Finished, he folded the letter and held it over his shoulder. Without hesitation, Boldra took it and waited for his instructions. Oubold watched the flames lick hungrily at the air as they consumed the logs in the hearth. He spent a good deal of time in his quiet contemplation. A decision like this required much thought. This was one trial he would not charge headlong into.
Oubold was snapped from the hypnotic waving of the fire when Boldra shifted slightly. He grunted to himself, drawing it out to a growl before finally issuing his orders.
“Take the letter to my room and set it on my table,” he said while refilling his mug with a gently steaming brew.
Boldra sprang to her feet and pivoted quickly, quick steps carrying her toward the open archway that led to the hall. Oubold, though, had one last request.
“And bring my clan insignia.”
Boldra paused only briefly but the silence between the last order and her response was palpable.
“Yes, Father.”
Oubold drained his mug and heaved a weighty sigh. What am I going to do with her, he thought. She is smart and a decent Shaman, but she is weak willed.
Before he could even begin to entertain the idea of wondering what could be taking her so long, Boldra returned. Always so quick to please me, he thought as he turned to regard his daughter. He studied her down-turned face and her posture as she knelt, holding the requested item in her open plams. Is it loyalty? Is it fear? Would it change my thinking to know? He grunted and took the insignia, turning it over a few times in his hand, leaving it face up when he stopped.
“That is all, daughter. You are free to do as you will, but be sure to keep the house. I may not be back for some time, if ever.”
He closed his fist over the Frostwolf Insignia and stood. He looked down at his daughter and gave her as warm a smile as he could manage. He thought to answer her questioning eyes, but instead shook his head once and left her kneeling in the sitting room.
Oubold stood before the building that housed the entrance to the guildhall, insignia in one hand, axe in the other. A pair of forsaken, tattered farmers garb hanging from their dilapidated bodies, lounged on the porch. They seemed not to pay him any mind, but he felt their gazes just the same. He tossed the insignia to the dirt. The pair of undead didn't react at all, not even when, with a roar that would have put fear into a demon, he brought his axe down upon the token.
Shoulders heaving with each heavy breath, teeth clenched, lips curled back from his tusks, he stood unmoving, axe stuck deeply into the earth. A bead of sweat formed at his temple and drew a jagged line down his cheek before disappearing into his stubble. Finally, the dust settled, revealing the symbol of the Frostwolf clan, cleft in twain, sitting on either side of the axe. He let go of the axe, leaving it stuck in the dirt, and took up the two halves of the insignia of his former clan, that of his murdered chieftan, Durotan. He closed his left fist over the shattered token, yanked his axe from the greedy grip of the earth and went inside.
Oubold wandered the guildhall, a tad aimlessly having never set foot inside before. Before long, he stopped a young orc with the beginnings of a red mohawk.
“You! Youngling!” he bellowed.
“Something need doing?” the orc answered.
“See that this reaches Inquisitor Tiski'tai.” Oubold handed the boy a simple wooden box, about four inches by four inches.
“Zug zug” the boy replied, carrying the package away. Inside the box was the two halves of Frostwolf Insignia and a letter.
Inquisitor Tisk
My sakerfice.
Oubold Gnomekicker
