The bonfire flared, a contained conflagration, its orange flame danced madly on the dry woods that it fed on. A mixed crowd of humans and orcs surrounded the bonfire. Some for warmth, others for the sight and some just to meet friends or potential partners. Eventually, as the night dragged on, the drumming slowly started. A slow pulsating rhythm, a simple and alluring tone, that urged the elderly to tap their feet, the children to roll in excitement and the youth to gyrate around the bonfire.

A youth, human by all appearance, urged by his friends and aided by the magic elixir of courage, also commonly known as alcohol, approached a burly orc girl. Jeers and howls erupted from his friends when the orc girl, bared her jutting canines, extended her arms and dragged the lovelorn youth to join the crowd of dancers. In the light cast by the bonfire, the two would-be lovers mingled in each others arms, lost to the world.

As the only half-elf in the group, Arlene stood out from the rest. The ranger stood wide-eyed and fixated on the ground like a heifer at a sacrificial altar. I stole the moment to enjoy her discomfort. My trusted lieutenant who stood, undaunted, alone against an army of thousand, who laughed charging into an advance force of heavily armoured soldiers, now stood praying for salvation.

Seated on a wooden stump, I extended my legs towards the bonfire, as I leaned on the crutch for support. A few curious eyes fell on me, but none lingered for long. I cursed myself. I should have chartered a carriage and offered to drive Lyria to the bonfire grounds.

As the beating of the drums mingled with the tumult of the crowd continued, the lucid form of Lyria approached, shooking me out of my reverie. A simple crude leather skirt, that reached till her knees, hiding muscular thighs but still revealing enough of her diamond calves, was wrapped around her waist. Instead of shoes, she wore simple tawny sandals with thin straps crisscrossing over her ankles. For a brief moment, I wondered if Lyria could be convinced to knot those crisscrossing pattern all the way over her thighs to her waist, in the fashion of one of those exotic dancers from the far west. I found myself blushing unconsciously at the thought.

She covered her breast in the fashion of an orcish peasant woman. Just a sturdy tight rectangular piece of cloth, wrapped around the chest and draped over the left shoulder. Her well-chiselled midriff, exposed for me to admire. The orange glow from the bonfire reflected from her purple-hued skin giving her a lambent complexion. For a very brief alluring moment, the reflection of the bonfire flickered on her eyes with hidden mischief.

“Did you have anything to eat?” Her ringing voice slowly submerged the surrounding noise.

“I will bring you something,” she rushed off but returned soon with a steaming wooden bowl.

Lyria, slowly stirred the contents with a wooden spoon.

I held the wooden bowl in my good hand and looked up at Lyria with puppy eyes.

Sensing my inability, she dropped low, placing her weight on her heels and stirred the contents of the bowl with the spoon. Satisfied, she scooped a generous amount of the thick broth. I willingly leaned forward and slurped from the offered spoon.

The broth was salty and heavily spiced, but it did nothing to counter the rotten putrid odour. I twisted my face in disgust.

“Rils,” her tender commanding voice cut through, “Dread Bison bone broth is a local speciality, helps with convalescing. Good in your present state.”

I still wriggled my nose, not bothering to conceal my disapproval.

“It is either this or mammoth snot pie,” She straightened herself to full height and a wild smirk crossed her lips.

“I will take the soup then,” I answered meekly.

Another mischievous smile crossed her lips, releasing a swarm of butterflies in my stomach.

She stirred the contents some more carefully. Took a spoonful and tasted the thick broth herself. A string of golden saliva stretched from her lips to the spoon as she twisted the handle in my direction.

I ravenously drank the thick soup.

That is as close to a kiss and good enough for me....... for the moment.

“Rils, the soup definitely tastes better, if the other option is mammoth snot pie,” she said. Her eyes contorted with mirth.

“No, the soup tastes better because your lips touched them,” or something equally savvy. I flirted with the idea for a bit.

The last time I tried to attempt something slick ended up with her smacking me. Eventually, I dropped it. Better not provoke her. Enjoy the moment.

The bowl was soon deprived of the bone broth and in a tune with her idyllic lifestyle, she scrapped the bowl of the remaining contents, making sure that none of the bone broth was left to waste.

Once she was satisfied, Lyria set the bowl down and seated herself on the ground in a fluid motion, facing the bonfire. Her back pushed against my knees. She tossed her hair aside, revealing her smooth angular jawline. Her neck, a mesh of strong bulging thews covered by smooth supple skin taunted me for a moment to run my fingers over them. Her voluminous tresses, lustrious in the narrow light like polished wood, tumbled down her back and caressed my knees playfully.

She held a lost expression as she sat still.

“How is she?” asked Lyria. There was no need for me to ask who she meant.

“She made me a proud mother,” I replied. My pride could not be concealed.

“And also rebellious, obnoxious and thick-headed,” I added.

“But you had to leave her,” she said, “alone.”

Her serene voice suddenly carried a heavy set of emotions. She reminded me of the heavily wounded scout who had to put down his trusty stead after a long ride.

“I had to,” I said, “Exiled. I am Shorned.”

“From where I see, you still retain your lovely locks of hair,” she said with a hidden smile.

“I mean officially Shorned,” I replied. So she wants to play now.

“And I see that you still officially have your hair,” she answered.

“I ran before the sequestered conciliators could find me,” I replied to her. For a brief moment, I saw her beam one of her heart-melting smiles.

Her, heavily bone defined cheeks became full and round as she smiled, while the corner of her eyes pulled with a roguish charm.

I would have gladly and willingly let myself lost in those deep eyes if it weren’t for the tumultuous hoofbeats that approached the bonfire with unspoken urgency.

The brown chestnut horse, the standard strider of every frontier ranger and scout, frothed at its mouth. Its saddle fixed in a half-hearted attempt, with loose stirrups and half linked chains was an obvious dissimilarity to its well-groomed mane.

The rider, a broad figure, cloaked in a dull green woollen cloak, leapt to the ground. His woollen cloak hid a military uniform. Three of the unfastened buttons gleamed in the low light as he hurried. Even his woollen cloak was held by a single pin. Everything, from his mount to his gait screamed that he was dispatched from Fort Halcyon in haste.

Eventually, the rider hurried in our direction. As he neared, his half-orc features became more distinguishable. He stood still for a fleeting moment and debated internally. He then saluted.

“Forge Marm, the fort commander has an important message for you.”

His eyes drifted in my direction and carefully considered me, the same way a hawk would consider a mongoose.

“What does Lobrock want now?” Lyria stood up, “Speak.”

“He has been asked to segregate all tieflings. Commander Lobrock bids you flee.”