She didn’t know why she accepted the invitation. She had always been alone on the tough streets of Anteronia, scraping by doing what she could. The aristocrats in their ivory towers always seemed so far removed from the world's real problems. They didn’t know about the poverty, disease, and rough-and-tumble lives of those down below.
But here she is, entering the chambers at a stunningly colossal house in the wealthiest part of town. Dirty as she is, she sticks out more than the opulent decorations and the clean floor where she can see her pathetic rags and freckled face.
“The mistress will see you soon,” the butler, a serpentine creature, says. His syllables stretch out, maybe primarily to intimidate her, she doesn’t know. “Make yourself comfortable and ring this bell if you need our services.”
She doesn’t do any of that. Instead, she sits upon a chair, one of many in this grand room. Is this some kind of royal audience chamber? A theater in the front of someone’s room? She had never been anywhere more swanky than a cheap apartment. Why is she here?
The letter.
Yeah, it was the letter, alright, delivered in the slums to the ravenous people by a fair folk messenger, grinning ear to ear as she passed out the invitations.
“It’s your lucky day,” she said, handing her the paper. “The mistress needs a new plaything.”
What did that even mean, ‘plaything’? What sort of game does a wealthy woman play with a street rat like her?
“Ah, my dear girl, there you are,” comes the flowery voice.
The woman descends from the stairs, wearing a glittering robe that trails behind her high-heeled steps. A broad and feather-capped hat hides her hair, and her face is disguised with a domino mask.
The guest quirks an eyebrow at this woman's appearance, standing up as she knows her place, giving the woman a quick bow. “M-morning, ma’am,” she says quickly and stiltedly.
“Oh, no, no, no!” the woman says, shaking her head. “It’s ‘miss’ or ‘mistress,’ young lady. Ever since my dear husband died, rest his soul, I am no longer a ‘ma’am.’ It makes me seem so old.” She says this, flashing a toothy, no, tusky, grin.
The girl gasps.
“Oh, so you see it too, my dear?” the woman giggles. Her gently pointed ears wiggle in delight. “I was hoping you would recognize someone like you.’
“L… like me?”
The woman grabs her by the cheeks, her grip firm, her thumb peeling back the guest’s lower lip. “Oh, but of course, my dear. Our shared heritage cannot be denied, can it? Look at these white teeth of yours. And a strong bite. Do you know the source of your orcish lineage?”
She pulls herself away from the handsy woman, rubbing her lips and taking a guarded posture. “Yeah,” she replies. “A drunken git of a sailor who shagged a prostitute without givin’ him rubbers in some remote port. Dropped me off when she sailed ashore. She went off on some other adventures, no doubt.”
“Such is the life of the lower classes,” the woman laments, placing a hand upon her chest and fluttering her eyes. “Our cousins are all treated so horribly in the modern age because civility has decided that the important tenants of our kind are nothing but things to mock and fetishize. But, you and I, my dear, we are different. We are of that oppressed and beautiful race of creatures that the world has ostracized for far too long, whose beauty has been overshadowed by the sensationalist garbage of our oppressors.”
The girl quirks an eyebrow at that, clenching her fists.
“Tell me now… your name and your clan.”
“Miranda,” the slummer says, “and I ain’t got no clan name. Tolda already, my parents weren’t nothin’. What’s all this talkin’ about, anyway? Pride and orcs and all that? I’m me and me alone.”
The woman watches with a simmering flame in her eyes, her full lips gently parted. “Miranda, dear…” she speaks in a huffed and longing voice. “Do you hate me?” she asks, her voice a warm purr. “Do you wish to strike me for bringing up such bad memories? From dragging you from your home, only to insult you? If so, that is good. That’s what I desire….”
“You wot?”
She holds her hands out, tilting her head back. “I brought you here to indulge in the time-honored tradition of our ancestors. And we can do so, starting now.”
“I don’t know what the fuck yer talkin’ about! Who the fuck do you think you ar-!?”
Miranda has no time to think about what the woman wanted, for the wealthy older lady’s fist curled up and found itself buried deep into her stomach a moment later. Miranda’s mouth hangs open, her eyes trembling with tears welling up within them. Her boots lift up off the floor, and she crashes onto her knees, doubling over in the throbbing pain, coughing, spit running from her mouth, her breath rising out in wheezes.
The lady’s robes fall from her shoulders, and her light green skin is revealed to be toned and muscled, yet with little sign of exertion and damage. She looms before Miranda, readying her fists.
“It doesn’t matter what high society calls me, ‘Miranda,’ she speaks with venom in her voice. “For today, I am what my orcish ancestors smile upon me to be. I am Ognisha, of the Bloodaxe clan, great-granddaughter of Jurgesh! Like our ancestors dictate, stand before me, Miranda, and face me in proper combat.”
Miranda hefts herself up, holding her stomach, a growl rising from her chest. “Lady… yer off yer rocker. I’m not about ta fight you.”
Ognisha smirks. “Then, you shall die.”