Trouble With the Locals:

  Morning broke gray and cold. Rocka gathered his things and descended the creaking stairs. At the hearth, Baldr busied himself with breakfast, skewering turnips on a spit.

  “Good morning, orc,” Baldr greeted, grinning wide. “Nan’s famous turnip breakfast. For you, double portions at half the price.”

  Eomund snorted. “Oh yes, delicious roasted turnip. And the drink? Turnip water, I suppose.”

  “Aye,” Baldr replied proudly. “My famous turnip-flavored water.”

  Eomund’s glare could have soured milk.

  Rocka shook his head. “I’ve no time, for your turnip obsession, puny man. I’ll be returning in a fortnight.” He drops the now slightly dent key at the counter as he pushed through the door, leaving the smell of charred root behind.

  Eomund muttered as Rocka left. “We really need better clientele. First drunken legionnaires, now an orc as a regular. What’s next —ogres at the bar? Or in your case Baldr, it would be more like goblins”.

  Baldr replies, “goblins? I thought they were all slayed in the isles”.

  Eomund rebuttals annoyed; “Well apparently not!...”.

  Baldr gives Eomund a dumb smile as he keeps roasting his turnips and takes a swig of a cup of turnip water.

  “Baldr, you really are the salt of this earth —and just as bland… why did I even let you name this place? The Strumpy Turnip, like if the idea of a figured turnip is tantalizing to say the least, good grief.” Eomund says coyly.

  “Nan gave the tavern to you on the condition I name”. Baldr chirped.

  “Oh, that’s right…” Eomund groaned.

  “All though I would rather enjoy a full figured turnip right about now” Baldr muttered dreamily. As he raised his cup of turnip water with a dumb smile.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  On the road toward Urgnash-Yal, Rocka passed a knot of drunken workers staggering toward the docks.

  “Oi, look!.. an orc, what’s he doing ere’.” one slurred.

  “I think he’s a legion orc” The other one spewing.

  Rocka ignored them, but the jeers grew louder.

  “Yeah yeah, one of the orcs from the stronghold. A bit chubby ain’t he?” the drunkard mocks.

  Rocka glares at them, sharp as steel.

  They laugh in ignorance “Why the rush, green skin?” another sneered.

  A woman’s voice cut in, dripping contempt. “Going home to your hut, are you? Too good for us common folk?”

  “Apparently not, look at him closer. No scars, no raids—unblooded brute! And is like you said, pig face here’s tubbier than the rest of his kind,” another yammered. “Look at that keg belly. An outcast among outcasts!”

  Rocka’s scowl darkened, his heart heavy. Laughter rose as one drunk splashed ale across his chest.

  “Look at that—now you’re a wet pig!” they jeered.

  Rocka’s hand tightened on his axe. “Why you little—”

  A Roman patrol passed, eyes fixed on Rocka, ignoring the drunkards. His presence was warning enough. Rocka swallowed his fury and walked on, rag pressed to his chest. “Bastards… If anyone is an outcast, it’s you drunken degenerates.” he seethed, but they have already too far to hear the comment.

  At last he reached the main gate. Beyond lay the outskirts—fields, stables, and the long road to Urgnash-Yal. The Roman guards leaned on their spears, watching him approach.

  “Leaving already, orc?” one muttered. “Out there, you’re beyond our law. Don’t expect Rome to shield you.”

  Rocka ignored them, slinging his knapsack over his shoulder. He stepped through the gate, past the farms and into the open road. Roman order fell away behind him.

  From the rise he saw the infamous Fogwood—a vast, monster?infested marsh. At its edge, Roman legions had carved logging camps, caravans full of timber, man’s order gnawing at the wilds.

  Axes thudded, then a howl split the air—deep, feral. ‘Marsh Hulk!’ a slave cried. The beast rose, bark?hide glistening, moss and algae dripping, towering above the camps. Legionnaires surged forward, firebombs and oil in hand. Flames licked its frame as axes bit deep. ‘Keep at it, men! The beast is hurt!’ the centurion roared. The Hulk swung wildly, flinging men across the bluffs, but at last it toppled, smoldering in the muck—man’s fire conquering nature.”

  One legionnaire spotted Rocka and shouted, “I thought orcs sought nothing but glory—yet you stand idle, monster!”

  Rocka smiled, voice calm but edged with steel. “Why intrude? You seemed to be doing fine without me.”

  The Roman spat at the ground and turned back to his duties. Rocka mutters “bloody fools,” as he kept walking. Finally ahead lay Urgnash?Yal, and the mercy—or cruelty—of Orcish law and tradition.