Orcblood Legacy: Skirmishes: Orcs Bernard Bertram (good books to read TXT) đ
- Author: Bernard Bertram
Book online «Orcblood Legacy: Skirmishes: Orcs Bernard Bertram (good books to read TXT) đ». Author Bernard Bertram
âEh, Bothain ainât technically a god, but he be considered one,â Tormag explained with a bit of reluctance. Bitrayuul raised an eyebrow, pressing the dwarf for further details. With a low sigh, Tormag continued. âHe was just a dwarf, like the rest oâ us. Except he was the one behind all this.â His arms spread wide to take in the whole city. Thousands and thousands oâ years ago, we dwarves were livinâ in the mountain caves, no better than trollsâsave fer our boundless handsomeness and a bit oâ civility, donât ye doubt!â
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 knees beneath the table.
âAnyways, we were at war with the trolls over claims tâ the mountains. Theyâre called âThe Tusksâ because they be infested with trolls. Dwarves have been here all along, just keep tâ ourselves. Our kind hid out in caves, fightinâ tâ survive. The trollsâ numbers were limitless, breedinâ faster than critters. They rooted out most oâ me ancestors. Bothain was the leader oâ the clan at the time. It was he who kept dwarves together, kept âem fightinâ, and gave âem hope. Originally, dwarves resided in the southern wall oâ the Tusks. He convinced everyone tâ leave their homes and migrate here, tâ the eastern wall. Many disagreed, donât ye doubt!
âBut he kept nudginâ. And as more dwarves continued tâ die, he needed tâ nudge less and less. Eventually, the clan was convinced. There werenât many left, save a thousand or two, perhaps. He led âem quietly through the mountains. They called it the Stoneprint Path, last I remember.â Tormagâs voice turned somber as he recalled the tales of his ancestors. âIt be long gone now Iâd imagine . . .. Stones change over time and the beatinâ they take from the elements tends tâ wash history away.â
Bitrayuul listened intently. âWhat happened next? Did they build Tarabar?â
Tormag spread a small smile across his cheeks at the half-orcâs intrigue. âBothain first had our people carve a tiny path deep into the mountainâone that could easily be closed off should the trolls discover them. With luck, they went unnoticed fer a few yearsâenough time tâ get some defenses built. Once those were up, they were safe. Trolls may claim most oâ the mountains, but they be worse diggers than gnomes. Sure, eventually they managed to slowly intersect our many tunnels, but Bothain had plenty oâ time tâ get Tarabar up and runninâ. Forges were always aglow, hammers always pounded, and bellies were always full. He passed on from this world our king and savior, thousands oâ years ago. On this day.â
BOND
Bitrayuul leaned back in his stool. It made him happy to hear the history of Tormagâs people, almost as if he belonged. He looked out at the community of dwarves who had come to celebrate their history and the dwarf who had brought them to salvation. A part of him wondered if orcs had anything similarâthough he doubted it. Vrutnag had never spoken of any orc holidays. Whether that was due to their lacking or her disinterest in sharing that part of the orcish culture, Bitrayuul couldnât 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 in hand. Without a word, the commander quickly left his seat to retrieve the drink and returned with a wide smile.
The half-orc raised an eyebrow as Tormag poured the entire mug into his throat in a single swig. âArenât you already drunk, Father?â
Slamming the empty cup down, the dwarf let out a loud exhale of contentedness. Then, Tormag abruptly belched loud enough to wake the nearby dwarf whose drink had been stolen. Disregarding the confused searching of his neighbor, he replied, âAye, that I be. Ye orcs ainât had no ale or nothinâ in yer cave. I got six years tâ make up fer! Bahaha!â
Bitrayuul realized the truth of Tormagâs words. Other than the small sip of ale he had in the bar priorâand a few stolen drinks during the celebrationâhe had never tasted alcohol. He had gotten quite a buzz of dizziness through the day, but nowhere near the point of drunkenness. âIsnât it . . . bad? To get so drunk?â
âBahaha! Normally, probably so! Humans and elves canât hold their drink. Not sure about orcs, tâ be honest.â Tormag seemed to ponder for a moment, then chuckled at his imaginationâs illustration of a drunken orc. âBut dwarves be different. We love the drink. Our bodies can stomach more without spittinâ it back out. Letâs us drink longer. They used tâ say that the water ye would find in caves werenât safe tâ drink, so they made ale. Iâm guessinâ thatâs just some trick by a brewmaster tâ help sell his wares, but, by Bothainâs Hammer, it worked!â
The half-orc joined in the laughter and howled louder still as Tormag left his seat once more to steal another ale. The dwarf had told Bitrayuul plenty of stories about the games that his kin would play while drinking, each ending with tales of fun and bonding.
Bitrayuul yearned for memories of his own. Evenings of fun, overexaggerated retellings of adventure, all of it. It was true that the half-orc cherished his life in the cave with his mother and brother, but he had always strived for more. There had to be more.
Without hesitationâand drawing a curious stare from TormagâBitrayuul lifted himself from the small stool and strode to the nearest unconscious dwarf he
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