Horrace: Out with the Old

With a slow and heavy sigh he pulled off the last tattered article of clothing from his twisted body. His skin was pale like bad cream, in total contrast to the common rich tawny dwarven skin. Also, unlike other dwarves he was thin. Almost frail. One shoulder was swollen, one of his legs stunted, and his hips and spine were crooked and stuck out in places. Despite the poor construction of his build, he moved with an eerie smoothness. A calm. Bruises and deep unwashed scars decorated his body. The sign turned into a pained growl as he slowly lowered himself into the scolding hot water basin.

Horrace was grateful Olag had given him a private place to do his cleaning. It was a rare event in his life, but not because he hated to wash, but because it hurt. It hurt to twist and pull all the many ripped and dirt caked rags off his body. It hurt to feel the hot water seep into his open sores. But most of all, it hurt to see himself as he was. He was grateful to be fully submerged in the copper tub. Out of his own site. The size of the tub was made for a human, so sitting the water came up to just under his nose. He closed his eyes and lost himself in the steaming hot liquid, and in thought, as he exhaled bubbles.

In just a matter of days he had become someone else. Someone he didn't know. He was talking to people. And spending the majority of his time with them. Him. A human, an elf, and a half-orc. What the hell was he doing? His entire life he had been alone. Working on his own to carry out the judgments of Pharasma. The ones her timid servants were too scared to act upon. He hadn't thought about the fact that there would be a team of people working together to purge the Green Belt of it's hostile inhabitants. He was foolish to think otherwise though. This was all too much. He was surprised at how well he kept his wits about him, kept his misanthropic discomfort to himself, and even managed to not fully alienate himself. This was just not how he worked.

That human Danswitch seemed to be all teeth. Nodding and smiling and saying sweet words, but looking down his creamy nose at everyone. It was as if he felt he was the conductor of life's orchestra, and all others simply humble players. People born with looks and grace never seem to think how it is for others. It made Horrace feel that pit of sadness and resentment in his stomach. Though the man was quick on his feet. Fast with a blade. To be honest, rather dangerous. All he could do was keep his eye on him.

Darkwood was another interesting character. He was always raised to speak poorly of elves. They were thin and weak. Fragile, and tricky. But Horrace wasn't like most dwarves. In fact, those aspects of elven nature he felt he could relate to, even more-so than the dwarven cliches of muscle and fortitude. The fellow was nice enough. Strong spoken, book smart, and no stranger to the road. All things Horrace could respect. But something seemed strange about him. It sometimes seemed as though he was hearing things no one else could. Or perhaps speaking words, while dissecting each one. He didn't simply do or say anything. He simply built aspects of himself through action. The kind of mind that worked like that was a mystery to Horrace, as was Arcane magic.

And a Half-orc? A big brawny wall of skin born of a bastard union. Horrace hated orcs. Hated them. If he had a big enough axe, he would kill them all in a single stroke. But for some reason this young bastard pup didn't get under Horrace's skin. He carried himself well enough. He fought well enough. He was clean, and even spoke praises to his god. Most of all, he seemed to resent his heritage of rape. By the Gods, this was all too much for him to deal with. After all these years of solitude, and hatred for those around him, why had he suddenly found himself able to accept these strangers?

He had lost track of time. He wasn't sure how long he had been in the tub, but the water was cold now. It resembled a broth at this point. He felt his wounds had grown soft and pussy in the water. He would have to remove them and clean them properly, now that he had gone through the work of disrobing. He used the wedge of cake soap to do it's terrible duty, and began to dry himself with one of Svetlana's wool towels. It came back a shade darker, with a notable amount of blood on it. Perhaps he would find some new clothes for the time being. His felt like bread crust, and seemed to crack just as easily. He simply plopped himself down on the cold floor lost in thought, scratching at bug bites with his long yellow nails. It was there that he came to the understanding.

These boys are fine. Fine and well. Pharasma wishes I walk in their shadow, and carry out my great duty through axe and arm. By rope and sword. And if so she commands me to pass judgment on them, I will kill any one of them without remorse or a second thought. Swift and terrible is my axeblade.

He started to feel better.