Skirmish (Bitrayuul): Bothain
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.
Huffing with exhaustion, Tormag rolled to his side with a groan, disregarding the pained grunts from the dwarves beneath him. “Where ye at, Bit?” the aged commander called out to the withering crowd of drunken and bruised warriors. His eyes scanned the masses, wondering why it was so difficult to find a half-orc in a sea of dwarves, especially when Bitrayuul was twice their height.
“I’m here!” came the muffled reply from a few paces away. Surely enough, a tan-skinned arm pierced through the sheet of sprawled dwarves layered over top of the half-orc, waving frantically.
Tormag crawled over top of his kin slowly. He would have apologized, but this was the expectation of Bothain’s Day. Once Tormag had reached his adoptive son, he rolled the sleeping, fatigued, or unconscious warriors away that lay over his trapped companion. Energyless rebuttals of discontent came from most of the dwarves as the commander pushed them aside, finally clearing enough room for Bitrayuul to rise to his feet.
The pair stood amidst the thousands of resting dwarves, breathing heavily themselves. The festivities had lasted all through the night—at least, Bitrayuul assumed it was night—and left nearly the entire city battered. “Dwarves sure throw a party, don’t ye doubt,” Tormag said with a laugh.
“I guess so?” Bitrayuul responded. His eyes were fixed on the enormous steel hammer still burning in the air above. “How does it burn so long?”
Tormag didn’t need to look to know what his pupil was asking about. “Dwarves be pretty handy with tools, sure as stones. There be a line that runs through and feeds from an oil supply. Burns through nearly a hundred barrels o’ the stuff, I reckon, but Bothain’s Day only comes once a year.”
The mention of Bothain reminded the half-orc that he had questions he wished to ask regarding the subject of their devotion. “Tormag, Bothain is a god, right? I remember you telling us about him in small details back home, though not often.”
Raising a rugged hand to his bearded chin and giving a deep scratch, Tormag considered how much to divulge of his culture’s beliefs and heritage. He had never mentioned much during their time in the cave out of respect for Vrutnag. The dwarf’s last wish was to interfere with anything she might have taught them about their beliefs.
“Eh, Bothain ain’t technically a god, but he be considered one,” Tormag explained with a bit of reluctance. Bitrayuul raised an eyebrow in confusion, pressing the dwarf for further details. With a low sigh, Tormag continued. “He was just a dwarf, like the rest o’ us. Except he was the one behind all this.” His arms spread wide to take in the whole city. Thousands and thousands o’ years ago, we dwarves were livin’ in the mountain caves, no better than trolls—save fer our boundless handsomeness and a bit o’ civility, don’t ye doubt!”
Slumping down onto a stool, Tormag took a seat at a table away from spectators and eavesdroppers who may not be fond of their history being shared with one of orcish descent. Bitrayuul slowly slid onto the adjacent seat, hardly able to squeeze his tall frame beneath the boards.
“Anyways, we were at war with the trolls over claims to the mountains. The Tusks, they’re called, because of the infestation o’ trolls that reside in ’em. Dwarves have been here all along, just keep t’ ourselves. Our kind hid out in caves, fightin’ t’ survive. The troll’s numbers were limitless. They rooted out most o’ me ancestors. Bothain was the leader o’ the clan at the time. It was he who kept dwarves together, kept ‘em fightin’, and gave ‘em hope. Originally, dwarves resided in the southern wall o’ the Tusks. He convinced everyone t’ leave their homes and migrate here, t’ the eastern wall. Many disagreed, don’t ye doubt!
“But he kept nudgin’. And as more dwarves continued t’ die, he needed t’ nudge less and less. Eventually, the clan was convinced. There weren’t many left, save a thousand or two, perhaps. He led ’em quietly through the mountains. They called it the Stoneprint Path, last I remember.” Tormag’s voice turned somber as he recalled the tales of his ancestors. “It be long gone now . . . Stones change over time and the beatin’ they take from the elements tends t’ wash history away.”
Bitrayuul listened intently, taking in the story with riveted attention. “What happened next? Did they build Tarabar?” he asked with excitement.
Tormag spread a small smile across his cheeks at the half-orc’s eagerness. “Bothain first had our people carve a tiny path deep into the mountain—one that could easily be closed off should the trolls discover them. With luck, they went unnoticed for a few years—enough time t’ get the steel doors built. Once those were up, they were safe. Trolls may claim most o’ the mountains, but they’re worse diggers than gnomes, sure as stones. Sure, they can swing a pick, and eventually they managed to slowly intersect our many tunnels, but Bothain had plenty o’ time to get Tarabar up and runnin’. Forges were always aglow, hammers always pounded, and bellies were always full. He passed on from this world our king and savior, over thousands o’ years ago. On this day.”