Random Encounters Orc Warband

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Copyright © 2022 C. D. Fable

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

All characters appearing in this story are over the age of 18.

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The Broken Pony was as busy as usual this evening. The tavern was dim, lit only by a few table lanterns and a hearth well in need of repair. The floors were sticky with cheap ale, spilled by drunk and rowdy patrons. The windows were so badly stained from the persistent cloud of tobacco smoke that it was nearly impossible for any moonlight to creep through. The one good thing about the ever-present smell of tobacco and booze was that it masked the much more unpleasant odors coming from the nearby stables and, far worse, the customers.

Most patrons were content to gamble or share stories, but few were engaged in a brawl that was making its way through the tavern. Most people just moved and carried on their conversation as they thrashed through, sometimes shouting a word of encouragement to whoever was losing. No one was going to stop them lest they get pulled into it. Plus, the bard was off this evening, so this was the only entertainment.

"Girl! Give this round to the table over there," shouted Pascher, pointing across the tavern.

"Right away," replied Giroflée. She looked at the mugs. "They're half empty."

"Yeah! No need to waste full bodied ale on city elves. Fill 'em up the rest of the way from the rain barrel out back."

"But last time-"

"Last time was your fault. Now hurry, there are three more orders to get out!" He was perfectly capable of dishing out the orders but was too busy bragging about his successful tavern to a traveling merchant sitting at the bar.

Before Giroflée could give a half-hearted affirmation, he'd already turned his back to her. She looked over to the table of elves who were already eyeing her suspiciously. She gave a nervous smile and slipped into the backroom, making her way through the steamy kitchen, and out the back. The rain barrel was next to the stables and was currently in use by a horse someone had neglected to hitch.

"Uh, shoo, p-please," she said with the accompanying gesture.

The horse gave her a quick look before returning to its drink.

She groaned and cautiously approached it, grabbing the wooden cup hanging off the side of the barrel. She took a few scoops of water and poured each one into the flagons of ale until they came up to the top.

Her long green overdress and white apron was already covered in tavern muck but was now taking on what she hoped was mud. Her shoes, so generously provided to her by the apparently widely successful Mr. Pascher, were nearly rotted through. Her chestnut hair was a tangled mess of sweat, and all manner of things spilled in a tavern.

"Hey- hic- cutie."

She jumped, spilling one of the glasses.

"Oh gods, Saleté! I told you not to sneak up on me!" she said, holding her chest and propping herself against the rain barrel.

"Hehe, I know. So what brings you to my stables? Lookin' for a roll in the hay?" He grabbed her by the waist and pulled her in close.

"Oh you stink! And not just of stable. Gods, what is that?"

He stood back and swayed with a drunken smile. "Ran into some Damesdures hunters the other day. Managed to trade with the savages. A few 'missing' horses for a few skins of khormog." He grabbed a waterskin from under his dirty shirt and pushed it against her chest. "It's fermented reindeer milk. Smells like shit but packs a punch."

"Ew, gods, no thank you!" she said, pushing back to him.

"Aww common, have a sip and we'll have a little tussle," he said with an attempted wink that was just a blink.

"I can't right now, I'm working and you already made me spill a drink."

"Aww common." He went to sling his arm around her but missed and side-hugged the rain barrel instead. The horse was mildly annoyed.

"M- maybe later, okay? I'm sorry."

"Fine. Fine. Don't even worry. I was thinkin' of visiting the brothel anyway. Hey can you lend me some coin?"

"No! No, I'm sorry, just wait a little okay?"

"Aw, you must really like me or something." He gave her nipple a squeeze. "Boop."

"Y-yeah. Just- give me a few more hours, alright?"

"You sure you won't be too tired again? Don't get my hic- hopes up."

"I- I'll try."

"Aww, that's all I can ask." He stumbled, nearly knocking the barrel over. "Oh fuck, careful babe." He stumbled away, leaving another drink spilled in his wake.

"Damnit!" She grabbed the drinks. "Sorry, I- sorry." She gave Saleté the same half-hearted smile she'd given the elves. He responded with an upward nod and puckered lips before vanishing into the night.

"Okay, it's fine. It wasn't your fault," she reassured herself. "Pascher was already saving money on the drinks, so it's fine. It'll be fine." She knew this wouldn't be true. She knew he'd use this as an excuse to refuse to pay her. Again. But lying to oneself is often how we get through a tough time. Again.

She redistributed the unspilled drinks into the empty cups and topped them off with more water from the barrel. She'd still tell Pascher about this. Lying to herself was easy, but not to others.

"It's not like I don't want to sleep with him," she explained to the horse as she topped off one of the mugs. "It's been a while for me, hasn't it. Gods know I could use it." She let out a disappointed sigh. "I really should just take what I can get. He's... fine."

The horse gave her a judgmental look. Or maybe it just looked like a horse. She was good at projecting and bad at reading horse faces. She groaned and made her way back into the tavern.

During the short walk back to Pascher, she allowed a fantasy to play out in her mind. A brave knight like in the old tales. He would swoop in and take her across the land on a grand adventure. He'd give her gifts, share his wisdom, and always treat her well. She shook her head. She thought herself selfish for imagining a life with someone other than Saleté. He's the best she can do, and if she deluded herself into thinking otherwise, she'd surely lose him.

"You spilled two?! How fucking clumsy are you girl!" shouted Pascher. He added trace amounts of ale to all the mugs while giving Giroflée an angry look. "How in the many hells did two war heroes, rest 'em, create something so bungling? You're lucky I'm so generous, girl. No one else would put up with you. That's half pay for you tonight."

"Yes sir, I know sir," she mumbled, looking at the floor.

He growled as he slammed the mugs on her serving tray, nearly topping the entire thing. "Hey, come on! Careful, girl!"

She hurried over to the table of elves and served the ale. "S-sorry for the wait. Please enjoy."

They stared at her unimpressed for a moment before one of them said something in Elvish. One of them traced a few of his facial features with his finger and pointed his thumb at Giroflée. The table laughed and began drinking their watered-down ale.

"Um, okay," she said, slinking away. She sighed as she made her way back into the kitchen to continue her work day. A work day that was, unfortunately, proceeding like so many others before it. "Maybe, tomorrow will be better," she tried to reassure herself, but lying to yourself can only go so far. The evening trudged on.

A bell rang from outside. The visitors to the town were curious, but the locals looked stricken with fear. A few people immediately got up and sprinted for the door without settling their tab. This was the only occasion where such behavior was allowed. Not through goodwill but simply because Pascher was already lifting the cellar door to hide below.

Giroflée stepped outside to see several other people gathering around the rider who was shaking the alarm bell. Several people shoved past her on their way out. A few people were already gathering improvised weapons and sharp farming tools. The small village guard was trying to assemble, but most of them had been in the tavern moments ago. The people shouted at the rider, lobbing guesses as to why he'd raised the alarm.

"Shut it!" shouted the rider. "Orcs! A small warband from the looks of it, maybe twenty strong. If you're able to hold a weapon grab one! Everyone else is to seek shelter."

Nearly half those wielding weapons dropped them and proceeded to run out the gates. Unfortunately, this included most of the village guard. There are many reasons to raise the alarm in this village. Bandits can be repelled, wolves hunted, and Damesdure bargained with, but the northern orc tribes were another situation entirely.

The tavern's patrons were quick to catch on once the word 'orc' started circulating. Panic gripped the village. There would be no organized attempt to route the orcs. People hid in cellars, hay bales, tool sheds, and empty barrels. Many grabbed their horses, or at least someone's horse, and made for the gates. A few brave men and women, armed with bows and pikes, manned the small wooden walls that encircled the village.

Drums rang out somewhere in the distance. As they grew louder, so to did the sounds of shouting and cheering. Giroflée ran into the tavern and tried pulling on the hatch to the cellar.

"Be gone! Be gone! Find your own spot!" shouted Pascher.

"It's me! Let me in! There's room enough down there! Please!"

"Go away! Find somewhere else, girl!"

She expected to hear the orcs burst through the gates at any moment, but the drums and orcish howls kept getting louder. She looked around the tavern and settled on a corner of the bar with no cover or obstructions. She peered out the nearby window, trying to keep as much of her head hidden as possible.

She heard a yell from the walls. The archers loosed their arrows. Moments later, the wall guards were jumping from their ramparts and fleeing into the town. She hoped that maybe they had all landed bullseyes and were going to tell everyone it was safe.

The village went silent. The drums and yelling had stopped.

The gates exploded in a hail of splinters. A massive grey-skinned orc strode through, inspecting the damage he'd just inflicted. Several other orcs, their skin various shades of ashen grey, spilled into the village.

They looked vaguely human. Their jaws were very pronounced and had fangs that jutted out of their mouths. Their hair was black, wild, and often braided into various designs. They wore only scraps of iron armor made from the breastplates of complete armor sets. Other than cobbled armor, their clothes were mostly ragged loincloths and pelts. Several had arrows stuck in their skin but seemed not to notice or care.

Each of them looked as though they were built entirely of slabs of muscles. They all looked to be just around the seven-foot mark, and every inch of their bodies was bulging and tight.

"Hello?!" shouted the massive male orc who'd destroyed the gate. "Anyone home?"

"Probably scared," laughed another one. "You destroyed they little door."

The leader orc inspected the shattered gate. "I thought it was steel. Don't they usually use steel?"

The other orcs nodded and grunted in agreement.

The rider who'd raised the alarm charged forward on his steed, bearing a spear towards the leader. In a single movement, the orc spun around and grabbed him by the face, his giant hand palming the entirety of his head. The orc ripped the rider from his mount, slamming him into the mud with a wet thud.

The orc pulled the spear from their grasp. "Careful human. You might hurt someone with that." He gripped the spear and snapped it in two.

One of the other orcs stepped forward. "Not nicest welcome."

"Hmm," nodded the leader, lifting the unconscious rider. "Still, not the worst."

The other orcs nodded and grunted in agreement.

"Hey," he said, slapping the rider awake. "Wake up."

The rider gasped as he regained his senses.

"Phew," said the leader, giving a relieved look to the others. "Thought I broke 'em." The others laughed as he turned his attention back to the rider. "Where does this village keep its booze?"

"Who, how-," started the rider, trying to break the orc's grip and failing utterly. "How do you speak Felisian?"

"Long story. Wanna hear it over a drink? Where's the booze?"

"W-What?"

"Share. A. Drink. To show no hard feelings."

"What kind of trickery is this?!" The rider grabbed a knife from their boot and stabbed it into the orc's massive bicep.

The orc leader raised an eyebrow at him. The rider winced and closed his eyes, bracing himself for what would come next. He found himself standing upright, his feet planted firmly in the mud. He opened his eyes.

The orc leader towered over him. He flexed his bicep, the knife popping out and landing beside him.

"Sorry you feel that way," he said, inspecting his wounded bicep. He grabbed the rider and pushed them into the crowd of orcs. "Fix your door and use some strong steel this time. Not sturdy at all." Another orc offered him the remains of the door and grunted at him.

The rider fled the town through the destroyed gate.

"Rogmug," said one of the orcs, pointing at the tavern. "Picture of mug. Booze in there, maybe?

"To the mug house!" shouted Rogmug.

The war party cheered, storming their way towards the tavern where Giroflée was now the only employee.

She crept away from the window and slunk back into the corner of the tavern. There was a rapping on the door. She pulled her knees to her chest, deciding a ball shape was the least likely to be noticed. After a moment of silence, the door slowly opened.

"Hm, much better," said Rogmug, carefully letting go of the comically small door handle. A few of the other orcs, following him in, patted him on the shoulder.

"Hello? Where is your booze?"

More and more orcs piled into the tavern. They jostled and bumped one another, seemingly unaware of the tables and chairs being pushed around in their path. One tried to take a seat, but the chair collapsed immediately under her weight.

Giroflée let out an involuntary squeak. She was spotted. The orcs gathered around her. She saw a thick pair of muscular legs directly in front of her. Her eyes followed them up to the imposing gaze of Rogmug.

"Are you hurt?" asked one of the orcs.

"You're scaring her," said Rogmug, folding his muscular arms. "Look, no blood, only shaking."

"Maybe cold. North is cold," retorted another orc.

"Fire in corner. Toasty," said a different orc.

"As I say, scared," concluded Rogmug. He squatted down to her level and patted her head. "There there."

The orcs nodded and grunted in approval. Rogmug's leadership skills were clearly unrivaled.

"Do you have booze here?" he asked.

Giroflée rapidly nodded.

A loud cheer erupted from the warband, startling her further.

Rogmug reached under his loincloth and produced a massive sack that jingled with the unmistakable sound of coin. He dropped it, and it hit the floor with a loud thud, kicking up a plume of dust. He opened it, revealing more gold than Giroflée had ever seen in one place at a time.

"All of it," grunted Rogmug.

"Huh?"

"She speaks! All your booze. Please. Is this enough?"

She looked around. The other orcs were eyeing her with the expression of dogs begging for table scraps.

"Uh... sure?"

Another cheer erupted, but before she could be startled again, Rogmug pulled her to her feet. They immediately went to pushing tables and chairs together to form a very crude banquet table.

Giroflée walked towards the back room but felt like she was floating. She was having a hard time accepting what was happening as real. Surely the horse by the rain barrel had kicked her in the head, and this was a bad dream.

"Giroflée! What's happening?!" said Pascher, his eyes peeking from under the cellar door.

She ducked behind the counter. "They want to drink."

"Well tell them no! Fight them if you have to! Don't let them steal my ale!"

"They want to pay for it."

"What?"

"I've never seen so much gold before..."

"Well get to work then! What am I even paying you for? Do whatever they say. And don't let them trash the place."

"Let me into the cellar. I'm scared."

"Don't be a coward!" He slammed the hatch closed, nearly taking one of her fingers. The click of a lock was heard from the other side.

Giroflée took a deep breath and made her way into the back room while mumbling how insane this all was. She looked at a barrel of ale and decided not to bother with the mugs, shuddering to think what would happen if her guests grew impatient. Instead, she hauled one of the casks off the shelf and, sweat beading on her brow, rolled it into the dining area.

The orcs burst into rowdy cheers upon seeing her. One of the orcs grabbed the barrel, punched a hole in the top, and proceeded to take a large gulp of ale. He passed it down the table, each orc taking a 'sip' and passing it along. She hurried back to the storage area to get the next cask. The process repeated several times, and the cheer for her was more enthusiastic each time. As she was pulling another barrel off the shelf when she backed into something hard.

"What is your name," asked Rogmug. His voice was so low and growly she could nearly feel his words in her chest.

"Giroflée, if it pleases you m'lord- er- great orc." She avoided his gaze.

"Giroflée the Ale-Bringer, I am Rogmug the Skull Crusher," he said, puffing out his chest. He was nearly as wide as three of the large ale barrels. "You look tired and have brought many boozes. Come drink with us!"

"Oh, I shouldn't, I'm not allowed to-"

Rogmug grabbed two casks and led her to the table. She assumed she didn't have much choice in the matter and timidly followed. He made space for her by his side at the table. As she sat down, the other orcs raised the glasses they'd swiped from surrounding tables.

"Ale-Bringer! Ale-Bringer!" they shouted as they slammed their mugs against the table.

"Hmmm," said the chair-breaking female orc next to her. She was nodding as she inspected her. "The Ale-Bringer has impressive childbearing hips and a hefty bosom. For a human."

"Hey!" roared Rogmug. "That's a never say!"

The other orc shrunk before him. "I was just-"

Rogmug shook his head. "We do not discuss the Ale-Bringer's ample bosom, impressive human hips, or supple bottom."

The other orc nodded. "Sorry to the Ale-Bringer. Forgiveness, please."

"I- it's- it's fine." She gave her own body a quick once over. "T-thank you, though. I think?"

The chair-breaker nodded and went back to their drink.

"Still learning," said Rogmug apologetically. He passed her an overflowing mug of ale.

She nervously sipped the cheap drink and quietly observed her patrons. They were nothing like the stories she'd heard about their kind. She expected the entire town to have been razed by this point. They were rowdy, to be sure, but a far cry from the whirlwind of destruction she'd expected. She felt a little more at ease, though that may have been the ale. Rogmug seemed content to sip his keg and watch his fellow orcs, occasionally looking down at her and giving an approving nod.

"So," she started, having had her fill of ale and awkward silence, "you and your... friends are different than what I expected."

Rogmug lit up. "Thank you! Not always like this though. Work in progress."

"How's that?"

"One day, me was tired after long day of raiding. Felt thirsty. So, me- er- I found a stream to drink from. As I drink, small lady, very tiny," he mimicked the size with his fingers, "flies in front of me. Says it is her stream. No drinking. I laugh and flick tiny lady. Big mistake. Rogmug- I get a big head pain, like arrow in brain. Skull feels funny. Tingly but with pictures."