Open Chronicles Keep Off Grass

[Bruk]

Bruk was lost.

Not that this was much of an issue for the Orc, he didn't exactly have a set destination. Indeed, after Forest Gump had finally escaped the Ixchel Wilds he had picked a direction and just started walking. If there was an obstacle, he went around it*. If there was food around, he ate it. If there were people around, well...

“LOOK WAT UZE 'AVE DONE!”

The trio of travellers looked both perplexed and terrified. One's head darted around trying to find whatever crime they had seemingly committed in the eyes of this creature. The other stared up at the broad Orc, wringing his hands like a feverish mangle whilst he shook his head wildly. The last had gone completely still, perhaps reckoning that Bruk's vision was based upon movement. Hey, you never know, it could work.

“Whu-whu-whu-”

“UZE BLIND?! LOOK HARDA'!” Bruk declared in his usual booming tones, pointing squarely at the wheels of the travelling cart that they had parked at the side of the road.

This perplexed the unfortunate travellers.

“T-t-the c-c-c-c-c-cart?! We-we werejusttakingabr-”

“YOU SQUISH DA FLOWERS!”

“What?” The second one squeaked in disbelief, which was fair, it wasn't very often that Orcs were seen to be very protective of flowers.

A rugged green hand shot out and gripped the head of the incredulous one. There was a small squeal, then more of a wicked scream as Bruk picked up the second traveller by the head and proceeded to slam it off of the ground next to the back cart wheel, which then, of course, produced a wonderful crack.

“NOW YOU SEE!”

The first one ran while the second remained as still as humanly possible, silently he was thankful that he had worn his brown trousers upon this journey. However when the Orc gave chase to his running friend it seemed as if his tactic had worked, and so he continued staying very very still.

“BRUK AVENGE DA FLOWERS!”

“GREAT ASTRA PRESERVE US! SOMEBODY PLEASE HELP ME! I DIDN'T DO ANYTH-”

The first traveller had many regrets in his life, but the most pressing one that went through his mind as Bruk collided with him was that he didn't do enough cardio. The discomfort of being tackled and then mounted by an Orc didn't last terribly long, as very large twin green hams smashed down upon his face more times than was completely necessary.

“GUARDIAN OV DA FOREEEEEEEEST!!!”

Great stonking footsteps came towards the third and final of the trio. Each step shaking the traveller's faith, every tremble bringing forth long-buried life regrets. All he had to do was believe that standing still would work and that the mentally unstable, flower-loving Orc would just go away and then he could live the rest of his life with a renewed sense of vigour. He would tell his wife and children all the things he'd always meant to, finally relent and get a family dog, he would write a letter to his practically abandoned grandmo-

And then his head was crushed like a melon.


*There may have been a boat.

 

[Rob Yew]

Zan Zahar of the Deeps seldom gaped.

Not for volcanic eruptions that swallowed whole cities. Not for the thunderous charge of gleaming Vel Anirian knights. Not even ensorcelling dark arts that resurrected a valley of the dead.

When Zahar rounded a bend in the road and witnessed a barrel-chested orc beat three travelers to death with his bare hands until brain and bone flecked gore coated his arms and face, Zan Zahar gaped.

No, not at the orc. Orcs were nuisances. He gaped at the cart, yoked to a pair of wonderfully placid oxen, who blinked mildly when bits of their former masters spattered their hides.

Yes, thought Zahar, a cart. A cart would do nicely. Of course, he did not know how to drive a cart. Nor did he know how to ride a horse. Animals tended to dislike him. No, that was not true. They hated him. The last dog he'd pet bit him. The last horse he'd rode threw him. So, Zahar gave up on them. The troubles of being raised underground and steeped in shadow magic.

Of course, that also meant that when he had to travel, he did so on foot. One of these nights he would need to learn how to animate the bones of a horse or something.

The pale, noseless warlock shut his gaping mouth, smiled unpleasantly, and continued down the dirt road until he came abreast of the hulking orc.

A black robe cloaked Zahar, the hood pulled down so low over his hairless brow that it nearly reached his violet eyes. He held a very long walking stick in one hand, which looked to be made of some ebony wood and, if one stared at it too long, seemed to be... leaking. Leaking shadows.

"Hello," began Zahar, in a high, cold voice made for whispers and hisses. His gaze went up, and up, as he tried to meet the orc's eyes. He blinked rapidly in the light of the harsh noonday sun.

"I am Zan Zahar, Doomspeaker of Ozmandius, Lord of-" round and exceedingly stupid eyes stared back at him.

"Nevermind. I have gold. Shinies, yes?" He spoke slowly, pointing at the cart, hoping the thing understood him. "Do you know how to drive one of those?"

 

[Bruk]

Having dispatched nature's enemies, Bruk was content to stand for a moment and admire his own handiwork. After all, he was still Bruk and there was nothing more he enjoyed than a good bit of quality smashing. It's important to have hobbies you know.

Thankfully enough brain cells were still firing inside his head so that when the stranger approached he did not assume his violent duties in the name of nature.

He just stood there like a big green shed, sizing up the cloaked figure with his eyes.

Surprisingly the figure was cordial, almost polite even (although that was mostly lost on Bruk). Most other races didn't really give him the time of day, which was fair because the time of day was usually violence. Perhaps on another plane of reality the Orc would have indulged in instant battery, but alas, he was on a mission, a mission from nature itself...

...and oh he liked the way that this fellow smelled.

You see as said fellow was introducing himself, Bruk leaned down and in a bit closer and let out a very large and very obvious sniff, his nostrils flexing like an out-dated wrestler. He smelled like smarts. What? Don't look at me. Who is to say what smarts smell like? Books? Dust? Decay? Like Zan Zahar, Doomspeaker of Ozmandius, Lord of Something-or-Other? It was entirely of Bruk's own judgement on this matter.

It seemed that Zan Zahar wanted him to drive the cart, in exchange for the shinies, which truth be told wasn't too high on Bruk's priority list. Oh, but he had a plan. Slowly a giant and incredibly stupid smile spread across his mouth from tusk to tusk.

Maybe he could get the smarts to aid his green-fingered venture.

“BRUK CAN DRIVE!” He lied.

Of course, how was this man to know that? Not like the Orc had just trekked halfway across the world without a second thought for transpo- oh, right. Nevertheless, Bruk felt a blind and stupid confidence towards his abilities in this scenario.

The big steaks were one with nature, and so was he.

Swaggering over to the oxen (which by the way, did not smell of smarts but instead delicious) Bruk scratched one of the beasts behind the ear, right in the sweet spot and then erupted into deep hearty laughter upon noticing the animal's delight. He was so clever! Zan Zahar would help him get the smarts and all he had to do was drive the big steaks! Oh, if only his brother could have seen him now!

Bruk briefly wondered what Grunth was up to since they got separated in the Wilds but that thought, like most of his thoughts evaporated quickly.

“WHERE WE GO, FRIEND?”

 

[Rob Yew]

Zahar’s thin lips peeled back in a smile.

“Do you like flowers?”

* * *

The slowly setting sun saw them upon the newly acquired cart, wheels and hooves churning away leagues of the dirt road to Falwood.

The ride was significantly less comfortable than Zahar had expected, with every rut jostling the cart so much that he feared the wooden structure would simply fall apart. After an hour of silence and a lack of fellow travelers, the Warlock glanced sidelong at Bruk.

“So...” he began awkwardly, “where are you from?”

 

[Bruk]

It wasn't a cart designed for the plus-sized gentleman.

As a happy-go-smashy fellow, Bruk was happy to be wedged into the driver's seat like a very large sardine in a budget can. His content nature mostly stemmed from the question asked before they set off. Do you like flowers? It was made to be. Nature had set out his path across the world for this encounter. Why else would he have asked?

This was destiny.

“DA SPINE,” Bruk responded rather cheerily in his great booming tones, his tusks jubilant in the afternoon sun. There wasn't much else for him to say there, the Orc couldn't even point to The Spine on a map, he'd never make it as a tour guide. Alas.

“WAT YOU DO, FRIEND?”

Before there was even a chance for Zahar to answer his first question, a second slipped out (or more correctly bellowed out). He was going to try and play it cool, play it coy and hopefully absorb the smarts by some kind of osmosis, but his interest was piqued and Bruk wasn't smart or patient enough to hold it all in.

“WAT YOU KNOW 'BOUT FLOWAS?”

 

[Fieravene]

"This isn't what it looks like."

For once in her life Fieravene was telling the truth and as fate would see fit, there was no one in attendance to believe her. The elf, realizing her predicament, slowly stood from the two freshly-decaying bodies strewn just off the side of the road and raised her hands into the air.

"I find that very difficult to believe."

"As would I," Fi nodded in understanding, "very easy to mistake a lovely, suspicious looking dark elf dressed in black hunched over two dead bodies. It's an exceptionally misleading situation to come upon, but did you really have to kill my horse?"

There were three of them - Falwood elf sentries. Two mounted with arrows pointed at her head and heart, the third dismounted with the pointy-end of his sword now honed in on her throat.

"Cannot kill what is already dead."

"Already-" Fi blinked, frankly offended, "already dead? No, see, I rode in on a perfectly well horse and you, you shot him full of arrows and there he lays in the middle of the road," she gestured to the large, very dead black horse leaking black blood and stinking horribly of the arcane, "dead where he stood."

"Derreh'mori. I know who you are, you are not welcome here in Falwood."

"Derreh - Derreh'mori? You think I'm Derre-" a laugh broke loose from the dark elf, "he thinks I'm Derreh'mori."

"Seize her."

The two archers dismounted and set upon the dark elf who only struggled enough to say she did. She was more distracted with her humor, "Oh sure, because I'm an Eremorra suddenly I'm the bloodletter. This is racial profiling I'll have you know!"

 

[Rob Yew]

Zahar had keen ears, capable of picking up the slightest whispers in the dark. Bruk deafened them. Zahar shrank deeper into his seat in the cart as the orc bellowed his questions, the meaning of "conversational tone" utterly lost on the giant orc.

"I work for a... collector," did Bruk understand that word either? No matter. "There is a flower that grows only in the Falwood."

The warlock's violet eyes studied a knot on the floorboards of the cart. What sort of cause would make this wilderness-loving orc a true believer? Ah, he had it.

"The elves want to destroy the flowers. They think they're too... pretty. They just haven't figured out how to get rid of all of the flowers yet. There's a temple, guarding a garden of them, farther along this road. We are going to rescue one of them."

The famous "night lilies" bloomed only at night and they glowed in the dark, much like the various fish and fungi of the Deeps. But more importantly, they had arcane properties, which Zahar did not truly understand. He only knew that the Lord Aitor needed it for one of his rituals.

Zahar opened his mouth to continue, then closed it suddenly as they came around a bend in the road to see a dark elf held at bow-point by three Falwood elves, bowstrings taut and ready to loose. Beyond them lay a dead horse, pinioned with arrows, and two corpses.

"Well, well, well. What have we, here?"

 

[Bruk]

It took him a second to register what exactly a collector was, mostly because Zahar had clearly pronounced it wrong. Although truth be told in Bruk's mind a collector was more akin to his mother carrying a load of potatoes rather than a dignified fellow with an interest in the rare and obscure.

“YOU MEAN A COLLECTA,” Bruk helpfully interjected, already seemingly feeling the smarts absorb into him via close proximity.

His excitement could only grow at the prospect of a rare flower that could only grow in one place. How many other plants were out there isolated in one location and hidden around the world? Would they all be tasty? While eating rare flowers didn't seem to offer much help in the name of conservation it was a concept perhaps too complex to penetrate Bruk's concussion-riddled brain.

The excitement quickly turned to rage in a mere moment however when his hooded companion mentioned the quest of the nefarious elves! Fate had struck yet again, for it was here that he had been guided to, evidently to stop this wicked plot against nature itself. Who did they think they were? Destroy all the flowers?! Over Bruk's dead body!

“WAT!?” The Orc roared, letting out what was a ferocious war snort that expelled terrifying sludge from his wide-set nostrils.

“DEN WE GOTTA DESTROY DA ELVES!” Bruk's voice boomed somehow louder than before, “IT BRUK DUTY!”

His tirade was interrupted however as they turned the corner and his companion's sharper eyes spotted the scene first. Naturally, when Bruk looked at the scene the first thing he noticed was the dead horse, and as he usually did, he spoke before he thought.

“OI! ANY OV UZE EATIN' DA HORSE?!”

But as he looked, gasp, ELVES. Priorities shifted and Bruk immediately dislodged himself from his seat and hopped out of the cart. He may have been delightfully dim in the eyes of others but he was still first and foremost a rather violent creature, the great volume of scars that littered his face and body should have given that one away, that or he was really bad at knitting.

“BRUK NOT GONNA LET UZE ELVES DESTROY ALL DA FLOWAS!” He roared furiously, pounding upon his chest and rather foolishly beginning to march towards the situation with vicious purpose.

Arrows? Ha! Bruk had dealt with his fair share of those in his lifetime, and luckily they had always missed the vital organs, but now with nature on his side, he was likely invincible! Unstoppable even!

Probably.

 

[Fieravene]

Far be it from elves to miss the raucous of the incoming wagon and its occupants. Rather, occupant.

The elf in charge had begun to recite his official decree of arrest to Fiera when the initial roar echoed through the woods, sending birds and wildlife scattering. Honestly, it was a real shocker the two animals pulling the cart hadn't leaped out of their skin yet.

When the cart came tottering around the bend with a massive orc and a ... odd looking elf, his words trailed off and eyes got real wide (Fiera blinked rapidly at the orc's outburst of eating her horse) then real narrow.

"You there - stay where you are. There is a dangerous fugitive afo-"

“BRUK NOT GONNA LET UZE ELVES DESTROY ALL DA FLOWAS!”

Well that was a strangely convenient turn of events.

"That's far enough! Halt!" yelled the head Elf, glancing back towards the other two and his captive, "One of you with me, don't let her get away."

"Oh," a very satisfied sneer peeled across Fi's face accompanied by a chuckle, "I'm not going anywhere. This should be golden..."

 

[Rob Yew]

Idly, Zahar wondered how many arrows Bruk could take before going down. Probably just the one, if it went through the orc's eyeball and straight into the brain. And these Falwood elves were famously accurate archers. Hmm, perhaps he should help the green giant.

Ugh, but that would take so much work. Besides, the dark she-elf looked dangerous enough.

They'd be fine.

"Wait," Zahar hissed.

The hairless albino extended his hand out, empty. Shadows coalesced in his palm, becoming solid and black. In a mere moment, an axe appeared in his hand. Heavy and made of the same ink-black metal throughout.

He tossed the axe underhanded to Bruk.

"Do your thing."

 

[Bruk]

Luckily for Zahar the Orc had only marched off to face nature's enemies and hadn't sprinted like a big green maniac so he did wait, giving his hooded-pal a chance to shine in the moment. Bruk's eyes narrowed suspiciously as he witnessed a wicked black axe materialise from shadows and into a sunless hand. Upon catching the offered weapon Bruk took a small moment to sniff the axe first, deciding there and then it was definitely appropriate.

“BRUK HAVE QUESTIONS,” he shouted quietly*.

He turned to face his prey once again, who had the foresight to prepare and draw their bows while weapons were being summoned from likely nefarious places.

“BUT FIRST FING FIRST!”

Raising both of his meaty and grizzled forearms in front of his face, Bruk now finally burst into a sprint letting loose a war cry that was so full of fervour and glee that both of the oxen let out encouraging moos for their new driver.

Given that he was making a lot of noise, the Orc didn't hear any Elven deliberation or attack strategies and given that he was covering his own face, he didn't see it either. Bruk did, however, feel a twin-set of sharp shooting pains in both of his arms, and even witnessed the head of an arrow crest through the flesh of his right wrist, just stopping short of where his eye would have been.

How about that, they were very accurate.

Bruk did not falter in this however, it spurred him on, sending a rush of blood to his head like no other. There was nothing like violence-based adrenaline. Barbarous laughter boomed out from behind the pair of forearms as the charge continued. It had been fair to assume that the Orc did not want to be shot by arrows, unfortunately for the Elves they had been wrong in that assessment.

"BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

Another arrow pierced his left thigh, just above the knee while the next whistled past his right ear, giving it a sweet kiss and in exchange taking some flesh in passing.

Still, it was not enough.

Then there was impact, it sounded exactly what you thought an Orc colliding with an Elf would sound like. Very meaty with a side of wind being knocked out. The Elf that was not in charge of the situation was knocked flying, he had decided to draw his bow once more instead of moving out of the way as his superior had done.

The forearm shield was lowered, to reveal the gleeful tusks of Bruk (who was clearly having the best time of his life in this scenario). What a wonderful day this was turning out to be! He turned to face the smarter of the two sentries and with surprising quickness let loose a projectile of his own, throwing his axe at the same time another arrow was let loose.

Had Bruk not thrown the shadow axe and moved to do so, it would have likely hit him square in the throat and ended the game but as such, it pierced his bulging trapezoid instead. Likewise had the archer not chosen to stand his ground and go for the killing blow he might not have had his face split open by a flying axe.

Sometimes life really be like that.

“DA GUARDIAN OF DA FORREEEEEEST!!!”

*Which was perhaps the most mystifying thing of all in this scenario.

 

[Fieravene]

The dark elf watched from the sidelines, red eyes wide, brows aloft, mirth painted into a smirk. Had to hand it to the orc, he could take a hit ... or two, ...three? Arms folded, hip cock-eyed, her gaze remained affixed to the scene unfolding before her as if watching a landslide overtake a dumpy civilian town.

A wince as he mashed into the first elf. A cringe as the second elf locked lips with his axe. Thumbing blood splatter off her cheek while the orc made his war cry rumble, Fiera sidestepped as the third and final elf, the one who had apparently been in charge, dropped his bow to take up his sword and turn his rising fury upon the beastly thing.

"You dare spill elven blood in the realm of Falwood! Great wretched creature, you will be cut and quarter-"

Shhhk.

"I- ...hhhkkkk-" with a grunt and a spurt of blood, he keeled over. Dead.

"So dramatic," Fiera rolled her eyes, bending to retrieve her dagger from his back, "thought he'd never cease his blibbering. Hm," wiping her blade clean on the body, she stood straight and gave Bruk a wry smile, "you have impeccable timing, friend. I believe I owe you a boon."

 

[Rob Yew]

Arrows bristled from the orc like porcupine quills from an overly inquisitive dog. Ouch. Zahar grimaced - or was that just his smile? - as the last elven defender standing managed to find a dagger tip with his kidney.

"Delightful," Zahar hissed.

Well, that was enlightening. Now that the drudgery was out of the way. . . the hairless albino hopped down from his seat on the cart and stalked past Bruk. He waved a hand, casually, and the axe clutched in the orc's fingers evaporated like so much smoke before floating over to Zahar and coagulating in the shape of a dagger.

"You, she-elf," Zahar said absently as he bent over the guardian that Bruk had knocked the wind out of and started cutting off the straps of the armor encasing him, "I think you owe my friend and I a debt." He gestured over his shoulder with the shadow dagger, not bothering to look. "Please, don't let him die of infection. We just became acquainted."

"Wh- what-" wheezed the elf, wetly. Probably a punctured lung. Just as well. Zahar patted him on the head. "Shh, relax. Tense meat is too stringy."

The elf's eyes widened and he let out a gurgling scream and began to wiggle wildly. Zahar clucked his tongue, slit a few tendons here and there, and the elf's flailing ceased, save for the head, which flopped ridiculously until he placed his palm on the forehead and whispered a few words. Power ebbed out. The elf grew still and slack jawed, staring happily up into skies painted pink by the setting sun.

Zahar started stacking the armor as he uncased the elf from his metal shell. No point in continuing on the road. The cart had enough supplies to build shelter, or at least Zahar was fairly certain he had seen tent canvas in the cart's bottom. He hadn't really taken the time to inventory after the prior owners had been so wonderfully indisposed by the Forest's Mightiest Champion.

"Oh and one of you please start a fire after you're done."

 

[Bruk]

Well, that was a joyful little excursion, was it not?

Bruk grinned at the third Elf as he received a swift knife to the back from the charge he was supposed to be watching. These are the things that happen when you're not very good at your job you know.

“CAN BRUK EAT DA BOON?!” He asked, waving and observing his pin cushion arms around, seemingly not bothered by any notion of pain that might have been occurring within his body.

Naturally, the Orc did not know what a boom was, but in this scenario, it largely seemed like a good thing. Perhaps it was some kind of delicious meat popsicle, yes, that would have been the ideal. For a moment he just stood, his mind elsewhere fantasising about eating a giant spit of meat.

As soon as Bruk had retrieved the magical mystery axe from the Elf's face Zahar came over and it evaporated in an instant, a tiny hang-dog expression briefly passing by his face when it disappeared.

This was swiftly replaced by an expression of glee however the moment that Bruk heard the robed-one refer to him as his friend. A friend! Bruk didn't have many friends, save from his brother. You see in Orc society, our big wide boy was often snubbed for being, well, for being stupid. Perpetuating stereotypes and all that. He was considered a bit (or a lot) of an embarrassment and it was likely that a party was had back home when he had never returned from the wilds.

“BRUK BROTHA USUALLY TAKE DA ARROWZ OUT!” He declared, approaching the Dark Elf like some great lost puppy.

A glance towards Zahar showed the Orc some questionable things, as the last surviving Elf was killed by forehead-palm-whispering, which to Bruk was very mystifying. He looked at his own palm and wondered if he could do that but then realised that crushing the head was far more satisfying.

Leaning in closer to the Dark Elf Bruk wore a very serious expression, it appeared that he was going to tell her a secret.

“DIS ROAD VERY DANGEROUS!” He, unfortunately, shouted without irony, seemingly completely unable to whisper.

“ALSO, BRUK NOT 'LOWED TO MAKE FIRE NO MORE!”

 

[Fieravene]

"Not this boon," the elf smirked through a cringe, using the moment between outbursts to take stock of her savior and his companion. The white one received a lofted brow and folded arms, "Indeed?"

Well, she certainly owed the orc ... but the presumption on his part was questionable.

Fi winced into the following thunderous proclamations from Bruk, smile growing in mirth.

"Not to worry, Poppet," two gloved hands reached forward to take him by his meaty forearm, "Fifi will take good care of you. Come along, there's a stream nearby with lots of lovely flowers to clean you up at."

 

[Rob Yew]

When Zahar turned around, the orc and the dark elf, Fifi had she said?, had wandered off to the stream. The albino sighed.

"I'll start the fire," he muttered to himself, a habit he was wont to engage in. Most of his master's creations were less than talkative, shambling piles of bones. Some did not even have mouths with which to talk.

Before long, Zahar had some merry flames crackling some distance away from the cart. Now he focused on the pile of undressed corpses that lay beside him. With alarming speed, he sliced, he diced, he made elvish steaks.

When the pair returned, they would find him erecting a spit roast for the larger portions, while steadily chewing some of the more easily cooked cuts.

"Needs salt."

 

[Bruk]

“OH! FLOWAS!” Bruk boomed excitedly as he was lead away from the scene of their crime like a lost dad in a market, “BY DA WAY, I BRUK, NOT POPPET!”

He was such a helpful poppet.

The day was truly filled to the brim with liquid luck. Two fights, two new friends and not to mention the promise of flowers and smarts. In Bruk's ill-shaped head he was already thanking the forest spirits for guiding him towards this series of fortunate events. This sense of almost-destiny seemed to transcend his own mortality. Or at least that was how it went in his own mind. Who runs into arrow fire like that?

Honestly, even without mystic quest Bruk probably still would.

As they came to the stream Bruk happily frolicked (what?) towards the nearest patch of flowers. They weren't terribly pretty, very leafy actually, perhaps even herbaceous. Bundles of clumps of large green leaves spread across most of the patch, laying low the ground as if they were trying to remain inconspicuous. The Orc plopped down onto the ground, seemingly not hampered by the arrow sticking out of his thigh and stared intently at the plants.

Nestled in the midst of each leaf cluster was the teeny-tiniest green flower, the very same green as the foliage around it. Sneaky boys.

Then he plucked a flower and ate it.

It tasted like fancy ladies. Blech.

“WAT YOU DO, FIFI?! YOU SLAY DA ELFS?!”

 

[Fieravene]

"Bruk?" Fiera blinked, mildly taken aback and yet utterly underwhelmed by the brute's name, "Well of course you are. A fine name for a fine orc." She gently patted his arm before releasing him to his frolicking.

The elf took a moment to watch him, appreciating his jubilance for what it was before moving to round up what local medicinal herbs she could find. Lamb's Ear and Gillyweed were common near water sources and, judging by his collection of scars, he wouldn't require much attention beyond the superficial. Good, strong immune system - that one.

"Did I slay the elves?" she scoffed, sorting through some particularly thick foliage nearby, "No, dear Bruk, I am a victim of Happenstance. Do you know what happenstance is?"

She assumed not.

"It's when something happens that you took no part in, but you get blamed for it anyway due to where you are and how you look. Those elves were dead long before I found them ... well, except for that last one, that I am wholly responsible for. Now," herbs collected and placed nearby, she stepped over to the orc to size up his arrow wounds, "let's get those arrows out, hm? Such mean elves, shooting at Bruk. Fifi will make you right as rain."

 

[Faurosk]

The lone mage didn't exactly know where he was.

All he knew was that his feet were starting to hurt like hell, the sun was high, and his stomach was growling. A rest was undoubtedly in order, though the 'where' of the question seemed to give him no end of trouble. Soon enough, as the aching of his legs was reaching a penultimate high, the scent of fire and cooking meat wafted across his path. The scent was familiar enough, though there was a strange edge to it that he couldn't quite pin into familiarity... In spite of that one strange detail, the draw of a campfire- of someone to talk to -wasn't an offer that Faurosk felt inclined to pass up.

It wasn't long before he came upon the scene of Zahar cooking a spit of mystery kebabs over an open flame while chewing on a small bit of cooked meat. Bits of leaves sprinkled gently from the trees above, and the mage's stride stuttered to a stop. He didn't exactly know what he had been expecting, but the hunched figure of a pale, point-eared man wasn't it. His mouth hung open for a few seconds of hoarse sounds before his brain caught up and made words start flowing. "I-- Ah, hi, hello there. I was just, ah, passing through and saw your fire, and, uhm--"

With nothing else to do, the mage defaulted to his usual conversation starter. It seemed the right thing to do, after all. "I'm Faurosk-- It's like, er, forest. But with a 'kuh' sound at the, uh... At the end."

 

[Rob Yew]

Munch, munch, munch.

Small bits of leaf trickled down from above, falling into the fire and casting up an interesting aroma. Zahar stopped chewing. His hairless brows drew together. Funny, herbs didn't usually fall spontaneously out of the sky. He looked up into the trees, eyes sweeping until they affixed on a shape only visible to him and others like him. Aha, I see you.

Suddenly, a figure approached the campfire, coming in from off the dirt road. Human? Human. With some unkempt brown hair and a naive face. The sort that made Zahar want to give him a torch, a pat on the back, and leave alone in the Deeps for a night.

The hairless albino blinked at this... Faurosk.

"I'm Zahar. It's like Sahar, but with a Z."

 

[Faurosk]

Faurosk blinked twice in silence, still staring at Zahar in a bewildered sort of shock as herbs continued to rain elegantly into the flames below. "Yeah, no, yours is, uh... Rather self explanatory, to be quite fair."

Part of the mage knew he had come to the fire in the hopes of joining whatever wanderer had set up a lunchtime blaze, but as it was, he still remained several paces away from Zahar and the strange leafy rain. Faurosk wasn't exactly keen on joining in on whatever this strange, pale man was up to, and he found himself taking a small half-step back. "Tell you what, Zahar. You have a nice day, then, and I'll just, ah..."

The mage trailed off, gesticulating vaguely. There was something about the situation that touched a deep-seated anxiety somewhere in his chest. Sure, this stranger was an odd-looking fellow, but there was some quality to the air that churned Faurosk's stomach in the worst of ways.

 

[Rob Yew]

Zahar, as it happened, was sitting on a log.

He gestured with an open hand to the spot beside him.

“I guess it is, isn’t it? Come on, sit down, enjoy the fire. I have some friends getting ehm, water, from the stream. They should be back soon. Care for some food? Freshly cooked.”

Zahar smiled, realized the sight of his pointed whites would be even more alarming, and stopped.

 

[Bruk]

A fine name for a fine Orc? My goodness, had Bruk's cheeks just turned a shade of red or was he afflicted with some kind of deadly skin condition? He wasn't used to compliments. Sometimes he got a nice pat on the back from his brother when his slaughtering was sublime but that was it. This was new and uncharted territory.

With good reason, not very many people were nice to Bruk, and fortunately, he was too stupid to be cynical about this case. There were no notions of ulterior motives and villainy in this Fifi. Which left him basking in the warm glow of a new friendship.

Like a good boy, he remained sitting cross-legged on the ground, arrows still sticking out of him like a big-green gormless hedgehog. It was probably for the best that he remained sitting if he had any chance of absorbing what the word happenstance even meant, and even then chances were unlikely. At the very least Bruk would remember the word, but whether he would use it correctly was another question altogether (the magic 8-ball of the universe says 'Don't count on it').

“BRUK GET BLAMED ALL DA TIME,” he yelled sadly, showing his true ability to yell in many magical mysterious ways. Also, Bruk refrained to mention that he was usually at fault when blamed. Except when the potatoes got blight. That was not his fault and his mother was very cruel to have beat him for it.

“MEAN ELFS GOT WAT WAS COMIN TO DEM, FIFI! DEY WAS GONNA DESTROY DA FLOWAS!”

Bruk held out the worst wound first, his right wrist, the one that had been fully penetrated by the awfully accurate arrow. Even the Orc himself knew that it was going to be a bleeder. It was okay though, he knew that he had a lot of blood and that the hole would be too small for all of his blood to get out*.

“WHAT FIFI DO WEN SHE NOT BEIN SO NICE TO BRUK?”

*Citation definitely needed.

 

[Fieravene]

Fifi braced against the gale of words unleashed from the Orc's mouth, doing well to hold her breath while weathering the storm. Despite all his rather ... endearing qualities, Bruk laid claim to a most odoriferous mouthstench. Enough, she was certain, it could have likely floored the elves in the clearing, saved them all a lot of grief, and him a few button holes.

"That so?" she inquired, stepping forward to his outstretch treetrunk of an arm the likes of which was about as broad around as her own waist. It was rather fortunate she was in his good graces.

"Well aren't we just two peas in a pod," red lips smirked while gloved hands worked to snap the arrow just before the fletching.

The elf withdrew her dagger and eyed the splintered end sticking out, pondering an answer to his query that was as ... monosyllabic as possible, "I travel," she replied, "all over the realm. I meet people, sometimes I help them..." a smirk. Help in Fieravene's world could be defined in many ways. Some short work with her dagger to clear the splinters before she looked up to the large lad, "Brace yourself Bruk, ready? On three. One, two,-" sshhhck, out came the arrow from the point side.

"What does Bruk do when he's not being filled full of arrows for saving helpless flowers?"

 

[Bruk]

“BRUK A BIG PEA!” The Orc happily remarked, very much enjoying the idea that he was some form of giant sentient pea. Maybe a little too much. What if all Orcs were descended from peas? I don't think that's how it wor- What if, though?

No.

There was a twinkle of marvel within Bruk's eye as he watched the woman's process for arrow removal. It was a lot more complex than his brother's method, who often just wrenched them out, usually making a rather large mess in the process. The most painful part of getting shot by arrows was when Grunth removed them, truth be told.

He braced.

“OH!”

A few blinks and Bruk stared at his now arrow-free arm with a child's delight. That wasn't bad at all! A bit of pain, but nothing that troubled his blunted nervous system.

“YOU GOOD AT DIS, FIFI!”

Obviously this was what she meant by helping people. What a nice lady! The Orc didn't think it was possible for people to be this kind! It all pointed towards a new theory, that Fifi had been sent from nature herself. A champion of the forest that would guide Bruk through all the perils of his quest. Maybe she was even a forest spirit! At the very thought his eyes grew wide (well, as wide as his piggy little eyes went, at least).

He offered his left leg next, where the next arrow was stuck rather awkwardly above his knee. It was probably easier to take them out when they had fully penetrated the flesh, not like this one, this one was stuck in the meat.

“BRUK ON A QUEST FROM DA FOREST! BRUK FIGHT FOR DA FOREST! BRUK LEARN FROM DA FOREST! AN' FIFI GONNA HELP!”