Who needs friends, anyway?

[Green is the new black.]

This is a solo quest. However, if you read it and decide that it's so interesting (ha) that you would really like to join, PM me and we can work something out.

A foul wind whistled its ominious harmony through the tops of distant trees, swooping across green field littered with the dead. Orun climbed atop a jagged rock and surveyed the panorama of carnage; he was surprised at the strange calm that occupied what had so recently been the scene of a particularly violent and bloody conflict. He smelled the stingingly frigid air, bringing another kind of vision to his mind through his snout-like nose. It told him of more of the same. Death. He breathed the aroma deeply and smiled as he exhaled.

Orun hopped down from his perch. He was a sight both revolting and intimidating. His tangled mess of white hair was matted to his face with sweat and blood and small yellowing tusks poked through his lips from his lower jaw. Varied patches of brown leather and cloth covered his lower body and about half of his chest and torso so that he almost looked as though covered in an earthy quilt of green and brown. His body was heavy and his shoulders broad, though his frame on the whole was more compact and lean than bulky. A pair of misty blue-grey eyes gleamed with cold intelligence against the setting sun like a pair of distant starts obscured by clouds.

At that moment, it was difficult to determine which faction had won the battle. In fact, it was even hard to tell which side many of the fallen warriors had been on. The majority of them had no distinguishing markings or uniforms. Here or there, he could spot small groups of bodies belonging his green-skinned kin, most of them surrounded by significantly larger numbers of dead human warriors. He nodded with satisfaction at the sight. While he’d never doubted the battle prowess of the Salvic Orc clans, it wasn’t until traveling with a band of them for two weeks that he fully realized the extent their legendary might.

Finally, he stepped clear of the accumulation of boulders, which stuck out of the ground like rows of blunted teeth, and into the open field. There was a considerable quantity of arrows jutting from the disturbed earth or sticking out of even more corpses. There were none of the green-skinned warriors among those slain by arrows, however. Orun snorted a crude laugh. For being a 'stupid race,' they at least knew enough to stay out of an arrow's flight path.

The opposing side, an army from one of the local fiefdoms, had archers, he recalled. Orun’s employer, the house of…something or another, did not. This obviously meant that it had been the enemy’s arrows left behind. This presented two possibilities to the half-Orc: the enemy’s force had been defeated and left their arrows behind in the subsequent retreat or that they had actually won but simply lacked the time to collect ammunition before running down their foes. His gut told him that it was likely the former. Perhaps it was his pride saying that as well, though.

The arrow pattern displayed the typical inaccuracy of massed archery, where regiments of bowmen rained arrows down into target rich environments. It wasn't anything unusual; Orun had witnessed such tactics before. The arrows had short, light shafts: probably fired from shorter bows designed to be economical and easy for any mediocre soldier to use. The downside was that they were only effective against lightly armored infantry. Not that there wasn't plenty of it in most engagements, of course.

It was then that he spotted something a little more worrying. It was a single arrow embedded into a lone, heavily armored infantryman lying face down in the dirt. Orun recognized the soldier by its type. It was a professional man-at-arms, clad in a combination of chain mail armor and a few solid plates covering his knees, shoulders, and most of his chest. A kite-shaped shield was still in his left hand, a long-handled axe in his right, and a thick steel helmet sat on his head. They were relatively common among the Salvic armies, at least in the one that he’d fought with and the few others that he’d seen.

These details alone weren’t of any significant concern. Perhaps a group of them had been marching through and a number of archers decided to target them; this poor soul may just happened to have been the only one unlucky enough to get hit at a vulnerable spot. Further observation dismissed that possibility. Judging by the surrounding footprints, the man had been the only armored soldier within twenty paces. Perhaps it had been an officer. Orun decided to investigate his suspicion. He turned the body over and, sure enough, there was a badge of rank on his chest. It seemed to be solid silver with a symbol of some kind engraved into it. He pocketed the trinket without a thought.

Shifting his investigation to the arrow itself, he noticed that it had a longer, heavier shaft and better fletching than the others; it was of a notably higher quality of craftsmanship. In addition, it was sticking into the side of the fallen soldier’s neck, and judging by the angle, its flight path was almost parallel to the ground. This wasn't a standard "shoot an arrow into the air and hope that it lands on a living target" shot. It was aimed. Orun also recalled the way in which his fall had left him before the half-Orc flipped the body; the man must have been running when hit. Whoever it was obviously knew what they were doing: a professional mercenary of some sort, he guessed. Orun shrugged and continued on.

As the half-Orc walked onward, he noticed several more soldiers killed in a similar manner: Same difficult shots, similarly armored troops, identical arrow design; many looked as though they had not been dead long. Orun suddenly began feeling a very uneasy, perhaps even to an irrational degree, about being in the open and darted dexterously back to the rocks. Once he felt comfortably concealed, Orun scolded himself for his hasty fear. It was no way for an Orc to behave!

Still, perhaps it was time to leave the dormant battleground and rejoin the army from whatever the noble house was called... if he could figure out which way it went. No, to hell with that, Orun thought with a sudden rebellious tone. He had no allegiance to those humans. He didn't even know if there was even an army left, let alone which way it went. Besides, what was the point? He was only fighting with them for food. He had picked up a few coins on the battle field, and would hopefully get a few more by selling the stolen badge in the next town, assuming it hadn't been burned down yet; he would be able to eat for a while.

Making up his mind to depart the field of death, he checked the location of the setting sun and headed in the opposite direction. He knew that he wouldn't arrive at the next town before dark, but, unlike most people, he had little solicitude toward traveling at night. He was about to clear the rocks, on the side opposite the battlefield, when he detected movement and heard the sound of heavy, metallic footsteps. Orun stopped and pivoted on his left foot, instinctively grasping the hilt of his short-handled ax and the grip on his round wooden shield, pulling both of them from his belt.

The ax wasn’t exactly an imposing weapon. The head was made of dented iron. On the bright side, the blade was reasonably sharp and the hooked spike on the opposite side of the blade had always proven itself useful. The shield was even less impressive than the ax. It was little more than a thick piece of wood with an arm strap that Orun had stolen from a drunken militiaman the previous month. They weren’t spectacular tools of death, but one couldn’t argue with success.

A silver-clad figure emerged from the rocks, approaching Orun ponderously. The armored warrior stood with a straight posture and a nearly tangible air of superiority. He held a heavy long sword in his right hand, but no shield. The warrior's armor was a combination of heavy chain mail and thick metal plates. A thick breastplate and bulky armor on the shoulders stood out. It looked barely lighter than full cavalry armor. A large helmet with a slotted visor covered his head with a blue plume sticking out of the top.

Orun spotted the insignia of the opposing fiefdom, along with some lesser markings. The various armies of the Salvic states were known for using heavy infantry and cavalry when the situation called for it or if they simply wanted to boast of their wealth. Despite this statistic, however, Orun decided that he must have been a noble of some sort. Regular soldiers, even knights, didn’t often linger on battlefields alone. This was probably a lesser noble out for glory in battle. Judging by the look of him, it was unlikely that he had gotten any. His armor and sword were clean and undamaged and Orun noted that his potential foe carried himself with no sign of battle fatigue.

If there was one thing that Orun knew about Salvic nobles, particularly from the northern regions, was that they held a firm distaste for Orcs that even surpassed that of the human tribes that dotted the land. It was practically bred into many of them due to generations of conflicts in these disputed, lawless lands. The fact that Orun was only a half-blooded Orc would be of little consequence; it would surely be half an Orc too much for the warrior coming toward him. Realizing that a fight between the two would not be debatable without some form of dishonorable retreat, Orun began sizing up the situation. The noble was still fresh; somehow having avoided any combats, but would grow tired quickly from fighting in such heavy armor. The problem was, Orun was already exhausted from the long, bloody battle.

The two stood in silence for a long moment, facing each other: each sizing the other up. The half-Orc was well aware that many Salvic nobles were more than fancy armor and titles. Some were trained to fight from birth. On the other hand, that meant little if one lacked real combat experience. The noble's armor would make it difficult for Orun's axe to make a killing blow, but it would also slow the human down. Orun’s lack of armor, though giving him and speed and maneuverability, made him vulnerable. His shield was strong, but only made of wood. He would need to be careful when blocking blows from such a heavy sword – hopefully it wasn’t as sharp as it looked. With the situation sufficiently analyzed the armored warrior getting closer, Orun decided to execute an attempt at seizing the advantage by making the first move.

The half-Orc darted forward without warning. Using his shield to protect himself from his opponent's sword, he proceeded to ram fiercely into the human’s chest. The armored figure stumbled backward, but his footing held. The armored warrior gripped his sword in both hands and retaliated with a charge of his own. He uttered some curse that Orun didn't bother listening to. The noble stopped a little too slowly and swung his sword downward. Orun parried the blow with his round shield, knocking it away to the left. Some shavings of wood fluttered onto his face. It seemed that the sword was as sharp as it looked. The half-orc struck back with the pointed side of his axe, aiming for the neck, one of his armored opponent’s few vulnerable points. The noble brought his sword back in time to block, but just barely. Their weapons impacted with a metallic clang and locked together for a moment, but Orun thrust forcefully forward, once again ramming his foe. The noble was ready this time and resisted, only being forced two steps back before the two broke away from each other.

The human immediately counter-attacked again, swinging aggressively from the left and right. The half-blood avoided the blade's deadly tip by taking a series of steps backward. It was merely a tactical withdrawal, naturally; he was luring the inexperienced combatant towards him, waiting for the noble to make a mistake and overextend himself. It didn't take long, either. Believing he possessed the advantage, the human continued attacking, almost recklessly. By the fifth swing, he allowed himself to get off balance with his desperate attempt to land a hit on his foe. He came close to succeeding, but his attempt was not good enough; the half-orc was untouched. Orun brought his shield downward, forcing the human's blade to the ground. Nearly simultaneously, he swung his axe in a brutal forehand motion, smashing the noble's helmet with the broad side of his weapon.

The armored warrior spun almost half-way around and staggered back from the force of a blow that had left a large dent in his visor. He only managed to stay on his feet by planting the tip of his sword into the ground. Unfortunately for the human, this state did not last long. Orun was quickly upon him again, delivering a powerful kick to the noble's metal chest which sent him tumbling down. Unfortunately, the kick was either too forceful or too weak; the human warrior lurched backward several feet before falling to his knees.

This unexpected distance inadvertently gave him time to bring his sword up again before Orun could charge in safely and finish the job. Perhaps he would have been able to pull it off, but it presented a risk that he did not want to take. He would make another opportunity. Orun backed up as the noble struggled to his feet. The human’s breath was ragged; the green skinned warrior’s theory was actualizing itself; the noble’s stamina was wavering. The half-orc let out a low, bellowing roar, causing the human to flinch slightly. This reaction actually brought Orun a hint of joy. He might have enjoyed playing with him for a while, but he was never so foolish.

The noble raised his blade and charged again, heavy metal boots pounding into the earth like war drums beat to an irregular rhythm. Orun charged as well, controlling his speed and preparing for the right moment to attack. Suddenly, the noble stumbled without warning, letting out a cry of either pain or surprise; Orun was not sure which at the time. Perhaps both. Had he tripped somehow? There was no time to wonder about that, only to take advantage. The half-orc delivered a swift backhanded strike with the pointed side of his axe directly into his foe's neck. It penetrated the vulnerable point and dug into the soft flesh underneath, summoning a splatter of blood. The duel was over… It was only when the human fell to the ground that Orun noticed the arrow.

He recognized it instantly: long, heavy shaft, high quality fletching: same difficult shot, piercing the chain mail protecting his inner thigh. So he hadn't simply tripped. Alarmed, Orun looked in the direction of the arrow's source and saw a slender, black-haired figure standing at the base of a stout oak a mere 25 feet away. How had he not noticed? Orun drew a dagger from an ankle sheath and threw it at his new visitor. The slender figure ducked gracefully, letting the weapon fly over his head and into the trunk of the tree. Instead of returning fire with his bow as the half-Orc had expected, the man held his hand up, signaling that he didn't want to fight. Well, what the hell did he want, then?

[Green is the new black.]

Raylden watched as the green-skinned warrior walked cautiously toward him. Did he think that it was some form of trap? A trap? Laughable, at best. If he had the intention of killing the Orc, he would have tried already. Whether or not he’d have been successful was another story. Raylden watched most of the fight. This warrior did not look like the type to be trifled with lightly. He had a bow, of course, giving him the advantage of range, but he could see another dagger sheathed on the Orc’s other leg. He didn’t want to risk losing his life to a lucky hit.

Yes, it was better this way. The battle was over; there was not point in killing any more that day if he could avoid it. He would surely be able to outwit the Orc and make a profit without need for violence.

Raylden’s face still had a few dots of sweat from a long day. His sky-blue eyes were abnormally slanted, as well as most of his facial features. His frame was light, but not exceedingly slender. His complexion was still relatively light, despite three long months in the sun. His pointed ears often caused him to be confused for his father’s people, the Elves of Rairaria. A skilled observer, however, could point out that his skin was not fair enough, his eyes not quite so large or slanted, nor was his build slight enough, and finally, his ears were a little too small and blunted at the points. It all combined to give him an exotic, if not attractive, appearance.

As the green warrior neared him, Raylden pulled the dagger from his tree and tossed it to the Orc’s feet. The green-skin looked at it warily and did not pick it up.

“I’m not going to try and kill you if you reach down to pick it up,” said the half-elf. His speech was quick, but was clean and fluid. He knew just how to accent his words for the desired effect. “It would be impractical...not to mention underhanded, even for me.” A grumbling sigh escaped the green-skinned warrior before he spoke in a low, guttural voice that was barely a growl.

“What is it that you want?” asked the green-skin in a soft, but no less than demanding voice. Raylden was taken aback. That was rather articulate for an Orc speaking in the common tongue. He almost couldn’t believe that his ears were not playing tricks on him.

“So… wait, you can understand me, right?” asked Raylden.

“I speak the common language, you idiot,” came the green-skin’s harsh reply. “Now answer my question.”

“Let’s start with what I don’t want, shall we?” replied Raylden tactfully, spreading his hands like a diplomat. “And what I don’t want is unnecessary trouble.”

“A funny thing to ask given the situation…” The green-skinned warrior clenched his fists and sneered.

“You know, a thank you would be nice,” Raylden countered. “I did help you, after all.” The Orc snorted a laugh.

“I didn’t need your help,” he replied. It sounded almost defensive to the half-Elf.

“I am sure that you didn’t,” assured Raylden, sounding as sincere as he could manage. “But the fact of the matter is, I was hunting that same noble myself before you engaged him.”

“Yeah? He challenged me, not the other way around.”

“I see,” replied Raylden, pondering. He sighed. “Still, I helped you. I propose that we split the loot. 50:50.” The green-skin immediately growled and Raylden took a step back. “Er… 60:40 then?” A few awkward moments and some raised eyebrows passed in silence before anyone spoke.

“80:20,” said the Orc at last. Raylden looked at him in shocked frustration.


“That is ridiculous!” exclaimed the half-elf. “I helped you when I could have just killed you!” The green-skin grinned, raising his ax slightly.

“Maybe, but you didn’t, did you? A foolish move, most would say.” The half-elf realized that it would be best to just cave in to the Orc’s offer. He’d stand no chance fighting him in close-quarters.

“Fine,” he agreed. His voice was almost childish, reminiscent of a boy who’d lost an argument with his parents. That immature air faded soon after, however. “You get 80 percent.” He exhaled quietly when the green-skinned warrior lowered his weapon.

“Right, so what’s your name?” asked the half-Elf.

“What’s it to you?” the green-skin growled.

“It’s good manners when doing business, of course,” the half-elf explained wryly, as though it should have been obvious.

“Fine. My name is Orun,” he answered, groaning.

“And I am Raylden.” Replied the half-Elf, nodding.

“Yes, that’s nice,” grunted Orun with perfectly obvious apathy as he made his way to the fallen noble. Raylden followed behind.

“You’re a little small for an Orc,” the half-elf pointed out in an attempt to break the silence. Orun likely only obliged with the hopes that Raylden would stop talking.

“My father was the War Chief of his Clan, my mother was a nomadic sheep-herder.”

“So your only half Orc?” asked Raylden.

“Obviously,” replied Orun harshly.

“Why were you fighting with the army from the House of Branik?”

“Why are you asking so many questions?” Orun snapped, flipping the noble’s body over and checking for valuables.

“I’m just curious,” replied Raylden defensively.

“If that’s all, then it’s my turn. Why were you fighting with the other army?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” explained Raylden. “For money.”

“And why aren’t you with them now?” asked Orun.

“If you hadn’t noticed, their army was routed,” the half-elf pointed out. “I decided to take off while the getting was good. Now, it’s my turn again. Why were you fighting along side the House of Branik?” Orun shrugged.

“Long story...in short, they fed us and seemed willing to fight along side Orcs if it meant helping them to actually win a battle.” Raylden nodded at this explanation. It sounded like more or less the same reason that he was fighting, only a little simpler. It was the best you could expect from someone with Orc blood, he decided.

[Green is the new black.]

About a dozen minutes, and a few frustrated smashes from Orun’s ax (much to Raylden’s dismay), later the fallen noble was shelled and served up like a clam. The noble was rather young; he still had remnants of a “baby face.” It no longer surprised the half-Orc that the so-called Salvic warrior hadn’t been more of a challenge.

The noble had three potion vials under his armor. Two of them were broken and Orun couldn’t identify the intact one. He plucked it up anyway. There was also a dagger in the man’s belt, most likely steel. It was different than Orun’s daggers, however. It had a cross-shaped hilt and a straight blade only barely wider than a stiletto. He would allow the pretty boy, Raylden, to keep it. Then, of course, there was a pendant of noble birth. It was heavy and made of silver. If nothing else, it could be melted down. Of course, it could possibly prove useful later on… maybe. Orun doubted it, though. He took it for himself. Finally, they came to the main event: the coin pouch. Raylden made a move for it, but Orun firmly grabbed his wrist.

“Ow!” exclaimed the half-Elf. “I was just going to count it.” With that, Orun loosened his grip slightly, allowing Raylden to empty the contents of the pouch onto the grass. There were a large number of coins inside, more than most wise nobles would carry into battle with them. The half-Orc recognized most of them as the standard Salvic currency. Four of them, however, were larger cold coins baring the mark of the dead noble’s fiefdom.

“What are those?” asked Orun, pointing at the unidentified coins, his voice demanding. Raylden tilted his head and examined them for a moment as though he were the owner of a pawnshop, examining merchandise.

“They are Kalmaran Marks… a favored currency this noble’s higher Lord,” the archer explained. “If my memory serves me, they are worth about thirty gold on the standard exchange.” Orun nodded and scooped all four up with a smirk.

“Wait just a second!” commanded Raylden. “We were splitting this loot eighty-twenty!”

“We are,” replied the half-Orc, still smirking. He enjoyed the half-Elf’s irritation. “I’m just… rounding down.” The archer raised and eyebrow.

"How do you even know what 'rounding down' is?" he asked. Orun laughed softly, but sadistically.

"I also know some fast ways to snap an Elf's neck, so it doesn’t matter," the half-Orc replied with a threatening snicker. Raylden fought the urge to step away. He didn't reply. With that ‘agreement’ made, Orun rose to his feet and put the new coins into his bag. Raylden snatched the remaining twenty coins up.

[Green is the new black.]

That afternoon had been an uncommon experience for Orun. Normally, many Orcs and almost all humans would have done their best NOT to talk to or interact with him. He had gotten used to it; he almost liked it. Of course, the one person who willingly struck up conversation with him only did so because he wanted something. That was not unusual. Still, actually interacting with people other than with the blade of his ax or the bottom of his boot was something new to try. Orun shrugged it off, though. The whole concept struck him as overrated.

At least not immediately slaying the half-Elf had actually proven somewhat beneficial. Orun now knew the value of those coins, whereas he might have otherwise been vulnerable to swindling merchants. Such knowledge seemed to be worth the coins that he gave the half-Elf on. Raylden took his share with a yawn before stepping away to begin straightening out his pack. His back was turned to the half-Orc.

At that moment, an idea came to Orun’s mind. He could simply kill the puny half-Elf now and take anything of value he had. It would be simple. Raylden’s back was to him and Orun was still crouched, his knife on the ground next to him. All he'd need to do was casually stand up and flick the dagger into Raylden’s back as though he were spearing a piece of meat. He considered it. In fact, he did more than just consider it; he decided that he would do just that. He'd need to act quickly, though. Raylden was beginning to walk away. The half-Orc was just about to reach for his dagger when he heard someone yell from behind him.

"You there! Orc!" called a rough and menacing male voice. Orun turned his head and looked behind him, leering with the eyes of a weary mountain lion that had disturbed while feeding on its final kill.

His animalistic eyes came to rest upon five men standing like shadows against the faded sunlight. Two were in their late twenties or early thirties. One had black hair, the other, brown hair. Their faces were mature and covered in prickly facial hair. Two others were younger, early twenties most likely, and had brown hair and clean faces. They all had tanned skin, likely from being outdoors often. The last, practically a boy, had blonde hair and paler skin. Four held daggers in their hands. The black-haired man, clearly the one in charge, had a wooden spear. He spoke again.

“What are you up to?” He had the coarse and almost-malevolent voice of a man used to inspiring fear in others. The half-Orc stood up, leaving his dagger on the ground. His first thought was that they were some kind of highway patrol or another form of law-enforcement, which is why he left his secondary weapon on the ground. Once he looked at them more closely, however, he dismissed the notion. They were too unkempt and didn’t stand with the erect posture of trained and disciplined men.

During his travels, Orun had come to realize that the lands this far from Knife’s Edge were fairly chaotic even when there weren’t armies marching through, laying waste to the countryside. During active warfare between rival lords, they became a land teeming with human vultures and predators of the lowest order, leaving the occasional un-assaulted victim scurrying between holes and shadows. The men in question were more than likely part of the jackals and vultures as opposed to highwaymen or soldiers. Orun wasn't sure if that made them more or less dangerous, though.

"What I’m doing is none of your business," Orun grumbled at them. "Now go away." Their leader laughed. The other four followed suit.

"Looks to me like he's been looting, doesn't it boys?" The others nodded and voiced their agreement. They’re tones reminded Orun too much of a pack of jackals. He glanced over his shoulder. The damned half-Elf was nowhere to be seen. Typical , he said to himself. On the other hand, it probably served him right for planning to backstab the archer. He was on his own. The worst part was that the bandits’ leader seemed to consider himself a great orator and just wouldn’t shut up. "We're just gonna' have to confiscate whatever you've grabbed." Orun growled and narrowed his eyes in defiance.

"Try it and I’ll eat your face!" They obliged, ignoring his warning. The five bandits wasted no time as they rushed him, making up for their lack of organization and discipline with speed. At least these idiots aren’t talking anymore. Crom was barely able to get his ax and shield in his hands before they reached him. He swung wide at the pack, causing them to back off slightly to stay out of his reach. His attack was slower than usual; he knew that had he not been so exhausted from the day’s activities, there would have only been four enemies left.

The bandits changed their strategy and quickly circled him like a pack of hungry wolves. They took turns coming in for attacks from different angles. The half-Orc kept them at bay with his shield and ax, but he was tired and outnumbered. It would only be a matter of time before he left himself suitably open so that one of the bandits would feel confident enough to make a successful attack.

Their leader was the only one who had yet to make an attempt. He was obviously waiting for the right moment to use his spear's range and mass to deliver a killing blow once their fatigued target gave an opening. Orun didn’t make it easy, but it finally happened when one of the younger bandits managed to stick his dagger into Orun’s arm. The half-Orc roared and their leader moved in with his spear to capitalize on it.

And then he wasn’t.

Just like that, their leader went from advancing to attack to being on the ground, a long-shafted arrow in his head, just above his ear, surrounded by oozing blood. Orun didn’t take the time to ponder this. Instead he seized the advantage and charging into the stunned underlings, splitting one's skull with his ax right away. The second veteran bandit tried to attack, but he, too, took an arrow and fell just as fast as his leader. The half-Orc chopped down another with malicious strength, leaving only the youngest. The boy ran like a spooked deer. They always run. Cowards.

Orun pursued the young bandit, nearly blinded by rage and the desire of vengeance. The blonde boy managed to reach the rocks by the time Orun caught him. The half-Orc pinned the bandit against a large stone with his shield, forcing the air from his chest, and raised his ax to finish him off.

"Please...I-I'm sorry!" stammered the blonde haired outlaw. He was frightened and was not trying to hide it. Tears were forming in the boy's eyes. "Don't kill me. Please don't kill me..." Orun looked at him is disgust. Humans at their finest, he thought. The half-Orc was about to hack the boy apart limb from limb when Raylden appeared beside him.

"Let him go, Orun," said the half-Elf. It was partly an order, but was more of a request. "He's no threat to us." Orun grunted and tossed the boy aside.

"Fine," he agreed, grudgingly. The boy ran away as fast as his young legs would carry him. It was doubtful that he would consider a life of crime again, at least. The two stood in silence for what seemed like hours until Orun finally spoke up in his normal low, grumbling voice.

"Why?"

"Why what?" Raylden asked.

"Why did you come back to help me?" The green-skin tilted his head.

"Well, I wasn’t running,” explained Raylden. His voice sounded sincere, and almost insulted at the notion that he would have run away. “I disappeared from view as soon as I heard their leader so I could get at a safe distance to use my bow.”

"But why?"

"You could have killed me earlier and you didn't," the half-elf explained. Orun choked down what felt like a twinge of guilt. "That, and five on one didn't look like a fair fight to me. I figured that four to one would have been better." The half-Orc laughed heartily.


“But you killed two of them,” challenged Orun with an uncharacteristically jovial tone. "Wouldn't that have then made it unfair?” Raylden shrugged and formed a lopsided smile.

“Fighting fair is overrated,” replied Raylden. Orun laughed again.

“Well pretty boy, I suppose that you're right about that much.”

"You know, you're very articulate for an Orc."

"Thank you... I think." The half-Elf shifted on his feet silently for a moment.

"Listen... you'll get a better return on some of these stolen goods if you take them into the Kalimaran domain." Raylden paused hesitantly. "But if you try and do it yourself, you would risk a chance of getting ripped off, because you're Orcish." Orun raised an eyebrow, as though deciding whether or not to be offended.

"All right. What are you getting at?"

"Well, I could help you out. I'm skilled at bartering; I could make sure that the items you picked up get the price they deserve." Orun stroked his chin idly for a couple seconds.

"And what's in it for you?" inquired the half-Orc, suspiciously. "What do you want in return for this service?"

"Protection," answered the archer. "With the war between these two fiefdoms raging, it's getting more dangerous to travel alone. I could use a little extra protection until I get back to civilization."

"Expecting trouble, then?" asked Orun.

"What... no, I--"

"Yes, I thought so. Well, I'll think about it." With that, the half-Orc turned and began walking off.

"Wait!" called Raylden, chasing after him. "Is that a yes?"

[Green is the new black.]

The following night found Raylden and Orun camped out near the base of a pair of dead, claw-like trees. A conservative fire was burning between, positioned as though it were the warm heart of their encampment. An abundance of jagged rocks and dead brush surrounded them. These would hopefully serve as a warning should anything or anyone try to take them by surprise. The half-Elf wrapped his cloak around his body to protect himself from the wind, which bit into him like the cold touch of death itself. The few stars in the heavens visible through the blanket of clouds added a dash of life to an otherwise dreary sky.

“My turn to keep watch,” he told Orun, who had been leaning, awake, against the blackened back of the left tree. The half-Orc grunted an acknowledgement and nodded before closing his eyes. Within moments, the raspy, guttural sound if snoring floated through the crisp night air, grating at Raylden’s auditory sense like a metal file inside of his skull.

The archer groaned and massaged his forehead, trying to ignore the noise of his temporary companion’s sleep. He was reminded at that moment that the events of the previous night had still done little to quell his distaste for Orun; he had no intention of staying in the green-skin’s company any longer than he had to. He settled himself at the base of the second tree and rubbed his eyes. In actuality, it wasn’t supposed to be his turn to keep watch for another two hours. He simply couldn’t sleep.

Following the incident with the bandits, Raylden decided that it would have been too dangerous to travel through these lawless lands alone – not that he needed the bandit attack to figure such things out; it had merely served as a reminder. Seedy characters often watched the roads. Traveling off the road was difficult; he rarely got lost, but starting fires gave away positions to the variety of brigands that wandered the lands and camping without one just made you a meal option for hungry wolf packs while you slept.

Of course, some humans could scarcely be distinguished from wolves. Raylden knew a certain few who fit that very distinction: cunning, devious, and prone to striking anywhere, anytime, and without warning. They were dangerous indeed… but they certainly wouldn’t dare try anything with the Orcish brute present. He yawned and gazed off at the distant rolling hills and round, stout mountains that covered the landscape.

His eyes then shifted to his left hand. The fingers were slender, pale, and long. He felt his stomach tighten when his focus finally settled on the silver, blue-gemmed ring wrapped around his middle finger. He shuddered and shook his head as the pricking needles faced from his spine. No… they wouldn’t try anything. They probably had no idea that he was here.

* * *

Smoke.

A figure in an earthy brown cloak crouched stealthily atop a large boulder on a hill. The pale half moon peeked through the dark curtains of the sky and reflected in the figure’s misty gray eyes, which were partially obscured by locks of raven hair, and created a dance of sparkling light. It also reflected from a faint whiff of smoke like a beacon less than two miles away. If it was he, he was being remarkably foolish. In fact, it was simply asinine of him to find his way out here again in the first place.

The lithe form jumped down from the massive stone, eyes remaining locked on the smoke. A silent hand signal summoned a pair of tall, muscular men. They were both imposing figures: red hair, scarred faces, and chain mail shirts partially obscured under cloaks. They easily could have been brothers. Their eyes quickly found the dancing smoke as well.

“Is it him?” asked the man on the left. His skin was of a paler hue than the other. The shorter figure stared intensely at the speaker for a moment with a harshness of the eye, causing an unsettled shift in the large man. “What I mean is… who else could it be?”

“Well, since you’re so keen on finding out…” the slender, hooded figure replied. The voice was soft and pleasant – female. A coy smile appeared on the woman’s pale face. She was attractive, to say the least, with high cheekbones, a small rounded nose, and a defined chin. “Why don’t the two of you take a walk down there and find out?”

“But Mistress!” the second man pleaded, the pitch of his normally deep voice rising. “If he spots us, we’d be—“ A simple raise of the woman’s hand silenced him. She glared at him with a mixture of apathy, disgust, and irritation. Her voice matched her face.

“Then crouch and pray. Now go.” Her voice was steady and calm, but her command was absolute and held an air of being unquestionable. Both men nodded, their expressions subdued, and walked reluctantly past their mistress and toward the source of the smoke.

[Green is the new black.]

Orun stirred into the haze of wakefulness. With a snort and a choking cough, the half-Orc let his eyelids slowly lift. It was still night, but the sky wasn’t as dark anymore. The clouds had parted, allowing the moon’s light to escape. The great slice of silver was still fairly high in its arc, though. There were still a few hours left before dawn. The fire had burned down to a pile of ashes emitting thick black smoke. Was it his turn to keep watch? He turned to the tree where Raylden had been sitting only to realize that he wasn’t there.

Where did that slippery elf go off to?

The familiar frigid wind hit his face, shocking his system into awareness. After another minute of waiting, he grew impatient. He stretched, summoning a series of stiff pops from his shoulders and back, and climbed to his feet. Before Orun got a chance to glance around for his skinny companion, there was some faint rustling in the dead brush behind him.

“Did you have a nice walk?” asked the half-Orc without looking behind him. He was annoyed, and his voice showed it. The half-Elf was supposed to be keeping watch, and what does he do? He wanders off in the middle of the night.

“Oh, it was nice,” replied a voice considerably lower than Raylden’s. It was a voice that certainly did not sound friendly. Orun cursed under his breath. “I’m not sure about yer’ friend, though. How’s about you tell me where he went so we can ask him?” Orun turned around to face the stranger with a vicious sneer. He was in a dark cloak covered in holes and patches like a rag. Under this piece of “clothing” was an equally unappealing chain shirt.

“Friends? When did I get any of those?” The half-Orc balled his fists and shot a quick glance at the axe and shield at his feet. The stranger immediately pointed a well-worn sword at him.

“Try fer’ yer’ weapons and I’ll cut that snout right off,” warned the man. The sword appeared to be made of steel, though it had several dents and it’s metallic luster was dull. Even the cross-shaped hilt was battered. Orun chuckled.

“Nice sword… did you steel it from a real soldier?”

“Why you ugly little…” he began angrily. Orun couldn’t help but be a little pleased with this reaction. The man took a threatening step forward, but was interrupted by another voice the half-Orc’s right. It wasn’t quite as deep at the first man’s, but it was more commanding.

“Calm down, Bernard.” Another man appeared from the darkness. Judging by his appearance, he was probably related to his partner. The second man’s unforgiving eyes turned to Orun. “Now, Orc, tell us where that—” His demand was suddenly replaced by a painful and disgusting gurgle as blood sprayed from his neck and spewed from his mouth. He fell to the ground, grasping at the unsurprising arrow in his throat.

The half-Orc quickly turned to the first stranger. To his surprise, the man wasn’t making any acts of aggression. Instead, he simply stood, planted his sword in the ground, and let his head droop – moments before another arrow took his life.

Orun looked back and forth at the two dying men with disappointment. He had allowed himself to get worked up because of the anticipation of violence, only to be left with no outlet. The half-Orc unclenched his fists with a long exhale and sighed. Punching a corpse seemed rather pointless, so he would just need to calm down the normal way. He’d just finished that process when Raylden appeared, emerging silently from the brush.

“Good timing…” said Orun, yawning. The half-Elf shrugged and strode over to the smoldering fire and shuffled the remains around with his boot.

“I try,” he replied. “I… went to go relieve myself… and then I saw those two in our camp and decided to help out.” Orun, characteristically, raised an eyebrow.

“I didn’t realize that going to piss was such an epic journey…”

“I guess that like to take my time,” chuckled the half-Elf. Orun groaned and sat back down against his tree. Raylden smirked at him. “But… since we’re all awake, it’s your turn to keep watch.”

“You’re a miserable bastard,” commented the annoyed green skin.

“Perhaps, but I figure that might as well be a well-rested miserable bastard.”

***

The glowing warmth of dawn was spreading across the cold, brown landscape and a certain mistress had grown tired of waiting for her subordinates to return. Her keen memory swiftly led her through the rocks and brush to the source of the smoke that she’d sent Bernard and Charles to investigate. The smoke itself had already dispersed; it was fortunate that her memory was as eidetic as it was.

There it was: the place that must have been the camp. There was a pile of ash between two dead trees. Splayed out around the fire were her two underlings. She didn’t bother to walk up and check their vital signs; they were as dead and lifeless, and useless, as the cold remains of the fire. There were gaping arrow holes in their necks, but they were otherwise unchanged. The cloaked woman sighed in frustration and bitter annoyance.

Raylden, Raylden, Raylden… you’re as clever as always...

[Green is the new black.]

Orun had managed to keep watch for the remainder of the night without falling asleep for more than a couple of minutes. The sky had cleared during the night, causing the temperatures to drop even more. Needless to say, morning could not have come early enough. With the arrival of dawn, it hadn’t taken the mismatched pair long to pack up and head off. Hopefully, they would reach town by that afternoon.

All in all, after the initial chill of the morning had worn off, it was actually turning out to be a reasonably tolerable autumn day. Only sparse threads of wispy white clouds masked the carefree blue sky as a gentle breeze rustled the long, dried grass on the side of the road. The pleasant atmosphere almost put his mind in a state of contentment; despite the fact that since two nights ago, the only person whom he’d met who didn’t try to kill or rob him was an irritating Elvin weakling.

They strolled at a brisk pace for the entire morning without stopping. The pair of half bloods didn’t take a moment to rest until the shadowy silhouette of the town they sought appeared in the distance. The town was called Tirel, Orun recalled. He had been there twice before; it was the easternmost settlement in the domain of the House of Banik

“I’m surprised this town has survived so long,” commented the green warrior. “Given all the squabbles between rival lords.” Raylden shrugged.

“It’s a valued trading post in this wilderness,” Raylden explained. “Even when fighting does extend to it, both sides had wanted it intact.” Orun nodded, contemplative.

“Perhaps we could try our luck with these Kalimaran coins here, then,” suggested the half-Orc, reaching into his leather bag to retrieve them.

“No!” answered Raylden in a near shout. An awkward glare by Orun immediately followed, causing the half-Elf to become composed again. “What I mean is, this township is still under the control of the House of Banik. Those coins won’t get you much of anything. In fact, they would probably just serve to cause suspicion.” Orun eyed him warily before shaking his head and continuing on.

The only one here who’s causing suspicion is you, Elf.

The two remained silent for the rest of the walk until they reached the entrance of the town an hour later. It was a pleasant little town, assuming that one actually enjoyed the tall, wooden walls of the buildings closing in on them, bustling mobs of annoying humans crowding everywhere, and the stuffy, choking smell of hundreds of sweaty people and livestock in the air. On the other hand, he could exactly complain about the prospect of food, an actual bed, and a bath. Yes, definitely a bath.

“All right, so what do we need to do here, anyway?” asked Orun, glancing over at Raylden and breaking the silence.

“Well, we’re going to need some supplies,” the half-Elf replied. “It’s still another two days to the first market town in the Kalimaran fiefdom. I’d rather not make any more stops at smaller towns along the way if it can be avoided.” Orun nodded.

“And I thought that I was the only one who preferred to stay away from civilization,” commented the half-Orc in his guttural, yet oddly articulate voice. Raylden hesitated for a moment before speaking again.

“Yes… I suppose I can surprise people sometimes,” he said with a subdued air of discomfort. It was fairly obvious that he was used to fooling people with these emotional masks. Orun, however, was too clever for that. Still, there would be plenty of time to ask questions later.

“But, while we’re here,” the half-Elf continued. “We might as well find a decent place to stay. Of course, by ‘decent’, I mean beer, brawls, and bit—women.” Orun’s toothy mouth formed a smile.

“I like the way you think.”

[Green is the new black.]

Raylden had been to Tirel twice before. It was a typical small Salvic town. A simple wall of logs with sharpened points surrounded the perimeter of the frontier settlement. They were clearly old, showing signs of many years in the harsh climate of northern Salvar. Missing, however, were any signs of battering at the hands of weapons or siege engines. It would seem that their defenses had never been tested. That was likely to change as the conflict between Kalimar and the House of Banik continued. The half-Elf didn’t want to be anywhere near here when that happened. Working as a mercenary was all well and good in the early stages of warfare, before the sides begin getting desperate.

The two were able to enter without great trouble. The guard at the gate glared at Orun for a moment, but Raylden was able to get them through with a little guile. He simply convinced the guard that the off-putting half-Orc with the sinister look in his eyes was just his dull-witted bodyguard. Orun hadn’t been terribly happy about that comment, but he would get over it; at least they were inside without having to fight anyone.

The interior of the town was just as he’d remembered it. Sturdy wooden houses lined the roads as the pair of half-bloods walked further inward. Some were shops and businesses, and others were homes. Most had well-maintained tiled roofs or shingles. Those with at least a fair amount of money largely owned these. Raylden knew that the appearance was deceptive, giving the impression of a prosperous settlement. He knew, however, that they only concealed the poorer districts of the town, as an aging noblewoman might hide her wrinkles and blemishes under thick make-up. The poor lived in mud huts and rickety wooden shacks with straw, thatched roofs that barely stood against the harsh sub-arctic storms. The lucky ones stayed in crowded communal dwellings where contagious diseases ran rampant.

Beyond the markets, near the center of the town, the homes of the wealthier families and merchants could be found. They were built from stone, brick, and mortar and had roofs made from the quality shingles. These homes, along with the some more expensive taverns, the hall of the Mayor and Sheriff, and the chapel of the Sway and the classier brothel – which were, ironically, right next to each other – formed the wealthiest district of the city.

The pair talked little as they bumped and squeezed through the crowded marketplace to buy dry rations and other supplies for the rest of their trip. Having the half-Orc along was more of a liability than Raylden has expected. While his imposing figure tended to part crowds, his obvious Orcish lineage made it harder to haggle with the merchants. Most charged higher prices than they normally would have. Unfortunately, though, the half-Elf hardly had a choice. Orun would probably get into trouble if left on his own, and Raylden would need the green-skin’s strength in the coming week. Raylden wished that he knew what to expect, or if she was still in this region. Hell, he wasn’t even sure that she was still alive. He shook his head; now was not the time to be having second thoughts. At that moment, Orun spoke up, ensuring that there would be none.

“Is that everything?” asked the half-Orc. “It’s getting late, and I’m still sober.” Raylden chuckled. It must be nice to have so little to worry about, he thought. It was late, though. The sun was going down behind the stout buildings, leaving long shadows looming over the cobbled streets.

“Yes, I think that we’re all set,” Raylden replied, examining the contents of his stuffed leather bag. Orun peered over to take a look as well. After a moment, he gave a nod of approval.

“Where to, then?” asked Orun. The half-Elf smiled.

“Only the ‘best’ bar in town,” he replied. “The Big Stick Inn.”

“I don’t even want to know…”

[Green is the new black.]

The Big Stick Inn was, at first glance, like any other Inn or Tavern that Orun had seen. Only after stepping inside for a few minutes and getting settled in did the differences become apparent. The roaring fireplace on the fire wall seemed just a little bit hotter, the wooden tables seemed just a little bit wider, the mugs of beer just a little frothier, and the barmaids more than just a little more well-endowed and flirtatious.

Orun and Raylden took their seats in an empty corner, opposite the one occupied by the traditional dark loner that could be found in every tavern in the world. No sooner had they settled into their seats than did one of the voluptuous barmaids stroll over. She had long, curly red hair and a young face, save for the dark circles around her eyes. She leaned in front of them, giving the mismatched a deliberately extensive view of her ample, milky-white cleavage. Orun noted the presence of a rather large mole on her left breast with some amusement.

“I’ll take an ale,” said Raylden before the barmaid could speak. She giggled.

“You got it, big boy,” she said flirtatiously. Her giggling rose in pitch. Orun suspected that there was something besides just alcohol in whatever she’d been drinking that night. The busty woman turned her face the half-Orc. Rather, her overflowing chest turned to face him. “How about you, handsome? How about a big, frothy beer?” Orun scoffed irritably and rolled his eyes.

“Vodka, straight up, no ice,” he replied, his voice low, but loud enough for the redhead to hear him. She didn’t miss a beat, though. Whether this was because she had a strong composure or because she was simply too drunk and drugged to realize how annoying she was, Orun couldn’t tell. Naturally, he assumed the latter.

“Oh… anythin’ you want,” she replied, almost seductively, as though they were lovers playing a dirty game. Before Orun had a chance to tell her to get lost – preferably in a dark, wolf-infested forest – she was gone. The green-skin groaned.

“Classy bunch…” He fought down the urge to bang his head on the table. Raylden simply leaned back in his chair, as relaxed as could be, and smiled.

“I know, isn’t it fantastic?” he replied, clearly mocking the half-Orc’s sarcasm by pretending to ignore it. Even so, he was clearly enjoying himself. “I used to visit here all the time before I left a few years back. The giggly redhead was Simone. To be honest, I’m surprised that she’s kept her top on this long… oh, I spoke to soon.” His lips curled into an amused expression and pointed toward the bar. There, much to Orun’s distinct lack of surprise, the pale, red-headed barmaid’s blouse had found a resting place atop the counter. The woman was giggling even louder than before as she stumbled shamelessly back to their table, occasionally sloshing the contents of the tin ale mug over her bare chest. The vodka remained uncompromised, however.

“‘ere ya’ go, boys!” she said, her speech even more slurred than before. After setting the mug and the class onto the table, she looked down at herself and blushed. “Oh! It looks like I made a bi’ o’ a mess!” Her giggling rose in pitch again; Orun swore that it would shatter his vodka glass if it got any higher. She ran her finger across Raylden’s chest. “You wanna come help me clean up?”

“Maybe later,” replied Raylden, winking at her.

“Oh, yer such a naughty boy!” With that, the licentious woman pranced away with the grace of an avalanche. The half-Elf grinned.

“Such a charming girl.”

Orun groaned. “Humans…”