Chapter 1 - The Spear

A muscular half-orc sat on a wooden bench, his callused hands feeling each other’s rough embrace as he stared at the ground stoically. His coiled muscles were tense as he tried to relax. Dressed in nothing but a fur mantle draped over his bare shoulders and dark trousers, he was nothing like what a human’s idea of a savage greenskin was; that was a grimy, spit-raving lunatic who knew only war and bloodshed.

Gungmar sighed, feeling up his hair and ears: his braids neatly tied and his sole earring providing him with a comforting touch of metal to calm his nerves. He gave his open palms a vibrant, vermillion gaze and a furrowed brow as he reflected on his actions, trying to blink the sleep out of his eyes as he did so. The sound of dripping water from above was occasionally interfering with his concentration.

The half-orc had acted in anger against a high-ranking officer—whatever his damn name was—and, thus, was put in lockup. Gungmar berated himself internally for losing his usual composure, but it's not like anyone else wouldn't lash out at someone for insulting their upbringing. A dozen times. He did try to defuse the situation, somehow, but well... here he was.

His appearance was still unmistakably that of an orc, but some key features were closely human-like: his pointed ears and tusks were smaller than a normal orc's, the latter not even reaching the jagged, sharp jaws of a lowly grunt that could supposedly tear through dense flesh and hardy bones like a bear. Supposedly; the humans do like to embellish claims about the orcs’ abilities and appearances, a bedtime tale perfect to terrify children to sleep about their hated enemies. Furthermore, his green skin tone was lighter. Lighter than the others, who were often various shades of a darker green that could easily camouflage them in the woodlands; a handy advantage to have. And for the eyes? They were a brighter shade than the usual crimson.

He was a handsome boy, his mother used to say.

It wasn’t obvious at first glance for an outsider to discern, but for his people? Easy as wringing a deer’s neck.

Gungmar was capable of dealing with personal insults. But when his mother was mentioned in a disgusting way, the Divine rest her soul, he lost it.

His spear was confiscated, he was arrested and had to spend the night here surrounded by obnoxious and loudly snoring inmates as well as to be reprimanded, and whatever else that was going to affect him negatively was going to be imposed.

Even with all that, he knows his old man would be proud of him, and he is of himself. But still. It’s problematic.

"Zurul's tusks," he said in an oath, unwittingly loud as his voice rang out in the cramped confines of his cell, echoing throughout the prison and disturbing his fellow prisoners by enunciating the ‘s’ sounds like a slitherfolk would do.

“Shut the fuck up, you noisy ass! I’m trying to sleep here!” A voice angrily called out, and the rattling sound of iron bars likewise greeted him.

A moment later, all was quiet. Gungmar scoffed.

“...hells.” He mumbled, frowning and tugging at his boots.

Irked and with nothing better to do, he looked around in his cell once more, this time more attentively; and found only the same depressing walls, the same bucket to piss in, the same cot—the one he’s currently sitting on—and the same iron bars that greeted him. And startlingly: a bald, nasty-looking orc decked in scars on the other cell that was glaring at him. A threatening smile with uneven but surprisingly clean teeth and tusks aimed at Gungmar with a look full of daggers to boot.

He hadn’t noticed at all the opposing prisoner was staring at him for the Divine knows how long, having been content to stare at the ground. The walls. The damn bucket. Anywhere else, really. Downcast and too absorbed in his thoughts.

“Finally giving me some attention now, aren’t we? Gotta say, nice tattoo. Half-spawn. A little snake slithering around your shoulder, eh? Cute.” He says by way of greeting.

The loinclothed, dog-faced orc mockingly smiled at him, poking fun at Gungmar’s faded tattoo, which was nothing like what the orc just said. Instead of a snakelet; it was a pit of snakes coiling around and over each other's scales in an enigmatic manner, and perhaps, possibly, conveying what a slitherfolk's idea of a good time is.

The design and layers, faded as his tattoo was, looked expertly made. A few scars here and there jutted out while still complementing his otherwise mature features.

The half-orc ignored him, not eager to spend his time on a fruitless endeavor of conversing with the inconspicuously hostile prisoner.

“Aww, Serpent got your tongue? Gahaha!” The prisoner laughed like a mad orc, stroking his necklace of disgusting fingerbones. No one was even chastising him for his boisterous tone. Either the other prisoners were terrified of him, or he wasn’t exactly a subject for ridicule like Gungmar was.

That’s pretty unfair, he thought.

The scarred orc then, with a sudden spring in his steps, jumped to his feet and gripped the iron bars tightly. Gungmar regarded him with suspicion, unsure if he could actually break those bars and whether he was a foe or merely playing the part of a fool who wanted to toy with him.

The miscreant was flaunting his enormous tongue with a cruel expression, and was acting like a menace; playing around with the gradually irritated half-orc by barking like a rabid dog would do and tensing his grip on the bars. An upturned grin formed on his face when he fixed his crimson jewels on the other greenskin’s brilliant ones.

However, seeing the undaunted half-orc, he paused.

“...just fucking with you, halfie. Even the great Aznarr can’t just easily break these metal bars. Or can I?” Finally, with a name to the ugly greenskin’s face; the huge Aznarr taunted him.

This was getting irritating by the minute. So, Gungmar tried to bite back with a snarky retort.

Unfortunately, before he could do so: a loud, sort-of growling and lazy voice with an authoritative tone snapped them to attention. The burly bully lost his jeering demeanor as he quietly darted his eyes in the direction of the voice.

“Prisoners #13 to #16. Get the hells out of here. You’re all lucky you got off smoothly.” An audible slap on a shoulder caused the nearby prisoners to wince. It was both loud and painful.

The iron bars clinked open, and the pattering of feet on the stone floor moved away.

The yet-seen figure barked out another command. "Prisoners #17 and #19, report back to Elder Gadfell. He wants to know why his two idiot kinsmen were in jail. Get on with it, troublemakers. And #18? Tough luck. You're spending the night here." A groan sounded out. The cells were now clattering as they slid on the floor, signifying their open status, excluding that of the unlucky #18.

The voice was now getting louder with each step to their cells. Aznarr sneaked a glance at the half-orc, uncharacteristically quiet as he coolly strained his ears. He leaned back against the rough stone of the wall and adopted a relaxed stance.

"...and here we go. Prisoner #24. The youngling." The voice came from the unassuming, armored orc; around Gungmar's height, who had his hair styled in a single braid and had bored, crimson eyes that lazily sized up Gungmar.

“Had a good night? No? Good. I hope you’ve learned a lesson from that. Don't always resolve problems with violence, unless you want to end up here." Gungmar scoffed, which the warden ignored. "Can’t say I sympathize with you being locked up, but I do understand your... offense. You did well giving that guy bruises and a broken tooth while you, on the other hand, are in good health. No worries... that pretentious asshole deserved it.” The orc mumbled the last part under his breath and nodded with grudging respect to the half-orc.

He carried on after a while of checking Gungmar’s state; there was nothing out of the ordinary. “You’re free to go after reporting to Elder Harrfell. He’ll give you your actual reprimand, so best see to it soon. That’s all.” He explained curtly without further explanation as he sighed tiredly while Gungmar mulled over his words.

The orc then looked at his side and grabbed a long, slender object from an unseen hand—his assistant, perhaps.

Gungmar's eyes widened in realization at the familiar weapon; his spear, clutched in hand by the orc, the ribbon near its pointy end swaying side to side from the movement. "And your... spear,” he said with a skeptical tone.

"This is yours? Really? Ha. It's akin to a walking stick rather than a deadly armament, I must say." The orc shook his head disapprovingly, and Aznarr, who was listening in, held back a chortle while his assistant nodded as if he had just said something brilliant and profound. "It looks worn-out somewhat but also well-maintained, the sign of extensive use. Impressive, still. How many have you killed, youngling?"

“...too many to count.” Gungmar truly had no idea. And frankly, he didn’t want to revisit those types of memories. Of taking another’s life in the fleetingness of battle.

It would put a damper on his mood.

"I see." The orc grew silent, and fished out a surreptitious key from his pocket, inserted it on the lock on the half-orc's cell, and with great strength, opened the cell door with ease.

Gungmar shortly stood up and cracked all his joints, pops and cracks noisily sounded out. He then exited the depressing cell and grabbed his trusty spear from the orc’s outstretched grip and nodded respectfully at him.

"Right. Good luck. Abide by the law and see Elder Harrfell soon lest a harsher sentence is imposed," the unnamed, single-braided orc simply said as he moved on to the next part of his duty, not bothering to wait for a reply. His shorter subordinate darted his eyes in worry between Gungmar and his superior's retreating outline, his mouth opening wide to say something important before he was suddenly commanded to follow. Abashed, he smiled at the half-orc before he trailed after him.

Gungmar wondered what the timid assistant was about to say, but seeing that it wasn’t any of his concern, the half-orc just mumbled his breath. “...appreciate it, I guess.”

He caught the smug Aznarr’s face grinning at him, mouthing off seemingly inoffensive words as he twiddled his fingers at him in goodbye.

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Cute. Ribbon. Halfie. He cocked his chin at the half-orc's spear and gestured a tearing motion for the innocent, swaying ribbon on it.

This ‘cute ribbon’ of his was a gift from a dear friend a few years ago, and the half-orc wasn’t going to take it lying down.

So, he bared his teeth at him, tensing his facial muscles in an intimidating scowl. He even gestured at a tusk of his, insulting Aznarr by pretending to break it off with a hand. A dirty insult for a prideful orc.

Aznarr's mischievous demeanor had vanished. Now, his eyes had taken on a dangerous gleam. The air was tingling with suspense as the pair locked gazes.

One... three... ten... thirty... A full half-minute passed by before their battle of wills was concluded. The half-orc was the first to break away, realizing that he could spend his time, better, elsewhere. Like, say, actually going to his assigned Elder for the reprimand, which he was not looking forward to.

And soon, he left the prison without another word. A threatening voice pursued him, and a hostile intent was leveled at the departing half-orc’s back.

“Watch yourself, half-spawn!” Aznarr yelled.

The half-orc ignored his threat, completely satisfied with himself, and whistled a tune as he exited.

•••

Gungmar climbed up the mossy steps of the underground prison, the familiar sights and smells of the city assaulting his senses. The sun's intense warmth madenhim shield his eyes in haste as he squinted at the bustling scene of city life in front of him.

Crowds of greenskins, orcs and goblins, and a few outsider races—beastkin and the like—went and passed him by, moving to and from busy shops both mundane and magical, homes and inns, the local tavern full of raucous life, administrative buildings built with impressive stone and so on.

A large stone fort stood afar, overlooking the vast expanse of the city. It was home to the Horde's ruler: unifier of the orc tribes, ally of the goblins, and leader (some might say mere figurehead) of the greenskins.

He was the Warlord Zurul.

But it was not him Gungmar had to find, it was an Elder.

He returned his gaze to the unwashed, moving bodies of his brethren and joined them with ease as he moved with the flow of the throng, holding his spear tightly so as not to injure anyone with it.

Huge, meaty muscles and skinny frames collided with his own as he maneuvered his way safely but without clear direction. An idea struck him as he figured to look up, the signs hanging in front of each building emphasizing their store's specialty in bold letters of Common. Gungmar chose a few, to begin with, and reviewed their contents. Where was the best place to ask for directions without being ridiculed or outright ignored? But first, before he read them, he took a step away from the bustling crowd and to the side to get a better view.

The Vurgr’s Den, he read one. Come get some vurgr meat and other delicacies. Yum, yum!

His stomach growled at the thought of a fat, juicy slab of vurgr meat roasted to perfection, but being penniless and having just a few copper coins to his name, he could only afford a cheaper alternative. Oh, well. Next time, when he saves up at least a silver coin or two, he could treat himself to a feast fit for a Warlord.

Sshashina’s Emporium. If you need it, Sshashina’s got it!

An unusual name. Likely, a lizardfolk or a slitherfolk must run the shop. Hopefully, the latter, as the slitherfolk are far more sociable than their solitary, scaly, and bipedal cousins. Gungmar could easily gather information from them if that was the case.

And lastly, he read a sign's especially glowing letters that stood out from the rest.

The Matriarch’s Orb. For all your magical needs.

The half-orc shook his head. The last one was useless, at least for him. He had no magic, so to speak. To become a mage, you had to be born with potential, grow up under an experienced mage's tutelage, and wreak havoc when you've learned everything you can. Like what his friend Rhim told him, although she was still a long way from graduating. At least, since the last time they met.

He wondered how she was doing these days...

Gungmar had the experience of encountering mages back when he was a whelp, younger than he was now and oh so inexperienced. And he hated fighting them.

Magic-wielders were hard to defeat with their advantage of, well, magic. With mostly long-range spells and far greater destructive firepower than his spear...

And—wait, he was getting distracted now, so he gently slapped his face with his hand to clear his mind of distracting thoughts.

"*Sigh*. I guess I'll go to the emporium then. Even after coming back here to the Ward, I still don’t know everything about this place." Gungmar decided it was best to simply ask a well-connected shopkeeper rather than a butcher and a mage.

He walked towards it as the decently-sized shop came into view: a few customers were already inside when Gungmar saw through the open window frames. It was sandwiched between two other stores; one that sold trinkets and ornaments and the other, a snack shop.

The smell of the sugary snacks—Gyla’s Sticks—that Gungmar heard from the hawking merchant, clashed with the similarly sweet smell of the flowers that were planted outside the humble-looking emporium. It was sickeningly sweet, so Gungmar hurried inside the shop, a bell chiming delicately as he did so. A few customers gave him both casual, disinterested gazes and dirty looks before turning back to their businesses.

The shopkeeper, presumably Sshashina, smiled at the half-orc. They were, by good fortune, a slitherfolk: their smooth, moist scales were a mesmerizing mix of jade and onyx depicted in a vivid pattern and their slit-like eyes were an enthralling shade of amber as they gazed deeply into the half-orc's own.

It was a dangerous feeling, Gungmar felt.

Their ‘hair’, plumage really, flashed in surprise at their new customer, rising much like their frill and startling the other customers. A huge tail whipped softly up and down like a dog’s wagging tail in delight.

"My, my! A handsssome orc sstoped by my little sshop! Hello, hello!" The slitherfolk's smile was widening happily at the dumbfounded Gungmar. They were admiring his appearance and nodded approvingly at his attire.

He had no idea what to make of this richly-dressed stranger and simply nodded silently.

“Oh, you. A bit sshy, aren’t you?” They said. “Don’t be! Be sssure to check out whatever you need, dearie. I'll be right here.” The half-orc, a bit embarrassed, scratched at his chin and began to look around the emporium’s display of goods.

There was a wide variety of items available, including staple rations such as bread, goat and cow's milk in small glass bottles, and water canteens but without the water.

Sold separately, Gungmar read from a displayed note.

Leather satchels, knapsacks, and other accessories were sold too. Daggers, spoons, bowls, and other household items as well.

Gungmar saw a bit further, a shelf stocked to the brim with expensive potions, albeit with minor properties rather than the exceptional ones of a magic shop.

It was truly an emporium, with wares of every description. Still, Gungmar was sweating when he felt what seemed like Sshashina’s reptilian stare at his back.

Hells, I have no money. What should I do? This is pretty embarrassing, just strutting in checking out this place’s goods and not buying anything.

Gungmar was troubled. He kept sneaking a glance back at the slitherfolk who was busy exchanging coins and their merchandise to the customers and at times catching a coy look from them. And were they playfully flicking their forked tongue at him? Ah, perhaps not... He must be imagining things, so he hurried. He had already spent enough time at this place.

Gungmar grabbed a rucksack from a shelf and got in line at the dwindling queue because his old leather satchel was worn out and had to be replaced for any future campaigns. His mind was racing on how to properly convince Sshashina to let him buy it for... something.

However, no pouch meant no money, and all he had was a spear and his clothes.

Gungmar sighed as he finally met face-to-face with the shopkeeper, who kept staring at him in delight.

“He~llo handsssome,” they hissed softly. “What do you want to buy, dearie?”

"This rucksack, err, shopkeeper.”

“Pleassse, pleasse, call me Sshashina, my dear...?” They inclined their head questioningly at the half-orc.

“...Gungmar.” He said after a moment of pause.

“I sssee, a sstrong and ssexy name.” They winked at him.

Gungmar was at a loss for words. This was the one time he had been approached and spoken to in a luscious manner. Nonetheless, he had to keep his cool and be respectful. This was different from slugging it out verbally with the bald orc earlier.

But first, given his lack of familiarity with the city's districts, he figured now was the time to inquire about Elder Harrfell's whereabouts. It hadn't been important when he lived here before and fighting in the Gratt Desert (Elder Harrfell's assigned territory), and it wasn't important now. Until his reprimand. He blamed his old man for not teaching him about the city and all its particularities.

“Ah... do you happen to know who and where Elder Harrfell is, err, Sshashina? It’s important for me.” Gungmar asked, finally breaking out of his stupor.

A curious look appeared on the slitherfolk’s face, a claw tapping on the counter as their mind registered the name.

"Oh! Yess, yess, I know, I know!" They frivolously spoke out. "Ssir Zzagrim'ss a frequent cussstomer of mine. And he ussually buyss my ssweetss. Though, for ssome reasson, he hassn't come here today... Maybe he iss asss busy asss I think he iss."

The slitherfolk dragged out a tidy, brown package adorned in cloth strips and an illustration of a scaly figure eating cake with a fork and placed it on the counter.

The Elder had a sweet tooth, huh? A hidden side that was unknowingly exposed by the slitherfolk about the usually gossiped conniving and ruthless Elders. Not that Gungmar paid it any mind, he liked sweets too. Who wouldn't? Elder Harrfell, that was Zagrim, was a kindred soul in the consummation of sugary sins.

“And Ssir Zzagrim,” they continued, “likess to come down here from hiss sstudy. Leave here, up the ssslope, stairss, whatever you want to call it, towardss the direction of... the fort, but sstop before going around the ssstatue in the plazza, and then to the left from there. There are ssignss for Sir Zzagrim and the others' sstudiess at the domess."

“Got it. Appreciate it, Sshashina.” He received a cheerful nod.

So, from that long-winded explanation of the slitherfolk, he got the gist of it all and now knows where the Elder was. Given how long Gungmar was taking to arrive there, hopefully, he's a patient orc.

And now, with his original purpose for coming here fulfilled, he continued his purchase.

“So... how much does this cost, Sshashina?”

"Mmm... Three sssilver, but ssince you're a well-mannered and attractive orc... I'll go with two."

“I see.” Zurul’s tusks. Gungmar pretended to scoop in his pockets for coins, his thoughts darting around as he tried to think of an excuse. He was in too deep now.

Perhaps he could shoulder a debt and work it off later? The item would undoubtedly help him in the future.

A few seconds of pointless scrounging around for coins made the slitherfolk flick their tongue at the half-orc, slightly upset yet still cheerful.

"Do you not have any coinss, Ssir Gungmar?”

“I must have forgotten them.”

“That’ss not good. Pleasse tell the truth insstead of making a lady wait, dearie.”

The half-orc raised an eyebrow. The shopkeeper, Sshashina, was a female slitherfolk? Not that it was obvious to tell, judging by their sexless appearance and cheery outlook. Though the mannerisms were somewhat... feminine, now that he thought about it. He really should brush up on his skill of reading people.

“Ah... sorry,” was all he could say.

“Don’t be.” They, or rather she, smiled softly, her unhappy gaze replaced by an impish one. “Mmm. Mmm. Sstill, what to do...” She sized up the half-orc’s appearance once more, taking in his well-defined physique and apologetic look.

A brilliant idea struck her scaly noggin as a wide smile formed on her face, a claw resting on top of the brown package.

Gungmar didn’t like the look she was giving him.