Tarabaum

Tarabaum leaned back in the chair, her boots kicked upon the table while she woke up. There was something fuzzy going on in the background. She couldn’t quite make it out. What was it? Oh. Huh. There was someone trying to speak with her. She couldn’t imagine why. She just wanted to get blackout drunk again and possibly stop the ringing that she had been hearing for days. Maybe she should try meditation again. It seemed to lessen the ringing, but the ringing itself seemed to impede her efforts to meditate. What would Master Stoutpick at her old monastery do? Would he meditate first or get drunk first?

A small crash brought her back to her senses. She peeked one eye open. There was a minotaur with a broken bottle in hand standing by the table demanding her attention. Again, Tarabaum couldn’t imagine why. Granted, a minotaur was probably the only thing around that would actively want to pick a fight with her. At six-foot-four, she was taller than the average human, but shorter than the average orc, and though she had the typical skin tone of an orc, which is, to say, the color of an underripe avocado, her physique was that of either the most slender orc one might come into contact with, or the most muscular human female one would ever meet.

“...Huunnnngh?” was what she managed to ask.

“I said, ugly orkin,” the minotaur practically spat at her, “that you’re going to pay for what you did to my wife!” Tarabaum slowly and confusedly reached over to her chest and grabbed her shirt. Yep. She was still dressed. Wait. She paused and looked down at her legs. Yep. Fully dressed. Looking around, she saw that she was still in the bar she passed out in.

“What did I do to your wife?” she asked, sincerely confused.

“You dislocated her arms and broke four of her ribs, you cunt!” Oh! That was yesterday. In fact, that was three taverns ago. Fuck. This guy had tracked her down? Good on him.

“She attacked me. And I had even complimented her.”

“You said she was ugly and aggressive!” the minotaur raged. His wife had been aggressive, but then again, most minotaurs were.

“No, I said she was udderly impressive!” Tarabaum protested. That’s what it was: she had tried to make a pun to the female minotaur and it didn’t go over well.

The minotaur bellowed at her and jabbed the bottle at her throat. She instinctively leaned backwards and the chair tipped over; her right foot hooked the back of his neck and her left foot kicked the bottle out of his hands. The minotaur was caught off balance and tipped over forwards. She used his momentum to swing him over her and onto the table behind her, where he crashed and broke said table. She kept going rolling feet-over head a couple times, landing on her back. The minotaur immediately righted himself and came charging at her, horns first. Seemingly oblivious, she rolled over to the oncoming minotaur, and attempting to stand up underneath him, tripping him up and sending him crashing to the floor; standing up, she wobbled and fell into his solar plexus knee-first, knocking the wind out of the beastkin.

“Oh, shit, man, sorry!” Tarabaum apologized, standing up. The minotaur bellowed again, swiping at her legs and missing, as she drunkenly stumbled across his face. She turned around and faced the angry bull-man as he stood up and glowered at her with an expression of pure hatred. In response, she simply swayed as if trying desperately to maintain balance. He swung a great fist and she swayed out of its path, simultaneously gripping one of his shoulders with one hand and planting the other fist squarely under his ribs, giving an “oops, sorry” for good measure, again knocking the wind out of him, and headbutting him as he bent over, gasping for breath. Now he was swaying almost as much as she was, but she didn’t stop there. The orkin stumbled around as the minotaur wheezed and grabbed wildly for her, missing each time. She picked up a bottle of whiskey off of her table and was hauled backwards as the minotaur finally caught her. In a backward arc of falling, she flailed the bottle out and shattered it on the beastkin’s forehead. He let go of her and as she hit the floor, she looked up and watched him wobble and fall sideways, unconscious.

Tarabaum stood up, dusted herself off and waved away a frantic tavern owner that was trying to get her to leave. She shook her head, trying to clear it. Why was she trying to drown out the ringing? Her foggy mind was keeping something from her. What was it? She looked around and remembered that she wasn’t trying to avoid the ringing–she was trying to chase it and she had shown up where the ringing was the most frequent. She would arrive at a bar, where the ringing led her, she’d sit down and wait for the source of the ringing to become apparent, she’d drink until she passed out, and when she woke up, the ringing would be at another tavern. How many taverns had she chased the ringing through in Valekenport alone? For a while, she thought the source of the ringing was a pair of barhoppers–a human male with long black hair and beautiful blue eyes and an orc that was rather imposing, even for normal orcs–but after a few taverns of chasing the ringing and not seeing the pair anymore, she ruled that out. Now she was a couple taverns removed from Valekenport and she still hadn’t figured out the source of the ringing. She looked at the burn in the palm of her hand helplessly.

She gave another glance at the downed minotaur. Dammit. She had used her strength. It wasn’t intentional, but she should have been more careful. Tarabaum always tried to make it a point to use techniques that she had been taught in the same manner that she had been taught, which were quick, calculating, and designed to use as little sheer force as necessary. She had accidentally let a little of the beast inside slip free. She sighed. That was the problem with orkin.

Still ignoring the cries of the tavern owner, she listened for the ringing. It was a couple miles off again. She leaned over, picked up her supplies, walked out the door, grabbed her quarterstaff, and set out, following the ringing.

***

The trade route she was traveling eventually led into a forest. Vast and green, it loomed ahead of her; she shivered, anticipating the cold that would await her on the north side of the forest, where the ringing seemed to be directing her. She might have to hunt and skin a sizable animal before she winds up too far north. Tarabaum hadn’t been expecting to head this far north, but it seemed inevitable.

She heard footsteps heading her way from behind and turned to find a red-bearded human wearing leather armor, a large pack, and using a sizable staff as a walking stick headed along the road. He politely moved to the opposite side of the road, giving her some berth.

“Hail, green friend!” The human called to Tarabaum, stopping where he was to turn to look at her. “Are you headed to Gryphon’s Pinnacle? Or perhaps the forge-city of Birinj?”

“I’m sure I’ll know when I get closer.” She replied, standoffishly.

“Since you are traveling north along this road, would you mind some company? Monsters hide in the forest, they say.” Tarabaum huffed and replied,

“Hells, sounds like you’re the one wanting company. Do a few beasties with teeth scare you?”

The man dipped his head and replied, “Begging your pardon, madam, but I’m certainly not as impressive as you, who clearly has substantial martial prowess. I am a traveling cleric and am not relishing the thought of traveling these woods alone.”

“A holy man? Well, it can’t hurt to have you accompany me a ways. What god?”

“The Allfather, Odin.”

“Respectable. So you’re the kind to gather wisdom?”

“Yes; I found it wise to ask you to travel with me.” he said with a smile. She laughed. Maybe this trip wouldn’t be the hardship she thought it would be.

They entered the woods and made their introductions, the orkin starting with a gruff,

“Tarabaum.”

“Aiden.”

“Aiden? That’s a boring name.” She said offhandedly.

“I’m a boring person.” She looked at him in mild surprise.

“A boring person? Who says that?”

“I do.”

“Are you going to be like this our whole trip?”

“Should I pretend to be something I’m not?” He asked with a raised bushy red eyebrow.

“Usually people who claim to be something really special are actually not that impressive; a good bit of the time that people try to be humble, they are really trying to hide something spectacular.” Tarabaum replied, almost accusingly.

“I promise, there’s nothing terribly spectacular about me.”

“Oh yeah? So tell me about yourself, Aiden.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Fuck, you are going to be like this the entire trip!” she complained.

“Alright, if I tell you about myself, you, in exchange, should tell me about yourself.”

She shot him a look of annoyance. “You planned that.”

He put his hand over his heart. “Honestly, I did not. But, since we’re discussing it, do you agree or not?”

“Fine.” She said, a bit sulkily.

“Great! I’m Aiden, a cleric of Odin–” he started.

“I bet you specialize in healing!”

“I do have a bit of healing available to me, but, no, that is not my specialty. My specialty is impact.”

“Impact?” she asked, frowning.

“Indeed. I wish to strike with blows as mighty as Odin himself, who wields Gungnir, chief of spears.”

“So why don’t you wield a spear?”

“Because Odin would strike with the strength he does with any weapon. I’m not trying to imitate the ultimate piercing of Gungnir, the weapon of Odin, and certainly I certainly can’t match the raw power of something like Mjolnir, the weapon of Thor. I simply wish to strike in a method that’s worthy of the Allfather.”

“So, what’s the solution? ‘Cause from here it looks like I can strike harder than you can.”

“Tell me, when a god reaches out to strike a creature, does it strike the flesh of a creature or does it strike the creature’s very being?”

“I’ve never met a god, so I’m sure I don’t know.” Tarabaum said dryly.

“My theory is that a god strikes the very being of a creature. The Allfather has gifted me with a way of striking that is enhanced from what it would be.”

“You can strike like a god?” the orkin asked, laughing.

“Oh, no, definitely not. But it is a skill that I seem to be able to improve upon.”

“What is this strike like?”

“Imagine that the blow doesn’t stop with your flesh, but you can feel it through your bones, and you know that the hit should not have hurt that bad.”

“Huh. So a more effective blow for the actual strength behind it. I can respect that.”

“Okay, your turn.”

“What?”

“That’s pretty much all there is to me. I’m a cleric in search of wisdom and I am attempting to make more effective the art given to me of striking. And I can heal people a bit.”

“Yeah, but where did you come from? Who are your people?”

“Oh, I sailed here from across the western sea, not long ago, from a place called Galtrow. I was stationed on a cargo ship; the company I work for wants at least one cleric on board for every trip. The ship was destined for Almaz, but Almaz is no more, it seems.”

“Yeah, I heard about that. Bad business. It doesn’t bode well, a whole city just up and disappearing.”

“Agreed. So, again, I ask, what’s your story?”

“Obviously, I’m orkin.” Tarabaum said; Aiden inclined his head. “My mother was a human, my father was an orc.”

“Was?”

“Yeah, my dad died when I was young, I was sent to a monastery, and my mom passed away while I was there.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. People get sick. It’s just the way things are.”

“Still… Anyway, why a monastery? Was your mother unable to take care of you?”

“Sort of. The sickness that killed my father lingered with my mother. I’m not sure why the sickness was more effective against him than her, but even before her declining state, she wasn’t really able to handle me.”

“Were you a particularly active child?”

“Ehhh… Sort of…? Orkin are not like humans, and we’re not like orcs. We’ve got the drive of humans but very little of their caution and we have the strength or orcs but very little of their restraint.”

“Orcs are considered restrained?”

“Compared to their half-blood kin? Very much so. You see, orcs glory in battle, but very rarely lose themselves in it. They have the strength of four humans, but rarely use all that strength in daily life, otherwise, they’d be accidentally ripping doors off hinges or crushing silverware while eating with it.”

“And this isn’t something that’s learned in orcs, it’s in their blood?”

“Yep. Orkin don’t inherit their restraint, most of the time, so it has to be learned.”

“And that’s what you learned at the monastery?”

“Basically. I still slip up from time to time, though. I really have to focus to simply be normal for civilization as it’s presented to me.”

“That sounds rough.”

“Honestly I have it pretty good. Orkin are often so volatile, they’ll end up leading entire orc tribes because no one can match up to their sheer power and recklessness, and the tribes will submit because the human side of the orkin is so fantastically ambitious and unfettered that they’ll pull off feats of creativity and strategy that only old and experienced orcs pull off.

“That doesn’t sound so bad.”

“It almost always leads to war. Orkin aren’t usually content creatures. I’m only so laid back because I was taught how to hold back, and even that took years of work, study, and failure.”

“I see. And due to living at a monastery, you pray to which god?” Aiden asked. Tarabaum shook her head.

“Wrong kind of monastery. See the gi I’m wearing? I’m a martial artist.”

“Ah! What style of fighting? Not that I know anything about martial arts, of course!”

“The Way of Bourbon Bumbling.”

“Oh, so a drunken style.”

“Yeah, founded by a clan of dwarves. It’s supposed to be passive, turning an opponent’s strikes into their own disadvantage, and getting in hits that seem to be complete accidents. It’s quite difficult for me when all I want to do is just hit a motherfucker as hard as I can at every opportunity I can.”

“That last bit does seem understandable, though.” Aiden added.

“Speaking of understandable, you said that you were part of a crew headed for Almaz.”

“That’s right.”

“So why aren’t you with the crew right now, looking for a buyer, or perhaps sailing back?”

“Well, funny thing, I received a summons from Vidar, the silent god.”

“You received a summons? Personally?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“From a god that’s not Odin.”

“Yes, surprisingly enough.”

“So what did he do? The silent god, did he come to you in a dream and use sign language?”

“No, he left the mark of Hel on my palm and a ringing in my head that directs me to find something.” He held up his hand, and, sure enough, there was a circular burn on his palm, showing a depiction of a skull with lightning bolts cascading off the back of the skull like hair.

“The fuck?!” Tarabaum exclaimed, stopping dead in her tracks.

“What’s wron–” Aiden started. She held up her hand, which bore an image of a wolf with a sword wedging its mouth open.

“Oh,” Aiden said, unfazed, “looks like you were summoned, too.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Well, the easy answer is that a god, in this case, Vidar, has some sort of task for us and we’re either being led to the task or led to something that will help us achieve the task.”

“I’m not religious, though!”

“Is that a prerequisite for gods to interact with you?”

“What?”

“Is there a consent form that needs to be signed for higher beings to reach down and influence mortals?”

“...You’ve thought about this a lot, haven’t you?”

“I do this for a living, so yes.”

“Dammit. So who is this Vidar? I’ve never heard of that god.”

“He’s not usually one to stand out. Vidar, the silent god, is a god of forests and seclusion.”

“So that’s why we’re trekking out in the middle of nowhere.”

“Very likely. What’s curious to me is why these burns we have show children of Loki. I’m a cleric of Odin being summoned by Vidar with illustrations of Loki’s children. It doesn’t make any sense to me.”

***

The orkin and the human walked the trail through the forest for two hours more before they stopped, picking up a foul scent on the breeze. Tarabaum knew this particular sickly-sweet smell. Something was dead, and had been for a good long while. She inhaled very briefly. Judging from the strength of the odor, whatever was dead must have been fairly large. Looking down the path, she didn’t see anything blocking the road, so whatever was causing the smell must be off the path and in the green obscurity of the forest. The smell made Tarabaum a bit nervous, which translated into irritation, which spilled into anger.

“Why so tense, all of a sudden?” Aiden asked. “‘Tis only a dead animal!”

“Plenty of animals keel over and die of sickness or old age, but, more often than not, a corpse means a predator.” She stated, only halfway paying attention.

“Nonsense.” Aiden replied. “Predators require fresh corpses. That smell is of something long dead.” Tarabaum nodded, but was still bothered by the smell. She heard a rustle come from the brush off to the right. “Wait.” She said, tersely. Aiden gripped his staff with both hands, looking towards the forest.

A humanoid form stumbled out of the forest; a human man. At first, tarabaum thought that he was badly wounded, as he was dressed in tattered, blood-soaked clothes with not only large cuts all over his body, but he was also missing an arm. He stood there, hunched over, swaying on the spot for a moment, and Tarabaum almost asked if he was alright, but then she noticed something about him: he wasn’t bleeding. A groan sounded from him, and he straightened up, somewhat, and Tarabaum saw that one eye was unfocused and one was completely gone, as was his nose; his skin had the greenish tinge of putrefaction. This was a zombie.

With another groan, it lunged at her with surprising speed. Relatively used to that general motion, Tarabaum sidestepped the zombie and tripped it up, turning around and stumbling into it, elbow first into the small of its back and then fist into the side of its neck. It fell down and upon hitting the ground, promptly snapped at her ankles. The orkin hopped out of the way.

“That should have immobilized it for at least a few seconds!” Tarabaum complained to Aiden as the zombie staggered up.

“If your martial style is making strikes that take down people by hitting them in places that really hurts them, then you might need to change up your style, at least temporarily, to deal with something that doesn’t feel pain or get winded.” Aiden suggested. In reaction to the sound of Aiden’s voice, the zombie turned around and lunged at him. Aiden took his staff and swung it at the zombie. The staff vibrated with a blue, phantasmal glow as it swung through the air. It hit the zombie in the side of the head, knocking it clean off its feet and leaving an indention in the skull a big around as the staff itself. When the zombie hit the ground, it shuddered as the staff had, and then fell still.

“How did you do that?” Tarabaum asked, amazed.

“I told you, I’ve been given a peculiar ability to strike and really make it… well… impactful.” There was more rustling coming from the brush and Tarabaum turned to see five more zombies shamble out from the trees, the closest already making a dash for the orkin. She stepped out of the way and tripped the new zombie, just as she did with the first. She clenched her right fist and looked at it.

“No.” She said, resolutely. “I need to keep my strength contained as much as I can." The zombie erected itself and was met with three swift strikes from Tarabaum to the back of its neck, breaking it and felling the undead creature. She would keep her strength regulated at normal levels; she hadn’t trained as hard as she did simply to give in to the beast that was caged inside. Aiden just shrugged.

The remaining four zombies all rushed Tarabaum at once, and though she readied herself, fists raised, she heard Aiden softly say from behind her,

“Allfather, you who gave life to Askr and Embla, tolerate not the undeath that makes a mockery of what once was beautiful by your hand.” The zombies froze where they were, not shifting, groaning, or otherwise moving. Tarabaum took a step back and turned to look at Aiden, who was holding onto a pendant with a symbol on it that resembled three interlocking curved horns.

“What is that?” the orkin asked, in awe.

“A spell. One I can’t keep up for terribly long, so if you’re going to cave in their heads, please do it soon.” Tarabaum looked at the staff he was holding in the other hand.

“Can I use your staff?”

“If you can find me a club or some short length of solid wood to replace it, you can keep it.” He tossed Tarabaum the staff. The six-foot length of wood felt good in her hands--it reminded her of her initial sparring sessions with Master Stoutpick. While using her fists felt natural and the points of impact she gave to others echoed a sense of power through her, she was good enough with a quarterstaff that it felt like nothing less than an extension of her body.

Dashing forward as Aiden's spell finally faded, she swept the staff low, knocking the legs out from underneath one zombie--in the same sweep, she angled the staff's trajectory up, making contact with the side of the zombie's head, twisting it to the side with a sickening snap; it fell silently to the ground. Tarabaum smiled--that was why she liked quarterstaves: they gave her more leverage that let her hit harder without using her actual strength. The other two upright zombies each made a lurch for her, almost in tandem, their foggy eyes not betraying the malice that animated them. She brought the quarterstaff up vertically in the air and ducked down--the two zombies narrowly missing her with their uncoordinated hands--arcing the quarterstaff down on the zombie that was starting to get up, slamming it down on its head with the momentum of the pull downward with Tarabaum's own bodyweight adding to the force. That zombie's head became goo. Tarabaum stood up quickly, knocking the zombies above her off balance; she shoved them both back, and they stumbled away, almost falling. Angling the staff vertically, she kept both the zombies, now shuffling forwards, at bay with each end of the staff. The orkin kept one hand on the staff palm-out, and wrapped her forearm under the staff, palm-in; she then shifted the staff clockwise, allowing the zombies to stagger forward and she spun. She spun on the spot, hitting both zombies in the neck, knocking them off balance again. Then, letting the staff slide out to its full length, she kept the momentum going and swung the staff around for a second time, leaning back and around with her torso for added momentum. The impact decapitated both remaining zombies.

Aiden gave a low whistle. "This should be a fun trek." he said. Tarabaum didn't know if she agreed or not, but she knew that wherever she went, she was rarely bored.