Wine and Dining:

  The streets of Jorgentown’s main square wound like veins through stone and shadow. Evening brought its chorus: tankards clinking, hearths crackling, voices rising in laughter and quarrel. Warm light spilled from windows and lanterns, softening the rough walls, giving the town an almost inviting glow.

  Yet beneath that glow lay the weight of eyes. Rocka felt them—gazes that lingered, whispers that sharpened when he passed. He had lived among these people for years, but his green skin, tusks, and towering frame marked him as other. Coin bought him labor and bread, but never belonging. Tonight was no different. A group of Norsemen laughed until they saw him; then their mirth curdled into murmurs, their eyes sliding away.

  Rocka pressed on, steady in stride though his thoughts drifted back to Hamskr’s words. What if he’s right? What if this life of dead-end work and blood-soaked tradition could be left behind? But where would an outcast belong, if not in the role carved for him since birth?

  At the corner of the square stood The Strumpy Turnip—a humble, two-story tavern with a shingle that swung on weary hinges. Rocka paused, reluctance settling over him. The place was less popular than the other inns, tucked into the abandoned edge of the square. Here he could keep a low profile, though never without unease. Orcs were rare in Jorgentown, and most owners saw his presence as a stain. Still, coin was coin, and Rocka had long since stopped expecting warmth beyond what he could pay for. Better an outsider here than bound by the suffocating rules of Urgnash-Yal.

  Ducking beneath the low beam, he stepped inside. The tavern was modestly crowded—drifters and vagabonds hunched at small tables, muttering over their cups. For a heartbeat, the room fell silent. Voices dulled, eyes flicked toward him, then away. Rocka ignored the scrutiny, forcing himself toward the bar.

  Behind it stood the barkeep: an older man with a graying beard and a grin that seemed carved into his face, half foolish, half mocking. He greeted Rocka with a curt nod.

  “Back again, eh?” the bartender muttered, wiping his hands on a stained cloth as his eyes measured the orc. “Didn’t think we’d be seein’ you so soon.”

  Rocka’s lips twitched into a brief grin. “Coin’s still good, isn’t it?”

  The barkeep stared, then shrugged. “S’pose it is.” He reached for a turnip and bit into it with deliberate insolence, chewing slow, as though daring Rocka to take offense.

  The innkeeper stormed in, catching sight of the bartender gnawing on a turnip.

  “Baldr!” he barked. “What did I say about eating our root vegetables? By the gods, must you do it in that degenerate way? Bloody simpleton!”

  The bartender—Baldr—shrugged, mouth full. “You said to do it when you weren’t around.”

  The innkeeper, Eomund, smacked him across the head. “Get out of here, you dimwit! And you—Greenskin…” His voice faltered as his eyes flicked to Rocka’s towering frame. “…don’t cause any trouble. Understand?” He glanced nervously toward a group of patrons in the back, their faces set in hard frowns.

  Rocka’s reply was even, steady. “I’m just here for a bed. Same as anyone else.” He placed a few coins on the counter.

  Eomund snatched them quickly, his mouth tightening as he places the key at the counter. “Your room is upstairs… as always.” Rocka felt a chill in his chest as he grabbed the key and turned away, heading for an empty table near the fire. He set his knapsack down, pulled out his bottle of mead, and took a long swig. The brief familiarity dulled his unease, but not the voices.

  “Heard about that orc down by the docks, putting our boys out of work…”

  “They should keep to their stronghold, not take our coin…”

  Each word stung, but Rocka kept his head low, focusing on the crackle of the fire.

  “Baldr!” Eomund snapped again. “Forget the turnips. Wipe the tables. Clear the plates and tankards!”

  Baldr shuffled about, rag in hand, until he neared Rocka’s table. He leaned in, voice low but insistent. “You’ve been coming here for weeks. I’ve always wondered why.”

  Rocka ignored him, but Baldr rambled on. “You’re strong. Ugly, sure, but strong. Bet you could be a warrior. Join the Legion. Or be a sellsword.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Rocka’s patience thinned. He took another swig, then muttered, “Your master’s right—you are a dimwit. I am to be chained to a path of blood and sacrifice. Orc must prove himself they say, to follow the tenets and teachings of our lawgiver, Mau-Lak. Yet here I am—not in the stronghold, but scraping a living on a Norseman’s city.”

  Baldr is confused, “Mau-Lak, you say?”

  Rocka gulps down his drink and puts the cup down, “Yes, Mau-Lak, the father of orcs… It doesn’t matter, I don’t think you’d understand. My point still stands, I ache for a life that could be mine… though not entirely foreign,” Rocka muttered, staring into the fire. “But I digress, as much as I love to entertain the notion of another life, the goal is easier said than done.”

  Baldr tilted his head as he refills Rocka’s cup. “How so?”

  Rocka’s patience thinned. “Because leaving means abandoning orcish way—the legacy of my father, my clan. My father will soon embark on his final journey. I will not see him again. And as brutal as our traditions may seem to you outsiders, in orc eyes there is honor in them. Honor in a life fought and claimed by one’s own might. Could I truly give that up?”

  Baldr blinked, blank as ever. “Umm… I’m sorry, I think this is too complicated for me. I think I know—”

  He was cut short by a drunken voice.

  “You know what I know?” A young ruffian staggered forward, cheeks flushed, eyes gleaming with malice. “That you’re a dull-witted scum sucking—and the Greenskin’s a whale-fat pig face.”

  Rocka’s lips curled into a faint grin. He looked up, meeting the ruffian’s gaze. Behind him, a knot of friends leaned in, eager for spectacle.

  “What’re you lookin’ at, orc?” the ruffian sneered, stumbling closer.

  Rocka’s voice was calm. “Just having a drink. Not looking for trouble.”

  “Don’t need trouble to know when someone don’t belong. Your kind were raiding for countless seasons, before the six raids, before the Romans took over. You’re a blight, you raid our coffers, pillage our homes, rape our women, destroy our old!” the drunk spat, his words thick with bravado.

  Rocka held his gaze steady. “First off, that is Mau-Lak’s way, the strong overtaking the weak. Second, Jorgentown and Urgnash-Yal have had a pact since the six raids, and lastly, I care nothing for what you claim to know, puny norseman.”

  The ruffian faltered, confidence wavering, but his friends jeered, spurring him on. “To blazes with your wretched Mau-Lak! Why don’t you crawl back to the hole you call a stronghold? We don’t need you here, takin’ up space meant for proper folk, you milk-drinkin’ mud-muncher.”

  The words struck, but Rocka remained still. He had weathered worse. Yet tonight, with Hamskr’s words echoing in his mind, a surge of defiance stirred. He raised his cup, took a slow drink, savoring the burn, then spoke.

  “Funny,” he said, voice calm but edged with steel. “Considering I’ve done more work in this dying town than you and all your friends combined. I’ve hauled your ships, mended your nets, and carried your crates. I wouldn’t want to see me taking up space meant for decent folk, either.”

  “That’s because the Romans are paying your kind our due,” the ruffian spat. “You’re just taking advantage, you ugly savage!”

  Rocka rose, towering over him, eyes fixed in a cold, unyielding stare as he speaks. “Ugly savage you say?”

  Baldr bolted for the back room, vanishing like a frightened child. The young ruffian flushed red, but his friends dragged him back, laughing to mask their unease.

  “Forgive my friend, orc. he is not himself as you can see.” The ruffian’s friend says to ease off the interaction.

  “Come now, he is twice your size, no need for a beating” The same friend states trying to persuade the ruffian.

  The ruffian shouts as he squirms trying to free himself from his friends’ grasp. “Get off me! You know my case is valid against this orc filth!”

  “Orcs have the strength of ten men, and this is Jorgentown’s Military District — Legion ground.” The ruffian’s friend reinstates as he reinforces his grip.

  The ruffian was taken outside by his friends. They did not press further, yet Rocka felt the tension simmering in the room, heavy as smoke. He exhaled slowly, reclaiming his seat by the fire, refusing to yield ground. He would sit here as any man had the right to.

  The flames danced before him, and in their glow he wondered if his path was truly set. Perhaps there was space for him beyond the stronghold, beyond the expectations of kin and strangers alike. For now, he remained—quiet, but unyielding. If he had to carve out a place for himself, he would do it, even if it meant standing alone.

  Later, he climbed the stairs to his room. The floorboards creaked beneath his boots. The chamber was humble: bare walls, a modest bed, a single chair in the corner. He set his knapsack down, hand lingering on its straps as weariness pulled at his bones. Rest did not come. Instead, he drifted to the small window, its glass fogged by the chill of night.

  He pushed it open. Cool air swept in. The town lay hushed, only a few houses still lit, their amber glow spilling through curtains. Within, shadows moved—families gathered at tables, brothers laughing over drink, lovers embracing in quiet corners. Scenes of kinship and belonging, woven from threads Rocka had never held.

  The ache stirred deep. Not for battle, not for blood, but for something gentler. Companionship. A place without suspicion, without scorn. A place where he could simply be. Yet here he stood, looking in from the outside, as he always had.

  He closed his eyes, the sharp edge of loneliness pressing against him. The weight of looming days settled heavy in his chest. Would there ever be a place where he was not an outcast? Where he was not torn between two worlds forever out of reach?

  With a quiet sigh, he shut the window, sealing out the warm lights below. He sat on the bed, shoulders hunched, and let the silence envelop him. No one else but his own company. Tomorrow, at dawn, he would return to Urgnash-Yal—to the stronghold, to tradition, to the path carved for him.

  But tonight, he lingered in fragile longing, knowing it was something he could never claim; a tease of warmth, bound to unyielding solitude.