Crosston may not have been the most creatively-named town, being that it's literally just a town on a crossroads. But what Crosston lacks in creativity, class, and culture, it makes up for in... what did this town even have going for it?
Maybe there's the convenience factor, in that Crosston is the closest settlement to Amella's Southern border. Human traders from north take the Highever Way and peddle their wares at every town along the way, dumping whatever scraps they have left in Crosston, while from the east and west, a dozen small farms feed into the village, which in turn supplies the nearby Fort Bulwark. And once in a rare while, orcish merchants come up from the south to trade for human or dwarvish goods.
That should be a recipe for a metropolitan melting pot, but instead Crosston is just a dingy, backwater trading post masquerading as a small town. In short, one wouldn't expect a half-elven young mother from a decent family to be so excited to see Crosston's squat silhouette appear on the horizon.
But for me, Crosston was the last stop on the road towards the orcish clan lands, home of my son's father (and namesake). In just a couple of days I would be crossing out of my homeland Amella and into... well, I really had no idea what the orc clans were like.
In preparation for what might well be my last international journey, I had done a little bit of research. I learned very quickly that the people of Amella had no idea what went on south of their borders. The only useful scholarly works were military assessments from when we were at war - a war that ended twenty-five years ago.
Few academics had ventured into the clan-holds in the last century, and none seemed interested in going far enough to lose sight of the border, let alone far enough to actually meet a variety of locals. Amella has always treated the clan lands as a single, savage, backwards country, when it was actually several independent nations with their own cultures and beliefs.
One work I found did actually acknowledge that, and even went as far as listing out the six orcish clans. But when I had met Davor two years ago, he had told me there were five clans, and I was more inclined to believe him than some scholar writing from a safe distance.
And so I was setting off into a complete unknown.
Again.
The last time I had done that, I'd ended up pregnant and stuck in a foreign land, surrounded by patronising, racist elves. I was pretty sure this time would be very different. All I had to do was not have sex with a trio of orcs less than a week after meeting them, nor with a satyr and nymph. Although that experience was so magical that I still dreamed of it some nights, more than two years later. And of course, no having sex with dwarves, minotaurs, or chaluum either. Easy.
I quelled the sudden tickle of nerves and kept my face positive. The last thing I wanted was for Davvy to see me looking nervous. He was still young, but already so good at reading emotions in people - especially when it comes to his momma.
We were on my horse instead of the back of one of the carts, so I could have control of our path once we were in the town proper. The old mare wasn't quick, but she was reliable and obedient. Mostly obedient, anyway... when it was convenient for her.
That lack of obedience became obvious as we came into the town square, such as it was, and I yanked on the reins to hold the horse back. I needed a second, just a moment, to process, but she didn't care. We were close to the town's inn, where no doubt the old nag had been stabled and fed before, and there was no dissuading her from going that way. Even if there was another cart. Even if said cart was being unloaded by someone familiar. Even if I needed just a minute or three to catch my breath and rein in my nerves before getting any closer to it.
The man set a small crate down in front of a pudgy human lady who seemed to be doing her best impression of a scowling dwarf. The orc turned back towards the rest of the boxes and bags in the cart, and stopped as he saw me.
"Amy?" He asked, surprise and disbelief lighting his face. "Gods above, what in the hells are you doing in a shit-heap like this? Wh-"
The rest of his words cut off as he saw the fussing toddler on my lap. A fussing half-orc toddler.
"Hello, Mazon," I answered him as I swung down from the saddle and carefully transferred my son to my arms while keeping a grip on the reins. There were a few too many horses running around here for me to be confident letting him run around. I faced Mazon, one of three men who could possibly be the father of my child, and gave him an earnest smile. "Could you help me with this horse? She's a bit of an ass."
His eyes flicked down to Junior for a moment before he caught himself. He probably didn't see much, seeing as my son's face was currently pressed against my shoulder. I don't think his shyness came from his father's side, whoever that father might be. But it's not hard to see Davvy's green skin and put one and one (and one and one) together and get two.
"Oh, damn," Mazon muttered, and hesitated for just a beat or two before stepping forward and taking the reins from my hand, quickly and efficiently tying them to the side of his cart. "I'll hook your horse here for the moment," he told me. "You, uh, you should head inside. Someone there will be happy to see you."
"Thanks, Mazon. Are you coming too?"
"In a moment. I've got to deal with this first," he punctuated the last with a thumb over the shoulder, pointing at the unhappy looking woman. Mazon's grimace showed enough tooth and tusk to tell me he liked the lady about as much as she liked him.
I gave him a quick smile and told him good luck, then circled the building to the front entrance. The orc heaved a large sack and dropped it in front of the woman as I walked away.
"Flour, four stone's worth." he told the woman.
"I'll weigh it myself," she snorted. "Just in case you're overselling the weight." I found myself pausing around the corner, listening to their back and forth for a moment.
"Feel free to drag your scales over." Mazon's voice sounded exasperated, but he was still keeping it civil for now. "The weight is exact, just like last time and the time before."
"Oh, I will. And it had better be good quality this time. No sawdust or other fillers. The last loaf I baked with your flour turned out flat."
"It's good flour," he growled. "I can attest to that - I saw it harvested myself. If you can't bake a loaf of bread, though, that's your own problem. My job is to move the product, not teach humans how to bake."
"You arrogant son of a green-" she started, and I quickly stepped into the squat, plain building.
I didn't need to hear more, and I certainly didn't need Davvy hearing a slur about skin colour. It had been bad enough living among the elves in Yamen En'sol. They might have been racist and looked at Davor as less-than, but at least they hadn't resorted to racial slurs. Not in my hearing, at least.
The inn was humble, to say the least. Short and wide, it had a lot of windows along one side, but half of them were closed against the afternoon's heat, leaving the room dim. It might have been tough for a human to make out details, but the elven blood from my father's side of the family meant I had keener sight than most. But I wouldn't have needed any help to make out the orc currently leaning against a desk, looking bored and irritated as he waited for the human clerk to finish futzing.
Even in total darkness, maybe even if I was blindfolded, I would have recognized him. His tunic left his arms fully exposed, and my eyes traced the tattoos there for a bare moment before settling on his face. His eyes met mine, and all emotion seemed to drain from him for a moment. But only for a moment.
