Crumbling Foundations (Solo...for now)

[Styrax]

Now

Somewhere in the vast emptiness of Salvar is the river, cutting swiftly through the hinterlands. The northern bank is rocky and leads away into ever thicker forest of pine and shrub and the myriad harsh brier patches and bushes that find the brief growing season acceptable for their roots to call home.

The southern bank rises nearly fifty feet above the river, a haggard hillside cliff that stands there, proud and helpless as a greybeard soldier staring down the passage of time. The forest can't find purchase here, or maybe it knows something others don't. The tree line abruptly stops several yards from the cliff face, to admire the view, I suppose. The result is a clearing of stubborn grass and hard packed soil and rock.

A bird lazily circles this particular stretch of clearing. The cliff juts out like a blunt thumb here. As good as any place to defend, and to die upon.

Jolok looked up from his weary seat on the log to observe the circling bird as another joined it. Vultures, drawn to the feast. He let out a long sigh and forced himself to stand.

"Still alive."

As he wiped blood from his brow with the back of his head, he moved to the cliff edge and looked down at the rushing waters. It looked cold. No rapids here, at least. Yes, stay positive. No rapids, and no way to climb down, and no way of telling how deep the river was. Stay positive.

"A positive mindset is a productive one."

Yeah. Sure.

He could at least gauge the water's depth. He turned his back to the cliff and walked, scanning the ground around his feet for something suitable. He didn't bother covering his face, the smell wasn't bad yet. Yes, look on the bright side of things, stay positive. The half-orc wrinkled his snub nose - he'd always liked his nose, it was distinctly human-shaped - at the sharp stink that assaulted him as he rolled one face-down fellow onto his back.

"Shit always stinks, friend."

The dead man didn't deign to reply, just stared in frozen horror at nothing, the shock of his own murder clearly stamped onto his simple face. His face had drained, leaving him stark pale in contrast to his dark auburn beard. A spark of recognition glimmered within Jolok's mind. The iron worker. Miklov? No, Meilekoff. The father. So helpless as he looked at the child in his arms.

Jolok shook his head violently to snuff the memory before it could burst into full flame and scorch him.

He gave up searching and left the woodsman to stare up at the waiting vultures. Dusk was already approaching, and a decision needed making. He put his hands at the small of his back and stretched with a grunt, then rolled his shoulders forward and turned to look over the clearing, scanning across to the looming forest.

"Well, what now? I promise not to laugh at any suggestions."

Stretching away from him to the trees, the corpses of the recent dead remained stubbornly silent but for the buzzing of insects. Salvar Men and a few women, dressed in simple cloths, a leather vest here and there, freely mixed with the grey-green bodies of orcs. All in various states of violence - a skull crushed in like an egg shell here, a gaping cut across the throat there. Oh, and there, the great hulking brute of an orc slumped on his side, cupping his belly where his entrails had spilled out. The man who slew him lay in the muck not two feet away with a crude spear in his back and a foot tangled in the ropes of intestine.

Jolok closed his olive eyes on that image, but the memory of it happening was worse - it had been funny in it's horrible, fatal way - so he opened them again and scratched at his bristled cheek.

"No suggestions? Fine, thanks for the help"

The lone man picked his way back toward the relatively corpse-free space where the fire pit had been and stood looking out over the steep drop at the tree tops. The wind decided to send a breeze, blowing the smells away from him and making his overcoat reach back for the woods behind him.

Jolok hadn't expected a reply, but even so it was a rude reminder of how very alone he was. Nearly a score of dead freeman and orcs agreed with his analysis.

The change in the wind nearly kept the distant bay of a hound from reaching his ears. Nearly.He turned his head and held his breath, waiting. Waiting. There, another. Was it closer? Maybe it was a different dog. Maybe they were headed another direction.

Jolok snorted and turned back into the cliff-side breeze as it carried the charnel scent of blood and death away into the woods.

"Yes, stupid fool. stay positive. It'll get you killed, but stay positive."

Above him, the carrion birds wheeled. He suspected they agreed with him.

[Styrax]

Before


The sun was high in the sky, if the learned men with their stone dials are to believed. The lone figure crunching through the fallen leaves wasn't so sure. He looked up through the grey, muddled trees at a grey, muddled sky filled with grey, muddled clouds and assumed there was indeed a sun up there somewhere. Maybe it was grey too.

He pulled his hood lower as he trudged onward, following the small trail along it's winding course. At least it wasn't a game trail. There had been the mark of a wagon rut a few kilometers back, after all. Joy and rejoice.

Odd, why not rejoy? Or joice and rejoice? After all, it wasn't as if -

A sudden snap of a twig broke Jolok from the deep philosophical musings. A shaking of the brush followed - noisome in the mostly silent forest. Where though?

There, not as close as he'd feared. The sound traveled far through the pines. Still, not as far as to be at ease. The man's lower canines protruded as he chewed at his upper lip. Stay the course? His mother has always been fond of that phrase.

Stay the course. A crooked till leads to a poor harvest.

She did love the farming metaphors, did dear mother.

The noise again; louder now. Closer. Jolok came to a decision. Sorry, mother. He dodged away from the trail opposite the crashing movement; dashed as quietly as he could a few yards into the undergrowth and dropped to his belly near a rotting, fallen tree. Smelled nice, in a musty earthen sort of way.

He was thankful for his ragged leather and cloth of faded gray and muddy brown as the other traveler emerged onto the trail. No - travelers. An Orc stopped heavily and looked both ways down the trail, a crude, heavy spear gripped in one over-long arm. He scratched at his rear and grunted over his shoulder.

In response, another emerged. Maybe he could sneak up on them and send them back to the mud. A third orc stepped out and moved up the trail in step with the second while the original kept watch. Then a fourth Orc moved out, tearing meat from a bone. This one was huge of belly, and said gut was not hidden under hides but crossed with scars.

Maybe it would be a better tactic to lay in the mud. Yeah, that seemed like a good plan.

Jolok pulled his hood lower and tilted his head down lest the shine of his eyes catch their attention. Made it hard to watch, but he manged well enough by straining his sight upward. He tried to catch snippets of their conversation. Mostly it consisted of guttural curses aimed at each other. Thank dear old father for the chance to hear some of those colorful comments.

The obese Orc barked a phrase and pointed his bone up the trail in the direction Jolok had been headed. The original Orc barked out in louder tones as he pointed his spear - right at Jolok. With a series of rapid grunts, the other two moved around Fatty and Long-Arm and started lumbering into the underbrush, getting closer with each step.

Not good. Not good. Not good.

They paused by the fallen tree and sniffed. Trackers? Did they have his scent? Jolok didn't dare breath. Couldn't even try to get as his short sword. The dry leaves meant any movement would be an invitation to be skewered. Of course if they had already made him, moving now wouldn't make things worse.

The two Orcs were speaking.

"Ugroth kul noh'tag. Ork-pu slok-hak. Slok Ork-pu."

"Ikal nakul. Ork-pu noh'tag kul Orken trogga hak slok."

"Ikal kul rek'tintog, kul noh'tag hak-pu, slok pu-trogga."

Best Jolok could tell, the Orcs were arguing. No great surprise there. One 'Ugroth' wanted to follow the trail to the eventual human settlement - "Ork-pu" which translated to "not Orc" as well as "excrement" based on the context.

At least now he knew there was a settlement.

The other, 'Ikal' seemed more inclined to avoid the path so they wouldn't be seen coming. That meant more work. It also meant these Orcs weren't looking for peaceful race relations. [I]Slok[I] - alternatively "to visit", "to arrive" and "to hunt". They were looking to raid.

Jolok's quick attempt to translate and make sense of the confusing language was interrupted as Long-Arm joined the two and they went silent. He grunted and stared up at them each in turn - both were a few inches taller than his gangling, slouched form. Yet both averted their eyes from his glare. Long-Arm rattled his spear and pointed deeper into the underbrush and the two who had been speaking set off.

Ikal then, since he seemed adamant on the direction. That meant the obese one must be...

A heavy foot landed scant inches from Jolok's prone form. Ugroth loosed a disgruntled fart and dropped the bone as he lumbered along after the other two. Irkal remained a few moments more, looking around slowly, alert. About the time the vulnerable half-orc felt he had to heave a breath and take his chances, the Orc snorted and set after the others.

Jolok waited until their noisy trail blazing faded to silence. Then waited a few minutes longer. Thank you for rotten logs and stinky Orc farts.

Travelling the trail again, his mind whirled in thought. His well-worn field coat was only sightly dirtier after his sojourn amidst the grubs and wet soil. His mind was occupied with the settlement. If those Orcs were the entire raiding party then likely the humans weren't in real danger.

Of course, Orcs in any number were dangerous. It was rare for one to die without blood of something or someone else crusting it's weapon. So yes, if the settlement was unfortified, even four Orcs could prove as devastating as a blighted harvest. A farting, grunting, natural disaster on legs.

But there was a good chance the party of Orcs weren't alone. That could be bad. He held onto the weak hope that they would wander off toward some other place, maybe come across a different settlement - or better yet, a rival tribe. He really didn't need an Orc War-Party complicating his first trek into "civilization" in a week. He'd run out of cheap wine days ago. His ink-quill had broken some time before that, he discovered when he'd tried to distract himself by adding to the tome safely stored within his coat.

He really didn't need the complication a war-party represented, no thank you.

He hurried his pace. For some reason, he felt like jogging for a few miles. Walking just seemed too risky these days.