Fenghar Ogorstone feared for his life. He shouldn’t have stolen from that woman. The others who he had scoped out, the ones who had descended into that dungeon for treasure, they were nothing to fear. Unorganized and clumsy, they probably were no match for the most basic of creatures.

It was that woman he now feared, much more than before. The scent of blood was faint upon the air and he turned to see three shapes rushing in his direction on the dirt path. For a moment, Fenghar dropped his loot and placed a hand on his sword, awaiting them. It must have been the treasure hunters he had robbed. He didn’t see a fourth figure. It was possible the woman was fooled after all… or maybe she was too preoccupied with whatever she’s encountered within the buried temple.

However, as they drew nearer, he loosened his grip on his weapon. He straightened out and softened his gaze, seeing them frantically run, the figure in the center of the two struggling to move along. He was injured. Pretty badly too.

Fenghar exhaled and ran a hand through the hair that’d been wrapped up in a bun. At least he didn’t have a fight on his hands.

“Help!” One of them called out, now a dozen feet from Fenghar. He turned away, hiking up his (their) bags as well Tyna’s and continued on his way, trying to pay them no mind. “Please,” one of the men pleaded, “He’s losing so much blood! The next town — do you know how far?

“A couple miles in this direction,” Fenghar said, his eyes closed as he heard them approach, the men huffing and gasping desperately. They wouldn’t make it at that speed, depending on how severe the wounds were. And he certainly knew it when they passed him, barely jogging any faster than he was walking. Fenghar’s eyes widened, seeing that the center man’s arm had been completely severed. They wrapped it up the best the could but the cloth was a deep red and dripping.

They ignored him now, focused on running. One of them was crying softly. The man in the center kept dropping, unable to keep going, only for the other two to yank him and do most of the work. Clearly they were exhausted.

Fenghar closed his eyes and told himself to mind his own business. He felt bad, of course, stealing from these men, now being forced to witness their further misfortune. But he had his own goals to tend to. Helping them would take him off course. And if he opened that door he would keep letting himself become distracted from his path.

He held the bags tightly and kept walking his pace. Whatever happened to them happened to them.

The world was cruel and cared not for the safety of people. Those who weren’t strong enough to survive should simply rest and slip away from the suffering.

Fenghar kept telling himself that. He’d been telling himself that for years. It had to be the truth.

But he was a slow learner. He ran, dropping their bags so he could utilize his full potential. Rushing forward, he summoned all his strength, his muscles bulging, his teeth clenching — and he scooped up the dying man, bolting past the other two.

“I’m much faster than you both,” he shouted, far away from them within seconds. “Those are your bags! I’m sorry!”

The only pack and shoulder bag he held onto was Tyna’s. He had to retain something from that haul. But he knew he couldn’t stand by and do nothing. He wasn’t that heartless just yet. Someday he knew he would be — he would make sure of it.

The man’s eyelids fluttered and looked up at him. “Help…” he said, his voice so dry.

Fenghar grinned. “I’m an Orc,” he said. “I can run faster than three human men put together. You’ll find help in no time.”

It had been quite some time since Fenghar had ran so fast. His feet slammed into the grass, cutting across fields to avoid the winding of the dirt path at connected cities. In a princess carry, he transported his dying passenger, hot blood leaking onto his tunic and dripping onto his stolen bags.

From the great field came the vast cluster of trees separating the Wild Tumbles and the Runic County. Fenghar had spent years running, both from his troubles and, quite literally, escaping bounty hunters and other dangerous competitors in the realm of thieving.

More often than not, thieving and burglarizing were the Burrowfolk’s and Wooded’s realm, both people either of shorter stature or lighter feet. Laughter came in his direction of those who were pros. Often times, people thought Fenghar would simply rob through brute force and he was looked down upon by those in the business. But he didn’t even beat people down for their possessions. He lied. Offered kindness. And when it was his time, he grabbed and ran.

Fenghar held the man tightly, still in disbelief at his actions, leaping over risen roots and blasting through thick overgrowth.

Soon enough, he entered the sun of the open world, free from the chill shadow of the trees and he could see the stone city in the distance — Pelkarin. Sweat came to his skin, never letting up his rush. The man shivered. Whimpered inaudible sounds. Fenghar slid down hills and proved himself to be the most nimble of Orc-kind.

By the time he reached the city gates, he was met with the ends of spears and angry faces. But with a few words and Fenghar’s bravery in moving past the city guards without care for what those spear-points could do to him, they realized he was not harming the man but instead trying to save him.

Fenghar sat outside the resident Potion Master’s house, fingers laced together, his eyes upon the man’s blood that had stained his shirt. He had done something good. It wouldn’t help his cause and he was now significantly poorer due to his actions.

But he was rich in spirit, right?

Perhaps not. Because by the time the dying man’s companions had caught up, they had brought the city guard with them, the two of them sweaty and angry.

“That man is a thief!” one of them pointed at Fenghar. “He was teamed up with a woman who attacked our friend in there — stole and tried to kill us they did!”

“Alright,” said one of the guards, approaching casually, a hand upon his sword.

“Oh you have to be joking,” Fenghar said.

“Just come along. Let’s figure this out, why don’t we.” The guard put his hand on Fenghar and the Orc flashed with rage, standing to his full height and shoving the guard aside.

“Somebody stop him!” Cried one of the dying man’s companions.

Fenghar did what he was born to do — he ran with all his might, charging through the guards before they could draw on him. He held onto Tyna’s bags, his only prize from all this trouble. But as he looked behind him to see who followed he was suddenly shoved and was upside down, in the air, losing his breath. Then, he landed hard, confused, blinking away dirt and grass that had gotten into his eyes.

Finally, he looked up at his attacker.

An Orc woman in city guard uniform, standing tall and strong, drawing her steel blade and aiming the point down at him.

“I do believe this is Fenghar Ogorstone,” she sneered through her sharp teeth. “A disgrace to Orcs everywhere. Perhaps we can drill a little discipline into you while we figure out whose bags those belong to.”

“They’re mine,” Fenghar growled.

“Highly unlikely,” the woman said, almost bored. “Restrain him. Do not fear — if he makes a single move, I’ll gladly kill him.”

Fenghar clenched his eyes shut and let himself become restrained and hoisted to his feet. It disgusted him beyond belief to see an Orc resign themselves to serving a noble. Then again, he knew the majority of his kind would resent him for choosing not to. He and the Orc guard eyed each other for a moment until he felt pressure upon his back to move in a certain direction. Those who arrested him did all they could shove him to no avail. So Fenghar did them the favor of walking on his own accord — the way all Orcs should act.

This was exactly why he had to become cold-hearted someday. He had to cease caring. Because every good act he did was met with punishment. Someday he would find a way… until then, he would serve his time, figuring out how.