Grundar Shieldbreaker, mightiest son of Erthel Stoneborn, vanquisher of the hordes of the Lonath Plains, and chosen of the Burning Brand faction, glanced furtively at the milling crowd as they exited the Grand Hall towards the shining white city below. Satisfied that no one was looking his way, he reached under the knee-length leather and steel tunic to scratch himself.

“There you are, Master Grundar!” came a whining, nasal voice from somewhere behind. Grundar cursed under his breath before turning.

Bumping his way against the flow of bodies, Trenton Pixiebane emerged, a simpering expression plastered to his face in what Grundar assumed was supposed to pass for a smile.

“I have been searching for you everywhere, Master,” the weakling mewled, dipping his head in submission and wringing his hands deferentially. Grundar suppressed a groan of revulsion. Trenton, despite being one of the weakest of the younger generation, had been chosen as one of the two companions from home to accompany him to Farandway. Even the creatures name was a joke. Trenton had stumbled on a nest of Pixie’s while out on patrol. As he tried to flee, the orc had stumbled and somehow fallen on the entire cluster, crushing the tiny creatures under his bulk. He had returned to the tribe covered in blue blood and smeared with the remains of gossamer wings. Grundar had laughed for a week. How this miserable excuse for an orc had managed to convince the elders of that was beyond Grundar’s understanding.

“If it took you this long, you haven’t been looking hard enough.” Grundar said with a sneer, making no attempt to hide his disdain. In truth, Grundar had spotted the other orc in the crowd earlier. His sudden decision to walk the other way was the reason he had collided with that puny human Rogue.

“You are right, Master. Apologies. Please forgive this unworthy servant,” Trenton pleaded, dipping his head still lower. As he did so, Grundar finally deigned to study his fellow orc. His disgust only increased as he took in the leather wrapped over loose robes and the mace tucked into his companion’s belt.

“You chose a Priest?!” Grundar barked.

“Yes, Master. I assumed that you and Lady Kilth would choose warriors. I hoped that, with the healing arts of a Priest, I would be better able to serve and protect you.”

Grundar grunted noncommittally. It wasn’t the stupidest thing the moron had ever said. It could be useful to have a healer. But the restriction on bladed weapons was indecent. An orc who wasn’t covered in the blood of his enemies was no orc at all. Grundar didn’t linger on it, however. The mention of Kilth Bloodsworn had pushed his mind onto another track.

“Have you seen Kilth?” he asked the priest hopefully.

“Not yet, Master. But I’m sure she will be us at the Burning Brand compound,” Trenton whined. Grundar snorted, unsurprised by the orc’s inability to be useful. His annoyance was somewhat tempered by thoughts of Kilth. There, at least, the elders had done right by him. Kilth was one of the finest warriors he had ever seen, with a bloodlust that nearly rivaled his own. She was also a fine example of a female. Her tusks were stout, her skin of deepest grey, and her eyes were so small they were barely visible. The memory of her crushing an enemy’s skull in her bare hand during a recent border skirmish came to his mind unbidden, stirring a flame of desire in his belly.

“Come, then,” Grundar said, ready to move. The itch under his armor was still terrible. But he could ignore it for now. The faster they could find Kilth, the better. He turned and started moving through the crowd, not waiting to see if Trenton followed. Had Grundar been paying attention, he might have seen the crack in Trenton’s carefully cultivated façade. For just a moment, the groveling mask parted, revealing a gleam of hatred. Hatred, and something else. Something more calculating. Then the mask was firmly back in place, the smaller orc scampering to keep pace with his master.

Grundar strode down the wide thoroughfare confidently, fully expecting everyone to part before him. Most did. It wasn’t just the orc’s size and murderous glare. The Burning Brand was a well-known faction. One only great fools failed to step lightly around. The few that failed to get out of the way in time were knocked roughly from the path. There was some angry muttering and some dark looks cast Grundar’s way, but he paid them no mind.

It wasn’t long before Grundar entered the city proper. Shops were open, their owners displaying their wares, and street stalls had been set up selling everything from clothing to enchanted items, everyone trying to capitalize on the newly arrive Travelers descending on the market. Several of the nearby stands were also selling food. Grundar caught the scent of searing meat, and his stomach burbled greedily. He immediately detoured. The fees paid by his faction did more than just guarantee that his starting equipment was a cut above the average. It also meant that his purse was unusually heavy. He could afford to indulge.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

Yet as he approached one of the vendors, a small, hairy creature that he didn’t recognize with an oversized grin, he made a disheartening discovery. As he pawed at his belt, reaching for the pleasantly full coin purse, he found…nothing. He looked down in shock, staring for a moment. But there was nothing there. His purse filled to the brim with coins was gone.

His broad face scrunched unpleasantly as he tried to think. How could it be gone? Had he dropped it somewhere? He glanced helplessly from side to side, as if expecting to find the purse lying on the ground nearby.

The furry little food vendor’s smile had thinned, his eyes going dead as he watched Grundar paw at his belt and look around in confusion. The beast grunted, turning away from Grundar and resuming his rehearsed smile as a different customer approached, this one a spindly human in leather.

Grundar’s eyes fell on the human. This one had long, stringy hair coming out of the top of its head. He assumed it to be one of the females, though honestly he had a hard time telling the difference. But the sight of little runt stirred a memory. A memory of another human in leather, though this one with short hair. A clumsy human that had bumped into him.

Grundar’s mind ticked over slowly for a long moment before the thought clicked in to place with an almost audible groan. His lips peeled back from his tusks in as a low growl escaped his lips.

“That little bastard!”

Sentry leaned against a tall post just off the street sipping a hot drink that tasted like herbs. She had made sure she was among the first to leave the assembly in the Cathedral, moving swiftly down into the city where she could find a perch to watch the crowd as it passed. She carefully studied her fellow Travelers as they entered the market, making mental notes about a few while disregarding most.

Sentry wasn’t her true name, of course. Only a fool would use their given name in Farandway. That said, a great many seemed to be fools. It was unsurprising. It didn’t matter while corner of the many worlds one found themselves in. Fools were never in short supply.

As she watched, Sentry allowed her mind to wander, playing again her strategy for the early game. She had taken warrior as her starting class, but her path to power was a well-tread one. Her faction had been cataloging these paths for time immemorial. She had used her six skill points to purchase Long-Sword Proficiency and Heavy Armor Proficiency. Both were only at novice, but if she could advance both to at least adept by the time she reached level 10, then she could choose Sword Master for her advanced class.

That was easier said than done, of course. With the initial skill purchased, there were two ways to advance it. The first was to purchase the upgrades with skill points. This was the path many factions focused on. The problem with that was that, with the escalating cost of each upgrade, there was no way to earn skill points quickly enough to move both her skills up before choosing her advanced class.

The other way to level a skill was through use. For combat skills, that meant fighting. Not just fighting, but fighting with ever more powerful enemies, pushing herself to her limits. There was a reason the established factions didn’t usually favor that method. Namely, it had a high probability of ending in death. Yet it was the path that Sentry had put herself on.

She had struggled to contain her scoffs while listening to the old Guard Captain promise them all rewards and glory. She had failed in that struggle only once, when the man had promised that anyone who collected five jewels would earn the right to return home. Fortunately, her derisive grunt had been lost in the cheer of the other fools. It wasn’t technically a lie. But it was nearly impossible. Nearly.

“That little bastard!”

The din of hundreds of conversations momentarily stilled as the outraged roar echoed down the street. Sentry took in the sight.

A massive orc, one of the biggest she had ever seen, was standing next to one of the food vendors. He was shaking with rage. Another orc, small for their kind and dressed in the ensemble of a Priest, stood beside him, making shushing motions and whispering furiously.

“That fucking Rogue at the Cathedral robbed me! We have to find him. I’ll have his entrails for my dinner!” The big brute bellowed. The food vendor was shrinking back, clearly afraid the orc’s wrath would turn on him.

Sentry raised an eyebrow. A Rogue had stolen from an orc of the Burning Brand faction? Before even leaving the Cathedral? It was brazen, at the very least. The smaller orc was whispering again.

“I don’t remember her name, you sniveling weakling! But I know she was a human. I’ll know him if I see him. And when I see him, she dies!” The big orc screamed, spittle flying from his mouth.

Sentry suppressed a grin. The orc clearly wasn’t sure of the gender of the thief. Orcs had a hard time telling humans apart.

The big orc, who Sentry had been able to identify as Grundar Shieldbreaker, was looking around at the watching crowd now, as if only just becoming aware that he was making a scene. With a huff, Grundar turned and started marching from the market. People quickly moved to make a path. The smaller orc scampered in his wake.

Sentry watched the two depart for a moment before returning to studying the crowd. It didn’t take long before the bustle returned.

Sentry’s future would be filled with combat. To survive that at this low level required a strong party. Sentry’s faction, The Moon Blades, weren’t powerful in the traditional sense. Sentry had no companions in this cohort of Travelers to rely on. She would need to identify and recruit worthwhile candidates if she was going to accomplish her goal.

For Sentry had one goal. One promise to keep.

For most, Farandway was a death sentence. Oh, it could take decades for the final blow to fall. But, for most, becoming a Traveler was a one-way ticket.

But not for Sentry. She had promised.

She would survive. She would grow in power. She would capture five of the jewels hidden in the heart of Farandway, and she would present them to the High King.

And then, Sentry would go home.