The White Anchorage

[The Mongrel]

Due to the horses and wagon Otto led, we traveled slowly. A journey that might have taken me a day and a half at an easy pace through the woods and over game trails was going to take us four due to the slowness of the cart and the need to take well-worn trade roads. If there was a bridge out somewhere or deep mud due to a storm, it could even take five days. I'd have much preferred if we'd simply carried what we needed, but it still would have been a three day journey.

At least this way let me store my armor and walk lighter. But really, Otto? If he was worried about game, it isn't so hard for me to shoot down some game on a nightly basis for the meat-loving orcs. I'd need to forage nightly for decent food for myself, anyway; hard tack and wilted produce don't match my definition of edible. This is going to be a long trip.

I like orcs, but a ten-day and more with a pair of them? Maybe I'm more elf than I thought. Or maybe I'm just too used to being alone. In the last three decades, I have spent an hour a day in company on an average day, or no more than three or four if a meeting is convened or I need to train a recruit. I'm not used to constant contact anymore, and I'm not sure how to handle it.

Every hour or so I would take ten minutes to scout a mile or two ahead and return. There wasn't much in these woods that could challenge a pair of orcs, and I really wasn't worried about bandits or ruffians during daylight hours. The minor bridges in the areas closest to Radasanth were made of stone instead of wood, so I wasn't worried about not having passable terrain. The pace was just restrictive, and I desperately needed to move. And I wanted a safe distance between me and Otto's pair of four-hooved hellbeasts.

I didn't speak for the most part, just ruminating. My mind went to the people I'd left behind. The great-granddaughter of one of my oldest friends hadn't seen me in months, when a visit from "Auntie Moggul" was at least a weekly occurrance. Would she even remember me when I went back? Would I ever be able to go back? Was Unfounded staying in touch well enough without my insanely fleet feet carrying communiques back and forth? Who had been arrested since my departure? Who had since been freed? Was everyone healthy?

My mind also went to dark-skinned Resolve and the worry in her eyes while she watched her lover prepare for a dangerous journey. I knew her heart already worried because he was not yet safely returned, even though her head knew we would be gone so much longer even if everything went perfectly. I knew the pain she'd experience if he never did come home, pain she thought she understood. I knew better. I'd been living with that pain for longer than she'd been alive. I thought of the five word promise I'd made to her while the orcs loaded the last of the supplies. A promise I'd made to spare her that pain.

I'll bring him home safely.

"Otto." Morning's gray haze had turned to afternoon's blazing blue, and we were about in between one of my scouting forays and the next. "For Resolve's sake... die an old orc, in your bed. Not a young one from violence or injuries sustained therein."

[Erirag the Poet]

Erirag snorted, mocking. Under a furrowed brow, she stared down Illara.

“Kon? What this? Nonsense. Die in bed? Why you curse a friend?” Shaking her head, the orc scratched at her neck. The chartreuse scars that dabbled her skin itched sometimes, reminding her of the battle she didn’t make it out of. She’d been proud to die with her killing blow to Podë, confused as to why she came back, and hopeful her next death, her last death, would be as good as the first.

From her back, she pulled her lute. Repaired, strung anew with prevalida, the seemed to shimmer with anticipation of the song. She began to strum as they walked, ignoring the percussion of the lowing of cattle from over a hill. The creaking of the wagon wheels almost drowned out her melody, but her voice was enough to overcome it.

“Urukhai kurr rend! Vadok urdanog uk gajal fund. U’mat na lutaum mir gurz!”

What followed was a long list of approved orcish deaths, sang with passion, as the orc skipped behind the wagon. Her grass skirts kept the rhythm, her tusked grin flashing here and there, and each time the horses cantered just a little faster, their steps nervous as Radasanth melted away and the mountains loomed ahead.

[Otto]

Here, just the muffled rasp of wind and the systematic plink of water seeping through the stones. The room was small and cold, but the prior did not notice either of these things any more. He also didn't pay much attention to the dark grey colour of the slabs, nor the stunning, pale aperture which opened up one whole wall to the central lightwell. The sun was above them now, and it reflected brilliantly off of the much paler stones of that huge, circular pit.

Prior Tharssen gingerly eased down to his knees, and bowed before his god.

The brass depiction of a dragon's head was heavily scaled with verdigris. It was also ringed by candle-holders in the shape of two unfurling wings, which stood completely empty. The priory had run out of candles a while ago.

He performed the Noontide Introspect. As the dragons soared and hunted in the good light at this time, so too was it beneficial for one to meditate on their own life and inspect it with a clear head. Draconus adores cerebration, and the scriptures admonished his attendants to apply thorough deliberation to the tasks they face. Midday was a time for one to judge oneself and examine their problems, not just for that day but for their entire lives.

After ten minutes and having thought of nothing very much, Prior Tharssen got creakily to his feet.

He turned and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling opening, and gazed around at the numerous rooms which lined this hole. Many were like this, small places of private worship. Others were well-lit walkways, open but for delicate white columns (there was only one thin walkway across the well, and that was halfway up). Some were much more private, and had only a deep window; such designs allowed for a single beam of light to fall gloriously on one central focus, such as the Mural of Fire in St. Catherine's Chapel.

Prior Tharssen looked upwards. And then there was that suite, accessible by no visible means. There were a couple of rooms at the very top but set within an overhang; one would have to be very brave to try and reach it by climbing, and very skilled not to end up as a colourful mess at the bottom of the pit. It was home to the priory's anchorite, which explained their love of privacy.

How long had the old woman been up there, by now?

Something scuffed the stones behind him. Tharssen turned and saw a dull, robed shape in his doorway. Brother Magnus, perhaps. Not that it mattered - the prior knew they were here to summon him to the first service of the afternoon, which Tharssen was to conduct. It wasn't necessary - Tharssen had been prior for so long that even if he forgot about the service, his feet would walk him there just by rote - but it was tradition. Tradition was one of the few things they had left. That and faith. They had little need of much else, out here.

[The Mongrel]

After five agonizingly slow days of walking, we finally reached North Hill. On my own, I’d have been there before sunrise the day after I left Radasanth, but of course neither orc would just ride the wagon and not even horses could keep up with my strides. So we’d walked. All of us. For five days.

I’d barely slept for the whole trip. Despite having spent a decade getting mostly restful sleep beside (well, on top of) a half-orc, the way a pair of full orcs snored shook the trees and kept me awake.* All. Night. Long. An ocean would fit in the space between saying I was cranky stepping into that town and the reality.

Fortunately, we’d arrived in the little town late enough that between meeting Otto’s mysterious contact and acquiring the climbing gear the other three would require to survive the mountains, we’d need to hire rooms for the night. If I had to sleep outside the town to get a decent night’s sleep, by the Stars I would do it, but I was not going to have those raucous sleepers in my ears for a sixth consecutive night. For their safety.

North Hill was an extremely ordinary pre-mountain village. As it was located at the crux of a couple of trade routes, one running north to south, one running east to south-west, its robust market center offered everything from limited amounts of Akashiman jewelry and silks, to bolts of Radasanthian linens and vlinces, to plentiful examples of Concordian fruits, to weapons and tools made by local blacksmiths, to grains from the Serenti-Gisela region, and meats from the hardy mountain sheep. Of course, the requisite survival gear that any foolhardy would-be adventurer might desire was also well represented.

A couple of taverns and inns lined the broad main street that flowed from the market. I noticed that the other commerce areas and the residential quarters were cordoned off by a tight, dense tangle of alleys that were designed to keep outsiders away from the women and children. I generally approved; many of the people who would want goods and gear from the market would also want to test that gear out. Best to keep the source of revenue away from everything truly important. Taverns and inns could be repaired, shops could be rebuilt. But once an arm, an eye, or (Thayne forbid) a life was gone, it was gone forever.

“Right, Otto.” One of the horses glanced at me, and I reflexively stepped out of range of its wicked teeth. “Which of these dives are we supposed to meet your contact in?”

[Otto]

Otto eyed the Cardo Maximus uncertainly. Many buildings on either side had the look of old rural cabins which had been renovated and expanded over the years, and well-maintained in the meanwhile. It even smelled inoffensive, though the fresh air rolling in from the north was helping greatly. People eyed the trio with blunt suspicion, but that was to be expected. Everything was rather neat, and not at all like the part of town he needed to get to.

"We need to find a place called Vernon's," he muttered out the corner of his mouth. "Bit of a dive bar, I gather, but it's where you go if you don't want to be bothered-"

Illara's voice cut through his sentence like a garrote wire through butter. "It's always a dive bar."

She, too, was taking in their surroundings, but that didn't prevent her from feeling his stare linger on her a few uncomfortable seconds. Then he made an unreadable grunt and eased the horses onward. Their waggon continued to meander up the main road, past windows slamming shut and trays of produce being hastily put away.

"Friendly lot, aren't they?" Illara remarked.

Otto matched the gaze of a rather stern grandmother, watching them from her first-floor window. "They probably don't get many orcs this far out of the city. Or dark elves."

"Or a Raiaeran elf. Or a Concordian elf. Or even a native Radisanthian such as yourself. Now..." Her pine green eyes flicked up and to the side, demanding an answer to her question.

"Need to stable our horses. And I'm not going to trust some place where the miners go to get blind on turpentine."

Illara looked into the gloomy exterior of the covered waggon. There were crates, and bundles, and sacks, and all sorts back there. She knew the contents of each and every one; mundane trade goods and tools of Otto's crafts, save for that long, thin package buried under it all. She'd also found his emergency fund stash, the search for which had proved an entertaining distraction for all of five minutes. Not that she'd touched the contents, of course. She'd just been bored.

She nodded towards their cargo. "So, why did we lug all this stuff along? None of this is making it into the mountains."

Otto mulled over his answer a while, and the heavy clop-clop of the Clydesdales filled the silence. Then he spoke, eyes still roving the buildings on either side.

"I thought I'd spend a few weeks here once we get back from... wherever it is we're going. The mines here pay good money to keep things in working order, and Rez and I could really use the extra funds right now."

"Children are expensive, but they all need you back without a day's delay." She'd seen how lean the spare purse had been, and the condition of the orphanage. She'd even heard talk in Unfounded about finding places for some children among members who had needed to retire, or among allies with even a little bit to spare. Otto didn't need extra funds, he needed straight-up funds. "A blacksmith should be drowning in business, especially considering Radasanth right now."

She watched the orc sink into an embarrassed slump. "Lot of folk have lost their livelihoods," he mumbled.

Illara shook her head. Trust Otto to work pro bono. It was all very selfless, but he was supposed to be looking after upwards of a dozen children, for goodness' sake. And Thaynes forbid that was the example he was setting to them, too. Either the children would walk all over him, or he'd teach them to lay down and write 'welcome' on their backs.

It sounded like their big friendly orc needed a Talk.

She opened her mouth, but didn't even get the first syllable out before Otto nodded at an open yard on their right and said, "That looks like one. Let's pull in here."

[Erirag the Poet]

Erirag listened, her jaw set in a grimace. Scowling as she did made the horses nervous, even from where she was plodding along behind the wagon. Her advice largely ignored, the conversation had turned to, well, human talk. These were the concerns of lesser creatures, not of orcs. Money in the coffers made things easier, sure, but talking as if Otto were bound to the coffer in order for his family to live? Nonsense. There’d been nothing but nonsense coming from their lips from the moment she’d walked up the foggy streets.

When Otto nodded to the inn, Erirag had already come to conclusions. About the job, about her comrades. There wasn’t a word in her tongue for friend. Maybe that was a sign.

With a roll of her shoulder, she made sure her lute was comfortably nestled against her back and then pressed forward. She gave the pair a passing glance as she came up to the horses. Their hooves set to prancing, her gaits nervous and close to bolting.

“Erirag will go inside,” she said, sniffing. The air here was clearer than Radasanths, colder. The smell of the mountains took over from the smell of the fields. At least that was a small comfort. “Make the way.”

When she pulled the door open, a bell rang and she ducked in. The orc wasn’t familiar with the term ‘dive bar’, but someone that felt right. Humans could be fantastically descriptive when they needed to be. The lanterns that hung here and there were barely enough to light the place, and if it weren’t for orcish darkvision she might have been completely blind. What she could see were small tables, worn stools, and somehow all the surfaces looked like they would feel greasy. Unfriendly eyes fell on her from around the room from men stained with soot and muck.

A few of them still wore the day’s work clothes, overalls made of sturdy fabrics more suited for a tent than clothes. Bandaged fingers with nails blackened with bruises and grime gripped their mugs. The lot of them were tough, but they parted like butter before a hot knife when Erirag stalked towards a corner. The table had a small booth, large enough to be comfortable for her to sit than the little stools. There was still plenty more room for the others.

It would take some moments for Illara and Otto to square away the horses and wagon, so Erirag sat back, not minding the eyes or the fact that the barmaid had yet to come and bring her ale. Instead, she strummed her lute, thinking mostly about the smell of mountains and a path abandoned back in Alerar.

[Rayse Valentino]

pls fix your chara's dialogue PLS

A strange-looking man sat near the shadows of wall, sipping from a small glass of whiskey. Between drags of his cigarette, he listened curiously to the orc's song, his legs stretched out before him. The cloak drawn around him had signs of wear, and although it was already dark enough in the establishment, his hood subdued what little vision he had. Blonde hair poured from the hood, falling gently on his shoulders. The little of his skin that could be seen had a fair complexion, not unlike the typical Coronian. When he stood up, his leather boots caused squeaks in the floorboards. He was compelled by the song, his body moving of its own accord toward the large new patron.

As he approached the table, he put his hand on a passing barmaid's shoulder, "It is a crime that you have not supplied this fine young specimen with a tankard of ale. I am shocked to see such discrimination so far from the city." The barmaid bowed and promised to return with a brimming pint of the good stuff, and the cloaked man sat down across from the poet. "Are you waiting for someone, darling? Would it happen to be me?"

Erirag put down the lute, eyeing the newcomer suspiciously, "Depends. Is there man under the shadow?"

"Indeed there is, darling! While I loathe to deprive you of my exquisite visage, I labor under the delusion that lord Bastum had approved of my appearance. The odds of you being part of his entourage seem quite high."

The man smelled of smoke and deceit. But all was fair in love and drink, and as the promised booze arrived, Erirag's heart softened. "Who you?"

After producing a closed envelope from one of his inside pockets and placing it on the table, the contact introduced himself, "You may call me Richter. And what do I call the lovely lady before me?"

"Me Erirag."

"Marvelous! Now then my dear Erirag, as much as I am eager to meet lord Bastum..." He smiled and pointed to the lute. "Perhaps you could entertain me a little while more."

[The Mongrel]

With Erirag gone - off to seek food and alcohol, no doubt; her disgust at our topic of conversation had been obvious for several minutes - I hung back with Otto while he secured his horses and cart in the musty stable. Thayne only knew how long it had been since the place had been thoroughly cleaned, but with tons of the creatures freely relieving themselves on the filthy straw, it could have been spotless at dawn, for all I knew.

"Listen, Otto. Those kids really do need you. And Rez won't be happy until you're back in her arms. So instead of this..." I shrugged a little, waving my hand like I was offering an off-handed suggestion. "Say you know of some rich lawbreaking bastard that could do with a little less cash. If you happen to mention it, I know a guy, who knows a guy. They'd take some cuts, but they might be persuaded to be generous. For the kids, you know."

"Hey now."

I knew the warning look and tone well; this was an orc who was not having any of my nonsense. "Just a thought. One you might not want to forget."

With that, I walked out of the stables and into the cool night air. I could see an inn down the road a bit from the pub where we were meeting Otto's mysterious contact, and presuming the orcs didn't decide to lodge there, it could make a decent respite for me for the night. If not, I'd definitely rather sleep anywhere but with snoring orcs.

The tavern itself wasn't special. It had the usual scents of smoke and food, the overwhelming reek of working sweat, the burn of alcohol, the barest tang of blood. It had its shadowy corners, its weary, overworked wenches, its jaded bartender, and its patrons.

It also had a noticeably wide berth around a certain green skinned acquaintance of mine, with the exception of one cloaked and hooded man. The blond hair was an obvious affectation; his skin was too dark for that shade to be natural. The whole essence of him seemed off. That rat I smelled when Otto told us about his contact? Now I could smell a whole nest of them.

But who do you remind me of? Were you some hanger on at the Red Forest? Were you some little urchin we considered and didn't adopt into Unfounded? Were you a little crime lord in one of my cities in the last several years? Who are you?

I waved at a wench on my way to the table. "Two more of whatever she's drinking," I told her, nodding to Erirag. In an instant, I was not only at the table, I was seated. "I take it you're this Richter fellow who might be contracting with us?"