Marco’s shiv. Not being an exceptionally bright thief, Marco commissioned the “finest” shiv from a blacksmith for the hefty price of 6 silver. Being of an entrepreneuring sort, the blacksmith grabbed a somewhat sharp chunk of slag, gave it a once over in the grinder, wrapped it in the finest rat skins and baling wire, and passed it off. Some say Marco still uses it to this day.
“Gheldrig, not being a fighter, cursed his blade with unholy magic. It is said any who are cut by the blade are rent to shreds, as if torn apart by incorporeal hands.
This didn’t make Gheldrig any better at fighting though.”
Quick doodle of mass effect’s Tali. In my mind she has a wrench plushie. And she’s more concerned with finding it than the fact you dug around in her locker.
Those fucking knights were there
again, Lark thought angrily, looking at the group of six armored men on
horseback. She wasn’t really even sure they were Knights, to be honest. She
knew they weren’t Knights of the kingdom she belonged to. They didn’t bear any
sigil, or ride under any colors. But they did all have armor, and horses, and
expensive-looking swords and polearms. She supposed anyone could really go out
and get armor and swords; she didn’t really know though she didn’t keep up with
that crap. Knights or not, they were asshats, and she was tired of having to
always deal with their shit any time she had to go to the forest to gather her
ingredients. It was the only established path out of town and they had to sit
right on it and antagonize every passerby. She supposed she could go around
them, but it was all flat and lightly wooded all the way to the village from
here, and while mountain elves such as herself were light on their feet and
quick over hills and rocky valleys, she wasn’t going to be outrunning any
horses over flat, lightly forested terrain.
Lark sighed and stood up, brushing
off the knees of the rough, thick grey pants she wore when gathering
ingredients. She leaned back against the tree she had been peering around and
sighed heavily. She rubbed her brow in agitation, and rapidly scratched at her
scalp, fluffing her exceptionally thick, silky black hair in the process. She
brushed a couple errant strands behind her long ear. Today was just not going
well, she thought. She hadn’t been able to find any blooming redroot, the pink
morels she had found were quite small, and now these jerks were back waiting at
the road again. She huffed angrily and kicked at a small rock. Well, might as
well get this over with, she thought, no reason to prolong the inevitable
annoyance. She picked up her leather satchel half full with plant roots, fish
eggs and strange leaves.
She nervously tugged at and toyed
with the strap of her satchel as she walked along the densely packed dirt road.
The town was within sight, she wouldn’t have to deal with these morons for
long, she assured herself. She briefly toyed with the idea of slogging up some
potions of gratuitous anal seepage and surreptitiously sneaking them into their
food. But, she wasn’t an assassin, or a thief; she was an apothecary, and she
certainly wasn’t willing to pay either of the two to do it for her. Their
prices for such “menial work,” as they put it, were astronomical.
Apparently if it didn’t involve pilfering, poisoning or pussy, they weren’t
interested. She knew that was the case, it said so on the door to the thieves
guild in the next town over.
She pulled the thick braid of her
hair over her shoulder and tugged at the end of it, twirling some of the
strands of hair around her finger. Maybe they would let her pass quietly this
time, she hoped. She could hear them joking with each other, laughing at some
terribly crude story about what one of them had done to a barmaid in a
disreputable bordello. Ugh, she thought, even if the woman was of ill repute,
she didn’t deserve to be treated the way this idiot was bragging about treating
her. Whatever, it was only a short distance to pass them now. She held her head
up proudly and quickened her pace.
One of the Knights nudged the one
next to him. The story, and laughs, swiftly died as they all hungrily eyed the
lovely tan mountain elf as she approached them.
“Your caramel-elf is back, Vic,” one
of the Knights said to the one in the freshest and newest of armor.
“I don’t know what you see in those leaf-eared nature freaks.”
“Pussy is pussy,” Vic said gruffly, “don’t matter if it’s human
or some leaf-eared bitch.” He eyed the supple curve of her waist and hips,
the long and thick fullness of her legs, and the bounce of her perky breasts as
she walked.
“Good morning, missy,” Vic said genially to the elf, his voice
dripping with belligerence. The elf pretended not to notice and simply
continued walking.
“I think she’s ignoring you,” one of the Knights said, spitting onto
the ground. Vic grit his teeth and leveled his polearm, blocking the elf’s
path.
“I said, ‘good morning.’ It’s not polite to ignore your superiors.”
Lark stopped and looked up at the knight, her narrow purple eyes glimmering in
the sun.
“It’s past noon,” she said angrily, her voice having taken on a dark
quality. “Now, clearly you need to learn to tell time, and I need to be
getting back to my shop, so we both have places to be. Have a pleasant
afternoon.” Lark heard one of the Knights snort out a laugh at Vic’s
expense. With that, she swooped under his polearm and continued down the path.
“Hold on a second.” Vic
reigned up his horse and deftly brought it around to block her path. He was an
asshole, but he did know how to control his mount, Lark noted. The other
Knights quickly came up and blocked off the road behind her.
“What’ve you got in the bag, sweetie?” He asked, pointing at the
large leather satchel at her side.
“None of your concern. And I’m not your sweetie,” Lark growled.
“Lets see the bag.” Lark quickly turned to the left but another one
of the Knights moved up his horse, blocking the path.
“We ain’t done chatting yet,” he said through the metal visor.
“Oh fuck off,” Lark snapped.
“Missy, you’ll give up that bag unless you want an ugly scar gracing your
pretty face,” Vic said. Lark seemed to suddenly loose confidence. She
sighed and lowered her head.
“Fine, whatever,” she said meekly. Vic was glowing with
self-infatuation. Nothing like ordering the peasants around to really bring
your day together, he thought.
From her bag, the downcast Lark
produced a fist-sized white clay ball, with a blue stripe running along it and
a string dangling off the side.
“Behold,” Lark said, holding it aloft.
“I said give me the bag, not take the stuff out you batty-” Vic spat.
Before he could finish, a sudden change washed over Lark. She grinned in a
vicious manner, yanked the string on the ball and pitched it at his face. The
solid crack it emitted as it interrupted his speech and crushed his nose
practically echoed off of the trees in the silence of the moment. With a sharp
hissing and whizzing noise the ball blasted forth a monstrous cloud of thick
blue smoke, obscuring the vision of everyone and sending all the Knights into a
coughing fit. Lark used her natural elfin agility to leap up, land of the
horses back and then leap again to the ground several meters away. Vic’s horse, startled by the smoke and the
sudden weight on its back, reared up sharply and bucked Vic off, depositing him
neatly in a pile of armor on the roadside.
Lark laughed heartily as she darted
off, running as fast as she could. The smoke had already dissipated, those
puffers were really only good for a second or two. She had learned how to make
them from a thief as a trade for some blood clotting potions. She had always
thought they were quite keen, but had regretted never really being able to use
one. But still, she carried it everywhere anyway, secretly hoping for the day
she could finally use one in anger instead of just setting them off on holidays
for the enjoyment of the local children. And now, that opportunity had come!
What a rush! They worked so well! She could hear the Knights clamoring behind
her, reigning in their horses and attempting to escape from the complete
shambles she had left them in. She heard Vic yelling at them to go after her,
and his calling her by a litany of foul names. And actually, she was pretty
sure some of the Knights were now laughing at Vic. She had a growing suspicion
he wasn’t liked even by his own compatriots.
She giggled to herself and
continued sprinting. She would just get around the next bend, and then jump up
into the trees to hide until the Knights ran past. It couldn’t be that hard;
those prissy wood elves hid in trees all the time. The sounds of their
confusion began to fade, and Lark looked over her shoulder behind her as she
rounded the bend, hoping she would have enough time for a stealthy climb.
Suddenly, she slammed into what
felt like a solid oak tree and was promptly knocked down, sending up a thin
plume of dust, visible only for a moment in the yellow shafts of light
filtering through the trees. “Iflin’s greatbow!” She exclaimed,
wincing and looking up at what she had hit, expecting a tree or a cart or
something similarly solid. Instead, she was presented with a tall Orc, carrying
two huge bundles of bricks secured with rope and wood in each hand. He sported
a dusty cloth apron worn over a simple shirt with rolled up sleeves, exposing
his intensely thick, muscular forearms. His brown pants were covered in the
same white dust as his apron. His hair was black, rough, and shaved at the
sides, secured in the back by a short ponytail held in place by twine. He
stared down at her past his angular, wide nose with small yellow eyes.
“Sorry,” he said quietly.
He set down his bundles and held out a thick, ponderous hand to help her up.
Without thinking, Lark put her small, smooth hand into his great, callused one.
He gently helped her to her feet.
“You okay?” He asked, his voice as seemingly heavy and gruff as the
bales of bricks he had been carrying. For the first time in her life, Lark
could literally not think of anything to say. She simply stared at this tall,
muscular Orc, her eyes wide. She had seen Orcs before, but never one so…
Handsome.
The Orc frowned slightly, the
expression pronounced greatly due to his small tusks, and raised an eyebrow.
“Mountain elf… Hmm… You’re the apothecary, right?” He asked,
“I don’t know of any other mountain elves in town. I’m… Umm… I’m the
baker. You know, the only orc baker in town?” His speech was slow,
deliberate, and Lark found it intensely soothing.
“Umm…” He mumbled quietly, and scratched at the side of his head.
He blinked and looked up as he became aware of the stomping of horse hooves
coming towards him. He motioned towards the sound. “That wouldn’t have
anything to do with you, now would it?” The sound snapped Lark back to her
senses, and she quickly clambered onto one of the bales of bricks and tried to
jump up to the nearest large tree branch.
“I wasn’t here!” She
yelped. She lunged swiftly but missed the tree branch she was aiming for and
instead grabbed the trunk of the tree. Embarrassingly, she slid down the smooth
trunk and ended up no nearer to the branch than when she had started. The Orc
said nothing and simply stared, very confused with what was transpiring. Lark
attempted to scuttle her way up the wide tree trunk, but found that scaling a
vertical surface wasn’t as easy as she had thought it would be. How the fuck
did wood elves do this, she grumpily thought.
“I don’t think mountain elves
are very good at climbing trees,” observed the Orc.
“Well, I know that now!” Lark snapped, pivoting around and facing
him. Some of her black hair fell into her face as she glared angrily, “Now
give me a boost, mister!” The Orc sighed and moved towards her, wondering
exactly what he had gotten himself into this time. Before he had gone far
though, the group of Knights stormed around the corner, and Lark quickly darted
behind the Orc and attempted to hide behind his large frame.
“Hey, wait a second. Don’t involve me in this,” he grumbled, as he
lifted his arm and turned to look at her.
“You look like you can be scary! Just do something!” She ordered.
For a moment he considered simply
picking up his bricks and walking away. His house was just down the road. But
the way this elf trembled and looked at him with those big violet eyes, and
that pouty look on her full lips…
“It’s the harpy incident all over again,” he muttered gruffly. Lark
seemed agitated by that remark and was about to say so, but the Orc interrupted
her thoughts.
“What’s your name?” He asked curtly, as the Knights rapidly
approached.
“Lark.”
“Lockwood. Figured I should at least know your name before I go ringing
folks’ bells for ya.” The stomping of the Knights horses hooves was
thundering, and the mighty hooves kicked up plumes of dirt that danced and
rolled in the sunlight as they stomped and pranced to a stop just a few feet
shy of the couple. Lockwood looked up at Vic, whose eyes were still watering,
and blood was still oozing from his nose.
“Oh. It’s these fuckstains.
Again,” Lockwood remarked coldly, folding his huge arms,
“I’m pretty sure I told you forg lothki’s to stay out of my fucking
woods?” It may have been years since he had lived with a horde, but his
Orcish cursing had not lost its edge. He pointed directly at a knight in the
back of the group with a large patched and soldered dent in the side of his
chest armor.
“And I know damn sure I told YOU
that.” His voice was like a hail of gravel and rumbled through the trees.
Leaves shook, the plumes of dust rushed away from him, and Lark felt her knees
go weak for a moment. The knight he had singled out stared wide eyed for a
moment, and quickly reigned in his horse in the other direction and made a
swift escape. The physical bruises and emotional damage from the last time he
had confronted the Orc were still fresh. Lockwood folded his arms again and
smirked. “Smart kid.” He looked at the remaining Knights, a terrific
stern look on his face.
“Well? The fuck you want?”
“Where’s your horde,
Orc?” One of the Knights asked.
“Don’t have one.”
“Bullshit.”
“Nah, he’s a pacifist. Been squatting out here for years,” one of the
other Knights said. The Knights who hadn’t personally faced him before chortled
and bellowed at the thought of that.
“Who ever heard of a pacifist Orc?!” One gasped. Lockwood bent down and
picked up a brick from the bundle by his side. It was a normal sized brick, but
Lark couldn’t help but notice how much smaller it seemed in his hands.
“Pacifism in orc society means
one finds pleasure in simply existing and being one with nature instead of
reveling in combat,” he explained gently, “it doesn’t mean I won’t crush your puny jaw with a brick.”
The last was said through clenched teeth, and he spat it out like a bit of bone
in his meat. Vic replied by drawing his sword and pointing it directly at
Lockwood.
“Hand over the leaf-eared cunt behind you, and maybe I’ll let you
live,” Vic snarled nasally. He had been humiliated by Lark’s smoke bomb,
but he had a brilliant plan to regain that pride. He would take the elf back,
and when the Orc handed her over he’d sneer 'I said I would let you live. Not
them.’ And he’d cackle wildly as his gang tore the Orcish scum to shreds. It
was his best plan yet, which says quite a bit for the quality of his plans
since this one was so obviously shit. However, Lockwood didn’t know about his
plan or that it hinged on the Orc in question being a complete coward; which he
wasn’t. So Lockwood instead snorted out a rough laugh at Vic’s nasally whiny
voice and cocked his head sideways.
Lockwood snorted quietly, smirking
as he looked down the length of the shiny, engraved steel blade. He reached up,
grabbed the blade in his broad hand and simply jerked it out of Vic’s.
“Ghk- GIVE THAT BACK!” Vic snarled, completely stunned by this turn of
events. Lockwood moved the sword up and
down, judging its weight. He stood
there, staring at the knight, a blank look on his face.
“Make. Me,” Lockwood hissed. Lark felt
her knees go weak again. She was very
quickly becoming enrapt with this gruff orc.
“Goddamnit, FINE!” Vic shouted, bringing up his polearm to smash into
the Orc.
For someone as big as he was, he
moved incredibly fast, Lark noted, as she was falling backwards. Before Vic had
finished shouting his orders, Lockwood had already pushed her a safe distance
back with the forearm of his arm holding the brick. He and pitched the sword
hilt-first at the second knight closest to him. The hilt connected squarely
with his unprotected neck, and the knight sputtered and collapsed off the side
of his horse. The polearm that Vic had swung at him didn’t seem to be too
terribly sharp either, she noted, because Lockwood easily grasped and stopped
the blade with one hand mid-swing and tore the weapon out of Vic’s hands.
Lark landed firmly on her rear, and
scrambled to her feet, eager to see every second of this beatdown the Knights
were owed for every passer-by they had antagonized. She marveled at the sheer
speed and muscular ability of Lockwood as he threw the brick in his hand at
another knight while swiveling the polearm around by the blade and bringing it
crashing onto the side of Vic’s helmet. The brick slammed directly into the
visor of the first Knights helmet, caving it in somewhat and sending him
reeling backwards into the ground. Vic, stunned that he had been disarmed for a
second time, had absolutely no time to reorganize for a counterattack and took
the full brunt of a solid wood handle to the side of his helmet. He gurgled
noisily and slumped off his horse into a patch of ferns on the roadside.
Lockwood, meanwhile, had grabbed
another brick, pitched it at the fourth knight, and started rushing towards the
fifth and farthest away who was likewise charging him on his horse. The brick
readily felled the fourth knight as it impacted his chest. The fifth knight
leveled his polearm, spiked point aimed squarely at Lockwood’s chest, ready to
thrust it home. But the Orc simply side-stepped the predictable attack, grabbed
the knight by his chain mail armor and tore him from his mount. He slammed the
knight to the ground, grabbed his shoulders and battered him into the earth a
couple times for good measure, causing the knight to slam his head. The knight
groaned and went limp, the effect of the concussion immediately apparent.
“Look out!” Lark shouted,
frantically motioning. Two of the Knights, Vic and the fourth one to drop, had
gotten back up and were advancing towards Lockwood, armed with a dagger and a
shortsword, respectively. Lark grabbed one of the bricks in the pile, grunting
with effort at how heavy and dense it was.
“Catch!” She yelled,
pitching it with two hands to him. Lockwood easily caught the brick one handed,
and stood up to face the threat approaching him.
“Oh, You really want to have
fun, eh?” Lockwood grunted at the fourth, smiling menacingly. His sharp
teeth and tusks were bared. A sliver of saliva dropped from his mouth. Lark
wondered if maybe he wasn’t as much of a pacifist as he claimed. The fourth
knight was still winded from the brick, and slightly dizzy. He held the sword
out in front of him with two hands. He’d seen how the Orc had seemingly
disregarded all known facts about bladed weapons and just caught them by the
dangerous bit and pulled them away, so he was understandably less confident in
how effective this sword would really be.
“Well!? Go fucking get him!” Vic screamed at the knight.
The fourth knight quickly weighed
his options: either get mauled and possibly molested by this hulking wall of
green muscle who hitherto had singlehandedly felled his cohorts with bricks, or
face the shame of fleeing from combat. He straightened up, sheathed his sword
and took off running in the direction his horse hand meandered away. Fleeing
was good, he thought, fleeing would keep him alive. He could go home, sell his
armor and become a cobbler or something. He’d always thought shoes were
interesting, and safe. Both Lockwood and Vic watched the last of his Knights
take off running, and then turned back to look at each other. Vic looked at the
big Orc, wide eyed, bloody-nosed and full of fear for what was about to happen.
“You’re out of Knights. And
I’ve still got two piles of bricks left,” Lockwood growled, lumbering
towards him with a menacing grin. Vic grit his teeth and hurled the dagger at
Lockwood’s face. He easily deflected the sad attack with his brick, and was on
top of Vic in a flash, pinning him against a tree by the collar of his armor
with one hand.
“M-mercy! Please!” Vic
pleaded. The Orc stared at him, yellow eyes burning intensely, saying nothing.
“Please! I would have let you live!”
“I very much doubt that.” Now that the fighting was over, Lark
cautiously approached the two, stopping to pick up the engraved sword that
Lockwood had taken in the first seconds of the fight.
“Ever squeeze a tomato a
little too hard?” Lockwood asked, he slowly moved his wide palm towards
Vic’s face. Vic turned his head in fear, looking away from the orcs hand, and
Lockwood pressed his palm against his head, pushing it against the tree.
“Maybe it was a little too ripe, or you squeeze just a little too hard.
But something gives and it splits. All of this thick slop just gushes out the
side.” Lockwood pressed slightly harder, and Vic began sobbing.
“Please! I promise I’ll never come back!” He cried.
“That’s what your buddy who ran off first said last time he was here and
broke my fence.”
“I swear it! I swear it on the Goddess Ayth! I will never come back!”
“But the other Knights will.”
“I’m not even a real knight I just pretend to be wuh-huh-hunnnnnn…”
Vic whimpered as Lockwood pressed his palm a little harder, “we just
bought the armor!”
“You promise to never come anywhere near this town again?” Lockwood
asked.
“Yes! Yes, I promise!”
Lockwood hesitated.
“Mmmmm… I think I’d rather squish your head,” he grumbled. Vic
yowled loudly, and then spotted Lark approaching, holding his sword by the hilt
and bouncing the flat of the blade off her shoulder as she walked.
“Please! Elf! Talk some sense into him!” He cried. Lark walked up to
Lockwood and gently put her hand on his forearm. She smiled brightly.
“Now Lockwood, I’m sure we can be reasonable about this,” she cooed
as she dragged her fingers tenderly across the orc’s forearm.
“All he really wanted was for me to do naughty things to him,” her
voice was thick and sensual, like slipping into a warm bed of the most
luxuriant satin,
“so why don’t I oblige him?”
“What?” Lockwood and Vic said, both looking at her.
Lark slammed the flat of the light
blade against Vic’s bare ass. She grunted with exertion as she did, and Vic
sobbed loudly.
“…and this is because you’re a naughty boy who thinks it’s okay to
trample my wort-reed for fun!” She shouted hoarsely.
“I’m sorry!” Vic cried.
“I didn’t here a 'Mistress’ in there, perhaps you WOULD LIKE ME TO GET THE
BELT AGAIN?” Lark roared. “No
Mistress! I’m sorry Mistress! I’m a bad boy, Mistress!” He sobbed
loudly, as his arms strained against the ropes tying him down to the fallen
log. Lark sauntered up to him and grabbed a handful of his blonde hair, tugging
his head back and whispering in his ear.
“If you want the belt so bad, you only have to ask for it. You don’t have
to stop using the rules we agreed on so I punish you…” She said, her
voice a sweet whispering lilt.
“I don’t want the belt mistress. You are a kind and benevolent person and
I promise I won’t be bad again,” Vic whimpered. Lark shoved his head and
turned away from him, slapping the flat of the blade against her palm as she
walked.
Lockwood sat on a stump by the
road, and held the shattered remains of the brick he had thrown at the second
knight. Poor fire brick, he thought, it didn’t even get to see its first loaf
of bread. He sighed and gently placed the bits of brick on top of one of his
stacks of brick. He heard the swish of a sword flying sideways through the air
and the smack of a flat surface against skin. Vic cried out again and Lark
laughed loudly.
“Come on sweetie-pie!” She cooed, “this is SO naughty! Aren’t
you enjoying this?”
“Yes mistress! I promise from now on I will respect individuals for who
they are, and not berate them for being a different gender!!!” Lockwood
pretended not to be listening.
He had gathered the fallen Knights
up and watched them as Lark had “set up” to do “naughty
things” to Vic. As each had woken up, he had explained to them that what
they had been doing was literally being highwaymen. He also explained to them
that if he he ever saw them again, they would be killed, or worse; he’d let
Lark have fun with them. Vic’s sobs and cries of “yes mistress” were
more than enough convincing for them. Except for the third knight, who seemed
strangely aroused by Lark’s dominant yells and asked if he could take his
leader’s place, or at least have a turn when Lark was done with Vic.
“…this one is for little
Gwynevere, because you threw her doll in the river!” Lark shouted,
slamming the flat of the blade against his ass again.
“Forgive me mistress! I swear on my ancestors I will never be naughty
again and I will treat others with kindness and respect!” Vic cried between
choked sobs. Lark exhaled noisily and pushed some of her hair out of her sweaty
face. She squatted in front of him and grabbed Vic by the chin, squishing his
cheeks. “You swear it?” She asked. She stared directly into his eyes,
and he felt like she was boring her way into his soul. Her narrow face held an
expression of the utmost intensity.
“Yebth Mibthress!” He said, “I pbromith I’ll be goob from now
on, Mibthress!” Lark sighed and stood, stretching gracefully as she did
so. She carefully untied the ropes holding the faux knight down and let him
shakily clamor to his feet.
“You’re a new man,” she
said, patting him firmly on the shoulder. Vic looked at her with teary eyes,
blood still under his broken nose. She smiled at him, her tan cheeks flushing
slightly, and violet eyes glinting. She gave him a friendly hug, and then
turned and swept her arm across the landscape, motioning to the winding road.
“Now go,” she said, “Go forth and show the world what kind of
man you’ve become. Show them you’re not a silly boy anymore.”
“C-can I have my clothes back?” Vic asked sheepishly. Lark snapped
the leather belt for her satchel against her palm and tilted her head, smiling
much in the same way death would smile when claiming a soul. “Hmm?”
She asked.
“Farewell, mistress,” Vic quickly replied.
He turned and staggered past
Lockwood, pausing to look at him with haggard eyes and a faraway stare.
“I’m sorry for trying to kill you. I see now the folly of my ways and that
even though we are two different races, we deserve the same quality of
life,” Vic said. Lockwood stared at him cooly, and shrugged his broad
shoulders.
“Sure, man,” Lockwood said. And with that, Vic turned on his heel and
staggered down the road. Lark came up behind Lockwood and placed her soft hands
on his shoulder.
“Interesting day, huh?” She asked.
“One hundred and twenty six,” Lockwood replied.
“What?” “One hundred and twenty six loaves of pumpernickel I had
to bake to get those fire bricks. I hate pumpernickel. It smells weird and
takes too long to bake.”
“Oh! That’s right! You’re the Orc baker that lives outside of town! I love
the flatbread you make!” She remarked. Lockwood sighed. He picked up his
stacks of bricks and stated walking down the road to his house.
“I’ll buy you a new brick,”
Lark said sweetly, following after him as he plodded along, “you did save
my life, after all." She batted her eyelids and smiled brightly at
him.
”…it’s fine. It was just one brick.“
"Well, I’m the only apothecary in town, so if you ever need any remedies,
potions or healing salves, I’m only a short trip away. I’ll even give you
a discounted rate!” She said with a wink.
“That’s good to know,” Lockwood said. He continued walking
along quietly, feet crunching on the packed dirt path. Lark tagged along
with him, walking at his side. She folded her hands together behind her
back and happily trotted along next to him, looking around at the trees, the
birds, at Lockwood, and the green grass, the soft ferns, back at Lockwood
again. She hummed a gentle, lilting tune and turned with the Orc as he
turned and walked down a cobblestone path that led off the main road.
Lark was having a hard time not
staring Lockwood. He was so unlike any other Orc she had seen.
Usually they were rugged, sure, but they generally weren’t so handsome.
Lockwood was at least a couple feet taller than her, and seemed to be brimming
with toned, sinewy muscle. Even his exposed forearms sported a clearly
defined line of the muscles within. His hands too! Oh those thick,
strong hands, how easily and deftly they had handled those bricks like weapons,
and yet had been so gentle with her when he helped her up. His skin was a
fresh, light green color accented by ruddy tints, and looked smooth and
pleasing, so unlike the rough, craggy skin of most orcs.
His face, Lark chewed softly on her
lower lip as she glanced him over, his face was truly something. An
accented but not jutting brow. A broad, angular noble-like nose.
Well defined, strong cheekbones. A prominent jaw with a thick, dashing
chin. His eyes were a lovely golden yellow, and were made all the
brighter for the dark black surrounding them. Lark giggled as she looked
him over, drinking in his handsome, robust appearance.
Lockwood sighed and and set down
his bricks, turning to look at the elf with folded arms.
“So… What? Do you want to order some bread or something?
Mary, at the bakery in town, takes all the orders for me. I just bake the
bread. I don’t usually take orders here." His voice was gruff,
and he clearly sounded agitated. Lark shrugged and shook her head.
"Nope, don’t need any bread now,” she said perkily, rocking back and
forth slightly on the balls of her feet.
“Then what?” Lockwood grumped, clearly exasperated.
“I thought you could use company while you bake!” She said
cheerfully.
“Goodbye,” Lockwood said curtly, picking up his bricks and walking
off. Lark skipped after him.
“What’re the bricks for?” She asked, disregarding his farewell.
“I’m building a new brick oven. Goodbye,” he said.
He walked between two large oak
trees and came to rough wooden gate and fence, which fenced in a decent sized
cleared yard in a densely wooded area. In the yard was a simple square
cabin, large enough for an Orc to live comfortably, with a second more robust
looking addition built into it, that Lark assumed was his bakery. The
cabin was made of planks, instead of rough logs, had a terra cotta and wood
roof, and even some windows with herbs growing in the planters on them.
It was immediately evident that time and great care had been put into this
home. Some brown chickens clucked and bobbed around in the yard, pecking
at the grass and dirt for grubs.
Lockwood opened the gate and walked
in, making sure to close it behind him. He brought the bricks up to the
house and gently set them down next to the wide bakery doors, as the chickens
flocked towards him. Lark opened the gate and followed Lockwood in.
“Ladies,” Lockwood said
to his chickens as they clucked noisily, “Louisa, Yvette, Victoria,
Franchesca, Roberta, Colette, Morgana. Good, you’re all here. Lunch
will be served presently," He pointed at each chicken with a robust
finger as he counted them out. Having ensured everyone was present, he
opened a barrel next to the house and produced a cup filled with grain.
The chickens began to cluck noisily, and Lark giggled at this display. An
Orc talking to and caring for chickens he had named individually. Nobody
would believe this unless they had met him personally.
Lockwood looked up from his birds
at her, a stern look on his face as he spread the dry grain across the ground.
"You’re still here,” he observed, “I thought it was obvious our
conversation had concluded.”
“You raise chickens?” Lark asked.
“Know a better way to get eggs?” Lockwood said grumpily. He
finished spreading seed across the ground and put the cup back into the wooden
barrel next to the house. He dusted off his hands on his apron and opened
the door to his house, gently placing the stacks of bricks inside.
“Well, it’s been a delightful day, and by delightful I of course mean
irritating. Now, I have bread to bake and I’m sure you have to be getting
back to your shop…”
“I could spend the afternoon with you.”
“So I will be seeing you later,” Lockwood said, closing the door
behind him as he went inside. Lark stood in his yard among the clucking
chickens, smiling coyly. Today, she thought, had been a very good day.
