Later, the canteen hummed with a low, uneasy murmur. Orkesh, Mina, and Manicia, along with the other eight kobolds, sat at a long wooden table, picking at roasted pork. Their eyes, however, were not on their plates. They were fixed, with a mixture of disgust and wary curiosity, on the thin orc, who sat alone at a smaller table in the corner, his shoulders hunched. The air was thick with unspoken tension, a palpable manifestation of generations of racial hatred.
Karl, observing the scene, let out a dry, rattling sigh. Racial tensions, huh? Feels like 1960s America, but with more fur and less jazz. He wouldn't blame the kobolds, not truly. They had lost their homes, their families, to the orcs. That's just how it goes in this brutal world. Well, not that I care about that, he mused, his corporate mind overriding any nascent empathy. Maximizing your customer base is always good. And a diverse customer base is even better.
