Private Tales To Kill a Mocking Orc

[Lagakh]

The carving was ingrained and nothing could have been done by the untrained hands of a normal mountain orc. But it was likely best to not push her buttons when she was energy deficient and feeling the low growl of hangriness. Most shadowreavers were well mannered and controlled, if not outright defiant when pushed hard enough. But Laga was a bit shorter on the fuse side.

"Notches on the belt, huh?" She retorted as she leaned the club against the bar, watching the Dwarf begin the pour.
"Hah!" He scraped some foam clean and went for an additional pour. "I've my fair share, al'right. Few as big as that one, though."

He was big, Laga could admit that. But he was no half giant or even still, a full blooded one. Maybe something about the mutations of Molthal meant the blighted orcs were gifted in elevation. "Well..." the barkeep said as he sat the tankards down. "You gonna stand while ya drink or ya gonna grab a table?"

"Got any salted meat...and bread?" Laga replied as she cradled the tankard in both of her small hands, like it was something sacred.

"Aye. The meat is stale and the bread is stiff but its nothing a fire can't mend." Laga assumed that the Dwarf found fire a remedy for many things. But she was in agreement. Nodding with a slight smile, she eyed Charosh before heading towards a table. For a moment, she contemplated the fireplace towards the back of the Inn. Large cushioned chairs with high backings and a rolling heat. She made a promise for later in the night.

 

[Hath Charosh]

"Joined a mercenary company for a few months," Hath said as he sat down. That was one way of putting it. After getting into a fight with town guards over a disagreement that definitely wasn't his fault they had set him to the camp in chains to make him 'not their problem'.

"This is the best treatment I've had for fighting for someone," he mused. It was just a warm room, a comfortable chair, beer and food and company. The mercenaries gave a few coins and a cold tent. The Tribe expected every member to do their part. It's rewards were far wider than immediate gratitude for swinging an axe.

"I wonder who he was..." Hath muttered in orcish.

 

[Lagakh]

It was a bit refreshing to find the conversation move away from her magic or her mother or her runes and scars. It was low hanging fruit, the sort that seemed to rot quickly when wounds were at hand.

"Is that something that is common for your tribe?" She stated quietly, taking a large gulp from the tankard. It was a stout that was filling, the sort that seemed thick like a light meal. She felt if she waited for it warm, she might be able to chew it. "Selling your tribe earned skills for things that jingle?"

It wasn't necessarily that she looked down on the trade, more that it just felt alien to her. The Shadowreavers were fairly insular from her tribe. Her movement out of the village was one largely motivated by anger. Looking across the table, her gaze strafed from Charosh back to the bar. Where the dwarf used to be.

"That's an interesting question..." She responded back in Orcish, though the dialect felt a bit more scholastic and proper. "Maybe he'll tell you."

 

[Hath Charosh]

"No," he explained. "Did not have much of a choice about joining them at the time. Though I will sell arrows and kills if I have to when on the move. Though now I am very, very far from home."

There was more to the story such as how he came to be in chains and dragged out to the mercenaries, but there would be time for that with more beers.

The innkeeper returned with a big wooden board of food. Hath felt slightly intimidated about asking the question but he pressed on.

"Where you learn to swing your hammer like that?" Hath asked.

"Ah, that'd be a good tale, aye," the dwarf replied. He was clearly not about to tell it, but Hath didn't understand the tone. He sat facing the dwarf politely and patiently, waiting to hear it.

 

[Lagakh]

Laga didn't bother to immediately follow the answer with a response. Charosh was evidently more concerned about learning about the dwarfs origins and understanding his various dance moves.

The spread was a lavish one compared to Laga's expectations. Towards one end, there were layers of meat that smelled of salt and were burnt black on the tips. Steam rose from the red and brown flesh, setting the woman's stomach to a growl. Next were slices of thick sourdough bread and despite what fairy tale the dwarf had told, those chunks of dough looked far from stale. The end came with a litany of pickled vegetables, including black olives, and a segment of hard crumbling cheese.

Laga had a first go at the meat, jamming a piece in her mouth. Following with a piece of bread, she swallowed it with several gulps of beer. No matter how many times she used the reinforcement magic, she always seemed to forget how much energy it cost. And the healing, on top of that, was taxing every muscle and fiber.

"He's not one to kiss a tell..." Laga said, jamming a crunchy pickle in her mouth and chomping loudly. Charosh didn't seem to be immediately taking the hint. "Can you at least tell us about that hammer?"

"Aye..." The dwarf responded as he leaned back, delicately having a go at a piece of cheese. "If you tell me about that club and those markings."

 

[Hath Charosh]

His kind were more prone to using body language to add emotion to their words. Having spent as little time around humans, elves and dwarves he often missed the nuances of conversation.

Hath wasn't about to touch the vegetables, but he offered a grateful nod and reached for the meat with his left hand. Since coming to the mountains he had been much hungrier. He didn't run and travel as much in the mountains. Perhaps it was to add on the bulk to shield his bones from the biting winds.

Orcs adapted. They could survive in any corner. His tribe had stories of the early days. When the dwarves had been made from the stone. The orcs came when fire kissed the wind. Every corner of Arethil was their domain. Humans were of fire. They would scorch the ground clean if they could.

Still munching, he offered Laga a look of encouragement to meet his terms.

 

[Lagakh]

She just couldn't seem to get away from it. Everyone was always curious about the half breed with the markings. Though it seemed unfair that she should have to give the whole story if she wasn't getting the same from the dwarf.

"No. You get club. Not the markings. Not until you tell us how you learned to dance."
"Aye that seems right fair, it do." The dwarf smiled as he stroked his beard, resting his other hand on the tankard. He slowly rattled his fingers, waiting to hear the story.

"Prior to my mothers passing, she was training me to be a Shadowreaver...a battle-mage. During one of our annual hunts, the tribe moved out from our encampment...not far from Molthal." She leaned back in her chair, ripping at a large piece of meat before devouring one of the halves. "We stayed back because we were practicing a particular rune when a giant, given direction by the Blight Orcs, decided to attack a defenseless settlement. Problem was...we weren't exactly defenseless."

The Dwarf laughed and reached over, tapping Charosh's shoulder and pointing to Laga. "Listen up there lad, this is the good part."

"My mother killed the giant in hand-to-hand combat protecting me, eventually ripping his whole arm off and beating him to death with it. My mother was..." She trailed off. "A force of nature. We ended up cracking the arm at the elbow and fashioning two clubs. One for me, one for my mother. That's hers." Laga pointed towards the club against the bar counter.

"I would have really loved to see that lass, it's been quite some time since I've seen reinforcement runic magic like that. Not since I saw it inscribed on the walls of Belgrath."

Her jaw didn't drop but she didn't hide her sense of surprise. "You don't miss very much, do you?"

"I'm an Innkeeper. Observing is what I do."

 

[Hath Charosh]

"She ripped its arm clean off?" Hath asked rhetorically. He thumped his chest once, showing his appreciation for the story.

The telling of tales was important for his people. Where he came from there were barely a handful of orcs who could write in any fashion. They certainly did not keep books or scrolls.

A story could be many things. An old one that taught their heritage and ways. A fable that taught a lesson. An embellished tale was a gambit to increase one's position in the loose hierarchy of the tribe.

He was proud of putting an arrow in a giant's eye, but he would never dare try and take one in hand to hand combat alone. Even though she hadn't been the one to tear off the giant's arm there was a greater level of respect in his gaze as he looked to Lagakh.

"So...the hammer..." Hath prompted.

 

[Lagakh]

"A truer feat, I dare not say..." The dwarf uttered in mutual recognition of the event. "It's no small task to rip a giants arm off, I imagine..." He leaned back and nodded to the Orc as he declared quid pro quo.

"A deal is a deal, well struck at that." He lifted his tankard to Laga and smiled. "It was some time ago, long time ago. I won't date myself but say it's safe to say...likely before either of you were born. I was at the tail end of a long journey. For..." He paused, deciding not to outright declare the reason. "...We had traveled to Bhathairk and were headed home. Headed back to Belgrath..."

 

[Hath Charosh]

"We were a small party in the caravan. Not more'n handful of long beards and I was nae one of them," he declared. The dwarf grinned and stroked at his beard which had several complex braids fastened by bronze clasps.

"Barely even covered me chin with whiskers. We were small because we hoped not to pick up attention. Because what we escorted back was...important."

Hath had to focus on every sentence. There would be no time now the dwarf had started to stop him for clarification. Fortunately he understood from tone that whatever they were transporting was part of the story not being told today.

"Ereth Ironfissure led out group. Now she was a woman. Smooth glossy beard of firery red. Eyes of steel..."

The innkeeper paused, looking from. Lagakh to Hath as if remembering they were still there. As if deciding that this part of the story didn't require as much embellishment as he had started.

"Anyways...had mah axe and shield and was bored of the trudgin'. Some ogre warlord..." the innkeeper said, raising the tone of his voice and sitting back in his chair. "...had decided to settle in the hills along our road. Had a host of goblinkin and...more'n a share of your folk too."

 

[Lagakh]

Ereth Ironfissure, Laga had decided, was a very good name for a stout dwarven woman. It had occurred to her that she didn't realize dwarven women had beards. It made her ponder, for just a moment, on how many she had mistaken for men out of shear ignorance.

"But not no Shadowreavers, not by mah accounts..." He reassured Laga as he ran his thick fingers through unhindered beard hairs. "Or Mountain Orcs for tha' matter." He eyed Charosh with a stern gaze, leaning forward. "Rusty orcs, we called them, on accounts of the skin tone and shabby instrumentation..." Weapons and armor, Laga assumed. "Bligh'Orcs."

He leaned back again, waving his hand across the table. "It was a fiery right proper battle. Blood, gore, screams and the battle chimes. Tin against tin, I say. The Ogre had all but los' the battle. Goblins and rusty orcs littered the road as we chased him into the hills 'low Belgrath. To a laaaaaarge cave. 'Is hoard."

The Innkeeper shook his head as he seemed to ponder on it. "Ereth had been wounded but I swore upon those locks of fire...I'd bring back that Ogre's head an' mount it on 'er mantle. And i'twas about honor then, ya understand?" He looked towards the two Orcs and nodded, slowly moving a hand towards the table. "So I went into that cave alone. I was young then, not too smart. But I found that Ogre sitting on a throne of gold and takings...with a saber two sizes bigger than this one." He threw a thumb at Charosh. "Ah but I wasn't to be convinced, ya see...Not when I had me trusty axe and shield..."

 

[Hath Charosh]

Hath wasn't a mountain orc. When the swift winds came in from the north his balls were first to remind him that he was not a mountain orc. It wasn't the time to tell the dwarf that his darkened olive-black skin was a trait of the orcs of the savanna.

"Now an ogre like that doesn't end up leading a bunch of his kin because he's clever or born into it. He's the ogre that's cracked the skulls of the other ones until they've fallen into line. This one was as big as yer like and not so slow as a giant."

The innkeeper paused to give a deferential nod towards Lagakh to ensure she didn't think it was a crude attempt at one-upmanship.

"Honour is important. Even when my shield was in four pieces and my left arm in three I kept fighting. Me axe had taken a fair chunk out of his thigh, but he kicked me so hard it finally fell to the floor of that cave. I laid there on his pile of loot, broken, as he gloated."

His voice had dropped to a gravelly whisper and Hath found himself leaning in.

"Placed a hand down and pushed up to mah knees. Wouldn't go down on me back. Not ever. Met his eye and knew it was my time.

"Now back then I had the soft hands of a young'un. And that hand told me it was resting on dwarven steel. The head...of that there hammer."

"So I wrap my hand around it as the ogre lifts his sword high and runs towards me." The innkeeper was suddenly animated, his voice rising with each word. "My left arm was broke, ribs were done, somehow as I pulled out that hammer I found the strength to swing it. From the floor it swung up in one great arc. Struck the ogre right under the chin with a great crack. He was killed stone dead in one strike."

 

[Lagakh]

Laga pursed her lips as tightly as someone with tusks could. A near whistle escaped those pursed lips as she slapped a hunk of meat against the other palm. "Now that's a damn fine story." She exclaimed as she ripped at the meat with her teeth and chewed loudly.

"What did you do with the body of the Ogre?" She pointed the meat the dwarf. "Wait, no no, what happened to Ereth Ironfissure with the beautiful beard?" The story had animated the half orc far beyond the energy provided by meat or beer. She could feel that warmth return her as the story of battle could only come out on top in such a way. For her story regarding the bone club, it was one with undertones of regret and sadness.

The dwarf shook his head, crossing his arms. "No lass, I told you a story. It's yer turn. The markings." His voice was still coming down from the crescendo of the story's climax. And the best part was that he had them hooked. Or, at least, he thought he had.

"I think maybe it's Charosh's turn to tell a story..."
"Aye, I could live with that. Come now, big buy...tell us..." The dwarf had unfolded his hands and was holding a piece of bread, pointing it at the man. "The bow...how did you come by it?"

 

[Hath Charosh]

"Harrack makes 'em," he said with a shrug. There was no point trying to make a fuss about it. "This the third he's made for me. Bows break."

"Now the axe...the axe is dwarven...but my common...not so good."

Hath offered another shrug of apology. He left the table with a chunk of meat, chewing as he went to fetch it. The axe made two notes as wood and metal were laid on the table.

"Biter," he said, pointing at the dwarven runes on the axe head. He hadn't been able to read them, but Pern had taken some time looking over the fine weapon.

"Great Rites are..." Hath looked to the beans overhead as he tried to find a way to describe it. Firelight dancing over painted flesh as the bonfire rose in the twilight of an eclipse. Bonds made and broken. "...an important thing for orcs."

"I was trying to impress a woman," he stated. Before the fires were lit the orcs took part in competitions of skill, from hunting to crafting. For the young ones it was about finding their place in the tribe. More often than not for older orcs it was about finding a mate.

"She had her eye on someone else. I fought him. Broke his arm. Won the fight. Lost her. Took his axe." Hath offered another shrug. He didn't know the language well enough to elaborate.

"Didn't know it did anything til I hit a mage with a magical barrier. Biter chewed through it."

Hath cast an eye on Lagakh's runes. He wondered if a dwarf had forged it to break through runes of warding of some kind. Perhaps it had been forged to fight orcs, given it had ended up in their hands.

 

[Lagakh]

Laga rolled her eyes at the first mention of trying to impress a woman. Though by the end of it all, she found herself more irritated by this other woman's response to the conclusion.

"You broke your arm in pursuit and won the fight and it still wasn't enough?" Laga shook her head, drinking deep of the tankard and setting it down with a bit of enthusiasm. "Sounds like you're better off with that axe..." She pointed with the pewter cup, quite sure of herself.

"Aye?" The dwarf stated with a gleam in his eye. "Would that been 'nuff to affect yer choice, lass? Big strapping Orc tryin' to impress ya?"

"Yes." She shrugged. "Maybe." Muddling it over, she shook her head. "It's not important in my tribe. Affection and that sort of thing." She was waving about a piece of meat at the dwarf. "...it's not about saving your heart for one. Besides..." She looked back towards Charosh and his axe.

"A good piece of steel lasts a whole lot longer than some tumble." Not that she cared for steel weapons. But she was into the colloquialisms at this point, clearly taken with the affect of the thick stout.

"Aye." The dwarf responded. "I suppose I can see your point on that."

 

[Hath Charosh]

Hath laughed. It was a deep rumble of a sound, his broad shoulders shaking.

"Axe was probably better. But you make it sound as if it's just the men fighting. My half-brother he is..."

Hath brought out his hands to try and show a shoulder width that was nearly half his again. Then he indicated a height that was nearly a head above him. He was far more desirable than Hath.

Hath was something of an outsider to his tribe. Once his father had died he had been deliberately kept out aside so that Kardidua's new mate didn't have him killed to secure power for his own children.

"One time...oh was a ferocious fight over him..."

 

[Lagakh]

Laga watched as Charosh spoke about his brother, only half wanting to interrupt the man and tell him to go on. But the truth of the matter was that despite oral traditions of the Orcish people, words were a far cry for flesh and bone.

"Your brother sounds like a proper looka'." The dwarf exclaimed at the telling of the story. He drank deep of his tankard and pushed out from the table, standing up. He wasn't a small dwarf, by any means, but he was as broad as he was tall. And Laga was sure that absent any effort, the man would have dragged his large knuckles as he walked. "Ale?" He leaned over the table, jostling an empty demijohn and various seasoning vessels as he grabbed Laga and Charosh's tankards. "Ale." He stated affirmatively.

"So I suppose your tribe doesn't avow itself on the values of sharing…" She stated somewhat drunkenly, feeling the red on her cheeks and that warm sensation that came with strong stout. She was suddenly accusing the Orc with a half eaten pickle. It was, of course, not her intent to suggest that only men fought over women. There were many variations of that combination that would have seemed appropriate to the Shadowreaver. She simply felt that fighting should be reserved for Molthal and the Blights.

The dwarf laughed and shook his head, making his way back towards the bar to fill up.

 

[Hath Charosh]

"Hah!" Hath barked out a laugh. He shook his head at that half eaten pickle.

"Great Rites are not normally for sharing, though there always seemed to be enough of Bathyr to go around," Hath said, switching back to orcish. He could remember Bathyr frolicking in the river the morning after the Great Rites with three women.

In his tribe it was tradition that before the Rites started to paint those whose affections you were trying to win. Bathyr was always covered in a range of markings from those after his attention. It was mostly presumed that he would lead the tribe once Kardidua passed.

There was little tradition on the matter of relationships beyond the ceremony of the Rites. The humans seemed to be far more prescriptive, where the tribes did not care. As long as there were more children for the tribe and orcs were perfectly capable of getting on with that without the interference of a church.

"Is good ale," he said as three mugs were dropped back onto the table. Hath spilled foam down his beard as he took a long swig.

"You ever travel west of the mountains?" he asked Lagakh.

 

[Lagakh]

A brief pause separated the question and the intended answer, spurred in equal parts by Laga's distraction over someone named Bathyr and her reluctance to admit a simple fact. She had never been West of the Spine.

Shaking her head, she lifted the tankard and drank deeply. Setting the mug down against the wooden table, her cheeks puffed up as she stifled a belch. "Not much for me in that direction." She admitted as she prodded the table with the half eaten pickle, far removed from any intent to eat further. She was bursting at the seams. "The further West I go, the further I go from Molthal..."

"And why the bloomin' hell ya want ta go ta a shit 'ole like that, lass?" The dwarf chimed in, taking another big swig and wiping his beard with the cuff his forearm. Laga made a mental note that Charosh could take some cues. But instead of blurting that bit out, she remained on topic.

"Well..." She pulled out the canvas cloth beneath the meat tray and flung it towards Charosh, doing her best to aim for his beer drenched beard. "Can't get my revenge if I leave and head West."

 

[Hath Charosh]

"Is that why you are travelling the mountains alone, now?" Hath asked. A few hours ago when they had first met he would not have much cared for her story. Now they had fought together, eaten together and she was responsible for the wound on his shoulder restitching itself.

As he became foggy from drink the urge to scratch at the wound kept nearly slipping through.

Hath looked down at the table. They had nearly devoured the food that the innkeeper had laid out for them. It was curious, he thought, that the dwarf was more interested in their stories now. The rest of his kin were busy elsewhere and he was here with a pair of orcs.

 

[Lagakh]

She nodded. "Blight Orcs have been ravaging my tribe since I was little." She stated, flicking the remainder of the pickle against the wooden tray. Everything was about spent and the dwarf innkeeper was finding himself encumbered by a sleepy eyed expression. Laga found it oddly similar to the moments just after the wind dies, the way the mountain pools come to a stand still and exhale in reprieve.

"Drink getting the better of you, Master Dwarf?"
"Aye..." He uttered, his bottom lip fluttering amidst a whisper of burp. "I nae feel da energy pull from ma like this in many days...many days." He stretched and yawned, reaching towards the ceiling with his calloused fingers. "I'd wager a bed sounds proper at this hour, aye?"

Laga nodded again, propping her elbows on the table and resting her jaw on the 'v' formed by her fists. "That does sound nice. Might warm myself by the fire for a bit, recoup my energy."

The dwarf smiled and stood up. "Yer welcome ta, lass." Pointing a stubby finger towards the ceiling, he scooted his chair in and nodded. "Couple of rooms for ya ta stay the night. Not sure about much longer. But those are troubles for the 'morrow."

"Thank you."
"No no..." He smiled and pressed a hand against his chest. "You have our thanks, fellow warriors. We'd be many dwarves shorter if nae for the likes of ya." With that, he stumbled away from the table to likely find a spot near the back cooker. "Well...shorter than normal." He let out a rumble of a laugh as he disappeared behind the counter.

Laga sighed and stood up, grabbing her tankard and smacking it against Charosh's before walking past him. She had her eyes on a particular seat. One with a high back, broad arms, and the fur of some unknown beast draped across the back. It had been cooking properly in front of the hearth. "Come on, tell me more about this Bathyr..."

 

[Hath Charosh]

He made a throaty noise particular to his people. A mix of disgust and amusement.

The weather and the hunting was the greatest enemy of his people. In recent years times had been good for his tribe. When Hath had been young they had been difficult.

When his father had died many of his supporters had left to find a new tribe. The hunting was bad, which meant that orcs roamed further and brushed up against the territory of other tribes. There had been many skirmishes and times looked bleak.

Kardidua had taken on a new mate from outside the tribe. A particularly large and powerful orc with several followers who knew their way around a sword. It might have been the extra muscle that bolstered the tribe, but it was her leadership that had steered them through hard times.

The closest they had to a threat of blight orcs was the humans of Vel Anir constantly trying to expand their

Lagakh had claimed the comfortable chair at the fireplace so he had to settle for pulling up a leather chair that was too small for him.

"We should start with the important things," Hath said, switching back to orcish. "As intelligent as a leaf and he lives a month west of here."

 

[Lagakh]

The chair was big enough for her sprawl out in. Not merely lazing about, but laying perpendicular to the intended fashion of the chair. As she rested her tankard on her stomach and looked over to the fire, she wondered why a bunch of dwarves would need something this size. It was effectively a throne for them, something gaudy and beyond their needs.

But then again, dwarves were stereotyped for their greed and worldly needs. So, in a sense, it was sound logic.

"Well, Charosh of the Fiararch...plants can be very beautiful..." She teased as she laid there, legs hanging over one arm of the chair and her neck resting against the other. The fire seemed to move as lazily as she felt, creeping out of the hearth and licking at brick and stone before receding back into the wrought iron stand and the inner box chamber. It was a somber fire, the sort that felt eternal in burning but meager in size and needs. If there were gusts in the outside world to feed it, funneling through the chimney, then it wasn't obvious to Laga.

"Though..." She drummed thoughtfully against the tankard. "One month west is a bit much. I could stand for a two week trek but one month..." She shook her head, failing to produce the feigned enthusiasm needed to dishevel her umber locks. "That's a too far." She finally replied in Orcish, looking over her shoulder.

"This half-brother of yours, you are better than him in certain things...yes?" There was a lot more to life than size and physical appearance. Laga was an only child, she had never experienced the trifles of sibling rivalry.

 

[Hath Charosh]

Hath watched the fire dance. He couldn't lounge as Laga did with his firm-backed chair. He stretched out his long legs to bring his feet closer to the warmth. This place was always cold.

"Yes," Hath replied. "Though on those times when I have to be around him he likes to remind me of the other ones. He can't shoot for shit, has no patience at all and talks far too much."

There was a little more venom in his voice than he had intended. All this distance from home and when a handsome woman he had fought beside made a joke about his desirable brother it still evoked a pang of jealousy. Half a world away from home, but apparently his heart was still there.

Hath laughed and shook his head. "He will lead the tribe one day so you had better leave soon if you wish to join his harem. You would enjoy the sun at least."

 

[Lagakh]

She knew she had been picking at a wound, or at the very least, a poorly healed scar. She couldn't understand the sort of sibling rivalry that they had but she could understand rivalry all the same. Her mothers affection had never been hers entirely, often split amidst many of the combatants of the Shadowreaver clan - whomever showed promise for the battle-mage profession.

"There was a beautiful Orc in my tribe. Murzosh, a very talented shadowreaver. Quite impressive at reinforcement magic without needing much teaching at all." Laga stated quietly, thinking about the woman. She was traditionally beautiful with blood of full orc and skin as green as a freshly pickled olives. Her cheekbones were smooth and complimented a strong chin, ascending into erect ears that were often adorned with bone rings. "I considered her my rival at times. But I imagine it was fortunate that my mother cared for her as much as I. She taught her, and not me, the ways of Therg and dark magics..."

Laga recalled holding her hand, knowing that the crime of Dark Magic was one punishable by death, as Murzosh died shaking in the mud. The Blight Orcs had dealt a deathly blow but from the moment she had accepted the mantle of Therg, her fate was decided.

Laughing quietly into her mug at the irony of missing an opportunity better not taken, she played at the necklace of bone against her neck. "Quit feeling sorry for yourself, Charosh of the Fiararch..." The words came out in Orcish, absent an ounce of accent that would have hinted at her elven lineage. "I'd not be owned. The fires of Molthal will keep me warmed just fine." And the fire of this hearth, which she reached to as she stretched on the chair.