Nature vs Nurture

The two gods, so different in physical stature and appearance yet equal in power, regard each-other coldly. Yondalla; highest of the Halfling gods, looks up at her single-eyed Orcish opposite and meets his gaze, eyes to eye.

“He’s my champion Gruumsh. How dare you think you have any influence here?”

The large, battle scarred Orcish god snarls.

“Your champion? He’s been raised among Orcs since infancy. He has no knowledge, exposure or understanding of what it is to be Halfling.”

Stepping forward and deliberately invading Gruumsh’s space, Yondalla’s voice hardens.

“It’s not just his body that makes him Halfling. His soul belongs to me. It’s what dragged him, unwittingly, back to the Halfling lands!”

Gruumsh chuckles throatily.

“Ex-Halfling lands, you mean. His small body is scarred and battered by his harsh Orcish upbringing. His weak Halfling flesh toughened and forged strong by Orcish discipline. Don’t bore me with prattle of ‘Halfling Souls’. Despite your obvious machinations, his heart and spirit belong to the Dark-Star tribe. My Dark-Star tribe.”

Yondalla flares angrily.

“Your Dark-Star tribe?! They’re done. Gone. That tribe, like so many of your tribes, is lost. Almost entirely wiped out by the Demon army!”

Gruumsh, stung by the remark, squats low to put their heads on the same level. Snub and snout noses almost touching.

“They fought hard and died bravely. They never surrendered and won their forever places by my side.”

The Halfling goddess’ scowl drops.

“I’m sorry but that just isn’t true, is it? The Demon Prince has corrupted your captured Orcs and blackened their souls to his own purpose.”

Old One-Eye slowly straightens up.

“And that is why I’ll keep my hand on the shoulder of ‘our’ little champion.”

Refusing to allow herself to be intimidated, the Halfling goddess holds her space.

“A champion can not have two… Patrons.”

The mighty Gruumsh shrugs.

“Why not? It seems to be working out pretty well for the Human Gladiator.”

Favoured Son

The generously proportioned and well muscled;

Dajambat Prap lays down the sturdy wooden tent-poles and heavy canvas she’s carrying and turns to her husband.

“That was a noble act. Tough as our adopted little son is, it would have been almost certain death for him in the wastelands. Now he and his funny dog, Mir Hundur still have a chance at life.”

Mahd Boss gazes back at his wife.

“Then why does it feel as if I’ve betrayed him?”

Confounding tradition, the Orcan chief of the Darkstar clan had only ever taken one wife and he trusted her judgement above all others, sometimes even above his own.

Closing the short distance between them, the prodigious, middle-aged Orcess places a strong hand on her husband’s broad shoulder.

“You saved him once before, gave him a good life, a family and now you’ve saved him once more.”.

Mahd Boss’ heavily tusked head nuzzles into his wife’s wild hair.

“And what of our other children? Why didn’t I send any of them with him to the safety of the Human lands?”

Fully wrapping her strong arms around her husband’s wide neck, Dajambat Prap squashes herself tight to him.

  

“You know full well that the accursed Red-eyes are targeting our tribe’s Orcish blood-line. They are unrelenting and will chase us down wherever we run. Only Halfling-blooded Liga Bur can escape them and there’s no need for him to die pointlessly trying to protect his younger brothers and sisters… Trying to defend us.”

Mahd Boss pats his wife’s plump behind and sighs.

“True enough.”

Then Dajambat Prap snarls.

“Besides, he’s the only one of them that would be accepted for anything more than lowly mercenary work. Despised by their leaders. Hirelings for the worst scum that the Humans have to offer. And you, my wise husband, know more than anyone how that feels.”

The massive Orc Chieftain breathes heavily.

“True again my love. Perhaps our clever boy will discover a path beyond mere ‘grunt’ work, beyond just hunting and fighting for survival. Perhaps he will find friends in the Human lands. Perhaps good fortune will shine upon him at last.”

It’s the thick set Orcess’ turn to sigh.

“Gruumsh willing, my Chief; Gruumsh willing.”

Something wicked this way comes

It's been six days since they'd left the frightening, Lightning tree behind them but Liga Bur feels his concerns continue to mount.

It was late afternoon by the time they'd left the living tree behind and, weakened as they were, they'd only managed to travel a few miles before being forced to make camp again.

Despite his obvious cowardice, Rifkin had yet again proven his value. Fortu's ugly purple bruises vanished under the bard's melodic remedies and even the desiccated and burned horse, rallied a little under his gentle ministrations. 

Feeling as safe as they were going to be in these wild woods, they maintained their camp for two more days. With water from the nearby stream, dried food from the Three-Quarterling's stores and plentiful fresh meat that Liga Bur had caught from the surrounding area, everyone affected by the leech-like root tendrils began to slowly recover. 

During Liga Bur's early hours guard duty, he imagines he hears something far, far away. Wolves perhaps? Looking across to his sleeping hound, the battle scarred halfling shakes his head. He was probably just daydreaming nostalgically about the wolf-like worgs kept by his old tribe...

Still, the feeling of unease lingers even as they break camp later that morning. The elven archer, Arowe and Barry the horse are still struggling though and they're only able to travel on for another half day before stopping to rest for the remainder of the day.

The Lightning tree's stick-finger wand seems to be leading them in a specific direction but Gruumsh only knows if it's the right direction?

This night though, Liga Bur is certain he hears wolves baying from far behind them.

Sharing his concerns with his teammates, they press on for another half day before being forced again to rest.

Despite the ravaged Arowe's hopes, his magical pendant hasn't seemed to help much, if at all, but thanks to their restricted travel and long breaks, his strength is slowly returning. Though no longer as weak as a kitten, his arms still shake under the pressure of his enchanted bow. Barry the horse, although still not strong enough to carry a rider yet, has recovered enough to haul some of the supplies.

That night, Mir Hundur stirs at the distant howling of the wolves and the sensitive, elven eared Rifkin and Arowe think that they can hear it too. Unfortunately, it just confirms what Liga Bur had already suspected. Though still many miles away, a wolf-pack has caught their scent and is eating up the distance between them!

Everyone who had their strength drained has recovered 5 points.