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He's Not Like Us.
#1
Private Curtyl sat staring into his mug. Amongst all the clattering, idle chatter, and creaking wooden chairs, he could not grasp what had happened to him earlier in the day. The scene kept replaying in his head. A crisp blue sky, a line of glittering steel armor, a whole audience looking on. Eri and Jenks stood at his side, faces plastered with the same anxious joy of the meeting. A ceremony. A graduation ceremony. Seven months of brutal training, cleaning, study--and at times humiliation--finally paid off. No longer were they referred to as 'newbie,' 'greenhorn,' 'stock-slop,' or 'cockroach.' They were now privates. Privates with names Private Curtyl, Eri, and Jenks.

Curtyl kept staring into the dissipating foam before him. A gloved hand came before him, motioning side to side. “Hey! Curtyl! You're drifting off again!” A chirping voice, harsh and sweet. Curtyl perked up to see Eri's lightly-freckled face grinning at him. She brushed back a strand of her auburn hair, then waved a half-filled mug at him. “I'm already half-drained, over here! C'mon, drink up another round!” And with that the new recruits of the Argent Dawn waved for the barmaid.

“Another round, for me and my comrades!” Curtyl belched it out with a pang of pride, motioning to his fellow Eri and Jenks. Jenks, on that motion, leaned back in his chair, choking back a hard gulp. The tall, lanky fellow of the newly-appointed Crusades, Private Jenks held up his hands to the approaching barmaid. His face was yellow and his eyes half-closed—apparently, the drinks of tonight were too much for the man to handle.

“I'll have a water...” Private Jenks murmured out. The tall man horked forth, pressing a balled up fist to his mouth. “A water and some bread,” he quickly murmured. With a down-cast gaze, and a heavy eye-drop, he looked towards the bar maiden with a hope of sympathy. Three more strong, alcoholic drinks, and poor Jenks would be exploding his insides all over the tavern floor. This the bar maiden knew, and thus winked to the poor recruit in a motion of understanding.

Eri, on the other hand, reveled in the drink. A light brush of foam on her freckled features, and she was begging for more. Clamouring her mug down, she looked to the bar maid and screamed; “an extra order of stout, for me! Dwarven black; none of that weak, watered down shite!” Of the three of them, she had drank the most—three mugs on Curtyl, five on Jenks. The wide grin plastered on her foamy lips told that she was ready to drink many, many more.

Curtyl couldn't help but laugh. He expected this scenario; Eri and Jenks always standing at polar opposites, even when training. In every situation where Jenks relented, Eri advanced. Where Jenks opted for defense, Eri went to the offense. In every scenario—whether physical or theoretical—Curtyl found himself as a mediator. He always imagined himself somewhere between Eri the hot-headed and Jenks the un-motivated. How the three managed to get this far in the Crusades, he didn't know....

The barmaid came with another round. Dwarven black stout—foaming and rich—for Eri, water and bread for the already defeated Jenks. Curtyl, somehow, managing to survive on a light tavern lager...something he couldn't remember the name of, yet was tied closely to this tavern. The bar maid clashed down the drinks with a smile and a curtsy.

“Will there be anything else, m'lord?” She spoke, while turning away from the table. It seemed to be a rhetorical question; the poor maid was obviously overworked. This was the night of graduation, after all; many a newly recruited Argent Crusader will wish to fill their share tonight.

Already three steps away from Curtyl's table, was he managed to bark back a; “No, that will be all!” Clanging mugs, shouting cries, bets made for this and that...awashed in a sea of chattering chaos. Curtyl never felt so at home. Relaxed. At ease. The brave men and women, crowded around him in the depths of this tavern, were all celebrating the same things he was. Making it, gaining the honor of the Argent Crusade....

And however many times Curtyl's eyes scanned the taverns, there was one image he could not shake. One image that always stood out, no matter how many times he glanced about. The tavern was filled with images of celebrating humans, elves, dwarfs and trolls–clusters of the races, all fresh from divisional barracks. Yet, amidst them all, somewhere centered between the Alliance and Horde races, was a single orc. A downtrodden individual with a greasy green mohawk, and spiked up armor.

He did not fly the proud colors of the Horde. Nor was he dressed in the Argent Crusade's color. He wore no tabard, and flew no symbol. No, he was simply an orc, dressed in gun-metal chain mail and goblin munitions. There was some sort of symbol burnt on the nakedness of his neck, available for all to see; but Curtyl couldn't make exactly what it was. Tucked away in the corner of the Hearthglen barr, this orc sat. Staring into his drink, silent amidst all of the cheers. He sat and waited.

Curtyl glanced over to him. Partly out of fear, but mostly out of curiosity; what was this sort of orc doing in Hearthglen? He wasn't like the other members of the Crusades. He wasn't like the Horde members, and—most obviously—wasn't like any of the Alliance members. Who was he? Why was he here? Why was there a buffer of empty seats, strung along his sitting....?

Curtyl wondered. He stared off, examining the orc. Glaring after the strange mark on his neck---what was that, exactly? As he stewed in his thoughts, Curtyl noticed the human–yes, human–barmaid moving towards the unnamed orc. He gasped his breath; clenched his jaws; kept tight in his seat, unmoving. The fair maiden was about to sully[i] herself before this orc, he thought....

Their chatter, he couldn't hear. But he saw her smile. He heard [i]him
chuckle. They exchanged words, coin, and a light-hearted disposition. She...to Curtyl's shock, refilled his drink. And even went so far as to strike up a match to light his cigar! A human lighting an orc's cigar?! The very thought seemed blasphemous, horrid, absolutely terrible! Curtyl felt his hands clenching, his fingers tightening, his pulse quickening, his---

The doors shot open. Stumbling forth, a man clanked. Dressed in full plate mail, but with a red-bleached face, a figured emerged. The celebrations halted, quickly, quietly. Even red-faced and drunk, the recruits knew who the man before them was. An old human captain–having apparently helped himself to the liberties of drink before him–came crashing forth unto the tavern. Stumbling, cursing, thrashing about—however one wanted to remember it, really.

He was a daunting man, Captain Laroy. Taller than any man Curtyl had seen in the Crusade—and that included the orcs and trolls! No one was reputed to be as tough, and as daunting, as Laroy was. Rumor had it he was the sole survivor of a party that had killed a Dread Lord. He was known to have survived the toughest of battles, slaughtering the worst of the Scourge and living to tell the tale.

And here he was, stumbling drunkenly through the gates of the Hearthglen tavern. He gulped, choked, and held his breath—only to stand tall. Glaring, shooting his eyes across the field the new recruits. The tavern fell silent, for expecting him to say something—anything–to the going-ons of the tavern. But he halted himself, straightened his back, and then....

...Immediately fell his gaze onto the lone, strange, orcish mercenary type.

“Miiiiiitttttttttzzzzzzz! M'boy, ya drinkin' alone?!”

“T'was plannin' too, 'til yer ugly ass showed up.”

The two stared unto each other, hard. Tense. Orc and human, glaring into each other with eyes of death.

But after a moment or two, they lightened. Chuckled, laughed. Roaring so. And that's when Captain Laroy made a beeline to where the lone orc was sitting, plopped down next to him, and ordered up a drink. “A bottle'a Goldcock Whiskey, for me an' Mitz here!” Captain Laroy shouted to the bartender.

The barkeep looked forth, blinked, then exclaimed; “A whole bottle? Are you sure?”

“Did'ja hear me stutter, ya backwoods fool? I said a whole bottle of Goldcock—straight and narrow! Double-shot 'em both on the rocks, if ya will, for me and Mitz here!” Captain Laroy slapped the orc mercenary on the back, saying this.

He perked up. Glass-covered, engineering eye clicking and whirring, a mark of Horde Exile on his neck. “An if'n ya please....add some extra rocks, fer me. Neva' one ta drink Goldcock raw, an' all. Always betta' 'ta take that good'a drink slow.” The orc snorted, reaching into his metal jacket for a wrapped cigar. “Of course, I's trust y'know what ta do....”

And the bar keep just knew what, what. He immediately reached for a flint and tinder-box, going to strike alight the wrap of tobacco that held up in the Orc's mouth....

Disgusting, was the only thought Curtyl could muster. Seeing not only the bar employees, but also the esteemed Captain Laroy, suck up to this....orc. This nameless, shameless, orc with the strange mark on his neck and unadorned armor. Curtyl felt it was the gravest of insults; the lowliest of markings. And yet, as the minutes ticked away, he could not deny the roaring laughter that came from the Orcs' and Captain Laroy's direction.....

He's not like us. He'll never be like us. Why does Laroy drink with him so....?

Why does Hearthglenn house such an individual....?


These were the last thoughts Private Curtyl thought, before passing out to oblivion. A newly adorned member of the Argent Crusade, he never thought to learn of the orc's name.
Spoiler:
[video]www.youtube.com/watch?v=RrkzIN2eP0U[/video]

"What a mess we made, when it all went wrong..."
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