The orc guards stiffen at the sight of the imposing human striding toward them. They do no jeer or sneer which Noche'Wa takes as a sign of respect, or at least wariness. They glance behind and see orz, and there is a look of recognition.
The bigger guard, a dark-skinned orc of older years points with his spear at the Shoanti, 'Who comes to the Palace of Rust and Ruin, seeking the guidance of Grask Uldeth, Chieftain of the Empty Hand and master of Urgir?" Noche'Wa has a feeling this is more formal then most visitors get.
A few others either in line or near by turn and see how rates such a elaborate greetings.
The orcs looks startled by this and grip the spears closer, into a ready position. Chainmail clinks as they stand up straight and Noche'Wa can see many stopping and staring now. It is rare for an unknown human to ask entrance to this place.
After a pause the orc replies, 'And what business do you have with our Chieftain? Or at least, business that cannot be settled on the battlefield."
There are grunts and nods from everyone. All know the Shoanti are fearsome warriors but are rarely interested in little else.
The guards actually jump a bit at his shouting but quickly regain their stance.
'We proudly serve as the inner guard to the Chieftain, his ring of steel, his last line of defense..." It goes on a for awhile. Finally though, they run out of steam.
The younger one finally points at the yawing doors behind them, "Enter then, but be warned. Your pride may not go unnoticed by our Chieftain. It may amuse him to humble you, Shoanti." He adds, with a leer.
Noche'Wa enters in, followed by Korz. As the orc passed the guards the older one growls, 'Clean hands..."
The remark means nothing to Noche'Wa but he sees Korz stiffen and grimace. The orc says nothing, but his face turns cloudy with anger.
Soon though Noche'Wa is distracted by the spectacle in front of him.
The Shoanti enters a vast pillared hall, dark with smoke and the smell of rust. Like in the great churches had seen, there is a great aisle leading from the door to the far wall, flanked by rows of perfectly even pillars. Behind the pillars are two smaller aisles
The main aisle is clear, a expanse of dark stained stone leading onward. On either side, in the smaller aisle, many orcs lounge at tables eating, drinking, playing at dice. A few are even sparring with weapons, and the faint clash of steel on steel fills the thick, smoky air.
There are great cooking fires everywhere, some large enough to roast a whole ox. Noche'Wa sees human and orcs both tending the fires and serving others. Slaves of both races.. Noche'Wa also spots many massive hounds, all with huge iron collars, resting here and there. Each look big enough to rip off a man's arm.
At the far end he can see a raised throne beneath a great black window, but otherwise it is too indistinct. He can hear angry voices in argument from that end however.
Noche'wa scans the side aisles, moving forward. It reminds him more of the smoky rooms around the fighting pits then a palace. Both male and female orcs abound, arguing, talking, fighting. Greasy food is piled high on bread trenchers, much of it wasted or trampled.
The place is loud, the din a mix of steel, shouting and fainter, drums.
High above, in the dusty rafters, Noche'Wa sees old war banners taken from slain foes. Most look very old and moth-eaten, long rotted away. Spiderwebs fill the utmost reaches, drenched in smoke.
Soon Noche'Wa encounters a line of orcs, all bickering and jockeying for space. He quickly gathers this is the line of those come to seek justice from Grask. The line petitioners is long and varied, most ignoring him as they focused on getting to the front. it is a rowdy group and there is much pushing and shoving.
Korz comes from behind and grunts, 'Get us to the front. We won't wait in line like servants." He seems irritated about something.
Korz grunts and spits onto the floor, his saliva mixing with the detritus and filth of centuries. "None of your concern, pinkskin. It was not a compliment, if that worries you."
He looks at the long line of jostling people ahead of them and growls. Noche'Wa can tell he would like nothing better then to pulls his sword and simply hack through the crowd.
Over the din Noche'Wa can hear a deep, powerful voice indistinctly raging about something. Still, he can't make anything distinct out.
Noche'wa barrels into the crowd of orcs. Noche'Wa is not a small man and when in motion, is hard to stop. Still, orcs are not ones to give ground easily, and Noche'Wa has to push and shove to make progress. Korz strides behind him, backing him up. The Shoanti notes the orc is more then happy to kick and punch to make way, and seems to be letting off some aggression.
Just over half way, pushing through, an orc shouts to them from a side asile. "It is Korz!" The tone is not friendly.
Turning, Noche'Wa sees a powerfully built female orc emerge from the smoky areas. She has a long braid of black bristling hand coiled down her neck, and her tusks are engraved with images of hunting birds. Bright red leather clings to her shape, showing off both an impressive bust and bulging muscles. A massive axe is strapped to her back, painted red as if bloody. A few male orcs trail her, obviously friends or allies
She leers at Korz and shouts, 'Return from another trading mission with the pinkskins?"
Korz growls but says, 'Chieftaies Kring. Of the Blood Trail. I am honored by your attention."
She grins, showing rows of sharp teeth, "Your talk is soft, trader. Much like your habits. I see you bring them with you now." The other orcs laugh and press closer, making the already crowded space claustrophobic.
She shoves a chin toward Noche'Wa, "A fine stripling. Is that what passes for a warrior in the green lands?"
The mount grows skittish in the packed hall.
Despite Noche'Wa's best efforts, the horse suddenly side-steps. It starts to panic, hooves lashing out at everywhere, neighing loudly.
Kring grunts and pulls her axe free, sneering "Can't even handle your beasts. Let me deal with it." She moves forward, obviously intending to kill the horse.
Kring pauses, axe in hand. She is momentarily taken aback by Noche'Wa aggressive words and using the name of the High Chieftain. After a pause though, he sees her bunching her muscles to attack. Before she can move however, another orc pushes through the crowd.
He is taller, with a green cast to his skin that sets him apart. Another tribe? Noche'Wa thinks, wishing he knew more. Korz has mentioned that the different orcs often had physical characteristics.
The new orc is carrying an iron spear and interposes himself between Kring and Noche'Wa. Glaring at both of them, he says, "Enough of this." he jabs his weapon toward the still restless horse.
"This is for Grask?"
The tall orc grunts, 'Come with me, human." he growls at Kring, who stares back. Noche'Wa has a feeling there is a battle of stature here. As a tribal chieftain Kring rates above a mere guard, but in this place working for Grask Uldeth is nothing to ignore. Finally the female orc merely growls and turns around, putting her axe away.
Korz and Noche'Wa follows the greenish orc ahead, who effortlessly parts the crowd.
Soon they are at the head of the line, and Noche'Wa can see new sights.
Off to the side, half cast in shadow are rows of benches, filled with ratfolk. Most carry paper and ink, some jotting notes even now. Bright black eyes sweep over Noche'Wa, appraising him.
On the other side is a raised stage with a number of musicians, all human. They are playing deep, mournful tunes on massive skin drums, the beating filling this entire massive hall. Although Noche'Wa sees other instruments, none are being used and no voices are raised in song.
Between these two is a massive iron throne, the base nearly at Noche'Wa's head level. Rusted and hulking, the ugly chair looks built into the iron structure of the hall, a twisted and blasted expression of the tortured building.
Sitting on it is an thickly build orc, gesturing widely and yelling. he is dressed in armor, a blocky protection of iron and stone, weaved together to create a second skin. A massive warhammer rests at his side, and a row of sharp knives at his belt. A massive auroch's skull surmounts his armored helm, making him look even taller. A mane of wild greasy black hair nearly covers the bestial looking face, home to some of the largest orc tusks the Shoanti has ever seen. This must be Grask Uldeth, the ruler of this city and much of the Hold of Belkzen.
At his side a ratfolk crouches on the back of the chair whispering into his ear. Now and then messengers run up, mutter something to this intermediary and scamper off. Apparently the orc warlord is privy to a constant stream of news.
Right now however he is roaring at another orc, who is quivering in fear at the feet of the throne, "And why can we not repair it?"
'No one has the skill Chieftain.."
'Then find them! Pay them, rick them, capture them in battle, I do not care. We cannot have these earthquakes plague us!"
The other orc looks shocked, "But, only the dwarves would know.."
'Then find a dwarf!" he bellows so loudly dust shakes from the ceiling, 'I want results not excuses, Glargh. Do it."
He turns from the shaking orc and notes Noche'Wa for the first time. For a moment Noche'Wa can feel the deep dark eyes examining him thoughtfully then flick to Korz.
'Ah, Korz. You return. We must talk soon."
Before Korz answers Grask turns back to Noche'Wa, 'Human, what brings you here, along with such fine steeds?' The ratfolk at his shoulder leans down and hisses something, just beyond Noche'Wa's hearing.
The ratfolk at Grask's shoulder leans in by the orc warlord waves it aside with a fist nearly as big as the rat's head.
'Carrot and Stick? Clever." The gravely voice is obviously uneducated but Noche'Wa catches something there. Cunning?
He grunts to a standing orc who takes the horses away, leading them skillfully.
Grask leans back in his massive metal throne, fingers toying with his armor.
"And what is your name, envoy? Who do you present and what proposal do you suggest to me, Grask Uldeth, master of this city and of the Hold of Belkzen?"
A mutter runs through the crowd at the mention of Korvosa. They city is well known here, despite the distance. The Varsisians are famous for being canny traders while the Shoanti are more known as fighters. Noche'Wa can tell he has surprised them.
Behind him Noche'wa can hear many voices but ignores them, focusing on Grask. The hulking orc warlord is sitting heavily in his throne, black eyes fixed on Noche'Wa, penetrating. At his side the ratfolk goes in a rush of high pitched whispering.
After a moment Grask leans forward, 'Consider yourself well received, Noche'Wa of the Shoanti. The Wild Mouse stays int his city under my protection." He raises his voice slightly, 'Any who quarrel with you, quarrel with me."
A pot bellied orc approaches Noche'Wa and slaps a small bright red token in his hand. Looking at it, Noche'Wa can see it is a made of painted human finger bones. He guesses it is a sign of his acceptance.
'So, human." Grask goes on, voice rolling like thunder, 'What do you think of the Hold? What is your measure of these lands? How do they compare to your homeland? How does this city compare to those human strongholds?"
At his side Korz grunts impatiently.
Noche'Wa hears a murmur of laughter run through the crowd and wonders what he said. Had he said something humorous by accident?
Grask grins widely, showing large tusks,yellowed with age and filth.
'Friends?" he bellows, including Korz in the sweep of his dark eyes. 'Making friends? I had thought you were past that age, Korz." The tone is jeering, but not quite insulting. More of a bemused amusement.
Korz stiffens and says, "The pinkskin goes a bit far. We have been traveling companions. He is a skilled fighter and we have covered many miles together, that is all. In fact we saw-"
But Grask cuts him off with a raised hand, and Noche'Wa can see it is covered with calluses and burns.
'Let the Shoanti tell the tale. Or at least the parts that are suitably interesting. Regale us, Noche'wa of Korvosa with your wonderful and terrible things."
Grask growls, 'Come, I insist. Tell us something of your travels. I wish to see our lands through the eyes of a stranger, to hear what you have heard and see what you have seen." There are knowing looks from the orcs around the throne and Noche'Wa has a feeling Grask asks questions like this a great deal.
'It is rare enough we have a newcomer to the city who is straight backed and proud as you. Most are sniveling worms, my own kind included." He points a twisted, thick finger right at Noche'Wa. "Speak."
As Noche'Wa tells his story he quickly realizes several things. For one thing his jokes and attempts at humor seem to miss their mark. There is no laughter or grinning from the crowd. Noche'Wa isn't sure why.
Secondly his attempts to praise Korz and minimize his own exploits seems to backfire. Many of them, including Grask, sneer at his self-deprecation moments, apparently taking it at face value.
The grandiose descriptions seem o go over better. Apparently you can't lay it on too thick when it comes to story-telling to orcs. The wild lands seem to hold a fascination for these people, maybe even more so since they live in a city. Noche'Wa hopes eh saved at least a little of his tale with the tonal shift.
At the end there is a moment of silence as everyone looks to Grask for his reaction. He stares at Noche'Wa, his dark face unreadable. Finally the orc warlord slowly says, "You tell a good story, Noche'Wa of the Shoanti. Perhaps not entirely in your style, but well told."
It is a lukewarm reaction, and the other orcs maintain the same demeanor.
After this Grask points to Korz, "Let us find a more secret place to discuss this trip in more detail." Glancing back at Noche'Wa the orc grunts, "You may now leave. Explore the city."
With a wave of his hand Noche'Wa is dismissed and the 'business' of court goes on, with Grask shouting orders at his ratfolk to ready a room for his meeting with Korz.
Korz, for his part seems upset at how things have gone and curtly nods to Noche'Wa, not saying anything.
Korz growls , 'I'll find you pinkskin. Assuming you are still alive after being alone for a few hours." Without another word he stomps off toward Grask, not making eye contact with anyone.
Noche'Wa feels many eyes on him, and not only orcs. The benches full of ratfolk also seem to be eyeing him speculatively. The small quick eyes look very intelligent and piercing.
Noche'wa quickly scans for a safe place to lie low. As much as he'd love to explore the city, he feels uneasy. The orcs are a tough lot and he'd have to figure out the best way to approach it. Simply walking around like a tourist seems an invitation to suicide.
The streets are narrow and cramped, full of litter and garbage of ages. The ancient dwarven stonework is solid, but it is very old and worn. the street gutters are full of everything from blood to old rags. The smell of rust is everywhere, but it is a lively place. Noche'Wa finds three places that may suit his desire for food and perhaps rest.
One is a big, ramble shackle establishment that seems to serve as tavern/cage fight arena. The poorly built wooden building is full of orcs (and a few humans) betting on fights taking place in a crude cage. The raw orc liquor is flowing thick and fast here, making Noche'Wa's eyes water from across the street.
Secondly he finds what looks to be a less crowded place. It is a low iron building, seemingly half underground, built as if to resist any attack by man or nature. Heavy iron bands encase the structure, and there are no windows. While the building is dark, Noche'Wa can hear the sounds of deep mournful song, the throbbing of drums and the stamping of feet within. Reading the signs as best he can, and recalling what Korz mentioned, he thinks this is a temple to Rull, the orcish god of thunder and storms.
Lastly he finds, on the edge of that vast bazaar he walked through earlier, a tavern similar to ones he knew in Korvosa. It is run and staffed by humans, halflings and other non-orc people. In fact, as far as he can tell, the only orcs are the sulking guards at the doors. While not fancy, the inn seems well-kept and clean, with new paint and gentle laughter spilling out through the windows.
Noche'Wa kicks aside the creaking old door, and it snaps off its hinges as he strides in. The tall, imposing Shoanti makes a striking figure, framed by the doorway, streaming daylight pouring past his silhouette. Weeks of travel have hardened his muscles and given his already dark skin a deep, glowing tan. His deep, powerful voice rolls into the building, silencing the raucous sounds within. In that moment Noche'Wa surveys the interior, looking as if he was a conquering king, tall and proud.
The building is a ramshackle construction of cheap wood, laid over the old foundations of some ancient dwarven building of stone. The floor is covered with so much garbage and filth it looks as if it was made of earth, sticky and foul. There are no windows and smoke hangs in the air both from several roaring cooking fires and from various noxious weeds rolled and smoked.
The large room has a grimy bar along one wall, stained and old. A few tables and chairs dot the space, splintery and old. The entire building is dominated by a raised stone slab in the center, perhaps 2 feet high. Around the edge is built a crude iron cage, with two doors, one at each end. The thick, rusting cage looks strong enough to hold a raging troll, let alone a fighting match. Noche'Wa can see blood stains, both new and old, smeared onto the raised block of stone.
There are several score of orcs inside, silently staring at Noche'wa. Many hold tankards of orc liquor, but Noche'Wa also smells the more familiar scents of ale and beer. The Shoanti spots entire pigs being roasted on spits, and loaves of dark, coarse bread.
All the orcs are armed, although no one has a weapon raised. Spears, swords, axes, knives, everything looks quite deadly. Armor of all sorts seems standard dress as well, and Noche'Wa feels practically naked in his chain shirt. Noche'Wa sees only orcs.
In the cage, two orcs are stripped to the waist, bloodied and beaten. One is missing an ear, and most of his scalp, while the other is limping from what looks to be a broken leg. Both pauses when Noche'Wa enters, taken by his grand entrance. Then, while everyone is still distracted, the one missing an ear lashes out and fells the limping orc. He falls with a painful cry but no one notices. Everyone is fixated on the imposing Shoanti warrior who has materialized int heir midst.
A heavyset orc near the door squints at Noche'Wa. The orc is covered with horrid burns that look very old and yet very painful. After a second the orc bellows into the silence, 'A true champions entrance!" His voice is harsh from a thousand nights, shouting over a roaring crowd.
There is a roar of approval and cheers.
'The fights of have Bolkas Carcass reach far and wide. In all my years, I've never seen a man like you step up to fight!"
Another roar as the orc, obviously the manager of this fighting pit, goes on, "Look at this pinkskin! Tall and strong! Who will enter the cage with him! Who will fight this Shoanti?"
There is a roar but at first no one steps up. Noche'Wa is a powerfully built man and his entrance is not to be taken lightly. There is also an anticipatory sense as if the challenge is really only made to one person.
Then, out of the smoky recesses of the tavern, a nightmare appears.
A huge figure steps into the flickering firelight. It takes Noche'Wa a moment to process the creature as an orc. The arms are thick as tree trunks, the neck as wide as a man's waist. Hands that look strong enough to bend iron clenched in rage. His jaws house a massive set of ivory tusks, cracked and weathered, stained with blood. Worst of all is the orc's pale skin.
It is stretched and tight, as if the body grew before the outer layer had time to catch up. Even the simple act of crossing the dirty floor toward Noche'Wa causes muscles to ripple across the white surface, like maggots crawling through rotten meat.
He is stripped to the waist, revealing a body covered in vicious brands. It is a mosaic of fighting scenes, and the art style reminds Noche'Wa of cave paintings, with crude stick figures and flowing animals. Above all though is a bloody double axe, burned on his flesh again and again.
A chant goes up as the misshappen orc champion walks toward the cage.
'Uzul, Usul."
Uzul raises a massive fist and silence descends again. When he speaks, it is like thunder on a mountainside.
'He looks like a slave to me." The tiny quick eyes spot Noche'Wa's totem of protection and he laughs, a horrible gritty sound. 'A slave of Grask Uldeth. He will not fight."
The heavy set orc turns to Noche'Wa in a quieter voice, 'What is your name?"
Uzul rolls his pale lips into a sneer, revealing a snarl of jagged and rotting teeth.
'I told you, he would not fight. He is all talk and no bite." The massive orc waves a closed fist dismissively and turns his back on Noche'Wa insultingly.
The crowd erupts into a chorus of boos and jeers aimed at Noche'Wa, many calling for blood for this insult to the tavern, them and Uzul, their champion. The catcalls are quite serious and raucous, with orcs pushing and shoving, some throwing food and bits of garbage at Noche'Wa. The drunken crowd seems upset by Noche'Wa refusal to fight and are instantly restless.
The tavern owner leans closer in confusion, 'Listen, human, you cannot kick in the door of the Bolkas Carcass and not fight. We'll have a riot on our hands/" He sounds nervous and a bit angry, "If you only wanted food, you should have crept in like a beggar. Now I have them all wound up."
A loud chant of, "Blood! Blood! Blood!" is taken up by the crowd.
As Noche'Wa lays down the token of protection on the bar, the crowd falls quiet again for a moment. Then it erupts in a series of hoots and cries for violence. It seems they have mostly forgiven Noche'Wa's attempts to avoid a fight as a strange human mannerism. Desperate for a fight, they ignore the exoticism of Noche'Wa more humble ways.
Usul however, stares at the human with yellow eyes, bloodshot and rimmed with pus. Despite this however, they look sharper and more canny then the Shoanti would have liked. This is no dumb brute.
"Slave wishes to fight?"The monster bellows, voice easily audible over the raucous crowd. 'Do you know what I do to slaves who fight?"
With a roar, he lashes out an arm with blurring speed at a solid wood table. It folds as if it were parchment, crunching instantly under the massive blow.
The crowd roars approval and the orc manager steps up again, voice pitched perfectly to soar over the crowd.
"You all know the rules of the Cage! Anything goes and no surrender. The only thing forbidden is armor. We fight for blood here!"
At the word blood the orc begin stamping their feet in unision, shaking the entire building.
"And who wishes to fight Uzul, king of the cage, devourer of slaves, worshiper of the god of Blood? Who is brave enough, or foolish, to combat such a champion?"
He looks toward Noche'Wa, clearly giving the Shoanti a cue for his name.
At Noche'Wa's loud declarations the crowd howls and cries. He has a feeling if it were a human crowd they would have cheered. The bravado before a fight is a big part of orc combat, apparently. The shower of garbage and tankards dies away completely.
Noche'Wa measures the iron cage as he stands near it. It is a small area, only twenty feet on each side, with a rough stone floor, covered with bloodstains. The iron cage is widely space and Noche'Wa could easily stick his head between the old mesh. It looks very old but also extremely strong. He doubts even Uzul could break it with sheer force.
Noche'Wa feels power and magic fill him as he calls to his ancestors, and the familiar surge comforts him slightly. If anyone would approve of defeating an orc, it would be his Shoanti kin.
As he lightly leaps into the cage, he releases a magical burst and 4 mirror images of himself shimmer into existence, creating a blur of movement around the Shoanti.
The crowd boos and hisses at this magical display but Noche'Wa just mean smiles.
Across from his Uzul, lumbering like a mountain troll, climbs into the cage. His thick bare feet are horned and callused, scraping on the bloody stone underfoot. The white pale skin bunches with visible muscles as he stretches and limbers up. Tiny, darting eyes size Noche'wa up and fix on the shimmering illusions that surround the Shoanti.
As the crowd boos the reigning champion holds up a massive, scarred hand.
"Let them dance!" he roars, deep voice drowning out the catcalls. 'I will smash all of Grask's slaves!"
Behind them both orcs run up and chain shut the doors, sealing with heavy padlocks.
Nochwe'Wa's spell instantly covers a part of the stone underfoot with a sheen of grease. The slippery liquid has brought down many of Noche'Wa foes before and it is worth a try.
For a second Noche'Wa hopes it works and the massive cage fighter slips slightly, caught off guard. After a moment however, he nimbly uses his bulk to steady himself, grasping the cage for support.
Uzul lets out a deep bass growl, mouth opening into a black maw. The sound grows louder and louder, rising into a terrifying roar that shakes the building. The shouting crowd is silenced as Uzul seems to go into a frenzy of anger. Yellow froth builds at his mouth, his eyes roll and his muscles tighten in seeming agony.
Fully gripped in battle rage, Uzul throws himself at Noche'Wa, charging full out at his human foe. The oncoming rush is like a storm rolling across the plains of the Hold, unstoppable and immense.
Uzul bats away Noche'Wa feeble attempt to trip the fighter, and snarls in triumph. Instead of punching or kicking his opponent however, the massive orc opens his jaws wide and bites at Noche'Wa, massive jagged tusks seeking human flesh. The shimmering images of Noche'Wa dance and maneuver, trying to disguise the real warrior beneath.
However, the human manges to dodge the gnashing jaws and avoid being hit. All of his mirror images remain in existence.
The crowd howls in disappointment as Uzul's ripping jaws find no purchase. The lack of blood seems to disappoint the crowding orcs, who screech and scream at the two fighters, urging them on. Many jump down close to the cage, to get a closer view.