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- The Fire That Walks
- Hide, Felt and Rope
- Guest for One Night
The Urzhal
The Urzhal is the war camp of the Bloodfang Orcs, and it has never stood in the same place for long. Its name in the orc tongue means "the fire that walks". This season it is pitched on the ash shelf above the braided river, where dead trees stand grey in the mist and the ground is cracked and pale. Nothing in it is stone and nothing is meant to last. Every wall is hide, felt or rope, and every shelter can be down, rolled and loaded before the morning fog lifts.
The camp spreads in rings around one fire. The round felt tents of families sit closest, then the long hide tents of the war bands, each with its paint daubed on the door flap. Worg pens are staked out on the edges, and the great wolf-like beasts doze in heaps or pace the rope lines. Wagons stand in a wall along the windward side, and the shaggy pack oxen that haul them graze whatever the ash allows. Smiths work at portable forges on stone hearths that are kicked apart when the camp moves.
At the centre sits the Warchief's stone. The Bloodfang carry no throne. At every new pitch the first task is to find the biggest boulder near the fire and roll it into place, and that is where Rokzul sits to hear reports, judge quarrels and receive the messengers of nervous nobles. When the camp moves on, the stone stays behind. Old Warchief stones stand all across the Lowlands, cold and alone, and the orcs can name every one.
Outsiders are not welcome by default, but they are not killed by default either. A stranger who walks in openly, blade down and hands empty, may ask for the fire. Then they are a guest for one night and one meal, and no Bloodfang will raise a hand to them while it lasts. A stranger who sneaks in has made a different choice. Traders who bring good steel, salt, whetstones and potions do well here. Anyone who offers a bribe is laughed out past the worg pens.
The camp spreads in rings around one fire. The round felt tents of families sit closest, then the long hide tents of the war bands, each with its paint daubed on the door flap. Worg pens are staked out on the edges, and the great wolf-like beasts doze in heaps or pace the rope lines. Wagons stand in a wall along the windward side, and the shaggy pack oxen that haul them graze whatever the ash allows. Smiths work at portable forges on stone hearths that are kicked apart when the camp moves.
At the centre sits the Warchief's stone. The Bloodfang carry no throne. At every new pitch the first task is to find the biggest boulder near the fire and roll it into place, and that is where Rokzul sits to hear reports, judge quarrels and receive the messengers of nervous nobles. When the camp moves on, the stone stays behind. Old Warchief stones stand all across the Lowlands, cold and alone, and the orcs can name every one.
Outsiders are not welcome by default, but they are not killed by default either. A stranger who walks in openly, blade down and hands empty, may ask for the fire. Then they are a guest for one night and one meal, and no Bloodfang will raise a hand to them while it lasts. A stranger who sneaks in has made a different choice. Traders who bring good steel, salt, whetstones and potions do well here. Anyone who offers a bribe is laughed out past the worg pens.