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ONE
LANA
One Saturday night working at King’s Field is a lot like any other night. A punishment that I signed up for, personally executed by the gods themselves.
I swear the only thing the Thirteen are good for is tormenting the humans on this wretched planet.
The tavern is located at the center of Milthar, a town owned by a striking minotaur from which both orcs and humans cowered but continued to trade goods and services with. It is a watering hole along the path to the mighty creature’s dwelling, so a collision of attitude and varying temperaments is considered an expectation.
Owning and working within such a place certainly isn’t for the faint of heart. Violence is the norm, which has made it not only something I am accustomed to coping with but have also grown desensitized to, especially on particularly foggy, dark, and damp evenings, when something ominous lingers in the air like smoke billowing in the shadows from a cigar.
But maybe that's just my intuitive blood talking. It rarely acts in my favor. Once stress rises in my bones, it acts more like a wild Likar. It’s not something I can heavily rely on now, or really … ever.
I wear my uniform, slim and fit to my form, with my hair in a thick braid that runs all the way down my back to my bum. The shade of a raven’s wing with tinges of blood-red streaks, the locks draw more attention than I want on the rare occasions when I let my hair down. It’s only when the tavern is a bit strapped for cash that I take out the big guns, which for me, is the bold color and length of my hair.
Today, though, I am in no mood to please any handsy patrons. I may sink into a dainty flower to obtain financial benefits, but I also am not going to take any bullshit or abuse from the vile customers who tend to make this place their personal stable.
The foreboding sensation remains in the air as I serve a flurry of orcs, all entering with ghastly and expectant grins on their faces. It’s the quieter ones that give me a grim feeling … one of menace, of built-up energy that channels itself into fits of chaotic and pointless expressions of rage.
And we, the Indentures, who are all women and who are just trying to fulfill our servant contracts, take the brunt of it all. And I have trained them to cope with it in the only way we know how … brute force and fabricated charm.
I notice a silent orc side-eyeing another orc, one with an infected eye that he hasn’t bothered to cover, and I linger behind the bar. He keeps looking at the other orc, a rare lanky version of the species.
I lift my chin to my employee Sheryl, who was on tap serving a few pints to the silent orc.
“Keep an eye on that one,” I mutter. “I feel a storm brewing.”
Sheryl nods without looking up. As I’ve said, fights are as common as spilled ale in this place. Sheryl is one of the main girls I trust to keep things calm.
Sometimes, I have to get involved, and I don’t mind it. Orcs are strong, but I am agile, having kept myself fit during my time as a slave working for the mighty minotaur. They know that I am not someone who will take any of their crap, so most of the time, they back off when I merely approach.
But tonight is different somehow. I feel the vibe moving around like a snake slithering in the shadows.
After serving a few averagely rowdy tables, I come upon Mister Lanky. He is far more talkative than the dead-eyed orc and seems to be particularly inspired by alcohol-infused courage.
I see the calamity start as I sport my usual forced smile at the table, which is, admittedly, rather bright and beaming. Human women, even ones who put in little effort, are strikingly exotic and naturally appealing to orcs looking for attention.
Or even worse, companionship.
“What are you looking at, fucker!”
It starts in slow motion. Lanky Man points a long wretched finger at Bruised Eye. I slam the mugs of ale down, the golden liquid spilling out, and sprint between the two beasts. To the average eye, my frame is slender, and I seem foolish to place myself between the two mammoth characters.
But that is not the reality of the interaction.
They go for blows, Lanky nearly colliding with Bruised Eyes’ jaw. He misses, which gives me the opportune moment to slip my hands under their separate armpits, grab each by the arm, and twist them backward.
Their bellows shatter the mirrors above the bar as I hold both of their biceps in my hands like a bold animal trainer leading them toward the bar, where I mash their faces against its surface.
“And what have I previously said about the rules in King’s Field?”
I squish their faces down, their noses and chins flattening like sand. They grunt with displeasure, but it isn’t like they can’t escape me if they really want to. I am deeply aware of their physical strength but also of their attraction to me and this tavern, acting as the only establishment where they might get roughed up by a human woman.
“GRRRRR … no fights, no fights,” Lanky orc finally replies.
I move to the smaller, bruised-up beast.
“Hmm?” I say, kicking his shins a little. “And what about you, good sir?”
