Flight of the Half-Orc
I took off as fast as I could. A Brick took Starg, I gathered my stuff, had a quick drink, picked up a white sheet, and ran out of the cavern. I ran into Pitter who looked worried. I mumbled something about personal business, and ran out.
"Kord, let me fly upon the winds of the world." And so I became a vapor, wafting along at incredible speeds. I soared above, wrapped in white, hours looming before me while I travel hundreds of miles. I felt nervous and excited in a way too hard to describe.
Last night, I was but moving about in the shadows, sulking and drinking. Then I nearly died at the hands of my old friend, but instead I killed him. He was the first one that I have brought back to life. And I left him to rot in a dwarf prison. Oh boy.
But of course that was not on my mind. She was on my mind. We had been friends, enemies, close, far. Her form rises in front of my eyes, my heart beats fast, my fingers tingling. Faster, can't I go any faster?
What if she dies? What if I am too late, what if I fail? Her beauty, her charms, her raw power, gone from this world. I must not, I will not let that happen. But what if? What if? And worse, what if I survive and she does not? Too unbearable to think about.
Why did I not bring the others? I made an excuse to myself that they were too slow. But perhaps it is really my pride. I should be able to save Fiola. I am strong, I am Mord, I serve Kord with my flaming greatsword! Surely, I can save her. But if not, what then?
And in the sacrifice, oh, she may be trapped, forever doomed to the realm of Gruumsh, forever tormented. Forever gone.
I will not think that way. Onwards, I go.
And so it was that I flew for hours, tormented. I flew over the mountains, the rivers, the forests, so much land, and then, then, finally to the plains. It took me an hour to find them; they did not hide their camp. It sprawled along the northern edge, at the base of the mountains, near where the forest dwells. That seems to be an excellent escape route.
I still have a couple of hours before nightfall. Hovering over the camp, I could see that most were sleeping. There seemed to be one tent that was being guarded. I presume that was the chief's tent. And there, oh, there, there is the altar of Gruumsh. And tied to a slab was Fiola, my Fiola. She looked bad. Bruised, bleeding, unawares. Well, none seem to be particularly alert or on guard around there. I guess, well, let me see. Circling around, it looks like, yes, if I come in that way, no one seems to have a line of sight, I slam into the altar, take form, and then get out of there.
I think this will work. Well, at least I have a shot.
Mords of Wisdom: Waiting to rescue your love is pure torture.