When the stranger walked into the pub, almost no one paid any mind. The heaving bulk walking over and collapsing at the bar, hooded head falling down with a heavy thunk.
The wings of the bartender flared for a moment, before she smiled, "Here for water or wine, stranger?"
"A rest between the wars." He mumbled with a growl that made her heart flutter in a familiar fear.
All the same, it wasn't in the pixie to show any sort of stranger anything less than the best hospitality. This was her inn, the only place of comfort between Camein and Goruut. Here, she would always maintain a place to fall, if not a thing of paradise.
"Royals tend to drink out the back. Don't like the way that people stare at their cloaks." She said, reaching for a glass and lightly flipping it in her hand, "Don't got no ironweirm, but one of the lads does make his own Fire Spirits, if you fancy getting lost for the night."
He raised his head tiredly, "Never fear. I am not one for violence. Never was, whatever you might have heard."
"No one is, until they have to be." She replied sadly, "But... Come on. A drink to drive the nightmares back."
The man shook his head, "No, kind lady. No. The nightmares feast in times such as that. Water, if you might."
"Fine by me." She poured from the nearby keg, "Fetch it every morning. Afraid it won't be the best. Royals tend to piss in the well, assholes."
"I have had worse." He said, placing a copper tile on the bench before taking the glass.
She blinked as she noticed the lute on his back. Hadn't been able to see until he turned his enormous shoulders. She smiled slowly, "Well... If that parches the throat... Could keep the tile, if you do something for me."
"I am the one to ask you, if I might tell my tale." He said with amusement.
The innkeeper shrugged, "Things around here don't tend to be as perky as I'd like. Most of the people coming through, are just glad they haven't eaten dirt. My last bard got so sick of the vibe, he up and ended himself. That weren't a pretty sight when delivering breakfast. So... A ditty on your way through... Would be most appreciated, stranger."
"A kindness." He thanked her, before moving off to sit down in a chair beside the fireplace.
She sat up on the bench, crossing her legs. She'd never had a chance to see an ork sing before. This was going to be a one of a kind thing. Might get the man killed, depending, but a thing to be seen.
He strummed the instrument once, before tweaking the knobs to retune it. The pub immediately went quieter. Not silent, never silent. All the same, people switched to loud whispers, as they noticed that there was a bard, in the traditional seat saved for the night's entertainment.
His voice was like crushed gravel, deep and throaty, as it boomed out.
Over the hills and faraway,
where man dare not to tred,
there was once a small child,
young and free.
A fool, lost to the mists of innocence,
who never feared to be fed,
running over the hills, and faraway.
He held the hand of the one he'd come to love,
an ugly mug called Grug,
when they swore to their gods that
forever was
a promise given, a promise sworn,
where they'd live, over the hills and faraway.
The minstrel sang, the harps harped, when fate rang out,
and the trumpets announced the arrival of Kang.
The human prince,
fire in his eyes, and hate in his heart,
cut them down, before they gave voice.
Grug dug his own grave, with spear and blade at his back,
until they sank him into the deep,
over those hills, and faraway.
The child they took,
they tore at his face,
and cut free the tusks of his race,
mutilating him before showing him the path of slavery.
The bard paused for a moment, and spoke gravely, "You have all heard the tale of Iscari the Tuskless. Brutal master of the orkish army. They one who fights for genocide, and the death of all mankind. But tonight, I tell you a tale. One you have never heard. Of the one they call Tuskless, in fear and loathing."
"Fuck orks." One of the people nearby growled and tossed a clay mug, shattering it on the bard's head effortlessly. "Bastards can go die in the ditches!"
The ork didn't miss a beat, strumming the lute.
When so many fall and forget the call,
driven to the dark, to the ditch,
food for the lich,
there was one, who strode up and out,
from the hills, and faraway.
As a child he knew nought but whips and chains,
his love long dead, heart broken,
he left his life beyond those hills and faraway,
became an empty ghost.
Dead in spirit, broken in body.
The wild of the future was never a dream.
This is the tale of Iscari the Tuskless.
Starving, and lost without the hills,
he stole a loaf of a bread.
This was met with wrath for what he did,
as he tried to run away.
They promised to take his eyes,
take his hands,
and throw him to the wolves so wild.
Never again to see the hills, and the lands so faraway.
"Good!" One of the other patrons crowed, "Law's the law. No man above it!"
The innkeeper scoffed, "That so, Bob? So where the fuck's the fiver I spotted you a week ago?"
The man mumbled about his luck, staring down into his mug.
The knives did their work.
Blood let, falling to the ground,
scarring the boy's eyes, and taking the hope of man from him.
His wrists they could not cut, breaking axe upon the bone of a thing more beast than boy,
So they tossed him to the wilds, blind and bloodied,
broken for the entertainment of the rich,
for the want of a loaf of bread.
Please sir, can I have some more?
Any scraps from the table?
Before you cut my eyes, take my life...
Never a sight of the hills, or the lands so far away,
nor a sight of the forest and the leaves,
the boy was lost and dying,
when he heard a bell, a tinkle,
a whispered voice within the winds.
He heard the tears of one in fear,
And injured as he was, he ran towards the voice,
Not to cut and slice, not to break and roar,
But he heard pain, and could not ignore it.
"What kinda ork propaganda trash is this horeshit? Sing Dig Another Hole, you dwarfish fuck!"
He dug down deep, forgetting his mountain home,
he'd never seen the blue moon glow, and never would,
thrust into the underground,
by the ones who took his eyes!
He could never dig a hole, for what was done to him.
"Eugh." The one who complained went back to their drink.
He found the one who cried, the one afraid to die,
heard the lie as the men stood over them,
cheering in victory,
boasting of the dismembered wings in their hands,
and of what more lay in store,
for the fairy at their feet.
The boy gave one last thought for their home,
over the hills and faraway,
before they made the last choice,
and said these words.
The bard paused for a moment, taking in a deep breath, "I am Iscari, I am an ork, and you... Are my hunt."
"Fuck me." One of the patrons shivered.
"Bastard said those words before he took Turoc."
"And Corraband!" Another patron cried, "Bastards ripped me fookin' leg off! That's what the orks do. They rip ya to pieces. Bastards!"
He gave in to the Wild Hunt,
to the Spirits beyond the hills, and faraway,
and without a single sight,
he gave forth the fight,
and tore them apart to nevermore see the light.
Born to be a killer,
claimed by the wrath of blood,
his fists became his salvation,
as he gave up boyish dreams of redemption,
Before he claimed mercy for the little ones,
by taking the souls from this world.
He became the wolf, that hunts without the forest,
for the ones crippled and abandoned,
and preys upon those who left them there.
He saved the fae, abandoned by all,
but nevermore could she fly,
nevermore could dust flow through her fingers,
traumatised beyond the dark,
ripped apart,
she took her own life.
Scourged by the ones who claim to protect the whole.
Born to be a killer,
so a killer he would be.
Wolf and the rabbit, he would stand and hunt,
All who held their blades high,
bragging of death and decay.
"I never done heard that Tuskless were blind." One of the patrons said in surprise.
The innkeeper swallowed, "She told me about it, once. Geiheil... Before she... She couldn't live that way. They ripped her wings off. Tore the muscles, broke the bones. She... The scars... She could feel the scars burning. Always. Couldn't live like it. But... She told me she was saved... By a blind ork."
Half the pub went dead silent, staring over at the fairy, as her eyes welled up with golden tears. Everyone knew someone who had died in the war, but it never failed to set the tone. The domination of the kingdom, of everyone who was unlike to them.
The dwarfs, who had their gold plundered, their cities ransacked. The elves who had their art stolen and sold off to the highest bidder, their ears carved off by the hunters. The fae, ripped to pieces whilst they screamed and begged, sworn never to take the path of violence, lest they return to what their people once were.
The boy rose not to man, but to beast,
Standing in the light of the fallen angel,
With a blade at his back,
and the craven in front,
He stood and fought, though he wished to die,
until his sight returned, and all he could see
were his hills, and lands so faraway,
swimming in the blood,
of their own kind.
War of life, war for life, lost by the harvest.
The Crown rests heavy with guilt,
but the Tuskless could fight no more.
Scared and broken,
He gave up his axe,
Picked up his lute,
And sought out his own death.
Every ork, child or beast, must live to die,
by the blade of his enemy.
The tired bard lowered his lute, before lifting his hood. The cloth dropping back to reveal a blackened skin, covered in white scars. Unseeing eyes, slitted scars from top to bottom. You could see the weapons that had tried to take his head. Swords, daggers. A dozen scars from distant arrows that had failed to quite find the mark.
The ork looked at his hands, battered and worn, and he rumbled out quietly, "Send me back... To my hills... Now, so faraway..."