T.S.S.K. short for The Sparkling Shawl Kitchen, one of the best restaurants I’ve found here in Detroit. High Elves always have to give things eccentric names for no reason and they can’t help but tell everyone about them. For once, I’m glad someone was on the street yelling about how good this place was. Sure, the yelling and arrogance is why so many of them still use magic that has been outdated for years. Cast a spell in quiet for once, would you? There’s no way for magic to be outdated, sure there are stronger spells but there’s not a new fire. Then again, I was never good at most magic so how would I know?

Actually, I think I’m still mad at the guy who got me fired. I’ve only been able to get one off jobs since then. Nothing continuous and nothing that can provide a decent income. But I’m getting by. Enough so that I can stop by and grab a meal or two here each week. High Elves are really can seem arrogant, but their food is great, so they earned it. They take the best parts from everyone else an make it their own, I guess that’s what happens when you spend hundreds of years trying to take over the world because you believe you’ve been granted this land, all land, by your Elven gods. I really need to get over being fired. I’m turning into a racist, Elser would be so disappointed.

I could hear his lecture now. For there to be harmony we must all live together; we may have differences but the world does not work without all of us having our differences and unique perspectives.

I walk in and take my seat at a table in the corner by a few fake plants. They smell like plastic and dust, but the greenery reminds me of the temple. I can’t say I miss the place, but I miss the surroundings. I place my order on the little digital tablets they have at each table. In honor of my most recent job I’ll order the Dwarven Veal Stew. The Dwarves have surprisingly good food as well. Especially because so many are still insistent on living underground, or at least trying. That’s a little hard in the city. I heard there’s a dwarven underground entrance out in the rural areas. From what I remember, America has two Dwarven countries One spreading out from the Appalachian Mountains and the other from the Rocky Mountains and together, they cover most of the country. If that’s true, it’s crazy. I’d love to see it one day, but I don’t think I’ll be able to afford travel any time soon. I wonder if it’s comfortable for visitors, dwarves these days aren’t much shorter than humans, but they still prefer rocky surfaces, beds of stone, dimly lit caverns and secret passages. The dwarves from my last job gave me a token that’ll allow me to enter the magic barrier protecting their kingdom, if I could find it.

“Hey, where’s our fucking money,” a pair of Orcs burst through the door.

The two are dressed in fur coats as if winter is in full swing already. Gold caps on their teeth tell me they have money, or at least act like it. They look like they were still living in one of the Orcish housing communities until recently. Still dressed minimally with signs of traditional clothing, but they’ve picked up some city things. One has gold chains and a watch on each pf his wrist, stolen no doubt. Everyone loves gold. History tells us gold powder was used for currency in the past. Then it was gold coins, then dollars backed by gold. Still, gold is a symbol of wealth in any civilization. Orcs don’t use gold for jewelry beyond piercings in my experience. Usually they adorn their weapons with it, the more gold, the more kills. The more telling sign is the brand each has displayed. The brand is crude and there’s some artistic liberties being taken but the message is clear; an Orc crushing a skull between his teeth, dominating his enemy. One wears the brand on his hand, the other has it branded onto his neck. In the past Orcs would brand themselves when they became adults recognized by their families. Now, they’re mostly for those who participate in organized crime. They stole those chains from someone and they’re clearly running some kind of extortion business here.

I let them yell back and forth with the owners for a while. They smash up a table, I let it stand. I’m hoping they can solve their own problems. I don’t want anything to do with it. I almost get involved when they smack the old man who works the register as he was pointing out pictures of all the famous Elves on the wall; demanding respect for his ancestors. But he doesn’t go down, so I don’t get involved. The lady who cooks tries to beat one of the Orcs with a soup spoon and he smacks her. Now I have to get involved, because I’m not getting my stew today.

“Hey, they don’t have the money. Just leave, you can’t get money from them that they don’t have,” I say looking up into the eyes of one of the Orcs who is slightly taller.

I’m so glad evolution changed Orcs. History books say they used to be over seven feet tall and had more muscle than a horse. These guys, closer to my height and don’t have the same kind of muscle mass as their ancestors. Orc physiology means their bones are a little stronger. They hit a little harder and take more hits. Nothing my magic can’t even out if it comes to blows.

I don’t get to wonder long, while I’m staring down the first Orc the second punches me in the gut. I’m glad he didn’t go for the face because he would have knocked out a tooth for real. I tried to get the magic up in time, but I’m not good with magic as it is. I only have talent for enhancement magic, and I can’t get that going when I’m trying to hold onto consciousness. Still, I’m not a weakling, I won’t go down without a fight. I pull my knife from its sheath and swing upwards trying to dissect one of the Orcs. They jump back to dodge the knife that gives me some space and enough time to catch my breath. I didn’t want to escalate, at least not that quickly, but they got me off guard. I panicked, am I that out of practice?

With my enhancement magic up now, these Orcs are screwed. I rush the first and place a forearm in his neck before throwing punch after punch in his face until he’s pinned on the wall. The second grabs me from behind; I’m able to headbutt him in the process of breaking free. It still hurts like hell, but I always wanted to know about headbutting Orcs. The lady from the kitchen is yelling again. Perfect distraction. I’m able to stab the Orc who previously held me in a chokehold. He’s young, he panics when he sees his blood, we’re in the same boat now. Both of us are just scared animals fighting. I’ve seen my own blood, I won’t run, but he might. An experienced Orc would laugh at the pain an rejoice in the spilling of blood, but he’s not an experienced Orc. He’s out of commission as he tries to hold together a non-lethal wound. The Orc I had pinned to the wall tries to wrestle me to the ground by lunging at my feet. I fall with my full body weight on the back of his shoulder blades. When he releases my legs I’m able to lift him up and toss him back down. Now he’s the winded one.

The bleeding Orc runs the moment I turn to him. His friend isn’t far behind him, realizing he’s alone now. The woman checks on her husband and they embrace. I take my seat, hoping they’ll still deliver me some food and it won’t be tainted by the taste of my own blood. I’m not exactly lucky; when the old man comes to sit across from me he isn’t carrying food.

“You, I can tell by the way you fight, you’ve done this before. You’ve been trained. I saw your magic aura as well. I would like to hire you,” the old man starts without so much as a thank you.

“You can’t pay them, I don’t think you can afford me.”

“You’re right, I can’t pay you much. But, I can promise you free food. This whole neighborhood is under their foot. They’re extorting us all for money. If we don’t pay they tear up our shops or rough up our customers. People have stopped coming here. If they were out of the way, business would pick back up. I can offer you two free meals each day for a year,” the man pleads with sincerity.

“Two free meals a day, for a whole year,” I could save a lot of money if they were providing my food.

“Yes, as long as you can get them to leave us alone.”

“I don’t know. How many are there?”

“There can’t be more than a dozen.”

“You want me to kill a dozen Orcs? Why don’t you call some other Elves?”

“Because the Dark Elves aren’t trustworthy and asking High Elves for help is disgraceful,” the old couple must be Wood Elves. Legendary archers and cavalry, but also pacifists.

“I don’t know about this.”

“A year, free food for a year. Three meals, but I get to pick what they are and I’ll speak with the other shop owners about getting you some cash,” he ups the payment without me asking.

“How long have they been extorting you all?”

“Always, but recently some younger Orcs took over, and they’re greedy.”

“Alright, do you know where they stay?”