Voj’Kasak slumped under the baobab, back against the thick column of its trunk, scraggly hair stirred by the breeze. I trotted up and dropped to my knees beside him. His flat, faraway eyes rose to my face and focused on me through the heavy folds of his eyelids.

  “Good kill or get laid? Someone actually touched you? Wasn’t an orc,” he sassed, the long pipe in his hand jabbing me in the shoulder.

  That squashed some of my enthusiasm. I snorted, then unfolded my gently cupped hands to show him Loogie. The fluffy worm craned its turtlish face to squint up at the crusty old orc, blinking slowly. Then it crawled to dangle off my palm, and I ended up laddering my hands beneath it as it kept trying to slink off.

  “Huh,” Voj’Kasak grunted. “Tan’Fukshan has blessed your half-breed ass.”

  “Great, yeah, but how do I take care of it? What does it do?”

  “Don’t know.” The old orc shrugged. “The last warrior who had Vash’Ora faded into memory many generations ago. Burz’Ash Ghash Patarshan unified many tribes; those that didn’t join were obliterated. Many legends. A charm, a blessing, a herald. Could be any, or none.”

  I shifted to sit, feet touching to form a makeshift corral with my legs, and let Loogie settle on the dusty ground. A barely audible eep reached my ears. The critter started rolling in the dust frantically, tiny snorts and cheeps coming from it. Either it was ecstatic, or dying from dust inhalation. Voj’Kasak watched it, his gaze contemplative.

  Crack.

  My head rocked at the solid connection. I shot him an angry look and rubbed the side of my head. Dirty little prick. Hadn’t even seen him pick up his fucking walking stick. Voj’Kasak cackled, rocking where he sat, waggling his pipe at me like the demented jerk he was.

  “How do you know it’s Vash’Ora, then?” I grumbled, rubbing knuckles over the slight bump that formed. My gaze flicked from the floofpillar to the Old Fang, having to split my attention to avoid getting whacked—or the critter sneaking away under the gaps below my knees.

  “We know,” he replied, patting his chest, over his heart.

  Like I had known when it first hatched? I had to protect it, care for it, and raise it; I simply knew it as an unquestionable fact. Was this an orc thing?

  Or.

  My blood chilled as my next thought destroyed the momentary, brittle sense of belonging.

  Was the System manipulating me? What games did it play, now? If it knew my plans to destroy it, was it trying to draw me into clan life and make me settle for a pastoral existence of spear practice and found family connections?

  Fuck that shit.

  … Though, I couldn’t lie to myself. My life here had been short—just twelve days—but still, I was falling for it. All of it. This was everything I’d been lacking in my human life, and it was right here, filling all sorts of gaps in the swiss cheese loneliness of my former existence.

  A heavy sigh deflated my chest, rushing out my nose. I put my hands in the dust, and Loogie crawled into the curve of my palm, snuggling close like it belonged there. I was its mother, after all. It had hatched and imprinted on me, bonding in an instant, as little animals do. My head rocked back to look at the faintly purplish sky through the sparse branches of the baobab, wind blowing hair across my cheek.

  This wasn’t home, and I wouldn’t be tricked by it—no matter how right it felt.

  A scratch on dirt warned me.

  My hands were busy holding the dubious treasure of Vash’Ora. I fell back, snapped a foot up to catch Voj’Kasak’s walking stick with the sole of my boot, kicked it aside, and rolled, cupping Loogie to my chest protectively. I rumbled a low growl.

  “Why?” I switched to Orcish and repeated myself. “Why do you attack me and endanger the Vash’Ora?”

  “You have to learn to protect it, Rau’dajal,” he chuckled.

  Bullshit. He couldn’t live a fulfilled life without constantly testing my defenses. I guessed it was what orc grandpas did.

  Loogie crawled up my arm, tickling its way up to my shoulder and settling itself on my neck, under the thick curtain of my hair. Naptime, I assumed.

  “Tell me what you’ve heard about Vash’Ora.”

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  Old Fang looked out at the buffalo lizard pens, bringing his pipe to his mouth, then pulled it away to look into the bowl, grunting with displeasure. That’s what he got for messing with me. I tried not to smirk at my childish, passive-aggressive thoughts.

  “It is said that some beasts bring glory. Vash’Ora brings change.” He huddled in his tattered cloth robes, tucking them around tighter, resting the pipe across his legs. “Where she conquered, Burz’Ash’s enemies wept salt on ash. The ancestors said that Vash’Ora blessed its keeper with the ability to crack the sky and draw blood from the earth.”

  Interesting but probably useless. His anecdotes were basic in their epicness—vague absolutes, the usual legend stuff. I tucked a finger under my hair to make sure Loogie was still there. I knew I was kinda shitting on tribe lore, but I had a real Vash’Ora. I needed real information.

  “Anything else?” I asked, hungry for something useful, like how to feed the little bug.

  Voj’Kasak thumped his cane on the ground a few times, watching dust rise in puffs around it. I slid a glance to the rack of spears. I was sore from the boss fight, but not broken. Jake’s med pads did a lot for my blisters, cooled the skin, and drew the moisture out. I picked at ridges of dead skin as I watched Old Fang stare into the dusty horizon of his long life and misplaced stories.

  “Tan’Fukshan wove Vash’Ora from threads of dusk and dawn to serve a master of war and chief of peace,” he said finally, then shrugged, glancing at me. “It was a myth, nothing more. Until now.”

  Neato cheeto. If only it came with a care manual. I huffed and asked, “Think it’s safe to put it in inventory?”

  He looked at me like I spoke foreign, and I realized I did, for one word. I had no lexicon for words in Orcish, just a translator that I was learning to think around. I needed a damn Orcish dictionary.

  I held my breath and cupped Loogie in my hand. If I kill it… I shouldn’t think like that. The System never let me put anything in there that didn’t belong. Its fur tickled my palm—and then it was gone. I searched my inventory until I found a yellow blob. As with the egg, it had item notes and a status.

  [Vash’Ora: Sleeping. Must play 1x day. Must drink blood 1x day. Time until next cocoon: 10 days.]

  Well then. I was stupid. All I had to do was add it to inventory to get what I wanted. Notes were great. Voj’Kasak’s lore gave me some things to think about. Meanwhile, I needed some action, so I jabbed a finger at the rack of spears.

  “Practice?”

  His face lit up in crinkles. “Any chance to beat you for your clumsiness, Rau’dajal.”

  “How many battle scars do I have to get before you stop calling me that?” My grasp on the language had strengthened, and it felt like a pet name, not a descriptor. I fucking hated pet names.

  He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, eyeballing my scabs through torn, permanently blood stained clothes. He waggled a finger at my hands. “Those don’t count. The rest? Hmm, ten more. Five more if you get a good one on the face to pretty it up.”

  I squinted at him and got to my feet. He peered at my shoulder and asked, “You lose Vash’Ora already?”

  “It’s in my inventory.” My wicked grin let him know I was full of secrets. His face told me he’d beat the cockiness out of me.

  “High spears are for buffalo lizards! Snake in the dust!” Voj’Kasak settled on Greelanch’s discarded stool by the fence, drilling me. He’d kick my ass after he was sure my form was right, as he had before and likely would again. I did footwork and followed his commands. Snake in the dust. The straight thrust was Ancestor’s Horn. Patarshan’s crossguard was used as a hook, and he called the trip move Stone in the River. He barked out Stone Cracks Bone and I swiveled the spear to jab up with the butt at face height.

  “Ghost Step!” He shouted and threw a desiccated lizard turd at my ankle. I nearly tripped on the spear and my own legs to avoid being hit by it. So gross.

  “Keep your feet under you, Rau’dajal, or you will bleed today,” he snarled.

  He slid off the fence, satisfied with my drills. The look on his face had gone to craggy stone, the cackling, mischievous grandfather gone. Old Fang was going to hurt me fiercely if I failed to defend myself.

  -ARCHIVE-