Winifred was dimly aware of shouting, somewhere outside of the dark. The ogre’s chin had swung down and collided with hers as it keeled, and her head had been stuck underneath the torso’s bulk and the sand when it collapsed proper. Small lights flashed before her eyes as she struggled in the dark, her chest tight as she struggled to breathe. One arm was filled with pain and pinned, the other was scrabbling at tough skin. Then the weight was lifted, and her eyes, adjusting to the sudden light, saw several shapes. She was pulled away, sliding easily on the sand. As her eyes adjusted, she looked down and saw the pained arm, bent halfway down the forearm as it lay in the sand. She looked over to the ogre, now being attended to by the old scarred man and the wooden priest. The orcs hovered around nervously, evidently unsure how to contribute. She saw the wooden sword she had held, now half-embedded in the ogre’s neck.
The scene filled in the details. She and the priest had planned to take the ogre down fast. A distraction, get behind her, a blow to the knees to bring her down, then the wooden blade at her throat to call the win. She had executed the same manoeuvre with Cullen many times. But one of them had erred, either the priest hit the ogre too hard or the ogre allowed herself to fall too far. The weight falling down had rammed the blunt wood deep and snapped Winifred’s arm. Winifred doubted she’d have been able to get the sword that deep with her own strength given a free blow and an hour to work it in. She shook off the hands, Naran and the old man it seemed. She stood up shakily, her eyes losing focus as her arm hung like a sack of meat, sending lances of pain up. She stumbled over, and pressed her one good arm down around the blade, putting as much pressure on the blade. She looked up at the doctor, who looked surprised. It was the first real emotion she had seen on his face.
“Wound needs pressure and you need tools I’m guessing?” she hissed through gritted teeth, trying and failing to ignore the pain. The priest beside her said nothing, he was making an odd but comforting noise and there was a faint glow around his hands, flat on the ogre’s skin around the wound. Some healing no doubt. Winifred turned to the orcs and shouted “one of you come here and help me press it shut while doctor gets something to pull out the blade.” They looked unsure, but the leader stepped forward. The ogre was gurgling, her eyes mostly hidden under flickering lids. She was scrabbling for the wound, her hands wildly flailing towards the source of the flowing blood. Winifred turned to the two other orcs, and shouted at them. “Get her arms pinned before she rips her own throat open! Why you leaving the work to a one armed woman anyway!?” They rushed forward, barked orders breaking whatever panic had fallen on them. Winifred heard the voice in her head again, seemed it always had some advice. “Better angry than panicked girl, someone sticks you get pissed off, it’ll take your mind off the pain.” By this point she just accepted the voice. It was a stranger, and yet familiar at the same time. Presumably someone had spent some great amount of time teaching her. She couldn’t remember a thing about them, but the echoes of the voice were an odd comfort.
Wakesfield stood and darted off, looking for something, returning before long with a pair of tongs taken from a nearby rack of tools, standing near a dim but still lit forge, a small pile of chipped blades next to it. Naran and Felix had been sent in search of boiling water and towels, hustling inside with Felix near hopping on one leg. Wakesfield grabbed the wooden blade with the tongs, and spoke calmly but firmly. “The priest cannot properly close the wound unless we remove this. She will most likely twitch, probably quite violently. Be ready to hold her down.” He leaned in close to the ogre, and spoke directly to her. “Ma’am, if you can hear me, this will hurt.” He stood, braced himself with a breath, and pulled with the tongs, the wooden blade sliding out with a fresh splash of blood. The twitch was more a flail, the orcs holding either arm were near lifted clear off the ground before setting back down and pinning the hands down. Winifred, Fuath and Uzul were thrown back as the huge torso and neck bucked, the wound sending massive spurts of blood down onto the sand. The darted back, and hands were clamped around the wound, Fuath resuming his glow and low, almost musical noise. As the blood flow slowed, a gruff and rough voice spoke from behind them. “Right good enough, let off you lot.”
They each turned to the speaker, and Uzul let go of the wound. Winifred made to call out, but was silenced by surprise as the ogre’s eyes snapped open, and she stood up quite easily.
“How was ‘at boss?” she called out, idly scratching at the still bleeding wound.
“Bit more dramatic than I expected, but fine work all. Get that closed up eh?” The speaker was an old man, Midfolk like Winifred and Felix it seemed. His face was like old tanned leather, set with deep wrinkles and old sun spots. One eyes was covered with a leather eyepatch, and one cheek had been deeply scarred, pulling the corner of his mouth into a mockery of a smile. He wore a pair of rugged looking trousers and boots, the trousers hung with pouches and belts with empty hoops for unknown tools. The thick wool sweater he wore somewhat ruined the effect, especially as it appeared to be homemade by someone not particularly skilled in knitting. One sleeve was bunched up, clearly longer than the other, and the neck was folded over and pinned down with a copper broach to stop it coming up as far as his nose. He stood watching with a steaming mug in one hand, with as much energy as a man watching street traffic.
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He sipped from the cup as the ogre wandered over to the forge, and they watched silently as she bent to the forge, took a decent sized coal in one hand and pressed it against her neck, giving a roar as she did so. She dropped the coal and returned, the wound still bleeding but much less so. She gave a shaky salute to the old watcher, and rumbled “Like to go see medic’s sir, still a bit shaky.” He nodded, and gestured to the two orcs aside from Uzul. “Make sure she don’t fall over on her way there will you? Good lads.” The two saluted, and moved to assist the ogre, already taking somewhat shaky steps back inside the building. Naran and Felix emerged just as the ogre entered, carrying a bucket and a pile of towels each. They looked out in confusion, and Uzul waved them over. Wakesfield turned to Winifred, and began gently examining her arm as she swore. The man in the sweater strode over and put a box beside him, unfolding it to reveal a bevy of medical aids. Wakesfield took some splints and wrappings, and set to work stabilising and setting Winifred’s arms, her now on a small stool provided by the trainees that had been watching and him kneeling. The trainees swiftly saluted and headed back to the dummies, continuing their drills.
Uzul clapped as Naran and Felix moved to stand with Winifred, Wakesfield and Fuath, their faces showing confusion. Uzul clapped his hands and gave a laugh, then said “Well that concludes first part of your testing then, I’ll leave you in the more than capable hands of this man here, Samuel Whitplene, on third of the Houses ruling triumvirate, and your boss should you be approved for entry!” He gestured at the old man as he spoke, pointing with two fingers. “Right, I best be off after me lads. Take it easy on ‘em sir!” he gave a friendly wave to the five, then headed off inside, still walking delicately after he removed from his trousers a heavily dented codpiece, dropping it on the ground. The five looked at the old man, quietly sipping from his mug.
Felix spoke first, a small cough preceding his speech. “So, uh, Mister Whitplene, mind tellin’ us what in the hells that was about?”
Whitplene gave a small chuckle into his mug, and sat on a hay bale. “Examination of your skills, personalities and responses. Honestly I’d say you all did well.”
Naran stared at him, her arms crossed. Her voice was calm but her face was thunder. “You ordered her to injure herself. You commanded her to risk death, for a test?”
He looked at her carefully, and responded in a quiet voice. “I asked them to let one of you get a good hit in, something that looked scary. She just pulled short straw.” He looked over his mug at Naran, her face still a storm of barely restrained anger. “She wasn’t in any real danger miss, takes more than a twig to the neck to take down an ogre. She’d have taken a day and a half to bleed out like that, and I’m not exaggerating by much.” He looked at their faces. All but Fuath were regarding him with open hostility or distrust. Fuath was knelt by Winifred, his Word flowing into her arm, slowly knitting bone back together. “Not my best first impression, I’ll admit, for what its worth I didn’t intend for your fire starter to get her arm snapped like that.” He bent down, carefully putting the cup on the ground between his legs. “Look, we get all types wanting to join the House, even with our standing diminished as it is. First step of recruitment is weeding out them that’ll get themselves killed, second is weeding out them just want to kill things. That’s not what we do here.”
They looked at him as he spoke, and he looked at them silently for a moment before anyone spoke. Winifred spoke, still gritting her teeth through the pain. “So what is it you do here then? What will be our job? What does a ‘hero’ of the house do?”
He gripped the mug now, both hands around it. He looked at them in turn, then spoke. “You will go forth, and slay the things need slaying. You’ll walk with the weak and keep them safe. You’ll climb down into the dark, and bring back what’s asked for, be it people, treasures, or corpses. You’ll do the work of a full mercenary company with just a handful. You’ll inspire, and be a joke, and be loved, and hated, and made legends, and pariahs, and paid extremely well for the most dangerous work. More than anything you will do whatever job has been deemed suitable, and you will do it well and without complaint, or at least not where the client can hear.” He stood, and turned to the building, his back to them. “Anyone that thinks they’re capable is welcome to follow me inside.”
The five watched him walk back the building in silence. They looked at each other, and without a word they stood, and headed in after him.
