Skirmish (Bitrayuul): Bond
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 leaned back in his stool. It made him happy to hear the history of Tormag’s people, almost as if he belonged. He looked out at the thousands of dwarves who had come to celebrate that history and the dwarf who had brought them to salvation. A part of him wondered if orcs had anything similar—though he doubted it. Vrutnag had never spoken about any orc holidays. Whether that was due to their lacking or her disinterest in sharing that part of the orcish culture, Bitrayuul could not be sure.
Frowning as he realized the mug in his hand had already been drained, Tormag checked his surroundings. His eyes lit up as he saw an unconscious dwarf two tables over with a frothing mug still growing warm in his limp hand. Without a word, the commander quickly left his seat to retrieve the drink and sat down with a wide smile.
“Aren’t you already drunk, Father?” the half-orc asked with a raised eyebrow as Tormag poured the entire mug into his throat in a single swig.
Slamming the empty cup down, the dwarf let out a loud exhale of contentedness. Before he spoke, Tormag abruptly belched loud enough to wake the nearby dwarf he had stolen his drink from. Disregarding the confused searching of his neighbor, Tormag replied, “Aye, that I be. Ye orcs ain’t had no ale or nothin’ in yer cave. I got six years t’ make up, don’t ye doubt! Bahaha!”
Bitrayuul blinked at him with concern. Other than the small sip of ale he had in the bar prior—and a few stolen drinks during the celebration—he had never experienced inebriation before. In truth, he had gotten quite a buzz of dizziness through the day, but nowhere near the point of drunkenness. “Isn’t it . . . bad? To get so drunk?”
“Bahaha! Normally, probably so! Humans and elves can’t hold their drink. Not sure about orcs, t’ be honest.” Tormag seemed to ponder for a moment, then chuckled at his imagination’s illustration of a drunken orc. “But dwarves, lad, are different. We love the drink. Our bodies can stomach more without spittin’ it back out. Let’s us drink longer. They used t’ say that the water ye would find in caves weren’t safe t’ drink, so they made ale. I’m guessin’ that’s just some trick by a brewmaster t’ help sell his wares, but, by Bothain’s Hammer, it worked.”
The half-orc joined in the laughter with his adoptive father, and further still as Tormag left his seat once more to retrieve another ale. The dwarf had told him plenty of stories about the games his kin would play while drinking over the recent years. Each ended with more and more tales of fun and bonding that made Bitrayuul quite jealous. He yearned for that. Tales of his own. Tales of fun, tales of adventure, all of it. It was true that the half-orc cherished his life in the cave with his mother and brother, but always he strived for more. There had to be more.
Without hesitation—and drawing a confused stare from Tormag—Bitrayuul lifted himself from the small stool and strode to the nearest unconscious dwarf he could find with an ale in his hand. As he sat back down, Tormag’s face was spread into a smile. The dwarf raised his cup and clinked it against Bitrayuul’s in cheer. Together, they lifted the mugs to their mouth and poured the sweet yet bitter liquid down. Like his father, Bitrayuul slammed his empty cup to the hardwood table and let out a loud belch that put Tormag’s to shame. They laughed once more and let their cheeks spread to smiles. Though the drink was thick, its pleasant aid was unneeded to keep their moods light and happy.
As they each stood to start the search for a filled flagon anew, an alarm blasted through the city, startling every sleeping and unconscious dwarf around. Bitrayuul turned to Tormag, “Another celebration?” He realized the falseness of his assumption by the grim expression painted on the dwarf’s face.
“No, lad. It’s not.”