Chapter 22

Pierce excused himself from the boisterous celebration and strode towards the betting window, a subtle smirk playing on his lips. He presented his winning ticket to the elderly Orcish woman behind the counter. Her eyes widened as she scanned the slip, a flicker of avarice quickly masked by a professional smile.

"Oh, ye got lucky on the parlay!" she rasped, her voice a gravelly whisper. "Sixteen gold turns into nine hundred fifty-five, minus clan taxes, of course. Here's nine hundred twenty-five gold, and may the luck always follow ye."

Pierce accepted the hefty pouch, its weight a satisfying confirmation of their victory. He deftly transferred most of the gold into his inventory, leaving five gleaming coins on the counter. "May luck also follow you" he quipped, a playful wink accompanying his words.

The Orcish woman chuckled, snatching up the tip with surprising agility. "Indeed it has," she cackled, her eyes twinkling with amusement.

Meanwhile, Grok's voice echoed in their minds through their telepathic bond. “We should meet Flint at the locker room exit,” she suggested.

"I hope this doesn't go to his head," Ignis muttered to the group as they navigated the thinning crowd, descending a flight of worn stone steps towards an unremarkable door flanked by weathered benches. "The fool is already full of himself."

A few minutes later, the door burst open, and Flint emerged, arms raised in triumph. "WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS, MY FRIENDS!" he bellowed, his off-key singing voice echoing down the hallway. "AND WE'LL KEEP ON FIGHTING 'TIL THE END!"

The few remaining onlookers, however, seemed utterly indifferent to his boisterous display.

Grok, sensing Flint's disappointment, offered a gentle explanation. "Dunblag cheers for the combatant in the arena, not on the street," she said. "Could you imagine a city full of wannabe celebrities using their fame for their own gain? The cheers of the crowd and honor in your heart are reason enough to join the games."

"Don't forget the coin in your purse from the betting!" Pierce added with a grin.

Flint's frown quickly dissolved into a sly smile. "Exactly how much did you fleece them for?" he asked, his eyes twinkling with anticipation.

"Just over nine hundred gold," Pierce replied, handing Flint a hundred gold coins. "And to think I was down to my last sixteen before tonight." He then distributed fifty gold to each of the other party members.

"I need an ale and a bed," Flint declared, stretching his powerful arms. "The raw emotions out on the Red Sands sapped all the strength out of me."

"You've had enough ale for one day," Evolon retorted, playfully punching him on the arm. "You charged drunk into solo battle with things I'll have nightmares about for weeks."

The group set off towards their hideout, their conversation a lively recap of the evening's events. They dissected Flint's tactics, his thought processes, and his eventual triumph. Even Grok, usually reserved, was engrossed in the discussion. Suddenly, a prickle of unease ran down her spine, her Orcish senses warning her of something amiss.

They were passing a well-lit alleyway, about a mile from the arena, when they noticed a man retching violently against a wall. As they gave him a wide berth, a small Orcish child darted from the shadows, deftly slicing Evolon's belt pouch and disappearing into the darkness. Grok and Pierce, at the back of the group, simultaneously noticed the theft and gave chase, alerting the others.

"Cutpurse!" Pierce shouted, a hint of amusement in his voice.

“You know, this is my first real-life cutpurse,” he added through their mental link. “This could be fun!”

“That pouch was literally just rocks I was going to knap for arrowheads,” Evolon grumbled in response. “It's worthless.”

The alleyway, a narrow chasm between towering buildings, echoed with the sound of their pursuit. As they rounded a sharp corner, they found themselves confronted by a group of ten burly Orcs, their faces obscured by crude masks, their hands wielding an assortment of makeshift weapons. The leader, a hulking brute with a gruesome scar bisecting his face, stepped forward, his voice a guttural growl.

"Well, well," he sneered, his eyes glinting with malice. "Looks like we have some unexpected guests for our little gathering." Ten more Orcs emerged from the shadows, effectively blocking their escape. "Do you smell that, boys?" the leader growled, his nostrils flaring. "I smell gold, and Cadium..."

"QUACK, QUACK, QUACK, QUACK, QUACK!!!!" Flint erupted, the sudden outburst momentarily halting the Orcs in their tracks. Using the distraction to their advantage the group swiftly retrieved their weapons, preparing for a fight.

The Orcs froze, their leader staring in bewildered shock. After a moment, he regained his composure and attempted to continue his menacing monologue. "We are the local Tax Collection Agency," he began.

"QUACK, QUACK, QUACK, QUACK, QUACK!!!!" Flint repeated, his voice even louder this time. The leader's green skin deepened to an almost sickly hue.

"Fine, I guess—" the leader started again.

"QUACK, QUACK, QUACK, QUACK, QUACK!!!!" Flint's triumphant quacking cut him off once more.

"ATTACK!" the leader roared in frustration, raising his rusty, broken-tipped sword.

But before any of the other Orcs could move, time seemed to freeze. Ignis, utilizing his innate temporal magic, had stopped the flow of time for everyone but the party.

Evolon seized the opportunity, loosing arrows at the immobile Orcs, her aim precise and deadly. She moved in a methodical circle, picking off targets one by one, working her way towards Ignis, who was doing the same on his side.

Ignis, after initiating the time stop, unleashed a torrent of fire upon the Orcs within his reach. Flames erupted, casting flickering shadows that danced across the alley walls.

Flint, leaped forward, targeting the frozen leader. With a powerful swing of his hammer, he shattered the Orc's knee, following up with a shield bash that crushed his nose. He knew from countless battles at the gaming table that Pierce preferred to keep enemies alive for interrogation, but a crippled leader was effectively removed from the fight. He spun around, noting that Pierce had already cast protective spells and healing magic on the group, while Grok had already dispatched two Orcs, their heads rolling on the cobblestones.

As the time stop ended, the Orc leader looked up at his five assailants, his face contorted in pain and disbelief. He spat a mouthful of blood, the glob landing harmlessly on the ground.

"Well met, friend," Pierce said calmly, brushing a speck of dust from his robes. "Now tell me, where exactly did you hear of our good fortune and Cadium?"

"Kill me already," the Orc growled defiantly. "My death will feed my clan's bellies for a month!"

"Not having twenty warriors to feed always helps with food distribution," Grok countered with a hint of pity in her voice. "But then again, fewer warriors to gather resources is never good."

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"What we can do," Pierce interjected, a chilling smile spreading across his face, "I promise it will last longer and hurt more than you can ever imagine. You see, I am a healer. I could have my Orcish friend here gut you like a fish, and just before death claims you, I heal you to be completely whole, before starting the whole process over again. Let's not waste anyone's time. Answer the question." He punctuated his words by magically healing the Orc's wounds.

The Orc's eyes widened in terror. "Neesha," he gasped, "the teller at the arena. She wanted me to tell you before you died that one percent is the customary tip. Your measly five gold was given to me, and I was to keep half of what my men ripped from your bodies. The Cadium, though, was to be added to the auction later this week."

"Was Gustavo a part of this plot?" Evolon asked, before catching herself and taking a step back. Her past interrogations had tended towards the excessively enthusiastic, and she was now under strict instructions to leave the questioning to Pierce.

"That slimy merchant knows nothing," the Orc spat. "Half the city is adding things to the auction as long as he gets his cut. He doesn't care who joins. After the auction, we were to do the same with him. He has far too many powerful enemies to throw his weight around with godly magical items in the balance. Those items, the gold, and the glory belong to Clan Zotto, not a swindling pirate like him!"

"This is all normal back-alley dealings when a fortune is made betting in the arena or gambling halls," Grok observed. "It doesn't smell of a larger plot against The Donner Party."

"The strong take from the weak," the Orc leader declared, his voice flat, reciting a familiar mantra. "This has always been our way."

"Thank you for your permission," Flint said with a grim smile, swinging his hammer down onto the Orc's head, ending the conversation – and the Orc's life – with a sickening thud.

"Loot up," Pierce's voice echoed in their minds, a touch of fatigue coloring his telepathic message. "I want to be in a hot shower in ten minutes, and asleep just after."

Six gold richer, and with a few minor enchanted trinkets added to their inventory, the group emerged from the grim alleyway. Behind them, Ignis unleashed a concentrated inferno, reducing the pile of Orcish corpses to ash. The cobblestones glowed orange in the aftermath, erasing any evidence of the violence that had transpired. With renewed vigilance, they made their way back to the hideout, their senses alert for any sign of pursuit. After a hasty meal and a long, steaming shower, Pierce collapsed onto his bed, the absurdity of the day swirling in his mind. His nightly ritual of introspection commenced, his thoughts replaying the battle, analyzing his actions, and searching for ways to improve.

He awoke to the comforting sizzle of bacon. Pushing aside the warm covers, he pulled on his boots and breastplate, then shrugged on his spellcasting robe. He stumbled towards the dining area, where a plate laden with bacon, eggs, and toast awaited him, accompanied by a steaming mug of black coffee.

"Have I told you lately that I love you?" Pierce declared, grinning at the ever-cheerful Ignis, who was busy at the camp stove, expertly flipping eggs.

"That's nice and all," the lanky man replied with a wink, "but I fancy the ladies."

"With all their whining and drama? No thanks," Evolon chimed in, mopping up the last of the yolk on her plate with a piece of toast.

"The lady makes a good argument..." Flint boomed from across the room, striding towards the table clad only in his boxer briefs. "...but then again... boobs."

"So, we've confirmed that everyone at the table besides Grok is heterosexual," Evolon mused, her tone light and conversational. "And I'm still not sure if she's kidding or not. But the real question is, do you swing zeno?" The question, once a theoretical discussion, now held a real possibility in this world of diverse species.

Pierce paused, considering the implications. "If she's cute and has human-like features," he finally concluded, "I don't see why not give it a shot."

"Also, must not have any praying mantis or black widow cultural issues either," Flint added through a mouthful of bacon, a stray crumb escaping his lips and landing on his beard.

"Oh, I almost forgot," Ignis interjected. "They also need to have lady parts where lady parts should be. I'm adventurous and all, but there's a line I'm not willing to cross."

Grok, who had been quietly sipping her coffee, finally spoke. "Humans are strange. If Grok wants to mate, Grok just grabs mate and gets what she needs before leaving."

"Hey now, consent is not optional," Evolon interjected, her eyes wide with surprise.

"Oh, you misunderstand," Grok explained patiently. "If a mate does not want it, they just have to say so. Otherwise, consent is implied."

"That's quite progressive of you," Pierce remarked, nodding at the Orc. "The whole 'strong taking what they want from the weak' culture seems to have its limits."

"My people are fierce warriors, not monsters," Grok replied with a hint of pride. "There is no honor in that."

Eager to shift the conversation away from Orcish mating rituals, Evolon quickly changed the subject. "So, what's on the agenda for today?"

"I'm going to stay here and work on the pile of enchanted gear," Pierce announced, finishing his breakfast and draining his coffee. "Hoping to get a few utility enchantment skills and maybe some spells out of it."

"I spoke to a Master Smith in the arena locker room," Flint declared with a beaming smile, remnants of his breakfast adorning his beard. "He was trying to sell me a dead man's armor. Agreed that if I lived until today, he'd take me under his wing and show me some of his Orcish techniques at his forge." He puffed out his chest, clearly proud of his accomplishment.

Ignis, ever the culinary enthusiast, placed a flyer on the table. It depicted a series of images illustrating a blind taste test, cleverly designed for those who couldn't read the Orcish script. "I would like to go to this," he announced, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.

"Now that you have gold, I see the wisdom in attending the Chef's Table," Grok said, nodding her approval. "I will join you, if you will go to the apothecary with me afterwards. I need more powerful ingredients for my potions."

"That would be agreeable," Ignis replied, meticulously cleaning the frying pan before returning it to his inventory.

"Well, I'm not standing around some hot, loud forge all day watching Flint bang on his metal," Evolon declared, wrinkling her nose. "Grok, are there any bathhouses here in the city? I need a little pampering."

"Yes," Grok replied, her face suddenly clouding over. "Just stay away from anything with the word 'eel' in it. Eel sandwiches, eel baths, eel enemas... just say no to eels."

"Duly noted," Evolon said, her eyes wide with a mixture of curiosity and disgust.

"You know," Flint chimed in, sensing an opportunity, "my smithy friend has a leatherworking partner in the adjoining stall. Maybe you could learn how to tan and work leather from the beasties we slay into proper armor?"

Evolon's eyes lit up. "Okay," she agreed, "but after lunchtime, you have to go to the bathhouse with me for mani-pedis!"

"I'll go for a mud bath," Flint conceded, "but I'll die before I let them touch my feet. Never again!"

Pierce chuckled, recalling a previous incident. "Oh, I almost forgot," he said, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Last time, you paid the lady fifty dollars to stop the foot scrub before barging out of the nail parlor barefoot."

"Whose great idea was it to let those devil women scrape coral across the bottom of someone's foot?" Flint barked indignantly.

Evolon, overcome with laughter, managed to sputter, "Post-ride pampering was my idea, I admit. But how was I to know our tough, manly Flint, warrior with nerves of steel, would be so ticklish?"

"It's not natural, I tell ya," Flint grumbled. "Only socks and boots should touch a man's feet!"

"Okay, we're good with buddy pairs," Pierce declared, rising from the table. "Just keep your eyes out for trouble after last night's bonfire party. I'll stay in and get some work done. If anyone runs into trouble, just call over the mental chat."

Flint and Evolon exited the hideout, heading left, while Ignis and Grok departed to the right, carefully sealing the hidden door behind them. Pierce was alone, surrounded by the spoils of their recent adventures.

He picked up a small, enchanted stone, turning it over in his hands, his gaze intense. Subtle runes, magically etched into the surface, began to reveal themselves.

“New Enchantment: Lightsource - Enchant an item to emit light as long as enough mana to power it is available,” a message appeared in his mind, confirming his success.

"Now to see if I can make it a spell," he muttered to himself, focusing his will on the enchantment, attempting to transfer its essence to the air around him.

“New Spell acquired: Light - Create light from mana,” another message declared.

He reread the message, puzzled by its vagueness. Then, as he looked at the small orb of light hovering before him, he realized he could mentally control its intensity. He experimented, dimming it until it was barely visible, then increasing its brilliance until it rivaled the sun, forcing him to avert his gaze. Intense heat radiated from the orb at its maximum setting, prompting him to quickly lower the intensity.

Not content with merely controlling brightness, he began to manipulate the orb's shape, stretching it into a long, thin line, like a spotlight. Then, with a playful flourish, he thinned it further, transforming it into a ten-foot laser beam, no thicker than a human hair. He increased the intensity again, but this time, there was no accompanying heat. With a mischievous grin, he mentally directed the beam, slicing through a nearby training dummy with effortless precision.

"NO! I AM YOUR FATHER!" he proclaimed in a mock-villainous voice, bisecting two more dummies before snapping out of his reverie and dispelling the spell.

"Let's see what else I can get out of this pile of junk," he said with a wry smile, reaching for the next enchanted item.