Moktark swirled the drink in his cup, lost in thought. He had spent the better part of three hours cold approaching random orcs in the tavern, buying drinks, having laughs, and getting blown off if he even tried to broach the subject of passage through the desert. He had thus far avoided talking to any of the red men. He wasn’t sure how they’d react, or how to even begin with that.

  He drained his cup. Over those three hours of carousing and drinking he had spent the last of his silver. All that was left in his purse was a single gold ring, and he wasn’t in a hurry to spend it. Maybe it’s time to pack it in for the night, he thought, slamming his cup down and turning to leave.

  Out of the corner of his eye he spotted someone watching him. Further down the bar, near the end, a hooded figure was staring at him with a gleam in his eye. An old orc, with a scraggly white beard that drooped down nearly to his waistline. As their eyes met, the old orc beckoned him over.

  Moktark sat down beside him, and the two of them sat in silence for a time, the aged orc seeming to study his face the entire time.

  “If you have something to say be out with it.” Moktark said finally, breaking the silence. The old orc smiled in satisfaction, as if he had won some sort of game.

  “Why do you want to go into the desert?” He asked suddenly.

  Moktark was a bit taken aback by the sudden question, but soon enough found himself recounting his tale, only occasionally interrupted by questions asking him to clarify this or that. He told the story of the vision, of the war with the Beast Tamers, of their quest for the black temple in the desert and the strange pale skinned man they travelled with who called himself a human. It felt good to finally find someone willing to talk to him, and in his inebriated state Moktark didn’t even consider holding anything back.

  “That is… an unbelievable story.” The old orc said. He waved to the barkeeper, a tall red man wearing the robes of his kind, and ordered two cups of cactus wine. He slid one over to Moktark.

  “Unbelievable but, yes, I do think I believe it. A good story deserves a good drink. Your throat must be parched.”

  Moktark nodded his thanks, and nursed the drink.

  “I saw you enter, actually. That pale creature, the human you described, caught my eye. ‘Albino imp’, hah. He’s more than that by far, that much is unmistakable.”

  “Who are you old man?” Moktark asked.

  “I’m a soot shaman, or was once. I spent my entire life in the forges of Zernthod. One day I got tired of it, and decided to come here.” He said. He picked up his cup and took a long swig of the liqueur. “The drink is better. The air smells cleaner.”

  For a moment, the old orc looked sad, but the feeling seemed to dissipate quickly from his face. He thought for a bit, tapping his finger on the table as he did so, and looked over at where Oben was sitting alone. Moktark followed his gaze. Where did Koruk get off to? He wondered to himself, frowning.

  “A most intriguing tale, ah...”

  “Moktark.”

  “Moktark. I am called Semthak. Do you know why no one will answer your questions about the desert, Moktark? Why no one will help you?”

  Moktark shook his head.

  “The red men, impid they call themselves, imps, won’t allow it. They never allow orcs to go into the desert with them. For them, the sand sea is a sacred place, and they see it as theirs by the order of the gods. Theirs, and theirs alone. This valley is as far as any of them will willingly set foot outside of it, and serves as a sort of neutral ground between our people and theirs. No one here would willingly violate that neutrality.”

  Semthak paused to take another drink.

  “Recently, they’ve been stirred up, agitated. More and more of them are packing up and returning to the desert, taking with them all their belongings on those wooden sand-sailing skiffs they ride on through the dunes. Not a one of them will talk about it with outsiders, not even to those orcs who are native to this city and who have, in a large part, ‘gone native’, speaking the red tongue and wearing their clothes. The orcs are lamenting the loss of business and declaring that the end times have come, which they do in jest but...”

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  The old orc shook his head and sighed.

  “Something about this whole thing doesn’t feel right. And now with you showing up with this story of visions and with that human in tow… ” He said, pausing. “I’d like to speak to the rest of your party, but it’s late now. It is late, and both of us are too drunk for it. The sun is down, and it’s a bad idea to wander the streets at night. Go gather your companions, rent a room for the night, and I’ll meet you outside in the morning. I need to go think about things.”

  Semthak rose from his chair and departed without another word, leaving Moktark alone. As they had talked, the tavern had slowly cleared out for the night. Moktark finished his drink and went to look for his companions.

  With Koruk being shanghaied by the revellers, Oben was left alone at the table. It was the first time he was able to be alone with his thoughts in some time, and he leaned back in his chair and surveyed the room, taking in the atmosphere and the carousing orcs and red skinned men. Of all the slave races to have survived the calamity, he surmised that it would make sense that it would be the orcs. They were always the hardiest denizens of this planet, engineered to watch over the miners and keep the peace. He’d seen no sign of the stunted miners or any of the other xenohumans he was familiar with from his previous life.

  These red men with the horns he was utterly unfamiliar with. Could they have evolved on their own in only a few thousand years? It seemed impossible. But then, he thought it was impossible for any life larger than a microbe to have survived the apocalypse which had scoured this world three millennia ago, but here he was, sitting in a tavern that wasn’t to dissimilar from the one he used to frequent while he was off duty, surrounded by… people.

  It was strange to think of them as even being people. Certainly in the past he hadn’t. Especially so with the brutal orcs, who he remembered only as mindless shock troopers. More of an engineered bioweapon than anything, kept under neuro-sedation for their own safety most of the time. They were different, having developed their own language, culture, manners. The green skin was new too. Some sort of infectious disease maybe? A symbiotic lichen or fungus? They didn’t seem to have any trace of equipment he remembered them being outfitted in either. In fact, nobody here seemed to have any technology past bronzeworking.

  One of the red men in the table opposite him appeared to have some sort of sword strapped to his belt, so metalworking wasn’t unheard of in this world, but it seemed that civilization had completely collapsed, and started again from scratch.

  Oben leaned further back in his chair, until he was staring at the mud brick dome that made up the ceiling. In his mind he was staring past it, up into the sky where above his head, sat tens of thousands of humans in space. Sleeping in suspended animation, waiting for a signal to awaken. Why hadn’t they awoken? Grars Nel8y was clearly hospitable to life, so why wasn’t the signal to awaken given? Did the messages and ships sent to the capital ever arrive? There was clearly no relief force sent. Why did his ship’s sensors indicate that this world was a radioactive hellscape when he could see vegetation, clouds, and blue oceans with his bare eyes as he looked out the window of his sleeper ship? Why did he wake up, but seemingly no-one else?

  As Oben looked around the room once more, he realized with sadness that other than the cryosleeping passengers in orbit, he might very well be the last human being left in the world. Maybe the entire universe. It was a sobering thought.

  He thought about his companions. It still frightened him even being near orcs, but they seemed friendly enough he supposed. He still found himself unable to trust them, but what choice did he have? He was alone, an alien on an alien world that might have once been his home but clearly wasn’t any longer.

  If only he could reach the array in the desert that shot down his ship, which as far as he could tell was the only remaining functional piece of technology left on the planet, maybe he could somehow use the equipment to send the awaken signal to the remaining ships and habs in orbit. Humanity could return to reclaim this world! He had doubts his companions would want that. They seemed perfectly content living in savagery, banging rocks together. By some twist of fate they seemed to be on the same quest as him. This “black temple” they seemed obsessed with could only be some sort of technological artefact, and most likely the very same structure that he was seeking, although he put no stock in any dreams, visions, or religious experiences.

  Oben began to nod off a bit, the weird drink they served at the tavern starting to go to his head. It was pretty good, whatever it was. He was shocked back into reality when Moktark prodded him.

  “Where did Koruk wander off to?”

  Oben started. He hadn’t even heard the huge orc walk up. How long had he been out?

  “Uh, he went off with other orcs. Up there. Big party.” Oben said, pointing to the door Koruk had disappeared into.

  Moktark slapped his head and swore, dragging Oben up out of the chair.

  “Come on, let’s find him before he gets into any real trouble...” he said.