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King Tarok

Note to Readers: Thank you, everyone, for being so patient, I know it's been a while since I've posted on here, but I wanted to complete the last few chapters in a single go. Also, any donations would be very much appreciated, even a single dollar would go a long way to funding future projects and putting food on my table.

Clad in armor so old that it must have had a different name, Tarok eased the straps that dug into his sides. The breastplate, gauntlets, greaves, helmet, and pauldrons, passed down from his father, and from his father to him. The enchantments that were said to be imbued into the dark metal, were meant to give the wearer strength, the wisdom to rule, and a certain amount of resistance to magic. In any case that was not why he wore it. He wore it to prove a point that their society had not always abhorred violence. That when necessary they fought to defend what was theirs. But to him it was more than that, it was a reminder of his father, a wise man that had lost his life far too soon.

Helmet left behind him on white linen bed sheets, he walked out of the room, waited for the legionaries in the open corridor to form a square around him, and strode out across empty marble floors. Its walls lined with paintings of orc philosophers, scholars, and renowned inventors. The latter of which was mostly the work of gnomes who had created bulbs of light that never died, ships that had no need of sails, and telescopes that allowed them to gaze upon the heavens, and wonder what else was out there. The short distance between his chambers, and the Hall of Kings, made so that each reigning Highlord could be there to break deadlocks, or help vote in new laws.

This time however he was thankful for the short walk, not only because he sweated in the heavy armor, but because he feared his courage could fail him at any moment. He needed to be strong, confident, and steady, otherwise the Grand Council would tear him apart.

Head turned to gaze at Commander Gwen, an elven warrior that had been with him for many years, he wondered what was going on beyond those grey eyes? If she too was worried about the danger they would walk into? When she must have sensed his unease, and as always, she spoke as though giving herself advice. "In war, there can be no second thoughts. You work hard to make the plan perfect, then you adapt."

Which had been much more useful than her earlier advice to him, which was, "to just be an orc." Although he did think, her suggestions were more to nudge him along, rather than guide him.

Again half smiling at where his thoughts were leading him, he brought his attention back to what was in front of him. The servants that scurried out of his path, dressed in the gold and black livery of his House, and up ahead of him, the two great gilded doors that led into the Hall of Kings. Hallowed ground where those favored by the light chose the direction their Kingdom would move. The familiar voice that had spoken to him all those years ago as a child, there again as it whispered, "you will not fail me."

The voice, almost a part of Tarok, filling him with a sense of wonder, and life as he nodded his head for Gwen to begin.

Sharp elven features proud as she looked up at him, she bowed her head low, and thrust open the large golden doors to the Hall of Kings. The delicate scent of perfume thick in the air as hundreds of faces turned to watch him.

Palms sweaty with nervous energy, he told himself that this is what had to be done, before he strode out into a wide circular chamber. Its seats shaped into three consecutive half-moons that arched around him, while behind them stood large golden monuments that had been formed into pillars. Each of them representing an unbroken chain of Kings from the time of Balrik the Conqueror, to his own father Harkon the Wise, the path between them a journey of war, famine, and barbarism. The chamber itself illuminated with a rich golden light that came from the glass dome above, while seated all around Tarok were orcs in garishly bright robes with jewel-encrusted cuffs, rings on fingers, and silver medallions that hung from necks.

Quieted by his sudden presence, they waited for him to approach the center of the dome, where they would be allowed to address him as equals, a rule instituted long ago to create fairness. But as he listened to the derisive snorts and comments of disgust at his armor, he could only feel a wave of burning anger at how far they had fallen. They were meant to be the best of the orcish people, but after years of indolence, they had forgotten fear, forgotten war, and forgotten what it meant to be an orc. Even he had trouble reconciling the past with the present.

Standing there before the judgemental eyes of his people, he gestured for Gwen to assemble her warriors. The legionaries who knew what to do, forming a line right behind him, and rapping swords to shields. The resounding sound, cutting off all talk as the lords stared down at him, expressions filled with horror at the sight of bared steel. Counselors Velhime and Burgrum, the most influential members of the hall, already up on their feet, their faces flushed red.

But before they could demand anything, Tarok spoke softly. "I know the council has a great deal to ask me this day. But by the favor of the light, I will speak first, and pray you heed my words. For what I say now, not only effects us, but our people.

"War has come again. And for the third time in four generations we are faced with an inscrutable enemy that shows no remorse. An enemy that has enslaved our people. An enemy that slaughters those that serve to protect us."

Gaze shifting to meet each one of them, he felt a prickle of fear as Burgrum remained standing, but forced himself to continue. "Some of you will say that they can be defeated. But I say now never in the histories of our people have we faced an enemy such as this. If we do not act now, nothing of Orkeylium will remain. Which is why I invoke the Law of Need, and place it before the council. As the Lord of War, I demand that every orc and orca that can fight, ride with me to defend our homeland!"

And as the chaos erupted around him, the voice spoke to him again, "you have done well, my child," and Tarok smiled, and replied, "blessed be the will of Lord Sezarath, God of Death."

~*~

+10 HP.

Floating on endless seas of darkness, Gregor saw the woman again, her slim arms wrapped around his waist as he breathed in her sweet scent, and looked down into swirling pools of violet. Her every breath, and shiver, sending a chill up his spine as he tried to shield her from the cold. The familiar streets of Harthorn quiet for the moment, except for the few beggars that huddled together for warmth.

Unsure how he had gotten here or why? All Gregor knew was that he had to protect her. Protect her from the rest of the world. Her small frame pressed in so close to his, he could feel every time she breathed, and the steady beat of her heart. She just seemed so fragile.

Eyes locked together as he thought about what he would do to anyone that dared harm her, he felt anger boil up inside, when she touched his cheek affectionately. "I need you, Gregor."

Entranced by the waves of dark hair that fell down her bare shoulders, he replied, "tell me, and I will do it."

And like a light shining in the darkness, she smiled up at him. "You know what you have to do. Find my brother..."

...Head still spinning from the memory, Gregor could feel his eyes begin to flutter as they struggled to open, and found himself on a small stone bed with Khorasan hovering over him. The old elven sage, for once looking utterly disheveled in his stained white robes, long silver hair a tangled mess of twigs and mud, and great white beard unkempt as he sifted through ingredients in his leather satchel, and laid them out on a table by the wall. The domed room they were in, missing a large chunk of masonry from the roof that allowed golden sunlight to flood the chamber. Its whitewashed walls plain, and undecorated as Khorasan wrung his hands in frustration, when he realized Gregor was awake.

Brown eyes flooded with relief, he let out a heavy breath, and shook his head sadly. "I wasn't so sure you would wake up this time. Not once I had learned what had happened here, but then I suppose I should have known better than to underestimate you humans."

Head slowly lifted up from the rock-hard bed, he looked out through the doorway, and saw dozens of steel-clad figures moving through the streets, helms gleaming in the morning suns. And not for the first time, he wondered how they could stand the heat in that armor? Before he rasped out, "the giant?"

"Slain, although I fear things are far more complicated than I had first believed." Light brown eyes turned serious, Khorasan pushed Gregor back down as he spoke, "I believe this trap was meant for you, my friend."

Head swirling with images of the woman in the fur-lined coat, Gregor only grunted, not in the least bit surprised.

Khorasan however clearly expecting more of a reaction, let out an exasperated sigh, "Sometimes I think you humans, enjoy your ignorance way too much. Especially when knowledge could provide you with so many answers."

Wincing at a particularly sharp stab of pain in his chest, Gregor used his hands to search his body for any wounds, and found nothing. Not even a scar. Not even the old scars he had taken from years of fighting.

Mouth half gaping in disbelief, he wanted to ask the elf if this was his doing? But having turned his back upon him again, Khorasan seemed focused on explaining what had gone on in town, his elaborate hand gestures flourishing in the air.

Not really caring one way or another so long as the giant was dead, Gregor swung his feet out from the bed, and felt his head spin with exhaustion, before he sat up. His gaze taking in the single portrait on the wall of a stout matronly orca, shelves lined with books, and a fireplace that had a small fire going. Gregor’s one glance around the room, revealing nothing of value as he grumbled, "now what is it you were telling me about this trap."

Wrinkled old face a mask of delight at the question, Khorasan swung back around, and slung his satchel over his shoulder. "Well that is the most curious thing, Gregor. As I told you before, this place must have been placed under a very powerful curse. It may be safe for us at the moment, but over time it will twist our souls, and turn us into mindless beasts, while keeping our bodies very much alive. As such it requires a great deal of magical energy. But returning to my point, as soon as the giant died it transformed back into a Dark One, one sent here to deal with you or perhaps the dregs of the Legion? I’m not so certain. Either way, it seems you have gained their attention, at least that was as much as I could get out of the blackheart before he died."

Startled if not a little taken aback by the idea the giant was really a mage sent after him, Gregor turned his gaze back to the busy street, and felt...he supposed he wasn't really sure what he was meant to feel. Perhaps in another time or place he would have felt fear at being hunted down again, but since realizing Caroline wanted him dead...he felt nothing.

Expression hardened by the last memory of her watching him leave, he wanted to forget that part of his life entirely. But then he would forget Kira as well. And he could never do that.

Back muscles stiff and painful from lying on a slab of stone for the gods alone knew how long, he stretched himself up, and caught Khorasan's arm as he was about to fall. The incredibly rail thin elf surprisingly strong, moving quickly to support him, before Gregor thrust him away. "I can stand on my own."

A twinkle flashing in his hazel-colored eyes, Khorasan bowed his head slightly as though to tell him he was being a fool, before Gregor shoved aside a table, and stepped back out into the glorious sunlight. It was a new day, and with the suns high in the sky, Gregor meant to make the most of it. Although in truth, he had no real idea of what to do next besides make some gold.

Streets washed clean by last night’s rain, he watched soldiers pick their way through the rubble, winged helms burnished to a high gleam as they dragged out bodies from what was left of the town, and wondered how many from his own squadron had survived. The mounds of corpses that stretched all the way back down the road, covered in white bedsheets, and smelling no better than yesterday. The warriors that worked to bring them out of the round domed buildings, nodding their heads to Gregor as they passed him by, and murmuring to Khorasan a warm greeting.

Apparently the mage's efforts last night was the talk of the town, which pricked Gregor's pride more than he thought it would, considering he had taken the brunt of the battle.

Brown eyes moist with unshed tears as the elf stood by his side, Khorasan said not a word, yet his expression told its own tale, his sunken skin, and lips drawn tight showed a man at the edge of his rope. Living for so long, the wizened old elf should have been used to death by now, but Gregor had to admit it was different killing warriors, to unarmed mudsaps who had not the brains to defend themselves. He wouldn't shed a tear for them, but he did feel a touch of remorse at their deaths, not that he could have stopped it.

Head shaking before he even realized what he was doing, he started away down the street, eager to be away from this cursed town, when he thought he heard a muffled cry.

Ears pricked up at the strange noise, Gregor had been so certain everyone was dead, but if there was a survivor?...Well there could always be a reward.

Head cocked to the side as he glanced down one of the side alleyways that ran between more homes, he could see more undead orcs piled up in the streets, hanging from the windows, and reaching out from the sewers below, when he heard it again. A sort of squeaking sound but much louder.

Head turned to exchange cautious looks with Khorasan, he wasn't exactly sure why he decided to follow the sound, but he quickly moved around the next bend. His shoulders hunched over as he scanned the cracked and broken stonework of the street with entire homes collapsed on their sides, and heard the muffled cry again. This time much closer.

Eyes swiveling to examine the glint of metal behind a roundhouse with half its wall missing, he raced over towards it, and found a small wooden hatch with a metal handle, and tugged it open.

The rising dust and sweltering smell of an unwashed body hitting Gregor's nostrils hard, when he all but gaped in shock at the sight of a gnome, blinking wide green eyes up at him. Dressed in a worn-out blue frock with a grey shawl wrapped around her shoulders, she had the look of someone who hadn't seen sunlight in days, with pale scrawny flesh, and bedraggled grey hair that she tried to straighten up, before she gave up with a sigh.

It must have been minutes before the gnome even realized Gregor was even there, and held out her slim arm to him. "Well, what are you waiting for, you great big hairy ape, pull me out already."

Startled if not surprised a little by her brusk tone, he leaned down to help her, after which she smacked him hard on the rump, and said, "that's a good boy, next time be quicker about it, and I won't have to spank you."

Face livid with rage, he suddenly got this incredible urge to squeeze that paper-thin neck of hers, when Khorasan who was close enough to hear the last part let out a loud chortle of amusement. "Be calm Gregor, I believe she is quite harmless."

To which she had the audacity to continue, "now run along, and fetch me some tea. I haven't had anything to drink but rainwater for days."

Hands brushed across her skirt as she smiled up at him expectantly, he forced himself to take a step backward, a part of himself picturing his sword in her gut, when he was saved by the appearance of a legionary. The grim-eyed dwarf in steel armor that overlapped like scales, tilted his head down in a slight show of respect. "The Lord Captain Commander, wishes to see both of you."

Gregor who had more than enough of the crazed gnome, nodding his head to the soldier, and quickly following him back out of the alleyway, when he realized that the blasted woman was trailing after them.

Head half turned to Khorasan, he whispered, "Use your magic, and get rid of her already."

But the silver bearded mage simply shrugged his shoulders. "She seems harmless enough, Gregor, and perhaps we can learn more about this attack."

Teeth ground together at each of his words, Gregor wanted to argue that he had enough tagalongs as it was, but when he glanced back over his shoulder, he saw that the small diminutive woman was talking to herself. Her green eyes staring into the suns before she shot him a knowing smile that made him shiver. Whatever she was. She was not harmless.

Led back out onto the familiar stone-paved streets of Mulk, Gregor couldn't help but notice the air of weariness that hung over them as groups of warriors eyed each other, and the surrounding buildings. Their work to clear the road slowed down by rubble as they filled wagons high with sacks of grain, meat, and barrels of fish, while teams of centaurs angrily stamped their hooves as they were harnessed to the wagons. The borels that would usually be given this task, nowhere to be seen as Gregor tried hard not to laugh at their misery. Not that he wasn’t still tempted to poke fun at them for being used like cattel, but he thought better of it, and moved on. The studded metal gates that arched high over their heads, slowly swung open to let the column back out into the countryside.

Gregor who had never been so relieved to leave such a place behind, hurrying away, when he noticed the wrinkly old gnome staring off into the distance, her expression thoughtful, or perhaps forlorn?

(Ask her what's wrong?)

Releasing a heavy sigh as though he was going to regret doing this, he asked, "what's wrong?"

And for a wonder her face softened into a warm smile, her eyes somehow older as she replied, "Why nothing, dear child, just losing my home?"

Head shaking as he heard Khorasan bite back a laugh, he glared at the elderly mage, and wanted to beat the gnome with her own leg, when she continued on with a heavy sigh, "I've lived here my entire life. I've grown up with these people. They were the kindest, most generous souls I could ever have hoped to find, and now they are all gone."

Tears trickling out of her weary eyes, she raised a hand to her cheek. "Samwell the Baker used to rise each morning to layout bread in the suns. Tanela would teach birds to sing. Graynold would always return from his hunt with a broad smile and a tale to tell. And dear Lilly would add flowers to our windows. They were my world, child, and now they are all gone."

Unable to hold her gaze any longer, he turned away, and left her to mourn. Sometimes words were not enough.

+2 Morale.

(Say nothing.)

Not really in the mood to hear her complaints, he turned away.

Head tucked down into his shoulders as he was hit by flurries of white frost that drifted out of the morning sky, he watched the camp draw closer, blanketing a wide flat hilltop, and covered by a thick sprawl of patchwork tents in three distinctive rings. The first being grey tents for the soldiers, colorful tents for the refugees, and at the top a single black tent, that had to be Thoradar's.

It was to Gregor's mind much like a small city, with smoke rising up into the air, women drying out clothes in the suns, and the steady buzz of voices as merchants and peddlers called out their wares.

Passing through the outer ring where the legionaries had pitched their drab grey tents, Gregor saw more than a few hard faces eye him warily. The warriors that stood in camp, busy sharpening blades, standing over cookpots, or fighting each other in brutal melees, surrounded by onlookers. The sour looks that were shot towards him, none too pleased at his appearance, when a tall wiry looking human with the left side of his face badly burnt, stood up to block his path, along with two of his turd ugly troll friends, their wooden lips curved into sneers.

With long flame-colored hair, dark brown eyes, and a long hooked nose that had seen one too many punches, the man rasped out, "I heard you got some of our boys killed," and thrust a hard finger into Gregor's chest, "Is that true?"

Mind flashing red, he could dimly hear Khorasan telling him to walk away, but Gregor had never walked away from anything.

(Provoke a fight.)

Cold gaze full of murderous intent, he locked eyes with the soldier and his cronies, and replied back, "and what if it is?"

Face a mask of fury, the soldier's shortsword tried to leave its sheath, when Gregor's longsword flashed out, and was at the man's throat in an instant.

Forehead beaded with sweat and quivering visibly, the man looked about ready to sick up with fear, when Khorasan laid an arm across Gregor's shoulder. "This is not the way, his death will prove nothing."

But that was not entirely true, his death would make Gregor feel much better, although judging by the dangerous expressions on the onlookers, they would not be pleased.

(Kill him.)

Blade sawing across the man's throat to gush out warm blood onto his forearm, Gregor had a brief moment of satisfaction as the worm slumped to the ground, before all hell broke loose. Soldiers, their faces mad with grief, came at Gregor from all sides, even as Khorasan raised up his arms to plead for his life, when a dagger slipped into Gregor's spine.

Stunned as he spun about in a daze, he screamed in agony, infuriated by their cowardice, when a sword stroke slashed across his back, followed by a bright flash of light that blinded him.

Tears filling his eyes as he fell to the ground, he could hear Khorasan trying to staunch his wounds as he whispered, "why, Gregor? Why?..."

Death.

(Cut him.)

Blade trembling from the effort of not killing the man outright, he eventually let out a heavy sigh, and turned his stroke into a slash that opened up the man's left thigh. The thin deep cut, dropping him quickly to the ground as Gregor circled past, and smiled at his fumbling attempts to stop the bleeding.

That would show the bastard not to go around making empty accusations.

+1 Morale.

(Let him leave.)

Blade trembling from the effort of not killing him outright, Gregor eventually let out a heavy sigh, and said, "go, before I change my mind."

The look of surprise in the man's brown eyes, almost enough for Gregor to want to poke them out anyway, before the fool stumbled away, pushing his way through the crowd of onlookers.

His face beaming with pride, Khorasan grinned at him, and slapped him on the back. "I'll make a hero out of you yet," and waved his arm, "now come on, Thoradar will want to hear from us."

The gnome who had remained silent all the while, giving Gregor a slight nod of approval, and tugging at her grey shawl as white frost whipped through the air.

+1 Morale

(Walk away.)

Arms trembling from the effort of not killing the man, Gregor forced himself to let go of the sword hilt, and continued on around him. The laughter and insults that floated up from behind, ignored for the most part as Khorasan, his face beaming with pride, grinned at Gregor, and slapped him on the back. "I'll make a hero out of you yet."

The gnome who had remained silent all the while, giving Gregor a slight nod of approval, and tugging at her grey shawl as white frost whipped through the air.

+1 Morale

Gregor didn't know if Guiram or the others had survived the battle in town, but he hoped they had. There were few warriors in this world that were as brave as them, and they deserved better than a death at the hands of the giant or the undead.

Continuing up the gentle slope into the main camp where thousands of orcs toiled to make this hell hole livable, Gregor thought the smell from the encampment couldn't get any worse. At least not any worse from the ditches the legionaries had dug up outside the ring of stakes and had filled with their own feces, but he was wrong. The nauseating stench of unwashed bodies, woodsmoke, and the unmistakable smell of sickness clawed at his insides, and made him want to vomit.

He'd always known disease and starvation to be a common enough problem in armies, but when he looked around at the thin faces that peered out of the tents with sunken eyes, their bodies as emaciated as stalks, he knew this to be different. Most of these people would not survive for long.

But more to the point, he could tell by the frantic twitching of his friend's long pointed ears that Khorasan wanted to stop and help them. But what could one mage really do for so many?

(Be honest.)

Head turned aside to avoid the elf's fervent gaze, Gregor spoke loud enough for him to hear. "Even with all your power, you won't be able to save them, and those you don't help will hate you for it." A harsh lesson Gregor was often reminded of every day, when farmers lost their crops, then blamed him for not being quick enough to drive off the beasties, and resented him for taking their gold. And after all he had done to save their miserable hides.

+1 Morale.

(Be harsh.)

Head turned aside to avoid the elf's fervent gaze, Gregor spoke loud enough for him to hear. "Killing yourself to save them will make no difference. They will still die, and you along with them." A harsh lesson Gregor was often reminded of every day, when farmers lost their crops, then blamed him for not being quick enough to drive off the beasties, and resented him for taking their gold. And after all he had done to save their miserable hides.

+1 Morale.

Nostrils flaring at the recollection it took a moment for him to realize he was at the flat peak of the hill, and strode towards the large black tent. The two brightly colored banners that hung from polearms outside, guarded mostly by dwarves in full legionary armor with winged helms newly polished, and led by a stone-faced dwarf that looked to be part werewolf with a large bristly black beard and big hairy arms.

Hands folded across his barrel chest, he glared up at Gregor with sharp blue eyes, and growled, "What's yer business 'ere, human?"

Lips twisted into a sneer at the question, Gregor had the sudden urge to say he had come here to rip out his tongue, when Khorasan quickly intervened. "We've been summoned here by the Captain."

Easily recognizable in his snowy white robes, long grey beard, and by the haughty demeanor that was so typical of elves, the dwarf bowed his head slightly, and replied, "Apologies, Master Wizard, but the Cap'in, did nae wish to be disturbed."

Smiling broadly as though all was forgiven, Khorasan held up his arms, before his face became somber and hard. "He will want to see us." The air of danger that suddenly surrounded the mage, so dark and full of menace, Gregor wanted to shy away, when the dwarf nodded his head hurriedly.

Grinning from ear to ear at his reaction, and the feeling of fear dissipating, Gregor found himself shaking his head in appreciation. So the wily old mage had some tricks up his sleeve. Perhaps he wasn't so useless after all, and pushed his way inside the tent.

Greeted by the smell of warm braziers that kept out the cold, the newly promoted High Captain Thoradar was probably one of the hardest dwarves Gregor had ever met, with icey blue eyes, a square jawline that bristled with a thick black beard, and a face that barely held any flesh.

With deeply weathered skin, the bluff-faced dwarf did not much like Gregor, and he could say the same. But Gregor had to admit the warrior had a talent for organization, and discipline. Most forces by now would have fragmented apart with so much chaos and death around them, and yet he held them all together in an iron fist.

Waved inside with barely a glance upward, the dwarf was studying bits of parchment in one hand, before he laid them down on a roughly drawn-out map of Orkeylium that detailed farms, villages, towns, and cities. As well as Gregor noted a great many black dots that covered the entire borders of Caldashar and Kahloon with blue dots converging towards them. Each of the dots was annotated with numbers, casualties, and supplies, and what seemed to be a sizable force gathering at Karx.

Much like the dwarf himself, the tent was sparsely furnished with Thoradar dressed in a plain red coat and black pantaloons. The desk he stood behind made of a hard stately blackwood that had the reputation for being able to withstand a storm, and at the back of the tent a storage chest with blankets piled up on top.

Steel-blue eyes furrowed as the dwarf looked up at them, Thoradar raised a questioning eyebrow at the gnome who had followed them inside, before he returned his attention back to Khorasan with a dark scowl. "Well, mage, you care to explain why eight of my scouts are missing?"

Left hand unconsciously brushing through his grey beard to pull out twigs and bark, Khorasan tilted his head slightly as though listening to something, before he replied, "I have yet to complete a thorough study of the area, but I believe we may face a far greater threat than we first assumed. The dark mage whoever he was, was sent to this town for a purpose, and I believe that purpose was meant to deal with stragglers such as ourselves who would seek the safety of four walls, as well as other underlying factors." This he said with a pointed look in Gregor's direction, before he finished, "As it is, I believe there may be nowhere for us to shelter from the coming storm, and I advise that we move quickly from this place. There's no telling how far this curse could spread."

Eyes turned to shards of glass at each word, Thoradar ground his teeth in a snarl, before he threw his head back in a harsh bark of laughter. "If only it were so simple, guardian. To the east our scouts report nothing but burnt-out villages and towns, while to the North and South, there are nothing but rampaging armies of ogres, giants, and goblins."

Expression weary with exhaustion, Thoradar scrubbed a hand through his matted dark hair, and let out another bitter laugh. "There is nowhere left for us to run, mage. Either we make our stand here, or we'll all die." And with that he pulled a small metal flask out of his pocket and began to drink, and Gregor wished he could do the same.

Gregor

More somber than he had ever felt in a long time, Gregor left Thoradar's tent behind, his mind elsewhere as he thought about what he was doing here? Khorasan who seemed to understand that he needed time to be alone, murmuring something about coming to visit his tent, and figuring out a way to unlock his power. But Gregor was in no mood to play with magic.

Surrounded by the quiet bustle of activity as orcs hurried past him, Gregor stood there alone, or at least thought he stood alone, when one of Thoradar's warriors let out a loud harrumph of annoyance from behind him.

Head twisted back around to see the dwarven legionaries glowering at him, he moved a short distance a way to stand watch over the tent city, that lay stretched out for many miles with the town of Mulk close by. His thoughts churning like a millstone as he listened to the breeze, felt the gusts of white snowflakes that pebbled his skin, and made his breath mist in the cold.

He was a mercenary, a warrior born to battle, and yet here he was guarding two children, and for the life of him, he could not understand why? They were not Kira. And could never be her. Yet, he stayed when common sense alone should have told him that it was time to leave. That this was not his fight. But all he could hear at the back of his mind was the woman's cackles of laughter as though she knew something he did not.

Fists clenched to stop himself from screaming with frustration, he barely heard the crunch of footsteps in the frost-covered grass, when a soft voice spoke to him from behind. "It is sometimes hard to let go, but the past is as much an enemy of the present." The gnome's words which were meant to soothe Gregor, instead burning him with anger. It was as if the whole world was determined to entangle him in their problems.

"Why are you still here, gnome?!"

Lips pursed in a faint smile, she ignored his dark scowls, and gazed northward towards the mountains, to the glistening snow-capped peaks that rose high into the clouds, appearing so beautiful and peaceful. Gregor, who had never much cared for the snow, praying that he had more time before the first snowstorms, when she touched his arm. The gnome's fingers surprisingly warm against his own flesh as she replied, "I cannot tell you why I am here, child, and in the future, you will address me as Serela. Otherwise I may have to punish you."

Unable to hide his amusement at the threat from the small woman, he wanted to laugh in her face, but found himself empty of all mirth. The fickleness of the gods being as they were, he thought things could not get any worse for him. And as always he was wrong.

Lights flaring off in the distance, his hand immediately sped towards his sword hilt, before it took him a moment to realize that the light had come from within the forest. A dense outcropping of woodland that covered much of the northlands with patches of clearings in between. The thick forestation called Tyrelesia, named for some long-ago dead queen.

Stiffening as he noticed the battered remnants of a patrol squadron in their dented armor and winged helms, he watched them come from the forest like ghosts. Each of them covered head to toe in blood, and dragging weapons and kite shields behind them. The outer ring of guards that stood watch at the ditch's perimeter, quickly rushing out to help them, while Gregor kept his gaze fixed on the woods, his mind running through all sorts of possibilities.

If it were him out there, and planning an assault on this hilltop, he would be waylaying patrols, killing every single scout, before positioning forces in and around them. And given that the dark mage towers could appear anywhere, Gregor had the sick feeling that his luck was about to run out, and quickly started away down the slope, followed by Serela. The gnome's sea-green eyes deep in thoughtful contemplation as Gregor wondered how to be rid of her? But more importantly what he was going to do? He couldn't stay here, and yet leaving Lytan and Sara behind would be certain death for them.

What do you do?

Choice 1. Investigate the forest?

Choice 2. Check on Lytan and Sara?