Chakros

The sign outside had proclaimed this particular tavern The Skewered Maiden.  Inside, it was essentially the same tavern Chakros had found anyplace else in the city.  The city was, in Chakros’ estimation, largely the same city as any other city in the Lands, stinking with the refuse of its inhabitants.  He wondered idly if the refuse of orcs, of gnolls, and kobolds stank any less than the refuse of the humans, dwarves, and whatever else had lived here before them.  Sewage was sewage, and most everything smelled the same when it was carrion.  His friend Sarx would attest to that.  

Chakros drained the mug and wiped his mouth, never taking his eyes off of the languid female.  Something about the way the thin linen curtains hung over the opening to her booth, obscuring the lower half of her naked form while leaving the top exposed, had stirred him.  Perhaps it was simply her weakness demanding to be mastered.  Perhaps it was his human half that was attracted to the soft, unhaired flesh.  He decided he didn’t care.  He had slaked his need for food and drink, and he could come up with no reason not to finish the progression.  After all, what was his pay and time off for?

“Is that one drugged, or just passive?” he asked, sliding the mug across the bar.  He swallowed the last mouthful of black that supposedly been the tavern’s best ale, grimacing appreciatively at the aftertaste.

“Does it matter?” the orcish bartender replied with a grin.  “You can have her for ten.”

If Chakros’ mouth had been full, he would have spat out the contents.  “Ten?!  Are you soft?  Two!  She doesn’t even look like she would put up a fight.”  The two ogres at the end of the bar swiveled their heads in unison, regarding Chakros cooly.  They turned back to their oversized mugs indifferently, but Chakros knew that this was no longer a private conversation.  To himself, Chakros snorted.  Ogre guards.  How original.  

The orc cast a forlorn look into the booth and sighed heavily.  “Seven.  If you wanted to fight for it, you wouldn’t be looking at that one.”

Chakros glowered.  “Four.  I can get any woman in the street for three.”

The bartender frowned, clearly unimpressed. “Humans like that are harder to find these days, and they don’t last too long when you do find ‘em.  If you like it soft, you’re going to have to pay.  Seven, or be off to the street with you.” 

Chakros didn’t like the emphasis that the orc had put on the word “soft”, but was used to derision from his stronger kin.  Fortunately he knew how to use it to his advantage.  “If humans are so weak, then I’m not paying top price.  Five is all I’ll pay for a worn-out piece of meat.”

Now it was the bartender’s turn to glower.  The orc nodded -- just once, and sullenly.  Chakros took that as a victory as he began to count out his coins.  Behind him, the door opened and closed.  The bartender turned his attention to his new patron and, presumably, an easier mark.  

Chakros slid his coins across the bar and started toward the alcove when he heard his name called.  He whirled, annoyed at the interruption.  It was Durzu, one of the orcs in his unit.

“There you are, scout,” Durzu stated, sitting down at the bar.  “Commander’s looking for you.  Said for you to report right away.”

“Lok’Saug?  What’s he want?”

Durzu shrugged.  “He just said to find you and for you to get your half-breed ass back to barracks doublequick, and he didn’t give a shit what your half-breed ass was doing and that it was an order.”  The orc’s eyes searched up and to the right as he recited, likely verbatim, what the commander had said.  Chakros didn’t doubt that the commander couldn’t come up with any more creative insult than “half-breed”, and therefore had to use it twice.

Chakros spat.  “I’m supposed to be on leave.  I just came back.”

Durzu snorted derisively.  “Explain that to Lok’Saug when the enforcers come for you.  They’re pretty understanding.”  The orc shrugged again.  “I’m just the messenger, scout.  Do what you want.”

And you’re enjoying the message a bit too much, Chakros thought.  He turned to the bartender.  “Give me my money back, I need to go.”  The bartender met Chakros’ gaze, and then turned away without acknowledgement.  “Hey!  I said, I want my money.”

The fingers that tapped him on the shoulder could only belong to one of the ogres from the end of the bar.  They were both on their feet, crowding him against the bar.  One of the ogres, and Chakros guessed the smellier one, shook its head.  

“Og say no money back,” stated the other ogre.

Chakros’ eyes narrowed.  “I paid for the female, but now I can’t use her.  Your bartender owes me five.”

The ogre called Og shook its head again.

“Og say you can not use her is problem of you, not Master Shazzag.”  Not-Og held one meaty index finger out straight.  “Og say go priest, fix...problem,” it added, letting the finger droop.

Chakros glanced at the bartender, who was absorbed in drawing a mug of black for Durzu, who was himself apparently absorbed in anticipating the sludge.  The shit-eating grins on the orcs’ faces made it clear the absorption was feigned.  

The ogre called Og pointed at the door.  “Og say you go now,” stated the other one.  It paused, and both ogres loomed over Chakros, their matted manes brushing the ceiling beams and making it clear what Chakros’ alternative was.  Not-Og flexed its fists and sneered.

Chakros snarled and turned to leave, the laughter that erupted chasing behind.  I need to get out of this city, he thought.  Out there, I’m the strong one.  The moment it pleased me to do so I’d have your stupid, hulking mass staked to a tree.  You’d beg me to kill you before long.  He pushed the door wide, letting the grey light of the cold, rainy day flood the room behind him.  Chakros squinted briefly at the contrast between the tavern and the outdoors, but his half-breed eyes adjusted quickly.  Behind him, the laughter was cut short by a shout of discomfort.  The tougher they think they are, the sooner they beg for death when Sarx begins working on their soft parts.  

A hollow hiss sounded from the alley next to the tavern, and Chakros immediately turned toward the familiar greeting.  A bone-white bird regarded him with eyes the pale blue of drowned corpseflesh, set in a hairless head of mottled black and red.  The deathly rasp sounded again, and Chakros grinned.  Just because I was interrupted doesn’t mean you have to be.  “No, you finish your feast, Sarx.  Don’t linger there too long, though, someone might try to put you in a stew.”  The vulture emitted a series of short, sibilant noises that Chakros thought might be laughter.  Sarx swallowed another hunk from the maggot-ridden corpse over which he stood, spread his death-black wings and leapt into the air.  Chakros squinted up into the drizzle, momentarily jealous of his longtime companion’s freedom as he watched the bird’s lazy, wheeling climb.  

A rivulet of rain collected at the back of Chakros’ neck and ran down inside his leathers.  He shifted his gaze back to the street, toward the barracks and wondered at the nature of his commander’s urgent need.

(JD)