The old mystic pottered around his hut, not really doing anything in particular, but doing a good job at looking busy. He probably could have got away with sitting around and having a snooze, but he thought it was important to at least make it look like he was doing all he could to earn his keep. He fed the crows that always lined up along his windowsill. They were never far away, and their constant company was a source of comfort these days. 

Snagthorn's joints groaned as he moved potion bottles from one location to another. His back ached as he added new artefacts to his shelves. It felt like he'd been old forever, but things hadn't always been like this. He hadn't always been old. 

And he hadn't always been a mystic. 

Not that he really was now, was he? 

Each day he wondered what would happen if the clan found out about what he really was. In some ways, he was glad Morga was gone now. She'd always been too shrewd. There was a good chance she would have worked out the truth sooner or later. 

Worst of all, there was a good chance she would have been really disappointed with him. Even though he'd arrived in the Red Scar Clan in a haze of fakery and lies, his friendship with Morga was the truest he'd ever experienced. 

"May she never find out what I really am," he muttered, his voice barely a whisper. One of the crows cawed in agreement. 

*****

In a time long enough ago that he hoped most had forgotten about it, Snagthorn had been an entertainer. Some called him a jester, but he prefered the word 'entertainer', it just had a better ring to it. He'd even gone as far as to get a load of posters and flyers printed with 'Gergar the Entertainer' written in huge letters on them. That was who he was then: Gergar. It wasn't the name he'd been born with, and it wasn't a name he ever went back to after the events of that fateful time. But it was a name and it served its purpose. Many orcs would have scoffed at the idea of 'playing pretend' each night (one had actually described his act in just his way), but it worked for Gergar. Smaller than other orcs, he didn't have the physicality to be a warrior, and he'd never been able to lock into the Rage like the other orcs. In fact, he'd never been able to lock into the Rage at all. 

At that time, he'd been performing his one-orc show on a nightly basis in an orcish town called Dirgefall. It had been going well, but the orcs still hadn't invited him to stay on full time. That was alright, he was used it. Gergar - or whatever name he was going by that week - had never been accepted in any orc clan.

But he was willing to give the residents of Dirgefall the benefit of the doubt. He supposed there was only so many times one could see the same show before it got boring. He had to show them that he could keep his material fresh and exciting. Or, failing that, he needed another way to make some money. 

One night, such an opportunity arose. 

An orc he hadn't seen before entered the tavern where Gergar was performing, but he wasn't interested in Gergar's act at all. The orc didn't even look his way when Gergar entered the part of the act where he wore a very convincing wizard's robe (not only was it convincing, but it was genuine - Gergar had liberated it from an intoxicated wizard a few towns over). 

Even though it irked Gergar not to have the full attention of everyone in the room, he continued his act. He was a professional after all. Besides, this guy would regret it when Gergar was finally a household name. Then he'd wish that he'd paid attention. 

The act went off without a hitch, with the rest of the orcs laughing and applauding in all the right places. Technically, it was probably the best show that Gergar had ever done, but his heart just hadn't been in it. His attention had been pulled elsewhere.

Throughout the entire show, he'd been focused on the mysterious stranger and the treasures he'd been showing his companions. Shiny treasures glowed in the tavern's candlelight. Shiny treasures that would probably sell for enough pretty pennies for Gergar to buy a house. Only not here, and not with that name. He wasn't stupid. 

Or perhaps he was. He didn't know it at the time, but the orc in possession of the shiny treasure was the Clan Leader's son. Usually, it was a bad idea to steal from the Clan Leader's family. 

And this time was no exception.