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# Waverider Expedition - Grashkaar

Tense negotiations

The Waverider lay at anchor outside the shore of Grashkaar, her sails furled against the dry wind. The sea here was pale green, the sand black as iron dust. Beyond the shore, the land rose in low ridges of yellow grass and thorn scrub, dotted with stone towers that watched the coast like half-buried spears.

When the crew rowed ashore, the orcs were already waiting.

They stood in a line above the tide, broad-shouldered and silent, faces painted with ochre and ash. Each carried a curved blade or hunting spear, but none raised them. Their eyes followed every motion, their muscles taut with the kind of calm that comes before violence.

Virellus lifted a hand in greeting. “We come for trade,” he called.

One of the orcs stepped forward, taller than the rest, ears marked with bronze rings. “Trade?” he said, his voice low, heavy with suspicion. “You fly no colors of the Empire?”

Severin Valerius stepped up beside the captain, his coat immaculate despite the dust. “The Empire?” he said, smiling faintly. “My good friend, if we were the Empire, you’d have heard drums before you saw sails.”

A few of the orcs chuckled, not warmly, but enough to ease the edge of the moment.

The leader studied them, nostrils flaring. “Many come from the Empire. They buy, they take, they promise peace, then send soldiers.”

“We’re sailors, not soldiers,” Severin said. “We sell iron, not oaths.”

That seemed to please him. The orc nodded once, then gestured inland. “Come. You will trade, then leave.”

They followed him through a narrow valley to the settlement, stone houses sunk into the earth, smoke rising from low chimneys. The air smelled of dust and grain. Beyond the village stretched wide fields of red soil where women and children worked silently, their eyes flicking toward the strangers but never lingering. A few old warriors watched from a distance, hands resting on spears.

“These lands once fed a thousand,” the orc said, walking beside them. “Now we are twice as many. We need farmland. The rains fail. The herds die.”

“Virellus glanced toward the dry fields. ‘A hungry people make poor enemies,’ he said quietly.”

The crew could feel the weight of the place, a land holding itself together through pride and will.

At the center of the village, the trading tables stood ready. The orcs brought out sacks of dried grain, salted fish, and smoked roots. In return, the Waverider’s men laid out bars of iron, cut nails, and tools forged in Twin Cities’ workshops.

Each exchange was silent and deliberate, the clang of metal the only sound between them.

Finally, the orc leader picked up one of the iron bars, testing its weight. “Good steel,” he said. “Better than we see from the Empire.”

“The Empire keeps the best for its armies,” Severin replied, pouring two cups of sour local wine. “We keep ours for trade, and for friends.”

The orc eyed him, then accepted the cup. “You are no friend,” he said evenly. “But neither are you enemy. That is enough.”

Severin smiled. “For now, that’s more than most can say.”

They drank.

When the trade was finished, the orcs escorted them back to the shore. The air hung heavy with the scent of iron and dust, of promises neither side intended to test.

At the edge of the surf, the orc leader stopped. “Tell your captain,” he said, “the Empire will come here again soon. When it does, we will kill them. Not because we hate them. Because we must.”

Virellus inclined his head. “Then we’ll hope to meet again before that day.”

The orc’s grin showed no humor. “If you come again, sail with iron, not banners.”

Back aboard, the crew loaded the grain and salted fish in silence. Eira watched the shore recede, the figures shrinking into the haze.

“They’re ready to fight,” she said.

Virellus nodded slowly. “They’ve been ready for years. The Empire just hasn’t noticed yet.”

Severin wiped the dust from his gloves, smiling without warmth. “They will soon enough.”

The Waverider turned seaward once more, her hull heavy with food and the uneasy weight of peace bought with iron. Behind her, the orcs of Grashkaar stood watching, spears raised. Not in salute, but in warning.

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