Seamus Halvorson looked upon the trees of the island, their bark burnt to pitch black and their branches bare as bones. Ash still covered everything, contrasting with the snow. The young man looked down at his feet, which were standing in a disgusting ice-mud slush.
“Feels like it’s my fault it’s this way,” he muttered as he raised his boot. It dripped with black mud, its color unholy in a way.
“The orcs are to blame,” Falrick’s voice called out. “Don’t be hard on yourself.”
Seamus turned to his right, watching as the elderly Wizard approached him. He was coming from the orc outpost, where all the action was. Seamus had declined to take part in the conflict, since he was sure that James would have it handled. That, and he was still wary about fighting. He had mixed feelings about joining in on battles. That indifference stemmed from his past experiences in fights, where his participation was more or less forced into his hands.
“How did the raid go?” Seamus asked.
“Well. No friendly casualties. That and your Jarl decided to duel their leader in singular combat. I am sure you can guess who won,” Falrick said. The Wizard was twiddling with his prosthetic, his fingers tightening some of the joints on his wrist.
“That’s good. Did Elaine manage to chronicle it?” Seamus wondered about the young bard, who had joined in on this raid to capture the moment in detail.
“She vomited at the first sight of blood,” Falrick admitted. “Poor girl had to go back to the ship.” The Wizard seemed genuinely worried for Elaine, his expression changing to pity.
“How about Malik?” Seamus asked. He didn’t remember seeing the necromancer at all during today. Either he was on a different longship, or he simply didn’t come. This was strange, considering he was only with James because he wanted to watch every battle the Outlander was in.
“Too bored to be bothered with orcs,” Falrick answered. “Didn’t even come to watch over James.”
“I suppose staying back in Yorktown would be preferable for someone like him. Especially since he has to study that,” Seamus muttered the last part with some reproach.
“Well, if it does give you comfort, he has a pact with James to protect us all. He’s on a leash, so to speak,” Falrick pointed out.
“Leash or not, I don’t like him,” Seamus said. “Where’s Lowe?”
“Aldren. Or what is left of it,” Falrick answered. “Let’s go meet up with him. Now that the battle is over, we can look for the vault.”
Seamus sighed and nodded. “Let’s do it. It’s been some time, but I think I know where it is,”
“Then let us be on our way.”
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James let out a breath as he sat upon a fallen tree, the blackened bark rough to the touch. Regardless, it was nice to give himself a rest.
“Sorry for that,” he muttered as Horuk approached. “I know you wanted to be the one to end him.”
“Not a problem,” the orc leader chuckled. Horuk was an absolute unit, even in orc standards. He was taller than Silas, roughly two and a half meters tall. His brawn was his most noticeable feature; his shoulders were basically boulders, and his forearms were three times as thick as James’ own.
“You did what was needed.” Horuk continued, his hand brushing back whatever coarse hair he had left on top of his scalp. “Humiliated him in front of his own before taking him out. A deserving end.”
“Yeah. A deserving end,” James muttered. He recalled the memories he had gathered from Blood-Ohm. Specifically, the ones that included the orc’s leader, Blood-Irk. He now knew the extent of the orc’s plans, which thankfully weren’t an immediate threat.
“Did you catch anything from that bastard’s memories?” Horuk asked.
“Need to go through them later. The memories are still raw,” James said. Combing through the orc’s memories was something he had to do carefully and thoroughly. As of now, they were nothing but flashes and faint recallings, disorganized and misplaced. He and Faust needed to process it all before they could look through them.
“If it makes you feel better—from what I’ve managed to gather—Blood-Irk’s plans are mostly dead in the water already. It’ll be a long time before he’s a threat to us again,” James revealed.
“That’s good to hear,” Horuk responded with a chuckle. “If and when you go through them later, notify us of what you find.”
With that, the orc waved goodbye and left to rally up the rest of his clan.
Horuk led a monster-hunting clan that was allied with James’ White Raven clan. So far, they had fought with each other in almost every battle they went to, with James usually leading the charge.
The young Jarl thought about possibly integrating Horuk’s clan into his own to strengthen both sides by combining them into one. He held that thought back. Even after everything they had gone through together, James would still have trouble leading the orcs. They didn’t respond well to being led by humans, no matter how strong they were. It was part of their culture and hierarchy. To change it would surely strain tensions.
As of now, they had a pretty good thing going on. The Raven clan provided refuge, and the Orc clan provided their strength. Horuk commanded his own orcs, and that was good enough.
James sighed deeply, his gaze moving to the rest of his people. The Ravens were busy preparing to build a base of operations, under Helen’s supervision. After that was done, they would move to Aldren to survey the damage.
The plan was to establish Aldren to the way it was before it was raided by orcs and burnt to the ground. After that, James would have a second base for both his people and interests. He wasn’t planning to make this island an outpost but as an extension of his clan. A new town with potential and opportunity.
James found himself smiling at the idea of this island prospering, not unlike Yorktown. Filled with people and merchants. It didn’t take long for his imagination to go wild. He imagined his clan conquering other islands, his orcs and people establishing countless outposts and bases. He could see it now, hundreds of islands in the south flying his raven banner. They would all be his.
“I hate it when you make that face,” a voice called out. James blinked and turned to see Dahlia standing nearby, her arms crossed.
“Bad habit, sorry,” James laughed nervously. That bad habit was from the countless hours he had once spent at his PC back on earth. Back then—before his burnout had set in—James would pour hours into games like Total War and Stellaris. Games that focused on strategy and empire-building.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
Obviously, those games didn’t transfer much skill into James. If anything, he pretty much sucked at them. Still, it didn’t mean he wasn’t infatuated with the feeling of growth and power in those games. The adrenaline rush from every battle won and every territory gained. The extent of his empire’s reach. It was an addictive feeling.
‘Reign it in, James,’ Faust commented. ‘Don’t forget, I can see your memories. From what I can gather, those kingdoms and empires of yours did not last long.’
The spirit was right. James had a tendency to overextend his reach and risk too much. His empires were short-lived, and he lost more than he won. He had to remind himself that he was dealing with reality, not a low poly game running on a three-year-old PC he frankensteined out of used parts.
For now, he had to focus on the important plan to reestablish Aldren as a formidable base.
“I swear, you are like a child sometimes,” Dahlia sighed. James shrugged at that before he stood up.
“How are the wounded?” he asked.
“Fine,” Dahlia answered. She gestured to the group of men nearby, half of them covered in gauze and nursing their wounds. “I still need to get to the orcs, but they’re busy.”
James turned to see what she meant by that. He grimaced at the sight of the orcs cheering and chest bumping. They celebrated amongst themselves, their shouts and hollers echoing into the sky.
“Give them a minute,” James said with a sigh. “Once the adrenaline wears off, they’ll be good.”
“I hope soon. Some of them have nasty injuries. I’m not an expert in orc anatomy, but I don’t think a severed hand is a minor wound,” Dahlia muttered.
“They’ll be fine,” James said with a wave. He turned around to gaze at the rest of the orc camp. He could spot familiar faces all around, but there was one person unaccounted for. Well, two now that he looked around.
“Where’s Seamus?” James asked. “And Falrick?”
“I’m not exactly sure,” Dahlia furrowed her brow. “Maybe back at the shore? If not, then I suppose they’re at Aldren. I know I saw Lowe walking over there.”
“I’ll go look for them,” James said. “You take care of the orcs first, alright?”
“Got it,” Dahlia sighed. “I’ll group with you guys as soon as I’m done.”
James nodded at that before he headed off in the direction of Aldren.
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Aldren was surprisingly still there, despite most of it being nothing but burnt char.
Seamus found himself staring at one house, which—despite it being burnt—was still standing. Its walls were pitch black, and the interior was covered in ash, but it was still there.
The same went for most of the houses in the settlement, their foundations still standing—burned and half collapsed, but there.
“What are these houses made of?” James’ voice sounded out from behind.
Seamus turned to see his friend walking up from the treeline, his gaze being on the state of the town.
“Vern wood,” Seamus answered. “The dwarves here used it for construction of the town. Apparently, despite the fire, they managed to remain.”
“You guys are gonna make your way to the vault?” James asked. The young Jarl had his blond hair tied into a loose knot, his beard trimmed to a respectable length. He had a well-built frame, his shoulders broad, and his height towering most people. Add that with his dark blue eyes, and he reminded Seamus of those heroes in stories. More specifically, the ones who served the Goddess Delphine.
Seamus knew better, however. He knew that James was far from those heroes in stories. He was the opposite, the antagonist who fought against the Golden Goddess. Not maliciously, of course. James wasn’t like the heartless villains of those myths. He was just a ‘guy,’ as he put it. A mundane man who was thrust into the jaws of this world. It wasn’t his fault he chose survival.
Seamus himself wasn’t any different. Unlike James, he looked nothing like those heroes in stories. He wasn’t even unique enough to look like the antagonist. Seamus was an average-looking young man, his hair trimmed to a messy bowl shape. His chin and jaw were hairless, not by choice either. He had dark green eyes that were almost black, and his build looked unassuming. With the baggy clothes he wore, one could assume he was lanky and unfit.
Seamus looked like someone who would accompany the hero in their adventures, his only job being to be a scribe and chronicle everything.
Of course, he was far from that stereotype. Seamus was a warrior. One formed by his infamous father, Yorn. The late Jarl had trained the young man since he was a toddler, looking to form a worthy heir to the Halvorson clan. Unfortunately for his late father, that was never to be. Not since Seamus’ clan was wiped from the map, along with his birthright as a Jarl.
Seamus didn’t mind that responsibility being taken away. Sure, he was cursed with nightmares and lifelong trauma, but it didn’t really bother him that he was never going to be Jarl.
Seamus buried those thoughts of his clan away. He had a habit of reminding himself of their brutal fall. Right now, he needed to focus on the current predicament.
“We’ll be heading to the vault soon. We’re just waiting for Lowe,” Seamus answered James’ question. He gestured to the middle of Aldren, where the mentioned gnome stood. Next to him was Falrick, the old Wizard patting the gnome’s back.
Lowe was a gnome who was once tasked with watching over Aldren. Despite his responsibility to the island and its settlement, he was unable to stop Blood-Irk’s invasion during last Frost. Even though there was nothing he could do to stop it, Lowe still blamed himself.
Seamus felt bad for him. He wanted to comfort the gnome, to tell him it would be alright. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to do it. That was why Falrick was there with Lowe instead of Seamus.
“Damn,” James said. “He still doesn’t blame himself, does he? This wasn’t his fault.”
“Grief does things to people,” Seamus muttered. “It makes them blame themselves for everything that went wrong, even if they weren’t at fault. We both should know that feeling. Especially with what’s happened this past year.”
James was silent at that, his gaze falling to the blackened ground. Seamus knew the young Jarl still blamed himself for what happened during Midsommar. Even after all these months, the Battle of Vindis was still fresh in his mind.
There was some silence between the two before another voice joined in.
“The orcs are done with clearing the outpost. They’re going to start establishing one of their own in the east soon.” It was Dahlia.
Seamus glanced at the Shaman, watching as she hurried to join them. She was dressed in a light gambeson, her poncho-like cloak covering it from the front and back. Underneath that, she wore a dark green long-sleeved tunic, its sleeves almost too long for her.
Dahlia had short black hair, which was messy to a degree. It was a far cry from when Seamus first met her, back when he had escaped from the marauders. Back then, her hair was somewhat lengthy and tied up into multiple buns. After the Lumen Knight incident, however, she had kept it short. Out of remembrance or preference, Seamus didn’t know. Dahlia was unique in a way that she didn’t look Valian at all. While most nomads in Valenfrost had naturally pale skin paired with dark hair and green eyes, Dahlia’s skin was almost like heartwood. It was light and pale but clearly darker than Seamus’ skin. The Shaman also had large golden amber eyes, the color almost like honey. Pair that with the dark freckles on her cheeks and nose, and she stood out like a sore thumb in a group of people.
Seamus had tried to guess her heritage multiple times. Arenian, Azurevalian, and even Atroxi. None of it seemed right. Ultimately, he could only guess she was a mix of all the above. It did make some sense since her parents were both from different parts of the world. A father who was a soldier from Azurvale and a mother who was a long-time native of Yorktown, which was once a trading outpost between Areno and Valenfrost.
Seamus glanced over at James, who was from another world entirely, his features being a mix between northern Valenfrost and Azurvale. That spawned a funny thought in his head. Both the Jarl and Dahlia were a couple, and at the rate they were going, it was clear to Seamus that history was going to repeat itself at some point in the near future.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” James asked, almost accusatory.
“Just thinking about the future is all,” Seamus said dismissively. He looked back at Dahlia. “Are you going to head with us to the vault?”
“Wasn’t in my plans for today, but why not?” Dahlia responded with a shrug. “Not much else for a shaman to do. No one on our side got seriously injured.”
“Then let us get going,” Falrick called out. Everyone turned to look over at the Wizard, who was accompanied by Lowe. The gnome looked to be done with his reminiscing.
“Are you alright, Lowe?” Seamus couldn’t help but ask.
“I’m alive. So are some of our people. That’s all that counts,” Lowe muttered an answer. He gave the young Halvorson a wry smile. “Let’s get on with today, Seamus. There is a vault waiting for us.”