Chapter 2 - The Domes

 

"That was interesting. What a sweet... lady." Gungmar declared as he ascended the timeworn stairs step-by-step leading up to the plaza, the midday sun's warmth beaming down on him with sweat trickling down his brow. "She's too sweet to trust a stranger like me; and all I have to do is deliver Elder Harrfell's package to him as a service for a free rucksack, which she already gave me, and she's not even entirely suspicious that I won't do it? Too trusting, that Sshashina," he muttered.

The strange slitherfolk piqued his interest because she reminded him of a doting mother in some ways: kind, friendly, and fussy. Except for those times she made flirtatious remarks about him as well as the playful flickering of her forked tongue whenever Gungmar met her coy stare at times back at the emporium, then she was like that. And also, for some strange reason, she reminded him of his mother in a way. His witty and caring mother.

The half-orc slowly blinked in contemplation and shook his head lightly. Now's not the time, he thought as he discarded the memory for now.

The slitherfolk's costly gift—bargain, he supposed—was strapped to his back, in its glistening, untouched leather. A new piece of equipment he was grateful to have. In exchange, he, of course, had to take on Sshashina's offer as an errand boy. What could possibly go wrong with this remarkably easy job?

Gungmar pondered on the slitherfolk as his gaze stretched across the entirety of the square-shaped plaza with its three-way intersection Sshashina told him about once he arrived at the top: the beautiful, tiled floor drew in all who looked at its simple yet sophisticated motif, with a few occupied benches on either side of the plaza, and large, decorative trees as well as flowerbeds with a variety of colorful, well, flowers that brightened up one's mood, a statue, dormant lantern posts, and some wandering greenskins that made the otherwise vacant plaza less than lonely.

This was the first time Gungmar had set foot in this no doubt wealthy section of Zurul's Ward. Not having any reason to come here at all, with today as an exception. He felt out of place here, and to make matters worse, the richly-dressed, milling strangers in the plaza gave him weird looks, wondering what someone like him was doing there. Or so he imagined.

Though, he was careful not to catch their gazes and attention.

The half-orc wiped his sweat with his fur mantle and ignored all the judgmental stares. He cracked his neck and walked with a slackened gait to the plaza's monument; the chiseled stone statue in the center. Just blend in and do nothing unusual, he considered.

Gungmar finally faced the imposing statue in front of him, its glorious stony features bearing down on him with a domineering aura. A mix of curious and bored eyes looked at him from nearby, with a pair of orcs reluctantly admiring his physique from a bench, which was great and in shape. For a half-orc, that is. Though, Gungmar wasn't exactly privy to their thoughts, and he didn't care. Not even the ladies milking in his attractive appearance, especially his thoughtful mien.

The half-orc's entire focus was on the statue of what seemed like an individual of renown. He was getting increasingly curious about it, so he scrutinized the statue's lifelike features in keen detail and read the placard beneath its dignified pedestal. The fixed looks of the strangers around the plaza on him looked away in disinterest when they realized he wasn't doing anything interesting; just regarding the statue of their hero like it was the first time he had seen it. An awestruck admirer.

"He, the Scourge of the Humans, was Old Grantel the Berserker. May he make merry with the Divine..." The half-orc craned his neck upwards, taking in the sight of the statue aptly named 'the Scourge': it was an orc with a long and bushy beard that reached from his wide jaw to his fat belly while wearing an expression full of joy on his face and had his hands resting above his waist.

Gungmar could sense a proud air of dominance emanating from the statue, even though it was merely a carved figure of a long-dead hero. He noticed that an ear was torn apart in a gruesome fashion; giving the impression of an ugly, nasty bite that the sculptor had masterfully conveyed for Grantel's mangled scar despite the limitations of the hard stony material.

Gungmar was awed and perplexed at the same time.

Furthermore, he noticed that Grantel was bald and scarred, just like the annoying simpleton back at the prison. But, despite the buoyant air he exuded, this relatively smaller hero was more formidable and intimidating, as well as friendlier, than the huge Aznarr.

Grantel wore nothing but a lengthy loincloth covering his modesty, his well-defined muscles protruding like veins contrasting with his humongous gut. His build was the epitome of a strongman—in this case, a strong-orc.

There was no sign of a weapon on him, signifying that Old Grantel was a barehanded fighter who could easily break bones and snap necks. His massive, meaty hands can undoubtedly attest to that.

Regrettably, he lives no longer on the mortal plane, and Gungmar will never be able to see the truth for himself.

"The Scourge, huh? I'd hate to fight an opponent like that." The half-orc was taken in by the statue's opulence and wondered briefly what the real Grantel was like. Jolly and happy-go-lucky during times of celebrations, feasts, and late-night revels. But, when war does come, he imagined that Grantel would still keep a smile on his face while tearing out the limbs and faces of his enemies in a jovial approach.

Terrifying, thought Gungmar.

"...yet still incredible," muttered the half-orc, nodding wisely to himself. For a brief minute or two, his gaze explored every inch of the statue to his heart's content.

The Scourge of the Humans, an old hero of the past indeed. He had heard whispers and war stories shared around the campfire back during the half-orc's days in the Gratt Desert, while actively engaging the humans and, to a lesser extent, the desert nomads, in the ongoing struggle between them and his people. But only today had he actually met him in person, albeit as a sculpture.

The Scourge was an intriguing fellow to think about.

But, after a while, he got tired of thinking and exhaled deeply. "As much fun as it is to keep staring at Old Grantel... I have to go now," he said to no one in particular. The tranquility of the plaza and the statue made him hesitant to leave, but the pressing matter of his punishment demanded his presence.

Now, what was it about the plaza that Sshashina had said? Her helpful instructions regarding the directions were to... 'go to the left of the statue towards the Domes of the Elders; with Elder Harrfell (or rather, Sir Zagrim's, as she said) and the others in their studies'. Gungmar recalled.

Seems easy enough.

The Domes were to his left as he faced Old Grantel with the plaza divided and leading into four directions—three if the way he came from was ignored. He had no business ahead on the straight, narrow path behind the statue, nor to the right path, which had a single, gods-ugly gatekeeper leaning against the stone wall outside the elaborate, wrought iron gate sturdily built to keep out the riffraff, and alertly looking around for any shifty undesirables; they were probably just other important, restricted areas for the wealthy and influential, unfit for the likes of him.

With those two out of the question, there was only one path left.

Gungmar walked down the left passageway with hurried footsteps, leaving a few strangers disappointed and unconcerned. As he walked down the smooth stone path, he noticed impressive-looking yet densely packed buildings: domed structures with varying designs painted behind their grand architecture with dazzling, expensive colors and fantastical murals of past and current Elders cast in their greatness and tribe's colors, as well as thick, finely-crafted glass windows that showed off the domes' richly splendor from the sun's warm rays that bounced off them.

Money and power can truly buy a person's heart's desire, huh?

A guard was beside the door for each of the four domes. Adorned in steel mail over their gambesons, a visorless helmet, gauntlet, and greaves, and with a great halberd on top of that: they cut dashing figures. Though, even if they exuded professionalism from their stalwart demeanor with barely a crack in their expressions, Gungmar would happily bet a gold coin that they don't know anything about real fighting—that is, the messier, more dangerous, merciless kind of fighting that soldiers go through.

War.

Given that they are, well, guards of law and order bound by restrictive rules and mercy. Their appearance and aura don't certainly inspire confidence in their ability to kill and hurt, really hurt, on command.

The way they carried themselves was unlike those of battle-scarred veterans who were wary, fidgety, and had an isolated thousand-yard stare whenever they zone out. Not that Gungmar embodied those specific traits, he was just generalizing, but he could still instinctively know when a person was dangerous or just... a nobody.

And that's exactly that. The Elders' guards were... unremarkable. He was more likely to feel threatened by Aznarr, the Elders, the Warlord, or even that immobile statue of Old Grantel.

So, naturally, he felt relaxed now and, with a scratch on his temple, just stood in the middle of the passageway to the Domes' entrances, observing the guards and, naturally, the domes and murals which caught his attention for minutes on end.

The guards faced their front expressionlessly, not moving or even acknowledging the half-orc's presence, though it did annoy one guard in particular. Except for the telltale signs of their uncovered green skin, they'd be easily mistaken for statues or tall gargoyles; their devotion to their jobs could even be applauded.

Aside from Gungmar and the guards, this place was devoid of life.

There were signs above each guard, hanging from a mounting attached to the wall. Each displayed the names of the Elders in eye-catching letters, as well as cleverly depicted illustrations and marks about their territories.

Gungmar figured he'd read all of them because why not? In no particular order, he read the signs' contents with a pensive stare.

 

    Elder Gadfell. Elder of the North, Chieftain of the Serpent-God's Domain.

A fathomless snake with hypnotic blue scales and spikes wrapped its scaly body around the words, obstructing a few letters but otherwise remaining legible.

The Elder's Seal was of an intimidating and otherworldly reptilian gaze enclosed in a ring. The Serpent-God of the Divine. Ever-sleeping and solitary.

 

    Elder Harrfell. Elder of the West, Chieftain of the Great Desert of Gratt.

Damn you Harrfell!

The lower side of the sign was slightly defaced by a crossed-out slander against Elder Harrfell. Aside from the insulting remark, there were humanoid figures with massive brown-feathered wings and claws, in what appeared to be bird-people—Harpies, the word came to mind—flying above a barbarous desert and its harsh mountains.

The Elder's Seal was of a harpy's wickedly sharp claw that could instantly gouge out an eyeball, surrounded by freely falling silver feathers around the talon, and enclosed in a ring.

 

    Elder Marrhfell. Elder of the South, Chieftain of the Ocean of Marrh.

There were ships of all sizes sailing on the ocean's ferocious waves, calmly heading towards a lighthouse masterfully depicted on the far side of the sign, with birds perched on top of the tall structure.

The Elder's Seal was of a fearsome, grinning orc's skull with a scar running down an eye to the cheek, blowing a cigar's expensive smoke enclosed in a ring. Charming.

 

    Elder Klenfell. Elder of the East, Chieftain of the Inferior Lesser Desert of Klen.

The sign was similarly defaced as the second's, leading the observing half-orc to believe that the Elders Harrfell and Klenfell had some sort of rivalry going on. It amused him to see their slanders crossed out on each other's signs and not even replacing them with better, cleaner ones. Vengeful and resentful, they were. Probably.

On the sign were illustrations of low rolling sandy hills, magnificent desert palaces, and various, deadly beasts stalking and prowling in the background: giant scorpions with similarly giant stingers, creepy spiked lizards, the Horde's vurgrs—a hardy, monstrous wolf breed that serve as pack animals and steeds for the Horde, and occasionally, food—as well as skulking felines.

The Elder's Seal was of a snarling vurgr's jaws, with mighty, repulsive, pointed teeth capable of biting off a person's arm with far more ease than, say, an orc grunt's tusked jaw. Moreover, foamy saliva secreted itself from the vurgr's vicious maw.

 

After a good long look, Gungmar was impressed; their fancy symbols and spectacular-sounding titles were appealing to look at. And useful to know.

The half-orc memorized all pertinent information about the Elders in his brain. You never know when you'll need these specific pieces of information. And, fortunately, he had a good memory.

He purposefully sauntered toward Elder Harrfell's dome with a convincingly relaxed gait, his nerves steady and a stoic mask concealing his apprehension.

When he neared, the guard stopped him with a gruff but womanly voice, her halberd blocking the entrance to the Elder's study the moment he was within her weapon's reach. She extended a gauntleted hand as her helmeted gaze fell on the half-orc, unsubtly revealing a mild scowl. Gungmar snorted in amusement at her look as her scowl turned into a full-on glare, her knuckles turning white on her weapon's shaft.

"You", she said with a tinge of venom, "state your business, gawker."

Whoops, he didn't mean to do that. Looks like this lady-orc has a short fuse. Better not aggravate the situation, contemplated the half-orc.

Gungmar placed the package carefully on the ground while keeping his stare leveled at the guardswoman's irritated gaze, and then let the spear lean on his shoulder safely while widely displaying both open hands at her in a gesture of peace, a neutral expression on his face. "Just here for my reprimand, guardswoman," Gungmar said calmly.

"Reprimand, you say?" She frowned at him, less intensely this time, as her eyes took in the half-orc's appearance. She kept her eyes trained on him, his weapon, and the mysteriously, suspicious package at all times.

Her silence lasted about a minute before she finally spoke up.

"Papers, then. Please." Was all she said.

"Papers? What?" Was all he asked.

Sighing, the guardswoman thrust out a palm to Gungmar with an expectant look, her previous irritation yielding down to a stony facade she plastered. Behind that restrictive, vision-hampering, stupid-looking helmet of hers, she raised a curious eyebrow at the slow Gungmar, while awaiting his papers.

After an awkward quarter-minute, Gungmar spoke up in mild confusion. "I don't have anything like that, guardswoman."

"No papers mean no entry into the Elder's dome, gawker," she said, a smirk spreading across her face as her entire demeanor relaxed instantly when she heard that, but she still carried herself with the same professionalism one would expect from someone part of an Elder's retinue.

Unperturbed, Gungmar continued. "The..." He tried to pick out the right words to say while chewing on his lip, "...warden, with a single-braid, shabby leather jerkin, and a voice that seemed bored all the time, back at the underground prison—don't know his name—gave me nothing of the sort, guardswoman." He injected a slight amount of authority into his voice, surprising her.

The lady-orc flinched slightly at his tone and flushed as she spoke, her smirk gone. "S-single-braid? And a monotone voice?" Her surprised features curved into a scowl in questioning realization, letting slip Gungmar's provocative tone from earlier. "Tell me, gawker, did he, that warden fu—friend of mine, have a shorter assistant with him today?"

"Yes, he did."

"And he didn't give you anything of the sort? Did he, that pathetic excuse for a warden, not instruct his assistant to distribute important papers to important prisoners in need of higher-level assistance? Elder-related prisoners!?" She hissed.

"I don't know, for sure. But, yes. I guess." For a moment, Gungmar recalled the assistant's worried face that darted at him and the warden before being called to follow. Perhaps, that was what the guardswoman was referring to? About the papers? He wasn't sure, so he didn't speak up about it. No need to add to the confusion.

The lady-orc cursed softly, her teeth clenched in anger, and her free hand balled up in a fist. The guard near her post, of Elder Gadfell's dome, coughed in embarrassment after inadvertently hearing something uncomfortable. He hadn't known at all that his friend and a sort-of colleague had something, anything really, that bothered her to the point she cursed in the presence of the Domes.

Gungmar patiently waited for a few seconds for her to regain her composure.

"...godsdammit, Eetia, you only had one job. One damn job, which I blame you for. Charsig's a responsible kid, so it must have been you who forgot about it. Dammit, you always have to muck everything up... fuck, the paperwork..." She mumbled.

Gungmar pretended not to hear, his gaze wandering elsewhere rather than at her. Unfortunately, she interrupted, forcing him to return his attention to the lady-orc.

"Apologies, gawk—civilian. The papers are important, yes, but your business as an ex-prisoner in need of a reprimand is important as well... we can't have that kind of issue unresolved. All able bodies with all their problems settled are needed for the Horde's dealings... but even so..." She yammered on lamely.

Gungmar zoned out as the lady-orc talked to an inattentive audience, unaware.

He didn't have time to sit around and wait for only the Divine knows how long. Because, now that he thought about it, there was always the possibility that he'd be assaulted at some point during the day as retaliation for the officer he'd gotten himself in a scuffle with—possibly, suffering a crippling injury or, worse, death. And when that fight happens, he only has his spear-arm to rely on against a high-ranking, rich, and resentful officer out for revenge. And his hired thugs and hired mages and magical beasts.

Shit.

Gungmar shuddered, and gritted his teeth, unconsciously digging his nails painfully into his palms, but fortunately not hard enough to draw blood.

The quicker he gets punished, the better. The punishment would effectively bail him out of additional harassment and unofficial retribution. After all, most of the Ward's inhabitants strictly adhere to the rules of those of the supreme. The powerful.

And nobody sane would break their unwritten and unspoken rules.

Before the lady-orc could voice out the last bit of her thoughts regarding postponing the half-orc's punishment, he piped in with a suggestion. Irritated, she just listened.

"I could... just go inside, guardswoman. There's no need for the papers." He whispered so slowly that only she could hear as if the very thing he was suggesting was of a matter of great and dangerous import. Which it was, at least for him.

Scandalized, the lady-orc scowled once again at him and hissed. "Haven't you listened to a word I said!? Why would I do that!? That doesn't follow proper proce—"

"Look, I get it," Gungmar said, interrupting her. "The papers are important, but—" His mind raced with thoughts for a persuasive purpose, recalling everything his old friend had taught him years back. The effective way to persuade people was to coax them with gentle words laced with fine-drawn threats underneath, "—but you're a trusted attendant of an Elder's retinue. Surely, the Elder expects nothing less than the best from his people, right?" He drawled on, wearing what he hoped was a convincing smile.

"Obviously! But—" Alas, the guardswoman ignored his attempt of a charming smile. So, Gungmar simply dropped it. His friend, Karmal; sociable and charismatic and gallant like a human knight, was much better than him at this kind of thing.

"But what?" He went on unprompted. "If Elder Harrfell discovers you've neglected your duties by forgetting the papers about your Elder-related prisoner—me—don't you think you'll be easily replaced?" Of course, he was spouting drivel. It wasn't the guardswoman who fucked up his papers, it was that warden. But still, this type of threat would work; worm suspicion on her employer's mind, then voilà! The rest is up to fate.

"You'll lose your job. Your status will vanish. And, please, as much as I annoyed you earlier, I don't want someone I've just met to lose their livelihood." Gungmar pleaded with feigned sincerity. He wasn't sure whether what he said would happen because he was just bullshitting, but he bet his chances on all the rumors surrounding the Elders.

After all, their ruthless reputes demanded that the mind draw its conclusions about what they alluded to.

Would they kill for the slightest misstep or disrespect from a subordinate, or torture and discard them like a broken and battered doll? Or would they pursue the subtle kind, threatening their livelihoods, families, and friends? Or none at all, though that didn't seem likely based on his assumptions. Gungmar wasn't sure, but he figured it was worth a shot to scare and persuade the lady-orc to let him in.

He did feel bad for using this underhanded tactic, but he erased his guilt quickly as it came.

"You..." She racked her brain, staring at the inscrutable blank look of the damn half-orc in front of her. She calculated the risk of sweeping this particular no-papers incident under the rug to the wrath of her employer when, no, if, he finds out that she hadn't performed up to his standards.

Well, with those in mind, the decision was easy to pick for her.

With an exasperated sigh, she sagged her shoulders and bowed her head dejectedly at him. "...of course, civilian. You are entirely correct. Please, enter the Dome of Elder Harrfell, Chieftain of the Great Desert of Gratt." She smiled politely but reluctantly.

Gungmar grinned to himself internally. That went great, he thought.

Without further ado, the lady-orc unblocked the doorway with her halberd and held out an open palm for the half-orc's belongings.

Nodding to himself for a job well done of convincing (and mildly threatening) the hardened guardswoman, he tried to give her only his spear but was stopped by an arm.

"And those things as well, civilian. The backpack and your... package." She said as she tilted her chin at them. "And—wait, is that a slitherfolk's sweets box?" She asked in disbelief, taking a closer look at the package's cute illustration of Sshashina eating cake with a silver fork.

"Err, they're safe. Sshashina, a shopkeeper and... my friend, tasked me to deliver Elder Harrfell's package. The cost's already paid for, she told me." The guardswoman scoffed at him in disbelief as he continued. "...and the rucksack's empty. Look inside, I'm all good," he said, opening the rucksack and showing her the empty contents, to which she nodded in disappointment. Gungmar gave her an odd look.

Satisfied and confused yet still wary, nonetheless, the guardswoman believed Gungmar's words. Some of them, at any rate. He didn't look like an assassin and he sure as hells wasn't a dangerous fellow with that ribbon-tied spear of his, although her first impression of him was that he was an annoying asshole. Otherwise, Elder Marrhfell's bulky and perceptive guard's intuition would have warned all four of them of his murderous intent. Bloodlust. If any.

Unbeknownst to them, he does know when to hide and hold back his bloodlust, and even if he does use it, he only uses it to terrify enemies into submission rather than paralyzing and killing them outright like a stone-cold killer. And he wasn't a killer anymore, just a flawed soldier; a machine of war who spares his enemies because of the influence of time and a pair of friends. For three, good, long years since then had he last killed.

The lady-orc knocked loudly on the door's knocker in quick succession before pulling the massive, timber door open and tilting her head at the half-orc to come in.

Gungmar obliged, handing her his spear, minus his package and rucksack because he explained everything to her in an instant. Again. And emphasizing that he wasn't joking and that the truth is the truth.

The door then closed beside the guardswoman who muttered, shocked.

"So, he wasn't lying? At all? That Elder Harrfell has a sweet tooth...?"