singular mix of orc sweat, human flesh, dried meat, gruel
and old hides. There was nothing of it that did not conjure
up some reluctant memory.
Wank padded away from the ingrained memories
and caught a comforting whiff of his own grunk. He had
decided to visit the worg pens, as rumor had it that there
was a new batch of steeds being trained.
Faint blue glimmers dotted the dark length of the
passageway marking entrances to inhabited caverns.
Otherwise, the caves below the Sotu Mountains, called
OrcHome, were dark. Susurrant whispers floated in and
out of range signaling distant conversations or the soft
footfalls of passing warriors. A lone orc strode by, so
Wank continued on his way. The warrior ignored Wank, as
if he was not there. Most would rather not chance being
defeated in combat by the “half-orc-who-was-mostly-
human.” Though not full grown, Wank outsized all but the
largest orcs.
A far-off conversation crawled like scuttling
vermin along the cavern ceiling. It was interrupted by the
aggressive footfalls of a group of orcs. This time Wank
judiciously removed himself from their path.
Once at the pens, he crept noiselessly into the
cavern and settled carefully into a dark niche opposite
them. Eventually, several orc warriors entered and
prepared for training. He watched enviously as the
warriors trained their potential steeds — pony-sized gray
wolves — snapping whips, fitting them with crude halters,
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