This is the first chapter of the novel I've been writing. I hope to eventually get it published and I would like to think what fellow writers thought of it. After all this is supposed to grip the audience and reel them in, and I hope I have put in enough questions for the audience to ponder.
Don't be afraid to criticise, in fact the more the better
Chapter I – Blacksmiths Apprentice
Sweat dripped down his face as he worked the metal with his hammer. Every strike of the hammer brought the head of his halberd closer to completion, and brought more sweat from his body. Still Karros continued his work, completely oblivious to his perspiration dripping down his bare chest and soaking his blacksmiths trousers. He had worked at the blacksmiths for most of his life, his back constantly heated by the roaring fires of the forge behind him, so he tended not to notice anymore.
He hadn’t lived such a long time however, an orc can live for roughly one hundred and twenty planet cycles, and he had barely just had his sixteenth cycle but a fortnight ago. Still he was a strong orc, his shoulders wide and thick, his arms like tree-trunks, both reverberating as he brought the hammer down again and again, filling the room with the sounds of ringing metal.
Karros took a quick moment to wipe the sweat off his forehead, and scowled at the sight of his own skin. Orcs are typically green skinned, with some being blue or brown, but his skin was none of those colours. A dark red skinned orc stared back at him whenever he looked in the mirror; he was a major oddity amongst his people.
Only the most temperate and compassionate orcs didn’t shun him or outright insult him, and from what he could gather his red skin was an inherited trait. His supposed ancestors had lived inside Mount Draugnor, a rather volatile volcano, and they mainly lived off of the vegetation that grew at its base. That was the explanation he had been given many times before and yet it had never sat right with him.
Karros shook his head, and decided to drown out such depressing thoughts with the continuous ring of clashing metal and the heat of flying sparks. That sound ricocheting off the stone walls was his music, serene yet sharp. Within his forge his destiny was his own, the metal in his hands his to forge as he saw fit. There were no accusatory glances or hurled insults in his forge, only him and the metal.
The piece was nearly completed; he had made the shaft a while ago, but kept putting off completing the head of the weapon. This weapon was for him and him alone, but there was a condition to its completion. The crafting of the halberd was supposed to be his final test as an apprentice blacksmith, and a youth. Once the halberd was complete he would have to take part in the rite of passage.
He became apprehensive at the thought. He had trained well, and was very proficient with the halberd, his weapon of choice but there was something in the back of his mind. It might have been the taunting insults of the other orcish youths eroding his self-confidence, but he had heard stories of child prodigies going on the rite and never coming back out, even entire groups of youths that never returned. Such had happened to the last three groups that had undertaken the rite, none had returned.
Now lost in his train of thought, the hammer strikes were just an automatic thing, like when you travel to a place you have been numerous times before and you don’t have to think, your legs simply take you. Karros has gone over the plans for his halberd many times in his head, and struck with the correct precision and pressure, even though he was no longer focusing on his work.
Before he knew it, the halberd was complete, and the familiar hiss and steam came to greet him as he plunged the red hot metal into the barrel of water. The piece was now complete, and Karros looked upon his work with pride. The steel weapon gleamed brightly and he could even see the forges flames dancing in the heads reflection. It was a rather simple design, deadly sharp curving axe blade on one side, a small round flat surface on the other to be used as a hammer, and a spear point on the top. He had also left an insignia on the weapon, like every true blacksmith does, so people would know that it was one of his weapons. It was a small jagged line, which rose up as a triangle in the centre. This is what the cartographers used to depict mountains on a map so he thought it was fitting.
Fastening the head to the shaft was a quick and simple process; the pieces had been crafted with perfect accuracy and slotted together perfectly. He held the completed weapon in both hands, testing it in a fighting stance. It was perfectly balanced and weighted. As a blacksmith he felt that having to add an external weight to your weapon once it was completed, meant you’d failed to forge it correctly, and that is something Karros would not accept.
He noticed the axe blade was a little blunt, so he got on the grindstone and began sharpening it. The noise of the metal grinding on the spinning stone drowned out the sound of the door opening behind him. The orc who entered was getting on in cycles, the grey hairs were beginning to poke through the black ones in his shaggy mane of hair, his blacksmiths clothes worn and ripped. Well they were about as old as the orc himself.
The newcomer stood there silently, watching as his apprentice diligently applied the finishing touches to his work. Karros pulled the weapon off the grindstone and ran his finger down the blade. It seemed sharp, but there was only way to test for sure. He grabbed the piece of flawed plate armour in the corner. They were never going to sell it so they tested the weapons on it, as was evident by the numerous holes punched through the armour by everything from axes to war-hammers. Karros placed the armour on the table, found a section that was decently intact, and brought his weapon crashing down on it. He went straight through both sides of the armour and even the table, with about as much resistance as an arrow through the air.
He was satisfied with the weapon, and whilst he marvelled at it his brain took a few seconds to realize somebody was clapping behind him. He turned to see his pasha standing in the doorway, a huge grin on his face. His short and stocky, but well-built green skinned pasha.
“Congratulations my boy” his pasha exclaimed in his deep weighty voice, holding his hands out wide so he could take the weapon as Karros handed it to him. The old orc balanced the weapon in his hands for a second “this is an excellent weapon, worthy of a journeyman blacksmith.”
Karros couldn’t hide his smile when the words of praise reached his ears and they likely would have turned red had they not already been. His Pasha was typically a blunt man, and held back compliments in favour of constructive criticism. In fact Karros knew that the use of the word journeyman was a minor criticism, meaning that it wasn’t quite a masterpiece of craftsmanship. The old orc was a perfectionist on every piece of work. This mentality in his work felt strange to Karros, because his pasha was not a specialist blacksmith, who made special works for specific clients. He was an army blacksmith, making arms and armaments for the constantly growing army. Neither did he forge magic weapons, not that he couldn’t but he was superstitious about magic and went out of his way to avoid it.
“Thank you pasha” Karros replied, putting a fist to his chest (which in orcish culture is the equivalent mark of respect to a human bow).
“Don’t call me that anymore, the name’s Gordal and you’d better get used to that because once you’ve finished the rite it will be seen as a sign of weakness to call me Pasha.”
Karros gulped at the comment; this was it. He would be performing the rite of passage starting tomorrow. Was he really ready though? He feared that he would die in those dark passages, so deep in the earth that nobody can hear you scream.
Gordal placed a hand on his shoulder, and handed him back the halberd with the other. “I’ve raised you for the past ten-cycles and taught you all you need to know. Don’t look like such a coward; I would not put you forward for the rite if I did not believe you were ready.” He looked around at the room, the smaller forge which he had built specifically for Karros “Besides I need you to help me fill these constantly appearing orders, and you know how mad I’d get if you died and left me with this mess.” The two orcs chuckled at the statement, a picturesque view of the ideal father son bond, although they were not bound by blood.
Very few orcs are raised by their blood parents. Unlike humans and elves who are defenceless and useless for the first few years of their lives, orcs are instantly aware and able to survive from the moment of birth. They have to prove themselves worthy by surviving on their own until they are taken in by a pasha. It is another reason why Karros doubts the story he is told about his skin. He has never seen another red skinned orc in his entire life.
Gordal turned to leave, still chuckling away “Shall I help you with that battle axe shipment for the rest of the day?” Karros asked. The rite of passage always starts at the break of dawn, so he had until tomorrow.
Gordal put his arm around his wards shoulder. “I can never make armaments for Ungol fast enough, so we’ll take a break.” He smiled and led Karros out of the forge to the store front “No sense in an old orc working himself to death, soon I’ll have you to do that for me.”
“So I take on all the work whilst you do what exactly?” Karros said through his hearty chuckle, putting his arm around his pasha’s shoulders.
“My boy, when you get older you simply lament the choices you’ve made, and wish you had done things differently. “ Gordal said light heartedly, not believing what he was saying, but Karros had always admired his Pasha’s carefree attitude.
They entered the storefront, a simple grey room much like the Karros’s forge. There was a counter with a coffer wedged inside where Gordal would make small transactions for individuals. It contained a large tiger skin rug in the centre, ornately crafted torch brackets on the walls, and display models of different armours and weapons on multiple wooden mannequins dotted around the room.
The doorway behind the counter led down to the storeroom which Karros could imagine was filled with numerous weapons and suits of armour, all generic with no detail other than the sigil of the blood crazed boar. The sigil of Warlord Ungol, warlord of the orcs. Delegates from the army would likely come soon to check on the stores and take what they need. They usually berate the old orc for not having enough, but he just smiles and laughs off their tactless remarks until they leave with the stock, leaving goods in its place. Orcs don’t rely on gold coins like the humans do, they believe in the value of trade, so everything is traded for something else. An orcs wealth comes from what he has to trade, not the small pieces of metal in his pocket.
A bit beyond that was the doorway to the main forge. At least three times bigger than Karros’s forge, (with that times the amount of forges as well) Gordal works in there with his other two wards. Both younger than Karros, they have not quite gained the skills to be able to work at their own forge. Karros could hear the muffled sounds of hammer on anvil.
“Should you really leave those two alone pas- Gordal?” He inquired, careful not to use the term pasha anymore. He knew that Gordal’s other wards were hard at work, but Karros felt no kinship with them. They were born green skinned, and although in their youths they found Karros intriguing and special, as they grew their minds became poisoned by popular opinion, and now they too shun Karros for his unusual skin. They don’t say anything whilst Gordal is around, because their pasha will beat them for it (as he did the first time, and they were so scared they never did it again), but whenever the smith left on business, the abuse came in constant waves.
“They should be fine. They are not stupid, just ignorant.” Gordal replied, turning Karros towards the metal pole with studs either side at the other end of the shop.
“Are they not the same thing?” Karros asked as he placed his hands and feet on different studs. Karros had learned that these ladders that orcs use to traverse levels of a building are unique only to their culture. In human, Elvish and Garamjian culture they use things called ‘stairs’ apparently slight elevations in the ground, that takes one up higher and higher simply by walking. It is supposed to be simpler, but orcs abhor simplicity.
“No Karros. I like to think of stupidity as the inability to learn or think in different ways. Ignorance is to refuse to learn or think in different ways.” Gordal reflected seriously, and though Karros heard the message, he was focusing on climbing the ladder, and did not absorb the wisdom he was given.
He reached the top and pulled himself up. Although Gordal took longer to ascend, Karros did not lend him aid, because to accept Gordal would have to admit that he could not accomplish the task independently, something no orc would admit until he was dead.
The upper level was only small, about a third of the shop floor below, but it felt larger. The floor was patterned wood and not cold hard stone, and there was a wooden railing which one could lean over and see both the counter, and the metal door that led from the shop.
It was so Gordal could watch on high any who entered his shop, or who might take what was not rightfully theirs. Due to the strictness of orcish law and culture, thieves are an exceptionally rare occurrence, mostly due to the fact that such a thought would never enter an orcs mind. Two robberies within a decade would be an outrageous amount.
The rest of this floor consisted of a bed, within which Gordal slept, a hearth built into the wall where he cooked his meals, a couple of counters where he would store dried meat and other food stuffs, and a table in the centre with four wooden chairs. Karros had been up here many a time, but compared to the rest of the shop, and the entire orcish city in general, this small room really felt like a home to him.
On the hearth at the moment was a small clay pot that was steaming from the spout. Gordal gestured for Karros to sit, whilst he gingerly took the pot off the hearth. Karros sat at the place he had always sat at, the seat with its back to the railing. Gordal placed the steaming pot in the centre, quickly searched in one of the counters, pulled out two plain clay cups, and sat down at the table placing one cup for him and one for Karros.
Karros eyed the pot strangely as his pasha poured an unusual brown liquid into Karros’s cup, then proceeded to do so with his own. Even without leaning forward, the strong earthy smell filled Karros’s senses, the aroma relaxing him without his noticing.
“What is this?” Karros asked dumbfounded, still basking in the fragrance of the liquid. Gordal placed the pot back in the centre of the table, and took his seat.
“This is called tea Karros. You must have heard of it?” Gordal asked, picking up his own steaming cup and blowing on it. Karros had heard of tea, the strange leaves that could be ground into a drink like no other, grown exclusively by the Garamjians.
“I have just never had it before.” Karros says dreamily, allowing the alluring scent and unusual colouring drain his focus. He shook his head and sat up straight, jarring himself back into reality. “Why do you blow on it?”
“It is too hot when straight out the pot, and I do not like the thought of burning my mouth when there is so much joy in tasting exotic items such as this.” Gordal replied, blowing again on his cup, before taking the tiniest sip and putting it back down.
Karros considered showing his pasha that he could take the heat, but remembered caution. Even such a thing as burning his mouth could cause the red mist to rise. So he followed Gordals example and blew on it a few times before taking a sip.
Even with that added caution the mixture still burned his mouth when it touched his lips, like an incredibly hard pinch from an unruly child. He flung the cup in rage which flew past his Pasha’s head, and smashed above the hearth. Gordal did not attempt to dodge the cup, and sat calmly drinking his tea as Karros battled his inner demons.
He could feel the red mist creeping in from the sides of his head. He was so intent on staying calm and remembering who he was that he didn’t realize he was roaring out loud. He forced his eyes open and focused on Gordal. When he was younger he tried to quell the mist by shutting his eyes, but Gordal taught him to focus on something that was familiar and friendly. The sight of his Pasha’s calm gaze, and unflinching resolve allowed Karros to see Gordal as his longest known friend, and not a moving target to be destroyed.
The red mist subsided and Karros relaxed in his seat, glad to be in control of his senses.
“Well done.” He heard Gordal speak from across the table. “Though I didn’t think a burn on your lips would trigger the monster. He must be more sensitive than we thought.”
Karros looked at the pot on the centre of the table, and the brown stain above the hearth. Ashamed that the red mist could be summoned with such ease, he took his natural anger out on the only thing that made sense. The pot that had produced the malevolent drink. He grabbed the pot and launched it over the balcony, where it crashed to the ground with a sharp painful sound.
“Very mature Karros. The pot is an inanimate object, what was the purpose of its destruction other than to annoy me?” Gordal sternly spoke over his cup.
Karros was too angry to care what his Pasha thought of him at the moment. “You gave me that drink to see if it would make me rage?! What do you take me for a newborn?!” He shouted at his pasha, feeling foolish for walking into such a trick.
Gordal was usually a calm man, but he would not take blatant disrespect from someone much younger than he. The older orc stood rapidly, his chair clattering to the floor, and he smashed his free fist on the table, causing it to wobble violently. “I gave it you as a reward; it’s not my fault that almost the slightest bit of pain causes a desire in you to kill all who are around. You are just like a human child; when they hurt themselves they cry and bawl until they are given what they want! Is that all you can be compared to Karros?!” Gordal waited for an answer that wasn’t forthcoming.
The shock of Gordal enraged instantly quelled Karros’ own re-increasing anger, and he realized that he was trying to find a wrong doing against him when there had been none. It had just been a series of unfortunate events.
Karros looked down in shame. He had lashed out at Gordal before, but not in years. He now asked the question that Gordal was surely asking himself as well Am I truly ready for the Rite of Passage?
Gordal repositioned his chair and sat back down, taking another sip of his tea. He did all of this without taking his eyes off of Karros.
“This ‘red mist’ as you call it is nothing more than rage, a simple emotion to understand, but hard to control even for many mature orcs.” Gordal began. Karros had heard this lecture many times before, but despite his seemingly infinite wisdom, his pasha did not understand. The red mist was alive; it was a conscious form that tried to grip his thoughts whenever his barriers were weakened by rage. Explaining this to Gordal had been futile, and so he just retook his seat and acted as though he was listening.
“I have watched you grow from a foolish youth into an intelligent, strong and most of all kind orc. As long as you keep that temper in check, you will go far in the world Karros. Do not doubt you are ready for the rite, you have all you need and more importantly, all that I can give you.” His pasha had always been able to read Karros’ emotions, and just hearing those words put him more at ease.
“My regrets Gordal, I shall replace the pot when I go for supplies out of my own wares.” He apologised to his pasha, but orcs did not ‘apologize’ for that would admit a wrong doing, which no orc would admit to anybody except themselves.
“Bah don’t fret over it, I have another. You will however clean the mess it has made.”
“Yes Gordal.” His pasha smiled
“You’ve already stopped trying to call me pasha. Well done.” Then there was something. Something that Karros had never seen before, something that chilled him to the core. Gordal was smiling it was true, but it felt sad, especially when Gordal broke eye contact with him. Karros thought it best to change the subject.
“I can’t wait to start my own smithy and show the world all that can be learned from Gordal, greatest smith in Korargr.” He laughed jovially, and Gordal laughed too, but it was forced. Just as Gordal had a sixth sense about how Karros felt, usually it worked the other way as well. It worried Karros that he couldn’t tell what was going through his pasha’s mind, but if he had to say Karros would guess he was ashamed about something...
A slight rasp on the door below grabbed Gordal’s attention, and hurriedly he went over to the balcony.
“Kendred!” He roared, and in but a moment the next eldest of his wards appeared from the forge, all greasy and sweaty and looking slightly burnt.
“Yes pasha!” He called back, standing straight like addressing a commanding officer. This was how all wards addressed their pasha’s, unless they wanted a grand flogging, something that warm hearted Gordal was not afraid of.
“We have an orc who cannot read the closed sign.” As he spoke the rasp came again, a little harder this time. “Get rid of him.”
“Yes pasha!” Kendred smacked a fist to his chest in respect and went to carry out the command. Karros had remained sitting, not wishing to look upon Kendred’s accusing stare, but now joined his pasha, who was gripping the rail tighter than expected.
“Gordal are you unwell? Or is it weight on your mind? If so unburden yourself on trusted ward.” He said carefully, not trying to make it seem as though Gordal couldn’t handle whatever it was on his own.
Gordal looked at him, and Karros was certain he could see tears building up, something he had never seen from him before. Gordal cleared his throat, as though about to confess something.
“Pasha!” Kendred called from below. “Our visitor demands to converse with Karros!”
“Who is it?” Gordal called back glad for the distraction that allowed him to break eye contact with his ward. Karros too was distracted as a lump grew in his throat that was hard to swallow. There was only one person who would ‘demand’ to converse with him. It would have been inevitable to avoid him for much longer, but he hadn’t come in months. He was the last orc that Karros wanted to see, hear or smell and maybe, just maybe it wasn’t him.
“Morokai, Ungol’s chief shaman pasha!” Of course it was him.
Don't be afraid to criticise, in fact the more the better
Chapter I – Blacksmiths Apprentice
Sweat dripped down his face as he worked the metal with his hammer. Every strike of the hammer brought the head of his halberd closer to completion, and brought more sweat from his body. Still Karros continued his work, completely oblivious to his perspiration dripping down his bare chest and soaking his blacksmiths trousers. He had worked at the blacksmiths for most of his life, his back constantly heated by the roaring fires of the forge behind him, so he tended not to notice anymore.
He hadn’t lived such a long time however, an orc can live for roughly one hundred and twenty planet cycles, and he had barely just had his sixteenth cycle but a fortnight ago. Still he was a strong orc, his shoulders wide and thick, his arms like tree-trunks, both reverberating as he brought the hammer down again and again, filling the room with the sounds of ringing metal.
Karros took a quick moment to wipe the sweat off his forehead, and scowled at the sight of his own skin. Orcs are typically green skinned, with some being blue or brown, but his skin was none of those colours. A dark red skinned orc stared back at him whenever he looked in the mirror; he was a major oddity amongst his people.
Only the most temperate and compassionate orcs didn’t shun him or outright insult him, and from what he could gather his red skin was an inherited trait. His supposed ancestors had lived inside Mount Draugnor, a rather volatile volcano, and they mainly lived off of the vegetation that grew at its base. That was the explanation he had been given many times before and yet it had never sat right with him.
Karros shook his head, and decided to drown out such depressing thoughts with the continuous ring of clashing metal and the heat of flying sparks. That sound ricocheting off the stone walls was his music, serene yet sharp. Within his forge his destiny was his own, the metal in his hands his to forge as he saw fit. There were no accusatory glances or hurled insults in his forge, only him and the metal.
The piece was nearly completed; he had made the shaft a while ago, but kept putting off completing the head of the weapon. This weapon was for him and him alone, but there was a condition to its completion. The crafting of the halberd was supposed to be his final test as an apprentice blacksmith, and a youth. Once the halberd was complete he would have to take part in the rite of passage.
He became apprehensive at the thought. He had trained well, and was very proficient with the halberd, his weapon of choice but there was something in the back of his mind. It might have been the taunting insults of the other orcish youths eroding his self-confidence, but he had heard stories of child prodigies going on the rite and never coming back out, even entire groups of youths that never returned. Such had happened to the last three groups that had undertaken the rite, none had returned.
Now lost in his train of thought, the hammer strikes were just an automatic thing, like when you travel to a place you have been numerous times before and you don’t have to think, your legs simply take you. Karros has gone over the plans for his halberd many times in his head, and struck with the correct precision and pressure, even though he was no longer focusing on his work.
Before he knew it, the halberd was complete, and the familiar hiss and steam came to greet him as he plunged the red hot metal into the barrel of water. The piece was now complete, and Karros looked upon his work with pride. The steel weapon gleamed brightly and he could even see the forges flames dancing in the heads reflection. It was a rather simple design, deadly sharp curving axe blade on one side, a small round flat surface on the other to be used as a hammer, and a spear point on the top. He had also left an insignia on the weapon, like every true blacksmith does, so people would know that it was one of his weapons. It was a small jagged line, which rose up as a triangle in the centre. This is what the cartographers used to depict mountains on a map so he thought it was fitting.
Fastening the head to the shaft was a quick and simple process; the pieces had been crafted with perfect accuracy and slotted together perfectly. He held the completed weapon in both hands, testing it in a fighting stance. It was perfectly balanced and weighted. As a blacksmith he felt that having to add an external weight to your weapon once it was completed, meant you’d failed to forge it correctly, and that is something Karros would not accept.
He noticed the axe blade was a little blunt, so he got on the grindstone and began sharpening it. The noise of the metal grinding on the spinning stone drowned out the sound of the door opening behind him. The orc who entered was getting on in cycles, the grey hairs were beginning to poke through the black ones in his shaggy mane of hair, his blacksmiths clothes worn and ripped. Well they were about as old as the orc himself.
The newcomer stood there silently, watching as his apprentice diligently applied the finishing touches to his work. Karros pulled the weapon off the grindstone and ran his finger down the blade. It seemed sharp, but there was only way to test for sure. He grabbed the piece of flawed plate armour in the corner. They were never going to sell it so they tested the weapons on it, as was evident by the numerous holes punched through the armour by everything from axes to war-hammers. Karros placed the armour on the table, found a section that was decently intact, and brought his weapon crashing down on it. He went straight through both sides of the armour and even the table, with about as much resistance as an arrow through the air.
He was satisfied with the weapon, and whilst he marvelled at it his brain took a few seconds to realize somebody was clapping behind him. He turned to see his pasha standing in the doorway, a huge grin on his face. His short and stocky, but well-built green skinned pasha.
“Congratulations my boy” his pasha exclaimed in his deep weighty voice, holding his hands out wide so he could take the weapon as Karros handed it to him. The old orc balanced the weapon in his hands for a second “this is an excellent weapon, worthy of a journeyman blacksmith.”
Karros couldn’t hide his smile when the words of praise reached his ears and they likely would have turned red had they not already been. His Pasha was typically a blunt man, and held back compliments in favour of constructive criticism. In fact Karros knew that the use of the word journeyman was a minor criticism, meaning that it wasn’t quite a masterpiece of craftsmanship. The old orc was a perfectionist on every piece of work. This mentality in his work felt strange to Karros, because his pasha was not a specialist blacksmith, who made special works for specific clients. He was an army blacksmith, making arms and armaments for the constantly growing army. Neither did he forge magic weapons, not that he couldn’t but he was superstitious about magic and went out of his way to avoid it.
“Thank you pasha” Karros replied, putting a fist to his chest (which in orcish culture is the equivalent mark of respect to a human bow).
“Don’t call me that anymore, the name’s Gordal and you’d better get used to that because once you’ve finished the rite it will be seen as a sign of weakness to call me Pasha.”
Karros gulped at the comment; this was it. He would be performing the rite of passage starting tomorrow. Was he really ready though? He feared that he would die in those dark passages, so deep in the earth that nobody can hear you scream.
Gordal placed a hand on his shoulder, and handed him back the halberd with the other. “I’ve raised you for the past ten-cycles and taught you all you need to know. Don’t look like such a coward; I would not put you forward for the rite if I did not believe you were ready.” He looked around at the room, the smaller forge which he had built specifically for Karros “Besides I need you to help me fill these constantly appearing orders, and you know how mad I’d get if you died and left me with this mess.” The two orcs chuckled at the statement, a picturesque view of the ideal father son bond, although they were not bound by blood.
Very few orcs are raised by their blood parents. Unlike humans and elves who are defenceless and useless for the first few years of their lives, orcs are instantly aware and able to survive from the moment of birth. They have to prove themselves worthy by surviving on their own until they are taken in by a pasha. It is another reason why Karros doubts the story he is told about his skin. He has never seen another red skinned orc in his entire life.
Gordal turned to leave, still chuckling away “Shall I help you with that battle axe shipment for the rest of the day?” Karros asked. The rite of passage always starts at the break of dawn, so he had until tomorrow.
Gordal put his arm around his wards shoulder. “I can never make armaments for Ungol fast enough, so we’ll take a break.” He smiled and led Karros out of the forge to the store front “No sense in an old orc working himself to death, soon I’ll have you to do that for me.”
“So I take on all the work whilst you do what exactly?” Karros said through his hearty chuckle, putting his arm around his pasha’s shoulders.
“My boy, when you get older you simply lament the choices you’ve made, and wish you had done things differently. “ Gordal said light heartedly, not believing what he was saying, but Karros had always admired his Pasha’s carefree attitude.
They entered the storefront, a simple grey room much like the Karros’s forge. There was a counter with a coffer wedged inside where Gordal would make small transactions for individuals. It contained a large tiger skin rug in the centre, ornately crafted torch brackets on the walls, and display models of different armours and weapons on multiple wooden mannequins dotted around the room.
The doorway behind the counter led down to the storeroom which Karros could imagine was filled with numerous weapons and suits of armour, all generic with no detail other than the sigil of the blood crazed boar. The sigil of Warlord Ungol, warlord of the orcs. Delegates from the army would likely come soon to check on the stores and take what they need. They usually berate the old orc for not having enough, but he just smiles and laughs off their tactless remarks until they leave with the stock, leaving goods in its place. Orcs don’t rely on gold coins like the humans do, they believe in the value of trade, so everything is traded for something else. An orcs wealth comes from what he has to trade, not the small pieces of metal in his pocket.
A bit beyond that was the doorway to the main forge. At least three times bigger than Karros’s forge, (with that times the amount of forges as well) Gordal works in there with his other two wards. Both younger than Karros, they have not quite gained the skills to be able to work at their own forge. Karros could hear the muffled sounds of hammer on anvil.
“Should you really leave those two alone pas- Gordal?” He inquired, careful not to use the term pasha anymore. He knew that Gordal’s other wards were hard at work, but Karros felt no kinship with them. They were born green skinned, and although in their youths they found Karros intriguing and special, as they grew their minds became poisoned by popular opinion, and now they too shun Karros for his unusual skin. They don’t say anything whilst Gordal is around, because their pasha will beat them for it (as he did the first time, and they were so scared they never did it again), but whenever the smith left on business, the abuse came in constant waves.
“They should be fine. They are not stupid, just ignorant.” Gordal replied, turning Karros towards the metal pole with studs either side at the other end of the shop.
“Are they not the same thing?” Karros asked as he placed his hands and feet on different studs. Karros had learned that these ladders that orcs use to traverse levels of a building are unique only to their culture. In human, Elvish and Garamjian culture they use things called ‘stairs’ apparently slight elevations in the ground, that takes one up higher and higher simply by walking. It is supposed to be simpler, but orcs abhor simplicity.
“No Karros. I like to think of stupidity as the inability to learn or think in different ways. Ignorance is to refuse to learn or think in different ways.” Gordal reflected seriously, and though Karros heard the message, he was focusing on climbing the ladder, and did not absorb the wisdom he was given.
He reached the top and pulled himself up. Although Gordal took longer to ascend, Karros did not lend him aid, because to accept Gordal would have to admit that he could not accomplish the task independently, something no orc would admit until he was dead.
The upper level was only small, about a third of the shop floor below, but it felt larger. The floor was patterned wood and not cold hard stone, and there was a wooden railing which one could lean over and see both the counter, and the metal door that led from the shop.
It was so Gordal could watch on high any who entered his shop, or who might take what was not rightfully theirs. Due to the strictness of orcish law and culture, thieves are an exceptionally rare occurrence, mostly due to the fact that such a thought would never enter an orcs mind. Two robberies within a decade would be an outrageous amount.
The rest of this floor consisted of a bed, within which Gordal slept, a hearth built into the wall where he cooked his meals, a couple of counters where he would store dried meat and other food stuffs, and a table in the centre with four wooden chairs. Karros had been up here many a time, but compared to the rest of the shop, and the entire orcish city in general, this small room really felt like a home to him.
On the hearth at the moment was a small clay pot that was steaming from the spout. Gordal gestured for Karros to sit, whilst he gingerly took the pot off the hearth. Karros sat at the place he had always sat at, the seat with its back to the railing. Gordal placed the steaming pot in the centre, quickly searched in one of the counters, pulled out two plain clay cups, and sat down at the table placing one cup for him and one for Karros.
Karros eyed the pot strangely as his pasha poured an unusual brown liquid into Karros’s cup, then proceeded to do so with his own. Even without leaning forward, the strong earthy smell filled Karros’s senses, the aroma relaxing him without his noticing.
“What is this?” Karros asked dumbfounded, still basking in the fragrance of the liquid. Gordal placed the pot back in the centre of the table, and took his seat.
“This is called tea Karros. You must have heard of it?” Gordal asked, picking up his own steaming cup and blowing on it. Karros had heard of tea, the strange leaves that could be ground into a drink like no other, grown exclusively by the Garamjians.
“I have just never had it before.” Karros says dreamily, allowing the alluring scent and unusual colouring drain his focus. He shook his head and sat up straight, jarring himself back into reality. “Why do you blow on it?”
“It is too hot when straight out the pot, and I do not like the thought of burning my mouth when there is so much joy in tasting exotic items such as this.” Gordal replied, blowing again on his cup, before taking the tiniest sip and putting it back down.
Karros considered showing his pasha that he could take the heat, but remembered caution. Even such a thing as burning his mouth could cause the red mist to rise. So he followed Gordals example and blew on it a few times before taking a sip.
Even with that added caution the mixture still burned his mouth when it touched his lips, like an incredibly hard pinch from an unruly child. He flung the cup in rage which flew past his Pasha’s head, and smashed above the hearth. Gordal did not attempt to dodge the cup, and sat calmly drinking his tea as Karros battled his inner demons.
He could feel the red mist creeping in from the sides of his head. He was so intent on staying calm and remembering who he was that he didn’t realize he was roaring out loud. He forced his eyes open and focused on Gordal. When he was younger he tried to quell the mist by shutting his eyes, but Gordal taught him to focus on something that was familiar and friendly. The sight of his Pasha’s calm gaze, and unflinching resolve allowed Karros to see Gordal as his longest known friend, and not a moving target to be destroyed.
The red mist subsided and Karros relaxed in his seat, glad to be in control of his senses.
“Well done.” He heard Gordal speak from across the table. “Though I didn’t think a burn on your lips would trigger the monster. He must be more sensitive than we thought.”
Karros looked at the pot on the centre of the table, and the brown stain above the hearth. Ashamed that the red mist could be summoned with such ease, he took his natural anger out on the only thing that made sense. The pot that had produced the malevolent drink. He grabbed the pot and launched it over the balcony, where it crashed to the ground with a sharp painful sound.
“Very mature Karros. The pot is an inanimate object, what was the purpose of its destruction other than to annoy me?” Gordal sternly spoke over his cup.
Karros was too angry to care what his Pasha thought of him at the moment. “You gave me that drink to see if it would make me rage?! What do you take me for a newborn?!” He shouted at his pasha, feeling foolish for walking into such a trick.
Gordal was usually a calm man, but he would not take blatant disrespect from someone much younger than he. The older orc stood rapidly, his chair clattering to the floor, and he smashed his free fist on the table, causing it to wobble violently. “I gave it you as a reward; it’s not my fault that almost the slightest bit of pain causes a desire in you to kill all who are around. You are just like a human child; when they hurt themselves they cry and bawl until they are given what they want! Is that all you can be compared to Karros?!” Gordal waited for an answer that wasn’t forthcoming.
The shock of Gordal enraged instantly quelled Karros’ own re-increasing anger, and he realized that he was trying to find a wrong doing against him when there had been none. It had just been a series of unfortunate events.
Karros looked down in shame. He had lashed out at Gordal before, but not in years. He now asked the question that Gordal was surely asking himself as well Am I truly ready for the Rite of Passage?
Gordal repositioned his chair and sat back down, taking another sip of his tea. He did all of this without taking his eyes off of Karros.
“This ‘red mist’ as you call it is nothing more than rage, a simple emotion to understand, but hard to control even for many mature orcs.” Gordal began. Karros had heard this lecture many times before, but despite his seemingly infinite wisdom, his pasha did not understand. The red mist was alive; it was a conscious form that tried to grip his thoughts whenever his barriers were weakened by rage. Explaining this to Gordal had been futile, and so he just retook his seat and acted as though he was listening.
“I have watched you grow from a foolish youth into an intelligent, strong and most of all kind orc. As long as you keep that temper in check, you will go far in the world Karros. Do not doubt you are ready for the rite, you have all you need and more importantly, all that I can give you.” His pasha had always been able to read Karros’ emotions, and just hearing those words put him more at ease.
“My regrets Gordal, I shall replace the pot when I go for supplies out of my own wares.” He apologised to his pasha, but orcs did not ‘apologize’ for that would admit a wrong doing, which no orc would admit to anybody except themselves.
“Bah don’t fret over it, I have another. You will however clean the mess it has made.”
“Yes Gordal.” His pasha smiled
“You’ve already stopped trying to call me pasha. Well done.” Then there was something. Something that Karros had never seen before, something that chilled him to the core. Gordal was smiling it was true, but it felt sad, especially when Gordal broke eye contact with him. Karros thought it best to change the subject.
“I can’t wait to start my own smithy and show the world all that can be learned from Gordal, greatest smith in Korargr.” He laughed jovially, and Gordal laughed too, but it was forced. Just as Gordal had a sixth sense about how Karros felt, usually it worked the other way as well. It worried Karros that he couldn’t tell what was going through his pasha’s mind, but if he had to say Karros would guess he was ashamed about something...
A slight rasp on the door below grabbed Gordal’s attention, and hurriedly he went over to the balcony.
“Kendred!” He roared, and in but a moment the next eldest of his wards appeared from the forge, all greasy and sweaty and looking slightly burnt.
“Yes pasha!” He called back, standing straight like addressing a commanding officer. This was how all wards addressed their pasha’s, unless they wanted a grand flogging, something that warm hearted Gordal was not afraid of.
“We have an orc who cannot read the closed sign.” As he spoke the rasp came again, a little harder this time. “Get rid of him.”
“Yes pasha!” Kendred smacked a fist to his chest in respect and went to carry out the command. Karros had remained sitting, not wishing to look upon Kendred’s accusing stare, but now joined his pasha, who was gripping the rail tighter than expected.
“Gordal are you unwell? Or is it weight on your mind? If so unburden yourself on trusted ward.” He said carefully, not trying to make it seem as though Gordal couldn’t handle whatever it was on his own.
Gordal looked at him, and Karros was certain he could see tears building up, something he had never seen from him before. Gordal cleared his throat, as though about to confess something.
“Pasha!” Kendred called from below. “Our visitor demands to converse with Karros!”
“Who is it?” Gordal called back glad for the distraction that allowed him to break eye contact with his ward. Karros too was distracted as a lump grew in his throat that was hard to swallow. There was only one person who would ‘demand’ to converse with him. It would have been inevitable to avoid him for much longer, but he hadn’t come in months. He was the last orc that Karros wanted to see, hear or smell and maybe, just maybe it wasn’t him.
“Morokai, Ungol’s chief shaman pasha!” Of course it was him.
