Page 24 of Till Orc Do Us Part
The news crews were waiting when I left the hotel. Word travels fast here—quicker than profit margins, quicker than concrete cures. I didn’t plan to be seen touring the boardwalk again so soon after that infernal poetry night flyer went up, but word slipped. They smelled blood.
"Are you softening your stance, Mr. Vellum?"
"Are you working with Ms. Moore now?"
"Can we get a comment about your 'dance'?"
Idiots.
I lengthen my stride, jaw clenched. Their cameras flash behind me, shutters snapping like distant gunfire. I duck beneath a low awning strung with tattered flags and make for a side path between two shuttered surf shops.
The boards here are warped, weathered slick by countless tides. Beneath them, the sea groans like some ancient thingwaking from sleep. The farther I walk, the quieter the noise of the crowd behind me becomes, swallowed by the breath of the ocean and the creak of old wood.
Ahead, a shack leans into the wind, half-swallowed by nets and hanging buoys. The paint might have once been red, but now it’s the bleached pink of sun-scorched bone. A faded sign creaks overhead:
Casswell’s Chips & Curios.
I exhale, long and low. Sanctuary, of a sort.
I shoulder open the crooked door. The chime above it clangs once, harsh and off-key.
Inside, the world shifts.
It smells of brine, citrus, and something older—earthier—beneath it all. A dryad’s touch, I suspect. The room is dim save for the glow of an old lantern hung from a net-strewn rafter. Shelves sag beneath jars of kelp and sea glass, stacks of yellowed books, bits of rusted ship hardware, and coils of ancient rope.
Behind a battered counter, a man hunches over a steaming mug. Wiry, sharp-eyed, and utterly unimpressed by my presence.
“Ah,” he rasps without looking up. “The green-suited orc seeks refuge.”
I lift a brow. “Old Man Cass.”
He finally glances up, eyes like brackish water—deep, layered, faintly amused. “Malcolm Casswell,” he says. “Though most have forgotten the Malcolm.”
I close the door behind me with care. The noise outside fades to nothing.
“I do not seek conversation,” I say. “Only a moment of quiet.”
Cass snorts and gestures toward a stool. “Wrong place, boy. I ain’t known for my silence.”
"Boy."The word bristles in me, but I let it slide. He is older—perhaps older than I can guess. And I have no wish to make enemies among the town’s deeper roots.
I sit, the stool creaking beneath my weight.
Without another word, Cass slides a woven basket across the counter. The chips glisten dark green beneath a dusting of salt and spice.
“They’ll settle you,” he says simply.
I eye the offering, then take one. Crisp. Unexpectedly complex—seaweed, citrus, a slow burn of heat that lingers.
Cass watches, one brow arched. “You come from steel towers and polished marble. Ain’t much room for flavor in that world.”
I set the chip down. “I do not often indulge in idle snacks.”
He chuckles. “These ain’t idle. Food’s a tether, boy. Reminds you where you come from.”
I study him more closely. There’s wisdom here. Not the kind worn on gilded cufflinks or signed in bloodless boardrooms. Something older. Truer.
He catches my gaze and leans forward. “So. You and little Rowan, eh?”
