Serves me right, he thought, knowing his guilt had
already been established. He would have no voice in these
proceedings.
As the warriors babbled on, Wank thought back
on that day. It was still fresh in his mind though a full
phase of the moon had probably since passed. He had
emerged from the lower caverns to visit his mother. As it
turned out, she was not on the matted straw of her alcove.
A rare occurrence, though Rahsik occasionally liked to
parade her around by rope, chain or hair to remind
everyone of his past glories.
Wank had stood for a moment looking into the
place. An old wooden chest, lid open and pelts heaped
carelessly inside, sat next to a large straw bed. Weapons,
mostly crude clubs and dull spears, hung on the opposite
wall next to slabs of dried meat. A solitary stone chair sat
draped in dark, furry pelts where it had been dragged near
the fire.
But for the peculiar musk that triggered Wank’s
hackles, it could have been any orc chieftain’s lair. But that
lingering odor, which suffused the chieftain’s cavern and
spilled out in ragged gasps to invade the passageway with
every slight stirring of air, was an unmistakable stench to
the half-orc.
It was no worse nor better than any orc’s cave. But
the particular pungency that clung to this cavern whispered
memories to Wank, spoke of abuse, shouted scenes of
pain into his brain, assaulted him with ignorant intent in its
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