Skirmish (Bitrayuul): Breathe

Skirmish (Bitrayuul): Breathe

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.

“Whoa, son. I’ve got ye,” Theiran said as he caught Bitrayuul. It was obvious from the half-orc’s wobbled movements and the slow trail of blood that he had been severely wounded. The dwarf slid his arm around Bitrayuul’s waist to steady him as they continued to make their way through the winding tunnels toward Tarabar.

With each painful step, the half-orc grew more and more weary, floating in and out of consciousness. The multiple wounds he had suffered refused to clot, leaving him with little time.

“Hold on. Ye just keep holdin’ on, lad. We’re almost there.”

After a long while of slow progress, Theiran could hear trolls ahead. “Oh, Bothain ye be crude!” He looked around for somewhere to hide Bitrayuul. Nothing, just bare stone in a tight tunnel. Resuming his progress, the councilman decided the half-orc would be safer with him. Holding Bitrayuul in one arm and his hammer in the other, Theiran prayed that only one troll lay in their path and not a dozen.

Cautiously, the pair stepped closer to the noise. The senator tightened his grip on his weapon and reconsidered his decision to keep his nearly unconscious companion with him. “Bah, we made it this far!”

Theiran turned the last corner ready to face whatever awaited him. His expression turned to confusion, then suppressed laughter as he witnessed the source of the sounds. A handful of trolls were trapped in agony beneath collapsed stones, unable to die. “Son, is this yer doin’?” he turned to Bitrayuul, only to see the half-orc was completely unconscious—or dead. The dwarf gave him a shake, but no response came. Then another. “Bothain’s beard . . . Wake up, lad!”

No response came.

Disregarding his own safety, Theiran tenderly laid Bitrayuul down on the cold stone. He looked at the wounds on his savior’s shoulder and forearm. Luckily, the gash on the half-orc’s forearm had finally started to staunch the flow, but the same could not be said for the grievous wound near his neck.

“Bothain, help him!” the dwarf prayed. Never did he ever expect to beg his god to save the life of one with orcish blood. But Theiran knew that Bitrayuul had gotten the wounds in his rescue. A rescue for a dwarf.

Theiran let out a string of curses as he inspected the half-orc’s shoulder more closely. It was already starting to fester and the senator held no supplies that could offer aid. He put his hands on Bitrayuul, uncertain of how to proceed.

Do I just drag ye home? Keep ye still and try to find some way to cauterize the wound? Bothain, HELP ME!

The dwarf was starting to grow frantic. He had seen dozens die before. Friends, allies, enemies. Some in his grasp, some from afar. But this one tugged at his heartstrings relentlessly. The calm and collected senator found himself nearly in tears as he pounded his fists on Bitrayuul’s torso.

“Breathe, ye damned fool!”