Sisters Born in Battle

Venym's Tale:

In a quiet, reflective moment, Venym grows wistful, I have known Braga for ten years now, and she makes me proud.

Braga’s bravery was never in doubt, not even that night in Boulder Hollow.


She had the heart of a lion, even if her hands shook as she gripped that battered woodsman’s axe. The village was in chaos when I arrived—firelight painting the dark skies in terrible streaks, the air thick with the iron tang of blood and the acrid sting of burning wood. I’d heard rumors of orc raiders in the region, but this? This was worse than any whispered tale. Orcs don’t simply raid; they descend like a flood, leaving nothing but ruin behind.


And there was Braga, planted in the heart of it all. Alone. Standing against the church doors like a pillar of defiance, covered in blood—orc blood, her own, it didn’t matter. Ten dead orcs lay around her, her sword shattered, but she hadn’t given an inch. Not one. She was brave. So brave, it broke my heart. I didn’t waste time gawking; there was no room for hesitation. A lance in my hand, I spurred my horse straight into the fray, letting out a battle cry that sent the nearest orcs scattering. My lance took the first two before it splintered; the others fell to my sword in quick succession. Braga’s eyes caught mine then—her defiance wavered for the briefest moment, replaced by sheer relief. When my horse reared back, I sent it off to draw some of the orcs away. It was a fine steed, trained for battle, and clever enough to stay out of reach.


Meanwhile, I slid off the saddle and moved to Braga’s side. Her gaze held no shame, only grim determination. “Shoulder to shoulder,” I said simply, and she nodded. We fought together, two against many. The orcs came in droves, their savagery unchecked, their rage like a living thing. Braga held firm, axe swinging in brutal arcs, while I worked with sword and shield to keep them from overwhelming us. When her wounds slowed her and she faltered, I stepped closer, guarding her flank, though I knew better than to coddle her. She never needed my protection; she earned every inch of her survival that night. But I couldn’t help but feel protective. She was fierce, yes, but she was also exhausted, bleeding, and so damn young. When the sun finally rose, the orcs retreated, leaving only silence and the stench of death behind.


Braga and I collapsed against the church door, bloodied and battered. The priest came, healing us as best he could, and I handed her the dagger I carried—a small token, but a bond forged in blood. “We’ll make it through this,” I told her. “But you have to promise me something.” She looked at me, her face pale but resolute. “Anything.” “If the worst happens, you don’t let them take me alive,” I said quietly. “And I’ll do the same for you.” Her hands trembled as she hugged me, tears streaming down her face. But her grip was strong, almost crushing. That was Braga—fragile and unyielding all at once. I held her until she stopped shaking, murmuring soothing words I wasn’t sure she even heard. We fought again that night when the orcs returned. Shoulder to shoulder, back to back, like two immovable stones in a sea of chaos. And when the last of them finally gave up and slunk back into the darkness, we were alive. Bruised, battered, but alive.


Braga saved that village. She would never admit it, but without her, Boulder Hollow would’ve been a graveyard. She doesn’t realize it, but that’s her strength—her unwavering resolve, her quiet courage. I saw it that night, and I swore to myself I’d always stand with her. Even now, as I ride into new battles, I can’t help but think of that fierce, bloody, stubborn knight with her goofy-named horses and her lion’s heart. She’s not just my sister in arms; she’s my hero too.

Braga's Tale

One chill evening, Braga felt especially talkative.
"She's my sister, Orrin."
Seeing the confused look on his face, she smiled and flicked his nose. "Not literally, of course. Hell, she's my hero, my sister, my mentor in so many ways—what I've always wanted to be."
Fumbling for a cup of water, she sat on the edge of the bed, her feet dangling. "We're coming up on ten years now—it was just after I was freed from service." Her brow furrowed as her thoughts drifted to her brother Garron and his ignoble death. Shaking her head, she continued, "I was wandering around, mostly aimless, and ended up in a little nowhere village called Boulder Hollow. The locals will tell you their main crop is useless stone, but it's a nice enough place. I was tired, frustrated, and pretty much broke—and the Gawds, in their wisdom or sense of humor, put me right where I needed to be."
She turned to meet his eyes. "Orcs."
Her voice grew quieter but heavier with meaning. "Orcs scare me, Orrin. The fucking Empire drives cattle herds into their territory, and every so often, when their numbers get too big, they're 'encouraged' to raid into Gorundia. An Orcish summer isn’t a pretty thing. Venym explained to me once why they’ll never have cavalry or even hunting dogs—they’re pure predators. More like a plague. They’ll eat anything that moves, bully anything smaller, and gang up on anything bigger. Unhinged savagery. The only thing they hate more than themselves is life itself." She sighed.
"Anyway, the village had seen orc signs—butchered livestock, orc runes scrawled on hides and skulls. They sent word through the parish priest and three brave lads on fast horses, but Baron Kalethar never had many knights, just infantry. Orcs don’t just pick off a cow or two. I knew I didn’t have much time, so I got right to work."
Her voice grew softer. "It started at sunset." She rubbed her eyes. "The first night, they killed three whole families before we could get them to safety. Those people depended on me. The villagers immediately deferred to me, you see? After a couple more brave men died, I had everyone retreat to the church. We packed the whole village in there, jammed like barrels in a brewer’s storeroom.
"They don’t come at you one at a time. Usually, a whole ‘hand’ will pick a target. I was doing alright until they killed Cabbage."
She frowned as Orrin tried not to laugh at the horse's name. He wondered if all her horses had goofy names, like her current noble steed, Biscuit, or more properly, Biscuit of Destiny. Once she was sure he wouldn’t laugh, she continued.
"Once I was on foot, it was bloody work. Orcs love to fight, but they love breaking, burning, and destroying even more. A disciplined unit would’ve swept the place for defenders first, but they just went house to house destroying everything and moving on. I swear, if orcs have music, it’s the sound of breaking crockery. My armor was decent then—not as fine as I have now—but I’d have been dead many times over without it. I killed ten before my sword broke.
"So there I was, back against the church doors, a bloody woodsman’s axe in my hands, when... it happened. It was like a lightning bolt made flesh. She hit them like Heironeous himself had thrown her at them—WHACK WHACK WHACK! Orcs were dying, screaming now in anger, not excitement, raging even more! I saw her kill two with her lance before it shattered.
"She scattered them like kobolds, slid off her horse, and sent it off—that damned horse is smarter than a lot of knights I know. It thinned them out even further, leading a hand off on a useless chase but never straying too far. Shoulder to shoulder, we stood there, and it was bloody, close-in work. I got hurt pretty bad, and she almost got carried off headfirst until her helmet strap gave out. We fought till dawn. A dozen, maybe more, dead orcs scattered around."
She lit a cigar with a slightly trembling hand. "They retreated at sunup. We slumped by the church doors, the priest healing us as best he could. She gave me this then." Braga showed him an elvish dagger, incongruous but ever-present among her gear. "When there weren’t any villagers listening, she made a solemn oath and asked one in return:
‘I will not let them take you alive. I ask the same mercy, my sister.’
"I hugged her so tight I nearly hurt her, crying like a child. She soothed me like my own sweet mother. She still carries the old dirk I had back then too."
Braga closed her eyes for a moment with a slight smile, then took a long puff on her cigar.
"They came back at sunset. The priest had replaced my sword, and we stood our ground while most of the village burned around us. They crashed against us like waves on the rocks. We stood, back to back, shoulder to shoulder, getting pushed to the doors of the church, and then... it was over. It was like they all decided at once that they’d had enough and melted away into the dark."
She gave Orrin a big hug. "Watch over her in that damned forest, will you?"