Nothing much... to begin with

You're not sure how long you sleep for. When you wake, it's midday, but it could be midday tomorrow, or midday next Saturday morning, or midday on Yearsend for all you know.

You get unsteadily to your feet, teasing some life back into your tortured muscles, and have a look around. The clearing is empty of other beings. No sign of your mysterious saviour. You've been lying on a rugged grey blanket, which looks like traveller's gear rather than any kind of finery. There are strips of coarse brown fabric wrapped carefully around your forearm, stained red and black with your blood and the spider's venom - the bandages you felt earlier.

The only thing of note is a large brown rucksack placed on the forest floor at the edge of the clearing. That strikes you as odd - maybe it'll give you some clue as to who saved you from certain **** at the hands (fangs?) of that Darkwood spider. You consider heading over there and investigating.

But you don't get the chance to take your first step before there's a rustle in the undergrowth and you're joined by an unmistakable figure.

It's the elf you saved.

You snap into position with easy grace, drawing your knives (which your rescuer kindly put back in their sheathes for you) and dropping into a low fighting stance. You let out a low growl as a warning shot of sorts - you're not sure if this elf speaks Southern.

It turns out that he does. "Easy. I mean you no harm." He freezes in place at your reaction, but doesn't actually look frightened, which strikes you as a little odd.

"What are you doing here?" you snarl, your voice still slightly hoarse from your throat's ordeal. "This isn't elf country."

"I wasn't aware it was orc country." His cheek very nearly provokes you to rush him there and then.

"I'm a pathfinder. Everywhere is my country," you retort, just about keeping your nerve. "Now answer my question."

"I live here."

"Yeah, and I'm the Queen of the Dwarven bloody Federation."

"Honestly. On the skies."

"But the question remains." You edge closer to him, trying to get within striking distance in case he makes any sudden movements. "What are you doing here?"

"Saving your life."

"What the hell do you -" Then the elf holds up his cloak and the words fall from your mouth. The lower edge has clearly had strips cut from it, and it's exactly the same murky brown as the strips wrapped around your arm.

Much as you hate it, you snap out of your combat stance. You know what custom demands here. Orcs are serious about their oaths, and this one is a tradition as old as the orcs themselves.

"What's your name, elf?"

He looks a bit confused. Understandable, given your sudden change of tone. "Alwyn. Alwyn Birchborn."

You drop to your knees and recite the lines you've been taught time and time again but never expected to use. "Alwyn Birchborn, thus have you spared me from Oblivion, and thus do I pledge my service to you. I am in your debt. I am yours."

"Excuse me?" He steps back, alarmed.

"It means," you reply flatly, "that, since you have saved my life, you now have the rights to it. I am in your servitude from now until the day I die."

"Does that mean you'll do what I say?" The cogs are starting to fall into place.

You nod. He raises a hand to his chin and considers this for a few moments.