Frank chortled. “Not manly at all.”

“I’m an Amazon warrior, not some barmaid to be ogled.”

“First you get upset that we don’t notice how beautiful you are,” said Gabel. “Then you get upset when we do.”

“Now that’s more like a woman.” Frank snorted. He helped himself to a leg of lamb being carried past the table, and as he was very large, even for an ogre, no one protested. “You’re half right, Gabel. There’s racism at work here.” He bit off half the leg, chewing with loud crunches. Bits of mutton and bone spewed from his mouth as he spoke. “If you think orcs have it bad, try being an ogre.”

Gabel eyed the lumps of meat floating atop his ale. With a shrug, he drank it down. It wasn’t bad, although he could have done without the ogre spit.

Frank ran his thick, black tongue across his thick, gray teeth. “Do you know how many ogres have command positions in the Legion? None.”

“Surely you don’t think you deserve the promotion?” Regina struggled to put her shimmering, flaxen hair back up.

“And why not? I’m the highest ranking ogre here. And this is Ogre Company.”

“Only ogres can command ogres? Is that what you’re saying?” asked Regina.

“That sounds a little racist,” said Gabel.

“It’s not about that.” Frank belched, and something sailed from his throat to land across the room and slither away into the darkness. “It’s about demonstration of advancement opportunities.”

“Let’s just agree we’re all getting screwed.” Gabel sighed.

They banged their mugs together.

“So who’s the new guy?” asked Frank.

“Never Dead Ned.”

“I thought he was just a story.”

“Apparently not.”

Frank grumbled. “How are we supposed to kill a guy who can’t die?”

Regina gave up on her hair, letting it fall back down. One scarred soldier couldn’t help but stare at her beautiful locks. She rose, walked over, and broke his nose, then sat back down. “He can die.”