A storm was brewing in the port of Höfryggju situated on Snjórland's south-south-west coast: rain pelted the stone streets from the darkened sky above while a frigid, howling gale rattled the doors and windowpanes, and the tempestuous tide had entirely engulfed the shingle beach at the settlement's foot as it constantly crashed into the breakwater which partitioned the streets from the shore proper. However, for a certain inn tucked away in one dim corner of this seaside town, the outside squall was second to an even greater cacophony occurring within the confines of its own interior. The cause? Nothing more than a pair of women sitting by its bar.
If we were to take a peek inside this unassuming establishment dubbed the Crooked Harpoon, we would find a taproom illuminated in a toasty glow from a roaring stone fireplace set within the wall on the far left and a wide iron chandelier hanging from the centre of the ceiling, but hazy with tobacco smoke from several of its plentiful present patrons who had ducked through its doors to escape the downpour and night chill and warm their bellies with beer, some complementing their fermented beverages alongside a lit pipe. Spoiling what would have been an otherwise relaxed atmosphere, however, were the aforementioned duo perched upon stools close to one end of the counter that stretched along a good portion of the back wall, too absorbed within their personal dialogue to be considerate about disturbing those they shared the space with with the raucous volume they each conversed in that far and away rose above the general murmurings of the rest of the room.
It would be difficult for one's attention to not immediately be drawn towards these ladies upon entering the Crooked Harpoon's front doors that evening for how striking they stood out amongst the rest of the humdrum clientele, even if it was not for their boisterous bearing. Sitting on the left-hand side (relative to where one would first come in) was a light-skinned human, young but of significant height even while she was sitting: approximately two metres tall if she stood from her seat, and possessing an uncommonly vivid shade of orange in her cropped head of hair that seemed to practically blaze within the radiance of the nearby fire. From even a single look, it was obvious her overall physique was admirably athletic, evidenced by her broad back turned towards the rest of the room, and muscular arms being on full flaunt within the beige, short-sleeved tunic she wore, but for as brawny as her body was and as traditionally butch as her haircut might have been perceived, she still possessed a profile prettier than any of the other girls who were present in the same pub, whether it was the buxom blonde of bartender whose abundant assets in a low-cut frock seemed to jiggle with every minor motion she made struggling to keep up with the influx of orders, or the enigmatic, hooded brunette seated in a shadowy corner and scanning the room with a steely stare as her humourless lips silently smoked a halfling pipe.
The one sitting on the ginger female's immediate right, however, was even taller than her by a full head! She was equally as strapping - if not even more so - although this was more difficult to determine from solely sight, as most of this individual's body was wrapped up from the neck below in a long coat crudely stitched from mismatched furs of various shades of brown and grey, with whatever leftover leather from the bears and wolves that these pelts came from being tanned and fashioned into a pair of leggings tucked into large boots of the same material and lined with wool. The taller woman's non-human heritage, however, was still obvious from but one glance at her uncovered head: the distinct green pigmentation of her skin and a pair of spiky, elongated canines reminiscent of a wild boar's tusks jutting upwards and out her mouth from a slight underbite were all characteristics common to a species at once both famed and feared by many populaces the planet over outside their own number for their inborn martial might and their assertive - bordering on aggressive - dispositions: the proud, passionate natural-born fighters commonly known as orcs.
Orcs were seldom seen in this specific region of Snjórland, and the physical presence of even a single specimen of their kind was enough to cause quite the agitation amongst the Crooked Harpoon's clientele and staff alike, whose prevalent perceptions of orcs were primarily derived from hearsay muddied through the generations regarding their short tempers and savage barbarity from those from a worldview that was marginally less limiting than their own, giving rise to the impression that the entirety of the orcish race were ubiquitous bloodthirsty marauders who revelled in destruction and carnage for the sake of it, and the bestial skins worn by the one currently seated by the bar in addition to a sword and a battleaxe fastened onto either side of her waist and each fashioned in a deliberate anti-elegant, serrated style unlike anything of local make did not deter from that stereotypical picture. She appeared all the more fearsome from her initially inflexible, stern features (albeit admittedly with a certain rugged handsomeness around her prominent jawline), a hardened, squinting glare with irises that burned a bright red beneath a furrowing brow, and an exotic styling of hair unseen in Höfryggju previous: her head entirely shaved down to the skin save for a single ponytail of straight, sable hair - bunched within an iron band studded with stout spikes - that extended from the very centre of her crown and reaching halfway down her back.
Regardless of suppositions however, this particular orc was presently placated while engaged in a pleasing discourse with the redhead human, which in turn helped defuse the pervading tension the pub's other occupants felt while the green-skinned outsider was in their midst, even if they - her conversational partner excluded - still maintained as wide of a berth as they could manage, especially after the friction that had occurred between the conferring pair not even an hour prior to their current colloquy.
"I don't get it, Bjór." The aforementioned blonde bartender remarked to the Harpoon's owner while they were both at one edge of the bar, observing the orange-haired human and the orc's cordial confab from some distance. "Those two were just at each other's throats hardly an hour ago, and now they're get along like they've known each other their entire lives!"
"Don't think about it too much, Brettifa. You know how these warrior types are: muscles where their sense should be." The pub's proprietor replied to her as he poured another pint that the orc had just ordered. "So long as they keep paying for their drinks and don't come to blows again, their matters are their own." He added with the attitude of any shrewd businessperson.
Brettifa was referring to an incident earlier in the evening. The young orange-haired woman had been lodging at the Crooked Harpoon for the past couple days now, and in every instance she paid a visit to the bar, she always sat in the exact same stool without fail: the only stool at the counter whose cushion had still survived over the course of many years of umpteen use with an adequate amount of stuffing to provide relative comfort to one's behind, and seemed to have wordlessly claimed it as hers alone at some stage during her stay purely on account that nobody happened to be perched on that particular seat whenever she was in attendance in the taproom. However, whilst the redhead was out and about earlier this day, the orc came to the inn, paying no heed to the gossip that had been initiated by the patrons upon her entrance as she strided silently (save for her weapons clattering against her sides) across the room with a deliberate gait towards the counter, naturally helping herself to the available cushioned stool before quietly ordering a drink for herself.
