MD6 - The Queen's Depature

[BeaWolf]

Ripper looked at the big Black Orc. Then he looked at the team coach. Then back at the Black Orc.

 

He was male, broad as a wall, built like a siege engine, and wore the wounded expression of someone who had personally been insulted by gravity.

 

“Is that your queen?” Ripper asked suspiciously.

 

The coach gave him a tired look. “Oh yes,” he sighed. “That one is a real drama queen. As much as a Snotling runs past too fast, he will yell foul and spend the rest of the half making the apothecary convince him his ankle is not broken.”

 

Ripper silently cursed Stibble. Of course the Halfling had heard the word queen and assumed crowns, courts, and royal wisdom. Of course Ripper had been sent to investigate. And of course the “queen” turned out to be a Black Orc sitting on a bench, wrapped in enough armour to survive a collapsing stadium. His name, according to the coach, was Neymaw da Silva Stompus Jr.

 

Ripper hated the name immediately. Not as much as he hated the thought of any Orc..... and Black Orc especially.... collapsing under a bit of rough contact. But still just enough to want to smack him in the head for the name alone.

 

Neymaw had earned his reputation over three seasons of dramatic falls, heroic groaning, and injury claims so exaggerated that even the apothecary had started bringing popcorn. The coach explained this with the flat, dead voice of a man who had seen the same act too many times and still somehow had to pay for it.

 

Ripper did not believe it. Not fully. There were players who exaggerated pain. There were players who stayed down longer than necessary. There were even players who screamed for a foul after being tackled by someone smaller than their boot.

 

But this was a Black Orc. There were standards.

 

Ripper stepped closer, raised one thick finger, and poked Neymaw in the shoulder. It was less an attack and more a punctuation mark. Neymaw’s eyes widened as he immediately folded. He slid from the bench with a gasp, hit the floor on his side, clutched his shoulder, and began making the sort of wounded noises normally reserved for battlefield amputations, tragic theatre, and nobles discovering taxes.

 

Ripper stared down at him as something dark inside Ripper stopped being professional. Ripper leaned forward, every scar on his face tightening with disgust as he yelled with all the force his lungs could muster.

 

“Get up, you overstuffed sack of whimpering shame. I have seen Snotlings take worse hits from falling sandwiches. You are a Black Orc. Act like one! And stop crying over a poke before I give you something worth crying about, you disgraceful, soft boned, theatre loving pile of [redacted]......."

 

Neymaw gave one final, delicate gasp as he grasped his chest. Then his head fell back... much too white for a Black Orc....

 

When Ripper returned to The Blitz! office, he carried a large gift basket filled with sausages, cheese, two dark bottles, and a small card tied to the handle with black ribbon.

 

Stibble looked up with bright, hopeful eyes. “How did the queen interview go?”

 

Ripper placed the unused notebook on the desk. “The Queen has sadly departed.”

 

Stibble gasped and pressed both hands to his mouth. “Oh no. So soon? Did she say where she was going?”

 

Ripper considered this. “Down,” he said casually.

 

Stibble nodded solemnly, misunderstanding everything. “Then I must bake farewell muffins for the queen.”

 

Maxwell looked at the gift basket. “Ripper. Where did you get that?”

 

Ripper sat down. “Gift from the coach,” he said, smiling broadly.