Page 1 of X'nath

1

The Glint of Opportunity

X’NATH

The air in the Mountain’s Spine crackled with the smell of metal and mischief, swirling around our camp like a rogue spark in a dry forest. I leaned against a rusted gear from one of our old contraptions, idly sharpening my blade while watching my clanmates scurry about. Their raucous laughter mixed with the occasional growl of giant weasels—our oversized partners in crime.

You’d think a band of orcs living in a mountain would be all brawn and bravado, but we had a knack for thievery and steam-powered antics.

I was X’nath, son of Larek of the Savage Claw Clan. Many say pride ran deep in our blood, but I say their envy ran deeper. I had every right to boast and had the scars to prove it. While others might roll their eyes at the thought of an orc aspiring to something beyond smashing skulls and raiding graves, I was all about ambition. A young blood by clan standards, I could still beat the best of them. The older orcs were simply jealous of my vitality.

A laugh escaped over my own thoughts. Flipping the blade a few times, I easily caught it by the hilt and resheathed it.

My wit was also sharper than my knife, and I wasn’t afraid to show it.

Today, the usual mischief buzzed with a different kind of excitement. Word had spread like wildfire—an actual shipwreck was located at the valley’s edge, and it was rumored to be carryingfemales. Not just any females, but ones with bright eyes and laughter that could light up even our gloomy mountain. We were a dwindling clan, and our chances of finding mates were as slim as a weasel's tail.

“X’nath! You’re just the orc we need!” Greag bellowed from across the camp, his arms waving like he was trying to take flight. His giant grey weasel, Bolg, sniffed at his boots, searching for scraps.

“Need me for what?” I shot back, flicking my head in his direction. “You want someone to wrestle that fat merchant? You’d better ask a bigger orc.”

He rolled his eyes, a smirk creeping onto his face. “No, you fool! We’ve got a plan, and it’s brilliant! The ship, if still intact, will be unguarded while they rest. Just imagine the loot—and the women!”

The scout reported a massive ship struggling against the storm, as skaevin—large, leathery birds with water-resistant feathers usually trained by one of our rival clans, the Cliffers—soared above. These birds were renowned for being trained by one of the clans to scavenge the seas. It was no secret that women were a rare commodity among us, and if the clans from the cliffs were showing interest in this particular ship, it was up to us to uncover the truth. Was it merely the women they sought, or was there something more to the ship’s mystery?

“And what? You want me to charm them with my rugged good looks?” I quipped, crossing my arms. “I’d sooner scare them off with my face.”

“Trust me, they’ll be swooning by the time we’re done,” Greag shot back, puffing his chest out. “We’ll hit them at dusk, using the fog as cover. Bolg can scout ahead. With the weasels leading the charge, we’ll be unstoppable! They’ll never see us coming.”

I chuckled, unable to help myself. Bolg was more than just a pet; he was part of our secret weapon. The clan’s weasels could slip through the tiniest cracks, snatch up anything shiny, and return to us like well-trained orc thieves. If anyone could sneak aboard the remnants of a shipwreck undetected, it was them.

“Count me in, then,” I said, grinning wide. “But I get first pick on the loot.”

“Deal! But don’t scare the rest of them off with your mug,” He replied, slapping me on the back hard enough to almost send me stumbling. “Might take more than a shiny trinket and wit to win them over!”

“Ha! I’ll have them wrapped around my finger before you can say ‘treasure,’” I boasted, cracking my knuckles.

“Good luck with that,” another orc chimed in, a mischievous glint in his eye. “You’ll need more than charm when they see your charming personality.”

I rolled my eyes at Vakgar, the only son of Trilog. His bloodline traced back to the original warriors who split off to form the Savage Claw Clan. While our way of life had shifted and adapted over the years, we remained fierce warriors when the need arose—if thieving and convenience didn’t do the job.

"Just watch me," I retorted, brushing past Vakgar with a smirk, before turning to my own weasel partner in crime. "Yargol, you ready to catch us some prizes?"

Yargol let out a chittering screech, his small, agile form scampering over to my side. His sharp eyes gleamed with excitement as he nipped playfully at my boots. Bolg, Greag’s weasel, mirrored Yargol’s eagerness, chattering as his nose twitched at the scent of something to hunt. I gave both of them a brief nod, a silent promise that we’d soon be on the move.

Around us, the camp came alive with activity. Greag was rallying the clan as they gathered supplies. More orcs began to emerge from their tents, their gruff voices echoing through the air as they packed up crates and checked their weapons. Some were hauling crates of scrap metal, while others hunched over makeshift stoves, cooking up what little food they had left before the journey.

I watched as several of the older orcs lugged out strange, clunky contraptions—rudimentary steampunk gear cobbled together from salvaged parts. These weren't young warriors eager to prove themselves; these were seasoned fighters, scarred and wise, who had spent years raiding human trader ships. The bulky, steam-powered backpacks they wore hissed and clanked with every movement, while crude rifles—patched together from bits of steel and glass—were slung across their backs, the barrel gleaming faintly in the dimming light. Some of them wore goggles that gave them a half-mad look, their faces smeared with oil and soot from years of tinkering with stolen human technology.

I didn’t trust those crude rifles, so I stuck with my axe. It wasn’t that long ago when one of them accidentally discharged and blew the face off one of the old orcs. That memory still haunted me.

Vakgar, who was now surveying the equipment, let out a low growl as he inspected a large, jagged sword that seemed more suited for smashing than slicing. He grunted in approval, slinging it over his shoulder. The air smelled of metal, oil, andsomething faintly burnt—a familiar scent for us, signaling that chaos was just around the corner.

I threw a glance at the distant peaks, the sun beginning its descent. The landscape was bathed in an orange glow across the camp. There was a thrill in the air, a promise of adventure, and I could practically taste the victory that awaited us. The excitement in my chest was more than just anticipation—it was the sense that something big was on the horizon, something worth fighting for. This wasn’t just about looting a shipwreck; it was our chance to prove ourselves, to carve out our place once more as a clan to be reckoned with, a clan that no one would dare mess with.

Greag was barking orders now, assigning specific orcs to our journey and organizing the rest in preparation for what lay ahead. I gave Yargol one final pat on the head before turning to lend a hand to the others.

"We'll be ready by nightfall," I muttered, more to myself than anyone else.

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