Skirmish (Bitrayuul): Defiance

Skirmish (Bitrayuul): Defiance

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 large half-orc towered above the dwarves that had collected to witness the unusual guest. Stares of fear and distrust could be seen on every face, giving evidence to the dwarven stubbornness and fear of the unknown. Bitrayuul did not miss their gazes, but paid them no mind—too enthralled by the dazzling city before him.

As they continued their walk forward—with more than a few curious dwarves trailing—an old dwarf approached. His beard nearly withered all to gray, yet his head still held life, sprouting brown in contrast as it braided into the dullness of his beard.

“Commander Tormag, ye return!” the elderly dwarf spoke in harsh voice, proving his age. Despite the youth gone from his body, the dwarf carried himself with the composure of a seasoned veteran filled to the brim with experience that commanded respect.

“Senator Theiran, a welcome sight! Glad t’ see yer stones yet t’ break,” Tormag replied with a genuine smile. The pair clasped arms in greeting and butt their heads together in respect, drawing a confused look from Bitrayuul. The half-orc could only assume such was customary, though this was the first encounter he had seen of his mentor and another dwarf of standing.

Theiran returned the commander’s smile in kind, truly relieved to see his old friend well. Once his eyes had shifted to the half-orc, the senator raised an eyebrow. “Friend o’ yers?”

“Aye, he’s mine. Taken as me own, sure as stones. I be seekin’ the council’s blessin’ in keepin’ ‘im by me side.”

Bitrayuul watched intently for a sign of disapproval on Theiran’s face. He knew his presence in the city, amongst the many dwarves who were not fond of sharing their culture, would not be a welcome one. Yet, no evidence against Tormag’s request came. Instead, the senator simply stared in silence for many moments at his old friend—gauging his own curiosities. “Ye certain?” Theiran asked.

Tormag did not hesitate in his reply, nodding with confirmation. “By Bothain’s Hammer.”

“I shall speak t’ the council of such request, else ye be met with quick rejection, don’t ye doubt.” With that, Theiran bowed low and clasped his friend’s arm once more before turning to take his leave. After taking a few steps, the old councilman turned his head back to the pair. “What’s the lad’s name, eh?”

Bitrayuul cut off his adoptive father’s words before they could form, replacing them with his own. “Bitrayuul. I am Bitrayuul.”

Theiran nodded, hiding any thought of discontent at the orcish name that certainly would stir distaste within the Council. As he faded from view, Tormag broke the tension rising in the air. “C’mon, Bit, let’s get somethin’ t’ eat. Me belly be screamin’.”

The dwarf behind the counter—and the other dozen patrons within—all rose as Bitrayuul followed behind Tormag into The Emberforge. Their eyes drilled deep into the half-orc, hands clutching the mining picks and hammers at their belts. This was the first time many a dwarf had seen a half-orc at all, and the first one had ever graced their homeland lacking shackles and wounds.

“Hal thild vant gar’thurim,” Tormag stated to the beady-eyed onlookers. Slowly, the furrowed brows of the dwarven patrons began to wane before each turned back to their mugs. Satisfied, Tormag approached the bar, though the innkeeper still employed his scowl as the half-orc struggled to wedge his large frame between the table and stool beneath.

“What be yer drink,” the disgruntled owner stated more than asked, never removing eyes from the young orc-blooded specimen. His gaze never faltered, even as Tormag offered his request for drink. With a grumble, the barkeep grunted and turned toward the store room to retrieve the commander’s brew.

Bitrayuul watched the dwarf stomp away, his stubby legs thundering against the stone floor with heavy boots. Facing his mentor, he whispered, “Will it always be like this? And what did you say to get the others to back down? Why did it not have the same effect on our host?”

Tormag waved the notions away, in no mood to answer such questions in the midst of those who would catch wind of unfavorable answers. Bitrayuul held back his disappointed frown as the innkeeper reappeared, a single mug in hand.

The mug was slid down the slick bar toward Tormag, stopping perfectly in front of the commander. Tormag peered down at the tankard, then back to the owner. With a smile on his face, he slid the brew slowly in front of Bitrayuul, never breaking eye contact with their host.

The dwarf behind the counter—and a few patrons who were paying attention—quickly turned to anger at the commander’s heinous act. Before they could act, Tormag waved his hand in the air nonchalantly and said, “Eh, ‘scuse me, barkeep? Seems I’ve misplaced mine, could ye fetch another? Many thanks, friend.”

Even as he finished the words, Bitrayuul nearly coughed from gasping so harshly. He could see the owner of the inn go red with anger, nearly fuming from his ears. Despite the fire burning in his stomach, the dwarf kicked open the store room door and stormed in before returning with a half-full small iron cup of water. Nearly all of the contents were ejected from the container as it slid viciously down the bar into Tormag’s waiting hand.

The innkeeper held a wide smirk on his face, proud of his petty act of defiance against the dwarf who had disrespected him. Though, the expression washed away as Tormag lifted the cup to his mouth and drank it all in a single, exaggerated gulp before slamming it to the counter in a flourish.

“Ahh, now that’s good! Barkeep, another!”