Follow along each week for Skirmishes of characters of the Orcblood Legacy Series. These are real events that take place during the story’s timeline but are not detailed in the book.

“Bahaha! Ye remember that time ye smashed yer finger tryin’ to make a ring fer yer lass?”

The other dwarven craftsmen burst into laughter to join his friend. “Aye! What else were me fingers meant to do?! The damned thing wouldn’t fit a gnome!”

Together, the pair walked past the line of forges and workshops of their fellow crafters. Their humor was so ecstatic that even the roaring crackle of a dozen coal pits couldn’t stifle the sound. 

“Eh, look’s like Hagan’s hard at work, as usual!” the first stated sarcastically as they came upon the young blacksmith’s workstation. 

Seeing Hagan staring intently at a roll of parchment and an assortment of drawing tools, the other craftsman let out another round of laughter. As they came up to his shop, Hagan still hadn’t looked up to greet them.

“Oye, Hagan! What’re ye workin’ on?”

Without so much of a glance, Hagan replied, “Drawing.”

Each of the dwarves looked to the other in moderate frustration, disappointed that Hagan was deflating their light mood. With a pout, one of the crafters leaned closer to inspect the parchment. His face twisted in confusion and he cast a bewildered look to Hagan. “What in Bothain’s name ye buildin’, lad?”

“Armor.”

The dwarf shifted his incredulous expression to his friend, who then took a closer peek at the sketch before sporting an equal demeanor. 

“Ye . . . armor, ye said? Fer what, a giant?!”

Hagan let out a slow exhale as he leaned back in his stool, finally making eye contact with the disruptive pair. “Fer the half-orc, Bitrayuul.”

“The one that saved the senator?” one of the craftsman asked. 

Hagan raised an eyebrow in curiosity, having not heard of Bitrayuul’s feat.

A chuckle came from the other. “Do we got another half-orc roamin’ the city?”

Their joyous humor reignited, filling the area with the dwarves’ laughter once more. Once their amusement had subsided, they turned back to Hagan to inspect the drawing in more detail. 

“Lad, this be quite an undertaking, “ the first began. “If ye can get this done, ye sure ye want to waste it on a half-orc? Why not make it for two dwarves instead?”

The other nodded quickly. “Like us!”

Hagan leaned forward and scooted the parchment closer to him defensively. “He’s a good lad. If what ye say be true, and he saved one of our own, then I’ll be treatin’ him the same.” The dwarf looked up at the pair expectantly. “Now, if ye don’t mind, I’ve got me hands full.”

Each of the crafters looked irritated that Hagan would dismiss them, but began to depart regardless. As soon as they were a few paces away, they began to mutter amongst themselves. 

Hagan simply sighed and shook his head as he caught a passing few words.

“. . . never finish . . .”

“. . . impossible . . .”

Their comments slid over the blacksmith painlessly. He knew the task would be an immense undertaking. But Hagan believed his reasoning. Having learned that Bitrayuul saved a dwarven senator only solidified his decision and confirmed his impressions of the young half-orc. 

He looked down at his stack of sketches and started to sort through them. Everything had been laid out, now all that was left to do was begin forging. 

Flipping through the pages, Hagan found the list of materials he would need to purchase from the supply. For the first time, a tinge of doubt crept in and the dwarf began to reconsider his task of arming a half-orc. He rose from his seat and moved to his locked chest. After opening it, he took out a small pouch. Pulling on the twine, Hagan emptied the purse into his hand and a dozen coins spilled out. Sighing once more, the dwarf looked back to his list of necessary materials, then back to the coins. All his savings would be depleted if he chose to take on the project.

Hagan knew Tormag would reimburse him, but he still needed to eat during the creation process. Silently, he slipped the coins back into the pouch and slipped it into his pocket. Then, taking his procurement list, the young blacksmith took off for the ore stores.  

Follow along each week for Skirmishes of characters of the Orcblood Legacy Series. These are real events that take place during the story’s timeline but are not detailed in the book.

The hammer crashed down against the heated steel, launching a spray of sparks. Again, and again, Hagan worked the metal, stretching and folding on repeat. All the other blacksmiths in the Crafter’s Guild would have complained to be given such a menial task, creating rails for the mine cart tracks. But Hagan wasn’t bothered. To him, it was all just an aspect of the craft and it was important to never forget the basics. So, he wiped the sweat from his brow and placed the rail back into the forge.

As the dwarf waited for the steel to reheat, he looked up to see a strange character joined by an armored dwarf heading toward him. Paying them no mind, Hagan retrieved the rail from the coals, now sporting a vibrant orange color, and placed it back onto his anvil. Again he lifted his hammer and continued where he left off, straightening the steel to perfection.

By the tenth strike, Hagan heard someone clear their throat to get his attention. The distraction caused him to miss his mark, bringing the hammer down slightly to the side and putting a bend in the edge of the rail. With an exhausted sigh, he placed the rail off to the side and turned to face the pair at his workshop. Looking at them plainly, despite them causing him to damage his piece, Hagan nodded in greeting.

Now that they were up close, Hagan could tell that the dwarf was a high ranking member of the Dwarven Regime, based on the emblazoned armor. To the warrior’s side was a tall but young fellow that could only be a half-orc, Hagan assumed. He could tell by their awkward silence that they waited for him to initiate the conversation. He let out another sigh, eager to get back to his work but not wanting to be impolite. “Ye need somethin’?”

Glad that the dwarf had finally opened a dialogue, the dwarf extended a hand in greeting, which Hagan shook firmly. “I’m Commander Tormag, pleased to meet ye.” He pointed to the tall character to his right. “This here’s me boy, Bitrayuul. He’s been stationed under me to be trained and learn our ways. We’re hopin’ ye can make him some armor. The dwarf kind don’t seem to fit him, bahaha!”

Hagan raised an eyebrow in curiosity. “‘Yer’ boy? Must take after his mother.” 

Bursting with laughter, Tormag nearly doubled over in amusement. “Aye, that he do,” he responded between laughs and wiping away his tears. “Nah, he ain’t me boy. But he’s mine, alright.” The dwarf smacked Bitrayuul on the rump. “Go on, son. Introduce yerself, don’t be shy.”

Bitrayuul seemed uncomfortable to be the center of attention, doubly so as Hagan’s stare bore into him. “H-hello, sir.”

Shaking his head in playful disbelief, Tormag leaned against the blacksmith’s table. “Right, he’s a shy one—fer now. Ye should see him in a fight, though. Lad’s fearless. Takes after his mother on that one fer sure!”

Bitrayuul smiled at the mention of his mother, but it quickly faded as the fresh memory of her passing was rekindled. 

Seeing his adoptive son’s discomfort, Tormag continued. “As I was sayin’, he’s in need of some armor. Do ye think ye could help?”

Hagan eyed Bitrayuul up and down from behind his table. “What sort of weapon do ye favor?”

Staying quiet until his father gave him another tap on the rear, Bitrayuul meekly stepped forward. He lifted his hands to reveal the crudely crafted gauntlets he had made years ago, equipped with sharpened bones. “I prefer these. They leave my hands free, and sometimes I use my bow.” Lowering his hands to his sides, he stared down at the floor. “Master dwarf, I know I’m not a dwarf. So, if you aren’t interested, I would understand.”

The corner of Tormag’s lips lifted. He placed his hand on Bitrayuul’s arm and addressed the blacksmith. “Whatever yer price. If yer interested, of course,” he added, winking to the half-orc. Tormag turned back to Hagan. “So, will ye do it?”

Turning from the pair, Hagan looked around his shop while pondering. After a while, he finally turned back to face them and nodded slowly. “I’ll need a year.”

Follow along each week for Skirmishes of characters of the Orcblood Legacy Series. These are real events that take place during the story’s timeline but are not detailed in the book.

Wrapping his fingers around the worn, iron tongs, Hagan clamped down onto the thin steel and pulled it from his forge. The metal glowed a deep orange as he set it down onto his anvil’s horn to work out the curve of the pauldron just right. Down came his hammer, nothing more than a light but steady tap. Then another, and another. As the armor’s glow began to fade, the dwarf’s arm pumped in calculated bursts, clapping against the heated steel. 

With the pauldron growing too cold, Hagan lifted it to his face. Carefully, he scrutinized every detail. The edges were smooth, having worked out all of the nicks. The curve made perfect after this last cycle of working the piece. Continuing to trace the steel with his eyes, Hagan frowned as he came across the smallest of dimples. To anyone else, such a minor imperfection would have been meaningless. In truth, it offered no functional vulnerability at all. But, letting out a small, patient sigh, the dwarf lowered the pauldron and slid it back beneath the coals.

 As he waited for the blazing forge to reheat the steel, Hagan wiped his face with a rag before folding it into a neat square and placing it on the table. Taking hold of his trusty tongs once more, he pulled the pauldron from the fire, this time it came out a dull red—exactly as needed.

Bending as low as he could to put his face near the heated metal—and taking great care not to singe his beard—Hagan scanned the plate until he found the same dimple as before. Without needing to look, his hand reached out to the side and retrieved a tiny hammer. Clamping the piece in place with the tongs in his left hand, he slowly tapped the steel with his right. Little by little, the minuscule dimple began to flatten. It took nearly a hundred soft blows from the diminutive tool, but eventually the crease had been erased completely.

Once more the pauldron was raised to the dwarf’s face for final inspection. He was ready to quench it and be done, having worked the same small piece of armor for the last three days. Again, Hagan traced his scrutinizing gaze over the smoothed steel as it cooled in the air. Pleased with the result, he set the pauldron down onto the anvil. But as he released it from his tongs, he realized that he had clamped down onto the metal slightly too forcefully, as a new marking had been introduced from where it had been held.

With naught but another small and patient sigh, Hagan slid the pauldron back into the coals.

Follow along each week for Skirmishes of characters of the Orcblood Legacy Series. These are real events that take place during the story’s timeline but are not detailed in the book.

Bitrayuul took a deep breath. He was uncertain of whether his response would be what the council wanted to hear. He turned to Tormag, though knew that every action he took was being scrutinized. 

Tormag nodded to him. “Tell the truth, lad. Like I always taught ye.”

Turning back to Myra, the half-orc let out a sigh. “I don’t know why I went after the senator.” A few gasps and whispers came in response, prompting Bitrayuul to elaborate. “Tormag told me not to, for my own safety. But I couldn’t just let Theiran get dragged away! He saved me, in the battle. How could I just watch as the trolls took him? No one else was going after him, so I felt I had to do it.”

Myra leaned back in her chair. “Dwarves fight in a strict formation. It is known that if one of us be removed from the formation, they are lost. We cannot risk the battle fer the life of a single warrior—senator or not.”

Bitrayuul looked down at the ground. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

This time, Theiran chimed in. “No, lad, ye didn’t. But I’ll be thankin’ Bothain every day that ye chose to act anyway.” Once again, the council members began to dispute. 

Myra finally rose from her seat and smacked a small mace against the dias in front of her, claiming everyone’s attention. With the senators silent, she turned her gaze back to Bitrayuul. “What is your name again?”

“Bitrayuul, senator.”

“Were ye named that fer a reason?”

The half-orc shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, but not for my own part.” Myra motioned for him to explain. “My father is an orc, my birth mother a human. My conception was not known by my real mother.”

Myra seemed curious. “And where is yer father now?”

“Dead, slain by Tormag before my birth.”

Taking her seat once more, the senator finally offered a smile. “Well aren’t ye a bundle of family trauma? Yer adoptive father killed yer real father, and still ye follow him?”

Bitrayuul nodded. “To the end and back.”

Myra turned to her colleagues and nodded. Next, Theiran stood and called down to Bitrayuul and Tormag. “Right, step outside fer a moment, if ye please.”

Tormag pulled the confused Bitrayuul toward the door. Once outside, the half-orc seemed to explode with stress. 

“Oh no, did I say the wrong thing?! Are they going to reject me?” Bitrayuul’s heart raced in his chest as he realized he may have driven the council to a negative decision. He began hyperventilating and would have collapsed to the floor had Tormag not caught him. 

“C’mon, son. Ye’ll be alright. Everything went fine. Ye told the truth, and that’s what matters.”

Bitrayuul looked at his father and finally noticed that the dwarf’s face was lined with tears as well. At first, he immediately assumed that Tormag was crying because he knew that the council would expel them from Tarabar. But Bitrayuul could see that they were tears of joy from the half-orc’s words. 

A moment later, the doors to the chamber opened once more and Theiran called for them to enter. Tormag pulled Bitrayuul to his feet and looked him in the eye. “To the end and back.” 

Together, the pair passed into the chamber, holding the other firmly. Once inside, Theiran allowed Myra to offer the decision.

Standing once more, the senator smiled down at them. “Welcome back, Bitrayuul. We’ve come to a decision. Ye will be positioned in the Dwarven Regime, under Tormag, who will resume his title of Commander. Ye will learn our ways, and ye will know what it means to be a dwarf. Also, ye are to live under Tormag’s roof. Ye will be monitored and any sign of threat will result in yer death or expulsion of Tarabar. This be agreeable?”

Bitrayuul stood staring around the room, trying to process everything. He had heard Myra’s words, but didn’t fully comprehend her meaning. 

Leaning forward on her dias, the senator simplified her approach. “It means ye get to stay, Bitrayuul.”

Follow along each week for Skirmishes of characters of the Orcblood Legacy Series. These are real events that take place during the story’s timeline but are not detailed in the book.

Bitrayuul slowly pushed open the heavy door and walked into the chamber, Tormag at his rear. Almost immediately, the meager shred of courage that he had mustered to get through the door fled upon the eyes of all seven council members boring down at him from their raised seats. But he took another step, then another, until he was in the center of the room. It was obvious that a few of the dwarven senators seemed to have grown impatient at his delay. Three scowled openly at him while another three showed indifference. In the middle sat Theiran, a gleeful expression on his face.

Beckoning the half-orc closer, Theiran raised his voice to fill the chamber—though no spectators were present. “Welcome, Bitrayuul and Tormag. This chamber be called to determine yer eligibility to stay in Tarabar.”

Bitrayuul swallowed hard.

“Normally, we would hear testimony from ye and yer allies. But that’s already been done while ye were restin’. Fer the purpose of this chamber, those who spoke on yer behalf were: Tormag, myself, and a petition signed by over five hundred of our own army’s forces.”

Bitrayuul gasped in surprise at the news of the warriors’ petition. However, he could see the three council members who scowled at him roll their eyes. 

Theiran continued, his voice still booming through the room. “At this time, any council members who wish to offer requests for rejection may do so.” He stared to his peers.

Almost immediately, one dwarf stood from his seat—though hardly rose in height. He was the most lavishly dressed of the group and had yet to remove his scowl aimed at Bitrayuul. “We cannot allow a beast such as he to live among us! How are we to know if he doesn’t plan to find our weakness and report them back to his kind?”

Upon his testimony, other senators stood and began barking words of agreement or contempt. Within moments, six of the council members were in a heated argument, including Theiran. After a long while of angry curses amongst each other, they finally settled and Theiran smacked the dias in front of him with his maul. “Alright! Enough. It seems we’re at an impasse. Three for, three against.” As one, all of the dwarves turned to the lone dwarf who had not partaken in the dispute. 

To Bitrayuul’s surprise, he realized that the reserved senator was female, though it was difficult to tell aside from the lack of facial hair. But it was her eyes that gave her away. They were not the usual beady orbs tucked beneath a furrowed brow like her male counterparts, but gentle.

“Go ahead, Myra. Speak yer piece,” Theiran instructed.

Remaining in her seat, the senator leaned a bit closer while looking at Bitrayuul. “How old are ye, half-one?” Her voice seemed sweet, though her thickened accent caught the half-orc off-guard.

“Uh . . .” Bitrayuul flustered. He did not expect such a question. “Sixteen winters, senator.”

“And where did ye spend those winters?”

“In a cave, with my mother and brother.”

“And Tormag?” Myra asked with a raised eyebrow.

Bitrayuul’s heart quickened with alarm upon missing the detail. “O-oh, yes. For the last few years.” 

“And what is Tormag to you?” The senator’s gentle eyes seemed to stare right through him. Her words were lined with sweet tones that made her feel welcoming, but her gaze felt intimidating.

Bitrayuul eyed the rest of the council, hoping his response would not spark another dispute. “He is my father.” Luckily, the news seemed to already be known, as none reacted. 

Myra leaned forward even more, her gaze piercing Bitrayuul. “I only have one more question, half-one.” She waited for a long while, scrutinizing the half-orc’s every twitch. Finally, she asked, “Why did ye save Theiran?”

Follow along each week for Skirmishes of characters of the Orcblood Legacy Series. These are real events that take place during the story’s timeline but are not detailed in the book.

Tormag passed through the threshold first, grabbing the senator’s arm in greeting. Behind him, Bitrayuul hunched over to fit through the dwarf-sized doorway. Once through, the half-orc similarly clasped Theiran’s arm. 

“Glad to see yer still with us, lad,” the councilman expressed. “And thank ye again fer savin’ me. On Bothain’s hammer, I owe ye me life.”

Uncomfortable at the prospect of such a debt being owed, Bitrayuul simply nodded with a smile. The three warriors all sat in awkward silence.

Finally, Tormag cleared his throat. “Right, best be headin’ in now, Bit.” Motioning onward with his hand, he added, “Lead the way, Theiran.”

Offering one last gesture of gratitude, the senator turned and started walking through the hall. Bitrayuul had failed to notice the grandeur of the interior from his interaction with the dwarf, but now he couldn’t help but gaze at the sights within the hall. He had been impressed with the exterior’s craftsmanship and allure, but it was nowhere near as marvelous as the details hidden within. Two dozen statues of gold lined the hall, each shaped like a different dwarf in life-like realism. 

Theiran caught the half-orc’s open-mouthed awe and let out a chuckle. “Aye, I had much the same look on me face my first time here. Those be the past senators.”

Jaw still slack in wonder, Bitrayuul replied, “The detail is exquisite. Who crafted these?”

Another chuckle came from the senator. “No, lad. Those be the past senators. Casted in gold to be remembered in our history forever.”

Bitrayuul blinked in confusion, staring back at the statues. “You mean . . .?”

“Yep.”

The half-orc nearly shuddered after learning the truth. It almost seemed barbaric, to freeze the corpses of past leaders in a tomb of gold. But he kept silent and continued walking, a new perspective on dwarven culture in tow. Though, with each golden grave he passed, Bitrayuul couldn’t help but stare each in the eyes.

The long path ended with two large doors on each side. To the left, a series of three barred windows could be seen, a dwarf behind each. In front of the windows waited short lines of others as if waiting for something. Bitrayuul watched as one of the workers behind the bars passed a small handful of coins to the dwarf on the other side before the next in line stepped up. The half-orc was completely puzzled at what was going on, but turned to the other door to his right.

He knew this door was the one the council waited behind. Now, upon being so close, his anxiousness returned tenfold and his stomach twisted. The nauseous feeling crept up his throat and Bitrayuul was afraid he’d vomit, right in front of the doors. He felt Tormag place a comforting hand on his back.

“Don’t worry, son. Ye’ll be alright.”

Theiran nodded in agreement. “Take as long as ye need, lad. I’ll see ye inside.” Stepping away, the dwarf opened the door and slipped in. 

In the small gap from the opened door, Bitrayuul could see part of the room in which he was meant to enter. A raised semi-cirlce of seats lined the far end of the small ampitheatre, a finely dressed dwarf in each seat and silhouetted by shadows cast by dancing flames of torches behind them. The foreboding image nearly pushed the half-orc over the edge and he clutched his stomach in agony. Staring wide-eyed at his father, tears began to form. “I-I can’t do this, Tormag! They’ll send me away! Or kill me!” Though he tried with all his might, the half-orc let his fear get the best of him. Kneeling down, he hid his face in the dwarf’s shoulder. “Please don’t make me go in there . . ..”

Tormag ran his hand over Bitrayuul’s hair. “Don’t worry, son. No matter what happens, I’ll be with ye, don’t ye doubt.” He looked into the half-orc’s face and wiped away the tears with his thick fingers. 

Bitrayuul continued to cry for a moment, though his fear was beginning to subside. Tormag always knew how best to calm him. The dwarf was the best father he could have asked for, a fact that he was eternally grateful for. Taking strength from his father’s assurances, Bitrayuul sniffled away his tears and took a steadying breath. After his nerves were driven back, he stood and turned to face the large door to the council’s chamber. 

Looking back to Tormag, the anxious half-orc asked, “Will you come with me?”

“Aye, lad,” the dwarf replied with a smile. “Always.”