Chapter 13: The Legend of Waka Part 1

The Lizardmen’s council chamber was a low, wide hall built from ancient river stones and the bones of massive beasts long dead. The air inside was warm and heavy, the humidity clinging to the scales of the elders as they sat in a loose circle. Each was draped in woven reeds and patterned cloths dyed in the deep greens and blues of their clan.

In the center of the room, the Chief stood tall, his long tail resting against the stone floor. His golden eyes swept across the gathered elders, their expressions grim.

“The reports are consistent,” the Chief began, his voice low but carrying easily through the chamber. “Gorrak moves in the north. Not with raids, not with skirmishes… but with purpose.”

One of the elders, a female with a scarred snout, leaned forward. “The patrols on the river border saw his warriors marching in organized formations. This is no scattered warband — this is an army.”

Another elder, older than the rest, gave a deep hiss. “He has bound one of the Great Races to his side. The Beastkin. It is said they hunt with him now, sharing meat and campfire.”

A murmur passed through the hall, sharp and uneasy. Everyone knew what that meant — one Great Race alone was dangerous. But combined with the ogres…

A younger elder spoke next, his tone clipped. “Two of the Five Great Races are now bound together. The ogres by blood and strength, the Beastkin by speed and ferocity.”

The female elder tapped her claw against the stone. “That leaves three. Us… and the other two.”

The Chief’s eyes narrowed. “And if the balance tips further, the forest will be his. All others will kneel… or be crushed.”

One elder, his scales dulled with age, let out a slow breath. “War is unavoidable.”

Another hissed in agreement. “We have tried to keep to our rivers, to our marshes, to let the rest of the forest play their games. But this… this is no longer a game.”

The Chief nodded. “Then we prepare. Weapons, armor, provisions. But more than that — we must tip the balance before Gorrak does.”

A pause settled over the chamber before the scarred-snout elder spoke again. “We could call to the Dark Elves. They are strong, proud—”

“No,” another cut in sharply. “Too proud. They will not stand beside us. They have never forgiven our kind for the river dispute generations ago.”

The Chief agreed with a slow, deliberate nod. “It would be a waste of breath. They will fight… but not alongside us.”

The scarred-snout elder gestured with a clawed hand. “Then we must seek the others. The Orcs. They alone might tip the scales back in our favor.”

The old, dull-scaled elder tilted his head. “And which first? We cannot approach both at once without weakening our own defenses.”

The Chief turned to the far side of the circle, where a tall, broad-shouldered Lizardman sat quietly. His stance was steady, his tail resting in a line behind him — the mark of one who was both warrior and heir.

“My son,” the Chief said, voice deep and resonant. “You will go to the Orcs. They are proud, but they respect strength. Show them our resolve. Convince them to stand with us.”

The son inclined his head. “And if they refuse?”

The Chief’s golden eyes gleamed. “Then you remind them that refusal means Gorrak’s rule. No Orc would tolerate that.”

The son rose to his feet in a smooth, practiced motion. “I will go. At first light.”

The scarred-snout elder gave a short nod. “The journey will take you across ogre territory. Avoid their patrols. Move swift.”

Another elder, a male with a torn fin along his head, added, “If you see signs of Gorrak’s supply lines… mark them. Knowledge will serve us as well as steel.”

The Chief stepped closer to his son, resting a clawed hand on his shoulder. “You carry the will of the clan. Do not fail.”

“I will not,” the son replied without hesitation.

As he left the chamber to make his preparations, the elders turned their focus back to the Chief.

“This will not be a short war,” one warned.

“I know,” the Chief said. “But we will meet it on our terms… or die trying.”

The morning mist clung to the Lizardmen village, curling around the stone walkways and reed roofs like a living thing. The Chief stood tall upon the central platform, golden eyes fixed on the warriors assembled below. Beside him stood his son — straight-backed, chin high, radiating an aura of dignity that could have been carved from granite.

“You understand the importance of this task,” the Chief said, voice deep and resonant. “The survival of our people may depend on it.”

“I understand, Father,” the son replied, his tone steady, unwavering. “I shall go to the Orcs and convince them to abandon the ogres. I will see this done.”

The elders gave approving murmurs. His posture didn’t falter once.

“Then go,” the Chief commanded. “Take your escorts and waste no time.”

A formal bow followed — sharp and precise, the picture of a noble heir accepting a sacred duty. The crowd murmured with pride as the Chief’s son descended from the platform, his four escorts falling into step behind him.

The moment they cleared the village gates and the crowd’s eyes were off them…

“Uuughhh, I hate traveling,” the Chief’s son groaned, slouching so hard it was like his spine had been unstrung. His tail dragged along the damp ground like a discarded rope.

“Waka-sama,” one escort said, already sounding resigned, “perhaps we should set off quickly. The sun will rise high soon.”

“The sun is already too high,” he complained. “And my feet are still cold. Cold feet ruin the entire walking experience, you know.”

Another escort spoke more firmly. “Waka-sama, this is an important mission entrusted to you by the Chief himself—”

“Yes, yes, ‘the fate of the forest,’ ‘the honor of the tribe,’ blah blah blah.” He waved a claw lazily without looking back. “All I heard was, ‘Go do my chores while I relax at home.’”

The escorts exchanged silent glances that screamed: we’re not paid enough for this.

They began walking at last, the Chief’s son leading — but only because the path was wide enough for him to stroll in the middle like some parade leader. Every time they passed smaller groups of Lizardmen or traders on the road, his back straightened instantly, his expression hardened, and his voice took on that deep, noble tone again:

“We march with purpose. The forest’s future depends on our unity.”

The moment those travelers were out of sight, he’d slump forward and mutter, “Ugh, my legs are already tired. Can we stop for a snack break? I’m starving.”

It wasn’t long before they reached the outer marshland paths. The air grew thick, the buzzing of insects constant. One escort swatted at a mosquito, muttering under his breath.

“Waka-sama, the Orc territory is a week’s march away if we keep steady pace.”

“A week?!” The Chief’s son stopped mid-step, staring at him like he’d just announced the end of the world. “Are you saying I’m going to be sleeping on damp ground for seven nights?”

“That is correct,” the escort replied evenly.

“…Unbelievable,” the Chief’s son groaned. “I’m a diplomat, not a swamp crawler.”

“You are both now, Waka-sama,” another escort deadpanned.

They pressed on through the morning, with the Chief’s son alternating between dramatic speeches to passing strangers and shameless whining to his escorts. Every so often, he’d pause to “observe the terrain,” which actually meant leaning on his spear and trying to nap standing up.

By the time they reached the first fork in the path, his escorts already looked like they’d aged a year.

“Alright, alright,” he said, waving them forward. “Let’s make camp. We’ll… start the real journey tomorrow.”

“It is still morning, Waka-sama,” one escort reminded him.

“Exactly,” he replied. “Plenty of time to conserve my energy.”

The morning began with the steady slap-slap of webbed feet on wet earth as the group trudged along the marsh path. The Chief’s son trailed behind his escorts, a bundle of dried fish in one claw, gnawing lazily.

“Waka-sama, it would be faster if you did not stop to eat every few steps,” one escort said without looking back.

“It would also be faster if the path didn’t exist,” he replied between bites. “Then we could just not go at all.”

The first obstacle came just before noon — a narrow bridge of slick, moss-covered planks suspended over a slow but deep section of swamp water. The air here smelled like rotting leaves and distant trouble.

One escort tested the bridge with his foot. “It will hold, but we must cross in single file.”

The Chief’s son peered down at the water. “What happens if it doesn’t hold?”

“You will fall,” the escort answered simply.

“And?”

“And then you will sink.”

He frowned. “I don’t like those options.”

When it was his turn to cross, he inched forward like a cat avoiding a bath, muttering about “civilized infrastructure” and “why can’t the Orcs come to us?” The bridge creaked with every hesitant step.

Halfway across, his tail swung wide and smacked a dangling vine — which, by pure chance, dislodged a small swamp serpent hiding in the rafters above. The startled snake dropped into the water with a splash, where it slithered away… right past a hidden crocodile that had been eyeing the bridge as lunch.

The crocodile vanished beneath the surface instead.

“Did… did Waka-sama just scare off a swamp predator?” one escort whispered.

“Apparently,” another murmured.

By the time he reached the other side, the Chief’s son was already complaining about “dangerous building codes,” completely unaware he’d just earned silent respect points.

They pressed on, entering a stretch of dense reeds where visibility dropped to a few paces. The escorts moved in a tight formation, eyes scanning for movement. Somewhere in the brush, a low growl echoed.

A shadow shifted, tall and fast — a swamp panther. Its green eyes glinted through the reeds.

The Chief’s son stopped, squinting at the shape. “Nope.”

He turned around and began walking the other way.

The panther froze at the unexpected movement, its predatory rhythm broken. It slinked back into the reeds, deciding easier prey was elsewhere.

To the escorts, it looked like Waka-sama had wordlessly intimidated the beast into retreat. They stared at him with mild disbelief.

“What?” he asked when he noticed their looks.

“…Nothing, Waka-sama,” one said.

By late afternoon, they reached the first small village on their route — a riverside cluster of reed huts and wooden docks. The local Lizardmen came out to greet them, curious about travelers from deeper in the marsh.

The Chief’s son straightened instantly, his earlier slouch vanishing. “Greetings. I come on behalf of my father, the Chief of our people. We march toward a greater unity to face the threats in the forest.”

The villagers nodded respectfully. Some even whispered about his “impressive presence.”

In truth, the only reason he stood so still and serious was because his legs were too sore to move.

That evening, they were offered fresh fish stew and a place to sleep in the village guest hut. The escorts spoke quietly with the locals about trade and alliance, while the Chief’s son lounged on a reed mat, swirling his bowl lazily.

“This whole diplomacy thing,” he said between mouthfuls, “isn’t so bad. I sit, eat, look important… you guys do all the talking.”

“Waka-sama,” one escort said carefully, “you do more than you realize.”

He blinked. “Like what?”

Another escort replied, “You have a… way of making an impression.”

The Chief’s son grinned smugly. “Ah. My natural charisma. Yes, I get that a lot.”