Grundar was not having a good day. On discovering the theft of his purse, he had marched straight to the Faction Hall, refusing to even look at the sniveler, Trenton. There was a smug, satisfied twist to the obnoxious orc’s face that made Grundar want to smash it. And what kind of an orc name was Trenton, anyway? Grundar started imagining ways he could torture his companion, each more brutal than the last.

The new thoughts lifted Grundar’s spirits so much that he had almost forgotten why he was so angry by the time they made it to the Burning Brand outpost. Grundar was quickly escorted through the outer compound and into the inner courtyard. The sight of so many of his brethren improved Grundar’s mood still further. Here there were proper orcs, battle tested veterans who, despite all being of higher level than Grundar, bowed or nodded respectfully as he passed, as was his due.

Then the chieftain had appeared. That’s when things really went to shit.

“Greetings, Nephew Grundar. We are pleased by your arrival,” the big orc rumbled. He was even larger than Grundar, which was rare, and his arms and face were covered in honor scars, each representing a powerful vanquished foe. Grundar’s lips pulled back in a sneer of annoyance and outrage at the familiar form of address. Until he saw the brand mark on the other orc’s neck. He grunted in surprise, then inclined his head slightly in the barest show of respect.

Grundar had expected the chieftain of this outpost to be some outcast who held power in name only. The brand forced him to reevaluate. This was a true war leader, one who had commanded battlefields even before coming to Farandway. It was possible he was even truly Grundar’s uncle. He had over 100 of them.

“Greetings, great chieftain,” Grundar intoned, trying to sound like a proper subordinate. He did not attempt to identify the orc, knowing the chieftain was of too high a level.

“I am Dolarth Oathbreaker.” The scarred orc rumbled. His eyes narrowed in satisfaction when he saw Grundar start. The Oathbreaker. The banished. Grundar suppressed his anger. Anger, and something else. Not fear. Grundar feared no one. Just…caution. Yes, he would be cautious. It was best to tread carefully around one you might have to kill.

“You have arrived at an excellent time.,” Dolarth continued. “We have a crop of nearly 50 young warriors approaching peak level, and it is fitting that a prince of the burning plain should lead them out of the valley and on to conquest. With the resources of the Faction behind you, we can quickly get you up Level 10. Then we can muster our forces for excursion.”

Grundar grunted, satisfied. This was the way of the Burning Brand. While most Factions supported the growth of their Traveler candidates, success or failure was usually an individual pursuit. Grundar’s faction, though, usually held back their candidates, gathering a cohort of Level 10 warriors and holding them in reserve until a war leader arrived. Then, they would muster out into the wider world of Farandway as a great horde. It could take many years to gather a sufficient force, and in that time, other Factions would often steal glory. But when the Burning Brand did march, they did so in strength.

Fifty warriors was an impressive number. Whatever his reputation, Dorlath had done well. Perhaps Grundar would not kill him.

“We were joined by another of your companions just a short while ago,” Dorlath said, gesturing to the ring of orcs that had surrounded them to observe. A familiar figure stepped from the crowd. Kilth Bloodsworn looked particularly fetching in her cloak and black leathers, a bow strung over her back and a short sword at her side. Normally Grundar would have disdained her choice of archer. But, in Kilth’s case, he recognized the wisdom. She was lean and quick by the standards of orcs, and the addition of a ranged damage-dealer to his party would be useful.

Kilth bowed slightly to Grundar, though her coy eyes never left him.

“Did your arrival go smoothly?” Dorlath asked. Grundar, who was eyeing the bowing Kilth with hunger, didn’t respond immediately.

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Trenton spoke instead.

“I am Trenton, Lord Chieftain. Sworn companion of the mighty Grundar. We made good time from the Cathedral. We were not able to acquire any supplies, though. Lord Grundar’s purse was stolen, and I lacked the necessary coins.” Trenton’s practically purred as he announced Grundar’s shame to all assembled.

“Stolen?” Dorlath scowled at Grundar. “How were you so careless?”

“I was not careless!” Grundar growled back, heat burning in his face. He saw Kilth cast her eyes down, no longer looking at him. His gaze flicked to the treacherous priest behind him, and his fingers flexed, longing to crush Treton’s throat. “It was a sneaky human Rogue. He tricked me. But I will find him. I will have my coin and his head before this day is done!”

He tried to sound proud and confident, but he could hear the muttering and snickering from the assembled orcs.

“I hope that you do, nephew,” Dorlath rumbled, still scowling. “The Faction takes care of its own. But we do not look after those too weak to look after themselves. The incompetent cannot lead. No matter who their father is.”

The words were harsh, but they were met with muttering agreement from the other orcs. Grundar had to will himself to stillness. Otherwise, he would have grabbed for his axe and tried to slaughter the whole lot of them. But he couldn’t deny the truth. Grundar had dozens of siblings, many of them older than he. He was his father’s chosen only because of his strength.

Grundar and his two companions were dismissed and quickly shown to a small building where they could prepare for the celebration in the town square. Grundar stared daggers at Treton for a while, but the other orc refused to meet his eye. There was little he could do at the moment. He needed to reclaim his honor before he could just kill the little beast. Kilth also barely looked at him, which stung his pride even worse.

Grundar accosted six different humans as the three marched to the center of Dawn. In each case, he believed for a glorious moment he had found his thief and would soon taste blood. Two turned out to be mages, not rogues, and one of them was an elf rather than a human. The three others, two men and one woman, each had only a single name when he identified them. He didn’t remember much about the Rogue that had taken his purse, but he knew the stranger had two names, both odd. He left a trail of ashen faced Travelers in his wake, his rage growing by the moment.

He had milled around the central square for a while, growing more and more despondent as he saw the sheer number of Travelers present. The odds of him finding the correct Rogue and salvaging his reputation with the Faction was beginning to seem impossible. Finally, he had decided to put the thought aside for a while and at least fill his belly.

It was as he approached one of the tables covered with food that he saw the Rogue. He had refused to get his hopes up. The figure was the right size, but all humans looked puny.

Then his identify activated, and he saw the name.

“You! Human!” he cried with a growing sense of triumph.

The Rogue turned to face him.

Sentry had arrived early at the celebration, quickly finding a perch on one of the balconies surrounding the central square. The buildings were mostly restaurants and inns, even the cheapest costing a disturbing number of coins to gain access to the elevated position. But she wanted a spot that would allow her to watch.

So far, the day felt like a waste. She had seen a few potential party candidates. But how could she properly evaluate recruits when she was just watching them shop or eat meat skewers? Her hopes weren’t much higher for the evening. The celebration might offer some entertainment, but she doubted it would provide a chance to see the true character of any of her fellow Travelers. Still, she had a mission, and she would be diligent in carrying it out.

Several strangers approached Sentry and tried to stir up a conversation. She was polite, but dismissive. She had no interests in the games and politics that consumed most of the elites representing their Factions in Dawn. Within the confines of the valley, their petty squabbles might seem important to each of them. But Sentry had no intention of staying in the valley for years, as most of them did. She had loftier goals. Each of the interlopers lost interest and drifted away quickly. Others must have witnessed her disinclination to engage, for after a short time the approaches stopped. She was left alone at a small table, sipping but not truly tasting an odd, sweet wine.

The sun was nearly down, the crowd below still visible due to the odd glow emanating from the unnerving tower at the heart of the city, when a cry drew her attention.

“You! Human!”

Below, she saw the same massive orc she had observed in the market earlier. He was looming over a small, slim human Rogue. The Rogue turned to face the orc. He looked quite young, and even from this distance Sentry saw his eyes widen in alarm and recognition as he took in the orc.

Finally, something interesting, Sentry thought. She leaned over the railing, waiting to see what happened next.