The Fisherman:

  The wind off the northern sea carried salt, rot, and the quiet ache of a dwindling town.

  Jorgentown’s harbor faired poorly beneath the weight of winter and ways of old. Its wooden planks, warped and splintered, stretched like tired limbs into the gray water. Seagulls circled overhead, their cries sharp against the silence and fog.

  Among the scattered figures trudging through the morning haze, one stood apart. Broad-shouldered, tusked, and green-skinned, he moved with deliberate purpose. The townsfolk gave him wide berth—not out of respect, but fear and weary.

  Rocka Urgnash. the orc from Urgnash-Yal stronghold, made into a laborer in a Norseman town.

  He walked the docks not as a warrior or even a worker, but as a man seeking warmth—a half-decent meal, maybe a voice that didn’t flinch at his presence.

  The marketplace, once a chorus of barter and laughter, now whispered in fragments and decay. A few stubborn merchants clung to their stalls. Sailors unloaded cargo from ships that looked more forsaken than seaworthy, and Legionaries controlled all points of commerce and shipping by the looks of it.

  Rocka approached a familiar stall, its canvas sagging under the weight of frost. Behind it stood a stout, weathered man with hands like knotted rope and eyes that had seen too many winters.

  “Morning, Rocka,” said Hamskr Njordson, the dock’s enduring fishmonger. “How’s the dock treating you?”

  “As well as it can,” Rocka replied, voice low. “And you?”

  Hamskr exhaled through his nose. “Not well. The new Imperial taxes are bleeding us dry and folks aren't really coming about in this corner of town.”

  Around them, the harbor sagged. Beggars huddled in corners. Guards watched with hollow eyes. Drunken sailors stumbled past shuttered stalls. The sky hung low and colorless, casting a pall over the town as the fog shrouds half of it.

  Rocka’s brow furrowed. “I see… well if enough people leave, the prefect might be forced to act. Perhaps you could relocate and sell your home. Start fresh.”

  Hamskr shook his head. “A man who is not willing to stand for his home has no business to claim another’s. My father and his father before him served Jorgentown faithfully, whether be in our trade or in service—dating back her founding. They earned their keep proved their worth and built our home. They taught us the ways of the fisher and principles. I want to pass that on and teach these lessons to the boys. Wilhelm’s nearing the age of enlistment. Guntr won’t be far behind. I want them to find the place they belong to still be warm.”

  Rocka studied Hamskr. He saw a man with conviction behind his words and Rocka respected him for that.

  “Wilhelm and Guntr,” Rocka said. “So you’re still living with your sister and her boys?”

  Hamskr replied, faint and tired. “Aye. She’s a widow. Still misses Andreas. Won’t see him again till the gods call her too. The boys need her. And I need them. I balance the toil of work with her warmth. Anya’s cooking keeps the hearth alive. I bring halibut, trout, char—she turns it into rakfish and more. And my honey mead, brewed in the warm months, brings sweetness to bitter days.”

  He paused, gaze drifting toward the gray horizon. “I worry for the boy’s conscription, you know... For Jorgentown’s future. Many have said that I am a too hopeful and I should shift, never the less, I remain. For love of fishing, for the love of mead, for the love of this town, and for my family. That steadies me.”

  Rocka chuckled, low and bitter. “Nice sales pitch, you tell that to all your customers?”

  They both chuckle and Hamskr banters back. “Only to the ones with fat bellies”

  Rocka bashful. “Your just jealous my belly is thinner than yours.”

  They keep laughing, Hamskr recants. “I swear, when I think of an orc, I think green skin, tusked, muscles on muscles on a worg. Rocka, you’re drinking too much mead”.

  Rocka resumes the original topic “Yes yes, I get your point, were both fat… anyway, back to the topic at hand, I don’t get why you stomach these prissy fools taking Wilhelm and Guntr to fight a war that gives you nothing. No glory. No lamentations. No riches. Just some puny officer barking orders at them like dogs. If I was you, I’d feast on their flesh before they drag me into that stupid nonsense.”

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Hamskr glanced around, voice lowered. “Easy there. You don’t want Commander Nero catching wind of that talk. Besides, it’s not so bad serving under the Romans. This might be an unpopular take from a Norseman, but the Imperium does bring stability to The Old World. There’s honor in it. Twenty-five years of service earns you land, viaticum, and steady wages.”

  Rocka scoffed. “If you survive twenty-five years. Orcs get fifty because we supposedly live longer. And that viaticum? Its worth will be less than fish guts by then. They work you to the bone and call it duty. Orcs have to prove their worth and as they do so they also gain the products from their labor with the added rank in our stronghold.”

  Hamskr argues. “And what are these labors; even the respectable trades like blacksmithing and hunting, are for the sole purpose of raids and purposeless wars, to loot, pillage, rape, and burn.”

  Rocka rebuttals. “Isn’t that what the Romans do on a larger scale. Or is it different because they don uniforms?”

  Hamskr with I side eye. “Oh come now, that’s different. It's to maintain order. Besides, Rocka you don't stand high in orc hierarchy, you told me you have no raid history, no trade, not even a single quarry or kill. And no, we both know working in a Legion shipping company in Norseman docks doesn’t count.”

  Rocka feels a nerve touched. “Nonsense, my brothers and father might not approve, but the way I see it I am working for myself and finding my own glory in my own way. What? You think the legion will be any better?”

  Hamskr sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright, alright. I get it. No reasons to debate politics, but for a man with nothing, the legion it’s a chance. If you find yourself one day with no options, maybe you outa consider enlisting. Either that or freeze to death in the streets, or worse… you know the reason why you stick to the legion side of town and you don't go past the garrison or the docks.”

  Rocka didn’t answer. His gaze shifted to the stall’s spread—fresh trout, halibut, char, laid out like offerings.

  “I might have said too much, I didn't mean to hit a nerve. I’m just looking out for you. I take it you’re hungry” Hamskr said, softening. “The usual?”

  “Rakfish. With mead.”

  As Hamskr busied himself with the meal, Rocka settled onto a stool, the wood creaking beneath his weight. The fishmonger’s voice turned quieter, more personal.

  “Rocka… how’ve the townsfolk been treating you?”

  Rocka’s jaw tightened. “The usual. Men glare. Women flinch. Aside from drifters and beggars, you and your kin are the only ones who speak to me.”

  Hamskr nodded slowly. “We were afraid too, at first. Like everyone else. You can’t expect people to accept you—not when you’re not their kin.”

  “Doesn’t make working here any easier,” Rocka muttered.

  A silence settled between them, heavy with shared weariness. Then Hamskr shifted the topic.

  “By the way… your father’s time is near, isn’t it?”

  Rocka’s eyes darkened. “Aye. You know what that means.”

  “That orcish arena match, right?”

  “It’s called Tengwar,” Rocka said, voice firm. “Afterward, he’ll take his final journey. Seek his final battle, and gain a good death. Only then can he finally rest.”

  Hamskr chuckled, then shook his head. “That’s a lot of ‘finals,’ but aye—Kraken’s last journey. Tengwar… when your leader settles succession through bloodsport. We Norsemen have our path to Valhalla, but this? It’s just barbaric… Forcing able men into a tournament that could end in death and then sacrificing elders to the wilds? There are better ways to choose a successor than beating each other to pulp and I see no reason why your father can’t simply retire.”

  Rocka’s eyes narrowed. “Of course you’d say that. You’re not an orc. These are sacred rites, dating back to before the first established strongholds. I’m not surprised by a Norseman’s ignorance of orcish ways.”

  Hamskr raised his hands, voice softening. “Come now, Rocka. I meant no disrespect. I just don’t see why you have to be part of it. You’re your own man. You owe nothing to those miscreants who treat you like dirt. You already get enough of that from this town. Be honest— is your respect towards your kin actively reciprocated?”

  Rocka said nothing. His silence was answer enough.

  Hamskr sighed. “Just think about it, alright? I’d hate to lose one of my best customers.”

  Rocka grinned. “Best customer, he says. I’ll remember that next time you get yourself into another brawl.”

  Hamskr rebuttals “and I’ll remember this, the next time you try to bed one of the common wenches.”

  Rocka replies, “oh come now, I thought she would be easy, not my fault her father was in the scene.”

  “That woman was giving you every hint to go away. You know that her father’s hand still hasn’t recovered, he had to learn to use his left hand because of you. You’re lucky you didn’t get thrown in a ditch.”

  They both laughed, the tension easing for a moment.

  “Alright, I get it,” Rocka said. “No more reminding me of my failed courting attempts, lets get back on topic… on the matter of finding work, what else am I going to do—join the Imperial Garrison as an orc?”

  “You joke,” Hamskr replied, “but it’s not a bad idea. The Romans aren’t like us. Not like the orcs either. They’re pragmatic. Cosmopolitan. With the pirate raids and Viking incursions, they’d welcome your sword arm in the Legion Navy.”

  Rocka scoffed. “Me, in the Legion Navy? I’d rather spend my days scraping barnacles off ship hulls.” He paused, then softened. “Still… I appreciate your concern. Truly.”

  As Rocka eats his meal, he glanced toward the horizon. The sun was sinking, casting long shadows across the harbor.

  “It’s getting late,” Rocka said. “Thanks for the fillers, but I’d best be off.”

  Hamskr nodded. “Back to the stronghold?”

  “No, not yet. I’ve got a few coins left. I’ll stay at the inn another night. I’ll return to Urgnash-Yal at dawn.”

  “Fair enough,” Hamskr said. “I’m closing up anyway. Doubt another hour will bring more customers. I’d best get back to Anya. Take care, Rocka.”

  Rocka finished his meal and stood. As Hamskr began packing up his stall, Rocka slung his knapsack over his shoulder—his bottle of mead tucked beside his weekly wage, his axe, and waterskin.

  He turned toward the town square, the cold wind brushing against his back. The inn awaited. And beyond that, the stronghold. And Tengwar.