.” Grah’Thok nodded in menaced agreement. “He not wurth it.”

“He is a barbarian!”

Grah snorted “Barbarians have honor.”

Kal hesitated, then deflated some. “I am sorry, you come from a tribe of barbarians. I forget.”

Grah shrugged and they went on to lose themselves in a hunt.

...........

“She’s and ORC?!”

The elven woman Elvalia shrieked with fierce surprise. That blasted tiefling smirked beneath his hood.

“That explains the cowl!” She sputtered, grabbing for her blade. “Come here orc, we’ll put and end to this.”

Kaltyra backed away, looking wildly for the best and most sure escape.

“Now now, that’s enough of that.” Lucavern stepped between Kal and the elf coolly. “You don’t even know that for certain. All you have is that tiefling’s word. Besides, she’s not doing any harm.”

“Harm?? Every one of her kind does harm. I’ve slain hundreds of orcs and I’ll gladly slay this one to know whatever it’s plans it won’t see them out.” The woman snarled and began to move around Lucavern.

Zacham then sighed and stepped in the alternative path, shielding Kaltyra from the woman. “No one is hurting my friends while I’m around.” He said firmly, not looking forward to a fight.

The elven woman opened her mouth in further red-faced protest when an arrow thocked into the dirt at their feet. Bandits swarmed, taking advantage of their distraction. Elvalia turned, weapon already drawn and charged the attackers. So did Zacham and Lucavern. Kaltyra? Kaltyra ducked for cover and hid as the battle raged.

However, despite Kaltyra’s efforts, the woman charged right towards her cover with murder in her eyes. “Now, as for you.” Her blade still dripped with crimson blood. She lifted a foot to kick, but Kaltyra bolted, scrambling for the relative safety of one of Grah’Thok’s hiding places.

Distantly she heard protests from Lucavern.

.............

That blasted, blasted tiefling. She couldn’t pummel him if she wanted to, not without dropping the Fist on top of her. Cocky bastard. Kaltyra stewed in her hiding place for a long while, then finally moved back towards the camp. That had been odd, how the humans had stepped between her and her attacker. She’d run across it once before, but she didn’t know what to do.

“Are you going to make something of it?” purred that blasted tiefling in his self-sure smirk.

Zacham stood across from the creature, which glowed with arcane energies. His fists were clenched and his jaw was set. “I do not like when my friends are endangered.”

The tiefling chuckled “Then fight me. I’m not going to leave her be.”

The man nodded grimly. “So be it. If this is what it takes, I will do it.”

Kaltyra lifted her brow, watching the exchange. Zacham was going to fight her tormenter on her behalf? Well, that was new of Zug Zug. She really didn’t want to feel she owed Zacham so she reached out. “Do not.” She said.

Zacham shrugged. “It’s the only way.” Then he and his second, Jack, headed out after the tiefling.

Kaltyra heard a snap, twang and SPLASH. She saw the acid trap go off, covering Zacham while Jack ducked away just in time.

“You rat!” snarled Jack. “You treacherous cheater!”

The tiefling shrugged, drawing blades. “Ready or not...”

He lunged and Zacham drew his sword. The tiefling threw a spell of darkness and Zacham countered with a holy light that smoothed over the acid burns and grew him twice the height of his opponent.

“That’s hardly fair.” balked the tiefling, as a sword the size of a dire boar came crashing down upon him.

The battle raged, but as Zacham called again and again on blessings, a clear winner was emerging. The tiefling turned tail and ran, limping and trailing blood. Zacham lifted his lips in a dark sneer, but let him go. All this Kaltyra watched silently.

Maybe Grah’Thok had been right after all.

.............

My name is Kaltyra, of the Dryne Wanderer Tribe. There I was born and there I shall die, in spirit if not in body.

Apparently, I have an army.

I did not expect a group of humans to come to my aid in anything more than the scant charity some of the weaker ones enjoy performing. However, there was Zug Zug bleeding for me, fighting for me. Let us not gloss over Lucavern, for he keeps a quiet eye on things and thinks I do not see. This Jack is new to me, but I have heard of him. He is easy company for a human, carefree and probably easily dead for it. Still, I like his humor and he takes us away from the fire tonight.

The elven woman Elvalia had returned and circled me like a panther watching it’s prey. I don’t like how she watches me, but that is alright, because I feel Zacham’s hand on my shoulder and hear his words of assurance. She will not come for me, not yet.

For being a runt I am used to beatings, even attacks. I know how to run, I know how to hide. I know how to make myself scarce from those hunting me. The rocks and soil give spring to my steps. I will not be easily taken. The wind whispers secrets to my ears. I will not be easily surprised.

Jack takes us to a tavern and I thank them for their protection. This is a strange place for me. I would expect such protection for my tribe, but from humans, humans I only know in small amounts? I cannot make it out, but I am grateful that the one pointing me out has been silenced and the one hunting me has obstacles. Of course, she has no trouble pointing me out, as I find out later.

For now, I would introduce Lore. Lore is a stuttering shy human, a pacifist I think. (That word has no translation in orc, by the way, humans.) He is a friend to the elven woman, and I had seen him arguing with her as she pointed at me, all red in the face. He followed us into the tavern and moved to sit some ways away.

While the others spoke to each other I moved to talk to him. He apologized for the elven woman’s actions and said he wanted to make peace with her and I. This made me grin. He really was a typical human. Make peace? He had no idea what he was asking. But, I had little to lose and I was interested to see what the weak human would do when he realized his elven friend was just as beautifully bloodthirsty as the orcs she hunted.

I came with him to where she had set up camp, waiting for me to leave so she could track me and kill me all alone. My friends traveled behind invisible to me.

“It’s my lucky day.” the woman exclaimed. “You got her alone.”

Lore moved between I and her. She frowned. “Out of the way Lore.”

“This is Kaltyra and she has something to say.” Lore looked to me, and I shrugged uncertainly.

“I do?”

Lore’s eyes widened “You forgot??” (I maybe should have listened to all his ramblings about pink fluffy clouds and peace and such. It was all blah blah ‘I’m a weak human’ to me.)

He turned and pleaded my case, saying I was a peace loving orc. (I nearly fell over laughing, thank Gruumsh for face scarfs.) And I had only the best intentions of love and friendship. (Honestly, he should warn me about these things, my tongue was bleeding from where I was biting it!) Still, I –tried- to look harmless. That at least was easy.

She wasn’t buying it, I could see that, and when she starting chanting a spell I was ready and ran. The light seared my back and made me stumble but instinct hit and a curtain of fear drove me blindly away. I didn’t see the rest, but apparently Lore killed the elven woman, who he called friend.

Some friend.

-My- friends had scattered looking for me, fearful someone had caught me. We found each other soon enough, once I felt it was safe to leave Kile’s den. Believe it or not I was happy. I had escaped death what.. twice, three times in a single day? I had humans who would fight for me and I could even nudge the really stupid ones into fighting for me without hardly knowing me.

What is it with humans making broad assumptions? It’s either ‘kill on sight’ or ‘save them for they are righteous and pure’. There doesn’t seem to be middle ground with these creatures.

I am getting stronger now, and feel more like my old self before the events that led me here. That gives me some confidence, but I know I am not strong enough for what I truly want – a return to new, safer tunnels in the Underground. Once I met a mapmaker who claimed to have been to the Underdark of this region. He spoke of a portal, but said it no longer worked. There must be another way.

Maybe there I can find a tribe that will take me and my child without many questions. Maybe. The Sharp Tooth tribe will have nothing to do with me, say I smell of human taint. I just barely escaped my visit with them, so that does not give me much comfort that I will find a tribe elsewhere more lenient.

Grah’Thok wants to begin a new tribe and has begun questing for... well something impossible I think. He is a half blood, but he seeks to prove he deserves to rule a tribe of orcs? I do not know. He is becoming more and more possessive, so this quest will be good to give us some distance. If he starts to think of me as his female, I am in true trouble.

[Lampir]

Five days kept in the same tent as that female. It did not go over well for me at first. She scorned me over and over but we were stuck together in close companionship. There were... expectations of what was to happen during this time and the frustration of not doing it properly was building alongside her intoxicating scent. On the third day something just came over me. I couldn’t stand being around her and not being mated any more. I lost myself in a strange sweet curtain of want and took her finally.

It was the most intense battle I have ever known, but she seemed satisfied with my strength. Despite all her bartering attempts and all our first night agreements she smiled at me when we were through and we spent the fourth day in more of the same... with fewer bite marks.

We emerged the fifth day, both covered with wounds and looking properly wed. Thus began a glorious year for me. Word had spread of my hellcat’s tenacity and my battle wounds were enough to earn some respect among the other males. Prognose took me hunting and for once wasn’t scorned for it. I was taught the way of the great axe, a gift to me on my victorious wedding.

I love her, for all her venom and claw. I spy her on return trips and though she scowls at me, she does not always fight so hard when it comes time for the furs. She grows wide with child; my first offspring. Thinking of it has made me stronger somehow. I want more than ever to provide and prove myself, especially to her.

I bring her trophies from raids and I’ve had my first real battle with another tribe. Thanks to our war, my tribe has undisputed claim over the salt tunnels where the umber hulks roam. She has joined a harvesting group of females and shows no signs of slowing even as she gets near to birthing. If anything, she becomes more aggressive, more demanding of anything and everything. Our tent has a small hoard of food and supplies she’s created. I have asked Prodnose about this but he is as clueless as I am.

These days I keep my distance from her, as this is what the other warriors have suggested. “Let the females be females” they say, which is a gem of wisdom among usually blunt-minded fighters. Some of them have several wives, true pros! Anyhow, it is not difficult. Males do male work and the females stay behind to tend things.

Religion has found me, as there is no way I would have had luck with such a wild female as Kaltyra without Gruumsh’s blessings. The high priestess has taken me aside for lessons several months now and says I show promise. I pray daily for a strong son.

............


You might be asking why our protagonist didn’t kill Barnak right then and there. Kaltyra was a survivor after all and her tent was surrounded with an entire tribe that would not take kindly to her killing their chief’s son. Then, of course, there was Barnak. Once Kaltyra had gotten over her shock, she’d seen something of the kindred in him. He was cautious, keen-minded and eager to please. Finally, it was their wedding tent and though Kaltyra scoffed at her mate and put up a fight to make it clear Barnak was not getting to play weak around her, she had been looking forward to sharing furs with a male. While Barnak was growing more and more frustrated, so was she. The pheremones were thick in the air and it was only a matter of time before one of them snapped. They were, after all, orcs.

Therefore, why not make the best of things? After all, maybe Barnak was right, maybe their offspring wouldn’t be runts.

Kaltyra found sport in pushing Barnak to be more like a proper warrior. She challenged his authority regularly, got purposefully aggressive so that if he wanted anything from her he would –have- to let go of his shyness to get it from her. It was fun, knowing she could prod him so. She got very good at it. She was also getting a bit stronger from all their fights. Rare was the week she did not have some new wound along her body.

Maybe it was the child, maybe it was her held-back anxiety because she was far from her tribe, but as time went by and her stomach grew, Kaltyra fell into a depression. She did not share it with Barnak, only exhibiting it in darker, more real aggression. Sometimes she would snap at the smallest thing. After she tackled Barnak for chewing loudly, the two began living separately.

Older females took her under their wing, bemused at Hellcat’s emotional turmoil. Kaltyra had at least earned admiration in this tribe for brazenly taking on a warrior by herself. Many of the females let her alone, a rare and treasured peace. Some adopted her into their circles to talk, to learn and to teach. Hellcat was her pet name, and they called her it some times with affection.

So when the birthing pains came, Kaltyra knew what to do and where to go. She touched a female’s shoulder, bidding her follow. Together they went back to her tent and, with very little fuss, brought life into the world.

[Lampir]

So spoke the wanderer, mindful of the hardships, of fierce slaughters and the downfall of kinsmen:

Often I am alone to speak of my trouble each morning before dawn. There is none now living to whom I dare clearly speak my innermost thoughts. I know it truly, that it is in men a noble custom, that one should keep secure his mind, his spirit-chest, and guard his thoughts, his treasure chamber, think as he wishes. The weary spirit cannot withstand fate nor does a rough or sorrowful mind do any good. Thus those eager for glory often keep secure dreary thoughts in their breast; So I, often wretched and sorrowful, bereft of my homeland, far from noble kinsmen, have had to bind in fetters my inmost thoughts.

~Excerpt, The Wanderer, Translated to English

.........

“A son!” I exalted, leaping over obstacles, barreling towards our tent. I tripped over a passing female, knocking things out of her hand. She screamed at me and made to hit but I was already gone! Gone! My beloved wife, my great blessings! I might have been wind for how I flew.

Kaltyra looked up at me when I burst in, sitting cross-legged holding a tiny child to her chest. My heart fluttered and I let out a bellow of triumph. A few warriors laughed and replied in their own long joyous roars. Gruumsh be praised!

Kaltyra beamed at me, the most happy I have ever seen her, nearly glowing like a chosen of Gruumsh. She rose and bowed low as a wife should on greeting her returning husband. Another first - and with her shirt off no less. Finally she was coming around. And with my son. My son...

She offered the boy up to me, head bowed but wary. It was my right to reject the infant, kill it if it didn’t look right. I think she intended to run off with it if I tried, but why would I? I took the boy, but had no idea how to hold it proper, so handed it back when Kaltyra let out a worried sound.

“Put him down.” I said, my voice deeper now, growing in confidence and about to lose myself with the sheer joy in my veins. She did, and I embraced her, letting her know all of my pleasure with her. My wife, my son.

It was the most brilliant day of my life.

.......

He named him Trake, after a warrior of legend. We both guard him fiercely. Barnak is stealing food from smaller runts now, so Trake will have a good chance of living past his first year. I am still hungry, always hungry, and my food I had stored away runs low as the season goes slim.

It is time to move, and so we do, I with Trake wrapped to my chest snug and uncomplaining. The trek is long, but we reach it in due time. Only, this time we find great trouble. The scouts are the first to report strange smells of burning. When we all arrive, we find what would have been fertile grounds by Underdark standards to be a burnt wasteland. The mosses and plants are cinders. Fauna are gone and even the river is choked with debris.

Who did this? The tribe’s rage boils collectively and it is all we can do not to rage out-right then and there. Our livelihood, a season of food gone, just gone. The chief bellows for raiding parties to follow the scouts and find the aggressors. It is a somber camp that is unpacked in this place.

My husband goes off with the war bands and I find myself fearing for Trake. He is small, a runt like I expected, but I must try to protect him until he is strong. Fights are already breaking out around camp for what supplies still exist. I am not good enough to win these, so I keep away, hidden. No one comes for me or what I have left in my pack.

It isn’t until the next day that one of our bands comes back victorious. They are pushing, poking, kicking, and herding a small group of humans this way. The tribe cheers and circles around my husband and his warriors. Barnak has the honor of grabbing the first human by the hair and slicing his head clean off. Beautiful. He roars, thrusting it up in the air, then throws it to the howling crowd. He throws in the rest of the body next. Nothing is wasted.

Some of the humans have soiled themselves, knowing their doom, but one catches my eye. He is trying to protest in broken orc. The others jeer at him, but my heart sinks. Didn’t that damned mapmaker learn better the first time??

He is older now, which makes sense, and far more frail than I remembered, but I would remember that bad orc anywhere. I rounded through the crowd, trying to catch my husband’s eye, but he was lost in the thrill of the slaughter. However, the High Priestess was off to the side, so I went to her, pointing to the human.

“Priestess, that one speaks orc.” I said.

“So it would seem.” She responded non-plussed.

“Priestess, maybe we can get him to reveal what town sent these warriors, so we can reply in kind.”

“He speaks bad orc, Kaltyra, I doubt he would be able to give us what we need.”

“Priestess, I can speak their language, if it will help the tribe.” I dipped my head submissively, knowing this could work or it could doom me. She scrutinized my form lazily.

“Why are you so interested?”

“Revenge, Priestess.” I thought and added quickly. “And it would be a great boon to have a slave of our own. Barnak –did- help bring them in after all.”

It was a painfully long time before the high priestess responded. “Very well, but if the tribe is hungry, your slave is forfeit.” I turned to leave, but she was not done with me yet. “And Kaltyra. I want you to come to my tent tomorrow. We will begin your spiritual training. It is clear you have the mind for it.”

I nod and wait, and soon enough the high priestess touches one of the frothing males, calming him down like magic. He turns, listens to her whisper and fetches the mapmaker, bringing him to me in chains. I grab the one around his throat and lift it up, half-strangling him, then roar in triumph, shaking my fist to claim him. Barnak looks surprised.

By the earthen teeth, but have I gotten myself into?

...............

<Stop crying.> growled the female dragging me away from the crowd. I could not, but I tried, making hiccupping sobs as we went to a tent.

<Please.> I said in orc, <I come in mushrooms.>

The female stopped and turned, lifting a brow. I could see she was a hunter by her leathers and the trophy shells of beetles on her shoulders. I could also make out a parcel wrapped to her chest, a child. She placed hands on hips and tilted her head as she looked me up and down disapprovingly. Then she spoke in common. “You mean piagi, not piagim. Peace, not mushrooms.”

Uh oh. I had heard of these: interrogators with enough common to beat information out of you. But I was in a grim despair after watching my adopted sons die. Why oh why had I let them talk me into coming back here without a grant for bodyguards?

It was all I could do to stand upright, so when she shoved me, my landing was rough.

“Tell me who sent you.”

“No one” I stuttered in common, giving up on my orc. “I was alone, except for my two sons.”

“There are more than that there.” She gestured angrily back the way we had come.

I shook my head. “A camp we had,” I hesitated, “ I would have said good fortune to meet, but...”

She wasn’t attacking me, just let me lay there on the ground. My poor sons. I am sorry.

“Where did the men come?”

“Come from” I countered before I realized what I was saying. She pulled back her leg to kick and I cringed, but it didn’t come.

“Speak.” she growled.

“Th-they were from two nearby villages, the Harlton and the Brontle.” I looked up, but not more questions came. She was pacing before me, my chains forgotten on the floor. It didn’t matter. They would kill me soon enough. I knew the drill. Damn them for bringing this on me. I curled in on myself and wept until I fell into a dreamless sleep.

Ash water woke me up. A male was standing over me, scowling darkly. I recognized his leathers from before. <Time?> I asked in orc.

He replied but not to me, speaking over me with some complaint. The female smirked defiance, her child feeding as she argued back in cool tones. I tried to get my bearings. I was alive, which would be how my sons would prefer it. And perhaps if I stayed alive I could find their bodies and bring them back. The female did not seem cowed by the male who was growing more angry. She said something about ‘son’ and the male huffed and left the tent.

<Since when do you speak human?> growled Barnak, displeasure on his face.

<Since I learned it.> Countered Kaltyra, smiling.

<And now you’re adopting them into our tent?> Disgust in his voice.

<I am keeping a slave.>

<You are keeping a danger to our son.>

<Our son will need to learn how to deal with humans eventually.>

<And that is easily seen to! You just cut off their heads!>

Kaltyra leveled a look at Barnak who scowled back. <I have the high priestess’ blessing on this. The very same high priestess that helped you pray for your son. Perhaps you should be a bit more consistent with your loyalties.>

Barnak huffed and left the tent.

..........

He didn’t recognize me. All he could do was ask after his sons, which I later learned were adopted half orcs from his continued adventures into the underdark. That explained why they had been killed early on. It was strange for a human to adopt half orcs, but then, he had been a strange man.

Time had beaten him some, but I cannot say how much of that was his capture. He was not the happy pink human I’d known from my youth and I was not the cute harmless runt he’d rescued so long ago. It was good that he didn’t know it was me, because if he had, I would have been in very real danger.

The truth was I didn’t know what to do now. I had repaid my debt, but now I seemed stuck with him. Fate had other troubles in store for me, though.

Trake fell ill.

I don’t know if it was the ash or if it was the water or if the humans had brought some disease with them. I tried praying for my son, I bartered for some precious medicines but none of it worked. He was eating less and kept wailing. The mapmaker tried to comfort me, but I wasn’t to be cheered. Under a week he was dead.

Barnak swore that it was the mapmaker’s fault and threatened to kill him for it, so I distracted him in his grief with furs, then as he slept off his enjoyment, I led the mapmaker to the edge of camp and set him free.

“Go then, before my husband kills you.”

And he was gone.

I did not go a month before I gave birth to an offspring already dead. Barnak and I were growing lean again as times fell hard on us and though we tried again, again I did not carry the child to birth. Each time I grew more and more disconsolate with things. My hope for healthy offspring was dashed, my wedding nightmares had returned.

Finally I started to refuse Barnak’s bed. I could not take another failure, another part of me leaving to death. It was a waste and we were starving. Barnak pressed for more, but I refused and hid from him. However, how was I to know his invitation to hunt with him would lead to something more? Had I not made it clear? I refuse to be doomed to a life of death, death and more death. Damn Barnak to hell if he cannot see the sense, if he cannot let me have this.

I am sick of this misery. I am sick of starving. The Drow came and raided us and there was little sorrow at fewer mouths to feed. I miss my old tribe. I even miss my hating mother. There must be some place better than this. But Barnak cannot see anymore. He has become a warrior and lost his fear of me. He will try again and again and I will have more death.

Unless I take a stand.