A Glimpse of Nyx

[Eyesore]

The old orc paused on his trek to purchase some thread. A troll calling him brother. A troll...brother. Deep emotions stirred, and ebbed. Strong feelings were for the young, Eyesore thought. Battle was for the young. Yet feelings warred within him. He started to ignore the too familiar, the too familiar...friend. Too many friends had died. There was too much pain on that path. He had leathers that needed stitching. He needed thread, not friends. Not brothers. He started to walk on.

Then, stopped again.

Eyesore turned his mostly shaven head to look at his friend, to look at Warburn. Faint smoke drifted past the scholar's large frame in the door. Of course. Warburn without a smoke would be like a clefthoof without fur. Good thing he had enough of the thick clefthoof hide. Aye, a good thing. But he needed thread. Thread didn't die. Thread held hides together. You could count on thread.

Eyesore again turned towards the path to the vendor. And again stopped. Warburn was not dead. You could count on Warburn, too. He rubbed the scraggly gray hair that ran along the top of his head, and looked back. "Warburn?" he asked.

.