This Kettara is much younger. She's three or four at most, a scrawny child with a mess of red hair, needle-like tusks, and a ratty slip barely covering her shoulders. Wooden walls rise up around her, shoddily constructed. There are bed mats on all sides and on the mats, adult orcs. Some of them are sleeping but most are still awake, if not precisely conscious. Many of them stare blankly into the walls. Some murmur to themselves. Others weep.

Some, like the orc woman that Kettara is sitting next to, barely seem alive at all.

The orc woman is young - barely an adult herself. But despite her youth and lack of armor, anyone can see that this orc was a warrior, once. Her shoulders are massive and thick scars cut over hard muscle. One of her eyes is missing, the wound long since healed. Tribal tattoos loop up both arms and down the woman's chin. And she has long, thick red hair.

The family resemblance is unmistakable.

Kettara is tugging at her mother's shoulder, then her hair.

"Ma! Ma!"

The orc woman doesn't seem to hear her. After a moment she rolls onto her side, putting her back to Kettara.

Kettara beats her tiny fists against the woman's back and begins to wail. None of the adults pay attention to her.