Private Tales Out of Place

[Hath Charosh]

Whilst he wasn't well suited to the task, Hath could approach almost any problem with a single-minded determination. Right now that was driven by a need not to look like a complete fool. He had no shame in not understanding human currency, but he didn't want Scabhair to think he was too slow to pick this up when half the humans in the world had a grasp of it.

"So..." he chewed thoughtfully on a piece of of squid. It was tougher, like a nice fatty bit of older meat. He found he quite enjoyed it. His eyes followed the path of a ship approaching the docks. It wasn't the jade and white sails that had caught his attention but the swarm of black seabirds that hovered over it.

His knuckles moved in turn as he counted zolde. There was a scar of pale skin across the back of his left hand where a sword had nicked him in a training fight. He tried not to be too annoyed that the bronze coin was worth less but was larger. At least when laid out by colour it immediately made some sense to him.

"...a hundred tolare to a do..ca..tto. And the anir coins are the same?" he asked, giving her a hopeful look. Unfortunately that wasn't the case. Their coins used halves and each denomination could be worth two, five, eight or fifteen times the previous. Hath likely wasn't prepared for the level of rage such a system would induce. Especially as he was feeling quite calm with some food in hand and a cool morning breeze on his face.

 

[Scabhair]

“Not… quite,” came the gentle understatement. Scabhair clicked her tusks twice; a general expression of disappointment among orcs. “What say you we tackle those later, yeah? We best get rid of that herb stuff while it’s still early.”

The spice was contraband, and carrying it around like that made her feel entirely too exposed. Even a cursory search from the guards could land them in irons. From there it was only a small step to the executioner’s block, and Scabhair rather fancied the idea of living for another few decades.

She stood and chucked her empty skewer into the lake. “We’ll have to head down for a bit,” she said with the pinched grimace of someone who just drank a pint of sour milk. ‘Down’ in this case meant under the wharves, where it was dank, dark, and dense with deady denizens of the deep docks.

The black market.

Scabhair checked the bustling crowd thrice before slinking down a narrow set of stairs hewn right into the stonework of the pier. Black moss and algae clung to the rock where the seasons swelled the waters. The stink of rotting fish hit them like a fist as they slipped into the shadow of the wharves overhead. Heaps clung to the damp corners of the spacious ledge; formless lumps of rubbish and the homeless. Couldn’t tell which until it lunged at you with a knife in the hand.

In her college years she’d read that the deep docks had once been used for official storage. Then the Council expanded the piers. With new piers came new warehouses, and the deep docks fell first into disrepair, then into the greedy claws of the thieving, smuggling underbelly of Elbionish economy.

“Keep your eyes open,” she murmured under her breath and stepped into the bazaar proper.

 

[Hath Charosh]

Scabhair

He could read between the lines. The other currency was not going to have such simple rules to follow. At least they were in Elbion, which he hoped meant the coins were going to be in the local currency. Hath would continue to assume that the most obvious possible outcome would be the most likely. He would continue to be disappointed.

The bazaar ahead did not seem so busy, but Hath could feel eyes on him. This whole area must have been low enough to occasionally flood. It seemed more fit for a goblin folk than humans.

"Please," he said, when several humans blocked his path. He didn't know much of the human tongue, but that one word seemed to be used for a lot of things. They got the idea and moved aside.

He turned his head his head slowly to each side to check for danger as he walked. A knife or light fingers were not the kind of danger he was used to.

"Oi! 'ere!" screeched a voice to his right. Hath turned to see two human women standing at a corner of the market. He knew of the concept of a brothel, but didn't know the recognise working street girls for what they were.

"Don't look at me!" Hath wasnt sure what to do so he bowed his head and kept walking. "Filfy creatures. Who let 'em in."

The one shouting stepped out of the shadows and wagged an accusing finger at him. She had gaunt features, bloodshot eyes and off-colour jaundiced skin. The second one was barely a woman, shuffling her feet and looking embarrassed.

The older one turned to Scabhair. "Your man looked at me wid his pig eyes! Made me feel sick it did."

Hath shook his head, bemused by the situation. At least the woman hadn't followed them and had fallen silent. He couldn't help but think of the great college that almost sat atop the city. It was so strange to have a grim, dark place like this in the shadow of such a grand building. In every corner of the world there were dark places, no matter how many walls you built and how far your towers stretched towards the sun.

 

[Scabhair]

When the whore started slurring her displeasure, the half-orc quickened her stride and pulled Hath along until they left the pair in the dust. “Never know who’s taking a cut of their profits down here.” There were as many gangs of brigands in the Elbion underground as there were disciplines of magic at the College. “Best just keep your head down and your ears up.”

A few more corridors and stairways passed in watchful silence. Every step echoed and returned threefold; shapes scurried in the shadows as they passed; people talked in hushed tones as they traded unseen objects palm to palm; distrustful eyes followed them at every corner along with the glint of naked blades.

Finally her gaze settled on a trio of symbols drawn on the nearest wall in chalk. She stopped to study them up close, then nodded down the narrow corridor they marked out of the pockmarked stone foundations. The lake had soaked through, turning the beaten dirt into squelching mud that seemed hell-bent on keeping at least one of their boots as a passage toll.

“Tell me if you recognise any of the symbols you see in there,” she spoke on a low voice before rapping her knuckles against a ramshackle door. It might’ve been green once, though what remained of the paint was now reduced to thin strips of peeling lacquer. A few critters chirped in the darkness as they waited.

The approaching footsteps betrayed a limp, growing louder until warm candlelight spilled through the door as it swung open. A backlit silhouette hunched on the raised landing, bobbing its head up and down before waving them in. “G’wan.”

 

[Hath Charosh]

taking a cut of their profits

The hunter let that slowly sink in. There were many humans who lived off the toil of the rest of their kin. He had seen the peasants trying in vain to work the lands north of Vel'anir whilst their masters sat safely and took everything they managed to grow. There was something even more abhorrent about taking coin from a woman who had earned it in bed.

Continuing to keep his head down he saw the eyes in the shadows. None of them stopped to heckle him. Back to back and weapons drawn he assumed the pair of them could hold off a lot of back alley thugs with daggers. If they saw the danger.

He naively assumed that if there was trouble at least the guard wouldn't come down here often. He didn't know that the organisations that kept order down here would have plenty of guards in their pocket if something became too troubling.

Hath had to duck into the room. Already he had scraped his head against the piers above on his way here, coming away damp and sticky. This was not a welcoming abode. Barely any natural light filtered inside and that halved when the door shut behind them. An old wooden desk sat at the opposite end of the room. There were several sets of polished bronze scales laid out on the table. Hath followed the hunched human very carefully. Rows of shelves held murky liquids and different powders. A bench had open compartments full of spices and powders with little measured scoops inside.

When his eyes gazed upwards he saw a thin haze of smoke clinging to the rafters. It wasn't the pipe smoke he was accustomed to, but something far more dangerous that had been spreading through the streets of Alliria for years that had finally made its way to the darker side of Elbion.

"So?" crowed the little elderly human. Hath wasnt even sure what gender it was.

"Trade," he said bluntly, turning his eyes towards Scabhair. He couldn't turn his body for fear of smashing some glass vials with his broad shoulders.

"Yes, yes, but what are you offering? Or what do you want?"

 

[Scabhair]

Kleppar looked older than his thirty summers. It was the fumes – folk down in the labs had the same kind of gray skin and sickly eyes. As if being underground wasn’t bad enough, now there was the poison smoke to complete the haunted atmosphere.

Scabhair drew her tunic over her mouth and nodded at the apothecary scales on the table. “Millerba.”

The alchemist didn’t give any outward sign of recognition save for a spark in his gaze. “Thousandflo’er, eh?” He smacked his wooden teeth and drummed knobbly fingers on the worn wooden desk. “And where’s two o’ tuskin got they’s hands on thousandflo’er?”

She held his sharp stare. “You could always go topside and buy it from Prestus. It’s only… what, a ducatto per ounce? Two?”

His eyes flicked sideways to one of the drawers as he fidgeted in his chair. “Three, just this year. The ol’ bastard’s kicked up the price again.” Kleppar twitched his wrist forward with a defeated sigh. “Fein, fein, give it here.”

Scabhair placed an open hand on the hilt of her dagger. Her eyes didn’t leave the alchemist for one second. “Hath, hand him the spice.”

 

[Hath Charosh]

The gravity of the situation was made quite clear. The tension that settled over them would have to wait as Hath awkwardly dropped his pack to the floor to reach inside, all without rocking any of the shelves around him. Why did humans have to be so small? This one was particularly diminutive.

"Here," Hath said. Most of what they had discussed had gone over his head. His human tongue was limited and it was hard to tell what was a word he didn't understand and what was slang or even a location he didn't know.

At the back of his mind the most paranoid part of himself questioned whether Scabhair would stick him with that knife and take the coin. Logically, he knew it wasn't a real possibility; she would have stuck him days ago.

On the road for weeks on end, that voice almost became a seperate part of his psyche. Without anyone else to watch his back it provided checks and balances against making a fatal mistake in the dangerous wilds.

Whilst he was naive, he wasn't foolish. At the time the spices had been discovered he hadn't built up as much trust with Scabhair as he perceived there was now. There were several reasons for insisting she took a cut.

The little man let his eyes widen momentarily as he felt the weight of the bag. He squeezed it and opened the pouch to give it a sniff. The initial look turned to suspicion as he waddled towards the scales. Hath caught Scabhair's gaze out of the corner of his eyes when his back was turned just to make sure nothing was amiss so far. He hadn't seen any of the symbols he had seen on the caravan.

 

[Scabhair]

At this point, her eyes were slowly starting to water. Even back when she would spend hours upon hours wearing her pants thin on the library benches, the dust had her rubbing her eyes for days. The fumes were far worse, and noxious to boot.

While Kleppar weighted and re-weighted the goods, Scabhair met Hath’s worried gaze and did her best to convey some sense of confidence. Everyone was twitchy as it was – if a fight broke out in here with all the flasks and powders, spirits knew what could happen.

So they waited. The scales creaked. The planks whined. The apparatus boiled, and bubbled, and belched.

“Verra well. Seems to be ye lot brought me the real thing.” His deep set eyes blinked from one orc to the other. “Considerin’ the nature of this here establishment, would I be correct in assumin’ ye’d rather not receive a bill o’ sale? Eheheh—” His laughter descended into a hacking fit and he had to grab the table to keep upright. With a few last coughs, Kleppar shook it off and ambled over to a little strongbox. “The gods don’ got no mercy for an ol’ joker, eh? Anywa’, lessee here… Ye’ve brought me three ounces and a quarter, but ye ain’t no Prestus, eh? So hoo’s three—”

“Six.”

“Three and five zolde.”

Scabhair tilted her head to the side. “Seven.”

Kleppar opened his mouth. Then he snapped it shut again. Eyed the dagger. Eyed Hath.

“Six it is.”

 

[Hath Charosh]

Just that glance was enough to provide a measure of reassurance. This was all an alien world to him so he just wanted to know nothing was out of the ordinary. Hath took great interest in the negotiations. On the surface it didn't sound all that different from when he had worked out the price for his shafts at the town the mercanry company had assembled outside. However, he had been repeating numbers over confusion at being handed two coins and told three. Scabhair was holding to her price and Hath had to struggle to hold his stony expression at her stubborn will.

Hath felt lightheaded as the coins were counted out. Almost as if he had stumbled forwards but was still rooted to the spot. He took a deep breath. He closed his palm around the coin. It was enough for an entire years education and board at the college. It was also three years wages for a laborer. Alternatively it would not even stretch as far as a fancy gown that a noble would wear once to a party. Wage disparity in the cities would be truly difficult for Hath to grasp.

"Don't go thikin' about bringing more. That's as much as can shift. Now fer jus' one of those I could fetch some of the finest Achewa Bark. You two have a grand few days with just..." but the pair of orcs were already leaving, coins safely tucked away.

As Hath stepped out into the light the alley ahead of him seemed to spin all the way around. Taking a deep lungful of air - when there had been two junior nobles chasing the dragon in the backstreet apothecary's rear chambers - had been a bad way to stop the dizziness. It had just taken a little time to hit the large orc.

He hand snapped out, grasping a large beam to his side.

"What..." he muttered as he waited for the world to right itself.

 

[Scabhair]

Scabhair drew a full breath into her lungs only when they emerged from the deep docks. Hath hadn’t known better; hadn’t been warned until it was too late.

And now he was leaning like a sapling in strong winds, one hand braced against the beam. She eyed him warily until she was sure it was only a passing spell and not something far worse. “You’ll be fine. Just breathe.”

Humans were so unsatisfied with their lives that many of them resorted to the pipe, or the powder, or the drink. Instead of keeping the experience sacred, like the Shamans at Great Rites, they would consume it day to day, hour to hour, until it consumed them in the end.

Once Hath had regained his bearings, Scabhair nodded uphill, to a winding alley that would take them straight through the Craftsmen’s quarter. “You can order a new pair of boots on the way to my blacksmith friend.” She grinned, fangs glinting. “Could even get them patterned if you’d like, now that you’ve the pelf.”

 

[Hath Charosh]

Hath slapped his opposite shoulder with his free hand. The orcish equivalent of a thumbs up that could be seen over a greater distance. In his case used more often to represent a clear path ahead than an acknowledgement that he would get over momentary disorientation.

Standing straight once again he grunted and shook his head as if he could free himself of the spell that way. Sometimes at a ceremony a shaman would throw something interesting on the fire. It was different when you knew it was coming and that you were in relative safety. For all thew humans thought them barbarians they didn't often kill other members of their own tribe. A few bruises and cuts was to be expected from an evening, that was all. These dark alleys just seemed to exude an aura of menace. The last place he didn't want his wits about him.

As they stepped away two pairs of eyes watched them. One took half a step forwards, the other moving an arm out to stop them. Stealing from those who did business with Kleppar wasn't the most sensible idea. Especially at this hour. Once the pair had rounded the corner another human marched down the alley. The eyes in the shadows simply melted away. Dressed in a padded jerkin of deep jade, the man's pink eyes and deathly pale skin were barely visible beneath hood of his grey cloak. His arm emerged to rap on the door once. Thick corded muscles were covered in intricate tattoos. A steel manacle with no chain attached rattled faintly as he knocked. The door opened, but there was no loud welcome this time.

"Patterned boots?" he asked. As they stepped back into the fresher air and headed up away from the docks he cast his eye over the shoes of those walking up the main road. Most were plain leather as he would imagine. It was only on closer inspection that he realised that those who did not do any walker wore different. A noble rode up the street wearing what looked more like a frock to hath in shades of amber. His shoes were bright red.

There were a few times he would decorate himself: war paint applied by the shamans before a dangerous battle; decorative braids and different painted patterns for larger ceremonies. But shoes were different.

He chuckled at her suggestion and the thought of wearing scarlet shoes with long toes like that noble whose horse had pranced past. "Long lasting is always worth coin," he replied. They turned a corner into an open street. Down the centre stalls were being set up. Merchants were drawing canvas over wooden frames as horses dragged their wares out to be arranged for the day.

"Huh," he said, looking up. Along the far side of the road the buildings had signs sticking out into the street. Some were marked in a manner he did not understand. Keys and coins were a symbol of a merchant guild. Others were more obvious: crossed weapons, scrolls, clothing. Whilst there was not much of a crowd he found himself fascinated by the ornately painted signs, some even gilted in paint that caught the morning light. Hath had never seen that done before, didn't know they had found ways to add metals to paints.

"They use gold in their signs?" he asked incredulously. He couldn't imagine them not being stolen by some of the denizens of the underworld they had caught sight of.

 

[Scabhair]

“No.” She shook her head with a light chuckle. “It’s some kind of powdered mineral I think. Though the fancier places in the upper city might well use actual gold leaf. Who knows.”

The aesthetic whims of humans were many; doubly so when it came to rich merchants. During her time in the city, Scabhair had seen fashion change direction, lose its way, and meander back drunk from the colour pools at the docks, all in the span of a single week. There’d been a few months where a new fad from the Annuaki bay had taken the wealthy class by storm, with everyone wearing snow-white robes of flowing cotton. A year previous it had been the green silks of the elves, and the one after that the puffed sleeves and crinolinas imported straight from Vel Anir.

She cut a shortcut down a nearby staircase and led Hath into the cozy shop of the dwarven cobbler. He greeted them with a puff of smoke and a ruddy nose betrayed by a flask hastily shoved into his apron.

“Ryeine,” he stood up with a pockmarked smile, hastily wiping the grease from his palms to shook their hands. “Ye’ve brought a friend a’ see. A new pair of boots ye be lookin’ fer, is it? Out wi’ that paw o’ yours then.”

“Oh, I’m good this once. It’s Hath you’ll be measuring today.”

Bushy brows bounced up. “A see, a see. Wel, Mister Hath, if ye’d put yer fut there then. What kinda but are ye lookin’ ta have made?”

 

[Hath Charosh]

Human accents were difficult. Dwarven he was familiar with at least. He found there were some similar tones to the Elbion commoner accent. It was such a big city to go out and find old acquaintances in, but he knew well enough that the feet could find their way. Even in a landscape that he struggled to recall Hath often found that he could just follow his feet and find his way back to his tribe.

The question itself took more thought than it really should have done. Did the styles have different names? He wondered to himself.

"For on the road," Hath said plainly.

"Long or short?" the cobbler asked.

"Short."

"Right 'en," the dwarf replied. He had a long, thin strip of leather with little notches in it. He held it against Hath's feet to measure them across a few dimension. It was a very curious thing to Hath. When the tape was slung back over a shoulder he found himself more interested in the idea of using it to measure than the new boots.

"Now don't ye take it the wrong way, but I don't cut pieces to a larger foot to sew. Ye'll have to come back tomorrow morning. Twelve zoldo, or ten if you don't care much for shiny buckles."

"Two pairs for eighteen?" Hath asked bluntly. Naive, but not the slowest learner. Boots were temporary, dwarves took pride in their crafts and Scabhair trusted him enough to bring Hath here. It seemed worth getting a spare pair whilst he had the chance.

"Aye, fair," he replied but he shook his head when Hath reached for his bag. "Pay when you are happy with the fit."

 

[Scabhair]

The cobbler was a fair man, and Hath seemed to be getting his head around the intricacies of Elbion currency. Assured that they’d manage on their own, Scabhair left to wander about the small shop, viewing the various shoes perched on the shelves. It seemed to her that dwarves excelled at every craft they picked up, no matter the material or the skill it required. Smiths or tanners, jewellers or stonemasons – their works always rose above the average workshop.

Small wonder they called them the artisan race.

It wasn’t long that the pair wrapped up, and then Hath joined her outside. “Anything else you’d like to see while we’re here? Pern’s probably still busy this time of day. They get in their hours at the forge in the chill of the morning, then take a break when the midday heat rolls in from the Kalit.”

 

[Hath Charosh]

The door to the apothecary opened once more. The cloaked figure stepped out and closed it silently behind himself. He turned towards the shadows down the side passage up the alley.

"Come here." His voice was a raspy hiss. His tone was commanding.

The same two gutter runners who had slipped away when he had arrived slowly emerged.

An arm rose from the cloak. A long finger pointed towards the closest of the pair. The man must have lived a disciplined life. His tattooed skin was tight to the defined muscles of his arm. The faint scars were a slightly darker shade of pink on his almost pure white flesh.

"Two orcs left here. Do you know anything of them?"

"No," insisted the man who hadn't been addressed. A flicker of annoyance crossed the albino's face.

"Why would we?" asked the one staring down the finger.

"Because those paid by Master Armitage to watch the comings and goings outside this door should be paying enough attention to earn their coin."

"Never seen 'em," replied to larger man who wasn't being pointed to.

This time there was no annoyance. Deep red runes suddenly glowed on the manacle of the outstretched hand. The albino's cloak fluttered. A length of chain shot forwards, slamming into the interrupting man and yanking him back against a moss-covered wooden beam. Chains clinked as they tightened around his neck.

"Would you answer the question please?" the albino asked.

"Never seen them before!" replied the man, looking towards his colleague. Realisation slowly dawned on his face as he realised exactly who they were dealing with. The colour drained from his face until he was almost as pale as the albino.

"Ask questions for me. I will return later. If Master Armitage has a problem with this then he can see me himself." His red eyes finally turned towards the one being choked out by the length of iron. The Amber runes flared across the surface of the manacle and the chains slid away and vanished into the cloak. "Here, at sundown."

Theassel Dorn, second grade of the Order of Steel Coin would have pressed the apothecary for answers but it would have been too risky. There were tools of his trade and they were costly. He couldn't lose his supply. Whilst he didn't have a Steel Coin to present to the orcs he was intrigued to know who has raided the supplies he had paid to be smuggled into the city. He didn't like to do harm unless it was for contract, but this was personal.

---

Hath had coin to burn but he wasn't sure what to spend it on. That wasn't quite the question that had been asked but it was the first thought that had come to mind as they were on a row of shops.

"I would...quite like to see the great college closer?" Hath asked. "Never seen anything that grand made by hand," he decided to explain. When exploring the wilds he would often diverge from his path to take a closer look at anything that caught his interest. His feet always found their way back to the route. A walk in the morning air would also give him time to think about what else there was to buy.

Most things would come from a smith: more knives and a better sword sword. Given a bit of time he'd probably recall more things he could do with on the road, but an orc tribe on the move lived off the land as it went. Too many possessions just slowed one down. He had left things behind when escaping on the back of a lion but he held no regrets for that.

 

[Scabhair]

“The College?” Her eyebrows twitched up as she tipped her head at the man. Probably wouldn’t be the easiest task, getting through orcs into the upper city. The guard were all to happy to remind them of their place – the mud, of course – and though her degree would grant her passage, Hath would be stuck waiting outside.

“Alright.”

There were other ways, of course. Like all men of the robe, the scholars of Elbion had their needs. When the bailey gates closed at curfew and the torches were doused, the students would creep out through the old delivery tunnels – a leftover from a time where a city did not yet surround the imposing building, and the College was all that stood on the hill.

Unfortunately, Scabhair hated the tunnels. It was also midday, and they came out in the other side of the city. It’d take them ‘till lunch to carve their way through the crowds. So, “How good a climber are you, Hath?”

 

[Hath Charosh]

"Good," he said without a trace of a boast. Alone he had been forced to scale shear rock faces before. He wasn't an expert climber, but he had strong enough to haul his moderate weight for a long time.

Dropping his voice considerably he asked: "are we not supposed to get close to the college? Well, you attended, so am I not supposed to?"

Was it just how she was dressed, he wondered. Already it had struck him how much clothing was used to distinguish between different roles in their society. He wondered what she had worn to study. Hath decided the better of asking.

 

[Scabhair]

“Students, alumni, and rich bastards only.” She kept her eyes on the road and her voice low. “In my case, the rich bastard was the father.” Her smile turned bitter as she repeated the words she’d heard a hundred times during her stay. “Officially it’s open to everyone, but in practice…”

Well, Hath knew enough about humans to understand what needn’t be said.

As soon as they emerged from the stacked storeys of the Craftsmen’s quarter, the spires of the Metistele peeked over the red tiles. Scabhair stopped a moment, nodding her chin at the bright gilt decorating the sloped roof of the temple.

Whoever’d built the sprawling cathedral had clearly been vying with the College for splendor. Its many towers were connected by just as many delicate bridges, their filigree supports nearly swallowed by the glare of the morning sun. An impressive trio of towers led up the slope of the hill, each supported by a flock of crocked pillars. The highest spire instead kissed up to the west wing of the College, threaded together by a series of ornate flying buttresses.

“That’s how we get in.”

 

[Hath Charosh]

Find a point of reference and expand from there. It was the lesson his aunt had taught him on the road to identify the size of a threat. If it was a raiding party or something unnatural in the distance, it was the same principle. Find a feature you knew or a creature of known size and estimate from there.

She had taught him that if he held out one finger at arms length, then its width was around twice the height of an orc a kilometer away. If an orc was the height his finger then they were half a kilometer away. Hath didn't need trigonometry to understand these lessons.

Hath found a window in the distant towers and held his arm up, squinting as he made an estimation of size and distance. Eyebrows arched as his arm came back down. Some of those towers were truly enormous and they weren't as close as they had seemed to him. Just how large was this city?

He allowed himself to be impressed by the human architecture. How they could remain standing in a strong wind was beyond him. The gilting on the temple was just flat out crass and more in line with his expectations.

"Met a war band on the road who had been quite friendly to another orc on the move, sharing their kill. They explained that they would only raid a human town if it had a church tower. Made it easy when they collected all their wealth in one badly defended building."

He turned to consider the route down to the city's walls. This wasn't a poorly defended building. The guard wouldn't appreciate someone scaling their towers. However, Hath wasn't going to turn this challenge down. It wasn't in his nature.

He grinned and checked that his pack was tightly fastened to his shoulders.

"Where do we start climbing?"

 

[Scabhair]

Her answer came by way of slinking into a side alley, which quickly took them ‘round to the back of the temple, past the bustling square, the crowded steps, the echoing main halls. As they neared the three towers leading up to the College, Scabhair pointed to the lattice of coloured windows in the upper storeys of the pantheon.

“The only guards they have are at the gates, and you can’t see a thing though that glass. Looks real pretty though, especially if you go inside at noon.”

You couldn’t do that either, of course, because the Metistele was a temple by the mages, for the mages. They took a goddess who’d given magic to the whole of Arethil, then built high walls around her shrine and called it theirs.

“Humans don’t look up.” Not like orcs did, anyhow; orcs, who listened to the star- and wind-spirits, and listened to the stories of the firmament. “They only look down, for more things to own or destroy.”

She ducked to the side for a rider to pass, then motioned ahead. Where the street squeezed back out into the open, an imposing spire pierced the flagstones clawing out of the busy city towards the blue skies above.

“I’d climb down here when I wanted to get out of the College at night.” She’d been a decade younger then, of course. “It’s the best place to watch the stars.”

 

[Hath Charosh]

"I had thought: 'it would be strange for an orc to live in such a large, human city.' Coming here makes me realise I had no idea quite how much."

Hath didn't feel sorry for Scabhair. He didn't feel sorry for an orc that lost an arm to a gryphon. The world was a harsh place and everyone had their trials to overcome. For the culture she had been immersed in, the discrimination she have likely been subjected to, she had turned out a fine orc. He imagined her tribe were proud of that.

Looking up, Hath observed: "If you build a big enough tower you can look down at a lot of land."

He took a few seconds to look at the wall. Places where the masonry were imperfect left plenty of handholds. Even if they didn't look up often, he expected they would if stones from the sky came landing on their heads.

Hath found a foothold and a handhold, eyes turning to the next one. He lowered his weight a few inches, muscles across his shoulders and thighs coiling tight. With a surprising amount of agility for his size he launched himself upwards and grabbed his next target.

 

[Scabhair]

Hath had gotten a good way up the first support pillar before Scabhair joined him in scaling the tower. She’d kept lookout for a spell, making sure no guards were making their way down the side street while they were still exposed on the lower wall.

Where the mind failed, muscles supplied the memory – she sought out ledges on practiced instinct, following the other orc up the ornate stonework as if it had steps cut into the side. She’d spent plenty of time in the Spine, hunting with the Ghailan across the bare peaks. Came in handy whenever Duarde needed her for jobs on the other side. The quickest ways weren’t across, of course – they were through, along the old dwarven tunnels – but Scabhair picked her own shortcuts, for better or worse.

The first part was easy, anyway. The real fun started in crossing over the carved supports and onwards up the rain-worn gargoyles that spat water on the passersby whenever it rained.

 

[Hath Charosh]

Hath had to come to a stop. It was a sudden mental demarcation to have to come to a halt and change direction. The wall above was a slightly different colour. However they had patched up some damage it was smooth and offered no handholds.

He very carefully edge back down to a ledge and then worked sideways to pick a new route. They were high enough to die from the fall. He was no elf, with his body weight a fall could break bones from not particularly high up anyway.

When he saw that Scabhair had advanced further up the wall. A few seconds of observation showed that she was a more accomplished climber. Any thoughts of backing out of this endeavour were instantly dispelled. His grip was strong, his resolve was firm and it would take a lot more to drain his stamina. A few more steps sideways and he took to following her path. Hath was stubborn at times, but never prideful to the point of stupidity.

 

[Scabhair]

The air was free of the city stench up here, and Scabhair breathed of it deeply. It was sharp in her lungs, cold and cutting – she relished the sting as she wrapped her calloused hands around the tail of a granite dragon.

“There’s an alcove a few feet further.” She struggled to raise her voice above the wind pulling from the distant sea. The key to making it through the long climbs in the Spine was regular rest. An orc could hold out a lot longer than a human, but once you got tired in the middle of an overhang, it was game over regardless of race.

“The view is great too.”

 

[Hath Charosh]

Hath grunted by way of reply. With his foot braced he pressed upwards. Fingers that all felt a hot sting wrapped around the lip at the base of the alcove. A pause, then a slow move to get his second hand in place.

Once he was up he had to be careful to brave himself without twisting in such a way that his own pack pushed him to his death. He peered down, feeling his pulse race and a rush of vertigo. He'd never looked down quite such a sheer slope before.

Hath had a big smile on his face as he looked back up at Scabhair. There was a subtle difference between an orc grin and a threatening display of tusks and teeth. Shoulders ached, thighs burned, but he had earned it all.

"I suppose you could afford not to look up if the view down was this good."

There was no real rush so he settled back into his resting spot and breathed deeply. It was pleasant to be up and away from the stench of horse manure. Just a little further - though a difficult climb - and he would get his view of the college. Perhaps it wouldn't be worth such an arduous climb, but it seemed to Hath that it had been worth it just to look down upon the lower city and harbour from here.