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Several minutes earlier.
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Down on the ground in the city, Bucrok and Jaquawe could be seen sprinting through the violent streets. Both run like their lives depended on it, narrowly dodging panicked citizens as they navigate a scene that seems to have spiraled into pure mayhem. Jaquawe cradles his wife, still blissfully oblivious to the nightmare unfolding around them, snugly tucked in his arms. Despite the uproar, her peaceful slumber remains undisturbed.
Fires erupted from buildings casting an ominous glow over the frenzied streets. This once-bustling city is now a battleground, the aftermath of rioting and looting that has swallowed it whole like a monstrous wave. What began as the egg calamity has morphed into an even more horrific threat—an enormous black dragon. This creature was similar to the black dragons of the world but some features and characteristics set it apart. For one, it had long fingers with dreadful talons at the end. Its body was translucent and could be seen through. Its body was also elongated like a snake.
The beast stood upon the final couple of barriers protecting the city, and its mere presence sent dread through every onlooker. The sheer scale of this dragon is another terrifying prospect; it dwarfs the largest dragons ever documented. It is an embodiment of unknown terror whose origins remain a mystery to all.
As Bucrok led the frantic charge down the cobblestone street, the chaos around them reached a high. Countless bodies can be seen littering the ground, desperate worshipers pleading to the heavens for mercy as they witness the unravelling of their world. Civil unrest reigns as enraged citizens grapple with one another, each trying to snatch whatever resources they can, while panicked horses gallop wildly through the throngs, adding to the pandemonium.
A wisp of a man dashed across the road, sweeping past Bucrok in a hurried blur. Draped in oversized garments that hung on his frame like tattered flags, he bore the unmistakable signs of hunger. Grime clung to his skin, mingling with a disgusting scent that spoke of uncleanliness and neglect. His features made him barely worth noticing. It was for just a moment but enough for Bucrok’s street smarts to kick in. Bucrok clenched his fists and unleashed a powerful punch against a man who dared to reach for an item on his person. Chaotic sounds surrounding them— screams, shouts, and the frantic clattering of feet escaping the turmoil. The unfortunate thief was sent crashing backward, colliding with the building's doorway, his body leaving a gaping hole in its wake.
Bucrok paused, standing over the crumpled form of the man who had attempted to snatch his belongings. He noticed the faint rise and fall of the man’s chest—and he silently hoped that was enough to signify he would be okay. Bucrok was no stranger to confrontation; he didn't shy away from a good fight. However, he had a family now and couldn't be held back on criminal charges for stupid reasons. He loathed the thought of senseless killing because someone upset him. From the corner of his eye, he saw Jaquawe approaching, his brows furrowed in worry.
“This is madness,” Jaquawe remarked, shaking his head in disbelief. “We should all be helping each other instead of tearing each other apart. Back where I come from, in the Gymiekah mountains, we strive as a community not as individuals.”
“Welcome to the city, my friend. Some things never change. When survival is at stake, kindness is often the first casualty,” Bucrok retorted, a grim smile crossing his lips. As Jaquawe moved closer to the fallen man, he gently placed a small vial of potion next to him, a last act of mercy. Jaquawe had fashioned a bag to hold all the potions he found, but the weight had become too burdensome for their trip. After some clever modifications, he had successfully managed to lighten his load, miraculously fashioning a makeshift backpack.
Bucrok grimaced and let out a deep grunt, his attitude resolute. “Kindness and generosity will get you killed in a place like this. We don’t have time for compassion.”
“But everyone deserves a chance,” Jaquawe insisted, his voice firm yet compassionate. “This man has his opportunity now. If he meets his fate, so be it. At least he had a shot.”
With that, Jaquawe caught up with Bucrok, and they both resumed their hurried pace, weaving through the chaotic streets, skillfully avoiding debris and people alike. They navigated around a few more corners, only to find themselves faced with a new dead end. It was an alleyway where a wooden wagon lay abandoned, its contents ransacked. Scattered possessions indicated a desperate struggle, and everything that hadn’t been bolted down had been stripped away by looters. The bodies of two horses lay lifeless in front of the carriage, as did several individuals dressed in exquisite clothing, a grim reminder of the brutality of survival. It looked as if the wagon had been shoved into the alley, trapped during a violent ambush.
“This is madness,” Jaquawe repeated, his brow furrowed. “Just let me carry my wife over this wreck and I’ll be right back for you.”
“Absolutely not,” Bucrok replied, unwavering. “We need to keep moving forward.” Jaquawe recognized the strength that Bucrok possessed; he could easily maneuver around this obstacle, but it might take longer than necessary. Yet in Bucrok’s mind, accepting help felt like surrendering to weakness. The last time the winged warrior had to carry him had left a bitter taste, and he had no intention of feeling that way again.
Bucrok dashed toward the dilapidated wagon and unleashed a powerful downwards strike towards the wooden structure making it erupt into splinters. Normally, he would have held back, afraid of hurting innocent bystanders. But with each passing moment as they navigated deeper into the heart of the city, it became increasingly clear that fewer and fewer souls remained. Most had fled to the outskirts, desperately trying to escape the dangers above.
As the path ahead finally opened up, the distinct silhouette of the Dragon Bowl Tavern materialized against the chaotic backdrop of the surrounding mayhem. The tavern’s iconic sign swayed in the gentle breeze, fluttering like a proud banner amidst the turbulence, as if trying to rally the spirits of those who had sought refuge within its welcoming walls.
“Finally!” he exclaimed, his voice ringing with palpable relief. Energy coursed through him, propelling him forward and leaving Jaquawe struggling to keep pace behind him. Just as Bucrok neared the tavern’s doorway, a sudden chill gripped him. He froze—caught off guard by an all-too-familiar scent that hung in the air. It was the unmistakable metallic aroma of blood, thick and cloying. Panic seized his heart like an iron vice, and he dashed through the threshold, his mind racing at the horrors that awaited him inside.
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What lay before him was a harrowing sight—an overwhelming scene of devastation, with bodies strewn across the floor like discarded marionettes after a tragic performance. The tavern was dark, all the lanterns stripped from the walls. Wine bottles that lined the walls were either smashed or stolen. Platters were thrown askew, painting the floor with broken chairs and tables with food. Heavy signs of battle evident due to slashed floors and furniture. Familiar faces greeted him from the mass, some the loyal patrons who had become friends over countless evenings shared in laughter and camaraderie. Everyone else was people he had never seen before. His hands trembled as he turned the lifeless forms, lifting those he didn’t recognize with a scrutinizing gaze. Relief surged through him like a wave when he realized his wife, Nita, and their little girl, Nieesha, were nowhere to be found.
Just moments later, Jaquawe stepped into the tavern, a look of horror twisting his features as he surveyed the unimaginable bloodshed surrounding them. The air was thick with despair, and the floor was sticky with blood.
“Nita! Nieesha! Nita!” Bucrok’s voice rang out, as he pleaded for his family. Silence cloaked the tavern, only to be broken by faint rustling from beneath one of the upturned tables. His heart raced as he squinted into the shadows, and soon, two small figures emerged from the darkness, huddled together as if they had escaped a nightmare.
“Nita!” he choked out, joy flooding his chest as he spotted his beloved wife, slowly emerging from her hiding place. But it was Nieesha who surged forth like a bolt of lightning, barreling into his arms.
“Daddy! Don’t leave anymore!” she cried, her words a mix of joy and desperation, nearly tackling him as she clung to him with all her might.
“I wasn’t gone that long,” Bucrok said softly, rubbing her head in a soothing gesture, trying to chase away the fear that had taken root in her heart.
But the weight of their separation was sharper than he had allowed himself to realize. Nita approached him, her eyes swelling with unshed tears.
“It was long enough for this to break loose,” Nita said, gesturing to the room.
As Nita cautiously made her way closer, the dim light in the darkly tinted room began to reveal more of the orc’s features. The shadows danced around him, but even in the muted glow, she could see the battle-scarred face of Bucrok, and her breath caught in her throat. She gasped, her eyes widening in disbelief. “Bucrok! What in the blazes happened to your face?”
Her voice was filled with a mix of concern and shock, as she took in the sight before her.
“My face?” Bucrok responded, his tone a blend of curiosity and confusion as he instinctively lifted a hand, running it over the rough surfaces of his cheeks and brow.
Nita pointed toward his mouth. “Your tusk is broken!” The alarm in her voice heightened with each word. It puzzled her deeply that he seemed rather unfazed.
“Oh, that.” Bucrok chuckled, a deep rumble of amusement echoing softly in the room. His expression bloomed into a grin that made light of the injury.
From the corner, Nieesha chimed in with an innocent tone, “Yeah, daddy, you look like me now.” She playfully rubbed her palm across the front of her mouth where her tusk should be, a gesture that made Nita stifle a giggle despite the tense atmosphere. Bucrok’s laughter boomed around them, and he bent down to scoop Nieesha up into his muscular arms.
“Yeah, I guess I do,” he replied warmly. He tickled her along the sides of her neck, evoking delightful squeals of laughter from his little girl. But then, he straightened up and turned his attention back to Nita, the cheerful moment replaced by seriousness.
“Anyway,” Bucrok continued with a slight sigh, “my tusk? It broke off earlier during the fight.”
“What fight?” Nita asked, alarm bells ringing in her mind as she scanned him from head to toe, searching for any other signs of injury. “Is that why you’re back? Where’s Nick?”
“He’s still up there fighting,” Bucrok replied, his expression growing somber. “Look, it's a long story, one best shared when I get you both to safety. But, really, Nita, what exactly happened here?”
A heavy silence enveloped the room as Nita fixed her gaze beyond Bucrok, her thoughts drifting to darker memories. “Greed and panic,” she murmured, her voice low and distant. Her eyes stared into the void as if remembering the chaos that had unfurled like dark tendrils around them.
“What do you mean, greed and panic?” Bucrok asked, a puzzled frown knitting his brows together.
“This place has turned into a complete free-for-all!” Nita's voice quivered as she spoke, the horror of the situation spilling from her lips. “All kinds of people stormed in, looking to loot everything they could grab. We were fortunate—some of our loyal patrons fought fiercely to protect us, but it wasn’t enough to stop the tide. I had to take Nieesha and hide, praying we wouldn’t be found. Those poor souls fought bravely, and this place meant so much to them. They risked their lives for it.”
“Once this is over, we’ll give them a proper burial,” Bucrok promised, his gaze scanning the grim room once more, a heavy sigh escaping from his lips. A small smile flickered across his face as he reminisced about the last decade, the blood, sweat, and tears he and Nita had poured into turning the tavern into something truly special. To them, it was everything; to others, it seemed to hold a deeper significance than he had ever realized.
Suddenly, a loud crack of thunder rattled the air, reverberating through the tavern's splintered walls. Nieesha jumped, instinctively seeking comfort in her father's strong embrace, and Nita followed suit, finding solace in his arms. Even Bucrok couldn't suppress a shiver as the sound echoed ominously around them. Jaquawe dashed to the doorway, and looked up into the sky with amazement.
“It seems your friend just landed a big attack!” Jaquawe exclaimed, noting the ominous gathering darkness overhead, with flashes of electricity flickering menacingly across the colossal eggshell.
“Come on! We’ve wasted too much time. We need to move!” he urged, glancing back at Bucrok.
“I need to pack some things first—” Nita insisted, her determination warring with the chaos around them as she tried to pull away from Bucrok’s side. He gently tugged her back, but the tears building in her eyes told him that she was fighting the urge to break down.
“It’s time to go,” he said, maintaining his grip on her arm as he felt her panic rising. She started to flail slightly, desperation fueling her struggle.
“I have to get our pictures! I need to pack clothes! There’s so much I can’t leave behind—” Nita’s voice tinged with desperation as she pleaded for a moment longer.
“Nita,” Bucrok's tone softened yet remained firm, “Whatever we’ve lost, we can make new. It’s too dangerous here. We have to go!” He wrapped his free arm around her, gently urging her away from the scene that had once been their sanctuary. As he began to walk forward, holding both his wife and daughter tightly, his heart ached for the tavern, the only home they had ever known, receding behind them like a fading echo. Nita cast a final glance back at the place that had been so full of life and laughter, now reduced to a hollow shell of sorrow. She would carry this moment with her—a painful memory etched into her soul forever.