>>5316358Red-hot with fury, Grez stomped her way into the Lower District.
She unconsciously began to fidget with the mace dangling from her belt, her hand on the pommel the handle and just swaying it.
<span class="mu-i">How dare she? How dare she?</span> She thought to herself. <span class="mu-i">Perhaps I should wait outside the orphanage and cave her skull in.</span>
The dungeon wouldn’t like that and considering the bitch got off on being watched it wasn’t likely she would be able to frame anyone else.
Grez had fallen from from a position of importance to nothing at all.
And what was that bit about taking away blessings? Would she become a half-orc again?
Grez’s fingers curled around the handle of her mace, then held it tight. No. Never again.
She just needed to find a way to show the dungeon that she was still its most dependable ally.
Anger, hot as magma, coursed through her body. Eustacia had made such a fool of her, user her as a doormat.
Just thinking about the holier-than-thou wench caused Grez to clench her jaw.
Ah, she had to do something with this rage, but it wasn’t even afternoon yet.
Still, the Lower District with all its alleyways and dead-ends is basically a maze.
She could probably get away with a little stress-relief as long as she made sure the first blow was a good one.
A wicked smile slithered its way onto her face.
“Hey,” said a voice, loud and careful.
Grez snapped her attention to the origin, muscles tense, but then relaxed.
Lost in thought she had wandered a fair distance from the dungeon and now found herself near the market.
The young man that had called out to her was just the dopy son of the fruit vendor and his shaggy collection of dirty-blonde hair.
He was holding out an apple.
“You seem pissed,” said the young man, trying a smile.
“I am,” replied Grez, walking over and plucking the apple from the young man’s hand.
Brow set is a perpetual frown, she bit down and chewed it with much annoyance.
After the orphanage fell into disrepair, Grez and her follow orphans had been left to their own devices.
Her time as a street urchin had instilled in her a habit of never turning down a meal. It bothered her.
“You wanna, uh, talk about it?” asked the young man, he was rolling an apple between his hands.
“No,” replied Grez, finishing off the apple, core and all.
“Let me guess,” replied the young man, sitting down on a crate and resting on an elbow, “Parents?”
Grez gave him a look. She was about to say something about how the man couldn’t have been more wrong, but that would just make the nosey bloke keep prying. “Something like that,” she replied, “A strict aunt that I happen to live with.”
