The Chief

Silbva leapt towards the two orcs. She was tied to nature, more so since turning to a druid. The anger at seeing creatures slaughtered for nothing but sport overwhelmed caution and sense.

Silbva arrived before the idiots had raised their weapons. Placing a hand on the ground, Silbva summoned a tree to grow under the first orc.

The tree grew quickly, rapidly twisting it's trunk and roots around the orc and restricting his movements.

Silbva then placed her other hand on the ground and summoned the Lashing Thorns plant.

It also quickly grew, though not around the orc, but a distance away. It grew into a large bush, wrapped in vines covered in black barbs.

The vines unraveled from the plant and lashed around the orc's neck, arms and ankles. They then began to tighten and move, cutting into the orc.

His friend was dead by the time he called for help. Several roars responded, but they were distant.

Silbva, regaining her composure, tapped on the ground and summoned her weapon. A long and thin blade, wrapped in vines and herbal leaves at the hilt. The rapier rose from the ground, as though it were in reverse quicksand.

The hilt, under all the greenery, was sapphire blue while the blade was a dark maroon.

Silbva rushed forwards, swiping the blade from the ground as she ran. The orc let out one last yell before Silbva pierced his skull.

'It appears even orc blood is rebellious. There's not a drop on my blade.'

Silbva had to yank her rapier from the orc's head before it came out with a *pop*.

'What's next, a group of them?' Silbva thought.

As if on cue, dozens of orcs came and surrounded Silbva from all sides, their weapons ready. One of them, a huge red orc with a broadsword hilt on either side of his shoulders, walked forward. Every step he took shook the ground, and the other orcs backed away from him.

Silbva felt truly intimidated. This orc was easily twice the size of his companions, who were already a head taller than Silbva.

The red orc spoke in a soft yet firm tone, despite his large frame.

"You killed the two. Infuriating as they were, vulgar and perverted as they were, I cannot allow their deaths to go unpunished. However, unfortunately for you, it is not for me to deliver punishment. It is the chief's duty."

The orc said the last sentence with complete disgust. It was clear he and the chief did not get along in the tribe.

Silbva stabbed her rapier into the ground. It flowed downwards until only the hilt was visable above the ground. Silbva then let go of it, and the hilt disappeared into the ground.

"Druids..." One orc scoffed.

The red orc held out a meaty hand, easily the size of Silbva's chest. Regardless, Silbva took his hand.

"Forgive me for asking, what is your name?" Silbva asked him.

The orc frowned, clearly conflicted. After a moment he spoke slowly.

"I am called Mountain by the tribe."

He gently closed his hand, picked Silbva up, and propped her on his shoulder.

Silbva was astonished at this orc. All the teachings of the orcs depicted them as beastial, blood thirsty, and complete monsters that destroyed everything. Then Mountain comes along and utterly destroys these teachings.

After a while of travelling, the orcs arrived at a crude tribal village. Every 'building' was a giant tent, every one arranged haphazardly and without thought. Towards the entrance were two towers, or the attempts at towers.

The group traveled past the towers, and Silbva's senses were assailed by the various sights and smells. The tents smelled of blood and sweat, and looked as if they would collapse at any moment.

The orcs that surrounded Mountain and Silbva stopped at the gate, turned around, and went back towards the forest.

Mountain lifted Silbva off of his shoulder, once again surprising her with his gentlemanly touch.

"Follow me, pretty Druid." He said to Silbva.

'Does he not realize I'm an elf?'

This single thought went through her mind as the two walked far into the tribal village. Before long, a large maroon-red tent became visable from behind slightly smaller tents. Silbva's memory of Orc culture mentioned the tents closest to the chief's were the 'heroes' and shaman of the tribe.

From each tent came a orc of varying sizes and color. From the chieftain's tent came a small orc with a slight golden color.

"There is our chief, little druid." Mountain said with disdain. "He will decide if and how you will die."