Faen peeked nervously from underneath the sail of the wagon. His wings were folded alongside his body as he tried to keep himself from shivering in fear. Two wagons further ahead were the eight guards of the merchant train arguing with people from the fanatical group the Flame of the Lord. Overly zealous believers of a god from somewhere. They claimed they fought for good, for the Light, for more of that crap. In reality they were well armed thugs that simply slaughtered anyone who was not human, who didn't properly convert and revere their Lord or who made the fatal mistake of opposing them in any way, shape or form. He could see his friend Daenan stand in front of the boss of the fanatics, shielding the leader of their small caravan, Marcus, with his much larger body. Faen tried to get a better look without leaving the safety of the wagon. If those madmen spotted him, they would slaughter everyone on the spot. He could see at least a dozen of them, but he knew there were more. He just prayed that they wouldn't find out what Daenan was or their heads would roll as well. Faen knew he wouldn't be able to escape afterwards. They'd just take the wagons in their entirety and roll them back to their base in Tinas, and they'd find him eventually. Unbidden thoughts bubbled to the forefront of his mind. Would his death be quick? Would they pluck his wings, torture him, make his passing slow and agonising?

"L-like I s-said, g-good sir, we a-are but h-humble m-merchants. I-I am b-but a humble m-merchant. T-these are m-my guards, g-good sir!" Marcus stammered. He held his hat in his hands, his fingers plucking at the seams as he nervously looked up at the tall commander. "Is that so? Yet you seem awfully short for a Man. Are you sure you are not a mixture? A disgusting half-breed of some sort? You are aware that those who follow the Lord, those who have sworn their souls to the Light, cannot abide the presence of inhuman monsters, who can only serve the Dark, don't you, humble merchant?" the commander asked, spitting the last words. His hand was resting on the handle of his blade, his fingers drumming a melody while he stared menacingly at the smaller man. The men around him laughed darkly. The commander looked around, observing both the positions of his men and of the caravan guards. He wasn't worried. A few of his men had their swords out already, and of the rest there were none who didn't have their hands near their blades. A few measly guards were not a threat. Not even the big one up front.

Daenan smiled from underneath his helmet, towering a solid two heads over the tall commander. He let out a short laugh, seeming to be perfectly at ease. He was different from the other guards, not only by his sheer size, but also by his equipment. Where the members of the Flame were wielding swords and mail hauberks, and the merchant guards carried a motley of leather brigandines and wielded everything from short daggers to spears, Daenan was coated in full plate armour and had a large war hammer slung across his back. It was a very unusual and unlikely outfit given his occupation, and that image was further enhanced by the short mace strapped to his hip, as well as the simple thing that both weapons were purely made of metal, as opposed to wood.

"You shouldn't mock poor Marcus, sir," he spoke, his deep, rough voice rumbling out of his helmet. "He's only that short because he keeps bowing endlessly for every potential customer he sees and as a consequence it has stumped his growth." He let out a laugh that filled the air, and was soon joined by the other guards after a brief moment.

The thugs from the Flame lost a bit of their confidence. People were supposed to be cowed when they saw them. To quiver in fear lest they strike them down with the Lord's righteous fury! They were not supposed to crack jokes of their own. "And who—" the commander asked, gesturing towards Daenan with the hand not resting on his sword hilt, "might you be?"

Daenan had to give the man credit. Despite having to look up a fair bit just to make eye contact, the man didn't flinch.

"My name is Daenan, sir."

"That does not sound like a local name to me, Daenan." The commander grinned as he could feel his men changing positions, getting ready to pounce at a moment's notice.

"That's because it's is not, sir," came the easy reply. "I am from quite far away. Kind Marcus found me when I was wandering in the mountains I had succeeded in getting myself lost. It was a desolate place and I was starving, but the Lord saw it fit to not let his servant die just yet and guided Marcus to find me."

The commander blinked, completely taken off guard. "You—" he stammered, taking several steps back, unsure of whether or not to draw his blade. "You call upon His name?"

Daenan stepped forward and seemed to grow in size, a not dismissable feet given that he already towered over everyone else. When he spoke his voice was low and threatening. "Of course I call on His name. Would a Paladin do otherwise?"

The commander all but soiled his pants. "A paladin!" he squeaked.

"Of the Order of the Eagle. You may have heard of us, sir." His voice was mocking now, and the commander suddenly seemed to have shrunk so much even small Marcus appeared taller.

"O-o-o-of course I have sir! T'is an honour! I— I am so sorry to have inconvenienced you, I did not expect a Paladin to be travelling with merchants!" The commander saluted, and about half of his troupe did the same. The others looked at the interaction with doubts in their eyes, observing both the 'Paladin' and the merchant guards, who seemed equally surprised at the revelation as their commander was.

One tall, thin man stepped forward, his eyes sparkling with an unnatural red light. "Commander, we must not remiss in our duties."

This shook the man out of his reverie. "You are right, you are right. I must apologise, sir Paladin, but we must still follow our orders. We must check everyone who enters the city. I am afraid I must kindly request that you take off your helmet for that, sir."

A sudden silence fell over the two groups as Daenan froze. The man behind the commander tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. Then Daenan started moving his hands towards his face, slowly. The guards seemed to hold their breaths, and inside one of the wagons, Faen was paralysed with fear while soundlessly mouthing 'no' over and over again. Daenan's hands paused as he reached his helmet.

"Before I take my helmet off, sir, I must ask that you hear me out first." He paused and waited for the commander to nod before continuing. "When I was scouting the lands for signs of Darkness, I encountered a foul, magical being. A witch of frightening power. She had been aware of my passing and had set up an ambush, along with her cohorts. She was strong and capable and her henchmen were enhanced and hidden by her dark arts. Despite my abilities and training, I failed to see their trap and their ambush succeeded. Yet the denizens of the Dark cannot hope to prevail against the Light, and I managed to vanquish them, the Lord's strength flowing through my arm and guiding my blows. Alas, in her final breath she placed a curse on me that I at first dismissed as nonsense, believing her to merely sustain her evil ways until her last breath. I was mistaken. Her curse took root, and I have not yet found a way to break it. It is a shame I bear, and until I can break this curse, I have vowed not to return to my brethren, lest I bring shame upon my Order."

The entire group, the guards, Marcus, Faen and the men of the Flame alike were enraptured by the tale and the way Daenan brought it, his emotions colouring his voice and bringing forth unbidden feelings in all those who heard it. With a soft click he unfastened his helmet and with a determined move, he brought it upwards, revealing his face.

Stunned silence reigned for several moments.

Then the man standing behind the commander hissed, took a step forward and pointed accusingly at Daenan. His finger aimed at Daenan's face. It was green, with pitch black hair on top, and large fangs protruding from his lower lips.

"You are an Orc!"