Zosgakk I

The life of an orcen captain is identical to a prole orc. Captain Zosgakk gets out of his thin woolen mattress in the morning to the sound of burbling and fresh coffee, black, because milk isn’t included in his compensation package.

A splash of the face, and a flossing between his tusks, and he finds himself watching the garrison. After a long afternoon of nothing, he shrugs his shoulders and sits under the gun at the poker table, taking the worn out chair next to the dealer. Once the shift is over, the group of green find themselves in the tavern, trying to take the load off of a “stressful day.”

Like clockwork, en route to the tavern, Gach opens his elongated mouth. “Why not bowling ‘is time, aye? The old livuh can’t take it forever.”

And just like the revolving second hand, Zosgakk replies, “We always go to tuh tavern ‘fter a day ah the garrison, Gach. Orcs are born to drink, and born to die by the axe of a nearby friend.”

Armed with their winnings from the game from the garrison, the Orcs sit around the tavern table with mead and ale. Their vision is always fuzzy, and their walk is always sloppy, but it’s the third or fourth draft before things truly get dicey.

“Gach, I always see ya in the zone of that there ogre lookin woman… ‘er cankles could break melons if you left her to it!” Ethiel, a stout orc with a chipped tusk gaffaws.

“Aye, ‘at’s ‘cause I didn’t fold on uh last hand. Cleaned me dry, aye, at least Kagan got two have maidens for the both of us, eh?” Gach slams down his draft.

Kagan shrugs-he doesn’t talk much. Zosgakk comes back to the table with a fat plate of steaming hambones, an orc speciality.

“I’ll never get tired of these hambones, aye.” Ethiel sinks his teeth into the fatty meat.

The only seat left, Zosgakk was to deal first. The group played hand after hand, as the Captain’s mound of coins grew taller and taller. Other orcen men saw the travesty and decided to buy in a hand, the table quickly became packed. With every pint that was swept by the waitresses, the group began to slim their eyes at him, or thumb their axes.

Zosgakk’s battle axe was jagged, chipped along the blade in several places, but it made a cut in the wooden floor when he slammed it down to play. The most rugged spot of the axe was the notch underneath the blade.

The final round, just before everyone left to slay their some of the night went like this. First, the flop, Zosgakk calls the fifty coins to play. Then the turn, Zosgakk raises to 500 coins, the other orcs sneer, and match his raise. Finally, the river breaks. Zosgakk raises his entire mound of three thousand coins. And when the table folds, it is revealed that Zosgakk had a pair of twos.

The captain’s tusks bounced in laughter while he dragged the hefty mound back to himself. With this, he could buy three, maybe four maidens for tonight. But Gach lies his dagger on the Captain’s knuckle.

Kagan lurches at him with a bounding “ARRGH!”

Stalwart, Zosgakk tilts his wrist and hooks Kagan’s longsword within the notch of his axe, and sends the blade tumbling.

Stooping to return the sword, Zosgakk pivots and strikes an incoming blade with a metal crash. Then, he knees the assailant in his stomach. The hambone in their gut came up before the painful falling grunt.

Zosgakk stumbles, and watches the room start to spin.

Another orc struck from the front, and the final one from behind. He buckles himself, steadies his feet the best he can, and slams both of the men with a wide strike, nailing them both with the blunt backside of his axe. The men hit the ground like dominoes.

Zosgakk dragged the mound of coins into his satchel and found himself in the brothel before the echo faded.

The captain lumbers into the cove of whores, a private room littered with burning incense and a fruit basket of condoms. He sat down with a curvy younger orc.

“Not too much off tuh top today. Just a massage for me.” Zosgakk mumbles. She presses her soft hands into knot after knot of back muscles. It’s quiet, aside for a handful of grunts and moans.

“Feels like..” Zosgakk sighs. “‘Ere’s a pit in the void of me heart.”

The girl stays quiet, furling her lip just a smidge, and Zosgakk continues. “Like I been doing all this for naught. It’s always a crag who wants to steal me gold.”

“Get it through your skull bub, I’s a whore not a therapist.” And Zosgakk gets quiet, too.

And just like that, the day repeats. Poker in the morning, garrison in the afternoon, poker with the same crags in the night, brawling over who got the most gold by the end of the game. Even Zosgakk is a sore loser if he’s got to lay with mega cankles that night. But things change when a woman in shackles was deposited at the front of the fortress.

“Aye, so the count wants us to watch over ‘is here gal. She’s an elf. The capital is gonna send a wagon to pick ‘er up. So we watch her for the week.” The other orcs eyed the elven woman down as she’s dragged to the prison.

The girl was cute by elven standards. She had a button nose, a bit thin in the arms, and ears that could turn a screw, the elven custom. The only thing that stood out was her auburn hair, wavy down to her shoulders, she also had pretty freckles that accented her nose.

“I think she’s a bit thin.” Gach says while digging into his teeth with a toothpick.

Ethiel replies, “I ‘on got the interest for uh slender ear. Would rather spend the dusk with the one with tuh cankles.”

”…I’d try it.” Kagan mumbles.

“Don’t touch the gal, it only makes my life harder.” Zosgakk interjects. “Just make sure the gal eats, drinks, so she doesn’t shed the meat she’s barely got on ‘er bones.”

“Aye, Captain.” The group of green say in conjunction.

Not much changed in the Captain’s routine, neglected by his group of crags, he found himself in the prison cellar often. At first, he’d put down a tray of oats and a glass of water, watch her eat for a moment, then loop back around later in the day.

During the second day, the girl would let out a little squeak in the morning, and a thank you in the night, a squeak afterwards, too. Zosgakk thought this meant good night. The next morning, a good morning, and a thank you, but then only a squeak at night.

Days three and four were sedentary. Zosgakk thought that maybe he did something wrong. So he said something for once.

“Youse can’t say thank ye again?” Zosgakk said after watching her chew through her oats.

”…Could I have another glass of water.” She said in mousespeak.

“Could ye? Speak up, lass.” Zosgakk said firmly.

“Could I have another class of water, Captain, sir.”

Zosgakk stared for a moment, then snatched her glass. When he returned, her face lit up just slightly.

“Why did you give this to me?” She says, breathing in heaps of air between gulps of water.

“I don’t see why not.” Zosgakk muttered.

“Goodnight, Captain.” She ran a hand through her hair.

The days proceeding were more talkative. But she began to ask questions. Questions of so many varieties.

“What do you do for fun?” She would ask in the morning.

“Where do you buy your groceries?” Right after eating through her oats.

“Is it true that orc livers are as resilient as the liquor you drink,” rather than a squeak before he left.

Zosgakk answered every question. It wasn’t against the rules, per say, he’d tell himself. A prisoner is fit to know, he’d rebuttal.

But every question was followed by a “thank you”, a “thanks,” or a “cheers,” when he snuck a little bit of cinnamon into her oats. Rather than setting of the tray, it’s “here, Ash.” or “I used a bit of butter, Ash.”

Zosgakk liked the name Ash, but there wasn’t a way to really cut it any shorter than it already was. He never suspected that her full name was Ashley.

Their questions exploded into full blown conversations-about the politics of orc culture, how Zosgakk felt about this serf, and how he felt about his wife back home. He answered all of the prisoner’s questions without restraint. He shared his full opinion, omitted no details, and didn’t blink when considering the next day to come.

By day nine, Zosgakk smiled at the idea of speaking with the prisoner. By day nine, he was no longer “Captain, sir,” he may have been “sire,” or “Zosgakk,” or just “Z.” When his shift was over, he said goodbye with a smirk on his face. And when his shift was over, he sulked at the thought of going back to that tavern.

He sulked at the idea of spending another night with cankles, or young and curvy, or the one with a big mole on her breast. He personally lamented the young one for her comment the last time.

When he found himself dealing once more, Zosgakk slammed his axe just an inch deeper into the wooden floor, and grooved it into the foundation. He shoved his heels into the ground just a smidge heavier. And when he found himself with a slightly bigger mound than the rest of the crew, their sneers whizzing through his skull, he didn’t wait for them to throw the first punch. Rather, he let the spray of blood stain his axe.

Ethiel came in barreling first-over the head with his short dagger. Zosgakk blocked with the front of his axe, and slammed a fist into the orc’s bony jaw with a deafening snap. The captain’s knuckles bruised from the impact, but Ethiel had a hard time speaking the next morning.

Gach widely swings his longsword, far too wide. Zosgakk catches it within the notch again, snapping off the blade like fresh ice, and knocked the wind out of Gach with a roundhouse kick, sending him flying into a barrel of mead.

Fighting in this tavern was no new spectatcle-the orcs of the garrison fought with just as much conviction, just as much greed, but no where near the level of refinement.

He noticed Kagan before him, knees bent in contempt. Zosgakk breathed in, drew back his arm, and launched the battle axe like a catapult. The axe whistled through the air, and sliced through the tension as the blade landed itself right between Kagan’s crazed eyes.

There wasn’t a whore waiting for the Captain tonight. But there was a heavy bouncing satchel attached to his hip. It bounced rapidly, and the bounces were followed with thumping footsteps. Zosgakk was running, sprinting, bolting. And when he tore through the garrison doors, took a lantern to the prison cellar… Ash was nowhere to be found.

He smashed one of the eroded bricks, then paced back and forth.

Soon, the sound of jangling coins was accompanied by the sound of trotting hooves. He made sure the horse didn’t know any English, but he still wasn’t sure.

He bucked the horse if it even slowed down an iota. He whipped the ropes of the horse, and swept the sweat from the roots of his hair. He breathed in worry, and exhaled effort.

The road was surrounded by forest, and the elevation was rising. He heaved in the thin air, and choked on the tension. By the rise of the sun, he managed to catch up with the carriage, with two horses carrying it to the capital.

Zosgakk whipped the horse once more, and prodded it into its final breaths. The horse rams into the wheel of the carriage, loosening the axles that bind, and threw the carriage off course, sideways onto a nearby shrub. Zosgakk waited, and grips the hilt of his axe.

As the driver of the carriage peaked out his head, it was met with the cold steel of Zosgakk’s jagged axe.

The passenger guard steadies his sword hand. The captain brazenly swept him from his feet, and slammed his two knuckles right into his face. The guard wriggled and grunted, but after a swift flick of the neck, the noise was silenced.

Zosgakk finally swung open the curtains of the carriage, and snapped the shackles off of the girl with his bare hands. He looked her in the eyes. He made piercing eye contact, and mumbled, “What did you do to end up in these chains?”

Ash smiled and raised her hands. The air in the carriage turned to cinders, flames blossomed in every crevice of the wagon. It was a controlled sea of flames, devoid of ravenous riptide, it was graceful, blooming, and it did an elegant pirouette around Zosgakk’s body.

The flames licked the dangling hairs on the captain’s chin, swept between Ash’s fingers, and dragged a warm, intentional embrace across his body. It was elven tradition. It was a baptism of flames.