With a wild look in its eyes, greasy hair flying in the wind, the orc rushed Faine. It swung its club from a high angle, aiming for his head. Faine tried to dodge, but was struck with a glancing blow to his shoulder. Crying out in pain, he clutched his shoulder, where a bruise was already forming. Very little blood smeared his fingers, though; the magic armour held.

The orc lifted the branch again, slowly, panting shallowly. It was tiring, fast. Unable to speak through his own labored breathing, Faine headbutted the orc’s chest. The orc lost its grip on the club, and while it fumbled for it, Faine grabbed his knife and plunged it deep into the orc’s torso. Immediately, the club dropped to the ground with a dull thud as the orc gave a wretched howl that resounded in the small clearing. Faine shuddered with repulsion against the reality of what he’d done as he watched its fingers slip on the bloody hilt of the old butcher’s knife he used for cleaning small game. The orc took an unsteady step forward, forcing Faine into action. His mouth was too dry for a telekinetic blast, and he was out of knives, but he was covered in sweat from the hot night. He could use that.

The hooting of an owl accompanied the orc’s howls as he put some distance between them. Squatting on the ground, Faine carved a simple symbol into the dry dirt. Then, he placed a sweat covered palm to the forest floor, and shoved dirt toward the orc, obscuring the symbol. The ground moved beneath the orc’s feet, sliding toward the outline of trees on the far side of the clearing. The orc tripped like a rug had been pulled out from under it, arms pinwheeling uselessly before it landed face first into the subsoil, pushing the knife in farther. The orc made a horrible gurgling sound as it choked on its own blood.

Between the orc’s gurgling and the hare’s cries, Faine was starting to feel overwhelmed. The orc no longer posed a threat to him, and he had meant to kill it when he saw how determined it was to hurt him, but he couldn’t stand to let it have a slow death. So, he grabbed out a small cleaning cloth, and made his way over to its side. With great difficulty, he pushed the orc onto its side enough to grab the bloody hilt of the knife with his cloth, and yank it out. Blood gushed from the wound, and the orc grew silent. He let it collapse back onto the ground, then, with a moment’s hesitation, in which his stomach turned and his vision swam, he plunged the knife into the base of the orc’s neck. Its fingers twitched a little, before its muscles loosened and it appeared to sag into the ground. A foul smell permeated the air, and Faine knew it was dead. His eyes screwed shut, he leapt off of the orc’s body, gagging at the stench. Blindly, he stumbled to the source of the hare’s cries, almost tripping over rocks and twigs. When he reached the hare, he crouched down and opened his eyes.

The hare looked exhausted. It lay on its side, feet twitching aimlessly as it tried to slip the snare. Foam ringed its mouth, and its eyes were popping out of their sockets. Faine found that he didn’t have the heart to kill it anymore. He wasn’t hungry anyway, thanks to the blue potion. So, he reached down, and cut it loose with the knife. Immediately, the hare sprung up, and bounded for the treeline. It didn’t get very far before it had to stop and rest. As it caught its breath, it looked over its shoulder to see Faine staring. Panicking, it hopped and crawled behind a bush, not knowing or not caring that its leg was sticking out in plain sight. Faine chuckled, and felt a little guilty doing it.

“Sorry, little guy,” called Faine. He turned, and walked out of the clearing, passing the orc’s body on the way. By the time he made it back to camp, he was exhausted and empty-handed.

“It’s alright,” thought Faine. “I’ll make up for it when I get back to town with my new wife.”

Faine checked the perimeter of the camp, and found nothing out of place. He considered moving, but orcs tended to travel alone, in large personal territories, so he figured he’d be safe for the night. Still, he didn’t want to attract any other unwanted visitors with his heavy scent of rosemary and blood, so he washed in a rivulet he had spotted a few minutes’ walk from camp. The bath couldn’t entirely rid him of the scent of rosemary, but it was much more tolerable. He refilled his canteens and drank his fill before returning to camp, where he put off his search for the orc’s lair, and settled in for a good night’s sleep.