Welcome to Gaia! ::

I started writing this while bored. It will probably have a good number of installments. (It'll probably end when I get too lazy to write anymore)



CHAPTER ONE


Foul wind whistled an ominous harmony through the tops of distant trees, finding it's way over a green field littered with the dead. Crom climbed atop a jagged rock and surveyed the panorama of carnage, finding himself surprised at the strange calm that occupied what had so recently been the scene of a particularly violent and bloody commotion. He smelled the air, bringing another kind of vision to his mind through his snout-like nose. It told him of more of the same. Death.

Crom hopped down from his perch. He was a sight both revolting and intimidating. His tangled mess of white hair was matted to his face with sweat and blood, small yellowing tusks poked through his lips from his lower jaw, and a varied patches of brown leather armor and clothing covered his body so that he almost looked as though covered in an earthy quilt of green and brown. His body was heavy and lean and his shoulders broad, though his frame on the whole was more compact than bulky. Red eyes gleamed with cold intelligence against the setting sun like a pair of dimming candles.

At that moment, it was difficult to determine which faction had won the battle. It was even hard to tell which side many of the fallen warriors had been on. The majority of them had no distinguishing markings or uniforms. Here or there he could spot small groups of bodies belonging his green-skinned kin, most of them surrounded by significantly larger numbers of dead human warriors. He nodded with satisfaction at the sight.

Finally, he stepped out of the rocks, which were sticking out of the ground like rows of blunted teeth, and into the open field. He noticed a considerable quantity of arrows jutting from the ground or sticking out of even more corpses. There were none of the green-skinned warriors among those slain by arrows, however. Crom snorted a crude laugh. For being a 'stupid race,' they at least knew enough to stay out of an arrow's flight path.

The opposing side, the army from Calador, had archers, he recalled, meaning that it had been their arrows left behind. He knew that either meant that Calador’s force had been defeated and left their arrows behind in the subsequent retreat or that they had actually won but simply lacked the time to collect ammunition before running down their foes. His gut told him that it was likely the former. Perhaps it was his pride saying that as well.

The arrow pattern displayed the typical inaccuracy of massed archery, where regiments of bowmen rained arrows down into target rich environments. It wasn't anything unusual; Crom had witnessed such tactics before. The arrows had short, light shafts: probably fired from short bows designed to be economical and easy for any mediocre soldier to use. The downside being that they were only effective against lightly armored infantry. Not that there wasn't plenty of it in most engagements, of course.

Then he spotted something a little more worrying. It was a single arrow embedded into a lone heavily armored infantryman lying face down in the dirt. Crom recognized the soldier by its type. It was man-at-arms, clad in a combination of chain mail armor and a few solid plates covering his knees, shoulders, and most of his chest. A kite-shaped shield was still in his left hand, an axe in his right, and a thick steel helmet on his head. They were relatively common among the armies of Kalimar, at least in the one that he’d fought with and few others that he’d seen, though obviously less common than their standard militia infantry.

This on it's own wasn't of any significant concern. Perhaps a group of them had been marching through and a number of archers decided to target them; this poor soul may just happened to have been the only one unlucky enough to get hit at a vulnerable spot. Further observation dismissed that possibility. Judging by the surrounding footprints, he had been the only armored soldier within twenty paces. Perhaps it had been an officer.

Crom pushed his other thoughts aside for the moment and decided to investigate his suspicion. He turned the body over and, sure enough, there was a badge of rank on his chest. It seemed to be solid silver with a symbol of some kind engraved into it. He pocketed the trinket without a thought.

Shifting his investigation to the arrow itself, he noticed that it had a longer, heavier shaft than the others and better fletching; it was of a notably higher quality of craftsmanship. It was sticking out from the side of the fallen soldier’s neck. Judging by the angle, its flight path was almost parallel to the ground. This wasn't a standard "shoot an arrow into the air and hope that it lands on a living target" shot. Crom also recalled the way in which his fall had left him; he must have been running when hit. Whoever it was obviously knew what they were doing. A professional mercenary of some sort, he guessed. Crom shrugged and continued on.

As he walked onward, he noticed several more soldiers killed in a similar manner: Same difficult shots, similarly armored troops, identical arrow design; many looked as though they had not been dead long. Crom suddenly began feeling very uneasy about being in the open and darted dexterously back to the rocks. Perhaps it was time to leave and rejoin Kalimar's army... whichever way it went. No, to hell with that, Crom thought. He had no allegiance to them. He didn't even know if there was even an army left, let alone which way it went. Besides, what was the point? He was only fighting with them for food. He had picked up a few coins on the battle field, and would get a few more by selling the stolen badge in the next town, assuming it hadn't been burned down yet; he would be able to eat for a while.

Making up his mind to depart the field of death, he checked the location of the setting sun and made his way in the opposite direction. He knew that he wouldn't arrive at the next town before dark, but, unlike most people, he had little solicitude toward traveling at night. He was about to clear the rocks, on the side opposite the battlefield, when he sensed movement combined with the sound of heavy, metalic footsteps. Crom stopped and pivoted on his left foot, instinctively grasping the hilt of his short-handled ax and the grip on his round wooden shield, pulling both of them from his belt.

A silver-clad figure emerged from the rocks, approaching Crom ponderously and standing with a straight posture and a nearly tangible air of superiority. He held a heavy long sword in his right hand, but no shield. The warrior's armor was a combination of heavy chain mail and thick metal plates, looking barely lighter than full cavalry armor. A large helmet with a slotted visor covered his head with a blue plume sticking out of the top.

Crom spotted the insignia of Calador, along with some lesser markings. The Empire of Calador rarely used heavy infantry, or even heavy cavalry for that matter. Crom decided that he must be a noble of some sort, probably a lesser one out for glory in battle. Judging by the look of him, it was unlikely that he had gotten any. His armor and sword were clean and undamaged and Crom noted that his potential foe carried himself with no sign of battle fatigue.

One of the few things that Crom knew about Caladorian nobles was that they held a firm distaste for Orcs. It was practically bred into them. The fact that Crom was only a half-blooded Orc would be of little consequence; it would surely be half an Orc too much for the warrior coming toward him. Realizing that a fight between the two would not be debatable without some form of dishonorable retreat, Crom began sizing up the situation. The noble was still fresh; somehow having avoided any combats, but would grow tired quickly from fighting in that heavy armor. The problem was, Crom was already exhausted from the long, bloody battle.

The two stood in silence for a long moment, facing each other: each sizing the other up. The half-Orc was well aware that Caladorian nobles were more than fancy armor and titles. Many of them trained to fight from birth. On the other hand, that meant little if one didn't have real combat experience. The noble's armor would make it difficult for Crom's axe to make a killing blow, but it would also slow him down. Crom's lack of armor, though giving him and speed and maneuverability, made him vulnerable. His shield was strong, but only made of wood. He would need to be careful when blocking blows from a heavy sword. With the armored warrior getting closer, Crom decided to execute an attempt at seizing the advantage by making the first move.

The half-Orc darted forward without warning. Using his shield to protect himself from his opponent's sword, he proceeded to ram into the human’s chest with the intent of knocking him over. The human stumbled backward, but his footing held. The armored warrior gripped his sword in both hands and retaliated with a charge of his own. He uttered some curse that Crom didn't bother listening to. The noble stopped a little too slowly and swung his sword downward. Crom parried the blow with his round shield, knocking it away to the left. The half-orc struck back with the pointed side of his axe, aiming for the neck, one of his armored opponent’s few vulnerable points. The noble brought his sword back in time to block, but just barely. Their weapons locked together for a moment, but Crom gave thrust forward, once again ramming his foe. The noble was ready this time and resisted, only being forced two steps back.

The human immediately came back at Crom, swinging aggressively from the left and right. The half-blood avoided the blade's tip by taking a series of steps backward. It was merely a tactical withdrawal; he was luring the inexperienced combatant towards him until he overextended himself. It didn't take long, either. The human kept attacking and by the fifth swing, he allowed himself to get off balance with his desperate attempt to land a hit on his foe. He came close to succeeding, but his attempt was not good enough; the half-orc was untouched. Crom brought his shield downward, forcing the human's blade to the ground. At nearly the same time, he swung his axe in a forehand motion, smashing the noble's helmet with the broad-bladed side.

The armored warrior spun fully around and stumbled back from the force of the blow that had left a large dent in his visor. He managed to stay on his feet by planting the tip of his sword into the ground. Unfortunately for the human, this state did not last long. Crom was quickly upon him again, delivering a powerful kick to the noble's chest, sending him to the ground. Unfortunately, the kick was too forceful. The human warrior lurched back several feet, which inadvertently gave him time to bring his sword up before Crom could charge in safely and finish the job. Perhaps he would have been able to pull it off, but it presented a risk that he did not want to take. He would make another opportunity. Crom backed up as the noble struggled to his feet. The human’s breath was ragged; it was obvious to the green-skinned warrior that he was growing tired. The half-orc let out a low, bellowing roar, causing the human to flinch slightly. Crom might have enjoyed playing with him for a while, but he was never so foolish.

The noble brought his sword up and charged again, heavy metal boots pounding into the earth like war drums beat to an irregular rhythm. Crom charged as well, controlling his speed and preparing for the right moment to attack. Suddenly, the noble stumbled without warning, letting out a cry of either pain or surprise; Crom was not sure which at the time. Perhaps both. Had he tripped somehow? There was no time to wonder about that, only to take advantage. The half-orc delivered a swift backhanded strike with the pointed side of his axe directly into his foe's neck. The duel was over. It was only when the human fell to the ground that Crom noticed the arrow.

He recognized it instantly: long, heavy shaft, high quality fletching: same difficult shot, piercing the chain mail protecting his inner thigh. So he hadn't simply tripped. Alarmed, Crom looked in the direction of the arrow's source and saw a slender, black-haired figure standing at the base of a stout oak a mere 25 feet away. How had he not noticed? Crom drew a dagger from a sheath on his ankle and threw it at his new visitor. The slender figure ducked gracefully, letting the weapon fly over his head and into the trunk of the tree. Instead of returning fire with his bow, the man held his hand up, signaling that he didn't want to fight. Well, what the hell did he want, then?

[/font]

You flatter me more than I deserve. Still, since I have a grand total of one reader, I might as well keep it going. Here’s the rest of Chapter One:

***

Andeana had watched the battle gleefully from the sidelines. The clash of muscular Orc bodies and shiny human knights and soldiers was a spectacle few outlaws could resist. Besides, there’d still be plenty of loot afterwards. The Caladorians had barely begun to retreat when she darted out of her hiding spot, her eager and sure fingers swiftly grasping at the best loot. She'd likely be at the battlefield all night.

The factor that excited her most of all was the shot pattern of the arrows that had taken down some of the knights. Raylden...sly as ever, aren’t you?

As far as she'd been concerned, they'd had a long romantic relationship...sure it was over...at least...as far as he was concerned. Sure, they were different, but something about him had kept her after him, even though it had been years since she'd seen her 'elven lover.' Of course, nowadays she knew the difference between an Elf and a half-Elf, but he was still elven to her.

There had been an Orc still wandering the field, as well as a few living humans...barely living as they were, and she killed them as swiftly as she could, getting at their purses. Some were thicker than others.

She half-watched the battle between Crom and the knight, but unlike the half-orc, didn't miss the arrow shot. She'd have approached then, but decided against it. Better to let him do what he wanted to...he always got so annoyed when she rushed up to him when he thought he had other plans. She could always find him later.

***

Raylden watched as the green-skinned warrior walked cautiously toward him. Did he think that it was some form of trap? A trap? Laughable, at best. If he had the intention of killing the orc, he’d have tried already. Whether or not he’d have been successful was another story. Raylden watched most of the fight. This warrior did not look like the type to be messed with lightly. Sure, he had a bow, giving him the advantage of range, but he could see another dagger sheathed on the Orc’s other leg. He didn’t want to risk him getting a lucky hit.

Yes, it was better this way. The battle was over; there was not point in killing any more that day if he could avoid it. He would surely be able to outwit the Orc and make a profit without need for violence.

Raylden’s face still had a few dots of sweat from a long day. His sky-blue eyes were abnormally slanted, as well as most of his facial features. His frame was light, but not exceedingly slender. His complexion was still relatively light, despite three long months in the sun. His pointed ears often caused him to be confused for his father’s people. A skilled observer, however, could point out that his skin was not fair enough, his eyes not quite so large or slanted, nor was his build slight enough, and finally, his ears were a little too small and blunted at the points. It all combined to give him an exotic, if not attractive, appearance.

As the green warrior neared him, Raylden pulled the dagger from his tree and tossed it to the orc’s feet. He looked at the warily and did not pick it up.

“I’m not going to try and kill you if you reach down to pick it up,” said the half-elf. His speech was quick, but was clean and fluid. He knew how to accent his words for the desired effect. “It would be impractical...not to mention underhanded, even for me.” A grumbling sigh escaped the green-skinned warrior before he spoke in a low, guttural voice that was barely above a growl.

“What is it that you want?” Raylden was taken aback. That was rather articulate for an Orc speaking in the common tongue. He almost couldn’t believe that his ears were not playing tricks on him

“You can understand me, right?” asked Raylden.

“I speak the common language, you idiot,” came the green-skin’s crude reply. “Now answer my question.”

“Let’s start with what I don’t want, shall we?” replied Raylden tactfully, “and that is unnecessary trouble.”

“A funny thing to ask given the situation.”

“You know, a thank you would be nice,” Raylden countered. “I did help you, after all.” The Orc snorted a laugh.

“I didn’t need your help,” he replied almost defensively.

“I am sure that you didn’t,” assured Raylden, sounding as sincere as he could. “But the fact of the matter is, I was hunting that same noble myself before you engaged him.”

“So? He came after me.”

“I see,” pondered Raylden. “Still, I helped you. I propose that we split the loot. 50:50.” The green-skin growled and Raylden took a step back. “60:40 then?”

“80:20,” said the Orc at last. Raylden looked at him in shock.

“That is ridiculous!” exclaimed the half-elf. “I helped you when I could have just killed you!” The green-skin grinned, raising his ax slightly.

“Maybe, but you didn’t, did you? A foolish move, most would say.” The half-elf realized that it would be best to just cave in to the Orc’s offer. He’d stand no chance fighting him in close-quarters.

“Fine,” he agreed. “You get 80 percent.” He exhaled quietly when the green-skinned warrior lowered his weapon. “What’s your name?”

“What’s it to you?” he growled.

“It’s good manners when doing business,” the half-elf explained.

“Fine. My name is Crom.”

“I am Raylden.”

“Whatever,” grunted Crom as he made his way to the fallen noble. Raylden followed behind.

“You’re a little small for an Orc,” the half-elf pointed out in an attempt to break the silence.

“My father was the War Chief of his Clan, my mother was a nomadic sheep-herder.”

“So your only half Orc?” asked Raylden.

“Obviously,” replied Crom harshly.

“What were you doing fighting with the Kalimar army?”

“Why are you asking so many questions?” Crom snapped, flipping the noble’s body over and checking for valuables.

“I’m just curious,” replied Raylden defensively.

“If that’s all, then it’s my turn. Why were you fighting with the Calador army?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” Raylden explained. “For money.”

“And why aren’t you there now?” asked Crom.

“If you hadn’t noticed, their army was routed. I decided to take off while the getting was good,” said the half-Elf. Crom hesitated for a moment before nodding. Raylden didn’t give it much though and spoke again. “Now it’s my turn again. Why were you fighting along side Kalimar?”

“Long story...in short, they fed us and seemed willing to fight along side Orcs if it meant helping them actually win a battle.” Raylden nodded at this. It sounded like more or less the same reason he was fighting, just a little simpler. It was the best you could expect from someone with Orc blood, he decided.

***

Andeana let them have the noble’s corpse. She didn't want to run afoul of either of those two. Raylden could take her down from a long distance away; the orc could likely tear her limb from limb. She simply continued her looting. She had already gotten to the few dead nobles, of both sides, before anyone else. Even some of the lower-ranking men had surprising amounts money, especially from the Caladorian army.

She had actually made a few trips off the field since the battle had ended, loading up as much loot as he could discreetly carry onto her horse. She decided to make this her last -- she would travel to the next large town and sell off as many of the plundered valuables as she could, then proceed to combine the profit with the coins she found and take the money to one of her many hidden caches that dotted various parts of the landscape from there to Calador.

And yet... She sighed, walking briskly to her horse to drop off what she had collected while the two were still arguing. She made her way closer to the then, idly picking up a few things as she drew nearer. She hesitated.

And what do you think you're doing, Andy? Trying to get shot?

The looter tossed aside her inhibition. She finished filling a few hidden pockets with some valuable-looking trinkets from the side of a dead horse. Stood up, moving closer to “her” half-elf and the Orc. The two were now beginning to search the body of the armored Caladorian noble.

"You know, they actually tend to carry more stuff inside those beautifully shining tin cans they wear." She grinned, knowing that they’d heard her.

Andeana had shining coppery-red hair, which was tossed haphazardly over her shoulders and held out of her face by a faded green rag. Her skin was tan and her blue eyes sparkled with mischief, just as they always had. Her figure was seen by most grateful observers as "desirable;" her waist was trim, her chest was full while not being large enough to get in her way, and her hips were slender. Her dancer's legs were shown off due to the rather masculine nature of the trousers she wore. Delicate but strong hands completed the package. "The only trick is liberating them from their shells.