Book Two — Chapter Five
Orgrimmar, years before the events of Book One
Orgrimmar did not sleep.
Vegetaone learned that before he had been inside the city for an hour.
The Valley of Trials became quiet at night. Sen’jin softened beneath the sound of the sea. Even Razor Hill settled once the fires burned low.
Orgrimmar only changed voices.
During the day, the city shouted.
At night, it growled.
Hammer blows rang from the forges long after sunset. Wolves barked from somewhere beyond the crowded streets. Merchants argued over copper by torchlight. Armored warriors came and went through the gates as if the road beyond Durotar never ended.
Vegetaone loved it immediately.
He also had no idea where he was going.
He had entered the city determined to find three things.
The stranger from the watchtower. Someone who could teach him how to make a proper bag.
And food.
Within ten minutes, he had become lost. He stopped beside a large wooden post covered in notices and looked around. Every direction appeared important.
Every path seemed to lead somewhere louder. An orc carrying a stack of crates nearly walked into him.
“Move.”
Vegetaone stepped aside.
“Where is the inn?”
The orc did not stop.
“Which one?”
Vegetaone frowned.
There was more than one.
Of course there was.
A goblin standing beside a cart pointed down the road.
“Follow the smell.”
“What smell?”
“Food, sweat, spilled ale, bad decisions.”
Vegetaone stared at him.
The goblin shrugged.
“Works in every city.”
It did.
The inn was crowded enough that Vegetaone had to wait for a seat.
He did not mind.
His ribs still reminded him of the battle outside Razor Hill whenever he twisted too quickly. The healer there had told him to rest. He had listened for almost a full day.
That seemed reasonable.
Vegetaone set his bag beside his boots and ordered stew.
Then another bowl.
He ate while listening.
That had become a habit on the road.
People said useful things when they did not think anyone was listening.
A pair of grunts complained about caravans being attacked near the Barrens.
A merchant cursed the price of linen.
Two hunters argued about which trail north was fastest.
And at a table near the wall, three guards discussed a gray-haired man in a dark cloak.
Vegetaone stopped eating.
“He asked too many questions,” one guard said.
“What kind?”
“Patrol rotations. Supply wagons. Messenger routes.”
Vegetaone turned slightly in his chair.
The second guard laughed.
“And you answered?”
“Of course not.”
“Then what happened?”
“He left.”
“Where?”
The guard lifted his mug.
“North side of the city. Maybe toward the zeppelin towers. Maybe through another gate. Didn’t care enough to follow.”
Vegetaone did.
He finished the stew quickly and crossed the room.
The guards looked up as he approached.
“You talking about a human?” Vegetaone asked.
One guard frowned.
“Maybe.”
“Gray hair at the temples. Dark cloak. Short sword.”
The guard lowered his mug.
“You know him?”
“No.”
That was technically true.
“He held an orc prisoner in an old watchtower south of here.”
The table became quiet.
Vegetaone told them enough.
Not everything.
The supplies.
The questions.
The Horde banner.
The names of scouts and messengers.
When he finished, the oldest guard leaned back.
“You report this?”
“Master Gadrin knows.”
“Good.”
“Did the man say where he was going?”
“No.”
“Did he speak to anyone?”
“A few merchants. One courier.”
“Which courier?”
The guard shrugged.
“Orgrimmar has hundreds.”
Vegetaone clenched his jaw.
The stranger had reached the city first.
Again.
“You planning to chase him?” the guard asked.
“Yes.”
“With those ribs?”
Vegetaone looked down.
“They’re improving.”
The guard laughed.
“No, they’re not.”
Vegetaone said nothing.
The guard pointed at him.
“You’re standing like an old kodo.”
Vegetaone adjusted his posture.
Pain immediately stabbed through his side.
He returned to his previous position.
The guard smiled.
“Thought so.”
Vegetaone hated when healers and guards agreed.
He rented a bed for the night.
Not because he wanted to.
Because walking across Orgrimmar had taught him that Razor Hill’s healer had been correct.
Again.
His body needed time.
So Vegetaone did something he was slowly learning to tolerate.
He stopped.
For two days.
Not completely.
He still explored.
He simply explored more slowly.
Orgrimmar gave him plenty to see.
The forges fascinated him first.
He watched blacksmiths shape red-hot metal into weapons and armor. Sparks rose around them in bright storms. Plate pieces hung from racks nearby—thick, heavy, scarred.
Vegetaone touched one shoulder guard when the smith was not looking.
It weighed more than his entire vest.
Someday.
He kept thinking that word.
Someday.
Then he found the tailors.
That was worse.
Because he stayed for hours.
Cloth hung from walls in rolls and folded stacks.
Linen.
Wool.
Silks he could not afford to touch. Needles of different sizes rested in wooden cases. Patterns were pinned to tables. Bags hung from hooks, each one cleaner and stronger than the patched sack Vegetaone carried. An older orc tailor finally noticed him staring.
“You buying something?”
Vegetaone hesitated.
“No.”
The tailor sighed.
“Why does everyone who says no touch everything?”
“I didn’t touch anything.”
“You looked at the blue bag for ten minutes.”
“I was studying it.”
“That costs extra.”
Vegetaone smiled.
The tailor did not.
“What do you want?”
Vegetaone lifted his own bag.
“I made repairs to this.”
The tailor looked at it.
Then looked at Vegetaone.
“You committed repairs to that.”
“It holds.”
“So does a bucket.”
Vegetaone placed the bag on the table.
The tailor inspected the stitching.
The longer he looked, the less insulting his expression became.
“You did this?”
“Yes.”
“Who taught you?”
“No one.”
“That explains several crimes.”
Vegetaone folded his arms.
“Can you teach me?”
The tailor studied him.
“You a warrior?”
“I think so.”
“You think so?”
“I haven’t decided what kind yet.”
The tailor snorted.
“And you want to sew.”
“I want to make bags.”
“Why?”
Vegetaone thought about it.
Because bags were useful.
Because everyone needed them.
Because a warrior could carry weapons, food, tools, cloth, medicine.
Because something simple could matter every day.
“Because people always need more room.”
The tailor raised one eyebrow.
“That might be the first sensible thing you’ve said.”
He tossed Vegetaone a piece of linen.
“Sit.”
Vegetaone did.
By the third morning, his ribs hurt less.
His stitches looked better.
Both kinds.
The bandage around his torso had been removed, and the seam on his bag was straighter than before. Vegetaone had also spent nearly all the silver he earned in Sen’jin.
He considered that progress.
He left the tailor’s shop carrying a small bundle of scrap cloth and a new needle.
The city was already crowded.
He planned to return to the inn, collect his axe, and ask the guards near the northern roads about the gray-haired stranger.
That plan lasted less than a minute.
A messenger pushed through the crowd near the market, nearly colliding with him.
“Watch it.”
Vegetaone stepped aside.
The messenger kept moving, but the rolled map under his arm caught Vegetaone’s eye.
The Barrens.
He recognized the rough shape from maps posted near the gates.
“Wait.”
The messenger stopped with the expression of someone already regretting it.
“What?”
“Gray-haired human. Dark cloak. Short sword. Asking about patrols and supply roads.”
The messenger’s expression changed.
“You looking for him?”
“Yes.”
“Then ask on the western side of the city. Saw somebody matching that description buying travel supplies yesterday.”
“Going where?”
The messenger shrugged.
“West, probably. Barrens road.”
Vegetaone looked toward the distant gate.
There it was again.
Another road.
Another answer waiting somewhere farther than he had ever traveled.
His ribs still hurt.
His stitching still needed work.
His money was nearly gone.
None of those facts made the road less interesting.
He returned to the inn, collected his axe, and sat on the edge of the bed long enough to admit that leaving immediately would be stupid.
That realization annoyed him.
Which probably meant it was correct.
Tomorrow he would ask more questions.
Then he would go west.
Vegetaone set his repaired bag beside the bed.
The seam held.
For now.
Outside, Orgrimmar growled through the night.
Beyond its walls, the Barrens waited.
End of Chapter Five