Fists clenched, he rushed to the shaman before his companion's widening eyes.
"What does it mean?" He asked, his voice almost pleading.
"Humph. Do you think this beast can answer? Forget about it," Morris snorted before his voice took a playful turn. "You know what? You fought well, Elliot. I think you should give it the coup de grâce."
Elliot remained silent, his watery eyes locked on the shaman. This damned word and their smiles... Was it the orc's method to torture his mind? Perhaps. But age, courage, or frailty didn't matter. He had a mission and a confidence to reinforce. This upsetting mystery wouldn't ruin three months of hard work.
As he wrenched his hammer overhead, the shaman coughed, then whispered. "We seek honor when we hunt, eat, fight, and mate, but not once in its life, an orc says Drahk'mar. Young human... you've given us... an honorable death on the battlefield instead of a fate of rotting away. We... thank... you."
