Private Tales Meditation in an Emergency

[Morcant]

BELGRATH
OUTER CITY

This whole "outer city" thing was beginning to get on Morcant's nerves. The acolyte hopped desperately around one corner, limping like a simpleton the whole way. The warlock-wannabes had not given chase, but Morcant was still desperate to get as much distance between him and them as possible. They weren't real arcanists. Not by a long shot. But there had been dozens of them, all armed with cudgels.

There was only one Morcant. For all his peerless talents, he had been overwhelmed quite easily. Dumb luck had enabled him to escape.

The lantern that lit this portion of Belgrath's outer city was a dull, miserable orange. Like a sinking sun. Apparently there was not much call to maintain the city lighting where cultists and cutthroats had lease. At least it was enough for Morcant to navigate back to his campsite by.

Once he finally got there, the adrenaline had worn off and the pain settled in. He collapsed onto the cold, hard, stone floor and had to drag himself the rest of the way. The campfire he set up - force of habit, truly - had long burnt out. Since descending into this hellhole of a city, Morcant had not seen any means of telling how much time had passed. He had no idea how long he'd been down here for, or how long his issue with the warlocks had even lasted.

In times of great duress, physical or otherwise, the Order of the Moth often directed its adherents to meditation and prayer. And so that was Morcant did. Once he sat himself up against the equally cold, hard stone wall of some abandoned building, Morcant shut his eyes tight and focused his thoughts.

He was probably going to be down here a lot longer than he'd have liked.

 

[Scabhair]

Bile burned like fire up her gullet, and then she was spilling her breakfast of half-digested meat all over the beaten cobbles.

She hovered in the corner of the alley for a few moments. Caught her breath. Willed her limbs to stop shaking, then fished a length of cloth from her pack to wipe her mouth. Her nose wrinkled at the stench, and then finally her eyes opened to the unseemly sight of her own vomit.

“Brilliant.” Baaran Orcish with echoes of Elbion was a decidedly alien combination. Far as she could tell though, there was nobody around to hear it.

Good. She was rather certain her axe would split the skull of the next person who so much as looked at her wrong.

Now, Scabhair ri Eine liked to think of herself as a rational woman – certainly a rational orc. Nonetheless, there were times, or rather… environs, that could make even the most collected, composed, stoic warrior—

What, puke like a child after their first hunt?

Her expression curdled like sour goat milk. With a swift twist of tense shoulders, the half-orc turned away from the pitiful display of weakness and marched off with such a decided, determined stride, that her awareness utterly failed her.

Later, she’d blame her subterranean distress. Definitely not an inexcusable obliviousness to the presence of a small man huddled up against a wall.

It happened quickly, and it happened like this: Scabhair rounded a corner; Scabhair caught her foot against an ill-placed human thigh; Scabhair lost her balance on inconveniently polished flagstones; Scabhair went flying arse-over-teakettle; Scabhair was hunter enough to end up rolling awkwardly over her shoulder, skidding a few feet ahead, and coming to an unceremonious stop in the remains of a campfire.

She thumped her head against the pavement.

“Just bloody brilliant.”

 

[Morcant]

Morcant might have objected to being called small had he been aware of it, but it was a descriptor difficult to contest - not when his eyes flung open and he shrieked at a pitch several octaves higher than would normally be flattering for a man. "By the fucking Moth!"

His thigh hurt from where she kicked it, but Morcant's flight or fight response was already kicking in. He rose faster than he should have, stiff bones creaking with protest. Morcant was forced to lean on the wall for support and likely would have fallen otherwise, but at least he was now on his feet. Which was more than he could say for this Orc woman. Orcish. Something about her skin tone was off. Not green enough to be an Orc, not grey enough to be from the Blight.

Well, whatever! She still looked like she could crush his head like a melon and Morcant was willing to bet he could run (limp) a pretty good distance away from her if she made to attack him. Before she got up, anyway. Beat up even as he was, he still had his magic to work. That could always buy him some time.

"Who are you? What are you doing, stumbling around here like that?"

 

[Scabhair]

Something like a groan, only deeper, and possibly more akin to the growling of a lion than anything to do with human sounds, emerged from the throat of the supine orc.

It wasn’t pleasant. And it echoed, because they were underground. That’s what enclosed spaces did. Scabhair hated it.

“Could you please cease your jabbering?”

She knew how this looked like – drunk. Hopelessly, three-pints-too-deep-into-the-second-keg drunk. Scabhair was anything but. She enjoyed alcohol in moderation. If one considered precipitation in Amol-Kalit moderate, that is.

With a long exhale, the half-orc collected herself: from the ground, from the slump. She dusted herself off with a few rigid sweeps of the hand, but her eyes never left the mousy man hovering a stride or so away.

“I am...” she narrowed her eyes, “warlocks with bludgeons?”

Her fingers inched towards the axe on her belt.

 

[Morcant]

Gripped by anxiety, of course Morcant shut up when the growling-lion-lady-orc told him to. Anyone who said 'please' in a time like this was probably not going to murder him. She did appear rather unsteady, after all, so maybe there was more in favor of Morcant's survivability than he thought.

Once she finally got up, she trailed off. Warlocks with bludgeons? Her hand inched towards her axe, and Morcant suddenly remembered all the times he had said 'please' while killing people. Wisps of green energy danced subtley between his fingers. He could at least get one spell off if she charged at him if he had to.

He hoped.

"Oh, have you met them?" Morcant inquired, attempting to appear casual. "A nice woman like yourself, I certainly hope they were nicer to you than they were to me."

Morcant rolled his shoulder and winced at the motion. Oh, the pain. Who would have thought a herd of pasty, underfed warlocks could do such damage?

 

[Scabhair]

She levelled him with a gaze that expressed with some eloquence just how daft she believed him to be.

Then she remembered that “behind you” would be taken not as a courteous warning but rather as a clumsy, and, frankly, pathetic attempt to confound a foe.

Talk about a rock and a hard place. Scabhair spared a quick but no less searing glare for the stone cobbles and the stone walls and the stone ceiling.

“No, not yet,” she began, stepping carefully to the left so that the stranger was directly between herself and the advancing men with sticks. “I believe I am about to, and they don’t strike me as particularly affable individuals. They will definitely strike you if you don’t move, however.”

She offered a sour little smile and nodded slow encouragement to the man. Ten paces to go by her reckoning, and some five warlocks approaching. Scabhair wasn’t enthusiastic about her odds if they knocked the mage out.

“Shall we resolve our stumbling incident after this nuisance?” Not too hopeful an offer, surely. The half-orc did her best impression of what she’d learned passed as a trustworthy smile among humans. “Now, preferably?”

 

[Morcant]

"However"? "Nuisance"? Morcant blinked in quiet confusion. What breed of Orc was this, whose words could exceed a single syllable? Certainly not any kind that Morcant had ever met. Frankly, he should have already been surprised when she hit him with a "cease". That in itself, while not syllable-heavy, was thoroughly atypical Orc talk.

He'd worry about it later. It took him a moment to realize she was talking of an incoming threat rather than a past one. Morcant could hear them now, trampling down the cobblestone streets. He looked around the corner and saw them - three humans and two Dwarves, the same stupid black robes Morcant had seen them wearing last time.

They wouldn't get the jump on him this time. Not when there was this amount of distance, not when magic already danced along his fingers. "Fiends! I thought I lost them!"

There were plenty more where these came from, but Morcant would settle for avenging his grievances on this lot first. Morcant weaved his hands in a quick gesture, uttered something in the Lost Tongue, and a sickly green ray shot from a pointed finger.

It soared true, hitting the center-most human in the torso. Acid splashed out from the impact point, dousing two of his compatriots. Steam rose from their faces and clothes where the acid had made contact. It was nothing extreme, but it did look painful, and those affected had stopped advancing and begun screaming.

Don't mess with the Moth.

 

[Scabhair]

There was the instinctual temptation to simply make a run for it while the mage’s back was turned. The odds weren’t in his favor either, especially once those warlocks closed with their clubs and vengeful eyes. He’d probably go out taking half or so of the attackers with him, and the rest would race to find the escaped orc.

Decisions, decisions.

The screaming continued in the background. So did the stomping of legs coming ever closer.

Scabhair pondered her options, one hand tilting the tip of her axe, the other thumbing the fletching in her quiver.

One of the warlocks fell to his knees and tore the smouldering clothes off his body. The skin below was pinkish-red, stricken by a nasty slash of boils.

Scabhair frowned.

Another warlock doused his comrades with water, then turned on the Moth with a grin full of black teeth. His scream was something in dwarvish, then his club lit on fire (typical) and he was running straight for the swamp mage.

With a put-upon sigh the half-orc nocked an arrow and drew the bow in one smooth motion. It whistled past Morcant’s ear, interrupting the warlock’s war cry as it pierced his throat. In a bubble of surprise and blood, the man stumbled a few more paces before collapsing forward onto his face.

Scabhair tsked. “Waste of a good arrow.”

 

[Morcant]

Morcant grimaced as one of the warlocks broke ranks and began to charge. With a flaming club, no less! Surprise colored Morcant's features and he took a step back as the warlock closed in on him. His movements were still sluggish owing to the beating dolled out earlier, but Morcant was still contemplating which way to duck and weave when an arrow lanced straight through the warlock's throat.

There was a gurgling noise, then a flow of blood from the warlock's mouth, before he fell over face first - right at Morcant's feet. Blood pooled from the neck wound. Morcant grimaced and stepped over the slain warlock, then shouted back to Scabhair . "How could it be a waste? That's what arrows are for!"

Strange, he had never thought Orcs were a stingy people. That was the purview of Elves, in his experience. The other Warlocks were still flailing around, gnashing teeth and tearing at clothes as Morcant weaved more magic, uttered more arcane variables. No rays this time, but a large and sickly green orb formulated. He flung it towards them.

It fell a few feet short of them as opposed to actually hitting them, but the resulting acid splash coated the lot of them. The screaming picked up, the smoldering intensified. It didn't look like this was the sort of thing to just wash out. One by one, their whining screams fizzled out out into whimpers, and they toppled over into the green puddle around them.

Morcant stood, hands on his hips, waiting for them to die.

"Yes, that should do it."

 

[Scabhair]

Eager herself not to waste – yes, waste – any more arrows, Scabhair was rather content to watch the swamp mage wipe the rest of the party out. Or was it melt? She couldn’t quite decide how to describe the fate that had befallen the warlocks, her extensive vocabulary notwithstanding.

“I prefer to retrieve them in one piece when I can,” she answered in a studious voice, gaze still fixated on the sizzling pool of acid and flesh. The smell was rather… acrid. It reminded her of the tanning shops that straddled the channels of Bhathairk. In the soaking season, the stink was downright unbearable.

“Is that the only kind of magic you know?” Her brows went up, her eyes went down. Scabhair could really take him in now that the immediate threat had been dispatched with despatch.

A swamp mage.

In Belgrath.

Scabhair pursed her lips, bottom jaw pushed forward in thought. “And what are you doing here, if you don’t mind my asking? We’re rather far from Iuk-’u.”

It was the smell, really. She’d been to and through many marshes in her life, but the delta had a distinct earthly odor that you couldn’t find anyplace else. Wet soil and putrefying meat all rolled into one.

For an orc, it wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

 

[Morcant]

Morcant glanced over his shoulder at the Orcess. "Hm? Oh. I can talk to insects."

It was more useful than it sounded, but not by much.

There were other things within Morcant's power, but they tended not to go over well in polite conversation. Besides, he was but an acolyte. His training was far from complete. Morcant noticed a stray trail of steam rising from a stain in his tunic. He must have caught some back-splash. He wiped it off without a second thought and turned to face Scabhair fully, sizing her up. She certainly was a tall glass of water, now that Morcant got a good look at her.

Normally he might have used some very polite terminology to tell her to get bent and mind her own business, but seeing as she had participated in disposing of the warlocks... He could humor a few questions.

"Very observant of you. Yes, I come from the island of Elphane in the Iuk-'u. I have been sent here by my order to recover an object of grave importance," he scratched his neck warily. "It is a necessary ingredient in the Elders' bid to safeguard our home from those degenerate Naga."

He frowned as the word Naga left his lips, like it had tasted bad coming out. Loathsome creatures. Normally all the Moth Lords had to do was kill enough of a certain archetype of raiders and the raiders eventually gave up. But the Naga were different. Far too persistent. Morcant chalked it up to stupidity, but his superiors suspected something more sinister was at work.

Hence, his mission.

"What of you then, stranger? I'm sure you're not here just to take in the sights."

 

[Scabhair]

The pursed lips returned. The frown deepened. Insects. Wonderful.

“The snakes?” Well, colour her interest piqued. Pique her interest coloured? Human turns of phrase were so strange sometimes, and they rarely – if ever – made any sense at all. Silly men, cowering behind stone walls in stone houses with stone hearths.

She’d never met a human from the Iuk-’u, though.

“Why don’t you just hire some mercenaries? The Kalit ones come cheap enough.” And the echo of her economy professor supplemented something about market oversaturation. Scabhair ignored it in favour of inspecting the bodies. Might be there was still some untainted meat that could be savaged for a nice supper.

Kneeling a safe ways away from the unappealing pool of green acid, the orc took out her knife and began the methodical separation of warlock from bone.

“No, I find the sights absolutely abhorrent.” The tacky black robes came off first, reduced to tatters by a razor edge. “Their library, however…” she let out a grunt, though if it was effort or a begrudging compliment, it was hard to tell, “well, it’s quite extensive, isn’t it? I’ve a spot of reading to do and Elbion’s selection of tomes wasn’t quite… up… to… snuff. Ah, there we go.”

She stood again, holding the fat hunk of thigh in her hand with a pleased smile. Clean work for such speedy field dressing, if she did say so herself. Her pale eyes flickered back to Morcant as she wiped down her blade.

“I noticed you had a fire back there – fancy a bite?” Scabhair could eat raw, but it was only polite to share in a kill. He’d helped her deal with the bunch, after all. “I doubt you’ll get fresher stuff in this hellhole.”

Not to mention there were few cuts as well-tenderised as dwarven ham.

 

[Morcant]

Morcant stepped out of her way as she went to the one who'd been killed by arrow. He imagined she was going to loot the body and almost questioned whether or not she'd find anything of value, only to see her produce a knife and start hacking away - first through robes, then through Dwarf thigh.

"Elbion? You must be as well-read as you are well-traveled." He wrinkled his nose, as if witnessing some minor faux-pas rather than the beginning actions of a shameless paraanthropophage. "I'm afraid our coffers are a bit strained at the moment. The Naga have driven off our usual trading partners. The labors of defense are best left to us natives anyway."

A human from someplace else would have had gagged at all this carving and eating of humans, but Morcant was from the Iuk-'U - and well traveled throughout it. The Ojtuxl of the islands surrounding Elphane also ate humans from time to time. Generally just the troublemakers, of course... But they certainly had no qualms about eating humans in front of other humans, even during diplomatic meetings.

You got used to it. But it was these sorts of cultural nuances that made hiring mercenaries from elsewhere something of an issue.

The swamp wizard forced himself to smile weakly when Scabhair looked back at him, bloody haunch held like a trophy. It reminded him somewhat of Brother Dervos during the rituals to create Oathsworn. It wasn't pleasant business, but it was all rather familiar to Morcant.

"Ah, no thanks," Morcant repeated the words he had given High Chief Ontaguusz several years ago, "I'm afraid I don't partake."

 

[Scabhair]

Proprieties dispensed with, Scabhair shrugged and trekked over to the remains of the fire. Far be it from her to force the sumptuous delicacy on anyone. She was hungry, and a bit angry, and nothing could settle the nerves of an agitated orc quite like a leg of dwarf.

As she busied herself with the flames, Scabhair ran the conversation back in her mind until she tripped over a rather strange roadblock – he’d said natives. But that couldn’t be right. Humans were scarce over there, and far more brutal besides.

They certainly didn’t speak Common so well as this man.

“Say, how did your people come to settle… Elphane, was it?”

Soon a lively fire was warding their bones against the stone cold. Without ado the orc stuck the ham to sear. That the hairs would get scorched off was just another benefit she’d come to associate with cuisine.

 

[Morcant]

Morcant eased himself back into the position he had been resting in prior to Scabhair showing up and tripping over him. He grunted as he came to a rest, back against the wall. Hopefully there wouldn't be a second Orc to trip over him again. And if there was, the odds of it being as polite and conversational as this one were fairly low.

He regarded her quizzically. "Do you seek history lessons from every passing stranger?"

Maybe she was confused. The human population of Iuk-'U was not especially well-advertised, save for the merchants who now very rarely made the trip. Damnable Naga.

"If you must know, we are descended from the survivors of a wayward fleet; an expedition launched by what is now called Vel Anir. Our ancestors were marooned in the delta and, after several months of intense struggle, came to build settlements on Elphane. It is one of the larger islands. Can't miss it, though apparently you have."

There was more to the story than that, but Morcant would not bore Scabhair with the details of communing and bartering with powerful swamp spirits. Or the ritual murder of the traitorous admiral and his captains. Yes, that sort of subject matter did not go over well with foreigners. Merchants had learned to stop showing up around the time the annual festivals commemorating the event began.

"I am Morcant, incidentally. Who might you be?"

 

[Scabhair]

“Technically, I’m the passing stranger here,” she quipped, a quirk to her mouth as she caught his eye. “But yes, I try to. Unless they’re coming at me foaming at the mouth and waving cudgels.”

With a few stubborn sparks from her flint, the dark coals hissed to life again. As she began slicing and seasoning the thigh, Scabhair spoke up again. “I’ve only ever been to the edge of the delta. Humidity is not exactly my pot of samovar, if you know what I mean.” She nodded to her bow, unstrung and swaddled in oiled leather inside her quiver.

Once the precise cuts were sizzling over the low fire, the half-orc leaned back on her haunches and stuck out her hand for the mage to shake. “I’m Scabhair ri Eine, ri Aiforn, doirann cugu ri Taagi Baara. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Morcant, despite the… unfortunate circumstance.”

 

[Morcant]

Technically? Morcant raised an eyebrow. "Let's not burden ourselves on the fleeting details, Lady Scabhair."

He was not going to remember everything that had followed Scabhair, least of all because it was in a language he did not understand and had little interest in learning. Lady would be her title for now, if only because simply calling someone "Scabhair" sounded far too blunt and brutal. Like an insult. Maybe it was. Orcish naming customs were far beyond his purview.

Morcant glanced away at the steaming puddle of acid-cultist-goo. It was not a sight anyone would be comfortable describing in written format, so it wouldn't be. "I've met worse in more unfortunate circumstances, believe me." That might have been a lie. Morcant himself wasn't sure. If it was, Morcant probably wouldn't have told her anyway - best not to get on the bad side of someone who kept seasoning on their person.

"You're from the Taagi Baara? Fascinating. An acquaintance of mine was visiting the region, though I fear he's been mauled to death by centaurs."

Alas, poor Gareth.

 

[Scabhair]

“Lady?” The orc scoffed and shook her head. “I went to college. It doesn’t make me a landowning noble, I’m afraid.” Her braids still swayed in quiet amusement as she leaned forward to check on the sizzling meat. “You may call me by my given name. It’s the more respectful thing with most orcs.”

Her brows went up. (Again.)

“Centaurs? Must’ve gone to the very end of the Baara then. We rarely see them in the lower grasslands.” She paused to turn over the steaks. “But what makes you think he was attacked by centaurs, of all people? Most of the Eaglehead tribes are quite welcoming.”

To orcs, anyway.

 

[Morcant]

Morcant scratched the side of his nose and did his best to cope with the distinct smell of Dwarf-flank roasting on an open fire. His fire. Finally, it seemed Morcant was having a lady over for dinner. His mother would be so proud. "Well, it was a fair guess."

It seemed Scabhair had enjoyed a different reception in her interactions with the centaurs. Fascinating. Perhaps they were just more receptive to Orcs in general. Gareth was not the sort of person to spread lies via messenger pigeon. Maybe he just had the terrible luck of finding a centaur tribe that was abnormally hostile.

"His written correspondence indicated a Clan of Centaurs called the Tarakhi. They are lead by a Qhagan, or something. They slaughtered the rest of his caravan. I don't exactly recall, but he managed to enter their good graces after..."

Turning a bunch of them to stone with his petrifying-gaze, seeing as he was a half-human abomination sired by some form of Gorgon. But that was so many words, and Morcant was still quite tired and quite pained. He did not want to get into it.

"...Well, proving his usefulness, you could say. I have no idea whether they've released him yet."

 

[Scabhair]

“Ah.” Scabhair wrinkled her nose at the bloody news, then smiled again at the bloody steak. Perfectly rare.

“Are you sure I can’t tempt you?” she asked as she hooked the meat off the stone with her knife. It wouldn’t be quite the Autumn stew they’d make back home when the first leaves changed color, but it’d do.

Whatever his answer, Scabhair would be too busy working through her own meal to answer. Not for a few moments, anyway – orcish teeth were made for this exact purpose, after all.

“You mentioned written correspondence?” she prompted once she’d dabbed away the excess juices from her lips. “How in Arethil do you send messages across such astounding distances? And there’s the Spine to think of too, of course.”

 

[Morcant]

Morcant eyed the Dwarf-steak like something out of his worst dreams. Did it look appetizing? It was difficult to say. Maybe if he hadn't been there to see where it came from. His stomach growled, but he overruled its decision. "I am quite fine, thank you."

Oh no, he could smell the seasoning. Focus.

This became more difficult as Scabhair launched into her meal. Morcant watched her consume the steak with the same neutral-but-only-slightly-disquieted expression he gave the Ojtuxl during their ceremonial dinners. Scabhair's meal was finished before Morcant even realized, and now she was asking him more questions.

"We keep some pigeons," Morcant explained. Dead pigeons, he should have clarified. Zombified pigeons. Sometimes warded against attack, as had been necessary in corresponding with Gareth. It was amazing what birds could do when they never got tired, hungry, or otherwise sidetracked. "There is some magic involved in ensuring they are prepared for the journey, but otherwise they are quite reliable."

Many of the pigeons were specially embalmed to appear as close to alive as possible. It made external communications a bit more palatable to those few outsiders the people of Elphane kept contact with.

 

[Scabhair]

Her shrugging shoulder seemed to express the suit yourself that her mouth could not for the dwarven ham being torn to pieces within it.

“I see,” she nodded, even though the full picture still eluded her. Magic would have something to do with it, naturally. It always did with these things. “So what’s this object that’s brought you all the way from the delta?”

Long trek by distance alone, and between the swamp, jungle, and sheer slope of the Spine, it must’ve been quite the journey. Especially for a man so thinly built.

 

[Morcant]

Normally it was not Morcant's place to reveal such sensitive information. But the warlocks who protected the object had attacked Scabhair as well as him, so he at least owed her that much knowledge... Even if he was somewhat reluctant to part with it. Morcant sighed wistfully.

"It is called the Bracken Scepter. Centuries ago, a Sorcerer-King of our island wielded it to... Great effect."

Let's just say a lot of liquefying had taken place all those centuries ago. But the Scepter wasn't just for that. It had once contained some of the most powerful spells and wards ever conjured by a servant of the Moth. It had gone dormant with its wielder's death, but it was a potent relic nonetheless. And its return would be necessary to save Elphane in these trying times.

"After his death, the scepter was useless, but we gave it to the Dwarves of Belgrath as a sign of good-will. Something to encourage further trade and discourse between our people."

Morcant pinched his nose. "Of course, when I got here to ask for it back, they informed me there weren't enough guards left in the city to protect the museum they'd stowed it in. It has since been stolen - by the very same cabal of warlocks you're currently..."

He managed a weak smile.

"Dining on."

 

[Scabhair]

“The Bracken Scepter…” Scabhair echoed mid-chew. A thoughtful furrow formed in her brow as she leaned back against the wall. Yet another unpleasant reminder of the leagues of stone surrounding her on all sides, pressing in with their weight and cold, but—

The quest for knowledge superseded the inconvenience of a whole mountain sitting above her head.

She turned over the meat in her grasp, studying it with new eyes. “So you must recover a cultural relic of great import from the grubby hands of some berobed philistines?” Scabhair grinned wider and winked at the Iuk-’ut waif. “Say no more, Messir Morcant.”