His name was Abhorrlen- of that much, the half-orc was reasonably certain. It was an effort sometimes, especially this early in the morning, to remember even the most obvious details. Snorting, the urukhai merchant rolled, patted down his unruly hair (it never hurt to appear presentable) and lumbered out of bed, making floorboards scritch with the hiss with warnings of impending doom. But he was hardly versed in such matters and the half-orc paid the flooring no heed, his broad-shouldered bulk moving itself through the daily routine of civilization. Warm water was surprising luxury here and Abhorrlen had paid good coin for the privilege. Not that he used it, but it was a nice fiction to maintain- he was a merchant after all, and there were certain niceties that most merchants were expected to adhere to no matter their background. Business, as ever, was odd business.

Relieving himself of the pressure that had built up in his bladder, the being known as Abhorrlen slowly watched as the better half of his brain awoke. Something, a vestige of a memory perhaps, nagged at him, clawing and biting at the back of his mind like the deep delvers that sometimes entered dwarven tunnels. But it was all fog and haze and despite the cheery sunlight and well-worn wood furnishings that surrounded him the orc shuddered. Whatever it had been, whatever memory had surfaced he remembered the wrongness of the memory. But the particulars disappeared even as he reached for them.

Halfway to the window he remembered to peer carefully out the said portal before emptying his chamberpot. Ondoland was sparsely populated but not -that- sparsely populated. And it was surprising the number of people who objected to getting pissed on. And then refused to barter.

The orc sighed, remembering that terrible, terrible day. It had taken him nearly an entire week to find a new buyer. Still, he had found one and his need to stay in this quaint, quiet town was nearly concluded which was just as well. It was easier to get lost in the hustle and bustle of larger cities- in more rural ones such as Ondoland...? It was a wee bit harder. And not just because of his skin and tusks. The prejudices against outsiders was more ingrained in small communities, given body and substance through whispers, rumours and half-heard comments that quieted when outlanders appeared. The orc hardly faulted them for it, they had apparently been the victims of aggression many, many times. And besides, it was none of his concern. He came and went with the gold and silver and what his back could carry.

Slipping on his tunic, trousers and well-worn boots he gave the bed a fond little pat. He wouldn't be seeing any of its like for quite a while- his next trip would take two weeks at least, and that was at a good, brisk pace- more jog than run but still difficult for any creature two-legged creature.

Just thinking about it made his stomach rumble. With a self-deprecating grin the merchant made his way down to the kitchens. Perhaps there would be a bite to eat or a early riser willing to share a tale or two over mulled wine. With that thought in mind the money-grubber shouldered his pack and headed downstairs.

-----------------

OOC: My absence note still applies. This is just me building sand castles.

((Hm. Not sure which topic you're referring to. Who's your alt, as this one has only one topic made?))

The nocturnal veil of the stars and moon were but a pale reflection of the vastness of the universe, something to be more than merely wondered at: it was awe-inspiring at the very least. Even the silent mask comprised of gray storm clouds slowly passing beyond Ondolond's icy exterior could not conceal the beauty inherent in something so vast that it made even the greatest of dragons feel...insignificant. Yet as with all things, the night was only a temporary reprieve from the burning light of the sun that so often blazed high above the thriving merchant city that lay at the base of the Ered Annon Mountains. The night sky's solitary viewer from the edge of the city was no vampire, yet for him the sun had only minor appeal. For him, it was the night that truly made him feel alive. So many things came alive at night that so many people missed. It was easy to find solace in the company of others, but one's thoughts often took the most interesting paths through the cavernous wastes of one's mind only when they were left alone. Besides, it was easier to move about undetected at night and proved far more beneficial to the ranger than the daylight did. Those were just excuses, however; they were rationalizations. In truth, he simply loved the world as it was during the inactive hours.

Dawn was something beautiful, it was true, yet dusk even moreso in his mind. Regardless, he watched the dawn come; he watched the sun rise slowly above the distant horizon, no doubt cresting the Palanen Ocean and waking the sailors who had not yet joined the ranks of their fellow seamen on the main deck. No doubt the sailors were already manning their positions and the captains of the various ships presently at sea were already barking orders to their men. James often wondered what it would be like to be a sailor. He was land-bound, however, and had no reason to leave the forest he knew so well. He did so only occasionally, for the forest was his home and his comfort, but his mind had plenty of room to wander the endless plains of an imagination he had perhaps never fully developed. Perhaps he simply didn't have much of an imagination to begin with; to him, the forest was a security blanket. He wouldn't have minded seeing new sights, but deep down, some inner part of him knew all too well that he would never have the courage to leave his home and family - which meant more than merely his parents and his sister; it meant the animals and the life that surrounded him - simply to see what he never had before.

He pondered these things as he often did in the early hours of the morning. His eyes roved the planks of the tavern in which he now sat, his corner table a perfect vantage point from which to observe both the sights and the sounds that would soon inhabit this place. He had not slept well, but that would not stop him from doing what was necessary. He was a ranger, after all; he was a protector of those in the forest. If he did not hunt down the bounty hunter that had caused so much grief in his wood and in the animal-inhabited lands of other peoples, who would? Bounty hunters had their uses, or so he had been told, but he saw them as violent and dangerous murderers, thieves, and other such vile things who would do anything for a bit of coin and some fine ale - not to mention a woman here and there.

That made him blush. He was not a lady's man, though chivalry was definitely his strong point - or would have been had it not been for one minor detail: he couldn't talk to a girl to save his life. What was it about the opposite gender, he wondered as he surveyed the sparsely populated saloon in which he now sat, that made him so nervous? He was no fool - well, not really. He wielded a bow easily enough and could step lightly and silently without even expending much effort. He could down a twelve-point buck with relative ease and turn the entire thing into a merchant's dream. So why did he have such trouble simply engaging in polite conversation with someone who's bosom was so prominent? That thought made him blush even more, though the hood of his ranger's cloak blocked it from view. His face was shadowed and shaded, if not completely hidden, yet his eyes and ears missed nothing.

Thus it was that his eyes flicked to the stairs as someone made their way down them heavily, clearly not caring about where it put its feet. That spoke of either muscle or fat and an apathetic attitude - or perhaps an arrogant one. He couldn't help but jerk slightly when he saw what appeared at the other end of the tavern, though: an orc. Yet this orc was odd; he was dressed in odd clothes. Actually, the whole affair was rather odd; why would an orc be in a tavern, let alone dressed as a merchant might dress? Perhaps this orc was smarter than the rest. That would be highly unusual in and of itself. Then again, so was the orc he had met in the Misty Forest not too long ago. That had been a very odd occurrence.

James settled into an uneasy, yet mistakably relaxed position once more. He watched the orc warily; if there was trouble, his would be the first shaft to pierce the orc's flesh. Orcs were tough and cunning; they were violent, brutal, and dangerous. They were not to be trusted. He had been told such things by his father, a soldier stationed as a guard here in Ondolond. But his father was not here now. He mulled this over as he slowly sipped his mead. It was not as good as the mead brewed by the god of nature, Curin, and he had sampled that a number of times. Yet it was good mead nonetheless. He kept himself ready for a fight should one break out, but there were only three other people in the tavern at present; one of them was the bartender, another the barmaid, and the third was a drunkard who went tavern-hopping on a bihourly basis. Only the orc and himself were the oddities, though in a town like Ondolond, one might wonder just what made an 'oddity' odd.

OOC: Well, I thought it would be pretty clear with my sig but apparently not (bottom left corner). I'm in yours too if you're curious. I've changed my orc to a half-orc after realizing that orcs in Middle Earth are a) susceptible to sunlight which would be cool but b ) no one's terribly certain if they have the immortality of the elves or not being (originally at least) corrupted elves themselves which is not so cool history-wise.

Gah, wot a pain.

IC:

He found the innkeeper, tidying the steps half-way down the staircase. A portly, balding fellow with a rotund belly and a rounder face.

"Master Abhorrlen." The man said, nodding his head respectfully. The fat innkeeper couldn't quite keep the distaste that speckled his features from showing but he was a good man at heart and like all good men, willing to overlook a few minor deformities (such as Uruk-hai origin) for a few extra crowns. Crowns that the half-orc was holding out even now and were disappearing as if by magic.

Unlike most residents he seemed to pay everything in advance. It was hardly his obligation to do so but in the mornings... It was said that in ages long past half-orcs owed their ancestry to the noble, immortal elves but with his brain befuddled by daylight as it was Abhorrlen had trouble grappling with that notion- most elvish art depicted the full flowering of the summer sun. Even now, with so winters under his belt, Abhorrlen could not quite reconcile himself with the morning sun. He believed it far more likely that they stemmed from trolls as some soothsayers and priestly charlatans were wont to say.

"Master Lawren." The grey-skinned merchant politely returned. "Have you news of some sort?"

The gold had made the squat, if surprisingly solid innkeeper cheery if not precisely happy. The 'customer is always right' mask had returned and the orc spent a goodly while listening to the innkeeper yammer on the prices of various goods and complain (like always) about the perfidity of various parties that the uruk-hai merchant was completely uninterested in. It was always instructive, being a merchant and an urukhai. Where other rich, passing strangers might be encouraged to become part of the community (well, not quite encouraged- 'allowed to pretend' was a bit closer to the mark) and given a bit of this and that, snippets of their lives and their homes he was treated almost as a terrifying private tutor- nothing that came out of their mouths had anything to do with them but in the most oblique and obtuse manner. He had not yet become 'human' enough for them. Still, it was instructive.

"-ah! But I am keeping you too long, Master Abhorrlen." The innkeeper exclaimed. The merchant gave a soft, half-smile. He had seen this excuse too, many, many times. He was glad that the berserker rage that had surfaced in his bloodline had not been passed to him- a madman would never have been able to stomach the refined bigotry of these fools. The innkeeper was still prattling on, apparently offering a choice selection of goods to barter with and probably at outrageous prices. "Ale? Wine, perhaps?"

"I'm afraid I will be leaving soon." The orc said, trying to sound regretful. The innkeeper made a little, incomprehensible noise that might have been a half-choked sentiment of relief. "But your mulled wine is excellent and it would be amiss of me not to sample it at least one more time..."

"Of course, of course." The orc saw the genuine smile come to life. "I do say that my wife knows your tastes quite well by now- she'll be at the tavern, preparing for the day."

"My thanks, Master Lawren." The merchant said before beginning to head down the stairs again. He was surprised and a bit confused when he was stopped by a hand on his shoulder and a voice. "A moment, Master merchant." The innkeeper was saying. He seemed to be looking for something in the ridiculous manifolds of pockets he wore. "A moment- ah!" He took out the crowns and deposited them in the half-orc's massive hands. "You hardly need to pay for a room you won't be sleeping in, now do you?"

Like most of his kind- the merchant urukhai- Abhorrlen was well versed in literature. He could read between the lines. You won't be staying the night, now will you? The half-orc laughed in agreement and nodded, knowing that any sane innkeeper wanted him out of his property with all haste. A pity. The mulled wine truly was excellent.

Making his way to the inn's makeshift tavern he ordered the wine, suddenly not quite in the mood for talk and merriment. He had been best treated in this small little village and yet for all that-! Ah well, it was not like him to brood over such things. Especially not with alcohol in his system. All it would take would be one misstep and he would go flying out the merchant's guild faster than most of Threnody's blessed anima could disappear.

"Some bread too, if you would be so kind, Mistress Lawren." He told the innkeeper's wife who, unlike her husband, did nothing to mask her inherent dislike for the half-orc but seemed to bear this burden in good faith as might a saint during torture. And she sometimes forgot that he was a half-orc- he quite enjoyed seeing her eyes widen every time he managed to appear totally civilized. "And your mulled wine is excellent."

She flushed with suspicion and curtsied. The half-orc sighed, likely as not he would not manage to make her see him as a simple merchant and nothing more again before he left. Nonetheless, all things considered, it was a rather nice day.

((Oh, okay then. ^_^ And...that's the bottom RIGHT corner. XD ))

There was something distinctly odd about the half-orc James now saw before him. Despite the drunkard's hiccup and snores as he slumped forward in his chair, his head nearly drooping enough to threaten a firm smack as it collapsed into the rough wooden table, the ranger's thoughts turned to analysis of the half-orc and of the situation as a whole. Such was the way of things for him most of the time; he spent more energy analyzing his surroundings than he did interacting with people. That was fine with him, though, as he wasn't exactly a social critter - not among sentient company at any rate; he wasn't precisely antisocial, though. He just saw animals as better company than the sentient races that so filled the continent of Ea.

The complete absence of any sort of violence against the innkeeper was astounding to say the least, for most half-orcs (so James had heard) had a mean streak so vile and cruel it scared goblins. Of course, it was easy to scare goblins - he had done that several times when small raiding parties had threatened the peace and relative quiet of the Misty Forest or the merchant city of Ondolond - but that was neither here nor there. The fact remained that orcs were menacing at best and half-orcs were even worse than orcs by far. Yet this half-orc seemed to be very civilized in his mannerisms. Irritation did cross his face - strong irritation - but James had a feeling whatever the half-orc felt was suppressed somehow, even if it did require effort (which it probably did). It was the intelligence of the creature, however, that truly astounded the watchful ranger. Orcs and half-orcs were supposed to be stupid, bloodthirsty creatures, yet this half-orc seemed to speak as he spoke without a second thought about even the most difficult words a half-orc might try to speak.

A minor oddity also sprouted up as the innkeeper finished his rambling. The half-orc produced an advance payment of gold for another night's stay in the inn; that couldn't be good. Even a civilized half-orc had to have some kind of brutal instincts akin to a hyena crossed with a rabid badger. He had no doubt there would be trouble if the half-orc continued to stay. It wasn't just his hideous appearance, though; it was the very idea that a half-orc - or anything orc-related, for that matter - was in a village. He knew it would be difficult for even the most outgoing of people to overlook the appearance of a half-orc of any kind in favor of their civility, intelligence, and common decency (if they had any, and this one apparently had at least two of those three traits); much more likely was the fact that the people of Ondolond would be overlooking the very human traits of this obvious half-orc and would see only a menacing monster capable (and most likely more than willing) to exact some kind of terror upon its fellow humanoid sentients.

James, however, always tried to be 'the better man'. He tried to be chivalrous when there was a need to be and tried to be as considerate as he could. Thus, he would give the half-orc the benefit of the doubt - for now. That didn't at all mean that he wasn't going to watch him more closely than Gemtail studying a particularly juicy field mouse, though. But now the half-orc was sitting down at the bar and flattering the barmaid, apparently the innkeeper's wife. He did not visit Ondolond often, for he didn't like the noise and the crowds; he preferred the dense life that was the forest to the busy streets of a city. Four people were entering the tavern as the order and compliment went out from the foul half-orc's vile lips. Glancing at them as they sat down, not talking much but clearly smiling about some private joke, he recognized that they seemed not to notice the half-orc at all - yet. That was good. The less they noticed, the less likely it was that a fight would ensue. He'd hate to have to save them men from the half-orc; half-orcs were renowned for their strength and endurance.

Glancing back to the half-orc, though, he also hoped the creature would leave as quickly as possible. So did the innkeeper and his wife, of course, but they had very different reasons for wanting the half-orc gone from those of the ranger. While James felt the way they did to a great extent, this one seemed far better dressed and he did not think the half-orc would be much of a problem if he was left alone. It was the 'if he was left alone' part that worried him. If those four noticed the half-orc and a fight ensued, he'd have to step in. He wouldn't let innocent people die if he could do something to stop it. He thus hoped the half-orc would leave before he was forced into a fight. As it was, James could now hear the men grumbling over the recent rise in marketplace stall prices; noticing a half-orc would only further ruin their mood.

But at least the barmaid was approaching them, though. The fewer times they looked over to the bar, the better, and Mrs. Lawren's presence at their table without their having called her - though most would have merely considered it good service - aided in that greatly. The innkeeper wasn't too pleased by the men's presence, though, for one of them made some kind of low-voiced joke and pinched the woman's tushy. They both glared at him - hard - and Mrs. Lawren made a remark better left unsaid to the man that had pinched her. He grew very red at that, but his mates laughed as she walked away haughtily. James pursed his lips at the whole affair. It was true that the woman was very pretty, but she was married and that had been rather disrespectful besides; he never would have done that to a woman that he wasn't very well-acquainted with - firstly because it was highly disrespectful and secondly because he wouldn't have been able to bring himself to do it. Besides, he might not have been able to look at the woman ever again without turning into a beet for all his face and neck were worth if he did do something like that.

James sipped his mead as he watched the men distastefully, though not nearly with the same amount of distaste as he watched the half-orc with. He swished the mead around in his mouth a bit as he sipped it, savoring the taste. He lifted a finger slightly to show that his flagon was near-empty, to which he received a small nod from Mrs. Lawren. The barmaid came over to him to refill it and he slipped a couple of silver marks in her apron pocket with a small, kind smile - a nervous kind of smile - that she returned; hers was more a grateful one than a nervous one, though, and she returned to the bar as he returned to his now-full cup. He continued his vigilance of the tavern once more, resuming the watchful approach to life that was so much his manner when in the company of others.

Mrs. Lawren returned from her newest customers in a stony sort of silence. Abhorrlen understood- or at least thought he did. That these young hoodlums would come in so bright and early and away from the dark hours that usually harbored their sort of special persons- spoke volumes. No doubt they were rich or powerful or had connections with those who were. More likely, their parents did and they were merely riding on their elders' coattails. The half-orc did not hold any illusions of what they meant by this bizarre courtship ritual, his disgust at the thought that such cretins would be suffered to live without reprimand almost made the wine go sour. They were younglings who had never been denied anything and were now confused when the newest toy they had thought would come had not dropped into their grimy palms. His masters, at least, knew the meaning of discipline. Michael, he hoped, would never become one of these fools.

But these thoughts, pure in truth as they might be, were veiled behind a tired front. He was aware- from a long history of aborted dealings- that it was a rather scary things to most humans and had schooled it rigorously. He avoided smiles when he could help it, did his best to open his eyes wide so that they would not look shifty and adopt a slightly confused expression. It helped when others assumed him to be stupid. But it still had not dissuaded the last five or so... altercations with rowdy, foolish younglings. Had this been in a different place he might have been able to intercede on behalf of the poor woman but he did not wish to leave another good inn in shambles. And besides, he unless he missed his guess completely, Mistress Lawren was not without her own resources. The glint in her eye reminded him of his own mother.

The half-orc hid his grin with a drink. His mother had been an... imposing woman.

"What are you smiling at, pig-face?"

Apparently he hadn't hidden it well enough. He slowly lowered his mug and swiveled. One of the youngsters was sneering from his seat and not so inconspicuously fingering a knife. His friends were tense, as if expecting a berserker rage to suddenly engulf them. But there was a mad sort of joy in there too- and expectation. They wanted a fight. They wanted to impress- more perhaps, than they wanted to slaughter and kill if they wished that at all. More likely, all they wanted to do, was to dominate. Wealth without work created a curious sort of tension, a belief in the fragility of that wealth and a need to prove that the one that had not worked for that wealth could still hold onto it- by force if necessary. He wanted to shake his head but refrained. Spoiled, spoiled children. If they had been one of the whelps he had been forced to raise he would have had them whipped long ago.

The half-orc, mentally, sighed. He might still be able to salvage the situation. There were only four of them. And short as he was, he probably still outmuscled all of them put together. He had no horses to carry his wares, nor wagons to tow them in. And he had been a slave of a harsh taskmaster far longer than any of these fools had even conceived of getting sustenance from anywhere other than their mamas.

"The..." the half-orc chose his words carefully. He noticed Mistress Lawren casually walk away. No doubt to alert her husband of potential death and doom. He mentally counted out a few gold crowns from his earnings. And then tripled it. Glass was expensive in these parts and the inn had a superbly wonderful set of windows. "... the pleasure of being awake in such a lovely town." Abhorrlen had learned, by trial and error, that answering such a question with 'being alive' often resulted in misunderstandings. Young idiots were surprisingly jumpy- it was probably their very last hope of survival trying to establish itself before they went off and got themselves killed managing who knew what sort of brave and foolish idiodicy.

"This backwater place?" The youngling- the one with the knife- laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. Abhorrlen pegged him as their erstwhile leader. If he was downed the others would panic. "And where is the pleasure? Eh? Pig-face?"

The youngling was trying to goad him. Abhorrlen gave them a smile full of teeth. Let them remember what it was they were trifling with.

"It is a lovely place."

Unfortunately, it seemed as though Mrs. Lawren would not be left with a peaceful tavern this day. The faces of the young men before him clicked in his head now: they were the sons of a wealthy rancher outside the village, whose wife also owned a vineyard just a mile north of that. They did not know the value of work, for they had slaves who did their work for them. Slaves were not something James liked to think about, but different people had different tolerances for one thing or another and his opinions were not their own. But he would not let this place come to ruin if he could avoid it, and that meant eliminating the half-orc should it come down to it. The men before him were rowdy, crude, and arrogant, but they did not murder simply for the pleasure of it. Perhaps they would do so here, if only to say later that they had slain an Uruk-Hai, but most likely it would be they who were slain and the half-orc who was hunted. Besides, the half-orc had no doubt killed before, regardless of his present occupation. It was much better a thing to eliminate the Uruk-Hai, therefore, than to start a war that could only end in the Uruk-Hai's mass slaughter of the men of this village.

He had met another half-orc who was like this one, once. It had happened not too long ago in the Misty Forest. The half-orc had been a rather odd fellow with a penchant for and connection to nature resembling that of the druids and elfs. Yet this one seemed to have no such connection. The similarities, though, were starting to make James rethink his position on half-orcs. Most of them were vile as vile could be, of course, but it did seem that a rare few had 'evolved' to an extent, namely in the sense that they were not so homicidal as those that had thrived for centuries - perhaps millennia - by shedding the blood and renting the souls of others. Much terror had come out of their very existence, and a hatred that boiled deep and low in the hearts of many had slowly emerged from that terror. Many wars had been fought against the foul beasts as a result. It was this endless enmity between half-orcs and the other humanoid races that now bubbled so close to the surface here in this tavern, threatening to erupt into a volcanic explosion of acidic violence.

Beneath the table and out of sight did the ranger's bow slide and an arrow slipped from his quiver. This was done with nary a sound nor hint of the impending danger the Uruk-Hai would soon face should these four start a fight against him. It was difficult to feel at all sorry for the half-orc as the arrow was nocked swiftly and silently, but this was a game of chess played by a third party. Better to eliminate the greater threat of countless bloodied corpses by killing off the king than to allow the pawns to start a fruitless war. He was but a messenger, albeit one of death in this particular scenario. He would not allow what was sure to happen to come to pass. He would eliminate the target before it became a threat to this village, even if it was the village's fault in the first place. He would speak with the mayor when this was over, assuming he was forced to kill the thing, but he would not let a skirmish cause a war. Perhaps he was too hardened against this creature for his own good. Perhaps the prejudices of his parents and their elfen friends against the orcish races had produced too much of themselves in James. But the men before James were hotheads and fools, whereas the half-orc was a brutish murderer by his very nature. This would not come to pass. So the ranger waited in stony silence, sipping his mead but more than ready to strike light a bolt of lightning should the opportunity be forced upon him...

OOC: I'd make it longer but I still have no idea how your character would act so I'm leaving it relatively short.

IC:

"It is a very pleasant place," the child (the half-orc would not dignify the halfwit with a title greater than that) sneered, mimicking Abhorrlen's gravelly voice. The uruk-hai watched calmly as the child began toying with a blade, a sharp, fragile thing that would no doubt be crushed to bits with a little tap, much like this child's ego. Slowly his mind reviewed the number of potential marketplace merchants that would have spawned such ignorant, awkward progeny. He was at loath to admit it, but far too many names came up- while there were many who were brilliant with numbers, he was all too certain that child-rearing may have been quite beyond their area of supposed expertise. It was something that even Starrise had trouble with though that was a different story altogether. Starrise's case was always unique.

"It is." He replied calmly. If he had truly wished to hurt the youngling he might have ignored him. But the half-orc, as misguided as the attempt was starting to reveal itself to be, truly did not wish for any sort of altercation to take place. He was dangerously close to achieving one of his lesser dreams and compared to that light this indignity was slight and slim, almost to the point of vanishing nothingness. He had endured far worse for far less. Finishing his mug in a gulp, the half-orc fished around for coins to pay for the drink. His travel pack was still in his room, along with his wares but if he could just get these fools to leave him the heck alone...or perhaps distract them with-

Just because he had momentarily stopped paying attention to his annoyances did not mean his body had done the same. With a surprising swiftness, born of a lifetime of experience with sudden attacks, he kicked his stool out from underneath him, falling down into a crouch. Beer and glass showered onto him as a thrown bottle shattered against the oaken tabletop. Abhorrlen blinked through the pain. He wouldn't have suspected that any of these fools had the strength to actually manage to break the glassware of beer bottles which were surprisingly solid. Perhaps the glass itself was fickle. Then he was forced to carefully wipe away the rivulets of alcohol that tried to worm their way to his eyes. Before him, the children were merrily laughing. No, not merrily. They laughed the laughs of bullies and murderers, sadists and torturers. Etched into their laughter was the root of the great evil that humanity was capable of. The willingness to truly enjoy suffering. Even for the Uruk-hai, that was not innate. It was the fight, the foe and the rage that truly invigorated.

Anger stirred but the Geass quieted it. Abhorrlen breathed a sigh of relief for small mercies. It truly was a masterful spell. Then he slowly stood...