Perched on top of a twenty foot tall dirt wall, huddled close to the outer wall which rose several feet above the surface of the walkway, Moka pressed her ear against the door of the small building built on top of the wall. There were several between her and the stairway. It was hard to listen through the orc’s building material, which they seemed to build everything out of. Still, she could hear what sounded like disgruntled sighs. She cracked the door open, her ruby red eyes peering out. Despite her goal of raising the alarm, a measure of caution remained in her. Maybe it was her ingrained instincts. Maybe it was her looted ammunition weighing her down. Perhaps she doubted if Azarus would save her if she got herself ambushed by a squad of orcs by being careless. Moka did not know. In-depth introspection was not high on her list of priorities.
Through the open crack, Moka spied a lone sentry guarding the wall near the top of the stairs. The orange moon rose, illuminating the sentry’s features, its purple twin still hidden. She wore the same mail, cap, and crossbow as the previous orcs, uniform and ill-fitting. Every few seconds, she threw a look over her shoulder, back down the stairs toward one of the squat buildings. The dining hall, if Moka had to guess.
Moka allowed the door to swing open, a soft creaking filling her ears. She nuzzled the butt of her [Bolt-thrower] with her cheek, eliciting a grunt as her sore shoulder pinched a nerve in the socket. The sentry did not notice, too preoccupied with the promise of dinner. Moka felt a brief pang of regret as she processed the orc would never eat the meal she desired. She stifled it. There was no room in her thoughts for anything but the matter at hand.
With gentle, consistent force, Moka squeezed [Bolt-thrower’s] trigger. The snap of the rope rushing forward and the smack of the slide stopping sounded like a cacophony in the relative silence. She thought she saw a blur. The stone orb took the sentry in the chest almost as soon as she pulled the trigger. It sounded like a dozen impacts layered into symphony. The sentry’s grunt of pain and wistful sigh was louder in Moka’s ears than the shattering of scale mail. The orc fell like a cut tree, her back hitting the top of the wall so hard she bounced.
Not waiting for the alarm, which was sure to come after that racket, Moka slipped out of the small building and rushed over to the body. She took stock of the sentry’s injuries, seeing how the orb cracked through the orc’s ribcage and sent the broken bone into her organs. Her aim had taken the orc right in the sternum. Despite the gruesome injuries, Moka was pleased to find the stone projectiles were accurate and lethal against armor. The orb had cracked in the middle on impact, splitting in half.
Moka tuned the joyous ringing of the dinner bell out. Her upper lip curled up, baring her sharp teeth. The bell filled the silence left in the wake of her actions. Moka did her best to tune it out. The last thing she wanted to think about was dinner. She blinked away the orc’s glazed eyes, the sentry’s last expression of shock and disappointment fading into the background of her mind.
Leaving the spent ammunition, Moka leaned over the stairs, her hands occupied with wrestling the [Bolt-thrower’s] pump-action stock to reload it. She peered down, eyes darting to and from the buildings, looking for sentries posted at the bottom of the stairs. It was clear. Moka pressed her lips tight, feeling annoyed at the outpost’s poor security. She stayed there for a minute longer, resorting to using her knee to help reset her weapon, her head on a swivel. The sentry’s expected relief did not come. She would kill them if she saw them. There was no excuse to be this late when the sentry was clearly expecting them any second.
Moka’s ears twitched back and forth. She listened for someone to notice the missing sentry, or for the steady steps of patrolling guards. Her earrings jangled as they swiveled toward the sound of quick steps, her eyes turning to follow. She saw several people rushing to the dining hall through the compound’s empty streets. The corners of her lips twisted down. The orcs’ actions made a certain sort of sense, given Tevzaga’s food fixation.
Moka ground her teeth, resisting the urge to spit. She thumbed three bolts into her weapon, betting on a spread over stopping power. If the orcs were careless, she did not mind punishing them for it. The pangs of regret she had for murdering people whose only crime was to fight for a better life vanished, burned away by the rising fire of her self-vindicating anger.
Moka half-ran, half-fell down the stairs, her stomach muscles burning from keeping herself upright. The bag of tools and crossbow bolts slung across her back tried to pull her down the stairs as they shifted with her gait. Moka kept one hand pressed against the duffel bag to limit its motion, partially succeeding. The stones in her pocket pulled her from side to side, the low-set pockets acting like a weighted pendulum attached to her body.
By the time Moka made it to the bottom of the stairs, she was huffing. The more she tried to stifle her breath, the faster her heart beat, demanding more oxygen. It created a loop which ended in her shoulder screaming in pain. Each deep breath agitated the injury a little more.
Unwilling to stop and rest, Moka focused on putting one step in front of the other, sticking to the familiar safety of the shadows. She called to her anger, and it answered, dulling the pain with its ferocity. Her steps were slow and plodding, unerring in their path toward the foundry.
The anger whispered sweet nothings in Moka’s ears, providing all the reasons and excuses for her weakness she could ever need. She basked in them, her muscles filling with warmth like she was enjoying a hot bath.
Azarus asked too much. Her body was battered and bruised, fingers notched and scarred, all to approach the bottom of the mountain of a task he had set before her. The [hero] was no better. Tevzaga gave an [Infiltrator’s] mission to her, a mere [Architect], soaring off to watch while she struggled. It was unfair, unjust. She had always heard stories of those chosen by the gods, reveling in their feats and achievements. More often than not, they were in direction opposition to her people. Although, sometimes, when she allowed herself to forget that gods never seemed to find goblins worthy, she dreamed of accomplishments of her own. Now, she knew the stories were so lofty because those who failed their impossible tasks were dead. Lost in time.
No one told stories about failures.
Moka pressed herself against a wall, letting a hungry-looking orc jog past. It was smarter to stay hidden. The opportunity to raise the alarm at wall passed the moment she set foot on the stairs. She considered taking the distracted orc out, reasoning they might be the unfaithful sentry. Her mind conjured an image of herself accidentally rousing a band of orcs far beyond her capabilities. The image was vivid, like a memory she was seeing for the first time. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a voice whispered about the gifts Azarus gave her, wondering if Foresight might be to blame, or thank. A much louder voice in her subconscious latched onto a thought. Beyond her capabilities.
Then, as it always seemed to in the end, the anger turned on her. It reminded her how small she was. Did Azarus expect too much, or was she too weak? It seemed more likely. After all, failure was her lot. She had proved that beyond a doubt. There would be no stories about her, the goblin who died after reaching too far. Her people had more of those than they could ever need.
Moka sheltered in a gap between buildings, in sight of the foundry. Something tickled her nose. It grew stronger the closer she got. From her vantage point, she could see two anxious looking guards standing in front of a pair of large, closed double doors. Each guard held the same looking crossbow they all seemed equipped with. Moka suspected one of these buildings was a workshop, pumping them out by the score. If she had the chance, she would raid it to see what she could find.
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The doubt and anger faded from Moka’s mind, roiling beneath the surface despite being subdued. Moka focused her entire being on the task in front of her. She had given her life in service. Her lot in life was to succeed or die. Failure was a burden for those who survived. The pain in her shoulder had faded into background noise, her breathing now under control. Its dull roar helped tune out the unwanted emotions.
Spotting a shadowed corner of a building which would give her suitable cover and a good angle of attack, Moka slipped toward it, stepping as light as she could. She made it without being seen. Taking a deep breath, she kneeled down, resting her lead elbow on her raised knee. She brought [Bolt-thrower] up and gauged the shot. After a second, she let [Bolt-thrower] drop.
She was a good fifty feet from the two orcs. An unknown instinct rose in her, telling her she would miss from this range. Memories of the memory-like images and her gift of Foresight flashing through mind. She trusted the instinct. Her mind was quick to find a line of logic to support the choice.
The last time she shot a cluster of three bolts, it was too up close to guess at how accurately they flew. It was not worth the risk when she was so close.
Letting a slow breath out through her nose, Moka considered her goals and the tools at her disposal. Her mind first went to drawbacks. The supplies she carried weighed her down. Rushing the orcs would be a poor plan. She could switch ammunition to a stone ball, but that eliminated the possibility of hitting both of them. Even if she made the shot in complete silence, they would find her before she could load another. What she needed was an alternative path; go around, not through.
Moka peaked her head around the corner when the guards weren’t looking, checking the side of the foundry. She did not see any other entrances. What she saw were a few openings that looked like air vents installed near the roof. That would do. Many streams to the same river.
Withdrawing into her hiding place, Moka gathered her things and crept around the building she was hiding behind, avoiding the eyes of the guards. Going all the way around would minimize her risk of being seen and allow her to approach the foundry from the side. The evening air was absent of wyvern battle cries, so she figured Tevzaga could wait. As Moka reached the end of the alley, she pressed her ear against the building’s wall before she rounded the far corner. After a few seconds of silence, she moved on. The building was empty, as far as she could tell.
Stepping out onto a street, Moka scurried around the front of the building. She ducked and covered her head as she passed the entrance. It was unneeded. From there, it was a brief journey and a quick dash through the illuminated exterior for her to reach the side of the foundry.
Standing beneath one vent, Moka stared up at it. It was a shorter climb than the boulder, only fifteen feet or so, but that was still three body lengths. Moka idly flexed her claws. She really did not want to claw her way up the wall with her bag, pulling her back down like a noose around her neck. A small voice in her head told her to leave it. Damn the risk. She ignored it. No way she was leaving behind her god-given tools. Once she was inside, there was no way of telling if she could come back and retrieve it. What if Azarus took offense? Would the next Trial be harder? Unless her next Skill was [Instant Ogre Army], she would not take the chance.
With Skills on her mind, Moka found a solution. She could use [Deconstruction] to make an entrance. Feeling almost embarrassed it took her so long to think of it, Moka sidled down the wall, away from the entrance, aiming to get far enough away from the posted guards to hide the white light.
She was sure the Skills would become second nature in time, first resorts instead of half-remembered tools. [Good Enough] and [Course-Correct] were already there, practically effortless additions to her arsenal. The two Skills seemed to have a mind of their own, thrumming in her soul whenever they felt they could be useful. [Deconstruction] was a different beast, requiring her direct oversight.
Moka placed her palm on the wall, huddling close to use her body as a shield. She pictured what she wanted in her mind, trying to imagine the feeling of the material falling to pieces beneath her hand. The wall seemed thick and sturdy, but nowhere near the density of the boulder. [Deconstruction] felt renewed and ready to go when she reached for it. Moka imposed strict limitations on her envisioned result. Just a hole big enough for her to squeeze through without sounding like a pig in a snare. That’s all she needed. She pulled on the Skill, willing it into action.
White light bloomed from beneath Moka’s palm, spreading out in a circle that ate away whatever it touched. With the sound of falling sand, three neat piles formed at Moka’s feet. The circle of light was about as wide as half Moka’s shoulder-width when it ran into a set of parallel boundaries. It flattened immediately, creating a surgically sharp line as it spread up and down, away from the boundary. When the light reached as high as Moka’s neck, it hit another boundary, forming two right-angled corners. The light reached down until it hit the ground, fading out of existence and leaving behind a rectangle-shaped hole and three neat piles.
Wasting no time, Moka unslung her duffel bag and shoved it through the hole with both hands. She wriggled in right after it. As she pushed her body through, taking great care to not jostle her shoulder, she was curious to note the wall was at least two palm-widths thick. Once through, she sunk into a crouch, taking stock of her situation.
A handful of forlorn looking orcs putted around the factory floor, pushing large brooms to clean up fallen dust and sand. A particularly disgruntled orc was using a chisel to pry some dried goop up off the floor. Scattered around the building were piles of materials. There was a far corner dedicated to processing it into various shapes, with nearby crates made from the same material ready and waiting to be packed. Moka took a half-step in that direction before she caught herself. She was on a timeline. Besides, someone would spot her before she could develop a [Bolt-thrower 2.0]. Her eyes turned to the building’s centerpiece.
The furnace was the only thing not built out of the orc’s proprietary material. It was a huge, squat thing, rising at least a story high, built out of stacked bricks and clay. Two shirtless orcs with glistening muscles were shoveling fuel into its burning maw, keeping the fire raging inside. Its chimney rose straight up, out through the rafters, puncturing the roof like a spear.
Moka reclaimed her bag, her eyes shifting as she plotted a course through the meandering orcs and to the furnace. Waiting for a plodding orc to pass by her hiding spot, pushing a pile of dust and scrap with a sturdy broom, Moka slipped out behind him. She walked in his shadow, timing her footsteps with his. It was never her favorite game growing up, but she was no slouch. The guard’s disgruntled haze helped.
Ducking behind a workstation right before the guard turned, Moka edged around the corner, watching them trundle by. She looked around, keeping an ear out for footsteps heading her direction. On instinct, she took a deep breath, smelling for anything unusual. Her eyes watered as she bit back a sneeze. A frown furrowed her brow. It reeked like chemicals in here. Her nose hairs felt singed. She did not know how the orcs tolerated it. Duller sense of smell, she hoped.
Seeing the coast was clear, Moka hurried around the side of the furnace and approached it from the back. She took a deep, calming breath, then grit her teeth, remembering why that was a bad idea. Her shoulder flared with an omnipresent ache. Moka shrugged off her bag, pressing against the front of her shoulder with her offhand. She peaked around the side of the furnace, its sweltering heat encouraging her to lose her coat and blazer. She kept them on. If everything went well, she would be outside again before long.
Checking the foundry floor, Moka spotted a staircase leading up to a balconied office near the roof. She could spot a hunched over figure through the window, their arm moving like they were scribbling something down. Moka eyed the figure for a moment, reasoning it was an authority figure of some sort. She dismissed them as being too far to stop her.
Moka took one last look at the workers, judging where they would be in the coming seconds if they followed their current trajectories. Satisfied it was good enough, she turned her attention to the furnace. Heat rose off it in a haze. Moka reached into her coat, snagging the water skin on her waist. She took a deep swing, then flicked a few drops on the nearest brick, sheltering the furnace’s clay innards. The water evaporated to steam before it could land. Moka winced. This was going to hurt.
Moka closed her eyes, picturing the result she wanted. She took a series of short, sharp breaths, working herself up. Opening her eyes, she made a split second decision. She would rather have one fully functional arm than two injured ones. Besides, burnt fingers could still pull a trigger. Pouring a layer of water on hand, she snapped into motion.
[Deconstruction] rang like a bell in Moka’s soul as she pulled on it as hard as she could. Her connection to the Skill strained. It felt like a muscle tearing, somehow both outside her body and in it. White light emanated from Moka’s palm, growing in brilliance. She slapped her palm against the base of the furnace. The sound of sizzling flesh filled her ears. Adrenaline surged through her veins. She bit back a scream. Pain filled her like a chorus. The sound of an urgent, insistent alarm rose above the noise.