Wank slowed his chewing, but did not stop.
Gulping down the last mouthful, the quivering of his body
slowed to a manageable palsy.
The half-orc grunted and was answered by the
susurrant echo of water. His mind began to fog, eyes
staring blankly. The echo rang in his ears and engulfed his
brain. A rivulet of pain sparked behind his left ear, crawled
like some poisonous infestation across his skull, left him
gasping and groping at memories.
68
Ping. You don’t belong here, filth!
His benumbed hands felt the haft of a dagger, one
fingertip running along the gouged and rusted blade. It
was a small knife, and fit nicely in the back pouch of his
worn canvas vest. Just as his sandals, pants, flint, rope,
skins and numerous other bits he had secreted around the
caves, the blade was stolen.
As he fingered the blade, flush with want, he
watched his broodmates get acquainted with the worg
pens. Not training, as such. Too young still, but a trained
familiarity that would lead to riding one of the great beasts
some time down the road. But not for Wank.
As he stood gazing, daydreaming, an orc warrior
walked past, took notice, and stopped.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
Wank’s gaze left the pens and settled on the
warrior. The half-orcling’s eyes squinted, a gleam of
defiance in them. Idly fingering his blade still, too slowly