“What’s an orc doin’ with an elf?” It’s the same question as the woman asked earlier, but said with far less curiosity and more of something bordering on malice.

Mordecai makes himself as small as possible. He has no idea how to respond to that. You’d think facing down one volatile orc would prepare him to deal with another, but this orc is not Achillea.

Fortunately, his companion steps in. “None of your business,” she replies in a dangerous tone.

“Don’t fight in my inn!” The two orcs turn to glare at the innkeeper, who to his credit doesn’t show how intimidated he must be. Any sane person would be running for cover.

The large orc simply growls and turns back to the two of them. He eyes Achillea. “What’s yer name?” he demands.

Achillea doesn’t answer immediately. Remembering the name Rhothomir had called her, Mordecai wonders whether she’ll give the name he knows her by or the more orcish-sounding one.

After a long pause, she clenches her jaw and grits out, “Achillea.”

The orc sneers. “Disgraced, eh? That explains it.” His contemptuous gaze slides over to Mordecai. “What is it the elves say about trash?”

Mordecai isn’t an elf; he doesn’t know what they say or how to reply without giving himself away. He stays quiet instead, head down.

This, apparently, is the wrong decision. “Whatsa matter, can’t talk?” the orc taunts. “Too high-‘n’-mighty to deign an honorable orc with yer attention? Look at me when I’m talkin’ to you.” He makes to grab for Mordecai’s hood.

In the split-second between the time it takes to process the action and when the panic begins to set in, Mordecai finds the head of a spear in between him and the orc’s hand, just centimeters away from slicing the offending fingers off. “Don’t,” Achillea warns, glowering at the larger orc.

Mordecai suddenly realizes that everyone in the room is openly staring at them.

“Hey, I said no fighting!” The innkeeper actually leaves his station to march toward the three, heedless of the danger of the situation. The male orc turns, throwing a menacing look at the man. He stops in his tracks, rightly terrified, but stands his ground. “If you want to fight, take it outside or else I’ll have to ask you both to leave.”

A small voice clears its throat, drawing all eyes to the kitchen door. The woman—Nadia—stands in the doorway next to several crates strapped together with rope. She’s shaking like a leaf in the autumn wind. “Your…” she starts, faltering. “Your order, sir….”

The orc snorts, retracts his hand, and hocks a wad of spit onto their table. Achillea’s expression doesn’t waver, but she does withdraw her weapon, no longer aggressive but still on guard.

Hefting the crates onto his back, the orc wordlessly stomps out the door without a glance back.

Finally, the tension dissipates. The innkeeper breathes a sigh of relief and sinks onto a bench, exhausted from the whole ordeal. Mordecai thinks to himself, ‘Yeah, same.’

One of the patrons stands from his seat and stretches. “Welp, best be gettin’ to bed. I’ll head to town in the mornin’ and bring you back some more supplies.”

“Thanks, Edwin,” the innkeeper replies. He turns solemnly to the two travelers. “Those orcs have been camped a ways out in the forest for the past few weeks. I don’t know what your history with them is—”

“We don’t have a history,” Achillea says, cutting him off. “But it’s probably best we leave.”

Mordecai turns to her, surprised. She lays a hand on his shoulder. “They’ll be coming for us. Even if they won’t attack the inn, and I wouldn’t count on that, they’ll just wait outside for us to leave. We can’t stay here forever; we need to get going before he has time to gather the rest of ‘em.”

He nods. There’s no way the two of them can take on a gang of orcs. They both stand to leave, only for the innkeeper to stop them.

“Wait, let me refund your money.” He makes his way back over to the counter.

Achillea simply walks past, beelining for the door. “Keep it. For your trouble.” She then walks out. Mordecai follows close behind her.

They walk in silence in the cool night air, following the road for once. Achillea rubs at her eyes again, biting back a yawn. All that trouble and they didn’t even make it to their room.

Eventually, Achillea breaks the silence. “Go ahead. Ask.”

Mordecai doesn’t even know where to start.

“…What did he mean by ‘disgraced’?” he settles on.

Achillea sighs. “When an orc does something unforgivable, like denies someone their chosen death or…” she pauses. “…something else, they’re cast out of their village. They can no longer use their given orcish name. They have to wander around as a nameless nomad, and if they cross paths with another orc, they’re bound to be killed for their treachery.”

Something about that statement strikes Mordecai as odd. “You aren’t nameless though?”

Achillea sighs again, and it’s somehow louder and even more frustrated than the first one. “My name was given to me by someone else.”

Mordecai waits for her to elaborate, but she doesn’t. She probably wouldn’t answer if he asked, then. He thinks for a moment on what his next question will be. “What did you do, anyway? To be disgraced?”

Achillea remains silent.

He wants to be frustrated, but considering her situation…having been thrown out of her home, denied her identity, and hunted by her own kind…he wouldn’t want to talk about it either. Doesn’t, he realizes. He may know his name, but his past is a fog and people despise him for what he is. It’s a difficult subject. He tries not to let it bother him, but he’s still coming to terms with his undead state, and though their situations are similar, they’re not the same. He doesn’t feel like he can talk to her about it, because she may be understanding but she doesn’t really understand.

So he accepts that he doesn’t really understand her either, though he can make the effort to. “What was your chosen death, anyway? You never told me that.”

She glares sullenly at the darkness in front of her. “Doesn’t matter. That’s another thing you lose your right to.”

Mordecai hums in acknowledgement. Nope, he doesn’t get it.

They continue on through the night, letting the conversation drop. Achillea doesn’t have much to say and Mordecai spends his time mulling the information over. Orc society sounds really harsh. Prideful, even, perhaps as much so as the elves. Weird that they’d develop in two totally opposite directions, he thinks, remembering Achillea’s interactions with Rhoth.

Suddenly, a thought occurs to him. “Hey.”

“Hm?” Achillea tilts her head at him, waiting for him to continue.

“Why didn’t you just lie? Tell him your old name, or just any orcish name? It might’ve saved us…this.” He makes a wide gesture, referring to the situation as a whole.

She looks away stiffly. Then, just when Mordecai thinks he’s getting another silent treatment, she replies.

“Orcs…aren’t good with deception,” she admits, voice laced with embarrassment. “Enduring or enacting.”

It takes a moment for him to understand what she’s getting at, but when he does it’s like their entire journey together thus far is thrown into sudden clarity. “You can’t lie?!”

“Shut your mouth,” she snaps. Mordecai almost laughs, almost replies that he doesn’t have a mouth to shut, but just barely manages to restrain himself. “…But yes. We can hide the truth and we can keep silent, but we can’t outright lie.”

Mordecai does laugh then, long and loud and echoing like the specter he is. Achillea demands that he shut up, face flushing, as the two trek north through the moonlit night.