Meen-Tra stomped down the main crew corridor. She was furious, and the worst part was that she wasn’t entirely sure why. She had a project, but wasn’t making any progress. Her mother was gone. They had no idea where they were going. The list went on and on.
Garzha.
She faltered. Meen-Tra touched her titan-mark. She could do more – she could be what Garzha had wanted. It was within her, and she knew it. Escaping the dungeon and rescuing Draven had been exhilarating.
When Garzha was alive, she wanted to run in the opposite direction of anything her mother suggested. It wasn’t that she was being a contrarian, or that she hated her mother, but that Garzha was a larger-than-life figure.
She just wanted to be her own orc, to tread her own path. But now that Garzha was gone, and her home city in shambles, there was only one thing Meen-Tra wanted to do.
The knuckles of her fists popped, “Remain calm or die screaming.”
She took a deep breath and exhaled, letting out all of the fury. She looked down at her palms, flexing them, and lovingly traced the calluses on her dominant hand, earned from years of dedication to her craft.
“Was I wrong. If I had been by Mother's side, would she still be alive? Is it my fault…should I have walked the explorer’s path? Why, why, why?”
She shook her head – she didn’t know.
The hiss of gas as a crew door slid open, and Meen-Tra turned to see Mitzy extending an open fist.
“Care to test out my new gumball? It's made with 100 percent Mire grown sucrose.” Mitzy beamed up at her.
Meen-Tra blinked, her expression blank. She still didn’t know what to make of the mech-gnome, but the fiery outsider was a force, and she reminded her of Garzha.
The [Sandalmancer] extended an open fist, “Sure.”
Meen-Tra held up the candy for a closer inspection.
“Go on, the candy golems of Lecker Smecker could turn back the savory forces of Calanar for but a fraction of the wealth contained within.” Mitzy bragged.
Meen-Tra studied the candy. It was round, hard, and she could easily cup it in her fist. But something was… “Are you sure this is safe? Why is it glowing? Maybe I –”
Mitzy clicked her boot heels, launching herself, and with a casual flip, knocked the gumball into Meen-Tra’s mouth.
The [Sandalmancer’s] eyes went round, and she began to choke, but not for long, as Mitzy rebounded off the ceiling panels and rammed her fist into the other woman’s back.
Meen-Tra coughed, sucked in her breath, and…her eyes slit with pleasure, “Mmmm.
She smacked her lips, “Dish isht shoo gud.”
Mitzy dusted off her palms, “Of course it is. I’d have been cast into the sugarless depths if I couldn’t craft a proper gumball. I’ll check back later; that should be good for the rest of the day. Now, if you could just make note of the change in sweetness, that would be –”
The comms crackled overhead, and Pat cleared their throat, “Attention everybody, please gather in the galley – it’s about Ren.”
Meen-Tra was gone before Mitzy could finish explaining.
“Gumballs before guys.” Mitzy shook her head before she too marched toward the elevator.
Meen-Tra was one of the first to arrive. Children huddled in the back corner of the room, drawing stick figures on the wall as they acted out scenes from Ren’s battle with the invaders.
Ren that stupid–
“Deep roots [Sandalmancer].” A fist settled on her shoulder as Draven came up from behind.
She turned to face him, “[Summoner]. Do you know what this is about? What message? Did Ren really make contact?”
Draven fished around in his duster pocket, “That pink bog-brained idiot is harder to kill than a blood-fly colony. We’ll get him back – don’t you worry.”
Meen-Tra’s eyes narrowed, “What makes you think I want him back. I just wan’t answers, and DG’s really worried…so.” She trailed off.
Draven chuckled, “Right. It's all I can do to keep DG in the swamp, but between Hecate and me.
He placed a rune-stick between his teeth, “DG is listening to reason, and Pat is the cautious sort, it seems – I thank the Shining Ones for that at least.”
“The Shining Ones…aren’t you supposed to be a heretic of Grumakh?” A smoke ring hit her in the face.
More and more people continued to arrive. Almost every orc rescued from the Tribal Plains was present, as were Hecate and his two apprentices, and of course Camo, who never seemed to leave the galley.
A collection of screens at the foot of the room came alive, and Pat made a face at them.
“Hello to everyone aboard DG Force One, and welcome to a special presentation. Please be warned…some of what we are going to see here is not for children.” Pat pointedly cast his eyes at the children marking up the walls beneath him.
Flashing lights began to run along the floor. “Children, please follow DG. They have prepared a special activity for you in the other room.”
The orc children, oblivious to the world around them, didn’t notice.
Mitzy put two fingers in her mouth and let out a piercing whistle that threatened to shatter Pat’s viewscreens.
The children looked up, and Mitzy shouted, “Off you go, you little sugar bugs. Follow DG – behave yourselves, and I’ll let you each have a gumball later.”
Some looked skeptical, but when their parents came over and ushered them towards the door, a few of the smarter grunts extracted promises of a reward from the adorably angry mecha before they too followed their peers.
Pat nodded, “Good, now. Let's begin. As many of you know. Murkspire is all but destroyed, the Mire is exposed, outsiders are invading, and Ren is missing. The last known contact was with Meen-Tra…in the dreamscape – where she was given a new skill – a not impossible phenomenon. But still a rare occurrence.
The evolution of sweet taking place in Meen-Tra’s mouth took an interesting turn, as a sour punch hit her squarely in the tonsils; her lips puckered, and her eyes crossed, as she sucked for all her worth, desperately trying to get past the surprise.
“However, it would seem that our resident [Sandalmancer] wasn’t the only one to receive the new skill.
She hit the next level of flavor town, and the muscles in her face relaxed, as the pure sweet goodness returned. Her eyes were drawn to Pat's screen, as she slurped up the copious amounts of saliva that had accumulated.
Draven gave her the side eye.
“We don’t know who this video I’m about to show you comes from. All we have is their username: jadeGuy. Now, before anyone asks what a username is – it's just a nickname, attached to – we’re calling it Renddit –
Pat covered their face as their shoulders bounced, “Sorry. It’s an Earth reference – one I’m quite proud of. Without further ado.”
The screen went black.
“No wrong one.” Said Pat.
Black-and-white snow appeared onscreen, and the sound of static scratched.
“Sorry.”
The screen flashed, and an FYP page: a white background, black text above each video, up or down arrows, and, of course, the bubble icon for leaving a comment. Someone, presumably Pat, scrolled down the feed, as a silence fell over the audience.
“Here we are. This was posted just a few minutes ago.”
Ren stood in the center of a plain room, a window over his shoulder offering a glimpse into a strange and unfamiliar landscape. The [Echo Runner] was as naked as the day he was born. The frame panned to the face of a human woman, who was in danger of catching a fly in her mouth.
It was at this point that Ren removed the distance between them, as he wrapped his arms around her and tipped her into a deep kiss.
“That sandy-haired wyrmback won’t get away with this! How dare she claim him – it’s an outrage, I demand my right to challenge.”
Meen-Tra was up on her sandals, her face pressed into a permanent scowl.
“Those hair blades belong to me. WAR! This means war. Hecate – where’s Hecate – turn this boat around, I want–”
She tipped like a toppled titan, and the floor rose up to meet her.
Mitzy hopped down from the table-top and held up her clawarm as she approached the sleeping beauty, “Nothing to see here, folks. Just an experiment gone wrong. Too much of my special mauve sauce. Tell the children their gumballs will be a little late…unless.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
She looked hopefully to the faces of the parents around the room, but they avoided eye contact, “No? You’ll never get into Lecker Smecker without a little risk, but alright, alright – more testing first.”
Mitzy signaled to Pat, “A little help here? Can DG move her for us? She’ll probably be out for a few hours.
Mitzy clapped excitedly, “Oh, this is perfect. It will give me a chance to test the vaunted orc stamina Draven won’t stop bragging about.”
Draven coughed into his fist.
Meen-Tra awoke with a start, sitting up straight. She recognized her new workbench and the tools neatly arranged on the wall behind it.
She gripped her head, “Uh. My head, what happened?”
Smacking her lips, she moved her tongue along the roof of her mouth; the skin was raw, and a bitter taste lingered.
Her eyes narrowed, “Mitzy.”
Throwing off her covers, Meen-Tra got out of bed, rummaged through her sandal rack, and once properly sandaled, exited her room.
She used her new skill, which she’d been avoiding, but if Ren was using it as a means of spying and sending information, well, it was – she had to admit, a very valuable skill.
“Who was that woman…that city. Where are you, Ren? When I get my hands on you…”
Why don’t you admit that you like him? You’ve always had a soft spot for the odd wyrmbacks.
Meen-Tra fiddled with the skill. Navigating digital pages was an altogether foreign concept in the Mire. But she was a quick study, and this was a world of magic and mystery; she’d seen stranger things before she was old enough to level.
Scrolling through her main feed, she was amazed at the number of videos and users posting. It looked like nearly a dozen people were posting to the skill.
“Titan sap, but Garzha would have loved this.
Meen-Tra chuckled as she imagined her mother battling monsters in the deepest darkest dungeons, while casually making a pitch to join the Wayfarer’s Guild. “Remember, Mirefolk – stay calm or die screaming – it’s an explorer’s life for me.”
Did you scream at the end, Mother? How did you die?
Meen-Tra stopped in front of the elevator – waiting as she flipped through her FYP. A faint buzzing, barely audible, was coming from above, and she turned to see a cluster of firebugs hovering over her shoulder.
“What are you…”
Meen-Tra looked from her FYP to the resident mana lamps, and her eyes narrowed. She angled herself to block their view. The cluster adjusted.
The elevator opened with a hiss, and she stepped through, keeping her eyes on the cluster – daring them to join her.
They flashed their thoraxes at her before buzzing away.
The doors closed in her face, “What in the blood-fly blister are they doing?” She shook her head.
Ren. He’s behind every stupid, dumb, idiotic…
The elevator came to a halt, and the doors slid open.
“I da na care. We are deaf clickbats up here. Grumakh is the best shot. There are forces at work.” Said Hecate.
Meen-Tra stepped onto the bridge, “And what of the innocents in Murkspire. Have you not seen the video?”
All heads in the room turned to her.
“Well? Have you seen it?”
“Trailfinda – gud ta see yee awake. We have seen it – tis bad. But we canna stand against that.”
Heads nodded around the room, though the dangerous look in Draven’s eye told her he was not in agreement.
“Mitzy. Your gumball fails the ‘don’t incapacitate me’ test.”
Mitzy snapped her claw arm, “I vastly underestimate the impact the mana-dense sucrose here would have when interacting with my special –”
“Not now. You can repay me later, when you let me have a closer look at those cryo boots of yours.
She took a seat at the round table, where she ignored Mitzy's protestations, “How do we even know Grumakh can be trusted? Draven – what say you?”
Draven scratched his chin, “They’re bat shit crazy. Obsessed with their faith. And well armed. Also, we’re flying around in a giant obomination – my offense magnified – So I’d say Grumakh is as likely to capture as to treat with us. Assuming we can even find them.”
“Grumakh wunna lie to a [Ranger].”
“True.” Draven blew a series of interlocking smoke rings.
“So cool.”
“What was that?” Asked Meen-Tra.
“Nothing. DG protests. They say we are safe with the Grumakh. And that we should go to them.” Said Pat.
Meen-Tra drummed her fingers on the table, “And what of the mists? Where have they gone, and will they return…and why now?”
Mitzy sheepishly raised her hand, “I’ll get it right next –
Meen-Tra’s fists popped, and Mitzy cleared her throat, “R-right – later. Was it not Ren? We all saw what happened.”
Heads were nodding.
“We don’t know what we saw.”
“But the timing?”
“Zee aether quality – tis not the same,” Hecate spoke with a troubled look in his eye.
Mog and Nosh spoke at the same time, “[Ranger Sense].”
“So what does this mean?” Asked Meen-Tra.
Hecate shrugged, and Nog and Mosh exchanged worried glances.
Draven snapped his rollie case shut, “It means we need to get our hands on the blond bastard so he can tell us what in bogs name he’s doing kissing another, while Meen-Tra is here worried sick.”
Guffaws all around – except Mitzy, who was trying and failing to hide her mirth.
Meen-Tra stormed off; she had research to do.
Her bed sheets draped over her head, and her eyes were spiderwebbed in crimson, which was only visible due to the glow of her FYP; she’d been flipping for hours and couldn’t stop.
“Just one more.” Muttered Meen-Tra.
She shot to her feet, “Ren,” she would recognize those hairblades anywhere.
Her pulse quickened. There was a tiered dais behind him, where three figures sat shoulder to shoulder.
It was the Emperor who sat up on his throne that commanded her attention; she felt the urge to bend the knee.
She touched her titan-mark, shaking her head, “What have you gotten into, Ren?”
He danced, wore a gruntling's shift, and seemed to be performing for a private audience. Was he enslaved? Working with them? Was this a skill?
Whose recording is this?
When it stood and began to slide step toward, Ren – her heart quickened, and the bile in her throat rose. Its movements were predatory and sensual, as it stalked at Ren – she couldn’t tell whether it wanted to eat, Ren, or…
Meen-Tra’s skin crawled, as it began to caress the [Echo Runner], lovingly and familiarly; the two were lost souls reconnected in time and space.
She barely heard the music coming from her screen; the aether rumbled with bass, and the beat grew faster. The two were like one organism, sliding and gyrating in passion and carnal desire.
It separated. Ren continued his performance, as it held frozen like a predator in the grass. Its tentacle swayed hypnotically and suggestively. The Emperor was on the edge of his seat, and the expression he wore was so full of lust that Meen-Tra felt the need for a shower.
The man thing struck like a crashing wyrmback, with a speed almost imperceptible to her eyes. It was in one place, and the next it was beside Ren; blood fountained, the base dropped, and Ren’s undulations redoubled, his face was a mask.
“NO!”
Ren’s arm wobbled on the floor, and the faces of the four, she checked each in turn, holding the video in place; lidded eyes, relaxed facial muscles, and the contentment of the afterglow of ecstasy.
“Monsters.”
Thump, her heart contracted, and Ren looked directly into the camera, the corner of his mouth twitched up – THUMP, Ren collapsed.
The video cut off. She let her fists fall to her side. She stared into the darkness, her mind was blank, and she felt dry like marrow sucked from bone.
“Remain calm, or die screaming…Ren.” A single tear ran down her cheek.
Gorthow gripped the rampart of the Screechfang building, as Majordomo ran calculations for combat strategies and logistics. The numbers weren’t looking good; he had already predicted this would be expensive, but the experience would be far less than even his worst predictions.
Emperor Mercer had given him an impossible task, and yet, as the Great General of Xylos, it was his duty…his destiny to make it happen.
“How can I profit off these low-level creatures?”
Clara would consult the scrolls. Speak with the…people here.
He bowed his head and muttered a prayer, “System is love empathy twists light and good.”
Two humans strode across the street; it seemed they wished for an audience. They carried themselves with a familiar confidence and bearing. He knew these beasts, yet that was impossible.
Gorthow removed his helmet, attaching it to the clasp at his waist, and leaped over the edge.
“Time to greet the natives.”
Their plan was simple, at least so Earl claimed. John didn’t think so, but he wasn’t the brains of the operation – it was John and his moral clarity that Earl relied on – this place, this game world, he didn’t understand it, thus John’s explanation (they were in hell) seemed as good as any to him.
None of it made sense to him. He was a simple man; for him, a good week was forty hours and a football game – nothing more and nothing less.
But here, monsters lazed about in human clothing, performed human actions, and dared to accept diversity as if it were the air they breathed.
Earl may be the brains and the moral clarity, but John knew right from wrong; his father had demonstrated the lesson for him – at the end of a belt (buckle and all).
John did trust Earl, even loved him, though he would never admit as much; he was no queer. But these humans, approaching them openly and revealing their secret, risky – and who knew what kind of people they were. This wasn’t Earth, and for his money, these weren’t humans.
“Calm yourself, John. We must act familiar. Remember who you were, and where you are from. The Lord will handle the rest.”
Earl was always doing that kind of thing, reading his mind and calming his fears. It was almost like the other man was in his head. Just another example of how their friendship had grown, and why he’d been so lucky to find Earl all those years ago.
John nodded, “As you say, Seer.”
The air in Murkspire was thick but comfortable, the mists were gone, and while the sage moss yet sparkled, so too did the stars in the sky. The city, normally alive with the hustle and bustle of street vendors and children's laughter, was quiet. The multicoloured signs that burned at all hours were lifeless. Few remained, and those that did dared not show their faces.
“How will they know we come?”
“They will know.” Said Earl.
Movement from above caught John’s eye as a figure – jets flaring from his palms and feet – like some kind of super hero, landed on the street with a predatory grace.
As a plumber for most of his life, John learned to trust his instincts. The variation in pitch of a deteriorated fitting could be the difference in him eating a face full of shit and bodily fluids, and making it home in time to catch the second half of the game.
So when he’d first felt the tingle in the back of his mind, the bells and whistles, the telltale signs of danger sense – it had been natural for him to listen, to be cautious.
The figure touching down across the street was causing his danger sense to blast off to the moon; every fiber of his being was telling him to turn and run as fast and as far as he could. It was only the warmth and comfort of Earl’s presence beside him that kept his bowels tight and his pace steady.
“Greetings, brother. It is good you have come. We have waited many long years for our liberation. Our faith has been tested, but at long last our time has come.” Earl’s jowels shook as he made the sign of the cross.
Gorthow stood arms clasped behind his back; he was at eye level with the two orcs; a single brow lifted, as he gave the two a look of incredulity.
“You speak well for a beast, I’ll give you that. Why have you come? To surrender?” Said Gorthow, straight to the point.
Earl offered a sharp smile, “You are clearly a discerning gentleman. Is there perhaps somewhere we can speak more comfortably?” His eyes flicked from side to side before returning to match the Great General’s stare.
The silence stretched.
Gorthows nostril flared, “Very well.”
John watched with silent interest, yet Gorthow did not acknowledge his existence. The imposing figure turned on his heels, exposing his back, and yet his danger sense did not ease.
Earl started forward, and after a moment's hesitation, John followed in his wake.
