“The worm Dure hears, but does he understand? Supercilious behaviour is not proper for lowly servants.” An all-too-familiar, hatefully sickening voice made the poorly dressed teenager in patched-up servant clothing pause in the hasty repair work of his allotted, tattered tent.

Actually, he’d have preferred to play dumb over showing any reaction, but by encountering a certain duo in such a confined space, Dure had no sweet leeway. Not with other snotty, sneering, primitive creatures around him that probably couldn’t turn traitor fast enough.

The bitter servant just had to bite the bullet like so often in recent years and hope to be done with it soon without unjustly incurring their high and mighty wrath. But not all was lost.

From his memories, Dure retrieved that as long as there was nothing interesting going on–––such as conveniently discovering treason and the like–––he should be left alone soon enough.

“Yes, M’lady. Right away, m’lady.” He dully turned around in rehearsed submissiveness and looked as demanded at the soot-covered ground, silently getting ready for another barrage of insults that, as Duer feared, followed suit.

“Let the stinking corpse go before the air elsewhere. Does he desire to infect us with the plague known as idiocy?” Dure almost burst out in a belittling fit of laughter for the duo’s mental retardation was well-known to the clan’s upper echelon and certainly didn’t need his contamination at all.

Alas, he wasn’t seen all too differently and, moreover, Dure's reality was strenuous enough as is, he absolutely hadn’t any need for more attention that might blow his cover.

Just which servant could afford to offend the spoiled, ignorant, brain-dead brat donning the most high-class and colourful dress he’d ever seen? Looking at her, it was as if this most dangerous expedition was but a routinely scheduled picnic in the backyard.

Though, given how many layers of human lives there were between them and disaster incarnate, it was more likely for everybody else to die first than them getting scratched by man-eating foliage.

Curses. Who told him to have no backing at all? While the two in front were… what pesticide was required for. The life of the likes of him was expendable to the point no clansman had felt a thing as deaf Tom was cut into thousand pieces by normal-looking ivy.

All they were concerned themselves with was ranting on and on about how disgusting a puddle he'd left behind! Some had even joked at how foolish he was to get done in by mere vegetation! Everyone and their lice had conveniently forgotten they too disgracefully shook in their boots at the grisly sight.

Having not expected an uncommunicative answer just that short of deadpan silence, the girl’s next scathing words remained stuck in her throat. The other reason for why she’d been forsaken. There was nothing going on in that skull of hers.

'How is it even possible for someone growing up under the almighty protection of the Patriarch–––fed with a golden spoon no less–––to suffer from that many insecurities?' Dure couldn't help but question. However, her companion in uselessness had no such misgivings.

The dandyish teenager with the face of a pig to which some gel-dipping plumes had been glued to, stepped outside his missus shadow like the yapping puppy he was.

As he took in all the good air around them, the sorry excuse of a young master puffed himself up to score high. With an authoritarian voice reminiscent of an obese sausage dog whose tail had caught fire, he squeaked right away.

“Treacherous scamp, is such the mannerism a graciously fed donkey shows his masters? M’lady? At my glorious return, I shall personally suggest rather feed the pigs.”

Buttface the Second spat in utter contempt both questionable words and a bottle worth of spittle. “How many times is it already? Not m’lady but my gracious, ever-beautiful, kind lady?”

While his reward was a coquettish giggle from the sidelines that even ghosts would find daunting, the pimp surely thought otherwise. Instead of feeling ashamed, he pushed out his chicken breast, taking a pose reminiscent of a victorious gladiator surviving the bloody arena.

Dure, however, couldn’t care less about this nonsense. He was aware of the sole reason the lowliest caste of servants got the delicacies they do. '...because even pigs refuse the ill-reeking slime glued to our plate twice a day.'

And pigs could hardly be forced to eat their meals, couldn’t they? Even in case there was a way, the getup necessary wasn’t worth it at all. But humans would, if desperate enough. They simply weren't comparable at all!

The destitute servant thought the same. Over the years, Dure had safely concluded that a single pig’s worth was greater than the lives of five of his colleagues added. “Of course, Eldest Young Master.” He paused slightly. “Very well, my lady.”

There was no change to his stupid expression whatsoever and only he knew how hard that was to achieve. “...what a waste of time–––dear, let’s go! I’ve seen a multicoloured hen being delivered to the kitchen. Don’t you wonder if it lays multicoloured eggs too? Or spits rainbows and not blood?”

The spoiled bitch nodded intrigued, and the unwelcome couple finally retired from the most miserable servants’ meat-shield quarters surrounding the camp’s outermost perimeter.

At long last, Dure safely clenched his wrinkly hands into fists and bit his cracked underlip bloody, yet didn’t dare to utter a peep. Notwithstanding a few days passed since death was no longer a ghastly spectre but gracious liberation, he absolutely couldn’t die yet before fulfilling his wish.

Pretending to be stupid, clumsy and foolish had been his ticket back to salvation, once his terms of service were over. He’d have raced back to the one and only my lady he acknowledged with all his heart–––alas!

Without noticing the pain, Dure slowly bit his tongue bloody. His sunshine... both had been played with like a fiddle. Dure knew too much about the Balen Clan to have anything left other than contempt.

If only his giggling friends knew what they were getting into... but the lucky ones didn’t, they had no trouble falling asleep at night and meeting their butcher with submissive smiles the day after.

Blissful ignorance. The servant cursed at God and the world. Heartless the former, brutal the latter. It was no place worth staying in. As Dure was already here among the forsaken and without a way out, there was but one thing he could do: Continuing the farce.

This was necessary if he desired no deadly attention to befall him, or worse, to ostracise his last-ditch effort in screwing over the clansmen. Compared to the void in his chest, the two hated puppets of the Balen Clan were worth nothing. Not even an appetiser.

Eventually, he calmed down in time and was seen walking back to his tent, resuming his patch-up work as if these hurtful events were but something he didn’t understand at all.

“Hahahahah, good brothers and ole sisters, you’ll never guess what I caught sniffing around our camp!” A barely covered, strongly built, red-haired, macho scout laughed unbridled as he headed for the central area, his big strides an impressive show of overconfidence.

With a fidgeting sack over the shoulders and a mischievous grin on his sun-baked face, he was just about to make more of a row when the subsequent words remained stuck in his throat.

The culprit was a chilly grunt that instantly put a stop to his folly. “F-first Elder, t-to what do I owe the honour...?” The big man bowed his head in awe and glanced nervously out of the corner of his eyes towards the old man angrily massaging his temples that had appeared out of nowhere.

“Sigh. How can I stay far with all this noise?” The redhead swallowed audibly. “But t-there are only stupid orcs here…” A crowd of curious vultures smelling the blood soon formed an almost airtight circle around the bickering people.

High up the social ladder and normally out of reach, it was as if they lived in different worlds. While curiosity animated most, there was no servant who didn't keep a respectful distance in case someone needed to vent their anger on the nearest brainless fool there was.

“Darn brat,” the demure old man punched his face with enough force to scare away a nasty fly. A punch that wasn’t much besides a warning to the buff man, and a very friendly one at that considering it came from the most hot-headed elder in the clan.

“Orcs alone don’t call for sublime frippery. They are mere brutes, you can think of them as pigs in garbs, incapable of sophisticated thoughts and civilised motions.

They either stir the dirt they live in, or rape what catches their primitive fancy all day long–––decorum be damned. Orcs are vermin that'd be best slaughtered at first sight. I'm not concerned about them.

There are other... mmh... things out here.” A tense smile crept across First Elder’s shrivelled lips before he stared with hawk-like eyes at the squirming sack, intending to ask an obvious question.

“What the bloody hell’s that noise about? My nap. How do you lowly peasants compensate me now!” First Elder was forced to close his mouth after unfinished business, for their show got gloriously stolen by an excessively loudmouthed squeal.

He angrily snorted similar to what a running locomotive would do as a warning, and pressure befell the unlucky fellow, squeezing all air out of his lungs and making him shut up straightaway.

After the death-seeking cook had dared kick them out of the kitchen for wanting to butcher the lazy hen, a certain duo found it scandalous to interact with any other bloody idiot and went for a nap in the vicinity.

As a result, the ongoing verbal exchange woke them up and led to the current situation. “S-s-sorry,” the screamer squealed as he hyperventilated. “Hendá,” the spoiled brat was his great-grandson, but the conceited elder had never shown him any affection.

First Elder couldn’t be bothered further. “Let the man out of the sack.” One command received and sack dropped later, and a filthy, obviously male humanoid creature promptly stuck his head probingly out of the created opening.

Then the captive no longer moved. If not for the obvious lack of green hue staining the skin tone, the spectators would've suspected the creature to be a young orc: That one ticked all the boxes!

It took First Elder some precious minutes to realise he was waiting for nothing. The bundle of dirt and rags must’ve been paralysed from his unrestricted energy waves as he’d audaciously dared to lock eyes.

To a Balen that had reached the rank of elder, he had long since been granted access to the most abstruse cultivation insight manuals in their collection. Among these, he had mastered a few–––one of which had to do with the eyes...

Feeling totally glum, he eventually came to the obvious conclusion it was on him to undo the side-effects, or he was better served taking up roots. With immense displeasure, First Elder touched the breathing dirtbag and let immediately go once he succeeded in what he set off to do.

Thunderous face aside, after the deed was done, he wordlessly wiped–––much to the pussy’s annoyance–––his hands clean on Hendá’s ridiculously pompous pants, before he got his bearing back. “Speak,” he sizzled as the curtains officially rose for the last act.

Dure was also among the rubbernecks. Not because he wanted to, hell no. The man was simply forced to attend, else he'd have stood out too much, which bode ill. Dure sighed, his feelings ever so wavering between contempt and disgust.

The First Elder was... Well, he knew the cruel man and his insidious fits of anger. As a servant, he’d experience in that regard, fortunately never first-hand. Still, it sufficed to know the man’s victims never appeared again.

The poor prisoner sure was going to suffer. First, a glimmer of hope, some nice words, some pats here and there–––then when all beans were spilt, a miserable end followed suit. 'So it starts.'

Few were surprised by the wretch’s forced acquaintance with the old man’s dreaded leather strap–––a piece adorned with hellish barbs one can be sure it struck flesh at every swing. The light exercise was followed suit by a repulsive session of soft murmurs.

Dure had no need for words to get the meaning. First Elder always employed the same proven psychological trick. A double-edged glimmer of hope. Something along the lines of: Circumstances require the friendly elder to be harsh, but he has always been on your side...

Dure could puke. The problem was, most bought his bullshit. As if to confirm just that, the energetic captive pulled out two magical knives, whose mysterious power made all onlookers’ hair stand on end, their grimaces bloated from greed. Relics, no doubt.

He waved them around, face glowing with pride. Mentioned some deceased kind father several times, ancient history now. In between, he mentioned many troublesome details concerning certain two villages.

‘That idiot.’ Dure shook his head once more. 'That. Bloody. Idiot!' The knives were out, the elder’s greed roused… his demise set in stone.

Yet, strangely enough, the elderly, selfish man hesitated for some odd reason. All the while the oblivious stranger merrily continued praising his knives, loudly declaring his heirlooms kept evil spirits at bay, protected against the accursed totems and made one experience their weak points.

Mediums of convergence for pagan power could be felled in one swing! Dure didn’t know what face to make any longer. The show was just that rotten, and so was the man in power. First Elder smiled gently. A sickening sight akin to horizontally split, hairy asscheeks.

It wasn’t hard to amass some wealth in this world, yet only a few had a fist big enough to justify such and keep what caught others’ fancy. Suddenly, the atmosphere changed dramatically.

With the mangy pussycat having overcome her sleepiness, she joined the celebrities’ circle. Thus, it was only a matter of time before her eyes turned to hearts at the sight of such fine knives.

“Now he’s definitely done for...” Dure muttered into his unkempt stubbly beard, a shudder crawling down his tingling spine. Indeed, shortly after, the bitch screamed in nauseatingly high pitch, took a fancy to the goodies, accused the man of smuggling, of theft...

For Dure, Leinná had reached a new abyssal level of low, even though he’d previously believed she couldn’t sink further. Of course, what good ol’princess wished for, the eager fool would grant her. 'It's always been like that.'

That brainless admirer of hers quickly forgot about his great grandfather's presence and whatnot, reached the prisoner, pulled a swift one between his legs before grabbing the goodies after one hell of a desperate bloodcurdling scream had ravaged their ears and the wretch had passed out cold.

The crowd flinched unanimously. Some men even went as far as to check on their family jewels, for fear they didn’t withstand the scream. The forgotten First Elder–––his face ever so red and blue–––kicked madly at the misbehaving ape who had put them all in danger, letting loose a barrage of offensive, equally loud curses and a pond’s worth of spittle.

‘The apple falls not far from the tree, indeed.’ Dure laughed self-depreciatingly. Once he came back to his senses and finished sheepishly confirming the forest turned into no man-eating monstrosity or some such, First Elder murmured some orders in Jurdá’s ear, before scurrying away with the prized heirlooms.

Dure also got his ass in gear, for he was not looking to get swept under the divine thunderstorm the brainless duo were soon to call upon their closest poor soul.

They could look for another outlet to vent their frustrations on! Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jurdá stuff the unconscious man back into the bag and run eastwards where they'd encountered a hydra last week.

“Such ruckus and you were there? Speak about incompetency!” In the camp’s centre stood a conspicuously large tent of the best quality, the same First Elder had hurriedly barged in–––just to be greeted that way.

“Not. Your. Business.” “Guys...” with a flick of his only remaining scarred hand, the last person within the tent separated both from each other before the situation could go out of hand further.

Yet he said no more, as he was interrupted too. “We were waiting just for you.” All three froze in their tracks. At this point, their demeanour turned unnaturally docile as they faced a certain direction.

Strange shadows hung like a veil over some pompous furnishing in a corner that couldn't seem more out of place in the woods. They came alive, wiggled, moved and concentrated in one place and released a person of very short stature.

Clad in shrouds, smaller than the uncommonly seen dwarf, with three asymmetrical scars cutting deeply into his sunken face, and donning a slightly inexperienced expression, it wouldn’t have been surprising at all had he been mistaken for any random road freak.

The elders, though, didn’t dare entertain such deadly thoughts. With beads of sweat accumulating on their foreheads, they stood at attention like misbehaving kids waiting for the scary headteacher.

“Swallowed your tongues? Let me help you loosen them up.” The true leader of the expedition cackled amidst a peal of hysterical laughter. The others kept their silence, treating words like gold.

“Incompetent louts, the scouts nowadays,” snorted the tiny man once he got bored from the silence, his voice so high-pitched, one had to seriously question his gender. “Took root already, and still nothing noteworthy.

One sees a threat at every corner, the other mixes up who-knows-what and is now stuck in a coma, so are his friends. A third one had the glorious idea to kill a juvenile beast for sport, making us waste manpower. And the cook is in my crosshairs as supplies run low as deer meat runs out.

Then we had the poisoning incident, the trap incident, the soap massacre incident... I heard somebody had ended the training on a positive note. So why is it that nothing goes right? Am I fun to tease? Or are we incomparable to mere orcs?!”

First Elder squirmed a bit in one place, not knowing if he should intervene now. Fourth Elder was not exactly his friend, yet neither was he an enemy. If he could, it'd be better to let him owe a favour. But... his mind was occupied more with other, more favourable considerations.

The powerful man eventually summoned his courage after some thinking and declared with false confidence: “I’ve got a report to make.” In response, Elder Shadow no longer stared holes in the empty air in front but threw the entire force of his undivided attention at the sweating speaker.

“...talk.” As demanded, First Elder presented a proper, truthful account of today’s strange event without daring to embellish anything. “Clever little boy.” The other man snickered darkly.

“Well done. Lamias mark their prey. The imbecile's death could’ve caused us a lot of trouble. I've decided, you’ll get a bonus! And I… shall forget about the ruckus.” He giggled away, lost in his own shady world. Now, he could finally go on the offensive.

First Elder flicked the overflowing sweat from his damp brows and stood tall as he haughtily savoured his peer’s envy, hard at work to suppress his madly pounding heart. “Where’s the puppet headed?”

“Told him to seek the abandoned village we discovered last month, the route crossing the hydra's lair.” “A job well done. There’s plenty danger,” his three scars trembled as if they were about to take flight.

The resulting smile could make rocks crumble and even the elders weep, “round up everyone, we’re leaving. Quietly. As for what comes next... we'll do it like this. Listen closely, we...”

End of Chapter 2