Urganza, urged by the hunger roaming in her belly, slowly strode into the hall. The delightful smell wafting in only served to accentuate the growling of her stomach. Laden on the ornate rosewood dining table, stood platters of still warm soup with generous amounts of sautéd morsels floating. Nearby, a finely engraved silver platter promised roasted venison and some other voluminous chunk of meat prepared in proportions that made the source animal unidentifiable to Urganza.

On the other corner of the table, seated pristinely, was Cyrene. Seeing Urganza moving closer to the dining table, she let a warm smile directed at the orc before tearing her eye back to the empty space before her.

"Lovely Cyrene, are you not feeling well? Sick perhaps to dine?" Concern laced in Urganza's voice as she moved closer to the dining table.

"Just basic courtesy to wait for the Lady of the Manor and our generous hostess," replied Cyrene, making every attempt to avoid sinking back into Urganza's mesmerizing gaze.

"You have so elegant manners, Cyrene. You are an educated mage and all, but you have grace worthy of a princess." Urganza was washed in waves of blush and a wide grin of a stupid fool painted on her face. She could only gape at her. Now that she saw Cyrene clearly at the luxurious dining table, the girl felt every bit extravagant as the riches surrounding them. Perhaps, was she born into wealth? Maybe even a minor noble family?

"You are very modesty, Orc Overlord," Cyrene said sheepishly, trying to reestablish a calm atmosphere around her. She desperately tried to calm her nerves when the orc sat next to her and the warm breath blew against her exposed neck.

Seeing Cyrene eyeing the assortment of dishes arrayed on the table, Urganza let her gaze at the appetizing feast set before them. But the appeal of the food held her attention no longer. That delicate pose and the kind demeanour with which Cyrene held herself drew her more than anything else could. Only heightening the fast-surging affection for the mage deep inside her heart. Just looking at her made Urganza fully sate.

An instant later, the maid walked through the hall with carefully measured steps.

"My mistress begs your forgiveness for the delay. She is overwhelmed with her work and needs a while to make herself presentable, but she requests you to enjoy dinner without her," said the maid.

Waiting for the briefest of moments for an acknowledgement and sensing only subtle sparks of tension flying between both the guest, she took in the distance. "Perhaps, could I interest the Orc High-Lady and Esteemed Madame Magistra with some of my own culinary skills?"

Without waiting for a response, she gently placed out the dinner plates before them. Slicing a large morsel, she served them both. "Juiciest venisons carefully marinated in the finest wine of the region for a fortnight in our very own cellar."

Urganza felt the sense of pride swelling inside the maid. Imitating Cyrene, she grabbed the silver cutlery in her hands, a task, only proven all the more difficult due to the callous nature of her hands and more importantly, Urganza was used to holding knives -- to kill brutally, not slice elegantly. The engraved handle, with its sleek curves and lambent surface, too impractical to grip, and unbalanced. The food! The meticulously cooked food, prepared with exotic spices of varied origins, and supposed to fill her taste buds, in turn, just felt horrible. What is wrong with plain boiling complemented by a gracious amount of salt? Salt is all the taste that one needs. And if that proves insufficient, one can always add leeks and garlic. Dump everything in a cauldron, boil till the fat drippings could be scooped -- and delight those tiny orc children running anxiously waiting around the hearth fire. Urganza bit her tongue to cut her thought and wondered where that sudden notion came from?

Taking a slow bit, Urganza tore her eyes away from the garish sight of Cyrene, seated graciously, while slicing a tiny morsel with her silver knife. Urganza, only used to giving into lust, only experienced either a wanton craving after a heated battle or fleeting bonfire tryst, struggled with the effect that the tender girl had on her arid heartscape. After what happened to her family -- what she did to her own family -- the idea of starting her own never intruded the periphery of her thoughts -- until now. With the promise and affection of Cyrene, her divine proclamation of love, thoughts, one after another, unbidden greedily invited themselves into her head.

Unimpeded and seduced by the alluring presence of Cyrene, Urganza's thoughts drifted towards a memory of two other orcish women who met briefly at a communal bonfire. The following day, one of the women sold her most of her belongings, hauling the rest on a mule, she moved in with the other woman. It became a tale to be passed around at lazy campfires, called the haul-ass love. Perhaps, when the undead threat receded, when the Orcs no longer needed the ironclad command of the Overlord, Urganza, flirted with the possibility of doing her own haul-ass with Cyrene.

But then, Cyrene's sound of laughter tore Urganza from her inner thoughts. It came with carefree and unfettered peal, bouncing cheerfully throughout the vast halls.

"Please excuse my rude behaviour," Cyrene wistfully tore her emerald eyes from Urganza and directed it to an empty wall, "Your glare, so intense, it seemed almost as if you are trying to cook your dinner again with those gazes."

"Lovely Cyrene, when I spoke about my desire to have children of my own one day, you never gave me your opinion." The obvious thought jumped out of Urganza's mouth before she could stagger herself.

"I am sure, the children of an Overlord would be healthy, and grow up to be ferocious warriors in their own right." Cyrene gently let her silver fork and knife drop, adjusting the folds of her robe in an elegant swipe, she lifted her and gave Urganza a shy smile.

"But I would rather that the children be learned and respected, holding quills and scrolls instead of axes." Urganza closed her eyes, letting the dreamy plausibility of an impossible reality fill her. The pitter-patter of tiny orc feet....No!...... half-orc feet reverberated vividly in her ears.

Cyrene took another sliced morsel and with a desperate struggle forced it down her throat. The extravagant feast laid out for the two of them barely held a sliver of her attention. For Antilorwe, who held etiquette and social calls in high regard, to miss dinner made the girl feel disconcertingly worried. The rational and irrational parts of her waged war against one another. She swayed, feeling like a coward caught between restraint and indecisiveness. Urganza must have had a hand in Antilorwe's absence. Perhaps, the orc exercised violence on her. A thought that was probable and yet improbable simultaneously, especially when the aura of Urganza saturated her senses.

Surely, the tender emotions that she felt during the early afternoon, with those languid pettings and delicate touches, Urganza could not have assaulted Antilorwe. Urganza was so full of affection and rhythm. So very beautiful in her own way. Not in a conventional sense as one would regard the shape of eyes or the prominence of cheekbones or the curvaceousness of the body, but rather subtle, like how one would wait long to catch the sudden crease to appear at the corner of lips or the brightness behind the eyes when she becomes passionate and how Cyrene could never get tired of it. And when she slowly cupped her organ, even for that tiny moment, Cyrene thought it was cute. Not that Cyrene had any attachments to it, but nevertheless it was adorable in the same way that even the ugliest of puppies would look adorable when held close in Urganza's callous palms. A deep blush painted Cyrene at the salacious image flooded her memory again. Seated close by, Urganza's radiance dimmed the opulence of the lavishly decorated atmosphere.

Thoughts churned endlessly in the void of Cyrene's mind. Urganza seemed to have awoken all her latent potential for indeterminacy. Cyrene's sense of demure demanded that she ignore Urganza. Her carnal affection for Antilorwe and herself had nothing to do with the love. Orc Overlord is valued by the number of partners they bedded, the concubines, consorts or wives whatever the name those brute term it as -- all serve to only boost the orc’s own prowess. There is a male orc chieftain waiting for Urganza back home, probably more than one. How else could she dream of bearing children?

Cyrene was more enraged by the audacity with which Urganza mentioned it. So very casual. Does the orc expect her to teach her children magic? Sling spells and work glamour. Not that Cyrene would mind, teaching them. She would even come to appreciate a few snooty little brats to add a bit of adorable unpredictability to her life. And if it brought the additional incentive of guaranteeing Antilorwe’s life, Cyrene could not have wished for anything better. Perhaps Urganza had higher aspirations -- to be beyond the Overlord. To guide the Orcs away from a roving lifestyle. A kingdom for the Orcs. That is the source of her seeping desire to have her children scholarly trained. To be princes and princesses.

Calming her anxious nerves, Cyrene meticulously ran the logical validity of her reasoning. And, surprisingly, found it to be sound. No absurdities to claim otherwise in Urganza’s actions. The girl mage pressed her palms together, allowing the exhilaration of unravelling one piece of the puzzle to flow through her. Convinced of no further flaw in her deduction, Cyrene let her thoughts drift towards those powerful and vivid images.

The question pounded in her head. Why were those images during climax sharper and sharper with each subsequent orgasm? Why did the image of the dreadful eldritch Knight from Asterlund present itself in her mind? Or why was Urganza encased under that armour?

Meanwhile, summoning every shroud of professionalism, Antilorwe's maid, stepped behind silently, as was expected of someone of her position in such events. The maid, used to reading the expressions and gestures of a hundred esteemed aristocrats, without the ability to gaze into the thoughts racing in Cyrene's head, concluded -- in her professional capacity -- that there are dimwitted people but Cyrene, with her ability for perceiving the unsaid, could make a village idiot in a tiny isolated hamlet blare like a wise sage.

---

Tharkas ascended the steep climb, ignoring the icy gales of wind and the dark billowing clouds gathering at the summit. The seneschal availed the comfort of no cloak. His body -- though past its prime -- was still tempered to withstand the harsh elements. Heaving another deep breath, he lithely hopped along the trail, with his eyes fixed on the summit; or rather, on the figures huddled there.

Reaching the summit, Tharkas felt the still silence. The orc knew it was deceptive, for no one would speak in the shaman conclave. Not unless it was necessary. With his feet firmly rooted in the centre, a vast circle with natural swirls marring the rocky ground, Tharkas let his gaze sweep through the boulders and the forms seated before them. Old and powerful, gnarled bones and yet backs as broad as an ancient mountain range, unconquered by time. Every one of them was cloaked in shadows.

"Why was I summoned?" asked Tharkas.

"We sense a great disturbance coming from her. The spirits are restless." A voice, old, controlled and brimming with power, projected itself from beneath one of the boulders.

"The Overlord is beyond fault. She had defended the orcs from incursion and undead," defended Tharkas.

"What she did is not for discussion. It is what the Kinslayer would do that....."

Tharkas's voice cut; rang with an insistent resolve and authority."That is Orc Overlord Urganza to you, shaman."

"Did the title of Seneschal bound you to a loyalty that made you blind to your task, Tharkas?" A voice, like the dying wheezing of an old woman, pierced through him.

"I am the seneschal and my duty is to protect the orcs," shouted Tharkas in vain.

"Your duty, little Tharkas," a hand, spindly, poked his chest with a surprising force that Tharkas thought would pierce through his heart, "is to protect the orcs from the Kinslayer herself."

"Kinslayer," scoffed Tharkas and spat out the word as if it were venom, "You made her the Kinslayer. Did the death of Gramma Tortha give you courage?"

"Gramma Tortha was never a shaman, blessed by the spirits but not a spirit talker. Her bones have long dusted and auguries of the Thunder Caller tribe are never wrong." Another shaman spoke from the comfort of his shadows.

"She is the last of the Thunder Callers," accused another voice.

"You cannot punish her for a crime that is not her own. That she has not committed." Tharkas maintained his sternness, determined not to budge. He had known Urganza better than any, stood by her, and carried her unconscious form to safety.

"Is it foolishness to smite a serpent before it sinks its fangs?" asked the first speaker.

"I cannot say, it depends on your wisdom!" Tharkas wished he could be down with the other orcs, planning their defences. The conclave was anything but pointless. All he needed to know, Urganza is unyielding and just as any orc should be.

"Perhaps, I could add my own voice to the conclave -- from an outsider's perspective, of course." The voice belonged to the one stepping from behind the camouflage of a boulder.

Skin dark as a moonless night, blended with the natural darkness of the summit, making him barely perceptible. Tharkas had to squint his eyes to infer the ancient form of the speaker, clad in rags, but it was the dancing golden eyes, a trait rare among orcs and dark-elves that held Tharkas's attention. Pasted on his ebon skin, surrounded by the eternal darkness of the cloudy night, those golden eyes, made Tharkas shiver. His very skeleton begged to escape the flesh cage of his body.

"A dark-elf speaking in the conclave? What right granted you entry?" Tharkas, despite his bold words, clenched his palms to hide the terror undulating through his self.

"We do not turn when help seeks us." A whisper rose among the figures.

"Who raises their blades when demons spill out from portals?" asked Altonarak to no one in particular. His voice orotund, the rich timbre reverberating through the boulders made Tharkas steady himself. "Not the high-elves, they would soon erect their barriers and fester behind. Not the dwarves retreating behind their walled mountainous citadels. The humans could only pray and hope for deliverance to come to them; someone else to solve their problems."

"But the orcs would be the first to rush in. Brave and relentless." Altonarrak closed the distance and now stood close to Tharkas. His fingers clasped on the orc's shoulder in gentle reassurance. "We share very little borders. No disputes."

"The Stormlord trusted and it did not end well. Our people, driven like soulless dolls and even now, undead defile our graves," spat Tharkas surprising himself with his vitriol.

"Lord Seneschal, my presence here is not an act of altruism. The orcs need to survive so that we do not have to fight. Your survival ensures our comfortable living." Removing his hand from Tharkas's shoulder, Altonarrak spun, letting his gaze flow through the conclave. Assured that he held their attention, the dark-elf spoke, "Lord Seneschal's loyalty is a commendable trait, embodying the noble virtues of the orcs, but prophecy or omens are not jagged edges in the flow of time. There should be streams feeding into it. Perhaps, convene with your ancestral spirits, to dissipate Lord Seneschal's doubts."

And so, bones were cast. Before the last bone rolled, without a warning, lightning struck -- dangerously close to where Tharkas stood, almost as if the spirits would strike him for his impudence -- and cleaved the bone die into two perfect fragments.

"You have your sign, little Tharkas," the original voice returned.

"You call that a sign? Lightning striking the top of a mountain on a stormy night?" Tharkas eyed all with an uncompromising gaze. Their petty games have gone too far and he refused to be a part of it.

"Look carefully Tharkas." Every voice spoke in an eerie chorus. "One split into two perfect halves. So shall the kinslayer’s heart, split into two equal measures, to be shared between two others."

"That is your sign to act, little Tharkas."

Even without any preternatural abilities, Tharkas felt a dreadful shudder travel past his spine.

---

Walking with his back to the summit, Altonarrak summoned the wraith. He needed the familiar tangible feeling of his weapon. The feel of the handle almost soothing like caressing an old lover. Risking to glance back, a sly smirk crossed his face.

After all, spells cast without any somatic components are the best for subtlety, but the splitting of bone and their interpretation baffled even him.