Gorv stood as still as only he knew how. Alright, and the stone gargoyles, they had talent.

  Blood won’t stop, he thought, gooing around in his nostrils with a thick finger.

  The gash on his forehead seemed to heal nicely. Made the blood want to get out elsewhere, he reckoned.

  He wondered how in the three Hells he’d ended up with an ork. Old, judging by the wrinkles and scars — and big — big as a matriarch gargoyle.

  The big ’but’ was — he didn’t have a say in it, would have liked to wander alone, far away from everyone he’d met — and been infestingly haunted by lately — with only Dragon at his trusted side. But you had to be realistic about these-

  Well… ’Unreal’ was his middle name now. Might as well get used to it.

  Gorv could only try to use as fleeting thoughts as possible, as he didn’t want to be randomly answered by the axe — a tool he used to love, as he would prepare firewood before the most enjoyable part of his day. Right then, it filled him — only with hate. It may have been the bloodlust imposed upon him, but he could feel a filter across the eyes — and the world, as he used to see it, wasn’t there no more.

  Cold he was. Not of body, but mind. A boiling hot coldness. Hard to explain — easy to understand. Easy to take it all out on others, especially when left no other choice.

  Where to now?

  The axe left the question hanging, in what felt like a ”Go to your room”-silence, before adressing the new party member instead.

  ”I’ve heard of your victory, ork.”

  Gorv knew that the God he brought with him had made a deliberate choice to be heard — by the both of them.

  ”What of it? The win of a legion says nothing about the individual.” This new traveling companion did not appear interested in bending to the axe’s intended direction of the conversation.

  ”Modessst.” It paused briefly. ”That’s suitable for usss.”

  What are we to do with this extra baggage?

  ”Leave the matter, human.”

  He’s not exactly… well, he can’t hide anywhere.

  They closed in on a village, treetops fading out, rooftops fading in, as they descended the hillside.

  ”You are no wisp by any means,” said the axe.

  ”Nnn-now… I’ll sit back in the sssaddle and let you two… the dynamic duo — bond. This time it spoke to them both. ”And Gorv here — that’s his name, ork — will have my voice available t-to ssspeak.”

  ”Charming.” The ork was hard to read, much like Gorv was.

  ***

  They saw people, of all kinds, apparently all wild about a market down there.

  ”Good,” said Soulless.

  ”What is?” said Gorv.

  ”Alright, first of all, don’t talk to anyone. You sound like a freak.” The ork stopped for a brief moment. ”I can’t believe I said that — I’ll use my soft voice myself, how’s that? Second; It is good because I smell meat. It’s not that complicated.”

  They saw elementals of various kinds, gnomes, dwarves, humans, a couple of pixies passed above — There was even, all the way in the back, an elf. Machete in hand, it wore dark brown with a hood up, but there was no mistaking those ears.

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  ”I take it back. This is complicated.” Soulless felt irrational as they came level with the marketplace.

  The elf became one with the people then, and soon enough disappeared in the crowd, when an iron golem passed it by.

  ”What’s your problem with elves?” asked Gorv.

  An awkward silence.

  ”Well, lets see… They think they own the planet, or something. They uh… they… Look, can’t an ork just dislike an elf in this day and age?” Soulless turned to see if Gorv was listening.

  He was. Staring.

  ”A short, but determined, although illogical rant.” Gorv gave a long — rare — smile. ”I’ll try and respect that. You-”

  The rumble of that unreal voice, as they turned to a less busy street, reminded Gorv — he really should have whispered.

  Children scattered like rabbits. A dog ran like like it just got a rabies diagnosis. The closest group of adults, owner and customers of a knife stand, dropped their jaws, just staring back and forth between themselves and the couple.

  ”N- n- n- Not a step further, or I… we’ll…” The man, who’d just grabbed a random knife from the display, looked around. He had none of his fellows with him. Smart guys, really. ”... I- I will, uh…” He probably didn’t even notice his feet backing away as he spoke.

  Gorv made a hand gesture towards Soulless, as if telling to lead the way.

  A firm nod.

  The closer the ork got to the man, the distance closed increasingly fast. Gorv just about got a glimpse of the man’s urine darkening those horrified trousers, before his dark-layered companion produced a knife of his own and flicked it.

  Before the man as much as looked at the thing, out gushed his blood, when by instict or reflex — he’d pulled the blade from his throat.

  Soulless simply walked by and plucked it from the poor fellow’s hands, and walked on. After all, the market had meat. He didn’t even wipe the blood off. Relateable…

  Dragon, awfully quiet in the back of the trio, strutted forth and feasted on the dark red ground. She then began to eat the face and neck of the still gurgling man, after an approving nod from her master. She hissed in a kind of strange satisfaction.

  Gorv was afraid of what Dragon had become. But even worse, that she feared him. He knew it every time he spoke with borrowed voice, how she lowered her head and sometimes took a step back.

  Soulless peered around the corner of an alley.

  ”Hey! Take your crippling depression and hang with someone your own kin, if you’re just gonna stand there!” The big head promptly disappeared again.

  He looked old, but he sure knew how to advance his own plot.

  Gorv clicked the corner of his mouth, and his dog followed with reluctant steps, looking back at all that drink and food being wasted.

  They almost crashed into the back of Soulless, as he had come no further than a step where his head had left their sight.

  ”How nice. You waited for us,” Gorv said.

  His inhuman voice garnered attention, along with his pet’s so often bloodied mouth. And Dragon growled at the sight before them, when rounding the ork, gazing down the alley.

  ”Oh, I merely ran into my past. Here, of all places,” said Soulless, still not averting his focus.

  Sitting in the far end of the alley… was another ork.

  Drukh’Yor, the old chainmaster, under Wargh Goreflail’s rule — or tyranny, take your pick, was sleeping, by the looks of it.

  ”Soulless…”

  Or not.

  Drukh’Yor pulled her weight up from the gutter, drenched in all kinds of shit.

  ”More layers, but the smell… It never went.”

  ”What are you…” Soulless looked around, then up to the boarded windows. ”You’re not here by choice,” he said, frowning.

  Drukh’Yor yanked her arms forward. A rustling of chains came to a dead stop, as she held them straight.

  ”Still sharp as a knife. Good for you.”

  ”Look, we can help. Me and-”

  ”That big man and his big dog? Feel free to give my chains a fair fight.”

  ”How’d you know my company?”

  ”As a long time chainmaster, I owned my share of dogs in my days. Spoils of war. Wait a blinkin’ moment, you should know.” Drukh’Yor paused, as her head leaned back, thudding against the stone foundation. ”I suppose one and one half a century does things to ya. Dulls the memory.” She opened her eyes for the first time, looking at the bad company. ”Maybe that knife in your head needs a better whetstone.

  Not a joke, but a matter of fact. Gorv could see Soulless took it as a challenge.

  ”I suppose I should have paid more attention to my fellow orks. I used to think very highly of myself. Well, I still do but not- Hey! What are you-!”

  Gorv and Dragon went forward with determination in their steps, reached the chained chainmaster, he raised his axe as she stood guard, in case Drukh’Yor did anything stupid.

  Whack!

  ”One,” came Gorv’s demonic voice.

  Clank!

  ”Two.”

  Drukh’Yor produced a very wrinkly forehead.

  ”Oh. Oh my. Down girl.” Then she glanced at Soulless once more. ”You are a fascinating trio. But we cannot stay. This place is under Direalos control.”

  ”Direalos?” Gorv whispered.

  ”Direalos, the elf. Have you both been living under a rock?” She spat bloody flem.

  Soulless tilted his head, thinking.

  ”Any chance this elf wields a machete?”

  ”There is. And his iron golem guard ain’t child’s play, let me tell you.” Drukh’Yor leaned forward. ”It is a product of Dir’Hall, the hellgate.”