From the Shadows

[Green is the new black.]

Writing excercise; closed to Boone.

The half-Orc Orun climbed atop a loose boulder to survey his surroundings. The crimson glow of dusk bathed the rugged countryside surrounding Timko Manor with a bloody river of light, which oozed from a distant wound in the horizon. The shadows of the ancient pines grew longer and more imposing as night approached. A flock of carrion birds circled the doomed mansion like squawking cancerous specks, heralding the death that awaited it. Soon, night would arrive, unwavering and unforgiving.

The green-skinned mercenary grinned, his tusks gleaming red in the fading light. The nocturnal fears of men had no place in an Orc’s heart. To him, the dark hours were not a time of dancing specters, hungry spirits, or stalking shadows. No, to him night was a wholesome time, a time when the strong and fierce would dominate the weak and afraid – a time when things were as they should be.

Things were different that night, though. Orun found himself surrounded by several other nocturnal warriors. They were a gruff and hardened lot of sell-swords, perhaps one of the few breeds of men that the half-Orc felt any camaraderie toward. Granted, for the amount of gold being offered for this job that night, he would have tolerated nearly anyone. An incompetent warm body blocked arrows just as well as a competent one.

“Our target has a fair number of guards, though that was expected,” he muttered, just loud enough so the closest few mercenaries could hear him. His voice sounded closer to a growl than actual speech. He leaned forward, his eyes piercing the evening gloom. The front gate would be out of the question. “We’ll need to circle around the manor and look for a side entrance in the outer wall.” He jumped to the ground. “Does the map say anything about that?”

[Quentin Boone]

There wouldn't be much longer to look at the map, the sun would soon be down, the sky painted with a near-black. And the New Moon would offer no chance of using the map after that time; stars would be insufficient for seeing anything other than a rough silhouette of the landscape. Quentin studied the loosely detailed map for what would be the last time, attempting as best he could to memorise each location.

"In t'north east, ya orc-faced freak." He answered the growling question of the half-orc mercenary that seemed to think he was in charge of this band of men. Quentin saw no real issue with taking out the main gate; there were only five guards from what he'd seen earlier in the day when scouting out the manor. The merchant had annoyed someone or other - the brown haired mercenary seemed never to meet the actual customer - and would tonight find a blade in himself.

For Quentin, he would receive a substantial payment: One that more than justified working with this group of inept mercenaries. If any happened to be killed in the process, he'd not shed a tear, knowing that the gold would be redistributed among the remaining men. And the half-orc freak he'd happily see run through by the blade of a merchant's guard.

"I say we ge' movin' tha' way nah, while we can still bloody see." He looked back to see a group of men nodding their agreement, a few even going so far as to mutter something that could be taken as affirmation. Quentin wasn't overly impressed with those he'd be working with tonight, but knew that a few partners were better than working alone in a job like this.

In following his own suggestion, the mercenary slipped the map back into a pocket and moved back into the pines. Already the forest was darkened under shade of the ancient trees, so he moved quickly, not caring if any followed him. A wicked smirk crossed his lips as he slid the knuckledusters onto his hands; maybe he'd get a chance to stick his sword in the freak.

[Green is the new black.]

The band crept silently through the trees, cloaked by the darkness. Icy wind ravaged the countryside as the last sunlight drained from the heavens – the chill invigorated Orun’s senses like the breath of gods. He felt awake and alive, his senses keen and his wits sharp.

The half-Orc still fumed over the demeanor of the oldest mercenary. He knew the look in the older, brown-haired human’s eyes, that glint of superiority in the way he looked down his nose at the half-Orc. It was a traitorous, murderous look, one shared in various degrees by the rest of their band. How easy would it be for them to backstab him after the mission, so as to claim his share of the payment? Not easy at all, he vowed silently. But first, status had to be sorted out.

“It’s funny how you humans would speak of my race with contempt while butchering your own language,” Orun growled as he strode to the front of the pack, his voice both guttural and savage and articulate at the same time. He pushed his way through the other warriors and shoved past the man who had insulted him, exposing his back to the man. “If you were a wise man, you would take your sword to me right now, because I promise that you won’t get a second chance.”

“Strike me down if you have the nerve, and if you trust in your skills and the prowess of your comrades to finish the job without me.” He waited, a twisted smile upon his face. “Prove that you’re stronger than the rest of your pink-faced race.”

[Quentin Boone]

So, the freak had decided to solidify his position as the alpha of this pack of mercenaries. As the half-orc shoved through the ranks of men and finally past Quentin, the burly fellow stop, raising a hand to those behind him, signalling them to follow suit. He turned to them, a condescending laugh filling the air for a moment. "Th'freak thinks it's a tough 'un, eh?"

A few chuckles could be heard from the group, muttered insults and a few nervous expressions. It was obvious that there was to ensue a testosterone-fuelled battle for supremacy. Quentin was the oldest and most experienced of the humans, and he cared little for the freak and its experience. Quentin simply wouldn't allow him to take a charge he was ill-fit to assume. He turned back to the half-orc, resting his hand on the hilt of his broadsword. "How 'bout ya turn 'round, ya green-skinned freak. I don't need t' tek ya sorreh life from be'ind. I'll murd'r ya t'ya face."

Then Quentin brought his slightly curved broadsword from its scabbard, pointing it at Orun. Held in the man's right hand, the sword was perfectly still, held with a sure confidence of one who knew his own skill and possessed no fear. No fear of freaks, anyway.

The rest of the band shifted, the odd hand moving to weapons, but Quentin raised his left hand again, stalling them from any action. "Stay outta this 'un. I'll need no 'elp tekkin' this freak dahn."

The group all nodded and shifted quietly out of the way, their shuffled footsteps bringing with them a rustling of undergrowth and fallen pine needles. Quentin scoffed; both at the other mercenaries and this freak who wanted leadership. This should, he surmised, be over pretty quickly.

[Green is the new black.]

“And so you prove that you have some honor,” Orun replied, still facing away. “While stalking in the shadow to murder a man for money, the mercenary finds his honor.” He chuckled gruffly at the irony. Perhaps the pink-skinned mercenary had never met an Orc in battle before and his ignorance fueled his pride. Whichever the case, the human would regret not acting when he had the chance.

For all of their posturing and claims of intellectual superiority, the humans of Salvar were more easily manipulated than any of the northern, savage races. Orun, being far more clever than any human ever acknowledged, knew that he could not merely strike down the condescending mercenary in cold blood without suffering the retribution of the rest of the band. One way or another, the human would either strike first or issue the challenge.

“But an honorable fool is a fool nonetheless,” he growled. “You should have attacked while my back was turned, human.” He turned purposefully to face his challenger, unable to hid the gleeful fire in his eyes. He gripped his round, wooden shield and clutched his ax at his side.

“But if you insist, prove your prowess,” Orun challenged, taking a step forward. “Prove that you are worth more than an average woman from my clan.” He grunted, his breath freezing in the air between them. Gravel and dirt crunched beneath his boots and his whipcord-lean muscles tightened in anticipating. For a moment, he wondered if the human would have the stones to attack him. “Perhaps at least your corpse will come to respect to stronger races.”

[Quentin Boone]

The snickers and sneers from the band stood a little distance away were a mixture of scorn for the half-orc and mirth at seeing such an experienced fighter being disrespected so openly. As for Quentin, he ignored the insults, chuckling at the fact this freak considered himself so superior. Shaking his head a little, Quentin took note of the sky above, quickly darkening; he'd have to make this quick and forsake the usual toying he'd take with victims and targets.

The slightly taller freak hefted its shield, and Quentin took note of this, but acted silently, giving no warning of his attack. He stepped forward, thrusting the slightly curved broadsword at the thing's ugly face, raising his left hand in anticipation of a counter attack. The rest of the band watched on silently, hands once again, instinctively, moving to weapons.

The carrion birds that had been circling the Timko Manor must have been driven by instinct as well, a few of the black fowl breaking away from the manor, to head towards the pine forest, hoping for an earlier feast. Their calls filled the air now, and Quentin wondered if they would enjoy orc meat.

Regardless of what would happen in the darkening forest as a result of this little display of perceived masculinity, soon action would need to be taken against the manor and the sorry merchant within its walls. The sun was quickly closing in on the horizon, the wound closing and the flow of blood stopping. And, certainly, the money for this job was far too important to lose it in favour of killing a worthless freak. Not that Quentin needed paying to kill it, of course.