Annoyingly bright sunlight greeted Drell’ eyes as she stepped from the slipstream and promptly threw up. Using the blasted thing multiple times in a short period had predictably not done wonders for her stomach, and as such her breakfast was vacated all over the pretty cobblestones of Viltache, the Thronehome of the Living Gods.
Shame, it was a pretty good meal, all things considered. With a tired grunt, the orc wiped her mouth and stepped from the hidden alleyway. The slipstream beacon here had been sealed inside a wall, and despite all her precautions, whether or not anyone glimpsed her was up to fate. What happened then would all depend on how they could run and what sort of mood Drell found herself in.
Perhaps the only true unruled city in the world, the Thronehome was an immaculate city that sprawled towards the horizon, built inside and along the slopes of the Dawn Valley. It was the reigning seat of the Thrones Above, the chosen Pantheon-home. As such, no mortal had, and would ever, hold power here. Drell dusted herself off as she strode along the tidy, well-maintained streets, only her clothes and boots about her person. Outsiders such as herself were strictly forbidden to carry weapons, she was reminded by notices that regularly hung upon announcement posts.
The air smelled...clean, for lack of a better term. Likely because Viltache forbade its residents to dump their chamberpots in the streets. Simple orc hygienics that were common sense had to be mandates by their gods to other mortal races. Drell found some amusement in this fact, a faint smile on her face as she stiffly strode along. Her torn outfit and smell of dried blood drew regular gazes as she walked, but she had broken no laws, and was largely left alone.
Familiar streets beckoned to her, the promise of old haunts and comfortable taverns that pulled at her attention. She blithely ignored them and soldiered on, always in a general direction. Her actual destination lay an inconveniently large span from her beacon’s location. One made doubly so by her aching wound and the weight of fatigue that pressed down upon her now.
Fate cackled at Drell’s expense once more as a squad of redcloaks rounded the corner ahead of Drell and immediately took notice of the large, blood-stained orc that wandered amongst the commonfolk. These followers of whatever god they had pledged themselves to patrolled the streets as an unofficial authority in their chosen deity’s name to keep the peace, or so they proclaimed.
She fought to keep a still expression as they marched straight up to her, a disciplined unit clad in light armor, crimson cloaks over their shoulders. She had not the faintest idea which Throne they pledged themselves to, and today, she had not the slightest interest either.
“Ho, good lady.” Their lead officer spoke. Or she assumed he was an officer, for he had no ornate helmet or any marking with which to distinguish himself. Had she not been so annoyed, Drell suspected she might approve of this. A commander rendering themselves indistinguishable from their soldiers gave no obvious target for snipers or mages.
“I am most decidedly not a lady.” She grunted, arms folded across her chest. “The good part is arguable as well.”
The pale-skinned human chose to ignore that and continue his inquiries.
“Kindly inform us as to your business, good lady.” He intoned, face neutral and tone sharp. “Your destination and your departure.”
The hidden edge in those words spoke as to why Drell found no fond memories of this city. These neat, prim and proper denizens had little tolerance for wild and unkempt beasts such as herself. She grit her teeth and forced the words out in the most measured tone she was capable of mustering. For Veska.
“A visit to Ishtira’s Temple. Business. My departure will come soon after.”
The man looked her up and down, expression still neutral. His scent, however, reeked of contempt.
“Ah. I had mistaken you for the Blood God’s ilk. But I suppose the Harlot takes all kinds, even you.”
Drell matched his flat gaze with one of guarded disdain. Another time, she would have put more effort into this verbal spar, perhaps sought to gain the upper hand in some cosmic pissing contest. But today, she was tired and hurry rushed her steps.
“If there is nothing else, you may continue your esteemed patrol.” She snapped at him, the irate tone made clear.
A mistake.
At a nod, his retinue moved to encircle the orc, hands upon their weapons. Violence was imminent now, and Drell was reminded why exactly she had left this metropolis of pettiness. The redcloak looked her up and down, face still as stone.
“I believe there will be a few more questions, in due time.” He nodded to his men. “Take her back to the Watchouse.”
Drell narrowed her eyes and prepared to grab for the nearest weapon within reach.
“You have no authority over me, redcloak.” She spat on the ground before him. “Like or as not, I am an acolyte of Ishtira, and blood will flow if you lay a hand upon me. March your pretty units along the streets all you want, but meddle in the affairs of other gods, and you will not live to regret it.”
Violence lurked behind a thin veneer now, ready to spring loose upon the quickly deserted streets. All was not well within the Thronehome, and now, the fragile peace began to crack and tear.
“Draw your weapons and be rent limb from limb, or sheathe them and walk away with your lives and minds intact.” Drell snarled, utter disdain in her tone. Every moment wasted here was another Veska suffered. And, Thrones Above, she had so little patience for the strut and would-be authority of lesser men upon this day.
Rationality -and perhaps a healthy dose of fear- prevailed this day, and the pale human commanded his unit to stand down. Drell’Akhosha nodded and pushed past, heart pounding in her chest. She could barely stand, let alone fight a rested and god-blessed pack of trained warriors.
Her bluff -and it was one, make no mistake- had worked today. Much as she had disrespected his authority, and humans were temperament creatures that held that in almost divine regard, he would not be the one to shatter the fragile peace between the god-cults today. They parted ways in silence, and Drell winced and the uniform stomp of their boots faded into the distance. Although he had not said as much, she had added a new enemy today.
But, that was what she oh so excelled at, Drell bitterly thought as she hobbled along.
The ‘temple’ of Ishtira was less inclined towards a traditional temple of marbled pillars and neat courtyards, and more of a sprawling, multi-storied whorehouse. Extravagant beyond measure, curtained in the finest drapes and staffed by the blessed of the Goddess of lust and love. Drell stomped up the wooden steps, the scent of sweat and fucking heavy in her nostrils, dulled only by the sweet smoke that permeated every pore of wood.
Drell was aware she stood out sorely among the other races that gathered here, from pale humans to tanned drow to scaled lizard-people. An Orc within the Thronehome was a rare sight, and only one paid tribute to a non-warrior god. Still, she had not come here to care about their gawps and gazes. Boots heavy with fatigue, she stomped up the wooden stairs and pushed open the great doors.
A figure turned as she entered within, and Drell was greeted by a person she had wished not to see. Draconic features eyed her up and down, pale white eyes with no irises that saw none of the world’s light. A tall, lanky frame was hidden beneath loose clothes that flowed down his form, black as the void.
“Drell’Ahkosha.” Her old master hissed. Even in politeness, she could hear the disappointment that ladened his tone as he spoke her name. “Returned once more.”
The orc gritted her teeth, a slight pulse of shame and regret among her emotions.
Words she had sworn to never speak again were forced from lips, every syllable an eternity unto itself.
“I need your help, master.”
The dragon in mortal form regarded her with blank eyes, and she could hear the arrogance hidden behind his patient veneer as Kur’staht, the Ancient of Days, spoke.
“Once more you return, burdened by the crushing weight of your inadequacies. And where has your doomed path led you, crushed under the load of your own failure? Back to me.”
Silence fell heavy between the two as the pleasure house continued to move with life around them, until the dragon finally sighed and relented.
“Fine.” He grumbled. “You have no doubt dragged yourself a long and arduous way, if your disheveled state is to judge. Let us find a place to patch you up and see what absolute foolishness you have come to wrought upon me today.”
Drell swayed, light-headed from the weight that bore down upon her, and the Dragon merely watched as she fell face-forward. A single claw seized her by the scruff of her neck and hauled her upright before she gracelessly struck the floor.
“Ihstira’s tits, you really are helpless.” was all Drell heard before the combined burden of fatigue, wounds both mortal and magical, and the stress of constant slipstreams overtook her.
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