Ultryk sat in a dark corner table of the Broken Keel Tavern in the goblin town of Ratchet, nursing his pewter tankard of the local specialty, Wiley's Wicked Ale. Although the taste was not the best ale Ultryk had ever tasted, he did find it mildly amusing when a new customer drank it for the first time; when the can was opened, the beverage made the sound of a rough voice laughing a cruel laugh, and if the customer actually drank it, they took on a ghostly ethereal aspect and a bloody red hue. Some speculated that the ale was brewed in barrels placed over the victims of pirates, and their unresting spirits made the drink imbued with a haunting malevolence, but Wiley, the goblin proprietor of the tavern and brewer of the ale refused to comment one way of another.
Either way, Ultryk approved - it made for an entertaining spectator sport.
He was enjoying the drink, and eating an early dinner of a dozen Bristle Whisker Catfish Bites (made by frying chunks of de-boned catfish flesh in a cornmeal batter). Ultryk had been introduced to it at the last Kosh'harg festival in Razor Hill, and Wiley had been convinced to add it to the menu, given the preponderance of seafood available off the dock (Ultryk was not convinced that Wiley was too concerned about only using raw Bristle Whisker Catfish in the making, but the food was delicious even so).
He was just finishing when a trio of Orc warriors descended on his table and confronted him.
"You are Ultryk, are you not?" said the fellow, apparently their leader. He stood taller than average for an Orc, and was as muscular as seemed proper. His hair was a deep crimson, and tied up in a topknot, the long ponytail falling halfway down his back. He was clad in leather adorned with thick bands of metal, and both the iron and leather had seen better days; the metal was spotted with rust, and the leather was stiff and cracked. He held a large, two-handed battleaxe in his right hand. It, too, had seen better days.
"I am Ultryk," Ultryk confirmed.
"Have you no other name? No clan? No ancestors?" asked the orc in a mocking, aggressive voice. His two companions smirked, watching their friend.
"Actually, I do not. I was raised by Orphan Matron Battlewail in Ogrimmar; I was brought there when I was found in Ashenvale near the Splintertree Outpost; I have no idea who my parents are." Ultryk shrugged; the Matron had not been kind, and had worked her charges hard but no harder than most Orc parents would have.
At least there had been regular meals; not all orc children were that fortunate. In fact, many of the children of the orphanage learned to fight for every scrap as growing orcs required a lot of protein, and many lost their portions to other children if they could not defend themselves. Only the strong flourished, much as in life itself.
Ultryk had learned to fight smarter, not harder. He was shorter than many, and not as brawny, but he had a certain native cunning that had served him in good stead. Ultryk had learned to prefer to strike from a distance or by surprise, and preferably both.
"No wonder you learned the ways of the coward!" the Orc said with a sneer. "Perhaps we should call you Ultryk Ur'gora?" Ur'gora was Orcish for "Dishonorable" and considered one of the worst insults someone might bestow; clearly the fellow wished to goad Ultryk into a fight, regardless of the fellow's many advantages; Ulttyk's weapons and mail armor were in his bedroll in the stables.
"Perhaps I should. Thank you for the suggestion," Ultryk said.
"You are a coward without honor! Have you nothing to say?" the Orc said, the disbelief mixing with scorn.
"Only a fool fights in a burning house" replied Ultrk, quoting the old Frostwolf saying.
"Bah! All of your coin, on the table. You will pay for your reticence for a Warrior's Feast in Ogrimmar!"
Ultryk slowly and carefully placed his money pouch on the table, his face burning with embarrassment. He sat very still while the three Orcs bought some skins of wine with what had been his money, before leaving.
He waited five slow minutes, and then said to Wiley "I'll have to owe you for the meal."
Wiley shrugged at Ultryk. "I'd rather have a live customer than a dead one; and I am grateful there was no damages; their type never pays for what they break anyways."
Ultryk nodded as he left the tavern.
* * *
The three Orcs tossed their empty wineskins behind them as they happily made their way up the road's steep incline towards Crossroads. The Crossroads was the largest Horde town in the Northern Barrens, aptly named for the crossing of the Gold Road and the road from Ratchet, and sword-work was easy to pick up there.
The first two didn't even notice when their third fell over, dead from a crossbow bolt. The leader and his companion snarled when they saw Ulrick stand, putting the crossbow end on the ground so he could use both hands to re-cock it's powerful corded string. Confidently, the two charged up the slope covered with long, golden grass.
The leader was too enraged and too far ahead of his companion to note the flash of an ice trap halting the companion's progress. "Ur'gora scum! I will feast upon your liver!" he screamed at Ultryk loaded his crossbow, and in one smooth motion fired.
The bolt passed the leader harmlessly. He laughed "Hah! You are as bad with your chosen weapon as you are at being..." Ultryk would always wonder what the fellow might have said before he began screaming. It was hard to annunciate clearly when a beautiful Savannah Huntress had just buried her powerful fangs in one's throat. Savannah Huntresses had a coloration that made them perfect ambush predators the tall golden grasses of the Northern Barrens.
"That's my girl, Katya..." he said to his hunting partner. Ultryk looted the possessions of the dead orcs. Ratchet merchants would pay good coin for weapons and armor they could resell, and asked no inconvenient questions. Wild creatures would take care of making the dead bodies unrecognizable once he dragged them a little further off the road.
Ultryk worked out of Ratchet because as a Bounty Hunter, he appreciated their pragmatic approach to things.
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