Disclaimer: I own nothing. Tyria is a world belonging to Arenanet and NCSOFT in the form of the Guild Wars franchise.

I also only in part own the Foundation-Hub (. org) unofficial universe, in which this story coincides.

Orla shifted amongst the bedding and blinked dully at her surroundings. The first thing she noticed was that the wagon was still, then how her two fellow passengers were absent.

Is it already time to set camp? She wondered as she stretched, letting out an accidental growl. She put her hand over her mouth, stopping herself. When she was very little and lived amongst the other slaves, she vaguely remembered being scolded for imitating charr mannerisms. But, in the last few years, between the farm and the smithy in the Flame Citadel, she had picked up habits. One of them was growling, and it had to stop.

She peeked out of the wagon. The sun was beginning to disappear at the bottom of a valley to the west. A chorus of laboured grunts and groans aroused her curiosity. After she climbed out of the wagon, she circled it and spotted the source of the commotion. A rotten spruce had fallen down in the pass before them. She could clearly see the remains of its stump fifty or so paces up the side of the mountain. It was not the very big tree, but it was large enough to stop the Dolyaks from pulling the carts over. The men and women of the caravan were hauling away the crumbling, rotten chunks to clear a path.

Popping her knuckles, and rotating her arms, she stretched away any cramps so she could help. She figured mutual hard work was sure to warm the air between herself and all these strangers. As she hastened to assist, and was only a few paces from the spruce, when an uneasy feeling clenched her gut. She slowed down and looked up at the slopes on both sides.

Something caught her eye. She was certain she had seen an elbow sticking out of a rock.She squinted up at the granite boulder, but decided it was her imagination. She was going to return to the task at hand, but she spotted one of the three caravan guards staring up at the same spot she had been. His hand found its way to an uneasy rest on the pommel of his sword.

Orla glanced around. No one else seemed to be nervous, but something was bothering the guard. As nonchalant as possible she approached him.

Once she was close enough, she asked in a quiet voice, "You see something sir?"

He looked at her with one brown eye, keeping the other on the slope.

She nodded, informing him she was aware that something was there.

"Maybe," he muttered bringing his other hand to scratch his dark, five o'clock shadow. He gave her a quick once over, assessing her usefulness. "Listen, I'm going to get a closer look. Follow twenty paces behind me. If something is there, I'll wave twice. Then I want you to hurry, but don't run, and tell the closest guard, or Limmock. Be sure to say I waved twice."

Orla nodded, proud of both her sense of observation, and her boldness to speak all on her own to the first human in at least four or five years, kidnapping bandits excluded.

The guard set his scruffy jaw, and moved towards the slope, while Orla made certain to stay exactly twenty steps behind. She became more nervous as she approached the foot of the wooded rise. Again out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw a distant, greyish form, but when she turned her head, it was gone.

Her heartbeat was pounding in her ears once she entered the shade of the trees. An odd, putrid scent reached her nose, a mix of pine, rock moss, and an aroma like that of musky sweat only many times worse. The stench was so overpowering, she almost missed the signal from the guard.

She nodded, and walked back to the group clearing the rotten tree. Finding the closest guard, a towering, dark Elonian, she grabbed his arm.

He looked down at her in irritation. "What? I'm busy."

"The other guard sent me, there's something up the slope–. He waved twice."

Like magic he changed his attitude. "Go tell Limmock that there's a jotun patrol nearby."

On her way to Limmock, Orla pondered what one or three waves would have meant. She had heard about the giants that dwelt in the Shiverpeaks from Srykar, which he simply referred to as "filthy curs." After no more than a minute of searching, she spotted Limmock's head of fluffy white hair a bow shot away.

As she navigated around the busy travellers, she called out to him.

"What's the matter dear?" he asked.

She hurried up to him and muttered. "There are jotun!"

Limmock raised his eyebrows in disbelief. "How do you figure th–?"

A nasally, rattling roar put his doubts at rest. The entire party froze what they were doing.

The old man gripped her shoulders and made eye contact. "Orla, round up the women, and get them into the middle wagon. Keep them there. Then, listen to Mora. She's a guardian of sorts. She'll know what to do."

She nodded and dashed towards the almost cleared fallen tree, trying to block out the sound of massive footfalls and roars. She found the four women of the party already making their way to the wagon, so she joined them.

As they climbed into the wheeled refuge, one of the women, the skinniest, shortest, and darkest one, began muttering to herself and waved her hand before her.

Feeling that magic rippled about her, Orla peeked outside to see a bubble-like membrane grow up from the ground and encompass them, wagon and all. She looked back at the woman. I suppose this is Mora, she mused. At first, she had thought the woman to be young girl, but on closer examination, she realised that the she was likely old enough to be her grandmother.

A thunderous crash and the sounds of clanging metal brought the girl back to the current situation. "Um, Mora– ma'am, how long can you keep this shield up?"

The woman replied with a youthful voice that once again confused Orla's perception of her age. "This is one of two techniques I ever learned, and I've practiced them all my life, I can keep this barrier up for hours as long as I stay still."

Orla sighed and tried to forget the sounds of conflict outside. However, the din of violence rose to such a crescendo she had to cover her ears. After several minutes the noise ceased. She lowered her hands and looked at the other women in askance, but they seemed as oblivious as she was to their immediate situation.

A pained cry broke the silence followed by the sound of shifting gravel. Orla looked out to see the scruffy guard she had assisted earlier. Half of his pale face was red with blood. He laid still just a couple metres outside the shield.

For a moment she wondered if he was dead, until he made a deep, gasping breath, followed by coughs which sprayed specks of red onto the grey gravel. She whirled back at the women.

"Can any of you heal?!" She shouted almost at a scream.

The two women either side of Mora nodded.

"Good!" Orla replied then hopped out of the wagon, ignoring their warnings and demands to stay inside until it was safe. She only hesitated briefly at the bubble-like barrier, but mustered her courage. She pressed herself through the thin membrane which felt like a sheet of dry water against her skin.

Once through, she knelt over the injured guard, wrapping her arms under his armpits and began dragging him back to the bubble.

"Wh-what are you doing?" he demanded through weak lips.

"Saving y– drats!" She felt her rear bump against the shield. She kicked herself for her thoughtlessness. How useful would a protective barrier be if it let someone just walk right though both directions?

"Leave me!" the guard ordered.

"No, Mora just needs to lower the barrier for a moment."

"There's no time!"

"What do you mean… dra–," her favourite expletive died in her throat when she noticed the massive pair of grey legs planted just beyond the guards limp feet. Her head tilted up to spot the monster's ugly mug.

"Only a mother could love you." she blurted without thought, making herself seem cocky, when she actually felt terrified. Her gaze fell on the norn war-hammers the beast had in each of his hands.

With a gurgling roar, the jotun warrior raised his left weapon high, as if it was a mere gavel.

Orla knew her life was seconds away from ending, like a bug swatted on a desk. She was about to let out a scream for help, but she realised there was no one to call for. Srykar was miles away by now, probably home with Seven, and not to seem rude, but Limmock did not look like the hero-type.

I'm going to die right here, she realised, Prey to some random jotun ambush. Humorous, if it was not so tragic.

With all his strength, the guard let out a heart rending roar, "Go!"

Startled by the noise, she dropped him to the ground, and took half a step back. She watched as the hammer began to plummet down, no longer was it going to hit her, but the guard alone.

In the next microseconds she realised something. She was angry. Not at the jotun, not at herself, but at the guard. He reminded her of Seven when he was slashed by that guardian. Not again would she be the cause for someone else's pain.

Without another thought, she struck out with all her might.

Time seemed to stop when her fist made contact with the descending war-hammer, then with a flash of golden light, it shattered, its granite, rune-covered head blasting apart, never hitting the intended target.

Bellowing in pain, the jotun dropped the other hammer, and held his mangled hand, retreating several steps.

The guard looked up at his rescuer, mesmerised by the almost flame-like aura which licked at her arms, back, and neck. He could hear her bones creak under the stress of her awakened muscles. His eyes widened in recognition of her ultimate rage. Juggernaut!

Orla gawked in wonder at her strangely radiant hands and body, which pulsed with power and pain. "What is this?!" she asked.

The sentry found his tongue and replied. "Why don't you know? It takes years to master juggernaut."

"Juggernaut? What's that?"

"An elite warrior stance–," his words were cut off by a roar, and the ground shuttered under mighty steps.

Their faces turned ashen at the sight of two more club wielding jotun emerging from the forest. In addition, the jotun whose hammer she had smashed rose to one knee and grasped the smaller norn hammer with his good hand.

She was confused because she was not afraid. Power coursed through her body as she felt more alive than ever before. But the thrill of power was tarnished by a familiar presence.

Though he was not there, she could feel his claws on her shoulder, her arms, her back, tracing a design. All at once she heard the commandment he spoke as he whispered the incantations, "Do not die; live and defend my work!"

"I'm getting that hammer." she announced. Wait, no I'm not! Her mind protested, I'm going to grab the guard and run—why am I moving towards them?!

Before the sentry could object, the hard packed earth both sides of him cracked beneath Orla's feet as she took off faster than a fleeing hare. In what felt like one step,she was beside the jotun. She brought her fist up and punched the inside of the giant's wrist. His palm opened and she snatched the hammer, whose handle was almost longer than she was tall. With a twist of her hips and a spin, she brought the business end of the steel weapon into the back of the jotun's weight bearing ankle. The creature tumbled face down. At this point the other two grey giants were almost upon them. She abandoned the now crippled monstrosity and dashed to intercept them.

She let out a roar as she raised her acquired weapon. The two jotun both brandished their clubs, ready to strike. But, before she entered their reach, the hammer brought her to the ground, the weight of it pinning her beneath the handle.

She wondered what happened. Her strength was gone, her neck was searing in pain and she could see steam rising out of the corner of her eye. She was stuck, flat on her back, in front of two furious giants.

One of them stepped closer. He swung his club back and hurtled its spiked surface to crush her into girl-pudding.

Drats!

Thoughts?

This was originally half of a chapter, but my poor editor found it to be rather too long. So I cut this one in half too, thus the cliff hanger... and once again it involves Orla. THIS WILL CHANGE!

Limmock is an interesting creation of mine. He's an odd one, and his oddness only increases on closer acquaintance. Of course, a human has to be pretty odd in order to befriend an old veteran charr like Srykar.