Skirmish (Bitrayuul): Safe

Skirmish (Bitrayuul): Safe

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’s eyes cracked open slowly. It felt as if he had been asleep for a full moon cycle—and the crust in his eyes did little to dispel the thought. His body felt stiff as he strained to pull himself up in the bed. As his weight shifted, an odd crumbling sound came from beneath him. Pulling back the thick cloth on which he sat, the half-orc was confounded upon seeing he had been sleeping on a sheet of gravel.

The half-orc peered around the room as he rubbed his eyes. Everything was made of stone. From the chair in the corner of the room to the table it was paired with, there was naught but carved rocks in sight. Bitrayuul lifted his hands toward his temples but stopped upon seeing bandages on his arm and shoulder. 

Just as Bitrayuul struggled to remember the cause for his wounds that had healed, Tormag entered the room. “Oh! Yer awake!” The dwarf’s face lit up in an instant as he rushed over to his adoptive son and wrapped his thick arms around Bitrayuul. 

“W-where—” the half-orc began, struggling to breath beneath Tormag’s strong embrace. 

The commander noticed the effect his squeeze was having and relinquished his hold. “Sorry, son. I’m just so happy yer alive.” 

Bitrayuul returned the smile but remained confused. “What happened? Where am I?”

“Hmm, seems ye don’t remember. The cleric was right.” Tormag strode to the other end of the room and struggled to lift the stone chair before carrying it back toward the half-orc’s bed and setting it down with a gasp of relief. “Ye remember anything at all? The trolls invading the mines, chasin’ after Theiran into the tunnels?”

Bitrayuul shook his head.

“Right . . . well, t’ keep it short, ye went and rescued the senator—after I telled ye not t’, mind ye!” Tormag raised a finger at his son and waggled it in disappointment. “But, ye went anyway. And ye saved him from sure death, don’t ye doubt. Though, ye got cut up a bit in the process.”

Looking down at his bandages again, Bitrayuul lifted the wrapping to see the edge of his new scar. When he looked back to Tormag, he could see the concerned look on the dwarf’s face. “You mentioned something about a ‘cleric’? What is a cleric?”

Tormag’s face lit up once more. “Ah, a cleric be a follower o’ Bothain—a healer. She be the one who saved ye. We were lucky that she did, else . . . ye would’ve been lost in those mines.” The dwarf seemed to be choking back tears. Clearing his throat to avoid the awkwardness, Tormag added, “So, she said ye needed t’ rest. Ye’ve been here fer about three days.”

Three days? Bitrayuul thought. At least it wasn’t a full moon cycle. “Can I see the cleric? I’d like to thank her.”

“Eh, we’ll see. Clerics are an odd bunch, sure as stones. Besides, the Council has demanded they see ye once ye wake. So have a wash,” Tormag’s hand waved to a large, hollowed stone full of water on the far side of the room. “When yer cleaned an’ dressed, I’ll be outside.”

Bitrayuul grew nervous at the thought of meeting the council. When he first came into Tarabar, many dwarves were not accepting of him, and Theiran had warned of the Council’s expected disapproval. But before he could raise his concerns, his father was already walking toward the door. Bitrayuul’s shoulders slumped with worry and he sighed.

The half-orc failed to notice Tormag had stopped at the door and turned back toward him. A genuine smile was plastered onto his face. “I’m glad yer safe, son.” With a nod, the commander stepped out, leaving Bitrayuul standing in the stone room alone to prepare.