Just a litttle story I've had kicking around in my head for a while and managed to pummel into shape in time for spooky season.

Ushûl should have known it was too good to be true. Fate does not smile upon Orcs, at least not unconditionally.

It had been barely five days since she left her childhood home in the deep mountain caverns,

sent on her way with lukewarm wishes and a few half-joking "Don't come back"s. While exploring the forest surrounding the river, she stumbled across a perfectly good little house, just sitting there in a clearing, silent and apparently empty. After spending a couple days hidden in the brush, staking it out to make sure the owner hadn't simply left temporarily and was neglecting the exterior upkeep, she approached it. It didn't take much investigation to figure out it was completely abandoned, the inside covered in a generous layer of undisturbed dust.

The place was charming. Excellent location. Near enough to both the deep forest and the foothills of the Misty Mountains to find nearly anything she needed, and remote enough to escape the notice of any real threat to life and limb. Ushûl didn't count on living there forever, but for now it would do just fine. All it needed was a bit of repair and a few small adjustments.

The first thing she did was cover the windows with whatever she had on hand. Decor could wait. Blocking out the sting of sunlight was far more important. As she nailed an old grey plank into the frame she pondered the pointlessness of this Mannish custom, not only cutting a hole in a perfectly good wall but then sealing it up so you couldn't throw things or shoot anyone through it.

The task was finished as the dawn began to break over the treetops. Only a few rays of light peeked in through the boards and scraps. For now, it was adequate. Ushûl would just pull a blanket over her head.

That morning, despite the still air hanging heavy over the forest, the windows rattled incessantly. At first Ushûl assumed a strong breeze or minor tremor was to blame. But it didn't let up, and the sound changed, escalating to increasingly obnoxious noises. Light but unceasing tapping gave way to a pattern of sharp knocks, and at one point, a rhythm that reminded Ushûl of the annoying rhyming chants she had no patience for even as a sprog. She recalled being rounded up with the other children to some space deep in the tunnels, and told to stomp along in unison. Usually she'd find her cousin Razashûk, who would instead sit with his arms crossed and silently glare at whichever adult was leading. Despite finding that a bit dramatic, she appreciated the sentiment, and would plunk down beside him and distract from the indignity by playing with a piece of string or doodling in the dirt on the floor.

The memory of the motions and chants was intercut with "follow me", "pay attention", and the occasional terse pr frustrated "stay back here." It dawned on her that the child-herding routine only happened when the mountain was under attack by Dwarves or similar vermin. It was never stated to them outright, but the rigamarole was always preceded by panicked whispers and thundering in the distance, and followed by an air of grim determination and a few more empty seats around the fire pit.

Ushûl groaned and rolled over. This revelation really could have waited until she'd at least gotten a few solid hours of sleep. She drifted in and out fitfully, finally roused by the crash of her meager pile of belongings toppling over. The broken chair she'd been chopping up for window boards, which had been sitting in the house when she found it, landed on her ankle, striking the knobby bone and making her yelp.

This was clearly not just a case of bad weather. Some foul, asinine spirit inhabited this place and didn't want to share with anything that still drew breath. Determined to teach it that squatters' rights only applied to the living, Ushûl wracked her brain for everything she could recall about banishing such things. For once, she regretted letting her mind wander while the old crones and weird spiritual types nattered on about boiling up potions and interpreting the arrangement of stars in the sky.

Forget all that for now. It was best to start simple. There was no point extending extra effort when there was already so much to be done to fix up the place. She gathered up several fistfuls of pebbles and spelled out "GO AWAY" in the patch of dirt in front of the door. She hoped the presence could read that particular dialect.

That question was answered the next time she popped outside. The pebbles were rearranged into a large "NO". Ushûl grunted and set aside the rope she was going to build a snare with. Right now her prey was a bit trickier.

Her great-aunt had once been troubled by a spirit that would hover over her cauldron and drop rubbish in it or snuff out the fire whenever the old Orc was attempting to make some concoction or another. After one too many batches of rotten fever-draught, a few of the elders gathered around and performed a simple ritual that, fortunately, didn't require anything made in a cauldron.

It seemed to have worked, as she recalled. But then again, she was very small at the time, gullible enough to believe stories about Halfling bandits snatching unattended Orc sprogs and forcing them to wear fussy clothes with hundreds of buttons and work on their cabbage farms under the blistering sun. (And thats why you don't wander off when Mum has her back turned, Ushûl.) Maybe Auntie Uzghash just wasn't very good at what she did and was trying to save face.

Turning her focus back to the job at hand, she gathered the ingredients to the best of her memory: a pinch of glittering dust chipped off the little clusters of smoky crystals that dotted the boulders rising out of the forest floor, three rats' tails fashioned into a braid, a tuft of pale tree moss, and a handful of dried petals from those dark bruise-colored flowers that smelled like rotting flesh.

The sky was clear and the waning moon was only a faint white sliver above the trees. Perfect. Ushûl spread the dust on the threshold and pinned the braid above the doorway. She scattered the moss and petals while humming and singing an improvised curse, adapted from her father's standard curse against guests who stayed too long.

The door slammed on her fingers and the rat braid fell down with a dull plop at her feet.

Obviously, this was going to require something a little more heavy-duty than incantations and fancy smells and grandiose waving of hands.

Ushûl trudged back inside as the sky began to lighten. Her eye landed on a cobweb in the corner, laden with dust. Of course. People who weren't Orcs tended to be ridiculous chickenshits about spiders. This had served her well and gotten her out of more than one predicament in the past.

After another bout of attempted sleep, this time interrupted by persistent warbled whistling, she headed to a particularly dark patch of forest. It wasn't long before she found what she was looking for: a large mottled weaver, its slender black legs almost long enough to cover the palm of her hand. There was a quivering egg sac on its underside that looked about ready to burst. Ushûl carefully carried it back, stepping softly and letting it crawl up and down her arm. She made an affectionate little clicking noise as she set it down on the window sill, hoping the corner would be a sufficient foundation for a beautiful web. She would check on it after gathering firewood and fetching water.

A few hours passed and she returned, almost dropping the bucket of water because she was rushing in anticipation. But there was no sign of the spider, its spawn, or any trace of a web, only a scrap of parchment with "they were delicious" scrawled on it in a shaky hand. It curled up and turned to ash the moment Ushûl reached out to touch it. She clenched her fist. We got a comedian here. Wonderful.

Later that evening, Ushûl was digging up the overgrown surface of the modest garden plot behind the house, hoping the soil was suitable for cultivating mushrooms. She was jolted as her shovel made a nauseating crunch and the brittle wood of the handle snapped under her grasp. She bent down and shoved a few fistfuls of dirt aside to see what the offending object was, and produced a thigh bone, freshly cracked in two.

Well, this got interesting. She dropped to her knees and began unearthing the rest of the body. It was bigger than her, and with its straight spine and short arms, no doubt Mannish. The skull lay on its side, looking oddly restful.

Ushûl wiped the wet soil away with her thumb, examining the bare underpinnings of his facial features. Judging by the nearly pristine teeth, he hadn't been terribly old when he shuffled off. It might have been sad, if he wasn't being such a miserable prick about it.

A large knife, dull and corroded from age and dirt and damp, was lodged in the ribcage. "Seems I'm not the only one who found you insufferable," she muttered. Ushûl was no historian, but the shape of the knife looked pretty Orkish to her, resembling an old style that nobody made anymore because it wasted too much iron. She narrowed her eyes at the skull sitting beside her. "Typical. Blame us all for one bad apple that stabbed you."

Picking up the skull, she clacked its jaw like a puppet. "I'm a real piece of shit who takes things out on people who have nothing to do with my stupid problems and just want to get some decent sleep in."

But she stopped. It wasn't as funny or satisfying as she thought it would be. Being snide and antagonistic hadn't worked so far, and she doubted it would pay off now. She sighed and relaxed her face, petting the skull while looking it directly in the eye sockets. "Forgive my rash womanly temper. I'm so sorry you've met this dreadful misfortune," she cooed. "But you'll never find your rest if you keep this up. Perhaps you'd like your remains to lie somewhere that's not such a bad memory."

Somewhere close by, a bird made a melodious chirping sound, and a large fluttery moth landed on the skull. Ushûl suppressed a retch.

"Would you like to be somewhere more...scenic?" A gentle breeze waved through the branches and a smattering of blossoms landed on the ground. Ushûl couldn't help shuddering in disgust but played it off by giving a vigorous nod.

The air was beset with an eerie calm as she gathered the tragic remains in a burlap sack, tossing the knife aside. "I'm sure you don't want to keep that around." She hoisted the sack over her shoulder and set off in the direction of the river, following the sound of flowing water as it gradually grew more audible and distinct.

Approaching the banks, she scanned the distance and saw something promising. A mass of stone was visible through the haze above the water, and as she stomped towards it her inkling was confirmed. The ground dropped at a sharp angle and the river became a waterfall, pouring over jagged rocks and crashing a good hundred feet below.

"Ah, isn't this lovely? Look at all that uh, nature happening. What a place."

She took in a deep, serene breath, letting the sounds and scents of the surroundings wash over her and ground her in the moment, and then drop-kicked the sack over the falls.

"Good fucking riddance. You're the fishes' problem now."

A weight far more than any bag of bones was lifted from her shoulders and the trek back breezed by. Upon her return, Ushûl noticed a tiny, slender spider spinning a delicate thread crisscrossing the remains of the old trough next to the uprooted dirt patch. She entered the dark stillness of her home, murmured a quick warning to any other lingering spirits getting any ideas about moving in, curled up on the floor, and slept like the dead.