You know all the names. You’ve heard them all and needn’t bother repeating them because even the youngest Namegiver
can recite them. No matter what great deeds an ork accomplishes in Barsaive’s name, he knows that when he walks into
any new place he’ll get the look. Human mothers hurry their children to safety. Dwarf elders sniff the air in contempt.
Silly elven girls giggle behind his back.
Some orks fight these insults. They confront the fearful, the smirkers. They tell them who they are and the deeds they have
performed. Some no longer bother, for they have learned that it is an ork’s lot to be the scapegoat for other Namegivers;
they’re the ugly other that all look down their noses at and blame their misfortunes on. Scum who refuse to raise a
finger to feed a hungry child call orks lazy. The unwashed call them dirty, the deformed call them ugly. Some Namegivers protest,
saying they are not that way. Perhaps some are not. Orks have fought beside comrades of many races and would die for them
as quickly as their own children. But all ujnort have heard the stories, the ugly names.
Ujnort is our word for non-orks. It means, “they who will not understand.” Is this unfair? Do not speak
to an ork of unfairness, for no Namegiver lives as close to the dirt. Why? Because others try to keep him there.
An ork elder might be fifty; most orks will not live past forty. Are we bitter? Not at all. An ork only speaks truth. He feels
no regret. He spits in the eye of fate, gives death the buunda. Others will sing songs of his life long after he is
food for worms. Destiny deals the ork a bad hand, but he still tears victory from it. None else can understand what being
an ork means.
Long before the Theran dogs came to Barsaive, long before the Scourge, before the kaers, we were slaves. Why? None can say.
Perhaps because other Namegivers found our faces brutish and therefore thought we were simple savages to be worked like animals.
Perhaps we were fewer then than now, and we were outnumbered. Perhaps we lacked the fearsome weapons and magics of other races.
Maybe each of these reasons is a part of the answer. But one thing seems certain: our ancestors must have wanted to be slaves.
They must have turned their backs on freedom. Weak and contemptible, that’s what they were. No one can have his freedom
stolen from him unless he surrenders it.
In those disgraceful days, one ork alone still had her spirit—Hrak Gron. Her parents were slaves, her grandparents,
her great-grandparents. Yet the spirit of freedom lived bright within her. Gron watched her father whipped to death, her mother
mistreated in ways that should not be spoken of. She resolved to fight or die. Her masters had left her nothing but her mind,
her free mind. And so she spent every waking moment honing her mind into a weapon, a red-hot brand of justice. She taught
this spirit to others on her farm, and they rose up and slew their masters. Then Hrak Gron and her Company of the Free traveled
to the next farm, where more blood was spilled. Freedom spread like fire in dry grass, and soon the Great Uprising engulfed
all of Barsaive. Many died on both sides, but the orks died on the side of right. Hrak Gron herself fell in the final Battle
of Grallan Field, but when the killing ended, the slavers abandoned their claims to us and we took our rightful place among
Namegivers. Hrak Gron’s scattered bones are relics of power, and many an ork has died searching for them.
Some of the learned among the ujnort say that Hrak Gron never existed. They claim that dozens of slave leaders and
dozens of slave revolts gradually became one in the legend of the Great Uprising. They claim the great march to freedom is
a simple, childish story. They are wrong. Our history has left a fierce love of freedom in the hearts of all self-respecting
orks, a love tempered in blood. Some orks may turn their backs on their heritage, but a true ork will never let that spirit
die in his heart. Like any other race, we have our share of evildoers and blackguards. Those who abandon our ways become the
most dangerous orks, the crazy killers and the honorless mercenaries, the nomad bands who turn on one another and sell their
rivals into slavery. These wretches are turgma. Turgma have become the brutes that other Namegivers believe
us to be. For while other races are judged by their heroes, the orks are always measured by their outlaws.
—On Seizing Life and Shaking It
The ork does not fear risk and danger, does not look at his short lifespan and decide to cower in the corner, hoarding his
years like a miser counting coppers. We have much living to pack into the meager number of years we are given. Why fear death,
when we know it comes all too soon anyway? Give death the buunda! Defy it! The ork knows that life is never sweeter
than in the moment the club swings so close to your head that your hair blows back from the breeze. And if you’re a
little too slow and that club dashes your skull into a thousand bits? What of it? You lived up until that moment. What could
be a better way to die? When an ork makes a decision, he always thinks, “If I die doing this, will my death make a good
tale? Will my brothers, sisters, and children speak of it with pride? Or will it shame them?”
Do nothing halfway—that’s the ork’s creed. Anything else is a waste of time, and orks have no time to waste.
Orks love passionately, eat heartily, drink lustily, and fight fiercely. If you’re going to choke to death, make sure
it happens because you’ve gorged yourself at a banquet, not because you’re nibbling on nuts and berries. If you’re
going to die from a fall, let it happen because someone pushed you, not because you tripped. Better to be killed by a poisonous
snake than a poisonous mushroom, and a ten-foot snake is better than a three-foot one. The ideal death is to be burned to
ash or sucked into quicksand or the like. Every ork wishes for an empty coffin at her funeral—it means she took such
great risks that nothing was left of her to tell the tale.
To celebrate death, we orks gather around the coffin of our fallen comrade, empty or not. The dead ork’s family and
friends recount his greatest exploits—not just fights and adventures, but great seductions, the times he devoured amazing
amounts of food or drink, his best songs, the cleverest bargains he made, and the merchants he got the better of. An ork’s
death is his final exploit, and so it had better be impressive. Nothing displeases us like the thought that our death will
sound foolish or worthless in comparison to everything else in our lives.
Outsiders call us savage and uncivilized because our funeral speeches celebrate the vividness and fervor of a dead ork’s
deeds rather than their goodness. An evil ork may have as many exploits recounted at his funeral as a courageous warrior.
We believe in working hard to correct another ork’s evils while he lives—with an unsheathed sword, if necessary.
But once he dies, his evils no longer threaten anyone. And why shame his family for the evils he did? Better to celebrate
the best of him and try to forget his crimes. There have been too many turgma among us this troubled century—it
is not good to dwell on the things they have done.
After the recitation of the exploits, the body—if one exists—is soaked in oil and set aflame. Friends and blood
kin remain around the coffin until the fire reduces the body to ash. It offends the memory of the dead to blink or turn away
if the wind blows the burnt remains into your face. In fact, for the ash to touch you is a blessing from the deceased. “To
have ash in one’s mouth” is the essence of being an ork, for death is never far from any of us.
But an ork funeral is no stoic ceremony. When an ork mourns, his wail should carry to the clouds. He should tear his clothing,
cut his own flesh. If the body is burning before him, he should throw himself on it. The burns we suffer in this way let us
share the final pain of our dead comrade; they are a remembrance of him to display proudly to others. Understand this—we
do not mourn so passionately because we fear death. We mourn for ourselves, because we feel the pain of absence.
—On the Rituals of Birth
Not long before an ork child comes screaming and hungry into the world, the mother has a vivid dream—there is no mistaking
it when it comes. In this dream, which we call the vravraka, she sees the Name Day ritual that the child demands and
the Name it desires. If no dream comes, the mother knows the child will be stillborn. When I was pregnant with my first child,
I dreamed that I walked through a forest with my babe and came to a patch of briar and thorn. The thorns drew close and drank
my blood, but I carefully shielded my child from the grasping plants until I came to a fork in the trail. Then the babe spoke
to me.
“I am Darkarga Bral, your son,” he said. “You shall give the struggle I demand from you. Lay me down at
the fork and unwrap me. The fork represents the two paths I must choose from. One is domination, the other subjugation. May
I choose wisely in my life.
“When you name me Darkarga Bral, I shall be naked to the world and helpless. You shall snap a thorn and cut the tender
soles of my feet with it, to show me that my way shall never be easy and that the earth does not welcome my tread. Then lift
me above the fertile soil so that my blood drips on it. This will show my answer to the unfriendly ground: choke on my blood!
Buunda! I will shackle you to my will!”
I awoke from the dream and described it to my husband. In the morning we set out to find the briar patch. After two weeks
I was near panic, but of course we found it the day before I gave birth. Soon afterward I walked along that path, the babe
who would become Darkarga Bral swaddled as he had been in my dream.
When I came to the fork, I spoke to the babe: “You are Darkarga Bral, my son. I shall give the struggle you demand from
me. I lay you down at the fork and unwrap you. The fork represents the two paths you must choose from. One is domination,
the other subjugation. May you choose wisely in your life.” And all the words from my dream I spoke to him, and carried
out all the actions demanded of me. From that dream I thought Darkarga might be an Elementalist, but he turned out to be a
devotee of Jaspree. The Passions have strange ways.
Though all Naming rituals are different, most have a few things in common. The mother is always present, though she is not
always alone with the child. In each vravraka, the child speaks words that someone later repeats to it during the ritual.
Most vravraka contain some symbolic threat of violence to the babe. Babes sometimes die during their Naming rituals,
though this rarely happens.
—On Rebellion and Gahad
Ninety years have passed since the end of the Scourge. There are no orks now living who remember life within the kaers, as
there are among elves and obsidimen. The ork is a child of today, spreading into a new world and remaking it unencumbered
by past generations.
We do not restrain our feelings. Our blood is thick with ambition and we do not hesitate to grab destiny by the throat and
shape it to our demands. An ork always rebels—against fate, against death, against anything that stands in his way.
The ork has a reputation for ferocity among other Namegivers, but the ujnort simply do not understand about true passion.
An elf or a human might say his heart is full of love; a dwarf might say his soul is full of spite. When they say this, they
are speaking poetry. When an ork says it, he means it. If you arouse my desire or my fury, I feel it in my heart as intensely
as those might feel a fever in their head or poison in their guts. We call this sensation gahad. If you awaken my gahad,
expect me to act on my emotions. I can try to resist gahad, but resisting sets my brain boiling and curdles my stomach.
I am not speaking in any of the ujnort metaphors—it hurts when an ork resists gahad. We believe that such
resistance shortens life—an able-bodied ork who suddenly drops dead at forty is said to have swallowed his gahad
one time too many.
Anything that makes an ork want to do something, good or bad, can give rise to gahad. Some impulses we can never resist,
though these are different for each ork. Me, I’m bad with insults, particularly slurs against my kind. So my gahad
impulse is difficult, because an insult to my people is usually the first thing an ujnort says to get a rise out of
an ork who should be acting calm and cool. But when you must choose between the smart thing to do and what your gahad
wants—well, smart usually loses. An ork in the grip of gahad over food might gorge himself on as much as he can
get; one driven by shame might flail himself to ribbons as penance. If I don’t follow my gahad, it takes revenge
later, clouding my mind or sending pain like arrows at the worst possible time. The "gahad hangover" leaves some feeling
cotton-headed, or with a curdled stomach, or aching with pain, or may even send them waking visions of the object of their
gahad; you never know what ugly things will happen when you fight your proper urges.
On the other hand, some things ruffle up most orks but don’t bother me at all. I can be starving in the wilderness,
but I’ve never had gahad over food. I don’t feel gahad when others steal from me, either. I’ve
tracked down and thrashed my share of thieves, but gahad never made me do it. And I’ve met other orks who can
shrug off the worst ujnort insults with a grin, if you can imagine that.
When an ork is suffering from gahad, his features get tight and his lips or cheeks twitch; any ork who can count past
two can see that twitching, which we call greeah. I say gahad is a gift from Hrak Gron. Orks were enslaved because
they were meek and mild, preferring to surrender and accept the shackles rather than fight and risk dying. But Hrak Gron was
born with gahad in her breast, unable to accept the abuse of her masters. Gahad made her yearn for freedom and
willing to fight for it, to the death. Today we carry gahad in our hearts to remind us that we are orks. Gahad
reminds us that we have freedom because we fought for it, and we must not surrender it. That is why the ork trusts his heart
above his mind. Our minds led us into slavery; the heart, the dwelling place of gahad, led us to freedom.
To avoid constant fighting, orks are careful with their speech. They say what they mean and pass comments without offense
when they can. If an ork is doing something you dislike, tell him. If he sees his error and agrees with you, he will change;
if he does not, he will not. Neither apologizes, for the first is not sorry he said something and the second is not sorry
for who he is. We also tend to engage in what we call “living talk,” rattling off comments quickly. Since brutal
honesty would be likely to trigger a dozen gahad attacks a day, orks will sometimes loudly chatter with one another,
reeling off compliments or boasts or insults at speed. These are not taken terribly seriously and indicate to the listener
that no offense is meant. This may lead to the occasional brawl but rarely ends in a deadly battle. An ork who spits out
only a word or two is much more dangerous than one who is prattling on with insult after insult. These tendencies can make
our gatherings loud, boisterous affairs, as they should be.
—On Orks and the Passions
I once heard someone say that the Passions made orks because other Namegivers didn’t really understand how they wish
to be worshipped. The other races all speak of Passions, but they do not feel them clutching their hearts the way we do. Other
races talk about following the Passions; we feel them inside us. They are like the food we eat or the air we breathe—they
become part of us.
No ork can tell another what the truth of the Passions really is, because we each experience the Passions for ourselves. I
have felt close to each of the Passions at different times—even the Mad Passions. I will listen to no fools prattling
on about their ideas of the Passions, for I have felt their very breaths on the back of my neck. I have smelled the sweet
air that surrounds Astendar and the choking, dusty reek of Dis. But I would not argue with another ork who said he thought
Astendar smelled more like a tree struck by lightning, or Dis like a damp and dirty rag. What passes between an ork and a
Passion is the ork’s own business—only ujnort are fool enough to ask uninvited questions about these matters.
If one does share one's experiences with the Passions, it is only with a lover or the closest of comrades.
Feeling the breath of the Passions is not the same as meeting them. I have never met a Passion directly, though I have spoken
with others who claim they have. Experiencing the Passions is more like feeling a presence, being aware of a smell or a fleeting
glimpse of something in shadow or a glint of light. Or it can be the sensation that someone is watching you from the inside.
These sensations make an ork feel strong and proud, except when one of us feels the gaze of a Mad Passion on his spirit. Such
experiences are terrifying, I confess freely and without shame. Sometimes I think turgma are orks who have done the
wrong thing when the breath of a Mad Passion comes, who have surrendered to their fears. I have heard it said that an ork
who enslaves himself to the touch of a Mad Passion can never again feel the other Passions within him.
The ork name for Astendar is Mera-a-a-arg, the “a” sound like a purr in the back of your throat. This is
the orkish sound of desire. Surely, Mera-a-a-arg inspires troubadours and storytellers, but orks most often feel her touch
when in the throes of desire. Orks are ardent followers of the ways of love; unknown to the ujnort, we are greater
lovers than fighters. When a female ork looks on a likely mate and both feel Mera-a-a-arg filling their chests with gahad,
they cast aside their other longings to make room for their desire. Orks feel no regrets in matters of love.
Grenkaklank is our name for Chorrolis. Other Namegivers know him as a jealous miser; we know him as a charming scoundrel,
a roguish uncle who comes to call and steals a few petty possessions. Sometimes we hear his insinuating whisper when we look
on some object that will do us no good but we must have nonetheless. He makes us single minded in pursuit of those these things
and then laughs at us when we get them, for no item is as attractive in one’s own hand as it is in another’s.
Grenkaklank teaches us that the pursuit, the striving, is more important than winning the prize.
Before Dis went made, we knew her as Kawjujwak, the Passion of order. We had little use for her then, and we have none
for her now that she has become the Passion of slavery. Anyone who follows Kawjujwak is an enemy of all orks.
Floranuus is Prakarool in our language. Many orks have a soft spot in their hearts for Prakarool, for he follows his
hopes and desires with little thought for tomorrow. Among the riders and raiders, Prakarool is almost as well loved as Thystonius,
for he inspires in us a love of journey and a longing for swiftness. Every ork who dances with joy, or runs a race against
his fellows, or pours all his horse’s speed into a torrent of motion know Prakarool’s joy.
We call Garlen Muvuul. Women call upon Muvuul in childbirth, but all call upon her to keep their hearth and home, wherever
that may be. Though orks speak more of Lochost and Thystonius, Muvuul is truly the most loved Passion among us. Many orks
with challenge to the death anyone foolish enough to scoff at Muvuul.
Jaspree is Greeb in Or’zet, and Barsaive’s ork farmers, as well as those with a love of the deep forests
and the many beasts of our land, honor his ways.
All orks claim Lochost as their patron Passion, calling her by her true name of Blork and honoring her by swearing
oaths in her name. Blork inspired Hrak Gron in her battle to free all orks. Though we have few Questors among us, those we
have most often follow her. You can always tell when you have met turgma, for they are ashamed to praise Blork.
It is said that Mikbruug, or Mynbruje, once served only other Namegivers and paid no heed to the cries of orks. But
the example of Hrak Gron spoke to Mikbruug and convinced him that the bondage of our people was the greatest injustice in
Barsaive. Mikbruug gave Hrak Gron many gifts then, most of all a code of honor that should bring us respect from all others.
Most orks, though, still think of Mikbruug as a distant Passion who uses too many words to build arguments difficult for the
sensible ork to understand, but we revere him nonetheless.
Raggok, the name by which all Namegivers know the Mad Passion, is an orkish name. Even before he went mad he was a fierce
Passion, and he held the hearts of many orks. Many turgma still pay him heed, mistaking his cruelty for courage and
his vengeance for justice.
Many ujnort assume that Tranko, or Thystonius as they call him, is our most revered Passion, the one we call
upon in times of war and desperation. Though he is indeed a worthy Passion and due much respect, we find him less stirring
than Blork because Tranko cares more for the ideal of the warrior than for the righteousness of one’s cause. Tranko
is the patron of the mercenary ork, who calls on him for skill and luck before entering a battle for pay, not for his heart’s
desire. When an ork fights for freedom or his people, he calls on Blork for spirit and victory.
Upandal, whom we call Jrikjrikjrik, gladdens the hearts of orks who are builders and crafters. These days, few orks
have much interest in building, for we built too much in our past and received little for our labor. Our masters forced us
to work when we were slaves, and though we later lent our backs and muscles to the construction of the kaers more than any
other Namegiver, we get scant thanks or respect for it.
Vestrial—or Yelubo, as we knew him once—was a beloved Passion before he went mad. We avoid saying his name
now, though many turgma shame us by following his ways. A dwarf once told me that many of the funny stories we tell
about Grenkaklank and Prakarool once featured Yelubo, but we have given them to the saner Passions. Perhaps if we steal his
tales, his power will wither, and his strangely wise antics and the boons he once granted will settle on the shoulders of
Grenkaklank and Prakarool.
—On Ork Tastes and Customs
Our customs are of import, and no true ork will abandon them lightly. We love a good performance. We like to see a dancer,
a troubadour, or a teller of tales throw his soul into his art and come out dripping with sweat. Of all the arts, we love
storytelling most. A truly great tale teller can be a rude t’skrang one moment and a steely eyed warrior the next. We
do not put false divisions between arts as some other Namegivers do, inviting all manner of expression into the same performance.
And orks do love to dance. We dance as a prelude to our greatest art, the art of love. A good ork band of musicians can take
the same instruments that elves and dwarfs play, but make them sound alive, make them grab your gut and heart.
Orks are good craftsman, no matter what ujnort may say. We may not always decorate our goods with useless frippery,
and we may not have forever to go banging out the perfect sword, but we craft strong objects that will last. This is displayed
in our arms and armor, built solidly and decorated with those patterns that have meaning. We want only the best—we may
not fear death, but we won’t seek it by wearing worthless armor in battle or trusting to cheap swords. Where’s
the glory in dying because your armor fell apart?
Most orks are happy to leave building to the ujnort. After all, erecting a great hall or tower might well take longer
than we have to live. Better to spend time enjoying a thousand things than on a single task. Most of us are satisfied with
a leather tent or a bedroll under the stars and need little else by way of shelter.
When it comes to food and drink, an ork loves to feast on honest food that weighs heavy in the gut. When I have a meal, I
want to know I ate something. If you can’t cover it in batter and boil it in oil, roast it over an open fire, or sop
it in grease, don’t serve it to me. It is a poor host who serves only vegetables and no meat, as if wanting us to wither
away to nothing. Nothing tastes as rich as meat, nothing else has the taste of lifeblood lingering in it. And why bother eating
anything that doesn’t taste of life itself, unless you can’t get anything else?
Besides meat, we eat a great deal of quaalz, the wondrous bean that ujnort claim is only fit for animals. There
is nothing so good as the burn of quaalz in pepper gravy—except a nice batter-covered chunk of oil-dripping meat,
or a huge flask of hurlg.
Ah, the wonders of hurlg, the true ork drink, made of grain and animal fat. It is fermented in barrels for weeks, until
it curdles the inside of your nose when you smell it; that’s how you know good hurlg.
Some good tips to keep in mind if you're trying to impress company:
• Say what you think in plain talk, without weasel words.
• Don’t eat with one hand when you can eat with two.
• Never be the first at the table to stop drinking, and always belch afterwards.
• Never wake a sleeping ork unless his life depends on it.
• Spit to your left to show respect, to your right to show disrespect.
• Orks rarely bathe. Dousing with water is used as a minor punishment for hotheadedness in many clans.
• When orks who are close friends greet one another, they sometimes throw both arms around their friend and bite him
on the neck. To bite too hard is to suggest you wish to cause pain and are looking for a fight—to bite too lightly
is to suggest that the ork is weak and cannot take pain, which may also invite a violent response.
In matters of love, it is said that the fiercest fire burns the fastest. We love passionately but briefly; we take on many
mates throughout our lives. When a man and a woman share the ways of love, they are married and share family obligation. Unlike
the ujnort with their endless rules and laws, we require no ceremony to mark this relationship, though huge feasts
are held to celebrate such unions.
The obligations of marriage are simple. First, neither partner may risk his or her life without the consent of the other.
Second, partners must share any money or spoils they gain with each other. And last, the married ork must consider the previous
children of a mate as his or her own and treat them accordingly. These bonds do not dissolve when an ork moves on to a new
mate, and the children that former mates sire with new partners are treated as our own as well. Many orks have six children
or more, so our family customs create a vast web of relationships and foster strong loyalties among us. The previous child
of my mate is my lelkrarg; I am his or her dramar. I owe advice and aid to my lelkrargs in exchange for
their respect and obedience. Because each lelkrarg has many dramar, my interest in raising a lelkrarg
well connects me with my other adults in our clan.
—On the Ork View of Ujnort
Ujnort believe that we are savages, killers, thieves, idiots. But orks are not blinded by our prejudices. Many ujnort
have some good in them, though they keep it well hidden from us.
On one hand, dwarfs don’t fancy around with flowery lies and weasel words. They say what they think—sometimes,
anyway. On the other hand, they pretend to love justice and freedom but kept us as slaves for centuries, and they lust for
power over all of Barsaive. To them, orks are pawns in their games, meek and obedient pawns they can sweep into a corner when
they need us no more. The empire they dream of would fit us better than the Theran yoke—but no empires at all would
be better still. We work with the best of the dwarfs and smile at them, but keep our own thoughts to ourselves, biding our
time.
Elves can be trusted yet less than the dwarfs. They are so deceitful that even their own hearts lie to them. They can barely
tell what they really feel under all their layers of finery and wouldn’t tell you if they did know. They sneer at what
they call our ugliness and our honest ways, preferring empty-headed beauty and ornamented intrigue. But they are not all bad.
They don’t share the dwarfs’ dreams of power, and they break more easily.
Humans confuse everyone. A human in ork company is often a better ork than orks are. But put him with elves and he starts
looking at you like you’re lower than vut. Put him with a dwarf and he wants to impose his order on you. The
best thing to remember about humans is to keep a sharp eye on them—puzzle out what they’re up to, what they want.
You’ve got to watch carefully, because a human will change himself however he must to win. Humans are clever folk, though;
you’ve got to admire that.
Obsidimen are strange and slow. Even though they live so much longer than we do, we pity them, for they never feel our fierce
joy in life. The best thing about an obsidiman is that you can trust him all the time. Once you figure him out, he won’t
change. It has been said, though, that you can trust a rock, but it’s no fun to drink with one.
Much of what ujnort believe about orks is true of trolls. They are fierce and dangerous, and not all that smart. They
have a strong sense of honor, but it is so bizarre and hard to understand that you’re likely to have already broken
it and be burdened with an irate troll trying to snap your neck before you figure out how you've insulted him. There are some
that are loyal and brave, but most trolls are more trouble than they're worth.
T’skrang are entertaining but flighty. I have fought side by side with t’skrang who risked their lives to look
pretty in battle. Have you ever heard anything so stupid? Worrying about looking good swinging a sword when they should be
plowing straight through the enemy and killing them. If you kill your enemy, who cares how you look doing it? But a t’skrang’s
heart is in the right place, even when he knows less about ork ways than a baby knows of the world. Too bad you can’t
rely on them to do the sensible thing when a crazy thing is possible instead. Funny, though—watching them fight, I’ve
sometimes split my sides laughing.
Windlings can make you crazy in a few heartbeats. They think everything they say is funny even if it hurts you, and they never
know when to shut their yapping mouths. Fly around like gnats, they do, especially when you want their attention. They can’t
settle down and listen to a plan, and they cry or get mad or just fly away when you try to wring some sense into them. But
they love freedom almost as much as orks do. They follow their hearts, and they seize life and shake it in a way that dwarfs
and humans and such only dream of. For that, I admire windlings even when they get my gahad boiling.
