The White Anchorage

[Otto]

"This blows."

Otto paused in fastening the harnesses onto a stocky draught horse, and turned around to meet Resolve's annoyed gaze.

"Someone has to stay," he mumbled. "And thou'rt the only one who can take care of the library. I'm sorry,"

Resolve's face twisted into a scowl. "I know it can't be helped. It just–"

"–blows?"

"Yeah."

They were in the front yard of the old warehouse. Its patchily re-shingled roof slouched high above them, above a freshly-washed white stone facade. Scaffolding hugged it limpet-like on one side, one more reminder of the never-ending work of restoring the building. The whole thing squatted grey and gloomy in the predawn ghost-light, save for a couple of warm, yellow, candle-lit windows. Clouds were pouring in from the west like a discarded duvet sliding off the bed. The sea was up and yawning; they could taste its salty breath already. The Clydesdales stamped their massive feet and huffed mist from flaring nostrils.

"Could drizzle later," he remarked, moving from the harness to a pile of sacks and equipment. The two of them began hauling these up into the rear of the cart, which groaned slightly with every load.

"Oh, good. The workmen will be down at the pub, then. Again."

Otto wrapped his arms around a small anvil and, with a deep grunt, maneuvered it up. "It's dangerous weather. Might get their socks damp," he said, smilingly.

"They should go where you're going then," she remarked, sauntering over and sliding her hands around the orc's waist. "It'd give them some perspective."

"It'd give them bloody frostbite, it would." He put an arm like a rolled-up carpet with joints around her and stepped close. "Ayup, love."

"Hey."

Resolve was smiling up at him. The white dots lining her features seemed to glow against her skin, and danced with every twitch of her mouth. Otto found it entrancing, but you could only put off the inevitable for so long. He hunched down a little further, and put his lips to hers.

"You'll be alright, won't you?" she asked when they pulled apart.

Otto nodded. "We're well prepared. And we've double-checked everything, remember?"

"I just wish you didn't have to take that."

She gestured to the waggon. Specifically, to a heavily-wrapped object which lay atop the bags and crates. It was three metres long, thin, seemed to protrude out sideways about about a third of the way up, and its linen shroud was secured with various leather thongs.

Otto looked back to Resolve. "That's just... in case. Thou knowest that."

She glared at the thing. "I don't like you touching it."

"Aye." He sighed. "Nor do I."

They stayed as they were for a few minutes, wrapped around each other in a little hutch of warmth that the chill wind couldn't touch. There were gulls, screaming over the water. The streets around them were waking up as well; doors slammed, people called to one another, fragile crockery slipped from drowsy fingers, and people swore loudly at the shattered pieces of their favourite mugs. A cart rumbled its way up the street outside on a milk and egg run.

Resolve disentangled herself when the milkman stopped at their gate. She came back with the bounty and kissed Otto on the cheek.

"They'll be here soon," she stated, heading for the kitchens. "I'll get some tea and breakfast sorted while you finish up here."

[The Mongrel]

Summer is for growing,
When world is full of life.
Autumn is for harvest,
World prepares for cold and strife.
Winter is for dying,
Under frosty whiteness, sleep.
Spring is for revival,
And to wake from long dark night. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5KKgTgUUTgE&index=161&list=PLBqmFdgg9Kd1KqMnVRk2BCxL5Wx9_goFq)
Mutt’s poem

It felt like an age since I’d left Radasanth for Raiaera. Old wounds, festering since childhood, had burst. I’d been ripped apart and stitched back together, but the pieces didn’t quite fit. I’d left Illara “The Mongrel” Alfheim. I’d returned someone entirely different, and I still didn’t know who that someone was.

I hadn’t had a chance to find out.

From the moment I’d emerged with Siegfried from the depths of the Lindequalme, representatives of the High Bard Council had approached me to offer grudging congratulations and thanks. Though I had hoped to keep my fight with Pode a secret, their scryers had observed everything, and fame was mine whether or not I wanted it. Four adventurers had killed an aspect of the Red Witch, but I’d struck her through her shriveled heart, in a grove they hadn’t seen until it was almost too late. They needed a face to present to their people.

I actually wonder if the whole ‘I killed Pode for real’ bit was less to do with having killed her core piece and more to do with of the five that actually made it through her defenses, I alone had some Raiaeran blood to me. I’d been raised in a noble house in Eluriand, and the house’s current head - my half-brother - acknowledged me as a member of his family in a way that his father never had.

Granted, after vanquishing one of Raiaera’s greatest and oldest foes, Khaliel Alfheim likely would have acknowledged me publicly as his own, dear daughter, of whom he was most proud.

Thank the Stars he’s dead.

I’d returned to Corone, hopeful that since Pode’s existence didn’t affect the people here, the news would be a footnote, and I could return to my life without anyone caring. I had no such luck; with two other Forgotten Ones so very recently vanquished, I was frequently recognized and questioned.

I’m a criminal. A thief. I’m a high-ranking member of a Corone-wide network. If people follow me too closely, it could endanger my Unfoundlings. So until I was no longer of interest, for the safety of the people I love, I had to keep my distance from them.

And so I approached the home of Otto Bastum and Resolve Curie, there on a request to help him navigate the wilds on a quest of his.

I’d known Otto since his days in the Guard. He arrested a few of the Unfoundlings when they were caught committing crimes, we harangued his unit. Later, he started investigating his own kind - other lawdogs. He got information from some of us a few times; criminals often know who the dirty guards are well before the organization has an inkling they’ve got a problem.

More recently, as he’s worked to free children from a slave ring and educate them, he’s even put a few promising orphans into our care. Unfoundlings take care of each other, he’d seen that again and again over the years. The orphanages around Corone were usually less about the welfare of the children in them and more about how the responsible adults could exploit them - and that’s for the ones who were lucky enough to get into an orphanage. All too many orphans simply ended up on the streets.

I reached the yard as the sky started spitting forth sporadic cold droplets, and found myself faced by a burly gray blacksmith.

“Otto Bastum," I greeted politely. "Ashdautas vrasublatat.”

[Erirag the Poet]

Erirag thought that the salty sea air would be more comforting. Coming ‘home’ to Corone after she’d helped to slay Podë mostly tasted bitter. Corone had been her hiding place after her death in Lornius, where she’d laid low and raised barns, working the fields as the seasons came and went. Coming back to that life after her second death in Raiaera felt somehow like an insult. After all, hadn’t she helped to fell the ancient witch? Raiaera had allowed her leave without much fanfare, her name drifting on winds of obscurity.

Lindequalmë had shown her the merit in places men dared not tread. She’d sat in a Radasanthian pub for two days now, drinking and mulling over the feeling of disquiet rising in her chest and the offer Bregedaer, the ancient Bladesinger she’d awoken in the Forest, had set before her. She’d almost been prepared to book a charter when she had heard the offer. A familiar name, Otto Bastum, was looking for muscle.

Well, if there was one thing that the bard had to offer, it was muscle. Traveling would take coin, and here was her chance to earn a little and help someone she’d once called brother. Now she walked the streets to the docks, following directions. Radasanth wasn’t as familiar as the wide countryside to her, but she found her way soon enough down fog-laden streets to the old warehouse. The horses and wagon emerged first in the mist. The wind rattled the grass in her skirt and the horses seemed to grow restless as she approached with the sound of a breeze through autumn trees.

She took a breath to hail Otto when she approached close enough to see the figures standing in the yard. Her fellow orc was a familiar and welcome sight, and standing next to him…

“KON!”

[Otto]

The ground shuddered as though hit by a tap-dancing earthquake. Otto had barely registered the terrifying blur which blotted out the sun before it swept up Mongrel. He could just about see the poor elf's face squashed between broad green arms and a bare chest, whilst her legs dangled a foot above the ground.

"Sma-hom!" he roared.

The looming visage dropped Mongrel and treated him to one of the toothiest smiles he'd ever seen, except maybe in a mirror.

"Ong-uruk!"

They hugged, but this time around it was more like watching the sped-up collision of tectonic plates than a bole disappearing under a landslide. It was about as loud, too. Orcish is a boisterous language. By comparison, it makes the average drunk Italian seem as obtrusive as a Norwegian commuter.

A rather clueless neighbour threw his window open and screamed for the trio to shut up.

Two minutes and a string of rowdy orcish curses later, the meaning of which no one else in the street quite understood (but that which they could easily guess), and things quietened down again. Relatively speaking. Every dog within a mile radius seemed to be either howling or barking, and Otto could also pick out the shepherd's tone of wailing infants. He clapped his hands together in the universal gesture of a job well done, gave everyone a bright smile, and ushered them inside.

They wound up in a kitchen of sorts. Some of the fixtures had the look of being temporary measures, such as the wooden planks put atop two stacks of bricks to form a rough bench. Some large windows had been knocked out of the wall, their raw brick edges still showing and rudimentary wooden shutters being the only concession towards keeping out poor weather. Right now these were open and letting in a dull, shadowless light throughout the room. A warm glow emanated from the huge iron stove, over which Resolve stood and practiced her culinary alchemy. Otto's nostrils flared at the greasy perfume of bacon, black sausage, eggs, toasted bread, mushrooms, potato pancakes, no mean volume of butter, and salt.

The long table and chairs in the centre of the room were clearly not improvised. They were also occupied. A number of small, childish faces looked up at Mongrel and Erirag with a mixture of awe and cynical appraisal.

Resolve smiled and winked at the newcomers. "Grab a plate and help yourself," she instructed, as she set down a couple of large platters on the table. "Quickly, before the little grubs finish it off. Otto will get you something to drink."

Their attention was redirected to said orc, who stood by a couple of casks. He wielded several mugs and an enquiring expression.

[Erirag the Poet]

Erirag would have followed the smell of bacon back into the Red Forest if she had to. Her mouth was watering, drool glistening at the base of her tusks when she walked into the little kitchen. It was almost enough to make her miss the details of the room, the way the house was patched together with planks, nails, and hope. She’d been in hovels more majestic, but still it managed to feel comfortable, filled with life. The comfort possibly came from the number of children sitting before her, more than she cared to count.

“Ong-uruk busy.” She said dryly, letting her amber gaze wander to Resolve and the swell of her hips. Funny, she didn’t carry herself like a woman who had birthed so many whelps. Shrugging anyway, she tried to express her approval of the family as best she could. “Big clan good for war. Ong-uruk kin will be lucky, have many enemies.”

With breakfast and a drink in her hands, Erirag sat by the makeshift table, listening to the children whisper amongst themselves as she ate. One, a ruddy-haired little slip, leaned towards her and stared at the scars that laced themselves in spurts along her skin, and the initials carved into her thigh peeking through the grass and leather strapping of her skirt. When their dark eyes flitted up to hers, Erirag made a face, as gruesome as it was ridiculous, and drank deeply as the children nearest her erupted into giggles. The curious child looked then at her lute, strapped to her back.

“Do you sing songs?” she asked, quietly. Erirag nodded, and jerked her thumb towards Thingur.

“Yes, Erirag sing war song, witch die. Erirag sing happy song, then.”

[The Mongrel]

"Juice if you have it, Otto. Milk if not." I walked in, still trying to pop my bones back into alignment after the enthusiastic reunion. I was more than pleased to see Erirag - that she'd survived, that she was coming on this venture... but I could have done without being nearly squeezed to death in greeting.

I listened with half an ear to Resolve's invitation to food - why did everything need to be drowning with grease? Yes, orcs need meat and children require protein, but what about fiber and vitamins? Where were the berries and cut melon? Those are also important for growing children, not to mention a lot easier on my digestive system than all of this heavy fare. I scooped some eggs and mushrooms (at least there was that) onto a slice of toast and settled in to eat.

Part of me was glad that Erirag took credit for Pode's slaying. For one thing, she was more believable in this company than I was, for another, I'd rather be a criminal than a hero. Otto knew me as a criminal.

"Very busy," I nodded to Erirag's observation. "There were barely half this many last time I was here."

I scanned the little faces - some strangers, some vaguely familiar, some very familiar. I might have sneaked a sweet to an urchin or two who nearly made the cut into Unfounded, just as easily as I might not have. They all looked well-fed and clean. A few of them had bumps and scrapes, but nothing out of line for rambunctious play. I listened to their voices, all clear and confident, except in the naturally shy or the newly rescued. All seemed in order; the Bastum-Curie orphanage was doing right by their little ones.

"Before we leave, you should tell us how you defeated the Red Witch, Erirag. When we return, you should sing to us about the dragons we'll slay."

I sincerely hoped we wouldn't be slaying any dragons; getting eaten by one of the foul brutes - twice - was more than enough for me this lifetime. But orcs liked to talk up their glory, both before and after it happened, and I wanted these orcs in good spirits. For one, we all got along. For two, I knew just how fast and agile I'd need to be if that happened to stop.

"But first, Otto... It's your show. What are we going to be up to?"

[Otto]

Otto picked a tall porcelain pitcher up off the table and upended it over a mug, frowning as a couple of sad, lonely white drops beaded on the lip. He sighed, put it down, and glanced around at the crowd of white-moustached little faces at the table. The orc's gaze stopped on a young boy to his right, who was currently using his prosthetic iron limb as a vice to clamp shut a cooked-breakfast sandwich wider than his own head.

"Tristan, run down the cellar and get some more milk, will thou?"

The boy paused, the sandwich halfway to his mouth. Half a potato pancake slid out and landed on the plate; it went splut.

"Rez will keep it hot in the oven," Otto persisted. "And nane else will touch it. Get thee gone, lad."

Pouting, Tristan got up and padded out the room. While Rez bustled around the kitchen (mainly trying to keep Erirag's plate topped up), Otto turned to Mongrel and shrugged.

"We will take the north road, skirt by Caldhelm, and arrive in North Hill after a week. It's the last settlement afore the Jagged Mountains. That's where we'll replenish our stock and meet my contact."

The elf quirked an eyebrow ever so slightly. "All well and good, but what's the end game? Who is this contact? How trustworthy are they?"

Otto seized a clean mug from the middle of the table and put it by Mongrel's side, just in time for Tristan's return. The boy filled it with clean white milk; the aroma was fresh and cool. In a city that currently had trouble wiping its own arse, let alone feeding itself, this fledgeling school was able to get its hands on enough food to cater for a score of grubby bairns. It often paid to have friends in the CAF, and it definitely helped having contacts in the Unfounded. To the man who had both, he was laughing.

Mongrel absentmindedly tousled Tristan's hair before he could dart away. He had his eyes set firmly on retrieving breakfast, which is probably why he failed to notice the toffee now stuck behind his ear.

"Apparently, there's some sort of abandoned old monastery to Draconus in the mountains. My contact's a fellow named Richter. He's a treasure hunter or summat. Sounds mercenary. Anyway, we'll see if his information is worth the price, and go on from there."

"It stinks, basically," Resolve muttered. "There's no proof this person knows what they say they do. It's asking for trouble."

"Could well be," Otto conceded. "But it's the only lead I've found in weeks. One way or another, I have to find out where the dragons went."

[The Mongrel]

I grumbled into the last bite of my breakfast. I like mercenaries on principle; if they were getting enough money, they were trustworthy. If not, they usually dropped a hint or two before turning. But something I couldn't finger smelled wrong. “Something about this really bothers me, Otto. Best case scenario, this is just a scam. Worst case... you have enemies. It could very well be an ambush.”

I saw Resolve’s lips tighten in the general direction of the stove. She knew Otto was a badass. She knew I’d stabbed my fair share of backs. She could probably guess that if anyone got smashed by Erirag, it would be the last smash of their lives. But her Otto was going somewhere without her, and the little lives who depended on both of them needed her to stay behind. She couldn’t back him up, she couldn’t be sure that either Erirag or I would be adequate backup for him. After all, this was her first time meeting the she-orc and my relationship with Bastum was more along the lines of grudging respect.

Even if she could be sure of us, she couldn’t be sure we weren’t walking into a hundred burly, blood-thirsty barbarians, each bristling with weapons. She’d tell herself her worries were silly, but she’d worry all the same. I knew. I sympathized. I’d never liked it when Mutt went somewhere dangerous without me, either.

A score of little eyes peered over their individual mounds and mountains of grease at me. There wasn’t much fear or concern in them at the word ambush. Either these kids were fully convinced that their father-figure was invincible (a normally harmless fantasy and probably one that any healthy child has), or these children had been read to.

“Ambushed like in the stories?” a tall cup piped up. A gap-toothed little girl shoved the mug to the side to look at me over the rough-hewn table. “Where the hero outsmarts the bad guys and arrests them?”

Ah. Otto. That old law dog.* That’s not how I told stories to my Unfoundlings (usually the officers set up an ambush for the daring and completely justified thief and got thoroughly trounced for their troubles, or, if they needed a more cautionary tale, the nasty officers caught the cocky criminal and dragged him off to the dungeons to rot forever). And it’s not how most of the stories that were actually written down went, either. But sure; the ones under Otto’s care could grow up believing that the law was their friend.

I’m told it’s a healthy belief for most non-criminals.

“Something like that. But if we get ambushed, I doubt there will be time for an arrest. Otto will smash them, Erirag will smash them, and I’ll cut their spleens out, neat as you like.”

“What’s a spleen?”

“One of those inner bits that no one really knows what it does, anyway.” I stirred the cream back into my milk and took a deep drink. “So really, I’d be doing them a favor. But we’ve got a long way to go, and getting ambushed would slow us down and be really annoying, so we’d prefer it if the travel went easy.”

I looked at the gray-skinned orc at the other end of the table. “I’ve never been too deep into the Jagged Mountains. Haven’t even had much call to go to North Hill over the decades, but I know that area well enough. I’ll find your paths and help you get up ‘em safely, though.”

My mouth twisted a little at that thought. Orcs are tough; they can walk for days and walk off falls that would kill humans and elves. They’re even mountain folk. If there’s enough hand and footholds for them, they will happily climb.

The thing is, my idea of adequate hand and footholds is a lot smaller than an orc’s. We’d have to get pitons and crampons in North Hill, and I’d need to take care to find routes that seemed like easy climbing for my tiny elven body.

Otherwise they’d never make it up.

[Erirag the Poet]

“Mountain?” Erirag asked, perking up and forgetting her games with the children as she paid more attention. She’d been longing for mountains, desiring the thin air and chill wind that waited for her there. Mostly she’d wanted Alerar and other orcs, but wasn’t this good enough? Her friend Otto, the orc encased in iron, her friend Illara, the orc hidden in the rose – this was the most family she’d had since she’d knocked her elder out and left home without much more than a hope and a dream.

She’d forgotten now all about Podё and the scars that splayed across her skin like constellations. Whatever song there was to sing, it would be sung about their glorious adventure. Suddenly, she felt impatient. A broad hand waved absently at Illara.

“Kon no grieve, Erirag get up many lots mountains. Erirag good. No need guide. Just need good stone, good hands, good idea where go and we go. If Kon get scared, Kon can sit on Erirag shoulder!” At this she laughed, snorting at her own joke as little hands reached out and what few leftovers that were on her plate disappeared.

[Otto]

As soon as the plate finished rattling, Resolve began to shepherd the children towards the kitchen sink. They formed a sort of haphazard production line; dirty dishes went in one end before emerging dry and, if not sparkling then at least evenly smudged, out the other.

"That might get a bit old when we're halfway up a frozen cliff face. Even for you, Sma-Hom. But North Hill will have everything we need. It's the gateway to the Jagged Mountains; anyone headed for those peaks passes through North Hill first."

Res didn't take her eyes off the crockery catastrophe curve in front of her, but spared enough of herself to say, "We're avoiding the elephant in the room. Do you actually have any mountaineering experience?"

Otto's whiskers twitched. "Well, I've fallen down plenty of heights..."

He stopped and leaned back as a sponge was raised threateningly in his direction. "Otto..."

"Sorry. Yes, we did lots of hostile terrain drills in the CAF. And don't forget I spent a while in Berevar. We're well prepared."

Resolve sniffed. "So you say. But this isn't a venture where you can afford to take any risks, okay?"

"I'm with Resolve on this one," Illara said.

"Have spirit, Kon!" Erirag boasted. "What is life without risk?"

"Longer," Illara muttered under her breath.

Otto glanced out the window. The sun was well up by now, and Radasanth no longer sat in the tepid grey light of pre-dawn. Sunlight was seeping down the tops of buildings across the street, their age-stained white facades yet glowing bright enough to hurt the eyes. Some of the houses here still had ivy clinging to them despite the fire which had swept through the district, which lent an air of respite. "Speaking of long," he said, "we've quite a day ahead of us. Best if we started to pack up..."



* * *


You could barely tell Radasanth had be halfway burned down from a dozen miles up the road. They had passed a work team trying to get the northern road back to pristine condition, after a lengthy bout of neglect. There was a lot of farmland out here, and the city would suffer no problems in getting much-needed supplies to its gates. Thin runoff trickled down the ditches on either side of the road, below some carefully maintained hedges which separated the pastures and fields from traffic. Otto sniffed at the air: still a strong scent from the sea heavily mixed with the earthy reek of a large city, but now tinged with fresh-cut grass and quickly disappearing morning dew. He breathed deep. The air would only get fresher as they progressed. It was a thought that made him feel oddly buoyant.

The Clydesdales clopped along tirelessly, but he, Mongrel, and Erirag had opted to stretch their legs. Illara quickly tired of the plodding pace and had disappeared up ahead a little ways, while the orcs remained to walk besides the draft horses. Every now and then, Erirag would stray into the hedges in search of some natural bounty. Otto suspected that her time in the city had made the other orc a little homesick for true wilderness.

Otto was happy to just stroll with the horses and take in the sun. The sun felt so good on his skin, and the air so fresh, he was in no hurry to get this part of the journey over with just yet.

[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?"