gingersketches

“Oy, Garog!” Garog looked up at the greeting, momentarily pausing his work on the battleaxe head he was making on the mobile forge.  In a traveling mercenary band like theirs, a smith’s work was never done.  “Hello, Elf,” he said, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm.  “What brings you here?” “Elf” was a younger orc, probably no older than seventeen or eighteen winters.  Orjak was his real name, but he’d earned his nickname from his unusually slender build and his prowess with a bow.  Thanks to an incident where Garog had saved his life (Garog could barely re

When the band of orcs topped the rise, they realized they were too late to pillage this particular village.  The tiny town lay in smoldering ruins, the early autumn gusts whipping the smoke into curly tendrils of gray that reached for the sky. They wasted no time mourning, either for the missed opportunity or for the former occupants of the village.  At an order from their leader, the warriors tramped down the hill to investigate the remains and loot anything the previous raiders had missed.  It didn’t take long to realize that whoever had come before had been thorough.  Within an hour’s time, the majority of the band had retreat