Waverider Expedition - The Steppe Orcs
The fjord lay silent under a leaden sky, its still waters broken only by drifting ash. Beyond it stretched the Skarthuun steppe, endless, golden, cruel. Wind hissed through the grass like breath over a blade.
The Waverider’s crew moved inland on foot, following the smell of smoke. They found the camp at dusk.
Tents were torn, fires burned low, and bodies lay where they had fallen. Crows circled overhead. The air stank of blood and trampled earth. But what struck them most was not the ruin, but the order that followed it.
Orc women, broad-shouldered and silent, were already walking the field, gathering the fallen. Children carried water. No one wept. The dead were turned face-up, their weapons placed across their chests. Among them moved warriors from another tribe, the victors, their faces streaked with ash, their movements steady, respectful.
Eira whispered, “They’re helping the ones they killed.”
“They’re taking their families,” Selene said quietly. “It’s what they do. They call it duty.”
A woman looked up from her work, meeting their gaze. There was no hatred in her eyes, only the weight of a life measured in loss. She pointed toward the largest tent. “Eat,” she said in rough speech. “You watch. You learn.”
They stayed.
The victors’ camp sat on the edge of a dry riverbed, marked by piles of skulls bleached in the sun. The new women and children joined without resistance. No chains. No cries. Just weary silence. At night, the drums began, deep and slow. Warriors gathered around the fires, singing of the fallen, not of grief, but of their strength.
Kethra watched from the shadows. “They don’t mourn,” she murmured.
“They don’t have time to,” Severin replied. “They’ve turned it into ritual.”
By day, the crew helped where they could, Selene tending wounds, Otto the Dwarf repairing spears, Virellus sharing salt pork from the ship’s stores. No one thanked them. The orcs accepted help as one accepts rain: without joy or shame.
Two days later, riders returned, bloodied, grinning, bearing the bodies of their enemies. A counter-raid, swift and savage. They had avenged their dead, and brought the women and children of their enemies into their tribe.
That night, the funeral rites began.
The bodies of the fallen were laid upon the steppe. The bodies of their enemies were piled upon them. Around them, the warriors danced, beating their drums with charred shields. Smoke rose in twisting columns, thick with the scent of blood and pitch. The chief raised a skull high and shouted to the sky. The crowd answered in one voice, a sound half-song, half-roar.
Selene stood beside the captain, her face pale in the firelight. “They think this is mercy.”
Virellus’s voice was low. “No. They think it’s justice.”
When dawn came, the steppe was quiet again. Ash drifted across the grass. The orcs were already breaking camp, ready to move east toward their next pasture, their next war.
The crew took their leave. None of the orcs stopped them. A child waved once, then turned away.
By the time they reached the fjord, smoke still trailed on the horizon like a bruise against the sky.
On deck, Eira leaned on the rail, watching the gray coastline fade. “They live by death,” she said softly. “Even their kindness comes with blood.”
Severin adjusted his gloves, glancing toward the steppe. “A land too savage for trade.”
Virellus watched the smoke one last time. “Too savage for us,” he said. Then, after a pause, “but not for them.”