Princess Jern and the Cursed Orc

A storm was brewing in the port of Höfryggju situated on Snjórland's south-south-west coast: rain pelted the stone streets from the darkened sky above while a frigid, howling gale rattled the doors and windowpanes, and the tempestuous tide had entirely engulfed the shingle beach at the settlement's foot as it constantly crashed into the breakwater which partitioned the streets from the shore proper. However, for a certain inn tucked away in one dim corner of this seaside town, the outside squall was second to an even greater cacophony occurring within the confines of its own interior. The cause? Nothing more than a pair of women sitting by its bar.

If we were to take a peek inside this unassuming establishment dubbed the Crooked Harpoon, we would find a taproom illuminated in a toasty glow from a roaring stone fireplace set within the wall on the far left and a wide iron chandelier hanging from the centre of the ceiling, but hazy with tobacco smoke from several of its plentiful present patrons who had ducked through its doors to escape the downpour and night chill and warm their bellies with beer, some complementing their fermented beverages alongside a lit pipe. Spoiling what would have been an otherwise relaxed atmosphere, however, were the aforementioned duo perched upon stools close to one end of the counter that stretched along a good portion of the back wall, too absorbed within their personal dialogue to be considerate about disturbing those they shared the space with with the raucous volume they each conversed in that far and away rose above the general murmurings of the rest of the room.

It would be difficult for one's attention to not immediately be drawn towards these ladies upon entering the Crooked Harpoon's front doors that evening for how striking they stood out amongst the rest of the humdrum clientele, even if it was not for their boisterous bearing. Sitting on the left-hand side (relative to where one would first come in) was a light-skinned human, young but of significant height even while she was sitting: approximately two metres tall if she stood from her seat, and possessing an uncommonly vivid shade of orange in her cropped head of hair that seemed to practically blaze within the radiance of the nearby fire. From even a single look, it was obvious her overall physique was admirably athletic, evidenced by her broad back turned towards the rest of the room, and muscular arms being on full flaunt within the beige, short-sleeved tunic she wore, but for as brawny as her body was and as traditionally butch as her haircut might have been perceived, she still possessed a profile prettier than any of the other girls who were present in the same pub, whether it was the buxom blonde of bartender whose abundant assets in a low-cut frock seemed to jiggle with every minor motion she made struggling to keep up with the influx of orders, or the enigmatic, hooded brunette seated in a shadowy corner and scanning the room with a steely stare as her humourless lips silently smoked a halfling pipe.

The one sitting on the ginger female's immediate right, however, was even taller than her by a full head! She was equally as strapping - if not even more so - although this was more difficult to determine from solely sight, as most of this individual's body was wrapped up from the neck below in a long coat crudely stitched from mismatched furs of various shades of brown and grey, with whatever leftover leather from the bears and wolves that these pelts came from being tanned and fashioned into a pair of leggings tucked into large boots of the same material and lined with wool. The taller woman's non-human heritage, however, was still obvious from but one glance at her uncovered head: the distinct green pigmentation of her skin and a pair of spiky, elongated canines reminiscent of a wild boar's tusks jutting upwards and out her mouth from a slight underbite were all characteristics common to a species at once both famed and feared by many populaces the planet over outside their own number for their inborn martial might and their assertive - bordering on aggressive - dispositions: the proud, passionate natural-born fighters commonly known as orcs.

Orcs were seldom seen in this specific region of Snjórland, and the physical presence of even a single specimen of their kind was enough to cause quite the agitation amongst the Crooked Harpoon's clientele and staff alike, whose prevalent perceptions of orcs were primarily derived from hearsay muddied through the generations regarding their short tempers and savage barbarity from those from a worldview that was marginally less limiting than their own, giving rise to the impression that the entirety of the orcish race were ubiquitous bloodthirsty marauders who revelled in destruction and carnage for the sake of it, and the bestial skins worn by the one currently seated by the bar in addition to a sword and a battleaxe fastened onto either side of her waist and each fashioned in a deliberate anti-elegant, serrated style unlike anything of local make did not deter from that stereotypical picture. She appeared all the more fearsome from her initially inflexible, stern features (albeit admittedly with a certain rugged handsomeness around her prominent jawline), a hardened, squinting glare with irises that burned a bright red beneath a furrowing brow, and an exotic styling of hair unseen in Höfryggju previous: her head entirely shaved down to the skin save for a single ponytail of straight, sable hair - bunched within an iron band studded with stout spikes - that extended from the very centre of her crown and reaching halfway down her back.

Regardless of suppositions however, this particular orc was presently placated while engaged in a pleasing discourse with the redhead human, which in turn helped defuse the pervading tension the pub's other occupants felt while the green-skinned outsider was in their midst, even if they - her conversational partner excluded - still maintained as wide of a berth as they could manage, especially after the friction that had occurred between the conferring pair not even an hour prior to their current colloquy.

"I don't get it, Bjór." The aforementioned blonde bartender remarked to the Harpoon's owner while they were both at one edge of the bar, observing the orange-haired human and the orc's cordial confab from some distance. "Those two were just at each other's throats hardly an hour ago, and now they're get along like they've known each other their entire lives!"

"Don't think about it too much, Brettifa. You know how these warrior types are: muscles where their sense should be." The pub's proprietor replied to her as he poured another pint that the orc had just ordered. "So long as they keep paying for their drinks and don't come to blows again, their matters are their own." He added with the attitude of any shrewd businessperson.

Brettifa was referring to an incident earlier in the evening. The young orange-haired woman had been lodging at the Crooked Harpoon for the past couple days now, and in every instance she paid a visit to the bar, she always sat in the exact same stool without fail: the only stool at the counter whose cushion had still survived over the course of many years of umpteen use with an adequate amount of stuffing to provide relative comfort to one's behind, and seemed to have wordlessly claimed it as hers alone at some stage during her stay purely on account that nobody happened to be perched on that particular seat whenever she was in attendance in the taproom. However, whilst the redhead was out and about earlier this day, the orc came to the inn, paying no heed to the gossip that had been initiated by the patrons upon her entrance as she strided silently (save for her weapons clattering against her sides) across the room with a deliberate gait towards the counter, naturally helping herself to the available cushioned stool before quietly ordering a drink for herself.

While the orc was midway through quenching her thirst, the redhead returned from her stroll for her own regular refreshment at this time, initially in high enough spirits, though these were immediately dashed upon seeing a perfect stranger sitting in her preferred seat. Utterly undeterred by the green-skinned woman's appearance and armaments, the human female strutted straight up to the counter, directly behind and a little aside to the orc before gaining her attention with a sharp, ineloquent utterance of "oi!". The exclamation was sharp and loud enough to give even the orc a start, causing her to nearly sputter out her drink before she took it away from her tusked mouth and turned towards who had been bold enough to disturb her so curtly, her expression appearing even more ornery than when she had first entered.

At first, the human attempted to diplomatically - albeit firmly - explain to the orc that she seemed to be occupying her favoured seat by honest mistake and kindly requested her to sit elsewhere. The orc understandably looked to the orange-haired girl like she was off her rocker, and was subsequently quick to respond she did not see her or anybody else's name on the stool. This was the catalyst that ignited the clash of two tempers, and what started out as a simple - if intense - verbal squabble escalated into a full-on physical fight! Fists were thrown and grapples were made then and there right by the bar while the tapsters made feeble attempts to break up the bout, at the same time the other guests had grouped to see how a human - as physically competent as she was - would fare against an orc. The two were roughly evenly matched during the opening moments, although it soon became clear the redhead was struggling to keep pace with her opponent, being knocked onto the floor - one eye blackened and bleeding from the nose - when - in the heat of the moment - she grabbed the same stool that she had been coveting by its legs and sprang back onto her feet, raising the furniture item high above her head before bringing it down upon the top of the orc's mostly-bald pate with such force, the seat completely shattered into several pieces, felling the green-skinned woman straight down and stunned onto her backside.

There was a brief moment of near silence, as though everybody in the room simultaneously held their breath save for the two ruffians, each respiring deeply after such a severe struggle. The redhead looked down at the two pieces of splintered wood of what remained of the cushioned stool still held in her hands, then to the orc - coming out of her daze - looking back with bewilderment over what the human had just done. It was then that the orange-haired female started cracking up, first with an impulsive smirk that then became stifled laughter as the orc could not help but do the same, which then inevitably erupted into a mutual guffaw as the two realised the absurdity over their asinine reason for brawling, as well as the literal destruction of that very reason by the one who had instigated the dispute in the first place!

"Yer pretty tuff! Fer a 'ooman dat iz." The orc commented in a particular dialect once their laughing fit started to die down.

"Heh, thanks. Don't think I've ever met anybody as hardy as yourself before! Then again, I've never met an orc 'till tonight." The redhead responded as she extended a cordial hand towards the green-skinned woman, who readily accepted it into her own before being helped back onto her feet with a heave from the human female. "Hey, what's your name anyhow?"

"Uzaaba." The orc introduced herself. "Yers?"

"Call me Jern!" The human replied with a beaming smile and cheerful tone, a total antithesis of the irate leer and bitter timbre she had shewn to Uzaaba just moments ago, before turning to the bartenders still rubbernecking on their interactions and saying. "Oi! If you lot are done gawking, then fetch me and Uzaaba here a couple tall cold ones, will ya? Oh, and sorry 'bout the stool. Just send the repair bill over to my pops."

"Hm? And who would that be then?" The inn's owner then asked Jern, keen for her to take some semblance of responsibility for his damaged property.

"King Stål, of course!" Jern confidently answered.

"Oh, pull the other one! Away with you and your bad jokes." The barkeep scoffed and brushed her off, not amused in the slightest by Jern's response...even if it was the unexaggerated truth!

From her bearing and behaviour, nobody not already familiar with Jern would have ever suspected she was, in fact, the eldest daughter of Snjórland's reigning monarch, although she prided herself far more as a self-made warrior rather than on her royal heritage, having left home some weeks ago without her father's permission to explore her homeland in search of daring exploits through which to test her valour. Most recently, the orange-haired wayfarer mounted a one-woman rescue of a baron's daughter from a gang of kidnappers, with the baron originally offering said daughter's hand in marriage to the one who could secure her safe return, but upon learning Jern was not a man as he had initially assumed, on top of neither party having any fancy for the same sex, she settled for a monetary reward instead for services rendered, part of which she used to recompense the damages she had done to the pub's property. The amount she received seemed significantly less than what a nobleman may have otherwise spent on a wedding, but Jern was not going to split hairs about it.

With her payment, Jern had come to nearby Höfryggju for a chance to have the dents her armour had accumulated from her many escapades finally hammered out for the first time since she had set out from Snjórland's capital city, although had a three-day wait before it was restored to an acceptable condition. After being constantly out on the road for as long as she was with little rest, however, and certain she had shaken off the trail of those sent to retrieve her by her disapproving father, the redhead welcomed the temporary reprieve, even if there was little to do in this harbour town pertaining to Jern's interests outside of taking extended walks through its streets or along its outskirts, and getting herself inebriated at its watering holes. It was because of her freshly acquired funds combined with her newfound fondness for Uzaaba that Jern splurged as she did, having hope that she had found a decent drinking buddy during her sojourn at last after nobody she had met thus far had been able to equal her when it came to putting away the pints.

The two pulled up another stool each, and although they felt stiffer against their rears compared to the one they had clashed over, it was still preferable to standing. As she had mentioned before, Jern had never before encountered an orc in person, but had been a long-time admirer of their strong military traditions ever since her formative years, having read as much material on their histories, heroes, conflicts and cultures as she had access to in archives both public and of Malmhule Palace, and, as such, was bursting at the seams with questions for Uzaaba while they partook in their potations, with the orc woman being perfectly obliging to answer any and all queries posed to her to the best of her knowledge (although Jern surprised Uzaaba with one or two tidbits of information even the orc was unaware of), turning out to be unexpectedly talkative towards she who was willing to socialise, although the alcohol also had a hand in loosening her lips.

Through her constant quizzing, Jern learned Uzaaba hailed from the distant Orient, and was working her way through the west as a freelance mercenary before eventually finding her way in distant northern Snjórland, although admitted she was currently between jobs as employment was difficult to come by in this island country compared to the continental mainland, to which Jern half-jokingly responded it was because of herself snatching up all the available posts in the kingdom as of late. Once she had a few pints more in her, Uzaaba further disclosed she was also on a journey of self-improvement - not unlike Jern's own quest, albeit on a grander scale - having travelled to the Occident in search of new challenges through which to refine her prowesses with, leading the orc to start listing a few examples of the accomplishments she had thus far achieved both back home in the east and during her travels in the west.

Uzaaba related partaking in great battles that apparently decided the very course of history in remote lands Jern had never even heard of before, and of terrible foes she made out to be deadlier than daemons only to meet their mortal end by her hand before drifting into more sentimental topics regarding her fatherland: longingly detailing the unparalleled freedom she felt the first time riding bullback solo across the sweeping, open steppes, and how she used to hunt ferocious, ashen-coated wildcats as large as horses through wooded hills in the dead of winter, their claws like hooked knives and their fangs like stalactites. So vivid were Uzaaba's accounts, that Jern felt as though she had been directly transported to those far-flung locales during these exciting events, although the eighteen-year-old princess could not help but feel somewhat inadequate hearing how much the orc had already seen and done in her life when she seemed to have lived only a dozen or so seasons more compared to the redhead.

This led to Jern describing her own deeds in turn, both the major and the minor, although each was embellished in order to sound as grand of a feat as possible while still remaining within the realms of relative realism to make her boasts believable as an attempt to impress the veteran orc even a fraction of how she had impressed her, as well as anybody who happened to be within earshot (which, as it happened, was virtually everyone else currently within the same room from the volume Jern was speaking with), but even then, all that the princess had accomplished still seemed trivial to Uzaaba's own triumphs. Nevertheless, the foreigner was sincere in attending to each of Jern's narrations without once drawing any disparaging comparisons to her own experiences, although it was becoming increasingly more difficult for Uzaaba to decipher all of the humans's syllables as they slurred together the drunker she was becoming, yet it helped add to the humour of some of the more comedic facets of her tales.

"...an' sho I shays to him 'that'sh the lasht time I ever go danshin' with a troll right after a bean an' cabbage pie dinner!'" Jern was just finishing up one particularly crass anecdote that had her and Uzaaba in stitches, with the latter banging on the table with the flat of her hand as she chortled, making a nearby pewter dish of peanuts bounce and rattle from the sheer impact of the strikes. "Ya can shertainly hold yer liquor, by the by!" Jern commented - her speech degenerating to mush in her insobriety - following her finishing her umpteenth steiner of ale, and before demanding to be delivered another as she slammed enough coins on the countertop to pay for her next three pints in advance as if it would speed up the service.

"Psh! Dis iz like wottah compared to da sorta stuff we brew back 'ome!" Uzaaba replied, still speaking Snjórlandic as coherent as she could in her accent as she took another casual swig of her current beverage as if proving her point. Indeed, orcs do tend to have naturally hardier constitutions compared to humans on average, allowing them to hold their drink for longer and in greater quantities, and indeed Uzaaba was feeling only buzzed after the approximately equal amount the pair had already ingested, while Jern was utterly steaming. "Can't say da same fer yerself though!"

"Whaaa-, me? I'm hardly even tipshy yet!" Jern replied while she was swaying where she sat, immediately following up with a burp before teetering from her stool entirely and crashing to the floor. Uzaaba snorted through her snout from the timing, and every other patron present joined in chuckling at Jern's bumbling, with even the barkeep unable to stifle his mirth.