Private Tales The Beating of Skin Drums

For a moment, Rori could only hear the blood pounding in her ears, loud and chaotic, like the drums from the camp, like the storm of her own fear.

So this was how it ended. Devoured by wolves whilst running from a tribe of orcs who had taken her captive. It made for an interesting story, at least.

Her chest ached with each ragged breath, her heart clawing its way up her throat, and her entire body trembled from cold and shock. Something hot trailed down her back, a slow, burning sting that she barely felt until it bit deep.

Then came the sound of violence, real and brutal. She looked up just in time to see Urosh crash into the pack like a thunderclap.

The wolves fell upon him in a snarl of teeth and fury, and she could do nothing but watch, huddled into the gnarled roots of a twisted tree, clutching her useless rock like it might save her. Her breath came in sobs that made no sound. The forest rang with roars and the crack of bone, and she flinched with every blow, every cry of pain as she waited for them to come for her next.

But he didn’t fall.

He stood his ground, bloodied but unbroken, his strength something savage and terrible to behold. One by one the wolves fell away yelping, whining, thudding lifelessly into the dirt or fleeing into the trees until only silence and the stench of blood remained.

When he turned toward her, she froze. For an instant, she thought he might finish what the wolves had started. She tightened her grip on the rock, her muscles screaming with exhaustion. But he only sank to one knee beside her, the sound of his breath ragged and heavy in the dark.

Are you bitten?...

She blinked at him, unable to speak. Slowly, she shook her head, strands of wet hair clinging to her face. “No,” she rasped. Her voice trembled, weaker than she wanted it to be. “Not bitten.”

The perfect claws that had raked across her back burned like fire, but how could she complain when he was bleeding from half a dozen wounds and still upright?

She looked at him for a long moment, unsure if she was supposed to apologise, thank him, or curse him. He was the reason she’d been in danger at all. And yet… he’d saved her life. For his own coin, yes, but it was her fault they were so far from his camp. The wolves would never have dared attack them there.

Her throat tightened. She looked away, pushing herself to her feet with trembling arms. “Those wounds need to be cleaned. And stitched,” she said softly, the words catching between defiance and concern. “You’ll bleed out before sunrise if you don’t.”

The rock slipped from her fingers, landing soundlessly in the moss between them.

Rori’s gaze lingered on the torn mess of his arm, her stomach twisting. It’s nothing, he’d said, as if the gashes weren’t deep enough to show sinew, as if the blood wasn’t pooling thick and dark from the wounds. It wasn't nothing. At least, to a human it wouldn't have been. Then again, how many humans would not only survive against pack of wolves, but win the fight bare handed?

She kept her gaze low as they walked, not daring to meet his eyes, her bleeding feet stumbling every now and then over roots and stones. Every step burned. The stream bit into her wounds with freezing teeth, and she had to clench her jaw to keep from crying out.

The sound of laughter and drums carried faintly through the trees as they returned to the camp, jarring against the hollow silence that had fallen between them. By the time they reached the tent, her adrenaline had worn off and the fire in her back had spread, her skin clammy and pale beneath her soaked clothes. Her corset clung tight and sticky with her own blood.

Inside, the warmth of the tent did little to stop her shivering. She knelt stiffly, reaching for the basket he’d nodded toward. Her breath hitched as she sat before him, the furs soft beneath her raw feet.

“No,” she murmured, answering his rebuke. “I shouldn’t have.” The words came quietly, heavy with exhaustion. It had been foolish. Wet, barefoot, no food or weapon, had the wolves not killed her, the cold or starvation certainly would have.

Her hands found the gut string and the bone needle. The simple act of threading it felt monumental with how her fingers shook.

When she spoke again, her voice was barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

She risked a glance up at him then, at the proud line of his jaw, the defiant set of his shoulders even as blood ran freely down his arm. She hesitated, unsure how to bridge the chasm between them. Captor and captive. Saviour and hopeless fucking damsel.

Still, she found something to clean the wounds with and moved closer, eyes flicking from his wound to his face. “Hold still,” she said softly, as if she were speaking to something wild that might bolt at any sudden movement.

Rori froze. “I beg your pardon?” The words came out sharper than she intended, half outrage, half disbelief. Her brow arched, lips parting to deliver a biting retort, but the sound died in her throat when he stepped toward her, draping the massive pelt over her shoulders.

The weight of it nearly knocked her back. It smelled of smoke and earth and wilderness, but the warmth bled through instantly, seeping into her trembling limbs. He turned his back, and she blinked, startled by the small mercy of it. At least he had the decency not to look.

She swallowed hard, her face flushing hot despite the cold. “You have a peculiar way of asking things,” she muttered under her breath, voice taut with indignation and exhaustion both. Still, she knew he was right. The wet fabric clung to her like ice, and already her fingers had gone numb.

With a quiet huff, she shifted beneath the fur, working herself free of the soaked undergarments. The sound of fabric peeling from her skin was an agony all its own. She tossed the ruined bundle aside with a wet thump, grimacing as the fur’s rough edge brushed the torn flesh of her back.

Her jaw clenched, eyes fixed on his broad, blood-slicked shoulders as she drew the pelt tighter around herself. “There,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “Satisfied?”

“I won’t freeze,” she murmured, though her voice trembled faintly with impatience, aware of his swaying. The warmth had yet to sink into her bones, and every breath she drew still felt like winter clawing at her lungs. It would likely take hours for the chill to leave her, but she was certain she could work.

Her fingers, pale and trembling, found the torn flesh of his arm. She drew in a sharp breath through her teeth. The wound was deep and ugly, but clean enough. She worked in silence, ensuring it was clean before setting needle to skin. The rhythm steadied her. In and out, a familiar motion, her hands well practised. The stitches came neat and precise despite the cold that gnawed at her fingers.

“I… need a blade,” she said quietly, moving to his thigh where the fabric clung dark and wet to the wound beneath. “To cut the fabric away..” Her green eyes flicked to his face warily.

Rori watched him draw the blade from his back..Had he really carried that through the wolves’ attack and never used it?

She took the knife carefully, her cold fingers brushing his briefly before she pulled back. It was heavier than she’d expected. Real. Dangerous. And he’d just handed it to her. The trust, or arrogance, of it made her pulse stumble.

She set to work, slicing the torn fabric away from the wound on his thigh. Blood welled darkly, stubborn as he was, and she pressed a scrap of linen to stanch it before cleaning as best she could. It was deep and ragged, and would take a little more work to sew properly.

His voice broke through the silence, that low, gravelled tone like the rumble before a storm. You are brave.

Her hands hesitated, only for a moment. “Thank you…” she murmured, the words strange on her tongue. She didn’t feel brave at all.. “And for… saving me.” She added quietly,.

Her brow furrowed as she bent back over her work. What a strange thing it was, to owe your life to the one who’d stolen it first.

She stitched the wound in silence for a few beats more, and then he spoke again and her eyes flicked up to meet his, searching his face for something, for guilt, remorse, anything. But his expression was unreadable, carved from stone.

“Would it have changed anything if you had?” she asked softly, her voice steady though her throat burned with the question. “I wasn’t the only high born travelling in that convoy.”

“There were two other ladies in my carriage. They were killed. You might’ve got decent coin for those too…” Her frown deepened, and she looked back to his wound to continue her work.

"I still need to bind those," Rori murmured, her voice frayed a little around the edges. She watched as he stirred the fire to life, sparks leaping into the air like startled stars. The light painted his face in gold and shadow, and she studied him for a quiet moment.

The warmth reached her in slow waves, crawling across her chilled skin until she could almost feel her fingers again. A sigh slipped from her lips unguarded, and she pulled the bear pelt tighter around her shoulders, cocooning herself in its weight.

Her eyelids felt heavy, each blink a struggle. The exhaustion was bone deep now, creeping in as the adrenaline faded further. Everything ached, her back burned, her feet throbbed, and the cold still lingered in her veins like death.

When he turned on her, his words a low growl, her chin lifted slightly, instinct warring with fatigue.

“I’m fine,” she lied automatically, very aware that she was entirely bare under the pelt, and of the scars she already wore upon her back that had no place on a Lady of such standing. Her cheeks warmed, the pelt pulled tighter, but she untucked her bare feet, dirty and bleeding..

"I stood on a few sharp rocks, that's all." she said, setting the little blade down on the rug between them.

Her eyes flicked away, avoiding his gaze as he accused her of lying, something timorous crossing her expression for a fleeting moment. But when he spoke again it was, once more, without the anger she expected. Her brow furrowed as she looked up at him, and still her fingers clenched tighter around the fur.

When he rose and began to undress, her gaze darted upward, startled. Her breath caught, not out of desire, though the sheer force of him was impossible to ignore, but from the shock of it. There was no modesty, no hesitation. He stripped away the ruined fabric as easily as breath, a creature born without the self-consciousness of civilised folk. His skin was a map of violence, scars old and new, muscle carved from survival itself. Her own skin heated.

She turned sharply away, eyes fixed on the flicker of firelight against the yurt wall. He had turned his back for her, she would give him the same.

When he crouched in front of her again, she startled slightly as his massive hand took hold of her ankle, his touch surprisingly careful.

“Oh, I can do th—” she started, but stopped herself with a hiss through her teeth, trying not to flinch. The cloth was warm, the water tinged with steam. It stung as it met her torn soles, but he continued, just as gently.. It was disarming, this gentleness from someone who had torn through men and wolves alike. Her protests wilted on her tongue.

“I…” she frowned, uncertain how to answer such a simple question when everything about it was complicated. “I’ve not seen Vel Anir in years,” she said at last, her voice low. The fire cracked between them. “I live in the Reach now. I was travelling to.. to visit family.”

Her gaze dropped to his hands as he worked, to the way his broad fingers dabbed blood and dirt from her skin. “Though that, didn't quite pan out as I'd anticipated..” she added quieter still, a thin, brittle edge of humour in her tone.

It felt wrong. Unbearably, confusingly wrong how gentle it was. Each drag of the cloth across her skin stole a layer of grime and blood, and with it, the edges of her fear seemed to dull. His hands were too steady, too careful for a monster. He cleaned her feet as though she were something fragile, something that deserved care.

When she started to feel more at ease in his company, she had to remind herself who he was. That these same hands had split men open like kindling. That he and his tribe had senselessly and brutally slaughtered a dozen innocent men and woman, and that had just been today.

He is an orc, she reminded herself sharply. A savage. A murderer.

But the thought rang hollow when set against the quiet warmth of the fire and the steady pressure of his palm on her ankle.

“Just… some distant cousins,” she murmured, swallowing the lump in her throat. Her voice came out small, unsteady. “It doesn’t matter now.”

Her eyes dropped to where his fingers moved, broad, calloused, careful as he wound the linen around her feet. The bindings were snug, efficient.

"Thank you.."

Rori drew her legs in instinctively, clutching the pelt tighter around herself as his eyes lingered. At his blunt remark, heat rushed to her face, staining her cheeks a deep, furious red. She ducked her head, unsure what to do with her hands or where to look, a small, awkward huff escaping her at his assumption about how sought after she must be, she didn’t trust herself to answer without sounding like a fool.

When he spoke again, asking about her wounds, her blush faded into something else.. hesitation, unease. Her gaze drifted toward the fire instead of meeting his. He was right, of course; the gashes along her back still burned and bled. But the thought of letting him see her marred skin, of turning her back to him, vulnerable, made her stomach twist. A foolish part of her would almost rather let the wounds fester.

And yet, he was covered in scars himself. Perhaps he would not even notice hers among so many.

“I really think there’s no need…” she murmured, the lie falling softly, weakly, between them. She was getting good at those, lying to him, lying to herself. Or perhaps not.

Still, she shifted, reluctant and stiff, turning slightly as the heavy pelt slipped down to her lower back. Her shoulders tensed with the motion, and she kept the fur clutched tightly to her chest as though it were armour.

The claw marks ran deep from her shoulder down to the middle of her back, ugly, raw wounds that wept fresh blood in the firelight. She winced as the cool air touched them, jaw tightening as she braced herself for his reaction.

Rori stiffened beneath his touch, breath catching as his fingers brushed her hair aside and the cloth met her skin. The heat of the fire and the sting of the water mingled into something unbearable, something too intimate. His words sank in slowly, and for a moment she forgot how to breathe.

Her gaze dropped to the ground, jaw tightening until it ached. The old seemed to burn anew beneath his scrutiny. His touch lingered too long near one in particular, and she flinched, pulling the fur a little higher against her chest as though she could hide from the memory itself.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said quietly, the edge in her tone soft but final. Her voice held the weight of warning, boundaries she did not wish him to cross. “They’re old. They don’t hurt anymore.”

A lie, another one, but this one she had told herself so many times it almost sounded true.

She shifted slightly, turning her face away from him so that he would not see the tension behind her eyes. “Please,” she murmured after a moment, her voice barely above a whisper, “just… finish, if you must.”

Rori was grateful that he hadn’t pressed her further. She closed her eyes as he worked, refusing to flinch against the sting of the poultice. Her head dipped forward to rest against her knees, the warmth of the fire and fur seeping into her bones. Her eyelids grew heavy, her breath slowing. When he was done, she tied the linen around her torso and pulled on the spare clothes, if they could be called that, before cocooning herself once more in the bear hide. Sleep took her quickly and deeply.

Strange that she should feel safer here, among a tribe of bloodied orcs who had slaughtered her companions, than she ever had in her own feather bed.

It was the smell of food that roused her. Her lashes fluttered, the haze of sleep giving way to memory. She blinked around the tent before her gaze fell to the bowl set nearby, to the meal he insisted she eat..

“Oh,” she murmured, frowning slightly at the strange concoction. “Thank you.”

She reached for it, lifting it to her nose. The scent was unexpectedly pleasant, warm and sweet. Tentatively, she took a small mouthful, and her brows lifted in surprise at the sweetness.. “It’s good,” she admitted, taking another bite.

Her eyes drifted to him then, studying as he crouched by the fire, the early light casting bronze over the ridges of his scarred frame. For a moment, she forgot herself, her gaze lingering on the bandages wound about his arm.

“Have the stitches held?” she asked quietly, guilt twisting in her gut..

Left alone, Rori lingered in the quiet for a time, the only sounds the low crackle of the fire and the distant murmur of morning somewhere deeper in the camp. When she’d finished the porridge, scraping the last of the honeyed grains from the bowl, she set it aside and rose stiffly, every muscle still aching from the day before.

The spare clothes he’d given her were… not what she was accustomed to. The trousers were too wide in the hips, the leather stiff and smelling faintly of smoke and animal. The tunic hung loose over her shoulders, the sleeves swallowing her hands. Still, she made do; rolling, tying, and cinching until the outfit fit in a way that was almost practical. The worn brown leather hugged her waist where she’d bound it with a strip of cord, and though it was far from elegant, she found she could move more easily in it than in any corseted gown. Gods, if her mother in law could see her now…

Her hair was another matter. It was wild from sleep, a fiery tangle she combed through with her fingers before twisting it into a loose knot atop her head, a few rebellious curls spilling free to frame her face. She was glad there were no mirrors to see herself in here.

Boredom soon got the better of her. She began to tidy, folding furs, rearranging baskets, running her fingers over the carved trinkets and small trophies that decorated the yurt. There were bones, beads, and odd little charms. She did not leave, though. The warning in his tone when he’d said stay still lingered in her mind.

When he stepped back in, she jumped, spinning to face him. Her pulse leapt at the sound of his voice.

Her lips parted in confusion at his question, her brow furrowing.

“No…” she admitted, voice a touch unsteady. “It’s not customary for ladies to hunt,” she said, a thread of dread slipping into her tone.

“Why?…”

Rori’s stomach sank the moment he said what she feared he'd been about to say. Go hunting. Of course he meant to. Of course she’d have to go along with it. The frown that tightened her brow was almost comical in its despair. She had no business stalking through woods with bows and blades, and yet here she was, apparently about to do just that.

She hesitated only a heartbeat before following him out, and she'd have argued if not for the weight of orcish eyes pricking the back of her neck. Give their blood time to cool... Those words made her cheeks flush hot despite the morning chill. The meaning was clear enough. She swallowed and quickened her step a little closer to him.

When he handed her the bow, she took it gingerly, turning it over in her hands as though it might bite. It was the second time now he'd trusted her with a weapon. The quiver followed, and she slung it awkwardly over her shoulder, trying not to look like a child playing dress up.

“I… no,” she murmured, shaking her head at his question. “I don’t need anything else.” Except, perhaps, a miracle.

They left the camp behind, the noise and smoke fading until there was only the quiet of the forest, the sigh of wind through the trees, the crunch of earth beneath her boots. She limped slightly, her freshly bound feet protesting each uneven step, but the pain was dulled now to something manageable.

After a time, she looked down at the bow again, then up at his broad back ahead of her. “You don’t really expect me to shoot this thing, do you?” she asked nervously.. “Because if you do, I should warn you, I’m far more likely to hit you than whatever beast we’re after.”