Jolk was an 83-year-old orc. He had grey hair, a normal head, and a normal nose. His ears were sharp and had nails that were about 1-2 inches long on his hands and feet. His height was about 4’5. He had a look that was like a battle-hardened veteran.

He was one of the oldest in the army.

About 70% of the army he was assigned to was made up of orcs between the ages of 12 months to 5 years old. And about 23% were 7 to 30 years old. 5% of it was 32 to 40 years old. Lastly, the percentage where he was in was a meager 2%, with the age ranging from 45 to 100 years old.

Orcs live for a long time, with the oldest ones ranging from 170 to 200 years. But due to the harsh training and work they had to do, many died before they reached at least 50 years old. So, being older than that was an amazing feat.

Jolk was currently walking around the camp he was in. He was looking for someone. In his hands weren’t weapons nor anything harmful. In it were two pieces of moldy bread.

“Hey, do you know about that mine collapse near here?” Jolk heard an orc speak as he walked. His face shifted into a mournful look when he heard it.

“Yeah, Thyne’s group were killed.” Another orc said with a sad look. “Reports said that they dug too deep to be saved.”

“Shit, they had that one-year-old newbie with ‘em right?” The first orc asked his buddy, to which the buddy replied with a nod. The former sighed with frustration and sat down on a wooden bench.

Jolk drowned down the conversation as the first orc started to break down and cry. His buddy was then comforting him.

Jolk, after walking for some minutes, arrived at the front of a tent. He then went inside to see an orc with a cast around his legs lying down on a ragged pillow. The orc had a rusty kettle helm on his head. He had some small fangs coming out of his mouth. He didn’t have a nose. He was wearing some ragged clothes, like most of the orcs around. The name of the orc was Orka. He was 12-years-old and experienced with construction.

Jolk kneeled and gave him one of the breads he had. Orka’s hands were shaky as he grabbed one piece of bread. Jolk felt pity as he watched Orka eat the moldy bread slowly. He shouldn’t have suffered from this. He then looked at the cast on Orka’s legs. He remembered what happened, an integral part of the building they were constructing got destroyed and his legs got smashed in the aftermath.

“Thank you…” Orka whispered shyly towards Jolk.

“Here kid.” He then gave him the other piece of bread. Orka widened his eyes and shook his head in decline to his offer.

“Y-you should be healthy as well…” He whispered again. “You shouldn’t look forsake your own health for someone like me. A useless orc.”

“Alright kid.” Jolk sighed and got up, aiming to leave the tent. He felt sad again. Orka was a good kid. Nice, compassionate, and thoughtful. Something so rare these days. Kids like him shouldn’t suffer like that…like the others. None of them should have to suffer. But Jolk knew something about Orka, his self-esteem. Orka’s low self-esteem was something that made his heartache with sadness and anger. He believed what others said about him. He believed that he was nothing but a pawn to others. Jolk could see that he could be better than any other if he had the right amount of self-esteem.

When he left the tent, he bumped into an orc. He looked at the said orc and noticed that he was smaller than him. The orc had an adorable face. As well as a slender body. The orc had a happy and adorable demeanor. It was Brod, the 3-year-old squadmate in Jolk’s group. He had a happy-go-lucky demeanor and a bright smile on his face.

“Hey, Jolk!” Brod replied as he gave him a toothy grin.

“Hey, Kid.” Jolk said, gaining a little smirk due to Brod’s usual antics. “What’re you up to?”

“I was just planning on visiting Orka.” Brod informed him. Jolk sighed and replied.

“Later, after our shift is done. Say, lunch break is almost over. We need to go back to the construction site quickly.”

“Aw…” Brod’s demeanor turned into a sad one. He looked down sadly and nodded, turning back around and going to the construction site.

Jolk just watched as Brod left. After a few seconds, Brod was nowhere in sight, so Jolk went to the construction site as well. He took his time on his journey toward the construction site. During his walk, orcs worked all around. Jolk noted that the Blacksmiths were working the hardest due to the number of weapons and armor they were making. Other orcs then took the finished products to wagons near the gate.

He then saw some orcs wear heavy armor and have pikes in both hands. He estimated at least 3 battalions of pikemen as he saw them march towards the gate.

‘Something big is happening.’ He thought to himself as he looked at the pikemen.

“Hey, Jolk…” An orc rider came to him. The rider was wearing ragged clothing and a bag beside him. The wolf stopped at least a few feet away from him and the rider dismounted. Jolk stopped walking.

“Oh, Weed.” Jolk replied. Weed then walked towards him, and once at least in front of him, he stopped.

Jolk saw Weed’s facial expression. It was not a good one.

“Jolk…” Weed started with a sad tone. “Brod’s in your squad right?”

“Y-yeah” Jolk did not like where this was going. A sad expression, a sad tone of voice, this was bound to end with tragedy. “Something wrong?”

Weed did not answer, instead, he got his leather messenger bag and took something out of it. Weed’s face was filled with sadness. Jolk could see that he was fighting off tears. Weed then gave him a letter. It had bloodstains on it.

“What is this…” Jolk’s face was filled with fear and sadness. Weed couldn’t take it anymore, a single tear appeared in his eyes.

“Two hours ago, me and my squad were patrolling when we found a pile of corpses in a valley. We checked it, they’ve been dead for a long time now. I saw one of the bodies and found it. Looked at it and saw that it was for Brod…the letter was from Gort…” Jolk took the letter from Weed’s hands. Weed then turned around, not wanting to face him. Jolk checked it out, he unfolded the paper, and looked at the broken grammar and bad writing.

Jolk’s eyes widened as he finished reading it. He then looked at Weed.

“Why do you want me to give this to Brod?” He asked.

“He deserves to know, right? I mean, he’s a happy-go-lucky person…” Weed answered, wiping his teary eyes.

“You don’t see him as well as I do.” Jolk told him. “His cheery demeanor is just a mask. Behind it is suffering and pain. His smiles aren’t genuine, it’s just a mask to hide his true face. He keeps his mask on to lighten the mood. To increase our morale. He’s hiding his true emotion. Hey Weed, do you know what happened with the 551st regiment?”

“Wait…why are you-” Weed put the two together. “No, don’t tell me…”

“Brod was part of the 551st. He was there. He was there as he watched his fellow comrades killed or captured. He and only a few others escaped.” Jolk stated. “Gort…Gort was his friend there. Both of them survived but because of the difference in capabilities, Gort was sent somewhere else while Brod was sent here. And if…”

Jolk stopped as he recalled some of his memories when he was with Brod. His smiles were all fake. His cheery demeanor was a mask. He remembered one time when his mask was gone once he was all alone. Brod’s face turned into a depressed one. One that held no hope. One that Jolk saw everywhere since his birth. But he also saw something in his eyes when he looked up at the sky. A small glimmer of hope.

He then remembered when Brod was stationed at his squad. He looked a little sad, but when he looked at his old comrade, Gort, he had a small smile on him as Gort left. He then concluded that Brod was in love with Gort. It was not uncommon for an orc to have feelings for another, but it often always ends in sadness.

Jolk then knew what would happen if he were to give the letter to Brod and tell him of Gort’s death. He would not be depressed…

He could be more than that. Possibly, suicidal. Jolk felt a pang in his heart. He has seen many of his fellow orcs die by their own hands. He has seen too much death. Too much for one to handle, but he kept going, hoping for peace.

“Jolk? You okay?” Weed asked, getting the attention of Jolk.

“I’ll hold onto this.” Jolk said, gesturing to the letter.

“Well, good luck.” Weed replied before mounting his wolf and riding out of the camp. Jolk was left standing there, thinking of what to do with the letter.

He could give it to Brod, but what he may do afterward was the true problem. Or he could burn it and keep silent, giving him false hope. The two choices left Jolk puzzled and troubled. On one hand, Brod may kill himself, and on the other, guilt in his heart that he could not bear. He knew what it was like to be given false hope by others. It felt like saying you were okay whilst the lower part of your body was gone. It was not okay.

Then he remembered, a day that he dare not utter nor even think of. He remembered something from that day, a sad day for many orcs. He remembered when one of his friends was captured. He said it was going to be okay and he was going to come back. Jolk believed it, after many days of waiting for his friend to come back, he felt worried but he never lost hope, hope that he would come back. Others did not have the courage, to tell the truth, so they kept silent. Jolk clung to his false hope that his friend was still alive. But then, it all came crumbling down when one of the commanders told him what happened to his friend.

“Skinned alive, nails were crushed, tortured…”

He remembered some of the words he heard from the commander. He didn’t stop crying for days. His hopes were crushed by just one sentence.

He didn’t want that to happen to Brod but what could he do?

For the first time in years, he felt lost. He then continued his journey to the construction sight as he hid the letter.

Just another day for orcs like him.