Crouched upon her haunches, the woman in dark leathers chews thoughtfully at the tasteless jerked-elk, watching the surface of the estuary-waters shift with the movements of the salmon she hoped her crude net would snare. Stacked in a pile beside her were the handful of wide shell-fish she had dug up from the water-line. She ignored the harsh calls of the gulls, that swooped nearby, feigning to peck at her, or striker her with barbed wings, harassing her in the hope of a stolen feed.
The wind had gotten up out of the east, bringing the deeper cold, and the smell of the great Deep off of the bruise-grey waters. From the salmon-bones strewn everywhere, and the tracks of bears, Marillie knew she had missed the salmon-season, but then She mused darkly, I have missed the bear-season too. She added as an after-thought; glad not to have to compete with them.
For a long week she had been camped up at the diversion of another nameless river, awaiting the the blood-price, and painful visit from her unborn children to pass; the line of underclothes hung out on a crude washing-rack of branches. She ignored the ongoing cramps as much as she was able, miserably rubbing the small of her back with a begrimed hand.
But the week had been fruitful, in a fashion. Her utterly exhausted supplies were somewhat restored, if entirely of dried and smoked meat; and off the coast she had seen a ship passing by. Marillie knew there was no city or harbour further north, from whence she had come; so she assumed it was a fisherman. She must be nearing a town or city. Which made the long wait beside the insect-ridden estuary even more of a pain.
Relenting her watch over the net, Marillie resolved to check it a last time at dawn, but then to pass further south, in the search of the settlement she assumed was there. Wondering if it would be a fish-stinking mongers-hovel; or a proper city with high walls, and paved streets. Her mind conjured the image of a steaming bath; of clean bed-sheets; even of food cooked in a pot, as opposed to char-grilled on spits over a smoking bed of coals. Above all, she longed for company; for she was raised in the Long-house of her Kin; and had never been long on her own, but for the length of the work-day.
Already the tally of weeks had become too blurred with monotony for her to rightly guess the length of her trek; but it had been a long time indeed. Though not entirely without moments of pleasure: she recalled the wide honey-scented downs further north, where she feasted upon a hive of honey; and the garlanded tree-stands at the height of summer. How she longed some of her Kin might have come with her; but they had accepted their doom. Marillie looked down at her hands, which had never been those of the pampered Ladies of the south; but even she could see the sign of the hardship she had weathered, and could not help wondering if she might have been better off accepting the doom of her folk.
Such grim thoughts were her company as the light faded and failed altogether; and Marillie heaped the last of her gathered timbers onto the fire, not wanting to hunker down over a smugglers-fire as she had done, out of prudence, up until that point. She almost hoped her camp fire might be noticed, too lonely and miserable to fear brigands or thieves, though she did loose her knife in its sheath, staring darkly into the maelstrom of the coals.
The vast and solemn company of clouds Marillie then breathily sang:
Around the Sun's death, lit, incarnadined,
Cool into ashy wan; as Night enshrouds
The level pasture, creeping up behind
Through voiceless vales, o'er lawn and purpled hill
And hazéd mead, her mystery to fulfil.
Cows low from far-off farms; the loitering wind
Sighs in the hedge, you hear it if you will,--
Tho' all the wood, alive atop with wings
Lifting and sinking through the leafy nooks,
Seethes with the clamour of a thousand rooks.
Now every sound at length is hush'd away.
These few are sacred moments. One more Day
Drops in the shadowy gulf of bygone things.

sal'linae wandered the area alone, her feet aching, the breeze whipping her hair about her head. She sighed deeply, her eyes drooping, her ears plastered to her head, her tail dragging along the ground. No matter what, he must... keep... going... every step burned her thighs, weight she never had to begin with burning off her fast, food she had not eaten being converted to energy. She wouldn't survive another day like this, in this seemingly never ending torture.

But she couldn't. Ahead a light shone, a beacon of life that drew her in, drew her closer. Her mouth opened, her lips parting gently, watching as the light blurred, and went out. Had it been distinguished? No... sal'linae had closed her eyes. She opened them, her vision rocking, her body leaning towards the right dangerously. She toppled to the ground, her breathe escaping her. Just a little further...

She had been walking for days now. Escaping the slave traders, sal'linae had barely made it out of the mountains alive, the harsh winds sending dusts at her like being slashed with knives. They where always fast on her trail, also that one step ahead. They had been collecting one of each race, and unlucky for sal'linae, she belonged to a rare race named Neko's, half humans half cats - or in sal'linae's case, half cat half water elemental.

Dragging herself upright she carried on, her eyes blurred by seeing at least. Nothing seemed right, and shadows seemed to be leaking closer, ever closer. Blinking them away, sal'linae made her way to the camplight, and grinned as she made her way up. At last... another person! She didn't care who they where, their background or anything, all she wanted was too sleep!

A dark haired woman with brown - close to black eyes, in her thirties with a lean build was ahead, and sal'linae sighed in relief. "Hello..." She mumbled wearily. She knew she hadn't long left. "I ... hope you don't mind if i..." Her voice trailed off, and the world span once more, the sound going quieter, muffled slightly as she fell to the ground, the lack of sleep and traveling for days on end without stopping cought up on her. The ground fast approached, as she lost consciousness, images of her days in those god forsaken cage's flashing through her exhausted mind like a slide show of evil. All those people... gone.

It was further than he had come before. Driven to restless wandering by day, Wurzag had roamed the grasslands around Lomedor in ever widening circles in search of his elusive purpose. Several days ago he had strayed so far from the city that he had spent the night on a hill-side wrapped up in his cloak and fallen back on his old survival skills to see him through. It had been an uncomfortable experience and the half-orc had come to the conclusion that his days in the city had softened him, a fact he found difficult to bear. Still, a week later he had journeyed out again, once more driven from the streets by a burning need to find the ephemeral object of his desire. His haunted dreams spoke to him of it in half-glimpsed visions and inaudible whispers, and yet when the sun rose anew the fragmented images fled.

This evening found him further still from the bright lights of the city as he trudged wearily up the gentle coastline. Having spent the majority of his life at the heart of the grassland plains Wurzag's first impression of the sea had been awe. That so much water could exist in one place seemed incredible and its sheer scale and power had dwarfed the green-skin. For a long time he had stared at the misted horizon where ocean met sky convinced the the rolling waters scaled upward toward the heavens and that it could all come crashing down at any moment. It had been a dour faced fisherman that had convinced him that it was not that case and just a trick of the eye in the evening light.

Wurzag half smiled at the memory and glanced over toward the rolling waves that crashed and hissed along the shore. Something deep and unrecognisable stirred within him as he admired the view, a feeling entirely alien to his usually brutish psyche. The emotion both attracted and repulsed him and he quashed it with a snarl and a vicious head shake that set his dreadlocks flying.

Night had begun to close in and after a day of solid walking Wurzag had come far from the comforts of Lomedor. He determined not to begin the journey back, resolute that he should spend another night of hardship in the wild as he had done so for so long before his fateful journey to the city. He sighed and turned away from the ocean to head inland and away from the breeze blowing in off the exposed coast, following the course of one of the numerous rivers that coursed their way across the land. Some tree cover would suffice for shelter and the tumbled rock of the riverbank for a bed. If he was lucky he could even have fish for breakfast though he had never had much skill with a line.

As he crested a rise and spied the first stand of woods however it seemed that another had already had the same idea. The tell-tale orange-yellow twinkle of fire winked between the leafy bows and drew the half-orc on like a beacon. A cold night in the wild could be made so much more welcoming with a little company though, as he had quickly learned, a green-skin was not always welcome. He approached the little camp with weapons carefully stowed, arms slightly spread and palms out in the hope that the gesture would placate any occupants and prevent any misunderstandings. A soft voice floated on the breeze, faintly melodious and raised in song but weather and distance obscured the words.

It quickly became apparent however that all was not well. The still body of a young woman lay prone at the furthest edge of the fire light and Wurzag paused to assess the situation.

"Er," he mumbled, "everyfing aright 'ere?"

Marillie, hearing her own husky voice was reminded of her own mother whose voice alone had been enough to win her fathers' heart. And for a time, when she ran out of words to sing, and the heart, she only stared at the fire. In the old habit of her long way-faring she turned the bones of her meal into a pot, and stewed them with those things such as she could not take with her the following day. A few scrawny wood-carrots, turning black at the tops; and some heavily wilted sorrel. Parsley she had no trouble finding, to the point she was almost tired of the flavour; but she knew the goodness in it was important, so she cut great handsful into the stew, encouraged in this act by the hearty fragrance that spread throughout the camp.
Thusly, as she busied herself, and began to feel the compulsion to take a second meal, Marillie suddenly received company. In a breath she was on her feet; her foot-long knife, a scramaseax, glittering cruelly between her and the new-comer, a woman, or a kind of woman, of what race Marillie could only imagine.
As a child Marillie had accompanied her cousins in the stealthy craft of tracking and hunting sea-otters, for their singularly hard-wearing and generous pelts; and she was reminded of nothing else more than one of these, but for the tail, which appeared more like that of a cat, and without the bladed-fin-like shape of the otter. The woman staggered, tottering,"Hello... I ... hope you don't mind if I..." But what it was the she-otter hoped, Marillie would not learn, for the creature fainted, landing heavily as a falling plank, before the fire. The huntress whirled into action, knowing not if the she-otter was the decoy of a trap; or the the being was being pursued.
Even then, appearing out of the failing light appeared the shape of an orc.

Marillie parted her feet, and relaxed in to fullness of the perilous calm tat enabled her combat reflexes to guide her. Boar-like eyes glittered darkly at her from beneath a scarred brow, and the wide-jawed and betusked maw, cracked open. The beast seemed to breathe in the fear of the situation, the vast chest, as high as Marillie was tall, swelled beneath its interwoven scars. "Er." The orc made a bestial noise, clearly making a decision behind the colorless eyes; and Marillies' body thrummed with the strain of her alrtness, her mouth already painfully dry, but the glittering knife edge an instant away from creating pain and suffering.
"everyfing aright 'ere?" Said the Beast, the bass-rumble of his voice now sounding less like menace, and more like open concern.
Marillies brows knitted, and she stepped back, her widening eyes losing their grim shadow, and lighting with shifting points of confusion. Strangely, of all moments, Marillie found herself glancing towards her small-clothes, all hung out to dry; the most feminine betrayal of her character and possessions. She looked down to the fainted being, and back at the orc, and realised, suddenly, that she had dropped her guard.
"You aren't an orc, are you? Marillie found herself asking, meaning any ordinary orc; still numb from the adrenaline, and in mild kind of shock, her cheeks aflame with the embarrassment of her camp, underwear shifting whitely in the night air.

((OOC. Sorry I haven't been able to involve you more this turn Sel. But that's what you get for fainting! *winks*))

Wurzag could not help but admire the young woman's fierce determination and she held herself with a confidence that said much for her ability with a blade. The metal winked dully in the firelight, orange and yellow flickering along its keen edge like the first kiss of sunrise. It was an understandable reaction and one that he had endured countless times before around similar fires. Only a few had bothered to take a longer look at the half-orc and realise that he was not the ruthless marauder they expected. Still, it would not do to make any sudden moves even if his host was more accommodating than most. "Nah," he said, almost ruefully, "I ain't an orc, only 'alf ov one akshully." He spread his arms further to show that he was unarmed and inclined his head toward the camp's other, less animated, occupant.

"Is, er," he realised he did not know the gender of the fallen creature, "dat," he settled for in the end, "is dat aright? Only I knows a fing or two about 'ealin'." He studied the female warrior in the fading light and saw a woman that he was sure Taryn would have appreciated. Raven dark hair framed a stern but not unlovely face from which slate gray eyes studied him with a mixture of curiosity and mistrust. Her skin was clearly no stranger to the outdoors and her lean body only moments ago poised to attack still perched on the knife-edge of readiness.

"I is gonna put me sword down 'ere proper slow an den I am gonna come over an see wot is up wiv ye friend, so dunt go cuttin' me up." She only stood as high as his chest but he had no doubt that she would give him a run for his money if the situation turned hostile. He looked into her storm-cloud gaze and held it and then slowly began to lift his weapon from its scabbard. He stoically ignored the flapping undergarments arrayed about the camp and focused entirely on delicate operation at hand. To a casual observer the situation was absurd; a fragile stand-off between a young huntress and a half-orc warrior surrounded by wind blown underwear over the unconscious body of an unknown creature.

Careful not to grip the massive sword in a way that could be perceived as a threat he slid it from its leather sheath and gently lowered it to the ground. His gaze never wavered, "now den," he said quietly, "yooz gonna invite me in or do yooz want me to go on me way?"

The orc eyed Marillie with a knitted brow, but calmly, further putting her in the mind that he had not came to threaten or menace anyone. She even perceived how smoothly he moved, nothing sudden, keeping his hands where she could see them; as if he understood full-well the menace of his appearance, and was accustomed to dealing with peoples reaction of fear when confronted with him. "Nah," spoke the bass rumble, like a heavy cinder-block being dragged, grating, over another."I ain't an orc... He shook his great head with a rattle of dread-locks, looking down at himself, seeming to take in his own visage, scars and all, looking back up at Marillie, his expression bashful."Only 'alf ov one akshully."
In concern he looked to their fallen party-member, to whom Marillie also looked with distrust. "Is, er..." The half-orc pointed at the creature at a loss for what to call it. He blinked, peering down, with the pursing of a leathery lip, he settled on"...dat," as the creatures name, for the time being."is dat aright? Only I knows a fing or two about 'ealin'."
The half-orc looked at Marillie appraisingly, as one would study a horse. He took in Marillies' steady hand and eye, and her not inconsiderable curves, giving them a brief nod, at which Marillie found herself being, surprisingly, quite flattered. She thought she saw his eyes shift to her fluttering small-cothes, but snap back, with something of a subdued grin. She blushed mightily."I is gonna put me sword down 'ere proper slow an den I am gonna come over an see wot is up wiv ye friend, so dunt go cuttin' me up." The half-orc put the dauntingly gigantic blade aside, but carefully, and with every care to show no sign of threat."now den," he said quietly, grinning openly at Marillies underwear. "yooz gonna invite me in or do yooz want me to go on me way?"
Marille sheathed her knife, shaking her head."No, stay, if you please. Marillies voice was a thing of wood and wind; deeper than is a womans' wont, perhaps from lack of speaking, but not without its own smooth music. It was a wise voice, brimming with thought, and life. "Forgive me, your appearance; it startled me. Marillie blushed, again, though with her dark complexion, her flush of cheeks could hardly be discerned."Though I deem you are accustomed to such a reaction from people, I..." Marillie floundered, unable to finds tactful words to apologize to a monster for reacting to it like it was a monster. She let it pass. "I have no skill in healing whatsoever. I could not aid this..." Marillie in turn struggled as to what she could call the creature."...soul, even if I tried. I'm a hunter, not a healer. She held up her hands, palms out, as if to show that there was little or no gentleness in those calloused hands. I am Marillie. Marillie Forbrannoniell." She smiled awkwardly, seeing, now, in the hulking brute a humble ease that she would swear anyone should be able to see. His demeanour was like some gargantuan child, in the way children are unable to disguise who or what they are for lack of guile.

Wurzag visibly relaxed and he shambled into the camp where he paused beside the fallen creature. "Dunt worry," he rumbled, "I get dat alot." As she spoke he realised that it was her voice that he had heard earlier raised in song, a rich, almost masculine voice had it not been for the softer tones. The half-orc knelt by their stricken companion and gently turned her, for it was indeed female, over. The creature was limp, breathing rapid and shallow and a little blood coursed down her pale face. She had clearly struck her head when she fell. Feeling vaguely awkward Wurzag sat himself down and pulled the unresisting body into his lap and cleaned the injury with a rag from his sleeve.

"Smells like ye huntin' 'as been pretty gud," he rumbled conversationally, "Wurzag's da name, Wurzah 'Elmsplitta. Dint mean to scares ya only, uh," he fumbled momentarily to explain his presence out in the wilds, "only I was passin' by an it woz gettin' late, saw ye fire an 'oped for da best."

He soaked a rag from his sleeve with a little water emptied from a battered flask and dabbed gingerly at the seeping head wound. Fortunately it seemed to be nothing more than a shallow cut, something the creature should be grateful for. The green-skin had suffered more than his fair share of blows to the head in his time and knew exactly how dangerous they could be. She would have an awful headache when she awoke, but the damage could have been much worse. Satisfied that the wound was clean he rinsed the cloth again and then doused it once before using the sodden scrap to moisten the girl's lips. Reflex action parted them a little in response to the stimuli and Wurzag allowed a few drops to spill into her mouth. Any more and there was a danger that she would choke. Then he placed the cool cloth on her forehead and relaxed. Nature would take its course and rest was the best healer now.

"She shud be fine," the half-orc murmured his assessment with a vague half smile, "pushed 'erself a bit too 'ard is all an ain't been drinkin' enough," he gazed down at the skinny form a frowned slightly, "or eatin' right fer dat matter." A rock dug painfully into his rump and he winced as he adjusted his position slightly in an effort to avoid jostling his unconscious charge. "Underdressed fer bein out 'ere too." With a metallic click he unfastened the clasps of his cloak and draped it over the reclining body of the patient before returning his attention to his host.

"Friend of yours?" He asked Marillie, "or is ye attractin' more den just dis uninvited guest this evenin'?" He chuckled and gestured to himself with a thick finger.

"Dunt worry," the dark tongue fumbled out the words from amongst the tusk like lower canines and leathery lips. I get dat alot." He snuffed, hound-like. The sound of the breath drawing into the great lungs like the noise of a bellows."Smells like ye huntin' 'as been pretty gud." The dark eyes glittered with mirth, and an unspoken request.
"Wurzag's da name, Wurzag 'Elmsplitta. Dint mean to scares ya only, uh... only I was passin' by an it woz gettin' late." The half-orc nodded to the blaze."saw ye fire an 'oped for da best."
"She shud be fine, pushed 'erself a bit too 'ard is all; an ain't been drinkin' enough, or eatin' right fer dat matter. Underdressed fer bein out 'ere too. Friend of yours? Or is ye attractin' more den just dis uninvited guest this evenin'?"
Marillie nodded wordlessly as the half-orc pointed at himself. She smiled at him, a fleeting visage of sunlight and a pale sky as through dark clouds.
The hulking half-orc belying his fierce appearance, painstakingly tended to the fainted creatures' needs; and Marillie watched, almost holding her breath, and feeling a terrific rush of emotion. At the corners of her eyes she felt the tingle of unshed tears; for the world had been harsh, and unkind in all of her experience. Yet Marillie, and her Kin, had asked no more; for life was neither expressly against them either. So it was: something in the tender touch of the half-orc moved something inside of Marillie which had lain within her unstirred. It was a heart-breaking feeling; but good too. Kindness. Marillie realised. She was witnessing kindness.

Upon this realisation Marillie was somewhat shocked, and somewhere deep inside of herself, a little appalled. That she, of fortunate birth, and of beauty, even Marillie knew she was beautiful, should be so dour, and harsh as the sea; where this seemingly terrible and unlovely hulk had learned to be gentle, gentle enough that she had known to trust him from his arrival at her camp-site; and gracious, gracious enough to put aside the offence of her reaction his his race and appearance; and above all kind; kind enough to learn healing, and to gently handle another living thing with such attention and care.
But while she struggled with the tumult of these feelings, Marillie busied herself in the preparation of the broth for them all; stretching out the contents of the pot into enough for them all to share. She looked over to Wurzag as she worked, trying to gauge, by the size of him how much he might eat; noticing in that glance all of his scars, and all the other evidence that in spite of a heart like a green spring frond, and gentle, and kind demeanour; he had seen hardship and suffering the likes of which she would never behold.
"Wurzag. If you're only half orc; can I ask you what the other half might be?" And no sooner than she had uttered the bold question, than she flushed again, offering up the entire pot of the broth, from which she had poured herself but a bowl, in a shaking hand. Marillie looked into the dark eyes, trying to convey that way that she meant absolutely no offence. That she asked as one who respects another, and hopes to learn from them. "Only; I don't think I've ever seen such kindness; and I wonder, now, from whence you learned it."

Wurzag's eyes sparkled as he accepted the offered bowl and he gave his host a wry chuckle. "Da uvver 'alf is ooman, like yeself, me muvvers 'alf," he shrugged and gulped a mouthful of broth, appreciating the savoury herbs, "dis is gud stuff," he murmured, momentarily interrupting the explanation of his heritage. He had found that the vast majority of people on both sides of the racial divide found the idea of his mixed blood an object of contempt rather than curiosity, a hard fact that he had mostly learned to accept. As Marillie peered into his scarred visage however he could find no evidence of disgust, merely a genuine desire to understand her guest. "Much better eatin' den I would ov 'ad," the half-orc continued to compliment the meal.

"Anyways, I never knew 'er, she um," he foundered for a minute before settling on the most socially acceptable explanation, "she died right after I woz born, an I grew up in da orc tribe till I got as big as dis!" Wurzag bunched his muscles in a comical effort to look larger than life and then paused apologetically to resettle his senseless patient's head. "After dat I 'ad a bit ov a disagreement wiv da boss, dat's me pa, an I went me own way." The sword that still lay on the ground a few yards away was an abiding trophy of that fateful conflict and was an eternal symbol of the half-orc's independence. He never let it out of his sight.

"Soz I 'ad to look after meself fer a long time in da open plains an I've 'ad to fix meself up plenty. Poisoned meself an all tryin' to work out which ov dem plants is gud for ye, dat wern't a fun time I tell ye." He glanced around the darkening camp and spied a single white bloom fluttering in the sea breeze. "Dat's gud fer sortin' ye guts out wen yez 'ave eaten da wrong fing I can tell yez dat." Looking back over the memories caused another twinge of unfamiliar emotion, yet this time the sensation felt less threatening and more comfortable. Wurzag gave the young woman a vague smile, his dark eyes misted as he recalled all the lonely nights of running, hiding and fighting.

At the time he had known nothing of companionship and every thought had been merely of survival. Not every fire had been as welcoming as this and the green-skin could not recall the number of times he had been chased from the light and warmth pursued by stones, arrows and hateful cries.

"So dats me story, wot about yooz?" He shook off the faint air of melancholy that had settled about him and consumed some more of the tasty broth. "Yez seem pretty 'andy wiv ye blade and I ain't never seen a woman dat cud fight afore." All the women he had encountered while roving the taverns with Taryn had been little more than soft-eyed does where Marillie had the look of eagles about her.

"Dis is gud stuff," the half orc tucked into the pot of broth, genuinely delighted contentment spreading across his heavy features, and through his body; his shoulders seemed to relax further, and his demeanour warmed further."Much better eatin' den I would ov 'ad. Anyways, I never knew 'er, she um, she died right after I woz born." Marillie sensed the evasion Wurzags' words, and in the pinch of relaxed brows, the pain that was brushed over. She did not pry, but let it go."An I grew up in da orc tribe till I got as big as dis! After dat I 'ad a bit ov a disagreement wiv da boss, dat's me pa, an I went me own way." Marillie chuckled as Wurzag flexed his muscles for comic effect, his eyes, bright as dark gemstones winking in the shifting and dancing of the firelight. At the mention of his father, Wurzag looked to his sword, the same piching of his brow the only betrayal that something perhaps more painful that Wurzag was alluding to had taken place. Marillie marvelled at her unexpected companion, and found herself making a wordless resolve to follow in his steps; to put aside mere physical strength, and gritty determination for the grace and humour that illumined this surprising role-model. He had her laughing in earnest as he related the difficult business of learning what might be poisonous or not, and the harsh realities of being thrust, without a helping hand or a word of wisdom, into the harshness of the tundra."So dats me story, wot about yooz? Yez seem pretty 'andy wiv ye blade and I ain't never seen a woman dat cud fight afore."
Marillie unsheathed the knife, reaching over to hand it to Wurzag, to show him the astonishing weight of the pattern-welded steel scramaseax. "In the House of my Kin, one can not own a knife until they have gone into the smith, and learned to make it for themselves. The knife I made my grand-sire loved; and since I loved his we traded. I worked, after my daily hunt, for five seasons, under the master-smith Angendil before he would allow me to forge my own knife.
This, as all our blades are wrought, is of soft and flexible iron twisted and folded with extremely hard iron that will keep its edge, but which is brittle. That is the craft of welding. The flexibility of the soft iron prevents the hard from shattering.
Once it is welded, hammered and folded layer upon layer, you must draw the iron out into its length. The twisting and layering of the steel is what is revealed as that mother-of-pearl pattern." Marillie leant over, dark hair cascading over the comely, if momentairy stern and serious expression on her face while she related the rudiments of blade-craft, expanding with quick gestures of calloused hands what she was hoping to explain.
"I was fortunate to be taken in by the smith, not because I am a woman; but because the Master-smith usually only takes on those who are likely to become a Guard, or a Captain. Our Kin guard the trade-routes through the north between the dwarf-halls in the north of the Ered Anon, and Lómëdor, far to the east.
We can grow nothing in the north; and must trade for it with the money the traders pay for using our roads. Though many of us, usually the women, are hunters.
At times we grow wealthy. When trade is rich, the roads grow perilous, but our warriors keep a constant vigil to defend the traders, upon whose tariffs we grow rich. That has made us many enemies." Through Marillies memory passed the countless funeral processions of cousins and friends who fell at the hands of brigands, theives, and pirates. Of pale-faced men, and women, carried head first into their tombs upon the shields of their kin. Of the grim silence, but for the sound of leather-gauntleted fists clenching and unclenching as the tombs were sealed. "The woods and wolds are agog with those who would seek to destroy us, or take from us what we have earned through blood and bravery. Sometimes it is we hunters who carry the greatest burden of guarding the roads, for it is in the woods, and the hidden dales that both game, and brigands are found." Marillie accepted the blade back, and in a flash, flung it, shivering, into the length of wood at the other side of the campfire. As she retrieved it, prying the fore-arm long knife from the log, Marillie frowned darkly over the blade. "Being a woman will buy no quarter. Only this will pay for it." She murmured, hardly more than a harsh whisper; the knife gleaming in her hand as a cat purrs. "And our Kin learned long ago, that the fiercest warriors are born of fierce mothers. But you know what Wurzag? Even that is not enough. For my Kin are at long length overwhelmed. And I pass south, in doubt and exile; for I am the last Wurzag; the last of my Kin.
"They would not turn away from their towers when our enemies banded together to destroy us, preferring rather to die by the blade before the doors than relent.
"I honour that bravery, Wurzag. I do. But that life is not for me; that death is not enough for me. I know not what awaits one such as I, here where the lands are warm, and none of what I have learned is of much avail. But I am willing to find out."

Wurzag accepted the beautiful weapon and was mildly abashed at the comparatively terrible state of his own beloved blade. The metal was surprisingly heavy given its length and the half-orc hefted the knife with practised ease. He rolled it in his grip a few times and nodded his mute appreciation of the near perfect balance between hilt and tip. It was a weapon fit for a huntress. As Marillie explained the process and ritual of the forging process he watched the firelight play across the iridescent metal in a parade of orange and violet. "I can seez why ye loves it," he murmured in awe, not wanting to interrupt her explanation, "ye gots real skills if ye can make fings like dis an I reckon ye would do well in a place like Lomedor."

Then he held his tongue while she spoke of her people, pondering at once the parallels between them and the tribes of the west and the yawning differences. Both were hardy races born to harsh lands and possessed of a fierce spirit. Both knew well the ways of the sword and of the hunt, but where Marillie's people lived in honourable duty the green-skins of the plains lived by nomadic marauding.

The half-orc listened with a faint smile to the fierce pride in her voice as she spoke of the successes of her people, their skill and art and nodded appreciatively at the deft throw that would shame many who dared to call themselves warrior. He suddenly had a new appreciation for her moment of hesitation when he had first approached; if she had seen only his orcish exterior and chosen to give battle he may well have found himself laying beside the creature he now cradled in his arms. "Dats one 'ell of an arm yez get der." He trailed off as the shock of her situation sunk in.

"But," he muttered, suddenly aghast, "some of dem cud 'ave made it, dey cud 'ave," he didn't finish. The grim finality in the hard gray of her eyes lefty no room for doubt and stopped him cold. A hard kernel of bitterness calcified within his heart that greed and lust should once again bring death and destruction to those who least deserved it. That his new friend had survived must burn like a blessing and a curse in her breast. A deep frown wrinkled his scarred face and his right hand flexed restlessly as if seeking his absent sword.

"As long as yooz survive den dey live," he growled and thumped a fist upon his cavernous chest, "in 'ere an frough yooz. Yooz 'ave to live, cos while yooz live an breave den dey will live too. Tell everyone yez meets about 'em, oo dey woz an wot dey did so dat folks will know dat dey woz der."

He lapsed into silence, the sounds of the deepening night and the faint lapping of waves a strangely poignant and sorrowful backdrop to the tale of Marillie's fallen kin. "Lomedor is about a day of 'ard walkin' souf of 'ere," he said quietly after a long moment of contemplation, "it ain't da same as 'ome but der's gud folks der," he considered that claim carefully and then rephrased, "some gud folks der, but dunt worry, I can point yez to da right places."

Marillie smiled, with what she realised was genuine fondness; What strange chance or force is at work? She again looked openly at the brutal and bestial visage of her companion, marvelling at the warmth that Wurzag had already managed to cultivate within her. "Lomedor is about a day of 'ard walkin' souf of 'ere," Wurzag smoothly changed the subject, after a longing and appropriate moment stretched into a short while with reference to Marillies fallen Kin, "it ain't da same as 'ome but der's gud folks der, ...some gud folks der, but dunt worry, I can point yez to da right places."

At dawn their distressed companion showed some signs of being more rested, but not as yet any sign of rousing. Wurzag carried her as lightly as she was weightless, and grinned, more than a little concern showing on his blunt features; nodding the way south toward Lomedor.
They pressed through a distance of dense forest, in which they spoke little, but panted and sneazed a lot in the dusty and muggy air within. Marillie allowed Wurzag to press ahead of her then, breaking a path through the sheer brute force of his immense physique. She followed, hypnotised by the pendulum like swaying of his dread-locks, and the tireless rolling of his hips and shoulders with each stride. Uphill or down he rolled along at the same exact pace until Marillie began to grow desperately tired, but was too embarrassed to admit her lack of comparative stamina.
At length, having climbed the last, and highest, broken hillside; Marillies' eyes widened, and she was rewarded mightily for not giving in earlier. The path Wurzag had cut, was almost directly across the narrow saddle of a peninsula; the trunk of a mighty tree-shaped point of land. Following the line of the coast would have made Marillies' path a hundred times longer.
From the saddle she stared down at the sprawling populous; a gust of wind blew out of the south; the first she had breathed, and felt a moments dismay. She looked over at Wurzag whose own doubts showed on his face, and in the depth of shadow in his eyes. If not for their helpless companion, Marillie might have suggested they turn back. Where had Wurzag been headed when he chanced upon her? She found, without realising she'd done it in the first place, that she reached a hand to hold onto Wurzags arm. Never had Marillie seen such a gargantuan city of men. She'd never even seen a forest of trees as large.
She beheld the Great River as it moved slothfully out of the west, its tea-coloured waters diverting into the snow-white and azure waters of the the coast. The bobbing and wallowing shapes of ships dotted both bay, the harbour, and the river -well inland of the river-mouth. The city centre was a slanting and shadowed expanse of dirty air and buildings. Marillie smelt the tang of coal-smoke. The suburbs sprawled both sides of the river and inland of the river-shore the length of a full days walk.
Before she could utter a word, Wurzag pressed onwards, seeming to lean forward against some repulsing force. Marillie, much to her chagrin, hung from his arm, borrowing from his seemingly endless resource of bodily strength. When he looked down at her, she thought he smiled sadly at her; partly -now that he had had a second thought- for bringing her to this place; and secondly that they would be parted.
Marillies releif knew no bounds when Wurzag turned off the road that lead directly to the crooked gatehouse, and the filthy city centre. They passed into the market-gardening quarter, it seemed; where a regimented form of the countryside surrounded them with the sound of crickets, and sounding nearby in the dimness, the shutting of doors, and the barking of guard-dogs as folk turned to their beds.
The publican, sitting outside on the wide front steps of The Laden Barrow, eyed Wurzag curiously, but bid them welcome.

Sleep was a long time coming for Wurzag despite his exertions. Seated beneath the reclining form of their unknown and unconscious companion he could not easily have relaxed anyway. Confident that she would not wake, he unfolded his legs from beneath her and replaced them with his pack which would serve well enough as a pillow for the night and shambled quietly to the fire-side. Tomorrow he would return to the city. Again. Something inside him quailed at the prospect of once again walking the man-made jungle of Lomedor but he had little choice in the matter. If they abandoned the senseless creature in the woods it would almost certainly die and though Wurzag could be callous at times he had never been a murderer of the innocent. Plus there was Marillie to consider, a strong warrior woman bereft of her kin, strong in arm and blade but with no experience of the unique perils of a place like Lomedor.

He could not leave them to their fates despite the urging of what he was beginning to consider his soul. So he sat for a long time and stared into the slowly dying embers of the fire as they faded from orange to white and crumbled to ashes. He felt the same inside, as though some essential part of him was burning away to leave space for something new. Right now it was in flux however and it left him with an aching hollow that he did not understand.

<-------->

He awoke with a start, his dreams filled with half remembered images and fragmented words to find Marillie packed and ready to leave. With a groan he realised he must have fallen asleep on the rugged, rocky earth and his back was less then pleased at the experience. It did not stop him from making hasty preparation to leave however and with careful consideration he picked the still slumbering body of their nameless friend from the ground and began the journey south, her small frame cradled easily in his arms. The day was cool and overcast and a blustery wind tugged erratically at the trees as the trio marched persistently south through brush and brier. Though it pained him to do so the half-orc picked a direct route toward the city, pushing through thicker stands of wood when he would have preferred to skirt around. All the while their unconscious companion never stirred, though her breathing had become steady and regular and her colour drastically improved.

As the afternoon waned the traveling companions paused on the brow of the last hill which swept its way down to the borders of Lomedor and Wurzag felt a very real tug of apprehension. He did not want to go back. The vague apprehension that had been bubbling away at the back of his mind consolidated into a very real desire to turn away and make his way out in to the plains in search of the answers he hoped were there. A cool hand on his arm broke the building tension within and he looked down at Marillie with a slightly pained smile. He would not stay in the city long, just long enough to see the pair safely to a decent inn and bid Taryn farewell and then he would begin his journey. He did not imagine for a moment that the mage would want to accompany him in to the wild, the young man was undeniably fond of city life and had settled well after the closure of the business with the lich. He still considered the man his first and best friend however and would not leave without wishing him well.

With terrible reluctance he started down the hill with Marillie in tow and considered what advice to give the young woman about the dangers of Lomedor. She was wild and untamed and would not fit in easily amongst the soft folk of the city. It was not going to be easy for her, despite her talents and not for the first time Wurzag wondered whether he was really doing her a favour by bringing her to the bustling metropolis. He had a great deal of respect for a woman strong enough to make her own way in the world, strong enough even to wield a blade with skill and confidence and he somehow could not imagine her ultimate destiny lay in the streets of Lomedor. Still, he pressed on, though he avoided the thronging heart of the city and instead opted for the airier garden district where the taverns were a little more expensive but a little more welcoming for it. He would stop by the Wilwarin later.

"Evenin'," he greeted the publican with a smile, "give us a room wud yez, one of ye better ones, wiv a nice view." The man quirked a curious eyebrow but welcomed the unlikely trio in none-the-less. Wurzag allowed himself to be ushered upstairs to the accommodation where a small but well appointed room waited with a leaded glass window that looked out over the small square that fronted the building. Over a few roof-tops the brow of the hill they had so recently descended could just about be seen, though a few plumes of early evening smoke smudged the image.

He set their nameless companion down and shook the knots out of his muscles. The girl was not heavy but he had been carrying her all day and his biceps had begun to cramp. Then he turned to the innkeeper and fished around in his pocket for some coins. "Dis is for da room and for an apofecary," he rumbled with a glance toward their silent friend, "make sure she gets looked after aright." He dropped a pair of the heavier gold coins he had recently earned into the publicans hand, then he produced a third, "dis one is fer me friend Marillie 'ere, she is new to da city so if der is spare from dat guld," which there certainly should have been, "give it to 'er an see to it dat she is aright." He punctuated the request with a curt nod.

"Now den," he said, expression softening, "yooz gonna be aright 'ere Marillie, dis fella is a gud bloke, I can tell. I is," he paused and sighed, "I is gonna be leavin' in da mornin', I gots to go on a journey and I dunt know 'ow long I is gonna be gone." The sense of loss stole over him again as the long, possibly even endless road stretched emptily ahead. "If yez need anyfing go to da square, der is a place der called da Wilwarin dat is pretty nice. Der is a fella who sometimes 'angs out der called Taryn. If yez can't find 'im der try da magic college and tell 'im Wurzag sent ya, 'e is a gud lad an will do right by ya, I'll let 'im know who yez are afore I leave."

He glanced over at the unconscious creature in the bed, "I'm sure she will be aright."

"Evenin'," Wurzag loomed over the publican, the unconscious creature still hanging limply in his arms; and Marillie, impossibly beautiful, but dangerous-looking, like a hunting-knife wrought out of mithril, hanging off the other, "give us a room wud yez, one of ye better ones," he looked at his two companions, at lastingly at Marilllie, "wiv a nice view." The publican, faced with cold coins, and an impatient expression from the half-orc, had the good sense to replace his mildly incredulous expression with a perfectly affable and business-like one. The room was more extravagant -even as the daughter of a lord- than anything Marillie had ever seen. In times of wealth her Kin spent their coin on raising a larger number of children; and even her Fathers long-house had never been fitted with more than what was truly necessary. This room, with lead-light windows paned in genuine glass overlooked the city. The polished floor had a shapely carpet, with trims; and tall candles burned whitely, and without a trace of smoke, from brackets on every wall. Marillie felt an increasing sense of anxiety, for all of this; for she read something in Wurzags demeanour. "Dis is for da room and for an apofecary, make sure she gets looked after aright. Dis one is fer me friend Marillie 'ere, she is new to da city so if der is spare from dat guld, give it to 'er an see to it dat she is aright." He punctuated the request with a curt nod.
Marillie watched all of this with an increasingly dry mouth.
He's leaving. Was her dreadful realisation. In that moment Marillie would have forsaken a thousand lifetimes in luxury the likes of that gorgeous room, but to go with Wurzag where ever he was headed. But if she hoped her desperate expression could say that for her, such a hope was dashed, for she could find no words.
"Now den," he said, expression softening, "yooz gonna be aright 'ere Marillie, dis fella is a gud bloke, I can tell. I is... I is gonna be leavin' in da mornin', I gots to go on a journey and I dunt know 'ow long I is gonna be gone. If yez need anyfing go to da square, der is a place der called da Wilwarin dat is pretty nice. Der is a fella who sometimes 'angs out der called Taryn. If yez can't find 'im der try da magic college and tell 'im Wurzag sent ya, 'e is a gud lad an will do right by ya, I'll let 'im know who yez are afore I leave. 'm sure she will be aright."
Marillie nodded mutely, too barren inside to even conjure any sadness; unaccustomed as she was to tears. But once Wurzag had parted with the last awkward words, and backward glance, Marillie cursed herself, and her dour ways. She ought to have dashed to Wurzags side; she ought to have found the strength mingled with the humility to ask if if she could go alongside him, if only for a short time later. Throughout the night she tortured herself with what she should have done; until a pale light showed in the corner of the window.
Then, at last, Marillie came to her senses.

The desperate hunt for Wurzag in the wilderness of the city was not something Marillie would ever, if ever asked to recall it later in life, relate gladly. At all times she walked with her heart in her mouth. The dour steel by which she had governed and motivated herself before then no longer where it had been. Rather the back-bone of cold iron seemed to have moved, with excruciating discomfort, to her throat, so that swallowing was painful, and breathing became horse and ragged, and her eyes watered. But she clung doggedly to the trail of the half-orc; until, in the failing light of that wretched day, she saw his gargantuan form rolling north in the distance on the road.
Suddenly Marillie found her voice; and it was impossibly fragile, such as she had never heard it, and brimming with emotion. "Wurzag! Wurzag! Wait for me!"