Orcs vs Elves (part 11)

Fort Strigamax had fallen. Elves were falling back from the rubble, and the only hope to keep this entire flank from collapsing was the other forts plugging up the other passes along the mountains... and the fact that any attack through Strigamax's ruins would open their own long, narrow flanks open.

Open to people like Estoc.

For the past week, Estoc had been doing nothing but fighting side by side with her lance. She was running on nothing but mana potions and sheer adrenaline. Her armor was pitted and battered, and she had gone through four swords. Her shoulder mounted magic missile launchers were running half on empty, and the load bearing servos of her suit's left leg were running on twine, grace and a prayer.

Her grin stretched wide and feral as she peered through the forward view port of her armorite, the view bounced from helmet to the thronepit she slouched in. Her hands gripped the controls as she moved the palm of her suit to cradle the side of the tree, to keep her balanced. Below the trees, a patrol of orcish knights were bestriding their massive, white furred warbeasts.

"You take the left, I take the right," Trebuchet whispered over their crystal line.

Estoc shifted the grip on her controls - adjusting the fingers of the metal gauntlet that clutched the long, thin blade she preferred. She brought the other hand around with a yank on the controls - and the two palms met around the hilt of the blade. She sighted in on the orc to the left - and then with instinct and adrenaline both screeching through her small body, she pushed down on the levers in her thronepit. Her armorite suit stood and dropped in a single fluid moment and, for just that fleeting instant, Estoc felt as if she was flying again.

The orc jerked his head up just in time for the tip of her sword to split his chest open, impaling him into the back of his mount, who let our a shrieking cry of agony before collapsing, their back legs going limp as their spine was severed. A stone ball the size of a human's head swept the other rider off his mount as Trebuchet popped out of her cover, snow cascading down as her shoulder mounted gravity catapults set her entire armored suit wobbling. Estoc wrenched her blade free and parried the third scout's ax as the orc bellowed in fury.

"Armorites!"

"Hey, they know our names!" Estoc said, her blade sparking as she met ax with edged steel again and again. She stepped away as the massive wolf-like-creature tried to bite down on her shoulder. His opened mouth gave her a perfect target - her fingers flicked down her secondary munitions buttons, switching half a dozen tiny crystals from blue to red. The fwit fwit fwit fwit of her shoulder mounted launcher firing darts into the opened maw of the beast was almost as loud as the crunch of skull and splatter of bone and brain. The entire beast fell, but the orc rolled off it and came to his feet, bellowing in rage.

Estoc lifted her blade, planting her palm against the flat of it as she caught his ax, twisted, and tried to throw him over her shoulder.

Which was when her servos gave out. The entire left leg of her armored suit seized up and she wobbled, then crashed to the side. The impact sent her smashing around inside of her thronepit. Her head barely avoided cracking into the metal edge of her suits interior, while she was pushed into her back and the orc began to hammer her with the ax. By now, the beasts had learned that the armorites weren't merely human beings in plate mail - they knew that they were sophisticated magitech constructs, the pinnacle of the fairie arts. And so, his blows aimed not at the chest piece or helmet which were respectively heavily armored and relatively useless. Instead, he smashed at the hands. The crunch and whine of something valuable and complex being turned into fine grained powder filled Estoc's ear and she cried out - more in rage than anything else. The orc then sprang off her and turned, sprinting away, panting as he ran. A second later, a rock thunked after him. Estoc couldn't tell if the hit had landed. She heard only the splintering of wood, the crash of a tree thumping into the ground.

Then Trebuchet's armor came into view above her, helmet dented but undamaged.

"Estoc! You okay in there?"

"I'm getting red lights all over the damn thing, I-" Estoc's eyes widened. "No, no, no, no, no!"

"What is it?" Trebuchet asked.

"There's a mana feedback in the arm vents!" Estoc said, unbuckling herself. She grabbed wildly for some of the emergency tools in her armor - then slapped the thronepit opening lever. The breastplate of her armor swung wing and she flapped out, buzzing delicately and leaving behind a fine patina of fairie sparkle. She landed on the mangled hand and started to wrench open the arm. The whine and sputter of mana backing up within the complex array of feed-lines and vents became overwhelmingly loud - more like a tea pot than anything else. She looked wildly for the blockage, while Trebuchet shouted.

"Eject the arm!"

"I eject the arm, the whole suit's useless!" Estoc said.

"If you don't eject the arm, the whole suit is gonna blow!" Trebuchet snapped.

"I got this!" Estoc said, springing forward. Her tank top did little to protect her from the chill of these northern lands - but they didn't need to work so hard, as magical heat was blooming off the arm, as if it was fresh from a smithery. She jammed her wrench into it, trying to unkink the line. This was a kind of fault that barely cropped up on new suits - and when a suit got damaged enough for it to get a mana fault like this, well, you just ejected the arm. But this far from TechCom, this far from Scopes and the entire Armorite Command apparatus...

"Estoc!"

"I almost-" Estoc hissed.

A metal hand snatched her up and yanked her away. Estoc cried out in shock and annoyance - but then blinked as she saw the arrow thunking into where she had stood moments before. A javelin clattered off Trebuchet while the other armorite started to sprint away from their ambush. They had already stayed far too long near orc lines, but-

"No!" Estoc cried out.

She reached backwards for her armor - but it was already receding behind her. Farther. Farther. Farther.

The trees were shrouded and heavy with snow and shadows. But that meant little when the armor's mana reactor finally went critical. The pale white flash of the explosion, the hot wind, the roar in the distance, all of it stabbed Estoc deep in her heart as Trebuchet kept her suit thundering forward.

The elf camp that they were operating from had Raptor and Warhammer there. Both of them were out of their suits and were taking apart bits of Warhammer's left arm, to fix what they could in there. The elves, being primarily snow elves, had been forced to choose a camp-sight that their fairie and high elf allies could survive at... which was why the entire camp smelled faintly of sulfur and burbling, warm water. Half a dozen hot pools were scattered among the wooden fortifications and tents, and elves relaxed in some of them while others honed arrows, swords, and discussed their latest raids. The commander of the camp, the selfsame Iceflow who had let Strigamax be blown to kingdom come, could be heard even from the armorite part of the camp.

"Good work at that raid. We need to shore up the defenses here, here... and here..."

Normally, Estoc would have had something snippy to think about a man who had allowed his comfortable, effective fort to get blown to pieces by flamepowder weapons still being allowed to run things. But, in truth, Iceflow's command of the retreat and the continued fight against the orcs had been enough to still her tongue.

But...

No.

"You BITCH!"

Trebuchet sighed as she stepped from her thronepit, her body bedraggled and her wings drooping.

"What happened?" Raptor asked - but Estoc grabbed onto Trebuchet's arm, shaking her.

"I could have fixed it! I could have fixed her! It was just an arm fault!"

"And I said you should have ejected it!" Trebuchet snapped back. Raptor opened his mouth, about to speak, but Warhammer shook his head and placed his hand on the other fairie's shoulders.

Estoc clenched her fists. Fury and a shocking burst of sorrow bloomed inside of her. That thing had just been a suit of armor. She would get another. She could get another. And yet, she felt as if she had lost a family member. A friend. She wanted to smack Trebuchet, but the other fairie looked so tired and wan - and Estoc felt as if every bit of her exhaustion was crashing home all at once. To her shame, what came next was tears. They beaded, then welled, then poured down her cheeks. Trebuchet snaked an arm around her back, whispering.

"Shh, shh, it's okay, Twi... come on..."

It had been so long since Estoc had been called by anything but her call-sign that being called Twi - short for Twinklewing Glitterdust - left sniffling and snorting and mumbling: "Wha-?"

But Trebuchet gently pushed her to the small private area that the fairies had been given as part of the camp. There was a carefully carved channel, provided by an elf stonemason, which ran fresh warm water from one of the hot pools to a pool sized for the fairies. There, Trebuchet gently pushed Estoc down onto one of their tiny bedrolls. "Just lay here, lay here, Twi."

"I... I drove that suit for years..." Estoc whispered, her arm lifted above her head, her antennas twitching while Trebuchet brushed her hand through Estoc's hair, fingers brushing through raven black locks. "I can't believe she's just gone."

"It happens," Trebuchet said, quietly. "You are running on too much meth, Estoc."

"Huh?" Estoc blinked as she felt the emotional whirlwind in her brain settling into pure exhaustion.

"Get some sleep. The orcs will be there tomorrow," Trebuchet said, starting to stand up. Estoc reached out, impulsively, and snagged the other fairie's wrist. She looked up at her, and Trebuchet blushed then bit her lip, looking aside.

"I'm married, Estoc..." She said, softly.

Estoc's grin grew lopsided.

"He's not at the front lines, is he?"

Trebuchet looked down at her, her eyes growing softer and softer by the moment. She sighed, softly. "Gods, you are a terrible person, you know that?" She pushed Estoc's hand away, then leaned over and kissed her fiercely on the mouth - a kiss that was less of love or even lust, but more the simple, fierce, fiery kiss of life. Of surviving another day on the knife's edge of the war. Estoc's hand, which had been leaden and heavy before, surged with life and she slid her palm up, cradling Trebuchet through the seat of her pants, squeezing her taut, toned little fairie ass. Then Trebuchet shoved her back and away, panting and shaking her head.

"Get some fucking sleep, homewrecker."

Estoc's head fell back onto the pillow. She closed her eyes.

When she woke again, it was what felt like days later. Her entire body ached and her lips were dry, her mouth parched. She crawled from the bed to the latrine, her wings just barely able to flutter to get her knees off the ground. There, she found some of their tiny dew catchers, snagged a quick drink, and then splashed her face with cold, cold water. Once she was feeling halfway conscious, she looked at herself in the tiny mirror that they had set up.

Bedraggled. Red rimmed eyes. Sunken cheeks.

"You look like shit, Estoc," She muttered. "No wonder Treb didn't want to fuck you."

"Also, she's married."

The sound of Raptor's voice jerked Estoc's head around. The other fairie had his arms crossed over his slender chest, his wings bright and glittering.

"Come on," he said. "The whole armorite division has been called to Commander Iceflow. The second you are up, you're supposed to join them in the tent."

Estoc rubbed her palms against her face. "Fuck," she whispered.

A few moments later, she was whispering again, but with a different tone.

"Fuck."

Iceflow sat before the table that he had set up in the tent, with the passes and the fortifications and the orc lines drawn on it in the most accurate, up to date way they had. Several of the garishly cartoonish photographs from Scopes were laid out - and even from the birds eye perspective and the slightly exaggerated proportions, what was going on was clear.

"This is definitely Lady Icewild," Commander Iceflow said, tapping the scrying shot. "She appears to be captive, still, with the orcish camp. And if this is going on, we have to assume that she's being raped every single day."

Estoc shook her head slowly. The view from above showed a burly, broad shouldered orc, laying upon his back like some conquering king. He was out in the forested meadow near the growing orc encampment that served as their primary base - it seemed he wanted privacy for his dark deeds. The lady Mephileph Icewild was hard to identify in the first picture, her head being tucked forward, looking down at her captor, while her thighs clearly straddled him. The next shot, though, showed her head rolled back, twisted in an expression of exquisite pain - as if she could not bare what was happening one moment longer.

Or she's cumming so hard that her back's getting blown out, Estoc thought. But... no, that can't be happening.

Commander Iceflow shook his head. "It was her capture and the defilement of other captives in the failed raid that showed what this Horde is really all about," he said. "I've been given direct orders that no elf is to be risked in any rescue mission - the danger is too high, and... well, there has been enough evidence that orc women are as lust as their men."

Estoc bit back on her first response. She was too busy studying the two scry-shots.

"However, no mention from Magister Sidroc has said-"

"Wait, Sidroc?" Estoc asked, while Warhammer glowered slightly.

"Isn't he that Kinslayer asshole?" Trebuchet asked.

"Ah, no, no, Magister Sidroc is our wisest elf leader," Commander Iceflow said, smiling gently. "Lord Sidrac is his brother - the Kinslayer of which you mention. Sidroc has returned once more to the fore of elf politics with the beginning of this war - it was his council that tried to reign in the fury of the elves."

"He's real good at his job then," Estoc muttered, under her breath. Her eyes fell once more onto the scrying image. Again, the more she looked, the more she could not deny - she had seen that exact expression of pleasure wracking women's faces. It usually had something to do with her and her fingers or hand being somewhere they definitely should have been. She frowned even more. Then there was the lack of restraints, her position in the 'rape' - and yet, the idea of bringing up any of that evidence to Iceflow and the rest of the elves seemed...

Impolite.

They'll probably call you a sexist asshole, Estoc said. Then... remembering her attempt to seduce Trebuchet, she felt a sudden welling of shame and worry. ... am I being an asshole? Am I seeing what I want to see in these scryes?

Estoc did not like thinking about herself that much. Fortunately, Commander Iceflow was able to distract her with: "However, Magister Sidroc didn't say we were prevented from sending auxiliaries."

"It was my idea, actually," Warhammer said, his voice a bit wry. "The orcs are pushing hard on each of the forts, and if they manage to encircle the others, then the entire range falls. But their morale is high - high because of their victories. But if we steal from them their most famous prisoner, then we can deal a major morale shock to them. And..." He pointed at the scry. "It appears that the orc that has Icewild captive lives very near to their flamepowder weapon store. If we can touch that off..."

"I see, I see," Estoc said, quietly.

"And it can give our armorite suits a chance for refit and repair," Raptor said, grinning a bit. "We can ship them back while we go unarmored for this run. We're all good stealth specialists, and we all remember the fairie magic, right?"

"I'm a little rusty on my woodland critter talking," Estoc said, standing up and brushing her hands off - she turned to face Trebuchet. "How do you feel about it, Treb?"

"Ugh..." Trebuchet crossed her arms over her chest. "I don't like the idea of going out there almost naked. But... her husband must be worried sick about her." She licked her lips, then nodded. "Lets do it."

"We're in, Commander," Warhammer said, turning to Iceflow, who nodded and began to roll up the map.

"You only need to get her to one of the other forts - it won't be hard, if our scoting is halfway accurate," Iceflow said as he tucked the map under his arm and stood - his pale white body glittering in the candlelight. His eyes grew grave. "If... if you manage to do this, then we shall owe the entire fairie community a debt of gratitude that we elves cannot repay."

"We're your allies," Warhammer said. "We'll do it."

"I thought he called us auxiliaries," Estoc muttered. Warhammer shot her a look and Estoc grinned back at him - then looked back down at the scrying images, before they were picked up and tucked away in Iceflow's pouch.

Simple stealth retrieval mission, something fairies were great at.

So why did her gut say: this is gonna get fucking complicated?

***

L'ara entered into the library in the heart of the castle that had once served as the heart of the Kingdom of Thurandal and was rather dismayed to find that not only did it have someone within, but that someone... was a human. Most of the humans that had lived in this castle had left it to live among the orcs and trollocs at Bloodrock - to sup on meat provided by cattlebeasts and drink wine provided by carefully cultivated and well designed bloodvine. She tensed and her hand dropped to the small bone dagger she had taken to looping around her slender belt... but then she recognized the waifish beauty of the former princess of Thurandal, Quella.

Quella had, thus far, taken quite well to living within the Hoard. She had eschewed both the overly elaborate dress that took half a dozen servants to take on and take off and the post-conquest revel of pure nudity in favor of orcish styling, with a breast band, loincloth, and a single large pauldron. Well. Large for a human. She was hunched over a book, a small globe full of fireflies casting their caged light across the wooden table.

L'ara had seen Quella about the Blood Shaman's temple, learning the basics of their art, but she had not spoken to her much. She knew some of the torrid tales around the former princess - that she had been betrothed to her very own project of Prince Othar, and that she had been one of the many human women who had heard the siren call of the Hoard and joined them. She knew, also, that she had been a pet of her father for a time, though she seemed to have not stayed long enough to get with child by him - something L'ara was rather glad of, considering the danger that they were both under now. Though, perhaps...

Quella must have heard something. She lifted her gaze, and upon seeing L'ara, she furrowed her brow. "Blood Shaman?" she asked. "What are you doing here?"

"I've come to investigate some... lore..." L'ara hesitated - and decided that she might as well go ahead with her plan, risk and all. "What are you doing here?"

Quella smiled, wryly. "Well, I've been taking to my blood magic studies, but the scholars that I was learning with said I needed to do my first lesson - to become a proper shaman, it takes not merely knowing that blood magic exists, but the possibilities."

"You're making something?" L'ara asked, genuinely surprised.

She laughed. "Oh, no!" Quella swung the book shut. "I'm not that advanced."

"Ahhhh!" L'ara nodded and walked over. Her burly form sat beside the other woman and she saw that the tome that Quella had been reading had been a bestiary of creatures written by a monk who, clearly, had not traveled very far afield from Khazgad city, as when she flipped it open, she saw that his idea of what a dragon was was decidedly more lionish, and that his illustration of a dolphin was simply pathetic - what porpoise would have hands on the end of their flippers? - but more there were creatures she had never even heard of in the Hoard's entire crusade across the land. Turning page after page, she lifted her head from the book and smiled at the former princess. "You're going to present a bloodline."

"Just so," Quella said, sighing and leaning back in her seat. "I was thinking of examining the way that the vineyards of Lesanda bred grapes that had a better flavor, but all those tomes were lent out before the Hoard arrived, and now we don't have them. So, instead, I'm thinking of examining our bestaries and... maybe there's some curious creature in the human lands you orcs haven't found yet, which could be useful." She leaned her elbow on the table, cupping her own cheek in her palm. "It seems..." She sighed.

"A bone for your thoughts?" L'ara asked - genuinely curious.

Rain began to patter against the roof of the castle, loud in the quiet of the abandoned place.

"The Hoard has had so many years to hone and learn blood magic. You already have farms that barely need tending, food crops that need not fear blight or drought. All the old fears of our kingdom are wiped away and the people have plenty." She smiled, wryly. "How do I meet the genius of Ner'gal or K'ezthadad or Gar'tok or-" She froze. "Did I upset you?"

"No," L'ara said, her voice somber. The mention of Ner'gal's name had sent a furious tremor down her spine. She shook her head and then leaned back in her seat, the human made structure creaking gently under her bigger frame. "That's not the way to think of such things. You're not trying to best the giants, you're trying to climb atop them, to go where they could never reach."

"I like that," Quella said. Then, chuckling. "So, I have... well, two questions, actually."

"Oh?" L'ara asked.

Quella blushed. "Is... is Othar mad at me?"

L'ara chuckled. "I don't... I don't think so." She shook her head a bit. "I didn't think you would care?"

Quella looked away. "When the conquest first came, and when I had a chance to be something more than just a princess - more than just a woman in the human lands..." She shook her head. "You don't know what it is like to be a woman, in a land ruled by men, rather than by a council of equals. It was like every single day, my whole life was planned for me, ordered for me, and the only thing of value that I had was what was... was... between my legs!" She slammed her palm down onto the tome, her eyes flashing angrily. "And... and the worst of it?"

L'ara nodded.

"Othar was actually decent about it. A-All things considered," Quella said, sighing. "And that made me hate him even more."

L'ara sighed, slowly. "Othar, I think is adjusting. Not as well as you are, but, he is throwing himself into the war. And, from the reports from the naval yards, doing well, as a scout."

Quella smiled. "Good," she said, softly. "I didn't love Othar. But I don't want to hurt him, either. Not. Really." She blushed. "It was rather fun cheating on him... does that make me a bad person?"

"Only in the context of bizarre human morality, which thinks that you can only have one partner at a time," L'ara said, chuckling. "What was your other question, Quella?"

Quella grinned. "Why are you here, Shamaness?"

L'ara nodded, slowly. "I... am at a dead end. Ner'gal, as you know, was banished - and I was instructed to find what exactly he was working on. I translated some of his tomes, but they speak elliptically, of a great working... and of a name: The Golden Order."

Quella's eyebrows shot up.

"And..." L'ara's ears twitched as her plan came to fruition - and her heart thumped in her chest. "... I came here for there are few guards, and no patrols, and thus, it is a perfect place for assasins to come and kill me."

She sprang to her feet and threw the dagger at her hip in a single motion. It thudded into the throat of an orc who had entered into the library with the stealth and quiet grace of an trained killer. His face was familiar to her - the very orc who had supposedly guarded the door to Ner'gal's chamber, who had claimed that he had no idea she was at risk at all. The other guard at that door stood to his right, blade in hand, and gaped as his comrade scrabbled at the bone knife as its magic came to the fore, transforming the blood within its victim into a hissing acid, which began to spew from veins as they bulged and burst, the orc's face withering as his eyes sank back into his head. Splatters streaked along the other traitor orc, burning and scorching his skin as he roared in fury and pain.

He sprang away from his fellow killer moments before the orc exploded in a gout of acid and bubbling bone. The spray doused the floor and stone began to crumble and chip away, but it was too little too late, the orc was in the room and hewing at L'ara with his heavy bladed ax. L'ara sprang backwards, bowling Quella over and tripping over her own feet as the chair she had sat in splintered with the impact.

"Die, bloodcurdled bitch!" the traitor shouted. "For Ner'gal and the True Hoard!"

Quella rolled away from L'ara as L'ara leaped to her feet and snatched one of the bookshelves. Countless thousands of gold coins worth of books fell and clattered onto the orc's shoulders and head, stunning him as the shelf crashed down around him. Quella, though, had not rushed for the door. She instead had snatched up the bone base of her firefly lantern and smashed it into the side of the orc's head as he shoved the bookshelf away. The glass shattered and a great many of the bugs died - but the orc grabbed her throat, lifting the shocked human off her feet and holding her above his head.

"Pinkskin!" the orc bellowed.

Thunk!

The impact of a heavy javelin into the orc's back rang out. Metal cleaving through bone rang next and Quella fell on her royal behind, the orc's wrist spurting blood as his fingers spasmed around her throat. She slapped the severed limb away, coughing and choking, while the Blademaster that had sprang into the room swept his curved sword up and to the right. The traitor fell, decapitated. The trolloc javelineers and the other Blademasters stepped in, grim faced and expressionless, while Elder Tarish thumped into the room.

"Tari!" Quella rasped, scrambling to her feet. She rubbed at her throat, clearly a bit chagrined of how she sounded after that near strangulation.

"Quella," he said, then grinned wryly. "Thank you for trying to save my daughter."

"I-I... I..." Quella's knees wobbled, while L'ara brushed herself off from what bits of blood and bone had splattered her.

"I told you it would work," she said.

"You've smoked out these two rotworms, but we don't know how much of the carcass still follows Ner'gal," Elder Tarish said, shaking his head and crossing his massive, sinewy arms over his chest. His tusks glinted in what wan light was cast by the few surviving fireflies, which danced and flew throughout the room. "And none will try and dispatch you now - they'll wait and fester."

"That is a problem for later," L'ara said, beginning to pick up tomes, tossing several aside. She was rather relieved that the majority of the books she had dropped on the assassin's head had been the human's utterly useless religious tracts. "I did come here for a reason father, and not just to lure those two fiends out. Until we know what the Golden Order is, there is no way that we can hope to stymie Ner'gal and his wickedness."

"Well, I know what it is," Quella said, her voice a soft croak.

"And you think the humans may have learned something we have not?" Elder Tarish asked. "If so, it'd be among their scholars, no?"

"No!" L'ara shot back. "Humans have had a much older and longer culture than ours - their scholars have written much down. It's easy to sneer at it, for it lives in dead things, but we learned much from the bones of long dead creatures, did we not?"

"True..."

Quella, rubbing at her throat, managed to speak more clearly. "I know what the Golden Order is!"

Both orcs blinked, looking at her.

"What is it?" L'ara asked, hesitantly.

Quella sighed, softly. "It... it's silly..." she blushed. "But the Golden Order is part of the... the Church of the Goddess. Well, they're not, there... I mean, there is no earthly Golden Order, but rather, the Goddess was dispatched from the Golden Order, to bring about humanity on this world. So, they're the collection of gods and goddesses of other worlds."

"Other worlds!?" L'ara sputtered. "There's only one world! This one! A world of flesh and matter and magic."

"Nay," Quella said, shaking her head. "The Goddess came from a world of thoughts and beliefs. And besides, you orcs bragged about how your warlocks were mounting our goddess in the astral realm."

"That was attacking your spirits - not, like..." L'ara struggled to find a word, then threw up her hands. "Damnation!"

"What did Ner'gal want with this so called Golden Order?" Elder Tarish asked, frowning.

"From the translations I have done on his journals, he believes that a great working can call the Golden Order to this world," L'ara said, her voice growing soft as the rain increased its tempo against the windows of the library - the gray and gloomy cast of the day growing grayer and gloomier, as if every word she spoke filled the world with foreboding. "That only by creating a resonance of vileness and evil in the mirror of the world can the Golden Order be conjured... and... that..." She trailed off, frowning. "These gods and goddesses, did... could they have children?"

"Of course," Quella said. "None yet live, but our history... here!" She stood and then knelt - bending over and drawing her loincloth taut against her backside. L'ara did her best to ignore the way her father admired it most openly - there were some barriers even the Hoard tried to avoid crossing, and that was one of them. Tarish, for his part, seemed chagrined when he caught himself, and flashed L'ara a little smile, even as Quella stood and thumped down one of the religious tracts that had been cast upon the ground. She flipped through the pages, and revealed an old human illustration of a warrior clad in golden armor, surrounded by artful halos of light, bearing a massive hammer over their head. "This is the Paladin Tailessa Koruun... she saved the ancient kingdom of Kalkoth ten thousand years ago."

"It can't possibly have been ten thousand years ago!" L'ara snapped. "Do you know how long ten thousand years are?"

"That's what was written down in the books!" Quella said, flushing slightly. "I'm not a historian!"

"L'ara..." Tarish said, holding up his hand. "My daughter - this world is ancient beyond imagining. We know this, from the ancient bones of the tyrant creatures that we studied to help make dracorcs. It takes but a glance to see it. It could be that these scholars and their books are worth something more than we gave them credit for. But also, it could be that ten thousand years is an exaggeration. But what matters if something Ner'gal has found has given him the idea that this Golden Order can be conjured... but why?"

"The blood," L'ara said, gravely.

Quella's eyes went wide. "No," she said, shaking her head, slowly. "No, no, that is... that would be..." She bit back her words, clearly realizing that neither orc would agree with the term... sacrilege. And yet...

"A sacrilege!" L'ara snarled. Her hands tightened and she slammed them down on the table, her shoulders bunched, her muscles tight with fury. Her eyes narrowed to slits as the whole horrid plan came to clear fruition within her mind: "He engineered the whole damn war! I don't know how, but he did - he stoked the battle to a furnace heat, and set us against one another, so that each elf and each orc that does wrong to the other sends a greater call to this Order, all so that he can draw them here and take their blood... what legends speak of this Paladin Koruun?"

"She was able to shatter boulders with a single blow from her fists, an immortal who could heal the sick with a glance," Quella said, blushing. "She never removed her armor, so, everyone assumed that she was some kind of angel. But she left, and never returned. Or so the legends go."

Tarish frowned. He picked up the tome and shook his head. "We need to take this before the Council. There may yet be time to stop this war before it gets worse. A peace..." He sighed, then grated out. "I know not which side needs to give reparations first - but I know that we cannot continue on this course. Come!"

He turned and strode from the room, his blademasters and trollocs following after. Quella and L'ara hurried after, L'ara pausing only to snatch her bone dagger from the hissing puddle she had left of one of the traitors. Her voice grew soft as she leaned in, whispering to Quella.

"My only question is can the war be stopped... everything I've heard says the elves are frenzied, battle mad, preforming atrocities upon any and all that they capture."

Quella shook her head. "If that is the case, then no amount of parlay or diplomacy can save you." Her face fell. "T-There is a tale that I remember, from the reign of King Orbiplanix II, the great grandfather of Othar." She ducked her head as they stepped into the rain, while a shieldbeast extended its wings overhead and distended its airbags to float over their heads - only the best for an Elder, after all. L'ara gestured for the princess to continue as they strode from the castle keep to the road leading towards Bloodrock.

Quella sighed.

"The King patronized a guild of weavers, who would turn fae silk into magical stockings and hose. But then, one day, the Everqueen sent word that the silks they were being given were no longer a part of 'the telling' and must be returned. Every stitch and every thread. So, King Orbiplanix II sent forth word, and every stitch was found... save for a single thread, caught on the gauntlet of a knight, known as Sir Halaster."

"What happened?" L'ara asked.

"The elves found Sir Halaster and butchered him, his guards, and burned his castle to the very ground." Quella frowned. "Or so the legends go. Elves do not forgive slights. They do not look beyond transgressions."

She glanced at L'ara.

"And they do not ever forget."