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.”

The Wetness Below

As the sharp, triangular, stone slabs of the trap-door slam back into place, everyone reacts at once. Fortu, with a bitter glance toward the now-within-reach exit, instead rolls to his feet and heads back to where Doberman fell through. He knows another iron spear will be coming but, shield raised, prepares himself for it. The Elven Arowe, currently safe under the stone arch at the entrance, anticipates what his Human friend is planning and unhooks the remaining forty-foot of acid-burned rope he's still carrying. Everyone else though, other than the trembling Rifkin, rushes back down the stone steps.

The long limbed Henshaw leads the way, bounding downward but he's soon passed by the smaller but swifter Barbella. Finally Liga Bur, atop Mir Hunder follows them both down but slows when he reaches the whirling, damp vapours of the ground floor. Quick-witted as he is, the grim outrider's already realised that fat Doberman has fallen down through the hollow, wide pillars to the basement level below. The 'certain death' level that flaming Dijonn had previously warned him about. Barbella and Henshaw barge on regardless though, down the second flight of stone steps, disappearing into the dank mist and darkness. Only their shouts and the magical light from Barbella's silver sickle confirming their continued existence.

Although it's only been seconds, Doberman's fingers are already cramping up from the effort of supporting his own impressive weight and fear grips the rotund mercenary. He's a simple man of simple pleasures; eating being his favourite, followed closely by drinking and murdering. He's not often experienced personal terror before, but now, hanging in the darkness, he's mightily relieved to see a small triangle of light reappear at the top of the pipe. His relief is cut short though, as a heavy wedge of stone crashes past, just missing his fleshy shoulder and landing twenty-odd feet below him with an ominous 'splosh'!

Two levels up, Arowe and Fortu work furiously together, disabling the spear traps around them, but not before the armoured Gladiator is caught a glancing blow to his thigh. Despite the keen edge of the cold-iron spear, it's thankfully not sharp enough to pierce his enchanted armour, but he still feels the bruise forming, even through his padded gambeson. Once secure, Arowe beckons Rifkin over to prevent the next slab from falling, but they both underestimate the stone segment's weight whilst vastly overestimating the slender Bard's strength. As Fortu's incredible magical sword cuts, spade-like through the second segment, the kneeling Rifkin tries to grab the falling triangular rock section, but instead, the Bard is pulled over in place, smacking his chin on the stone edge and fumbling the second piece of masonry down the dark shaft.

Coming to an abrupt halt at the bottom of the basement steps, Barbella and Henshaw arrive just in time to see two chunks of rock, smash into the cursing Doberman, breaking his grip and knocking him off of the funnel lip. It's pitch-black down here but Barbella's glowing, silver sickle casts enough light to see their broad-beamed friend land in a wide pool of stagnant, green water. Henshaw grips Barbella's shoulder however, when he notices the 'water' reach up to intercept the falling Doberman.

"It's alive! That slime's alive!"

Screaming up at Liga Bur, the Halfling, unable to pass through the damp mist while holding the flaming Dijonn, passes on their call.

"Rifkin! I need you!"

Their plan an abject failure, Rifkin, followed by the slower Fortu, runs down the stairs behind them, where Liga Bur passes the already-half-used-up torch fueling Dijonn to Rifkin and takes his place, still ahead of Fortu. With Fortu's Bastard sword adding its light to Barbella's, the room becomes much clearer. It's basically a massive, empty cellar, with a double dropped level in the centre making up a large pool about five to ten feet deep. The green, slimy 'pool' though, seems to be actively, if sluggishly, pursuing the three guards. 

Doberman is already caught inside the translucent creature's glistening outer membrane, while Henshaw and Barbella are trying to pull him out without being dragged in themselves. Liga Bur can't help but laugh at their incompetence. He forgets sometimes that they're just... Out-of-their-depth, town guards. Fortu though, does as his instincts command. Slicing through the slime feels little different to slicing through stone with his new sword, but rather than seem hurt or damaged, the separated blob of goo slithers across and up Fortu's steel-plated legs...

And they burn!

At his comrade's yell, Liga Bur's smile evaporates and he quickly reassesses the situation. The slime's alive but not intelligent. It's just pursuing food and, thanks to the training he received from his tribe’s Orc Shaman, he immediately knows what to do. With a few guttural chants and secret gestures, a large boar appears out of thin air between Henshaw and Barbella, just as they manage to heave the acid-burned Doberman out of the living gloop.

The entire Party escape back up the stone steps while the greenish ooze is distracted, enveloping and consuming the poor, screeching, summoned pig. As everyone rushes, wide-eyed past Rifkin, the barely Elven Bard can't help but ask...

"Dear God; What was that thing?!"

Of Orcs and Men

Barbella and Henshaw breathe a deep sigh of relief when they see their equipment neatly laid out on the long bench/table of the prep-room. Even more so, their gold, gems and especially their recently acquired magical items.

Not entirely sure what to expect, despite the Pit Overseer; Astley's brief explanation, they quickly help each other don their armour and re-arm themselves.

Doberman however, is still drooling at the myriad weapons hanging on the wall. Despite regaining his masterwork cold-iron longsword, he reaches up on tiptoe and grabs a two-handed Great axe. As he licks the blade longways to test its sharpness, his smile widens to the point that his rubbery lips seem at risk of splitting.

As soon as they're all ready, a guard, from the safety of being on the other side of the iron gate, instructs them to advance into the main arena itself. Once there, the trio of soldiers feel the three suns beat down on their three heads and hear the roar of the morning crowd.

Opposite, on the far side of the circular combat field, they spot their opponents. Three goggle wearing Orcs. Youngish but full grown... 

Barbella mouths to Henshaw,

"Three verses three... So, it's to be a fair fight?"

The straw-haired Henshaw looks over to Barbella and nods before placing a restraining hand on the already growling Doberman's shoulder...

"Stay." 

An abrupt chorus of bronze horns signals 'Ready?' and the leather clad Orcs make a series of threatening gestures with their axes. The gathering, morning crowd roar their approval.

Multiple shouts rise from the audience.

"Fifteen gold on the Orcs!"

"Ten gold against!"

Henshaw, sensing that winning the audiences' support is important, raises his shield and adopts a defensive pose, while signalling his cohorts to do the same. Barbella, crouching low, thrusts and twists his magical cold-iron short-sword, while Doberman grins stupidly, blood from his cut tongue staining his teeth red, as he chops at the sand with his oversized axe. 

Suddenly, the bronze chorus sounds for a second time and Henshaw releases his grip on Doberman's shoulder. Doberman instantly sprints forward, his speed incredible, considering his squat build, clumsy running style and burdensome chainmail armour.

The opposing Orcs also charge without regard to their own safety. One almost immediately clashes with Doberman, each slashing wildly at the other, their axes clashing loudly. The other two charge headlong towards the ready and waiting Barbella and Henshaw.

Henshaw in his newly acquired magical Breastplate, steps in front of Barbella and raises his large, magical, steel shield, making himself an obvious a target as possible.

It works, with both remaining Orcs attacking him on their charge.

Henshaw's defence though, is solid and holds against both attacks but his counter is weak. Almost half-arsed, with no real threat behind it. Barbella's however is vicious! Sneaking around to the side, he drives his magical, cold-iron short-sword deep into the exposed back of the distracted Orc warrior, who squeals, pig-like as he crumples to the ground, his blood already staining the sand beneath him.

The entire fight's over in less than a minute, with the dissatisfied crowd booing at the end. 

Doberman's opponent lies brutally dismembered; unnecessarily chopped into pieces, while the other two Orcs lie bleeding out on the sand in front of Henshaw and the rat-faced Barbella. 

Looking up, Henshaw nods at the nobleman's signal from high up on the carved, stone throne and lowers his sword in response. The battle is over and there's no benefit in killing their fallen opponents. Why not let these two Orcs live to die another day?

Finally, a third, sustained, horn chorus sounds and, even as stretcher-bearers run in to tend to the wounded Orcs, the iron gate the three Humans entered through, reopens and they're ushered back inside.