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The smell assaulted him. His keen sense of smell picked up the smoke long before the billowing plumes choked him. The sizzling of magic, the cries of battle, all pierce the crisp mountain air. Alone, he sits curled up, though he feels a natural pull to go out and join the chaos, a need to add to the frenzy.
The sounds continue, and he clutches a small stone dagger, the meager animal skin hut only obscuring his vision, an occasional gust giving him a glimpse outside. Battle cries become less frequent now, the chanting of spells, and sizzle of magic sounding above the rest. Clutching the dagger, he waits, listening to the invaders, hearing them checking tent after tent. The occasional scuffle as a loose survivor is found.
The muffled voices get closer, too close. He curls up harder, his blood boiling, his small fist clutching the stone dagger so hard his fingers draw blood on his palm. As the voices reach him, the flap flies open, giving way to a group of towering armored figures. They ignore him at first, over turning the altar, and making sure no one else is inside, before they turn to him.
"Got another!" One shouts. A grizzly human, a scowl deepening the wrinkles of a traveled warrior. His black and red armor well kept, though its trials are obvious on the hard metal. Fresh blood darkens parts of his armor and cloak, a fresh cut on his cheek sure to add to his battle scars.
"A child, your orders?" The man continues, looking out the flap, the piercing light burning the boys eyes, a rare brightness in the shaded section of the valley.
"Put him with the others.." Calls a velvety voice from outside the tent, a silhouette of red against the sky, a face blacked out against the light, but his scent drifts on the breeze, and the perfumed scent is akin to nothing the boy has ever smelled.
As the men close in on the huddled boy, he lunges. A bestial growl on his lips as he dives to the left, catching one of the men flat-footed. In one fluid motion the boy latches to the mans leg, digging the stone dagger into his thigh, right in between two plates. With a solid grip, the boy opens his mouth wide, biting clawing and stabbing at the anything within reach. The primal fury boiling his blood, the pulsing of his heart an anthem to his frenzied fight, the taste of blood sweet on his tongue.
Screaming commands, and pleas, the man falls back, the compact form of the boy enough to bring him to the ground. Though young, the fighter quickly regains himself, cursing himself for the lapse in his defenses. He strikes mercilessly with the pommel of his longsword, striking the small form repeatedly, using his greater strength to pry the boy off, and throw him in a broken heap to the side, as the boy hits the ground, the warrior grabs at the initial wound, the worst of it. Saved from a deep wound, by the superior armor, he curses at the loss of his pride.
"Stop looking at me and get this damned flea ridden Orc-child with the others!" The young warrior yells at another armored figure, all the while cursing the look of his commander from behind him. A look that can be felt, even with his back turned.
In and out of consciousness, the small Orc catches glimpses of the scene. Not ones to stay in one place, the area is little more then a scattering of about twenty rough animal skin tents, most of which lay in burnt ruins. Dead Orcs, and at least one Human lie on the ground about the small clearing, a row of four-foot high stakes at the far end draw his gaze. Of the forty or so Orcs, a remaining group are tied. Some broken and bleeding, others cowering, while one growls and spits at the Humans like a caged animal, on all fours covered in blood.
The last ten feet to the stakes feels like miles, seconds like hours, to the small Orc, beaten and spent. By nightfall the few remaining are loaded into iron caged carts, chained with their hands above their heads, their captors disgustingly efficient....
The sounds continue, and he clutches a small stone dagger, the meager animal skin hut only obscuring his vision, an occasional gust giving him a glimpse outside. Battle cries become less frequent now, the chanting of spells, and sizzle of magic sounding above the rest. Clutching the dagger, he waits, listening to the invaders, hearing them checking tent after tent. The occasional scuffle as a loose survivor is found.
The muffled voices get closer, too close. He curls up harder, his blood boiling, his small fist clutching the stone dagger so hard his fingers draw blood on his palm. As the voices reach him, the flap flies open, giving way to a group of towering armored figures. They ignore him at first, over turning the altar, and making sure no one else is inside, before they turn to him.
"Got another!" One shouts. A grizzly human, a scowl deepening the wrinkles of a traveled warrior. His black and red armor well kept, though its trials are obvious on the hard metal. Fresh blood darkens parts of his armor and cloak, a fresh cut on his cheek sure to add to his battle scars.
"A child, your orders?" The man continues, looking out the flap, the piercing light burning the boys eyes, a rare brightness in the shaded section of the valley.
"Put him with the others.." Calls a velvety voice from outside the tent, a silhouette of red against the sky, a face blacked out against the light, but his scent drifts on the breeze, and the perfumed scent is akin to nothing the boy has ever smelled.
As the men close in on the huddled boy, he lunges. A bestial growl on his lips as he dives to the left, catching one of the men flat-footed. In one fluid motion the boy latches to the mans leg, digging the stone dagger into his thigh, right in between two plates. With a solid grip, the boy opens his mouth wide, biting clawing and stabbing at the anything within reach. The primal fury boiling his blood, the pulsing of his heart an anthem to his frenzied fight, the taste of blood sweet on his tongue.
Screaming commands, and pleas, the man falls back, the compact form of the boy enough to bring him to the ground. Though young, the fighter quickly regains himself, cursing himself for the lapse in his defenses. He strikes mercilessly with the pommel of his longsword, striking the small form repeatedly, using his greater strength to pry the boy off, and throw him in a broken heap to the side, as the boy hits the ground, the warrior grabs at the initial wound, the worst of it. Saved from a deep wound, by the superior armor, he curses at the loss of his pride.
"Stop looking at me and get this damned flea ridden Orc-child with the others!" The young warrior yells at another armored figure, all the while cursing the look of his commander from behind him. A look that can be felt, even with his back turned.
In and out of consciousness, the small Orc catches glimpses of the scene. Not ones to stay in one place, the area is little more then a scattering of about twenty rough animal skin tents, most of which lay in burnt ruins. Dead Orcs, and at least one Human lie on the ground about the small clearing, a row of four-foot high stakes at the far end draw his gaze. Of the forty or so Orcs, a remaining group are tied. Some broken and bleeding, others cowering, while one growls and spits at the Humans like a caged animal, on all fours covered in blood.
The last ten feet to the stakes feels like miles, seconds like hours, to the small Orc, beaten and spent. By nightfall the few remaining are loaded into iron caged carts, chained with their hands above their heads, their captors disgustingly efficient....
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