Morning crept slowly over the village. A pale gray sky hung above the rooftops as merchants began opening their stalls and travelers prepared for the road. The air still carried the chill of the night, and a thin mist clung to the ground near the village gate. Just outside those gates waited an expensive noble caravan. The wagon was large and reinforced with iron bands, its polished wood trimmed with gold filigree along the edges. Velvet curtains covered the windows, and several heavy chests had already been loaded into the back by servants who moved carefully, as though each one carried something fragile or valuable. Beside the wagon stood Bjorn Blackwolf.
He had removed his cloak and draped it over the side of the caravan while he waited. Morning light revealed the dark red tone of his skin and the black speckles scattered across his shoulders and arms. His frame was powerful but lean, built more like a seasoned fighter than the hulking brutes most people associated with orcs. Old scars crossed his chest and ribs, silent reminders of battles long finished. Bjorn crouched beneath the front axle of the wagon. He placed both hands against the heavy wooden frame and lifted. The entire caravan rose a few inches off the ground. The wheels creaked softly. Bjorn held it there for a moment, testing the weight, then slowly lowered it back onto the dirt.
A stable boy nearby had stopped sweeping. He stared at the orc in disbelief. Bjorn ignored him and rolled his shoulders once before lifting the wagon again, this time only briefly. Just enough to know he could carry it if he had to. A moment later the door of the nearby inn swung open and the noble stepped outside. He was dressed in rich embroidered robes and carried himself with the stiff arrogance of someone who had spent most of his life-giving orders rather than taking them. Two servants hurried behind him with ledgers and travel bags while a pair of guards followed at a respectable distance. The noble stopped when he saw Bjorn.
His eyes moved slowly over the massive figure standing beside the caravan. The scars, The dreadlocks, The weapons. The bare chest. His expressions tightened. "This is my escort?" he asked. One of the servants nodded nervously. "Yes, my lord. The guild recommended- An orc?" The noble said the word like it tasted unpleasant. Bjorn reached over and picked up his cloak. The noble continued studying him. "Typical," he muttered. "The guild sends me a brute when I requested someone capable."
Bjorn draped the cloak over his shoulders but said nothing. The noble gestured dismissively toward him. "Orcs are strong, I'll give them that. But subtlety and intelligence are not exactly their strengths, most of them barely know how to follow orders properly."
Bjorn looked at him then, just for a moment. The noble continued talking as he inspected the caravan. Bjorn let out a slow breath. Then he spoke. "Most of them, yes." The noble paused and looked back at him. Bjorn adjusted the strap on one of the travel packs before continuing. "I'm not most of them." The noble raised an eyebrow. "Oh?" Bjorn gestured briefly toward his own arm. "My kind is different." The noble looked unimpressed. "You look like an orc to me."
Bjorn shrugged. "Partly." The noble frowned slightly "what's that supposed to even mean?" Bjorn shrugged and gave a slightly irritated sigh. "Means I'm not like the others. But that hardly matters anymore." Bjorn didn't elaborate further simply walked toward the horses harnessed to the caravan. After a moment the noble climbed into the wagon,
clearly deciding the conversation was no longer worth his attention. "Well," he said from inside, "as long as you can swing a weapon and follow the road, I suppose you'll suffice."
Bjorn swung himself onto the saddle of the lead horse in one smooth motion. The noble peeked through the curtain window. "You do know how to ride, don't you?"
"Yes." Bjorn nudged the horse forward. The caravan rolled onto the road. For the first hour of travel, the nobles complained about nearly everything. The condition of the road. The quality of the escort guild. The price of trade tariffs in neighboring territories. Bjorn listened quietly, his eyes scanning the hills and tree lines as they traveled. Eventually the noble's complaints shifted toward larger matters. "The world has been unstable ever since the Great Fracture," he said from inside the wagon. "You know about that, I assume?"
Bjorn kept his eyes on the road. "Yes."
The noble leaned slightly out the window. "Of course you are. Everybody knows. What a disaster a war was. Every race tearing into each other for nearly a generation. Humans fight elves and dwarves and of course at the end banding together against orcs because of their former unraveled strength, kingdoms collapsing left and right. Hard for anyone to forget it clearly. The smoke. The endless marching. The silence of empty cities after the fighting stopped. The orc race was nearly wiped out, should be only about 200 of your kind out there, barely surviving extinction"
Bjorn grunts, "yeah... more or less"
The noble sighed. "And while we were busy destroying each other, the demons were growing stronger. That much was true. As the races fought their brutal civil war, the demon kingdoms consolidated power in the Abyss. By the time the conflict ended, the demons had emerged stronger than ever. Now the black Throne holds half the southern trade routes," the noble muttered. "And no one can challenge them directly, which is why the arenas matter so much now."
Bjorn's grip on the reins tightened slightly.
The noble continued. "Instead of sending armies, starting countless battles or wars That coasted way too much money now, kingdoms send champions. One fight settles disputes that once would have started wars." Bjorn let out a deep sigh. He knew exactly how much those arenas influenced everything. The noble scoffed quietly. "Of course, the demons dominate most of those pits as well. "Bjorn didn't respond as the road eventually curved toward a massive estate surrounded by tall stone walls. Servants rushed to open the gates as the caravan rolled into the courtyard. Bjorn dismounted and handed the reins to a stable hand. At the top of the manor steps stood a tall man dressed in formal robes.