--Zarak turned around in a daze. He leaned back and narrowed his eyes to bring the image of the Ork girl before him into focus.

-I disgust myself. – He said. – Where is my backbone? Where had it gone? Oh well. Perhaps this is my fate. – He continued to munch on the drumstick he was holding.

-Perhaps you'll find it at the bottom of some bottle.

-How long has it been? How many years have I been here? And why am I still here, playing pet for that sadistic bastard? – Zarak pointed at Kord with his drumstick.

-To survive. It’s what we do. We bend, rather than breaking, and we walk on.

-Walk where? If you can’t choose where you go, what is the point even?

-There will be a crossroads.

-When? Where? I feel like I’ve missed it long ago, and now I’m stuck on this path and I have no idea where I’m going.

--For some reason, the music went silent, and the feast had stopped. Zarak looked around himself, until his gaze fixed on Kord, who sat high upon a mound of freshly murdered slaves in his kitschy, bedazzled throne, which was most likely stolen from a human noble. A single Ork stood in front of Kord. The Ork had pale blue skin and long tusks protruding downwards from his mouth. His hair was long, coal black and greasy. He brandished a spear wholly made of metal, and a stone dagger in his other hand. He wore nothing but a leather loincloth, and cloth wrappings on his arms and legs.

-This feast is an insult!

--The greasy Ork shouted in Orkish and Myzrael whispered into Zarak’s ear, translating the Ork’s grunts and squeals.

-I will not be humiliated by eating meat that was hunted by a human – The greasy Ork extrapolated.

-Your horse is good enough to carry you… But a dog is not good enough to hunt for you? – Kord questioned him calmly.

-If it were only a dog… But it is a human, Kord! A pinkskin!

-Well? What difference is there?

--The drunken, greasy Ork scuffed at Kord.

-You’ve been fucking human whores for so long that you’ve completely forgotten how to behave like a true Ork.

--Upon these words, Kord stood up so violently that the small table set in his lap flew forward. The various dishes of animal parts and vegetables had spilled all over the dusty ground, and the giant boar’s head, which was served in front of Kord, now tumbled over to Zarak’s feet. The slaves who were feeding Kord got startled and dispersed. Even the Orks slowly retreated, creating a vast clearing in front of Kord. Zarak found himself alone with Myzrael by his side, next to a bonfire, with the boar head at his feet. Only the greasy Ork stood with them in the clearing, some 10 meters in front of them. The only three who didn’t have the senses to slink away. Kord began to shout ferociously.

-I! AM KORD! I! AM KING! I fuck whoever and whatever I please. And I am the most Orky Ork who draws breath this day.

--Upon finishing this exclamation, he took a deep breath and sat down, straightening out his tabard.

-And you, my dear Froz, will now sit the fuck down.

-I may have a better idea, if the King permits? – One of Kord’s elite knights intervened. It was Igs, Myzrael’s friend. With 20 something summers beneath his belt, he was the youngest of the King’s knights, but no less physically imposing than the rest of them. He had small, beady, blue, blood-shot eyes with bags underneath, as if he never slept a day in his life. His face was long, green, with a thin nose, and his hair was curly, grey-ish and slicked back. Despite seemingly ugly features, he carried an air of charisma around him.

-What!? – Kord growled at Igs.

-Well, sire… Our honoured friend, Froz, finds his meal insulting. But this is because he assumes that a dog is actually a man. And that, as such, the man is merely a worthless, stinky, lying, cowardly bag of shit. However! I, my dear lord, have seen with my own two eyes how this dog hurled itself at the boar. And it grabbed the boar by the throat! Even when the boar used its tusks to remind the dog that it is merely a dog, the dog persisted. It got up again and…

-Get to the point! – Kord interrupted him.

--Igs pulled out a gold piece from the purse at his belt and raised it high above his head. He turned about himself, showing the coin to the crowd which watched in bafflement, partly because most Orks didn’t know what coins are for.

-I would wager this gold coin! That this dog can kick Froz’s ass.

--The crowd clamoured with scoffs and chuckles.

-Barehanded. – Igs added.

--The crowd was now furious. Who is this drunken knight and why is he getting Zarak into trouble? Of course, Zarak knew of him through Myzrael; the question was affective. There had been enough blood on Zarak’s hands today, he thought to himself. Kord nodded towards Igs. Froz turned around to look at Zarak. Sized him up with a mean look in his eye.

-Don’t die. – Myzrael whispered into Zarak’s ear as she too retreated to the safety of the crowd.

--Before Zarak could think, Froz thrusted his spear forward. Zarak dodged by sheer reflex in his intoxicated stupor and turned a stab to the gut into a deep gash on his side. The spear went forward a few more times, forcing Zarak back, as he retreated around the bonfire. He tried grabbing it, but the spear’s metallic handle slipped through his fingers as Froz pulled it back, the bladed tip cutting his palms along the way. He now knew why Froz had bandages on his palms and arms. They helped keep the spear from slipping through his hands. The next thrust went for his thigh, probably to try and slow him down, so Froz can land a killing blow. Zarak saw it coming though, so he jumped up, and landed down onto the shaft of the spear, knocking it out of Froz’s hands. Agitated, Zarak picked up the spear, bent it into a “U” shape and threw it away. This might not have been the smartest of ideas, as he forgot that his opponent was still brandishing a stone dagger. Zarak’s sluggish mind now remembered that Froz was of the northern tribes, and that their way of fighting involved a spear for offense, and the dagger served to defend them against anyone who got past the spear. As Zarak lunged forward to punch Froz, the Ork slipped away with ease and cut Zarak’s arm with the dagger as he did so. Zarak tried throwing a few more punches in quick succession, followed by a sweeping kick, but Froz’s defences were much better than his drunken offensive. He was in trouble now. None of his attacks were sticking, and he had several bleeding wounds, which were about to make him even slower.

--The clouds in his mind turned into panic.

--Froz was now on the offensive, and as he dodged, Zarak began to run in circles around the bonfire, buying time, unable to think. Froz was running after him, shouting and grunting obscenities in Orkish. Zarak grabbed a piece of wood from the fire, and he threw it beneath Froz’s feet, causing the Ork to stumble and slow down. Zarak used this opportunity to slide under a row of tables. As he crawled underneath them, the Orks around laughed, hollered and tried to kick him. He heard a loud thump above himself, and heavy footsteps followed in his wake. A wooden spear with a metal tip suddenly pierced the table above him, stabbing just a hair’s breath away from Zarak’s face. Immediately, he turned around, braced his back and elbows against the ground, and pushed the table upwards with both legs. He knocked it away, sending his assailant flying. He got up off the ground, looked around and grabbed the first thing he could from the table behind him.

--It could have been a fork, but it just so happened to be a greatsword.

--With the familiar long grip in his hand, and the weight of the blade resisting his pull, he felt pleasure he had all but forgotten about. He leaped forward, spinning, blade in hand. And he cut through the spear Froz used to block, and into his skull. Zarak could feel the warmth of blood on his face, as he spat it out. The greasy Ork’s arms went limp first, dropping the pieces of the spear he held. He then collapsed onto his knees and fell face first into the dirt.

-Puffy! – Kord boomed in Fanelian. – Did I say you can kill that fool?

--Startled and bewildered, Zarak turned to face Kord. He didn’t quite have his wits about him.

-Kneel! – Kord barked.

--Zarak did not obey. Instead, he slowly walked towards Kord, blade in hand. Two Ork knights emerged behind him, from the crowd. One of them bent his sword arm behind him, causing him to drop it. Then, they kicked the back of his knees, forcing him down. He felt like he should be doing something about it, but his mind could no longer keep up with what was going on. His body felt heavy, the blood escaping his wounds making him weak. They dragged him forward, to Kord’s pilfered throne.

“Bend, rather than brake.”

--These words were echoing inside of his mind.

-Did I say you can kill him? – Kord leaned in and whispered, as he asked.

-Woof. – Zarak mumbled.

--Zarak envisioned a tombstone with this last word etched upon it. Kord’s blue, runed sword flashed through the air. Sounds became distorted. And another flash. Zarak felt his head swell. He would have expected it to be rolling, like in his reoccurring nightmares, but it seemed it was still attached to his shoulders. He looked up and saw the blade of Kord’s sword was resting on the Ork’s shoulder, with some blood dripping from it. His vision blurred for a moment. Kord was speaking, but Zarak could not make out the words. Looking about, he saw the wretched old medicine-man, Byblos, who was apparently responding to Kord’s command. Everything started spinning. The medicine-man approached him, carrying the head of the giant boar.

--Zarak was now eye-to-eye with the boar he slew. And then… Darkness.