Soldier: Chapter 1 – Whelp
”Where is best to start? Well, the beginning, I imagine”.
Eleven years ago...
He stank. Well, his breath stank. The mangy smell that comes with too much rotten meat with ale was too hard to ignore when he was close enough his breath could be felt upon forehead. But how could he think worse? His own scent was that of a tannery, the sickly smell ammonia and hide working chemicals. And no doubt the Sergeant had noticed, judging by how his nostrils flared with distain.
“You’re a runt! Barely out of your mother’s arms! No muscle, no sense... No use. You’d be killed by the razor winds and sun within a week, let alone a Quilboar.” Scoffed sergeant Broldok. His dark red eyes looking up and down, surveying the youngling before him with annoyance, even insult at being asked of something.
Are you ready for this? Maybe another winter, or two…
Okiba winced, trying not to recoil under the face to face scrutiny of an Orc that any other his own age would always consider his much senior. Broldok was a head and a half taller, muscled so that he was built for battle, with great tusks, jet black beard and a shaved head. He cut an imposing figure, at least, to the skinny sack of beardless nothing that summed up the former tanners apprentice. Okiba was a child, seventeen winters, being stared down by a veteran of three wars and forty years. He gritted his teeth, it was the only thing stopping him from shaking in his ruined boots.
”Well, why you still gorping at me like the clueless whelp!?” Barked Broldok, his brow furrowed in intent displeasure. This was not how he wanted his first visit to Razor hill to start, being chewed out by the settlements senior sentry. Though he now stood in the shadow of its imposing watch tower atop the hill, bare for the sun and winds to do mayhem upon, he was more regretting his choice of conversation opener rather than his lack protection from the elements.
”where do I sign up?” what were you thinking…
”I-i… I’ll buy you a drink? If you help me join the grunts…” Stuttered Okiba, outstretching a hand holding the few coppers he had to his name. The reaction was instant.
”You lowly, disrespectful-… Foolish whelp!” Roared Broldok, snapping his hand out to grab the younger Orc by the scruff of his neck and lift him like a caught rodent. The veteran clearly thought nothing of the weight that made up Okiba, hauling him around with the scraping of boots and panicked pleas of mercy.
”Please! I’m sorry! I meant no offence! I just want to do my part!” he wailed pleadingly, lifting his arms to shield his face and neck instinctively.
Oh fel, what have you done-…
”Shut up! Cease your whimpering and listen close, or so help me by Groms blood I’ll cuff you until you scream for your mother!” Snarled the sergeant as he threw the presumptive Youngling to the dusty ground. He slowly raised the same arm to begin pointing down to the settlements below. Razor hill was sleepy, the sun just setting behind the craggy hills and casting a dark shadow over tent, hovel and tavern alike as every Orc and troll settled down for the day. Okiba wiped the dust and muck from his face and rags, following the gesture with his eyes.
”This is my responsibility… My charge, my watch. Our great Warchief, Thrall!” He paused, glancing from the town, down to his cowed victim and back again before resuming. ”Gave my Commander orders to take care of this, and he in turn gave me orders to keep the watch! They have trust and respect, going down the chain of command… respect and trust born of honor, blood and sweat in battle! Not from a cheap pint of ale as a bribe…” Finished the sergeant with a sneering growl.
Stupid… stupid! All you wanted was a chance…
”I- I just wanted the chance to show honour, earn my place in the Horde—“ He started, but could not finish, a hand swiftly smacking the back of his head. Hard enough to put him to silence, but not enough to cause real hurt.
”I said Silence!” Snarled the Sergeant with indignation, his lips turning upwards in revulsion, exposing his already formidable tusks. ”This is my responsibility… And I will not have all this undermined by a weakling… Honor is made, like steel. Not bought”.
Made?
Okiba held his tongue, keeping his eyes on the town as the sunset gave way to the darkening tones of dusk. The iron gaze of his elder and better boring into the side of his head, allowing for silence to prevail, what else could he do?
”Report to the quartermaster in the barracks at sunrise. And don’t ever speak to me unless spoken to first, ever again, Whelp.”