The Book of Mortals

Forlorn

The following are journal entries from a Scholar named Denna Axefel.

Preface

Forlorn, Early

But on this day, the forest's calm had an underlying whisper of pain. Nature is about balance, and the world cried out in pain to those that knew to listen about .. something. I walked swiftly, pushing my senses out as far as I could to try and detect anything dangerous or wrong. As druids go, I was not particularly powerful nor devout, but in my element I was skilled enough at avoiding conflict. As I would need to be .. I had no protectors or friends within several days journey.

I ducked under a low branch, and stopped, horrified. Impaled upon a jagged piece of stone, and obviously the victim of many claws and fangs, lay the body of an orc. Her body was contorted in a strange manner, as if suffering a death beyond normal bounds of pain. Darkness had long spirited her beyond that pain, though, so I could do nothing but murmur a few stuttered words and press on.

What followed was a journey directly from hell. Death was a part of the cycle of life, but the butchery that created what I saw had no part in that or any other order. Each corpse was more tortured than the next, and when I could not find enough of one orcish warrior's face to close his eyes, I had had enough. I turned, tears in my eyes, and took a single step back the way I'd come .. and then heard, or perhaps sensed, something. To this day, I'm not sure what made me turn around and forge deeper into the camp, but something beyond my own meagre abilities led me to a clearing just away from the main encampment.

Hidden from sight amongst the trees, yet plain as day to the senses of any of elven blood, was a small orcish boychild. I stood in the middle of the clearing, my staff tucked securely behind my back, out of reach, and beckoned to him. His eyes met mine, and with a pride as heartbreaking as it was unexpected, he deliberately stepped from the protection of the trees. Standing like a stone not two paces from me, the child said not a single word, though I could see the blood staining his clothes. Finally, however, not even pride was enough, and his eyes rolled back into his head. I caught him before he hit the ground, murmuring in concern.

Devoting a few years of an elven lifespan to raising the boychild lost me little, and I gained much more than I'd thought. Forlorn, as he'd been named by more or less common agreement between the pair of us, was a solemn child, and yet I delighted in his company. His faith had grown to be more structured than mine, following the ways of gods instead of nature, and so we spent many evenings wrangling over whose point of view was more valid, and I at least enjoyed that immensely. Perhaps because I talked him to a standstill more often than not .. even before I married my long-dead human love, I was so fond of the sound of my own voice.

When he was out practicing his martial skills, I scoured the tomes and sent to friends and teachers of any news of the "dog-faced" orcs .. everywhere the story was the same. Wiped out. Extinct. I sighed, looking out the window of my small house where we had resided these past few years. I watched Forlorn drilling himself, wielding weapon and magic in an intricate display .. and grinning slightly as he stumbled endearingly. My smile faded, as my thoughts returned to the matter at hand. To my knowledge, the pup practicing so seriously in my garden was the last of his race.

Time passed, and Forlorn and I journeyed back to the domain of the civilised. Fullgrown now, yet young enough to be taken in by the wonder of it all, I let him wander freely, keeping a watchful eye on him at times. Our lives progressed, as they often did, and I watched him find his own path in life. At times, he hunted what he called the "Cursed", beings of evil that could change their form at will. He was convinced that a coven of these shapeshifters were the ones that slew the remaining members of his clan .. and the nightmares he'd had when young seemed to bear this out, at least in his memory.

So much is hazy now, as I buried myself in my own concerns, taking pride in the fact that my student and friend was doing so well. I married, a human warrior of the Crimson Rain, the leader of house Bergannis, and began to spend less and less time around Forlorn and his group of friends. Then, Forlorn informed me of his plans to marry. According to a rather shocking custom of his people, Forlorn and a brother in arms were to share a wife. I spoke long and hard with him, and eventually conceded that he was happy with the arrangement, and that I should not interfere.

I sat back, curious at the pang that my pupil should abandon me for other teachers, and laughing at myself for being so greedy with the affections of others.

Forlorn, Grown

My folly became painfully apparent when I felt the sharp sting of a blade digging into my side. My physical frailty let me down as I scurried away, the items I'd already gathered weighing me down. What protective measures I'd already raised to help me gather helpful bits and pieces were swiftly running out of potency, and I did not last long when I stumbled, allowing my attacker to catch up. And then, as though he'd never left, my erstwhile pupil placed his body squarely between my form and the blade. The battle that followed was short, yet sweet, and ended in a very bloodied and bruised assailant fleeing for his life. I like to think I managed at least a small smile before I fainted.

Later, I gleaned the details of what had transpired there. After I so bravely swooned, Forlorn had chased down my attacker and "taken the price of his insolence from his hide", as it was phrased. Orcs, I've found, are often fiercely protective of those they view as family. This rang as true for Forlorn as any, and we were more family than many others with blood ties. After I sweetly told him that I had no space on my mantlepiece for the severed head of my assailant, he proceeded to berate me for my carelessness. I'd heard such lectures entirely too often from too many people, and had mastered the art of nodding in sincere interest while my mind wandered.

My eyes flicked over his worn armour, and noted the nicks and grazes that were all that was left of his opponent's efforts. My little orc had grown to be a strong warrior priest, respected and even liked by those who took the time to know him. I was perhaps prouder of him than ever. Cutting blithely across his tirade, I reached up and gave him a fierce hug. The expression on his face as he finally shut up and hugged me back was worth all the scolding in the world.