Before Tung's return to Sandpoint
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An orc shambles unsteadily through the streets of Magnimar. Not a totally unusual sight in a city of this size but this fellow is drawing attention and plenty of it. Tung is used to the stares of other people and he's used to knowing that he's being spoken about in hushed tones. None of this bothers him. Certainly not as much as the pain he's in.
He looks up and down the street he's stood on. It's a familiar place but not that familiar and he's having trouble getting his bearings. He sniffs the air. There it is. Incense. He follows his nose to a temple, the one that only a short while ago restored a dear old friend to his former glory.
Despite the late hour, an acolyte came to greet the traveller. A young elven lady, having been assigned the graveyard shift due to her low ranking in the church, stepped forward.
"Welcome weary traveller, how may we be of... OH, HEAVENS PRESERVE ME!"
Tung stood, swaying slightly. His entire right arm was missing below the elbow and the stump was still bleeding heavily. He felt quite light headed now. He knew a little about healing and he knew light headed meant something bad but it was getting a little harder to really organise his thoughts. That was also bad.
"Tung, follower of Gorum. Need assistance. Please. Been accident. Maybe need sit down, too."
And with that, Tung slumped face first to the ground.
He awoke somewhere nice. It was cool and there was clean linen underneath him. Sunlight. He wondered for a while if maybe this was the afterlife but decided, all considered, that this was unlikely. The astonishing pain radiating from his right arm was proof against that. He tried to sit up. The room began to spin. Maybe sleep was best for now. He imagined what Gruumsh would have to say about this. He smiled. Things were so much better, even now.
A fabric partition around what he assumed to be a bed of sorts parted and in walked a priest. An older human man, unfamiliar but with a kind face.
"Well, well, well. Tung, is it? We have been in the wars, haven't we?"
"No."
The man looked at him quizzically for a moment but quickly remembered that some racial stereotypes were unfortunately rather well earned.
"I am sorry, it is a figure of speech. You've been rather badly injured, I mean. Now, would you care to tell me how it happened or would you prefer that I didn't know? Rest assured that anything said here will remain in the strictest confidence."
"Tung not speak Common very well. Getting better at it. Not good yet. You speak Orc?"
"Regrettably no. I could send for a translator if necessary?"
"Thanks. No need. Tung climbing. Training. Gorum needs strength, Tung strong but not as strong as Orc should be. Fell. Arm broken, stuck in crack."
He could tell that the priest wasn't buying his story but, unfortunately, it was the plain truth. He'd been practicing what he considered essential non-combat skills. Swimming, running, survival skills and the like. A trip up a nearby mountain had resulted in tragedy when a gust of wind had upset his balance.
"I see. And... you were there for how long?"
"Dunno. 3 day?"
"Without food or water?"
"Snow."
"Okay, but food? You do not carry a pack or other carrier, I notice. You did not have rations?"
"No. After 2 day, arm go black and stop hurting. Couldn't move fingers. Think it died. Cut it this morning. Dug it out of rock. Weak. Hungry. Ate it."
Tung related the full story. He certainly knew that a loss of sensation in a limb and a change of colour was very serious. The arm simply needed to be removed and that was that. It wasn't his arm any more, it was dead flesh. To Tung, there was no difference between it and a side of beef. Any unnecessary burden had to be eliminated.
The priest, paling as the story was related, looked at him for a very long time once Tung had stopped talking.
"Well, that is quite the tale. I think I would suggest that you do not relay it to anybody in polite company and I will press you no further for details. Now, we have a number of options available for treatment. Restoration is very popular but generally an expensive option. Some prefer to simply heal the wound and wear concealing garments. A robe or loose fitting shirt can hide many things."
"No clothes. Get in the way. Cultural thing, human not understand."
"Of course, of course. The other option would be a prosthetic."
"What."
The priest sighed internally.
"A replacement limb. New arm, yes? The practice is in its infancy at the moment but it is quite amazing what a skilled craftsman can come up with given enough time."
Tung considered this carefully.
"A new arm. Made out of something not-arm?"
"Wood is the common choice." Said the priest with an encouraging smile. "Some nobles favour precious metals which, frankly, is a little vulgar to my mind. Ceramic can suit those who work in hot environments. Bakers and such. Metals are popular among those who work in dangerous environments who, coincidentally, tend to be those who most require prosthetic replacements."
"That. Tung want that."
"As you wish. We would ask for a token donation for the cost of the healing magic used to bind your flesh but..." the priest's eyes briefly took in Tung's lack of clothing and non-lethal belongings "Well, this is, of course, entirely optional."
Tung pulled a lump of hacksilver from his loincloth. It was the size of his fist and distressingly warm.
"You save Tung life. You save Jiro. Owe great debt. This cover payment?"
The priest made quiet choking noises as he looked at a modest fortune.
"... that will... do nicely, thank you."
Tung wandered the streets. A good meal was had which certainly helped his mood. He entered the artisan's district full of purpose with an uncharacteristic smile on his face. Purveyors of every service imaginable lined the streets. Jewelers, carpenters, enchanters... at the end were the smiths. He could tell by the ambient heat and the smell. It smelled of good, honest work. He liked that. One by one, he tried each of them, tried to explain his needs but was turned away.
"You want a what?!"
"Not worth my reputation, mate."
"Stupid idea, it'll never work."
Until eventually, the last store on the row. The proprietor was an Orc, clearly well into his old age but with plenty of fight left in him. But then, you didn't live as an Orc for long without some strength in your bones, not even this deep into civilisation.
"You speak Orc?"
"Aye, just. It's been a long time since anybody's come speakin' the mother tongue and if I'm honest, I've got soft and slow in my old age but I'll get by, I reckon. Name's Slock and I'll thank you not to comment on it. What do you need?"
Tung sighed with relief. Finally, someone he could talk to.
"Well, this is delightful. Simply put, sir, I've been afflicted with a minor disability and wish to overcome it with steel and ingenuity."
Slock narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "You're not from these parts, lad, are you?"
"Quite so. I'm a barbarian by trade and thought it would be quite appropriate, almost poetic in a way, if I were to perhaps have my new physical aid be a representation of my craft."
Slock closed his eyes and carefully parsed the sentence. "You... want an arm that can grasp a weapon, yes?"
"Almost. You see, I have a weapon that was once used by my patron to communicate with me. It was a very significant moment in my life and I want to, in some small way, acknowledge his acceptance in a physical way. With my very flesh, as it were."
Slock paled.
"Please tell me you wish to have your weapon melted down into a replacement arm."
"No." Tung braced himself. This was the tricky part. "I wish to replace my arm WITH an axe in its entirety."
"Yeah, I was worried that you'd say that. Look, I'll be straight lad, I won't do it. It's madness, dedicating a limb to a god. Unless it's one of them mad evil gods and I don't hold with them. Anyway, orc with an axe arm, what's people going to say there? 'Oh, look now, here comes that monster with an axe hand. Run, run, Mr. Choppy-Axe-Hand is coming for your kids!'. You'll become a bogeyman I've lived with humans for years, they're all like that. You need a different kind of smithy for that. Who are you serving, anyway?"
"Do you know Gorum?"
Slock looked at him carefully. "Heard of him, yeah. Respects the steel, he does. Oh... alright, just hold a moment, will you?"
He stamped heavily on the boards under his feet.
"RANDOLPH, I'VE GOT A LIVELY ONE HERE FOR YA."
The sound of tiny feet moving at unsettling speed. The sound of a trapdoor quickly opening. A tiny head popped over the counter, blackened with soot, not a single hair upon it and wearing a pair of heavy smoked goggles on a rotting leather strap.
"Yis?" it squeaked.
Slock began to talk quickly in a language Tung didn't know. He apologised after a few minutes of this, telling Tung that Randolph only spoke Gnomish.
"Oh, that's quite alright." Tung said in what he hoped was a polite way. "I've never met a gnome before."
"Yeah, he ain't a gnome. He's... he's just like that..."
They went back and forth in a conversation involving many expansive and frantic gestures which sounded more like an argument. Eventually a piece of parchment was produced and Randolph began to draw rapidly without ever breaking from the conversation. A further ten minutes of this and then:
"Axe." Demanded the tiny man.
"What?"
"Axe! Show Randolph. Give Randolph."
Serrated Fang was placed on the counter.
Slock eventually closed the shop. Tung sat on the floor. Randolph was still drawing and shouting but Slock gently assured Tung that this was just his way and not to worry too much.
"ARM."
"No arm." Tung hoped this creature understood any Common at all. "Ate it."
"Good arm, good arm! MEA-SURE-MENT."
Tung lay his arm on the counter. It was, with incredible speed, wrapped tightly in gauze which was painted with an unidentifiable, evil-smelling gel.
"And... what happen now?"
Slock was obviously trying not to laugh at this point.
"You wait." spluttered Randolph "Cast dry. Eight hour."
"But it's night ti-"
"EIIIIIGHT!" Randolph shrieked.
And so Tung stood until morning. Food was provided, solid orc fare the likes of which he hadn't tasted in years. It made him homesick. Having to be fed due to his lack of limbs was embarassing but Slock seemed to find it hilarious. Throughout the night, Randolph stood and simply stared, unmoving, at the arm. He never lit so much as a candle nor removed his goggles. Tung was becoming deeply afraid of him.
Morning came and without warning, the man sprang into action, scoring a line down the cast and breaking it into two with a small hammer.
"Mould! Come back, five days."
The tiny head retreated. The sound of a trapdoor. Tiny feet scampering down stone stairs.
"What, exactly, is that creature?"
"He's human biologically but really, he's just Randolph, lad, and I don't ask any more questions than that. Alls I know is he came with the building and I'll be damned if I'm going to try to make him leave. He gives me the willies. Now he's either going to invoice you on receipt of goods or he's going to forget, in which case there's usually no charge. Payment is his own business and I've given up on reminding him. Best bring some coin on the day just in case."
Tung took in as much of the city, its sights and culture as he was permitted to. Being a large and heavily populated area he wasn't as discriminated against as he was used to. Certainly some clothing would have helped significantly but then, Magnimar was open minded and used to barbarians. 5 days later, back to the shop. Randolph was already at the counter along with a concerned-looking Slock.
"YOU. ORC. How strong spirit?"
Tung looked at him carefully.
"Tung... has faith in Gorum?"
"NOT RELIGION. MIND. How strong mind?!"
"Oh." Tung didn't understand the relevance. "Not good."
Randolph's usual screaming lowered to a normal speaking volume. "Orc drink big-big?"
"Not much."
Randolph bit his lower lip. "Might be that it is being good time to starting?"
"No."
Randolph reached up to the counter top, straining under the weight of a bundle wrapped in linen. He unwrapped a device comprising a gleaming metal elbow joint mounted to a thick wooden shaft which had been carved into a beautiful copy of an orc arm, accurate down to even the popping veins. At its end, where a wrist would start, was the head of Serrated Fang. He undid a clasp at the elbow joint which opened the end of the contraption revealing a vast array of gears and neat metal cabling.
Randolph began to yell again. "Randolph explain procedure. Then orc decide. Here anchor pin. We HAMMER directly into bone. Tensor cables wire directly into tendons. PAINFUL. DANGEROUS. You understanding Randolph?!"
Tung slowly nodded. He had endured much these past months but this tiny, screaming human was too intimidating to defy. He reminded Tung of Gruumsh. He simply stated how the world was going to work and it changed accordingly. Instead of rage, Randolph spoke in mechanisms.
"Just do your work." Tung told him quietly. He could feel himself beginning to cry. Slock solemnly locked the shop door. There would be no further custom today.