And then, as if in answer to her silent desperation, she heard raised voices coming from around the corner of the inn. One, shrill and full of rage, belonged to the innkeeper Borin. The other was deep, guttural, and expressed confused stubbornness.
"Get out, I say! Get out, you green monstrosity! There's no work for you here! You're too stupid even to scrub the latrines!"
"But the notice," replied the deep voice. "I saw a notice. They need strong hands for hay carting."
"That notice has been hanging there for three winters! And it's not for orcs! Now get out of my sight before I call the lads and we tan your hide!"
Tamira cautiously peeked around the corner. In the muddy yard in front of the inn stood Borin, red in the face and brandishing a broom. Facing him, stooped under the weight of an invisible burden, stood an orc. He was large, even for his kind, but his posture inspired not fear, but rather pity. He wore a velvet jacket that was two sizes too small and pinched him under the arms, and trousers that ended a good few inches above his ankles, revealing boots crudely stitched together with string. But the most absurd detail was a wire frame tied with string to his nose, imitating glasses.
He looked just as out of place as she did. Like the living embodiment of failure.
"Sir," the orc was saying, his voice strangely measured, as if reading from a boring treatise. "I am capable of demonstrating significant physical productivity. My previous educational experiences also included…"
"Enough!" Borin roared and swung the broom.
The orc didn't react with aggression. He just backed away, tripping over his own, too-large feet. He landed on his backside with a loud splash, splattering mud everywhere. The wire frame slid down onto his mouth.
Tamira stared at the sight. An orc. It was something she'd only heard about in stories used to scare naughty children. 'Be good, or an orc will come and eat you!' And yet here one was. Real. And he looked like an even bigger loser than she was.
Something clicked in her mind. It was a crazy, desperate, completely idiotic idea. An idea only someone with no other options could have.
Before Borin could approach him with the broom, Tamira stepped out of hiding. Her heart was hammering like a forge hammer, and her knees felt like jelly. She walked over to the orc lying in the mud, trying to lend her clumsy figure some semblance of dignity, and looked at Borin.
"Excuse me," she said, her voice sounding shrill and unnatural. "Is this... gentleman causing trouble?"
Borin gaped at her, then burst out laughing.
"Gentleman? That? That's a green weed cluttering my yard! And you, girl, go back to your singing. Just not here."
Borin was still chuckling, but his laughter now held not pure malice, but astonishment at the absurdity of the whole situation. An orc in the mud, a half-elf with a saw's screech for a voice, asking about him with emphasis, as if he were some forgotten aristocrat.
"Trouble?" Borin wiped a tear of laughter. "Girl, you are one big trouble, and this" he pointed the broom at the orc "is a disaster on wheels. Get out of here, both of you. Before you attract even more bad luck."
Tamira ignored the mockery. Her stubbornness, the same one that made her practice the lute for hours despite having no talent, now focused on a single goal. She leaned over the green-skinned creature, offering a hand. Her movement was, as usual, clumsy and abrupt, nearly plunging her face-first into the mud beside him.
"Get up," she said, her shrill voice trying to sound firm. "No time to lie around. Were you looking at the notices?"
The orc looked up from over his wire frame. His broad, green face was covered in mud and wore an expression of deep, intellectual bewilderment. He rubbed his eyes, smearing them further.
"Notices?" he repeated, as if analyzing each word. "Yes. I have seen many notices. Most are outdated, imprecise, or offer compensation disproportionate to the labor input. The one on the post was about hay. Agriculture is a respectable profession, but my physical predispositions are... mismatched."
"Not about the hay, you rock!" Tamira hissed, losing patience. "About the haunting! In Landon's Nook! Five silvers!"
The words 'five silvers' worked on Grumgh like a magic spell. Slowly, with a loud squelch from the mud, he got to his feet. His gaze, usually hazy and thoughtful, sharpened for a moment.
"Five silvers," he repeated, and his voice held a note of something Tamira didn't expect to hear from an orc: calculating gravity. "That is a sum allowing for the purchase of a significant quantity of good-quality bread loaves, or the payment of rent for a modest room for a month, assuming that..."
"Enough!" Tamira cut him off. "It's enough that it's a lot. They need volunteers. I thought..." She hesitated, her confidence suddenly draining. The idea seemed even dumber now that she was standing next to one of the giants whose main interest was supposedly splitting skulls. "I thought we could... try. Together."