The room is dim, lit only by the faint light streaming through windows covered by musty curtains. It’s more than enough for Mordecai to see by.

The woman is tall, close to six feet, and her skin is the color of olives. Two tusks protrude from her lower jaw. Her ears come to a slight point and her nose is crooked, as though it had been broken at some point in the past. Her yellowish eyes seem to reflect the dim light, practically glowing.

Mordecai has never seen an orc before, but he knows enough to recognize one.

He raises his hands in a placating gesture, casting about in his skull for a way to defuse the situation without angering the orc. “I’m not here to attack you,” he starts cautiously. “I don’t want a fight.”

“Obviously,” the orc deadpans, not lowering her weapon. “If you did, you wouldn’t be running like a scared whelp from those villagers.” She nods her head to indicate ‘outside’ where Mordecai can just now hear voices.

Slowly, so as not to make any sudden movements, he sidles over to a window next to the door. The curtain covering it is little more than a dusty rag. He peers through a gap just wide enough to stick his bony fingers through. He has a decent view of the area outside, but he can only see two people; one of the candlestick holders and the gunman, who is aiming right at the door.

“They’ve surrounded us,” says the orc woman, answering his unspoken question.

“And I notice you’re still pointing your spear at me,” Mordecai states blandly.

“You led them here!” she snarls again, jutting the tip in his direction.

“And, what, if you kill me and give them my head, they’ll just let you go?”

There is a pause in which Mordecai and the orc stare each other down. The only sounds are the people outside murmuring to each other, too muffled for him to make out. For a moment, Mordecai is afraid that the orc will actually do it.

…But the mob hadn’t been looking for him, right?

The orc lowers her weapon a fraction and Mordecai would have sighed in relief if he still had lungs. Suddenly, she whirls to glare at something he can’t see, a string of invective spilling from her lips.

“Caxmir damn every last one of them,” she concludes. She turns back to the bewildered skeleton, jabbing her thumb at what he can only presume to be the mob waiting for them outside. “They’re going to burn the house down.”

“What?!” He hadn’t heard anything. The walls aren’t thick but he can’t understand the villagers’ words through them. How in Perdition had she?

“They’re too scared to come in so they’re going to force us out. Or burn us to death, I doubt they care which.” She makes a gesture with the hand holding the spear toward his belt. “You know how to use that knife?”

It takes him a second to remember what knife she’s talking about. He draws it from its sheath, brandishing it awkwardly in front of him. “Er…presumably?” He’d had it with him that day, had probably planned to use it in a fight. He must have some experience.

Then again, he’d clearly lost.

The orc eyes him, unimpressed. “Well, it looks like we’re gonna have to fight our way out of this. If you can’t stick ‘em with the knife, you can at least distract ‘em.”

Mordecai gapes at her. “What, so I’m just the bait?”

She gives him a look. “That’s the plan, yeah. Unless you got a better one?”

He glares as best he can without a face. “I actually came in here to get out of the sun. It burns.” He indicates his exposed humerus, which is still ashy from exposure to the light. “I’m not going out there, but you know what? You can go out there and kill all those people—or get killed, I don’t really care which—and I’ll stay here until they’re satisfied they got what they came for or they’re dead.”

It’s a bit more callous than he’d normally be, but he’d been chased through the sunlight, was trapped in a cabin about to be set aflame, and now he’s being conscripted by some strange woman to act as her distraction while she, presumably, gets away.

The orc gives him a once-over. He doesn’t know how to interpret that, so he just crosses his arms and juts his chin in defiance. They have another brief stare-down before she finally speaks. “For a skeleton, you got some guts.” She then turns away, leaving Mordecai confused and awkward.

The cabin is mostly empty, save for the impressive cobweb collection and the layer of dust coating every surface. What few items of furniture remain are covered in sheets, as though the owners had intended to return someday. The orc walks over to a living chair, pulls off the sheet and whips it through the air. The dust cloud it sends up is like a smokescreen. When she deems the sheet adequately clean, she hands it to Mordecai.

“There. Now your little bones are protected from the sun.” When he doesn’t move to take it, she simply throws the sheet over his head, draping him like a ghost. “Although,” she says almost thoughtfully, “the sun might be the least of your worries.”

“What—” is all he manages to get out before she swings the door wide and shoves him through it.