Thorgrim checked the meat on the spit over his fire, and sat back satisfied that it was almost ready. Burnt black was how a respectable dwarf took his meat, and warm his mead. He tilted his drinking horn back and sadly drained the last of the mead from Silverhall. He had been on the road for five days, and seen neither hide nor hair from another person in all that time. He had seen elves and humans traveling to Silverhall, but that had been while he was still descending the slopes. Once he actually made it to the wilds, there was nothing. His father had told him to start in Briar Marsh. Supposedly there was a Minotaur Blacksmith there that could start him on the road to finding the thing he sought: The Hammer of Hurion, a legendary weapon that had been used to send the Demon Lord Skorm to his hellish prison. If such a weapon existed, Thorgrim would find it, or craft its equal. He dipped into his pack, and drew out his pipe and tobacco, and set about blowing smoke rings into the trees. He was about to nod off into a nice, late afternoon nap when the smell of the meat changed. Instead of juicy and inviting, there came a bitter bite to the air. He sat up, and looked across the fire to see an Orc stalking towards his meat. “Rukh! Rukh morn! Miz burk vel leibz vazr an merag!” He roared as he dove for his axe, and faced off against the giant half-orc. The creature stared at him, uncomprehending, and there was something about its eyes that made Thorgrim pause just a moment. “Meat.” It said in its thick, guttural tongue. Thorgrim knew the language, yet disliked how the words tasted. “Share meat.” It said, pointing first to the animal haunch, then to itself and last to Thorgrim. “You want me to share my own meat?” Thorgrim stepped towards the large creature and noticed for the first time, old burns and scars. Whoever it was, something much larger and meaner had worked it over but good. If it had been anything but an Orc, he might have felt sorry for it. “Yes.” He said in answer to the dwarf’s question. “I can pay, or trade.” He reached for his belt and held out a short sword of fine elven make. “Pay with the spoils you took from a dead elf? Nay, I will not take your blood trade.” Thorgrim drew and threw a dagger from his belt in one, smooth motion. The larger Orc was not caught unawares. He deftly twirled the short sword to deflect the flying dagger, and tugged his great sword free of the straps on his back. Thorgrim laughed softly, facing down the four and a half-feet of Orc made weapon. As smith’s Orcs were not completely without skill, yet it would be a cold, cold day when any dwarf worth his salt gave credit to an Orc made weapon. Still, as Thorgrim hefted his battle axe, he wondered what dwarf had ever said that, and if they had ever faced down a great sword held in the hands of a seven and a half foot tall Orc. Thorgrim bet they had not. He charged in towards the much larger creature, hoping to get within its reach, and set them on equal footing. The giant had at least an eight foot reach without the monster blade in his hand. Thorgrim had to try and even the score a little. The Orc was not so easily fooled. He danced back out of the way, and let the smaller creature expend all the energy it wanted to swinging its axe around like a mad bastard. If only he could say the words to stop the conflict. How badly he wanted to tell the dwarf they were not enemies. As he blocked first one, then a second blow from the mighty axe, he knew at that moment that he would need to best the stubborn little thing if he stood a chance of explaining himself. They battled on for some time, neither creature willing to lower its defenses. Thorgrim would rather walk directly into a dragon’s maw than admit defeat to an Orc. And Hurion forbid that his Father ever found out. He would have his name stricken from the lineage. That would never do. He redoubled his efforts, and found that the Orc was slowing down. Thorgrim could not strike a blow that actually hit flesh, but the taller creature was starting to block the attacks later and later. Thorgrim decided to make an opening to end the conflict. He jumped high, feigning a strike at the Orcs neck, and when it moved to block, he kicked at its midsection, and landed one heavy, iron-banded boot in the things belly. The great sword dropped from numb fingers and it collapsed onto the ground. Thorgrim landed beside it, twirled his axe and half-heartedly swung it toward its neck, hoping to end it all. The Orc, praying mightily to its own God for any way out, leaned back quickly, narrowly avoiding the killing blow. Instead, the axe caught on a lock of hair tied about its neck, and sent a small leather bag bounding across the clearing. Thorgrim turned to watch it, wondering what strange thing could be within the small leather bag. He pointed his axe at the Orc. “Do not move.” He barked in its native language. The Orc was not even looking at him, it was staring after the bag, trying to find it amidst the rocks and leaves on the ground. Thorgrim walked over and scooped it up in one hand. “Is this what you want? What treasure are you hiding within?” He barked, and ripped open the small leather bag. A woman’s ring spilled out into his hands, and he looked back towards the Orc. He had expected to see greed or bloodlust from the memory of the kill that won him the ring. What he saw instead was even more troubling. Tears. The Orc was on the verge of tears. Thorgrim stalked over to it, and stood above it. Tears from an Orc was as unbelievable as his father marrying an elf. Some things were just unnatural. “I…” The Orc said, moving to a sitting position. “I need that back.” It said slowly. Thorgrim leaned in to look into its eyes. The pronunciation of some of the words was wrong, as if the creature had heard the Orc language and was trying to recreate it from memory. He decided to try another tactic. “Who are you?” Thorgrim said in common. Familiarity bloomed in the Orcs eyes. There was no malice, no wanton bloodlust. There was an incomprehensible sadness that hurt Thorgrim’s heart. What had this creature lost that could so affect it? “I am not Orc.” He said in choppy common. “I am half-elf. I am not Destroyer.” “Now that name I have heard. Even in the mines of Silverhall, we know of this Destroyer.” He held the ring out to the Orc, and it snatched the thing from his hands. Thorgrim heard its fingers burning as it clutched the silver to its chest. “Is that your ring?” He asked. The Orc could only nod. Thorgrim reached down to his belt and found an empty pouch. He snatched it off his belt and held it out to the Orc. “Keep that in this.” “Thank you.” It said to him, as it carefully set the ring inside and tried to attach it to its own belt. “Come, Meri, eat with me. I have a feeling about you. Ut an merar.”
