Snippet #2688627

And so he did.

Oaklum sheathed his weapon, yet kept his shield attached to his arm, not entirely read to let go of it's protection. When his blade was secured, he lowered his arms, grasping the woman, and lifting her up.

"Sterk." He said, almost as if to clarify something about the name.

"Sterk is da' 'od o' strength, 'en rightious fur'eh. She admires da' mortal wid' whom overcomes, 'ho learns... Strength 'ez our tool, 'en our wit grasp's our 'rength." The orc glanced down at the human. "Pow'ah, is fickle. Strength 'ez relative. Ta' keep both, wit, 'aitence, in da' art o' fioghtin' 'en battle, must be'h used."

He glanced forward again, still walking. "Her enemies are da' weaklings, bu' na' da weaklings da' 'ave no 'hoice. Da' weaklin's who 'ave a 'hoice, 'en send oth'ahs ta' die fo' 'dere own gain. Those 'ho use pow'ah 'en 'rength without da' 'esponsibilit'eh."

The orc passed by the corpses he dispatched... Stepping on one of them, emitting a squelching sound as the weight obliterated an already caved in skull. "En s'eh despises gits 'ho would 'efile da' hon'ahed dead, who 'ied fightin'."

What at first seemed contradictory, as the orc did literally just defile one such corpse, would make sense to someone who read into the words, as Oaklum avoided the lifeless torso of the earlier dispatched skeleton. Amongst all of the dead that had fought, only the skeleton rose with a sword already in hand. Only did the skeleton, in life, die with it's sword for one reason or another, drawn.