The sun peering out from behind the advancing rainclouds burnt Rozbag’s eyes. He stared at it anyways. As a man-orc, he found that he was more resilient under its yellow face than the pure-blooded orcs, but it stung at him nevertheless. The sun was a strange thing- it posed no real threat, it had never destroyed armies, and as best Rozbag could tell it was as necessary a part of things as the rainclouds themselves. Yet each time he did this, made himself stare into the sunlight and not flinch, he felt as though he were fighting a thousand year old impulse to run and hide. So it had always been in Bardhvotar, in the shrine of Skarabruf with its single beam of sunlight. In the days before the shrine had been blasphemed. Before the she-elf had found a way to desecrate that which was precious above all else. Before…

“He is awake,” came the sharp call from the goblin. The little creature was approaching from the farmhouse door. “What would you command us?” The goblin moved carefully, taking cautious steps to stay to the long shadows of the trees. Rozbag looked at the creature with glazed eyes, looked past it, then turned and walked until he stood within a dagger’s cut of the goblin and stared down at it.

“I do not command.” He had explained this before, or tried to. Goblins were often clever, but they clung hopelessly to larger creatures.. “Orcs are greater than goblins,” said Rozbag. “Orcs are greater than man-orcs. Man-orcs are not greater than goblins.” The little creature looked up at him with steady dark eyes. Less than a month ago it would have flinched to be so spoken to. No longer. The way of Skarabruf did not lay in fear and trembling. The goblin nodded, not totally understanding.

“He is awake.”

Rozbag took a step towards the farmhouse and out of the reach of the setting sun, now little more than an orange blur under a sky that was quickly turning dark with the oncoming storm. The goblin followed at his heels and moved to hold the door that already hung open. The room inside was clean and uncluttered, mostly. Three of Rozbag’s soldiers, the Eyeless Beetles, stood quietly around the frame of an old man, who sat on the floor with his hands tied behind his back. Wet blood matted the front and sides of his hair and stained one corner of his grey moustache. His look towards Rozbag was one of anger and disbelief.

“Have you beaten him?” asked Rozbag.

One of the soldiers shook his large head and motioned to the door. “He tried to run. When we tripped him he hit his head on the floor and we pulled him back here.” The orc shifted in his armor. “Do we eat him?”

Rozbag did not answer but studied the thunderclouds gathering outside through the thick paned window that made up much of the room’s outer wall. The window and its frame were a study of craftsmanship- masterpieces of glass and wood and iron fastenings. It was different yet not totally unlike the work of orc-smiths in Bardhvotar.

“You are Walt Stonegrant,” said Rozbag, crouching down next to the old man. “A traveler we took from the hills told us of you.” He waited for the man to speak, but no words came. “You are something of a lord in this valley.”

“I am no lord!” the man squawked. “I am a land owner! Other men pay me to use my land. That is all!”

Rozbag waited while the man’s eyes darted all around the room and then back at him before continuing. “A band of Vale-men entered our White Home kingdom and defiled our holy places. They travelled with a she-elf. You know of this.”

Walt Stonegrant cleared his throat, “Yes.” He kept his glare locked on Rozbag, but his eyes twitched despite his level voice. “My son was with them, but is now dead. For all I know it was at their hands. He was a sweet lad, an artist. And they led him to slaughter.” Tears stirred in the old man’s eyes, and the bloody end of his moustache twitched. “The void can have them all, the she-elf too.” His blurry eyes now slowly scanned the faces that lined his entry room, searching for a possible ally. “They are no friends of mine.”

Rozbag was relieved. Too many of the stubborn Vale-men had slowed them down with their refusal to cooperate when taken. Rozbag and his Beetles had primarily moved by night since leaving the White Home. They had been careful to stay away from roads and leave no tracks in any of the lowlands. Any travelers they had found had been made to not talk, and by the time their presence was discovered Rozbag was sure they would be well clear of the Vale militias. He smiled at Walt Stonegrant, bearing what teeth had been left to him after his years of slavery.

“That is well. Where are they now?”

The tension on Walt Stonegrant’s face eased. Men, it seemed, were as quick to turn on one another as any orc. “They left by boat over a week ago. Officially they were to travel to Mushafai to drop off prisoners. But that’s not where they are headed.” Now it was Walt Stonegrant’s turn to smile, his teeth a more impressive display of ivory white. “They’re headed south to the city of Muse, at the request of some wealthy lord that has been looking for the she-elf.” He looked proud. “Little goes on in this valley without me hearing about it.”

Muse. Rozbag was not sure what to make of this news. He knew nothing of the place, nor was he sure he had ever heard the name. He knew even less of cities, though he doubted any could be as vast and grand as Bardhvotar’s far-reaching underground halls. No matter. They would find their way. They would take men that wandered too far from the roads as they pushed southward. Men that lit bright campfires and paid no mind to any threat greater than timber wolves. Skarabruf would guide them. Even to Muse.

Rozbag’s glazed eyes were staring through the man, whose face had frozen in a look of uncertain camaraderie. Rozbag shook himself and then looked up at the Eyeless Beetles. Large raindrops had begun striking the glass of the nearby window and water would soon fall heavily from the sky.

“Do we eat him?” the large soldier asked again.

“Yes,” said Rozbag carefully. “And one horse.” Rozbag did not look at the man who had now turned frantic. “The killing should be done outside, with no parts of him left behind. Anything uneaten should be carried with us. The rain will cover all footsteps. Vale-men will not know where Walt Stonegrant has gone to on his horse. There will be no need to look for us.”

Walt Stonegrant’s screams were muffled by armored hands that forced him outside and away from the interior of the home. If their tracks were to be hidden, the Eyeless Beetles would need to be on the move well before the end of the rains, and there was much to do. Yet Rozbag found himself enamored with the craft work that made up the home’s furniture and floors. He tentatively ran one finger along the books stacked into a heavy looking shelf. In another life perhaps, he could have studied the race of men and taught the orcs of the riddles that eluded them. But he was a man-orc, and he was nothing. This life had been given to Skarabruf, to be his voice, and when necessary, his hand. Letting go of the momentary distraction, Rozbag turned to step out into the storm. But as he did so the corner of his iron gauntlet caught the edge of a book’s spine and sent it tumbling to the floor.

Rozbag looked down, careful to take in anything else he may have knocked out of place. Men would look for Walt Stonegrant, and no evidence of their having been here could be left behind for men to track and hamper them. Slowly, he reached to where the book lay open on the floor, and turned it over in one hand. And then Rozbag froze. Loose pages had spilled from the tome, each bearing lifelike hand-drawn portraits above the jumble of words that Rozbag could not read. Portraits of farmers, and ostlers – of men both old and young. And one woman.

“The she-elf,” he said quietly. Once again, Skarabruf had provided a way.

Rozbag’s skin was hot, and he felt sweat quickly forming on his face. The sound of blood rushed in his ears and pounded relentlessly. He glared at the image of the woman, recognizing the same sharp, fiendish features that had taunted him from across gap of the fallen shrine. Struggling to take a step, Rozbag stumbled to the open door, still gripping the page tightly. As he had expected, the small goblin still stood at attention outside. Rozbag choked out his question to the creature.

“Do you read?”

The goblin nodded carefully, eyes already darting to the page in Rozbag’s hand. “Man words are…bigger, but goblins can read them.”

Rozbag felt as though his skin would melt, and he tugged at the neck of his armor in an effort to relieve some of the heat. Even the cold rain falling from the sky could not cool him. “What does this say?” he demanded, thrusting the image of the she-elf towards the goblin’s black eyes.

The creature’s expression did not change. The way of Skarabruf was not one of fear and trembling. Holding the page with one hand to steady it, the goblin scanned over it and over before looking up at Rozbag and answering slowly.

“Lark.” The goblin turned the page over in its bony hands before looking up inquisitively towards Rozbag. “Who is she?”