A soft, full orange moon and the escaping shadow of its purple twin shone down on a wasteland of dead trees embedded into dirt on the verge of becoming sand. A lone fire flickered in the night, illuminating the scene of two women exchanging harsh words in low tones between mouthfuls of hearty traveler stew. They ate out of iron bowls, shoveling the stew into their mouths with hunks of charred bread.
Moka severed a piece of ash coated bread with her teeth, leveling the rest of her half-loaf at the orcish woman across from her.
“You’re telling me that the Empire, a human nation, has sucked your land dry of its spirits and diverted its rivers to fuel their expansion. This has destroyed your communities, laying waste to the life you used to know.”
Tevzaga balanced her bread on the edge of her iron bowl and used two claws to fish out a hunk of dried meat. Being boiled in water with pickled vegetables and seasonings had done wonders for the jerky’s moisture content. The leftover scraps of dough in the pot had dissolved while the stew cooked, thickening the broth until it was on the verge of gravy. Tevzaga flicked the morsel of meat up and over the fire into the night. Rascal snapped it out of the air before it got far, looking immensely pleased with himself for the catch. His long tail floated in the night, like a curious cloud coming down to examine the dirt.
“That’s about right. Politics and everything aside.”
Moka narrowed her eyes over the brim of her bowl, making a loud slurping noise as she took a sip. For a moment, she focused her attention entirely on the stew. She smacked her lips, her face insisting she was taking immense pride in her ability to boil things together. Azarus, watching from the Hall of Gods, smacked his lips as well, imitating her expression. He was very curious about what the stew tasted like. Better than Kuscal, hopefully.
When Moka glanced back at Tevzaga, her upper lip curled and her nose scrunched as though she had caught the scent of a foul odor. Azarus thought she was being a tad ungenerous, all things considered. Her tone was accusatory.
“And right now there is a man who is currently rallying your people to take back what is rightfully yours?”
Tevzaga nodded along, unsurprised by Moka’s reaction.
“Phenomenal man, really. I could not be more proud of him and what he has accomplished.”
“And you are currently on your way to…”
Tevzaga patted her cloth-bound gun.
“To kill him and dissuade the whole idea.”
Moka broke off from glaring at Tevzaga. She drained her bowl with a final slurp, then used the fresh bread to mop up what little remained. Once she finished gnawing it down, she leaned back onto her elbows with a contented burp. Her half-lidded gaze slid back to the so-called hero.
“I guess I don’t understand why you don’t just kill the Emperor or whatever. He seems like the bad guy here.”
Azarus thought Moka’s argument would hold more weight if she did not have anti-human tendencies. Tevzaga had opinions of her own. She aired them between bites of stew-laden bread.
“Oh, he definitely is, little sister. If it was possible to kill him, I would. The issue is that we’re out manned, outgunned, and our armies lay shattered. I may be the prettiest orc you’ll ever meet, but I’m not gonna be able to waltz into the capital and go find the Emperor all super-assassin style, ya know? The humans would see me coming from five cities over.”
Moka popped open one of the fruit jars and gave it an experimental sniff. Halved peaches in sugar syrup. She skewered one on her claw, lifting it out of the jar and over her mouth. Taking a gentle bite, she smushed her eyes shut. Her eyelids shuddered as the sweetness washed over her tongue. After a second, she blinked like she was remembering where she was.
Her attention landed on Tevzaga, who was doing her very best not to notice the jar of peaches. Moka, non-too subtly, moved the jar from out of Tevzaga’s line of sight.
“You could still join the other orcs, though? Go all together.”
Tevzaga hid her expression with a careful tilt of her bowl and a small sip of broth. Small in volume, not in time spent. By the way her eye twitched, Azarus judged the hero was soothing her temper. When she spoke, her words were measured.
“What part of shattered armies did you not understand? Did you think we just laid down and took it when they started pillaging our resources? The Empire has already proven we’re no match in a fight. Sure, my brothers and sisters could probably take a couple of cities. But then the Empire will send their flying ships and battalions of [Mage Armor] wearing death sworn.”
Moka took another bite of her peach, closing her eyes and allowing a shudder to run through her. She accepted Tevzaga’s words with a nod and a shrug.
“So what’s your plan?”
Tevzaga started, her prepared argument dying on her lips. She skewered Moka with an incredulous look. After mumbling something under her breath, to Azarus it sounded suspiciously like ‘goblins,’ she slowly blinked while shaking her head.
“We need to enter their society while keeping our culture intact.” Tevzaga paused, waiting for a rebuttal. When Moka stayed silent, licking a line of syrup off her claw, the orc continued. “It may take generations, but that’s where all the resources are. They cursed us to die here if we do nothing. At first, we will probably be mercenaries, servants, or whatever it takes. In a few generations, we will infiltrate their upper societies. Our innovations and work ethic will bring prosperity and acceptance. If we can do that, while keeping our spirit as a people, and remembering our history, we will have won.”
To Moka’s credit, she gave Tevzaga’s argument due consideration. To her detriment, she did it while making the other woman watch her eat the rest of her peach, practically radiating her intent not to share. After near a minute of purposeful smacking and loud chewing, Moka probed the [Mounted Gunslinger] for more information.
“But why kill the leader of the resistance? Let him try first. Your plan will still probably happen if he falls.”
Tevzaga slumped. She looked like a woman who expected the worst and had the misfortune to find it. Before, her words were chosen. Now, they bubbled out of her like lava, growing in intensity and building on themselves.
“See? You don’t understand. He takes a few cities? Then what? The damned Empire just takes it as an acceptable loss? No. They will annihilate our encampments and enslave our people. They will deem us a threat; bloodthirsty animals. All they need is an excuse to use us until we are ground to nothing, and they will. Just look at the dwarves, living and dying chained to their forges, making the very weapons used to bind their people and unearth their homes.”
By the end, the hero was on her feet, practically shouting. To Azarus, she looked tired. He would bet his new [Divine Insight] she had many variations of this conversation over the years. The result was obvious, given she was here in the wasteland, alone.
Moka did not get wrapped up in Tevzaga’s rising emotions. Her tone was curious, bordering on lackadaisical.
“In that case, would it even matter if you are servants or slaves? You’ll get treated the same. May as well die fighting.”
Tevzaga looked at Moka the way a sailor might look at a drake roosting in their crow’s nest, with helpless, exasperated frustration. She rubbed her temples and looked around, as if just noticing she was standing. With a grunt, she plopped down and snatched her bowl from where Rascal’s tail was creeping up on it. She took a deliberate bite of bread, chewing it slowly as if to calm herself.
Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.
Moka waited patiently for her host to gather her thoughts. She opened another jar of preserved fruit and peeked inside. This one had halved-pears. She made quick work of the first one she grabbed. Tevzaga cleared her throat when Moka went for a second, shooting the goblin a dirty look. When Moka looked up, Tevzaga clarified her position.
“Little sister, this is where most get lost. It comes back to politics, the game of perception. Right now, we are still respected enemies. We dealt great blows to the Empire, but we were always an honorable foe. There is an opportunity here for us to move as united mercenary companies, lending our strength instead of fighting against the tide. If we become the people that murder cities, that avenue closes.”
Moka was belligerent but not unintelligent. She considered Tevzaga’s viewpoint with pursed lips and a small wrinkle between her brows. Azarus could almost see the exact moment she took the stance at face value. She did not have the decency to look happy about it.
“And so why not redirect the Warlord instead of killing him?”
Moka punctuated the question by popping a whole half-pear in her mouth in a single bite. She looked Tevzaga in the eye the entire time. By now Azarus was sure the orcish woman had clued in to the fact Moka was punishing her for being a poor host. She glowered at his champion, but made no move to use superior firepower to solve the problem. A point in her favor, in Azarus’s opinion.
After watching Moka swallow the pear and reach for another, Tevzaga seemed to lose some of the air in her sails. She looked down and away, speaking just loud enough to be heard.
“Believe me, if anyone has tried, it’s me. He is my fiance after all. No one knows him like I do.”
Moka almost dropped the half-peach on her claw. Tevzaga missed it, but Rascal gave Moka a knowing look. She shrugged at the [Windstepper Griffin] and made a noise of understanding. Tevzaga looked up at the sound, her brows knitted. Azarus realized the orc had a light scar running through her left one. It looked quite charming, despite her expression being practically offended.
“Ah? Is that it, little sister? Big reveal and just ‘ah’?”
Moka twitched her long ears, her earrings rattling as she met Tevzaga’s astounded look with a flippant one of her own. After a moment, she flicked the preserved fruit off her finger. She watched it fly into Rascal’s waiting maw, then regarded the jars she had hidden from Tevzaga’s sight. She spoke as if to herself.
“Killing fiances is a sore subject for me.”
Tevzaga leaned back, a look of understanding dawning on her features. She looked over to where Rascal had claimed the iron pot and what stew remained. When she looked back at Moka, there was something indiscernible behind her eyes.
“My condolences.” She was quiet for a beat. When Moka made no move to speak, she dropped the subject. “Davok is a natural born leader, too proud and stubborn to fight for the enemy. He has more noble reasons he spouts, of course, but things are often more simple than they seem. It wouldn’t be such a problem if he didn’t inspire everyone who hears him speak. Or if he hadn’t gotten his hands on those [Mage Armors].”
Throughout the length of this conversation, Azarus had realized a rather problematic issue. He wanted to support both Tevzaga and her fiance, Davok. They both embodied things he valued. Facing adversity, overcoming long odds, and personal sacrifice. His domain glowed warmly in his chest at the thought of either of them succeeding.
Moka tightened the lid on the peaches, having decided she liked the pears better, and tossed the jar to Tevzaga. The self-proclaimed prettiest orc caught the jar, her lips pursing into a surprised ‘o’ shape. Azarus found the expression endlessly amusing, almost as much as the hero’s laugh. The way her tusks stuck out of her lips made her mouth look like a miniature person with their arms in the air. Moka’s unsubtle smirk suggested she had the same thought.
With a grateful look, Tevzaga accepted the peace offering. She examined popped open the jar and examined a half-peach with fascination, as if she had never seen the fruit before. Lifting it over her head like Moka had done, a drop of syrup hit her lips. Her eyes widened, pupils dilating. Licking her lips, she opened her jaws wide for a bite, tusks on full display. Just before her teeth hit the fleshy fruit, she hesitated, glancing over at Moka. She pursed her lips, looking conflicted. After a beat, she spoke.
“If your god really sent you here to help me, the [Mage Armors] are going to be an issue.”
Moka waited for Tevzaga to take a bite of her peach before speaking. She rolled her eyes when the other woman made overenthusiastic sounds upon discovering the flavor of the fruit. Looking at Rascal, she shared a look with the griffin.
“You’d think humans would conquer the world with sugar instead of swords.”
Rascal let out a huff Moka took as agreement. She tossed a pear in his direction in the name of like-mindedness. Before Tevzaga could experience a second peach, Moka cut in.
“How much of an issue?”
Tevzaga responded with a blank-eyed stare, a dripping piece of fruit clutched in her claws. Moka rubbed the side of her temple with her fingers.
“The [Mage Armor]. How much of an issue?”
A slight blush grew up from Tevzaga’s neck, reaching for her cheeks, where they bloomed rosy red.
“Yes. The [Mage Armor].” Tevzaga looked around, gathering her thoughts and avoiding Moka’s knowing looks. “They vary by design, but they are enchanted suits of armor that can turn any measly [Peasant] into a walking magical fortress. Davok has wyverns, so flying fortresses in this case.”
Moka reached down, touching the handle of her chisel for reassurance. Otherwise, she looked unphased.
“I have fought worse.” Moka dismissed Tevzaga’s doubtful stare with a wave of her hand. “Aren’t they what your [Mage Killer] is for?”
Tevzaga did not hide how dubiously she viewed Moka’s claims. However, she confirmed the use of her [Mage Killer], laying a hand on the side of the weapon with a gentle touch.
“It won’t be enough if Davok and his lieutenants come at me together. They are hardened soldiers, survivors from the war. In their hands, the armors come to life.” Tevzaga caught Moka’s side-eye with a frown. She wrinkled her nose at the goblin, but addressed the unasked question. “Like I said, they could take a few cities. Their potential for success is part of the problem. The Empire has specialists who are unto gods in their suits. Not to mention the death sworn.”
Azarus took offense. He flicked Tevzaga’s image on the mirror. It was one thing to instill caution into Moka, a worthy cause, but to compare a mortal in armor to a god was a step too far. To his bittersweet relief, Moka took Tevzaga’s words with a casual shrug. Azarus thought back to Tevzaga’s gifts and skills, feeling a premonition that Moka was more unprepared than she knew.
Moka gave her Granon-hair rope a sharp tug, testing its strength and flexibility. It moved like it was made of thick rubber instead of hair, shifting strangely in her hands.
“I will build something useful, and you do what you need to. Seems simple enough.”
Rascal, having grown tired of the conversation, wandered over next to Tevzaga. He purred as he approached, a deep rumble rising in volume like an engine sputtering to life. Putting his head down next to Tevzaga’s, Rascal bumped her with the feathered crest on top of its feline head. Tevzaga made a noise of protest, attempting to push her [Bonded Companion] away. Her hand sunk into Rascal’s fluffy coat of fur and feathers, like she was sticking her hand in a bush.
Paying no mind to Tevzaga’s protests, Rascal nudged her over with his head. He plopped over her like the world’s largest duvet, muffling her cries of ‘get off me, you fluffy bastard.’ Moka watched as one of Tevzaga’s feet kicked beneath Rascal’s bulk. She leaned forward to catch what Tevzaga was trying to say, but Rascal’s purr, deep enough to vibrate the air, was too loud to hear over. With a sigh, she hefted herself to her feet and wandered over to where Tevzaga’s face was poking out from beneath Rascal’s fluff. The orc was trying to spit a feather out of her mouth. Moka plucked it out, a mischievous look gleaming in her eye as she looked from the feather to Tevzaga’s exposed face.
Tevzaga saw the look in Moka’s eye and was quick to fill the silence before she got too many ideas.
“Little sister! There you are. Rascal has decided it’s his bedtime. There is a bedroll in my saddlebags you’re welcome to.”
Moka nodded slowly, the feather twirling in her fingertips. She wiggled the end, as if practicing sticking it in an immobile orc’s nose or ears. Tevzaga kept talking, mouth racing to get her thoughts out before Moka put the feather to use.
“About tomorrow. Hubby has an outpost near here where they are grinding down the trees, mixing the dust with fat and chemicals, and pressing them into usable material. An [Architect] needs materials. Come with me and join me in a raid, or help them defend against me. Take a stand.”
Crouched down next to Tevzaga’s face, feather in hand, Moka paused. Azarus, from worlds beyond worlds away, scratched his stubble in consideration. That was what it came down to. Which side was he on? Did Moka understand him well enough to carry out his will without further purchases? Azarus supposed there was a third path, where it did not matter as both sides seemed likely enough. Another run would be another chance, but this was a situation he wanted to weigh in on. He sighed, the sound echoed by Moka.
“One of the lieutenants with [Mage Armor] is going to be there, aren’t they?”
Unable to shrug, Tevzaga resorted to wiggling her eyebrows.
“Guess we’ll find out. Better go get some sleep. Keep the feather for your hair.”
Moka made one last menacing movement toward Tevzaga with the feather, then tucked it in her messy bun. She popped up and turned on her heel to raid the hero’s saddlebags. Tomorrow, one way or the other, she would fight. The only question was who.