Page 24 of The Orc's Protection
“A welcoming song,” Vraag explains, his voice close to my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. “Traditionally played when clan members return from long journeys.”
I’m about to ask more when a booming voice cuts through the ambient noise.
“VRAAG! YOU CAME!”
A familiar figure approaches, and I recognize Grulk, though he looks completely different outside his maintenance uniform. He’s resplendent in a tunic of rust-red with gold accents, a drinking horn in one massive hand. Beside him walks a female orc with similar coloring and facial features, her dark hair elaborately braided with gold and copper beads that catch the firelight.
“And you brought your—” Grulk begins enthusiastically.
“Colleague,” Vraag interrupts firmly. “Ms. Walker, you remember Grulk of HammerFall, and this is his sister Marga.”
“Just Riona,” I say gently—though he already knows that—extending my hand. “Thank you for including me in your celebration.”
Marga takes my hand with surprising gentleness. “Any friend of Vraag’s is welcome.” There’s a knowing look in her eyes that makes me wonder what exactly Grulk has told her about me.
“Come, come!” Grulk gestures expansively. “Food first, then ceremony. You must try the thunder root stew—the elders approved it for this First Frost.”
Vraag stiffens beside me. “The elders approved thunder root stew?”
Something passes between them that I don’t understand—some significance beyond mere food.
“It wasn’t a decision made lightly,” Marga says, her voice calm but weighted. “Thunder root stew belongs to StoneWatch tradition. This year, the elders asked cooks from several clans to prepare it together—using what Earth could offer, but guided by the old ways.”
She lets the words settle, her gaze moving over the gathered clan before continuing.
“For a long time, we kept these dishes from the table. The grief of losing our world was still too close. To taste home was to feel the loss of it all over again.” She pauses, her eyes moving across the gathered clan. “But grief held too long becomes its own kind of forgetting. Tonight the elders decided that eight years is longenough to mourn. It is time to remember with joy instead of pain.”
Vraag inclines his head, a restrained gesture that nonetheless carries real weight. His hand returns to my lower back as we follow Grulk and Marga through the crowd. More orcs acknowledge him as we pass, some with formal nods, others with gestures that feel ritualized rather than casual.
“You seem well-respected,” I observe quietly.
“StoneWatch held an honored position,” he replies, his usual formality more pronounced in this setting. “And my father was clan leader before the Emergence.”
This new information startles me. “Your father was a clan leader? So you’re basically…” I search for the right comparison.
“Not royalty,” he clarifies quickly. “Leadership was earned, not inherited. But yes, there were… expectations of my path.”
As we near the food tables, my attention is drawn to one of the cauldrons at the edge of the gathering. An orc stands there alone, tasting, adjusting, stirring with unhurried precision. No one directs him. No one needs to.
“Rhazgar,” Vraag murmurs, following my gaze. “WarmHearth clan. He tends the food.”
Something in the way he says it makes me pay closer attention. Not just that Rhazgar is cooking—that he’s the one who cooks. Like it’s a designation. A role that carries weight.
He’s enormous, built like the others, but he moves through the food tables with a stillness that doesn’t match his size. Every adjustment is small, deliberate. He lifts a lid, considers, and replaces it exactly. He doesn’t talk to anyone. No one approaches him while he works.
There’s something almost lonely about it.
As if sensing my attention, he glances up. His eyes—deep amber, serious—find mine across the gathering. Not threatening. Just… aware. He holds my gaze for one beat, then returns to his work without expression.
“Not much for conversation,” I observe.
“He doesn’t need to talk,” Vraag says simply. “His food speaks for him.”
I watch Rhazgar a moment longer, a faint pull catching my attention. Then Vraag’s hand finds the small of my back, and I let myself be guided forward.
Before I can ask more, we reach the food tables. The spread is impressive: platters of meat prepared in various ways, roasted vegetables, breads, and several steaming cauldrons of what must be stews. The aromas are complex and unfamiliar, spicy and earthy at once.
Grulk hands each of us a plate sized for orc appetites, comically large in my hands but appropriate for Vraag. “Eat well! The blessing ceremony starts in one hour.”
