The tors around Tamith split on the
southward sheep trail out of the village. The rocks weathered down to
clusters less than 3 armspans in height. The granite slabs and domes
occasionally revealing the weathered remains of Sulkiri and Orcish
runes. Some of the stones were split in two, scars of 'earthcarving'
magicks from the Orc shamans and the Rockhewer Lords of the old
tribes of man. The grey stone dark and cold, giving way to the bright
green grasses that were the province's namesake.
Despite their efforts, Nefydd and
Grijolhd could not gain a significant lead on the woman. Her stamina
was considerable, and she maintained an armspan of distance from the
pair. Her shapely boots moving in steady rhythm with their respective
marching down the trail. The two companions no longer whispering to
one another, their faces grimly set on the trail ahead of them.
The trail cut east and then north for a
half a league. The pair stopped by what appeared to be a split
menhir. The dwarf waved his left hand in a vertical motion, across
his torso. A small section of earth at the base of the menhir eroded
away, revealing a hole an armspan wide. Nefydd crouched down, pulling
two backpacks and a pair of shoulder packs out of the hole.
“How far to the bulette spoor?” Lyn
asked.
Grijolhd waved the sunrod in his right
hand, “Another half a league thereabouts. North, northeast.”
“We'll camp here for the night,”
Nefydd proclaimed. “You expecting to tackle the critter this
evening?”
“I'll just follow your lead for the
time being, gentlemen.” Lyn placed her hands on either side of her
belt, covering the hilts of her weapons. “Are you certain you wish
to stop? We still have a few more bells of daylight.”
“I've got an extra blanket,” Nefydd
eyed Lyn warily.
“Thank you, won't be needing it. I'm
a light sleeper.”
“Fine with me.” Nefydd saw her eyes
looking into his and knew she caught his lie. He brought two packs
over to the dwarf and walked a few armspans across to begin rummaging
through his own gear.
“I travelled with Berend Keirkegaard
for a time. He says you were a good soldier.”
Nefydd looked up at her.“There's no
such thing as a good soldier,” he replied, “Only living ones. How
is the Ser... When was the last time you saw him?”
“Six months past, in the Shatterbolt
Mountains. He died in an expedition.”
Nefydd was quiet for a moment, turning
his gaze from the woman. His hands froze for a few heartbeats pulling
a camp stove from his pack. “Didn't know where he contracted in.”
“Your company was the only one who
left the Senators' forces-”
“We were disillusioned with where the
campaign was heading.” Nefydd placed the stove on the ground,
rubbing his hands on his knees.
“And shortly thereafter, their armies
were routed in a crushing defeat-”
“At the eastern Jurasin, is there a
point to this inquiry?” Nefydd stood up, teeth clenched and walked
to the menhir.
“Lass, this isn't exactly where you
want to go.” Grijolhd chimed in. Quicker than the woman could
follow, the dwarf signed to Nefydd, 'We need to have a conference,
now.'
The dwarf tossed a small metallic
dodecahedron to Nefydd. The ranger clasped the item, no bigger than
the tip of his thumb, to the colllar of his shirt. “Shit,” he
whispered.
Lyn was smiling, unmoving hands still
on her belt. The dwarf and the man vanished. Her eyes wide, the
woman channeled a questing for enchantments, and found nothing. There
was no evidence of any magic.
“Oh they'll be back,” she murmured,
looking at their gear.
“And you will harm not a hair on
their heads,” a voice growled behind her.
“Most impressive orc, but your stench
gives you away.” Lyn didn't bother turning around.
“And your signature matron, you light
up the night like ten thousand fireflies.”
The woman frowned, questing her senses,
there, she found it, a tiny spark.
“An earth father, here? Oh how
delightful.”
“It is good you remember matron. Your
kind often forget the ancient ways of others.”
“Hmph. And you fail to appreciate
that it was we, who aided your enlightenment millenia ago.”
“Not all of you.” The orc said, his
voice deep, rich, as if flowing through the air, rock and soil.
“A node, of course. Very well, earth
father, you have my attention.” Lyn turned around. The orc was old
for his kind, his appearance told otherwise, but Lyn could see his
aura, and she gasped. The orc positively glowed, giving off a shimmer
of the land as it looked thousands of years ago, when the orcs
creeped above their ancient stoneholds in the night. On the eve of
their rebellion.
Physically, he was still impressive,
his muscles retaining their shape, not quite wiry as most orcs became
as they aged, but solid curves, veins vibrant, the blood flowing in
strong currents. His hair was still black for the most part, but
Lyn's vision saw the faint traces of grey in a few strands. The sides
of his head were shaved, but the hair on his head was long and tied
in a ponytail. His goatee was black. Where the hair was shaved were
several tattoos, whorls, circles inscribed with the old runes of deep
earth magicks. His tunic and breeches were made of bulette hide,
stained a deep brown. His left hand gripped a staff made of
Tysthewood; trees that grew no longer in the human held lands of
Anfekor and the other nations of the East.
Majestic as the orc was from the eye's
view, his aura was absolutely stunning, Lyn was nervous, something
she had not felt, in a long, long time.
“You know of my companions then?”
Lyn cooed.
“Indeed, they are known to many
brethren bordering the Cursed Lands.”
“Have you come to help us with our
little quest?”
“I have come to make sure that no
harm befalls them as they seek a resolution to their challenge. I
will be watching you matron.”
Lyn brought her left hand up, chewing
on her index finger suggestively. “Delightful, very well earth
father, I will behave.”
“See that you do.” The orc changed,
his arms folding towards his ribs, body crouched to the earth almost
in a strange bow of reverence, wings came forth, then the piercing
eyes, and finally the powerful claws of a plains owl. The wards
around the orc as he transformed were blinding, and Lyn had to
actually look down at the grass for a few moments. There were sounds
of air being displaced by wings at least an armspan in length. Lyn
looked up to find herself alone once again within the disheveled
campsite. The dwarf's sunrod the only illumination, highlighting the
orcish runes in white upon the menhir's base.
“I suppose I should cook up something
for the boys when they come back.” Lyn sighed and went to work.
Far above the campsite, a great plains
owl circled within the dwindling thermals, waiting.
