Cole

The three day wait for the lizardfolk raid was a long one. Ramuf was an interesting city, but there was scarce to do when you were hesitant to spend coin. The only luxury Cole afforded himself was a leather vest dyed a deep blue. It reminded him of his academy uniform. Near the market was an abandoned storage shed. At least, Cole assumed it was abandoned given how everything inside was rotted into mulch. The roof was flat with low walls concealing a patio that was easily climbed to. If Cole was trespassing no one called him out on it. Since discovering this nest Cole had spent his time sitting in the shade of the still standing walls and watching the people in the market. This was a city famed for its market, and there was a diversity of life to observe.

The majority of the Ramuf population was split between coatlmade and humans. Coatlmade were a global power, or at least they had been. They were not as uncommon to Cole as wechers or orcs. He had seen groups of them move in every city he’d ever been to, even the Fae’Riam capital Myth’Socraithe. They always seemed to be transient abroad. Cole couldn’t name a coatlmade he’d met that was a permanent resident of the town they resided. Here, they were permanent. This was their homeland, and though it was fractured from the days of their empire they still walked it with pride. In most meetings of foreigners, Common was the default language. That was a gift the Divine Shinar, a common language for all races following the Pantheon Wars. In Athshin the native variation was used: Dustspeak. For Coatlmade though, it seemed they exclusively spoke their own language of New Quetzal, forcing compromise from the other races. Cole had even caught Rerume beginning a few sentences in New Quetzal before switching to Common.

Everyone speaks Coatl when talking to a Coatl. Cole made a note of this idea. It sounded like a good quote.

What dazzled Cole most about he coatlmade was their natural vibrancy. Each was set with scales that traced back to which Serpent had uplifted their bloodline. Imperial scales like Rerume’s popped with crimson reds and rustic yellows. Shades of blue and white belonged to the Cloud scales, each the brightest blue or starkest white Cole was certain he had ever seen. Even the darker colors found on Forge scales still had the metallic sheen of polished iron or bronze. This was to say nothing of the Coatlmades’ natural plumage, which also came in a pallet of sublime colors to enhance their owner’s appearance. Cole strained his eyes to pick out a single Incarnate coatlmade, which reportedly had teal scales of unrivaled beauty and were only found in Athshin.

By starkest contrast the flesh of the Athshin humans in the crowd seemed so limiting. It was easy to lose their brown bodies in the crowd because Cole’s eye was so often drawn to the Coatlmade. There was still an unsettled debate amongst academics about whether to categorize coatlmade as a breed of human as they held common ancestry. Looking upon this crowd, Cole was more in favor of differing them than ever. The Coatlmade may have been humans once, but that was eras ago. Even the dwarves in the market looked closer to humans, especially the dwarf women. Cole could tell the difference between human and dwarf males by their facial hair. Western humans went clean shaven or favored thick mustaches, while dwarves still kept their traditional stylized beards. There was also the height difference, male dwarves only reach around five feet at their tallest, but that was less obvious from Cole’s higher angle. Dwarf women were much taller, some daring to reach a few inches from six feet tall while still being as broad as the males. This market actually contained the most dwarf women Cole had ever seen. In the East, they were protectors and homesteaders and rarely left their cities. Cole supposed those roles mattered less for those that immigrated west seeking contract work.

One dwarf woman was selling stone figurines. At the request of a browser she’d clutch a figure between her hands and mold new details onto it through her natural terramancy. What might take the sculptor of another race hours to produce a dwarf could do in minutes with a touch. For this reason Cole had always heard of dwarven crafts being cheap and disposable, possessing no love or craft.

Cole only thought about this because the woman suddenly became quite angry at one of her figurines being broken. The perpetrator was a diablan, the fiendish race. He quickly showed his palms to the woman and spoke fast to proclaim his lack of ill intent. He might’ve been genuine, it was hard to tell with Diablans. Their faces were as expressive as a humans, but their clay skin often had asymmetrical features and their eyes were balls of fire with molten dots for pupils. The fact they had horns and tails reminiscent of lesser Infernals did not aid their case for acceptance.

The woman jabbed her hand forward demanding recompense for what was lost, but it was clear the diablan had none. Furious, the dwarf molded one of her figures into a solid ball to lob at the diablan as he fled. Seconds after he was gone from her sight, she took the broken pieces of the figurine and repaired them with a pinch.

The diablan vanished into the alleys, where more of his kind watched the common races from the shadows. Cole was surprised by how many he saw, and would have lingered on them had a brilliant red dress not caught his attention. In the dress was an oak-colored woman shorter than any dwarf by a foot. She was a hob. Hobs were not something Cole associated with Athshin. The short fae folk fond of freedom and riddles had many variants, the most familiar to Cole being Pucks, but once more Land to the West came to his aid. Here they were called Duende. The Duende were a clan of Hobs that sought delights not found in the Northern Continent. They immigrated west and grew a fondness for the lands there. Like all Hobs they had love of celebration and wit, but Duende were said to be more wild because they were unbound from Fae’Riam. The duende woman caught him watching her. She flashed him a smile and wink that could’ve meant anything.

Cole’s pulse quickened. He was about to reciprocate when a grunt from behind caused him to turn.

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“Here again?” Azeroth pulled himself onto the roof.

Cole snapped back to the duende woman just in time to see the trail of her red dress vanish in her house not far from here. He made a discontented sigh before responding to Azeroth.

“Little where else to be.”

“You could train with the others. Phyrn won’t be intimidated by songs.” Azeroth found a round piece of rubble and tossed it to himself.

“I practiced with the javelins all of yesterday. My arm is sore and I needed to be still for a moment.”

“I don’t want to be still until I’m dead, or asleep.” Azeroth remarked. He looked at the crowds in the market, but it was not with the same curiosity Cole did.

“Orcs were blessed with boundless energy. Suited for endless conquest, as Tungkhan intended.”

“Who’s Tungkhan?”

This question caused Cole to pivot himself to fully face Azeroth. It was now that he realized the orc was shirtless and soaked. Whether it was water or sweat, it was hard to say, but the smoke carried in the air clung to him. Azeroth stood in the shadow of a taller building, obscuring his face and making it hard for Cole to tell if he was joking.

“Tungkhan is the Patron God of Orcs. He made them what they are. Like how Quarzelek gave the Dwarves terramancy and architecture, or the Dawn Serpents uplifted humans into the Coatlmade.”

“What about non-coatl humans?”

“No one made humans. That is their mystery and their gift. They can belong to anyone.”

“Must be nice.” Azeroth stepped out of the shadows. He was practicing tossing the rock high, letting his arms fall slack to his sides. Once the rock fell to the center of his body, he snatched it with a quick green hand.

“Yeah, I’ve heard of Tungkhan before. I don’t care.”

Cole raised an eyebrow. Azeroth met Cole’s confusion with his own, stopping his game with the rock to squint at Cole as to why he should care. Cole couldn’t handle to be under such a gaze and turned back to the crowds.

“Tungkhan created the Orcs, first known as the Almork, to be the perfect creatures of war. They fought in the Morning Wars, and for their service they were allowed to keep their gifts on the Prime Plane.”

“If that’s the case, why haven’t Orcs moved out of the Hordelands?” Azeroth’s voice was bitter. Cole must’ve touched a nerve.

Cole scratched his chin. He wished to keep the conversation casual. “I suppose the humans keep them contained.”

“That’s what I’m told. The Humans, the Elves, and occasionally the Dwarves. They all keep the Orcs contained.” Azeroth chucked the stone at a building across the way. It shattered into a dozen pebbles. “-But I’ve never been there, so I wouldn’t know.”

Azeroth took a sitting position next to Cole. It was the first time the two had been alone together. If Azeroth was in a talkative mood, then maybe Cole could learn something about him. He had never spoken to an Orc before and his idea of one wasn’t one so lax as Azeroth.

“So where do you come from? Orcs are an eastern race. I’ve never heard of them being this far west.”

“Oh we’re around. You remember what that bald jackass called me? ‘Cadokin.’ That’s the name for Orcs here. You don’t make a word for something that isn’t around.”

“What does it mean?”

Azeroth limply gestured to himself. “Means I look like an avocado. It's a joke.”

“And you’re fine with that?”

“Would you?” Azeroth’s eyes were deep and hard to read. Cole wasn’t certain of the right answer.

“I guess. It's just a name. Names can’t hurt.”

Azeroth paused to look at Cole. He gave a short nod, so perhaps that was the right thing to say. Cole grasped for a new topic of conversation while Azeroth stretched his limbs.

Cole’s eyes lit up. “Oh! You’re only half-orc right?”

“As you’ve said before.” Azeroth grunted while rolling his neck. His sweat-matted hair blocked his face when he did this.

“Half of what though? Half-orcs can come from anywhere, even wechers or pixies.”

“You’re right. They can.”

Another dead-end. Cole’s eyes drifted across the city. They rested on the home of the duende lady. Her window was open and she was dancing by herself. The swaying of her rose colored dress was hypnotic. Once more she caught him staring. This time she blew him a kiss and beckoned him with a curled finger. It was an invitation Cole could not pass up.

He stood, beating off the dust he’d accumulated on the roof. While doing so he caught Azeroth’s gray eyes.

“I’m going to explore for a bit. Have to use my feet at some point today. Are you sure you won’t join us tomorrow?”

“I’m sure.”

“Then, if I don’t see you tomorrow, good fortune in whatever you do.” Cole extended his hand.

“You too. I guess.” Azeroth cautiously took the hand, which seemed to surprise him more than any of Cole’s questions.

Cole left the rooftop. He was no wiser about Orcs or Azeroth, but there were future days for that. For now, there were other cultural exchanges to be had.