What constituted a problem in the middle of a battle was anyone’s guess, much less Jorwen, who saw this battle as one big fuck-off problem. He stood next to Sevine, the two of them finding at least a little bit of pleasure watching the she-elf’s mouth gawping in awe all around her at the carnage. Once he heard Orakh’s call for them about the problem, he and Sevine walked over, their contingent following them. “What do you think it is, Chief?”

He looked at Sevine, not knowing who the man was talking to. Finally, he opened his mouth, he guessed making him chief. “We’ll find out. Though, what the hells could be a problem in the middle of a battle that can’t be cut down is beyond me.” He shrugged, “Usually places of this like aren’t the ones for finer minds.”

To his relief, White-Eye had fallen in with him, “Any room for an old man, Chief?”

“Reckon we got one spot open. Already chose my Second though.” He nodded to Sevine walking alongside him. When they finally got to the building with the Orc’s men, Jorwen and his men halted. The two groups stood around looking at each other and Jorwen finally asked, “What is it?”

“Have a look for yourself.” The old Orc gestured to the entrance. As Jorwen and Sevine stepped inside, they were greeted by a grim scene. Children huddled in the corner. Reachmen were littering the ground like broken dolls. If they had taken them for warriors before, the closer Jorwen looked, the dead men and women were old, well past fighting age. Mothers, grandmothers, fathers, grandfathers, all of them dead. Why children were in a place like this was beyond him, but he stood there, gawping. A man stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder.

“You reckon we should kill-” The sentence was cut off in a howl as Jorwen took the hand on his shoulder and squeezed it as hard as he could. His free hand struck out, quick as a snake and took the man by the throat, cutting off the cry in a gurgling moan.

“I reckon I should fucking kill you.” He hissed through gritted teeth. The man was sent stumbling back to crash against a table and flop to the ground. He turned back to the shaking children, too scared to cry, too scared to scream. Who was left to scream for? He edged closer to them, showing his hands before he knelt down, still a head taller than most of them on his knees. He held a hand out and they shrank away from it, which he couldn’t blame them for. One of them- the oldest, but still young by far- reminded him of Solveig at that age, the same piercing blue eyes and fiery red hair, face speckled with freckles and an unbreakable air of defiance. That got him rethinking his place here, reminded him that even the Reachmen had things to care for. He rose back to his full height and went back to Orakh, “I’ll take the children away, let them scurry back to the mountains. Any man, Cat-Kicker or otherwise, wants to criticize my actions can refer to the man on the ground for advice. Until the battle’s done, I’m staying here to keep them unkilled.” He didn’t wait for an answer because he wasn’t asking for permission. 

He walked back into the building, letting himself fall into a chair on the far side of the room from the children. He grasped up some strips of cooked meat and put one in his mouth before tossing the rest towards the children. Solveig darted out from the huddle and snatched them off the ground, handing out some before wolfing the meat down, her hard eyes never coming off of Jorwen. Just like Solveig’s never would have when she was angry with him.