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Previously: Storm in the North The spring rains had not yet come to the Orcish Marshes, and so the wetlands were not yet wet, the snowmelt on this coast being fairly light and tending besides to run south in the mountains and bypass the marshes altogether. Every spring, a torrential rainstorm, lasting sometimes as long as two weeks, would saturate the land, and the land soaked it up like a sponge. Truthfully, much of the "marshes" was not much of a marsh at all - more of a wasteland, an expanse of shrub and rough country that might have been worth something to someone were it not populated by orcs. With so much bountiful land to be found elsewhere in Mitgardia, this corner saw little development. The dark-cloaked man had been traveling across this dry expanse for nearly a week now. It was not easy country to travel. Every hump and hillock concealed some stagnant watercourse, backed up since the snowmelt subsided nearly a month ago, and only to be crossed with difficulty. Although the thick, succulent fenweed had not yet sprouted its yearly crop, the evergreen orcsfang fronds were at their height of growth, and mistletoe and other such parasites grew thickly on the old and dead wood of still-dormant trees. The orcs themselves were easily avoided by any skilled traveler. They kept to themselves, in stockades made of gnarly tree trunks placed in rings on the highest hills, and sallied out only to hunt - those encampments that lacked springs or wells survived on stagnant rainwater kept in great pits. Orcs, with their iron bellies, care little for the quality of their water, and only bother with springs or wells because they do not so easily run dry. A single traveler may moved unnoticed in the marshes, though he must needs go slowly, for the ground is not straight and the old roads are not kept. To travel in a group is to be seen by any and all who may be there to see - the fronds and, in their season, the fenweed will not permit otherwise. So it was that the traveler encountered a party of four orcs passing through the marsh, and began to shadow them. Three were male, including their leader, but there was also a female among them. One of them, a male who wore a rough helmet and carried a battered sword, seemed by his stiff walk to be the eldest. The other male follower wore a helmet as well, and both he and the female carried spears. The leader had no helmet, and he carried some sort of stone instrument with a hooked blade. They climbed a small hillock, and the traveler hid behind a stand of orcsfang to watch. There was an old, dead tree atop the hillock, and a chain was looped around one branch. Bound by the chain was a girl, fairly young by her looks, dressed in simple green and brown. The orcs gathered around the leader, evidently some sort of priest, as he took a position in front of the girl and began chanting. As the chant progressed, the orcs' excitement grew, and the priest brought his hooked blade closer and closer to the young woman's neck. Bound as she was with her hands high over her head, the girl could do little but grit her teeth and watch as the stone crescent-moon inched nearer to her. The travelerl quickly laid down his staff and unslung one of his bundles: a fine crossbow. Cradling the weapon with his hook, he brought a bolt from its place under his cloak and readied his weapon almost without effort. It was a small weapon, intended for obvious reasons to be used with one hand, and he sighted along its guides briefly before squeezing the catch. Almost before the metal chord had rebounded with a splack off of the spring-steel arms of the bow, the bolt buried itself in the throat of the female orc. She fell without a sound. The traveler didn't wait to fire another shot. Instead, he set the crossbow down in a dry patch of dirt and again reached under his cloak. As the chanting suddenly gave way to cries of alarm rose from the orcs, he drew from its scabbard a heavy longsword. With his hand against the crosstree and his hook looped just above the pommel, he stepped out from behind the weeds and let fall the massive blade, cleaving through both helmet and head of the male spear-carrier before wading into the fray. With the priest's head left rolling in the dust, he turned his attention to the girl. The locks on the orcish manacles were crude, and a few moments with his knife made short work of them. He wiped his blade off on the fronds, replaced it and his crossbow under his cloak, and, retrieving his staff, offered it to the girl, who was so stiff that she nearly fell over when released from her bonds. Then, and only then, did he speak. "Where are you from, lass?" His voice was deep, and raspy, as though it seldom saw use, but not unkind. "I -- I'm from one of the villages," she said uncertainly. "I live in the fens. But I don't know where I am." "Ah, so the fen-folk still life in this country. What is your name?" She gave him a wary look. "Haelda." "Then, well met, Haelda of the Fens. I am traveling to the mountains. Perhaps on the way, we may find an inn with a map, or a landmark you know, and direct you toward your home? In any case, it is not wise to be out on the marshes much longer. I can smell the rain coming on, not more than a day away." "You're probably right, sir. What should I call you?" He thought for a moment, then raised his left arm. "Call me Hook," he said. "It will do." C&C welcome, of course.
