Private Tales Out of Place

A private roleplay only for those invited by the first writer
Hath let that sink in for a few seconds. He had expected that Kardidua might have tried to recruit another skilled, travelling hunter; she had done it many times before. He didn't know what kind of conversation had led to to such a declaration. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

What was done was done. She would get no arguments from Hath. As a culture they told stories of the past that held lessons for the future. They did not lament what was lost in great songs, like those that rang out within the mountain halls of the dwarves. The same was true of their personal lives, triumphs and failures.

The morning had passed and he had failed to make the final round in the archery. Hath would not linger on that when it was such a small fork compared to the possibilities that would branch off the rest of the day.

“I do,” he said in a clear voice, levelling his eyes to meet her gaze. Kardidua’s wrath be damned, he knew that he wanted her more than the chieftain's will could deter.
 
Her eyes returned to the darkening sky as she nodded. She wished it weren’t quite so metaphorical in that moment. Though she’d been expecting it, his answer burdened her no less. Explaining it to Kardidua had been a simple matter of clearing up clan politics – with Hath it would be far more personal, not in the least because they knew each other far better.

She sighed and closed her eyes against the dying orange glare.

“I…” picking another blood cube from the bowl, Scabhair rolled it between thumb and index until it was reduced to thick brown paste “...I’m not of your clan.” Coward. “And I’m never in one place long. You could never settle down.”

The last of her reasons remained stubbornly stuck in her throat, where no amount of ale would dislodge it.
 
As he often did, Hath fell silent and considered this for a few seconds. When he had observed the slow shift in her expression he had expected her to list some reasons for why he was not suitable for her and not the other way around. Hath knew that his place was well outside of the inner circle of his clan. Women certainly hadn't been lining up to paint his arm as they had been for his younger brother. His heart still sank a little. This could well have been an attempt to sway his mind, but he would have expected Scabhair to lay that out bluntly.

“Neither of those things change my mind,” he replied bluntly. “I have enjoyed our travels. Perhaps not the orc-hating guards of Elbion, but you cannot chew a leg without the fat.” An old orc saying that you couldn't have the best things without some unpleasantness along the way. It applied particularly to dwarves where, as they had discussed, it was best to braise the meat soft before tackling it. Personally he liked chewing a bit of spare rind.

“Is this…because of what she said to you?” he asked, finally settling on his most likely suspicion. He very carefully avoided asking directly what had been discussed for it was not his place to do so. Especially where it came to his chieftain.
 
“No, Hath. It’s no-one’s fault but my own.”

Leaning forward on her thighs, Scabhair reached up to undo the tight braid she’d woven in the morning. First to avoid getting paint in her hair, then to avoid getting hair in her eyes. Auburn tresses tumbled down her shoulders as she shook her head, untangling a knot or two as she combed her fingers through.

“Let us enjoy today as well, then.” She stood with a wry smile and offered him a hand in turn.

The clouds were bleeding now, and the great rings of Lessat were beginning to encroach on the glow of the sun. When darkness fell and the fires were lit they would shed the last of their shame; meet each other like the fire and wind in the sky; exist as one for as long as the firmament burned bright.

“We will have the whole of winter to decide.”
 
His eyes followed her hair as it cascaded down across her shoulders. The smooth, deep red falling over the stark, cracked white lines of the dried paint. Instead of the important decisions he thought of how he preferred it untamed like that and of how it would feel to run his own fingers through its length.

Hath could not argue with that. The best of the day was yet to come. Nothing stirred the soul quite like joining the entire tribe as one voice. Whilst he preferred to follow his feet there was comfort in a warm fire as the southern chill came in to replace the night. Sharing stories around it, telling tales. It wouldn't be long before he felt to urge to be on the move once more.

Hath took the offered hand and surged up off the floor, matching her smile.

“Then another drink,” he said holding up his mug, “and go see who managed to lose their temper and break some bones. Could make some wagers on the winners. Unless you were planning on taking up arms and joining in?”
 
They made their way back through the maze of tents and refilled their mugs with fresh ale, all without saying a single word. The tribes were rowdy enough for all of them, cheering ever louder the closer they got to the circle.

Two fighters had abandoned their weapons in favour of wrestling, kicking up dust as they rolled through the dirt. The onlookers chanted and urged them on, though she recognised neither of their names. One seemed a Charosh by his markings, whereas his opponent was a darker orc of a wiry build, likely to have come from the edge of the Amol-Kalit.

Scabhair negotiated a spot a bit higher up a nearby ridge. They had a good view from the slope, and weren’t in danger of flying fists and elbows besides.

“Archery was quite enough for today, I think,” she said and shrugged her right shoulder with a smile. If their clan was anything like Aiforn, it was best to conserve one’s strength for the rituals that came after dark. Orcs were only as gentle as their lives, and affection was as likely to come with a kiss as it was with a fist.

“Will you?”
 
“Block his elbow! No, not with your face!”

“His head is the thickest bit!”

Hath chuckled to the round of laughter that went up below them. Even with several tribes together there was always a friendly edge to the competition. A bit of repartee between the clans watching was as much of a game as what happened within the circle of bodies. It was the younger ones that approached each test with more to prove that were most likely to let their tempers fray under the pressure.

“I agree,” he chuckled. “Unless anyone insists,” he added. There was always a point where a challenge had to be met. On this day he probably would have had to have gone out and find a way to cause suitable offence for it to happen.

He could hear the dull thuds of padded weapons striking wooden shields elsewhere. Below the orc from Charosh - a young male whose name escaped him - was in a bad place. Pinned, he could only cover his face as elbows and fists fell upon him.

“Won't last long.” Sure enough two senior orcs broke from the crowd and split them apart. The young Charosh walked away on unsteady legs, grinning despite the blood trickling across his tusks.

Two females took their place with barely a pause. Dropping their weight, they spread their arms and started to circle. Hath could see three distinct patterns on the nearest orc's arm and found himself searching for the three males with corresponding patterns. Only one seemed to be watching and there were too many bodies to spot any on the crowd bearing her markings.

Covering his eyes he leaned back and regarded the sky.

“Not long now,” he said. With the competition over and the air at least temporarily cleared between them he could feel the anticipation that had settled deep in his gut starting to grow. “How do you find our clan so far?” he asked. There was nothing in his tone to suggest it was any more than an idle question. He expected at least a small derogatory comment about their archers.
 
Keeping an eye on the next pair of warriors, Scabhair gave his question some serious thought. The mushroom ale wasn’t helping, but she did her best.

“More…” she pursed her lips and searched the red skies for the word, “stratified.” The arc of her hand encompassed the whole of the camp. “There’s a lot more of you than us. Twice as much, if I had to guess. You’re more settled as well.”

It wasn’t a bad thing for most people, but like Hath, the half-orc also rarely lingered. The world was too vast and interesting to sit by the same fire for the rest of her life. Her mother often warned her not to soar on winds so distant that she’d not find her way home, but Scabhair had her ears too full of its song to listen.

Perhaps she never would.

“It’s good for bonding. Easier to keep children healthy, too.” She finished off her ale and set down the tankard. Her gaze found the two orcs again, mouth quirking into a smile as she watched Fenthawr trip her opponent. “We’d still outrun and outshoot you, though.”
 
He laughed from the belly at that. “Two hundred is not so many that you can weather a storm of arrows or face a line of gathamhr I don't think!”

He craned his neck as if, at this distance, he could get a better view over the crowd who had thrown up their arms and shielded the wrestlers. He just could see them rolling, searching for a dominant position. Paints were mingled and smeared now. He briefly glanced over at Scabhair before whipping his gaze back away. Even with the wrestling done, battles for position on the ground would continue long into the night.

“You would find the clan a different place when North. Particularly in the early dry season - about when you found me - the clan is spread over…a week of travel on foot. Small groups looking for food and water. The largest group moved more slowly with maybe just fifty. The chieftain, the largest warriors, youngest children and shamans. I could go a week without seeing another.

“Sometimes,” he said, waving his mug towards the match, “we meet some foot knights from Vel'Anir. Dragging them down with strength and size works best. Bet that knife your friend made would find a joint nice enough.”
 
A sympathetic hum sounded from Scabhair even as she flopped back down on the dry grass. Her eyes closed to the sky as she stretched out like a spoiled cat. She could feel the ale tingling at the very tips of her fingers and toes, and it pulled her mouth into a slow, lazy smile.

“It’s how we hunt all the time. Everything moves in the steppe, always, so we move with it. The grass, the moons, the rains. Ride and live, or stand and die.” The lack of choice was freeing sometimes. No room for thought or deliberation – just the simplicity of the long march, the rhythm of the beast underneath and the sun above.

She frowned as an unexpected pang of homesickness bloomed behind her ribs. Damn the ale, and damn her for drinking too much.

“That’s what lances are for,” she added after a few beats and sat up again. “But we don’t get many knights up in the north. Nobody’s been stupid enough to drag an infantry force over the rivers in a hundred years.” Facing even a small complement of mounted skirmishers was tantamount to suicide in the open field. “Not since Aiforn and Bhfearghal banded together and crushed Trokvir. Now that’s a story for the ages.”

She smiled wide as she began miming troop movements with her hands. “So you have Chiefs Veira – that’s us – and Gadhr on one side, and Prince Potiesz on the other. He led this massive army up from the Reach, crossed Sayve in autumn when it’s not so fast. Now that was smart, but he squandered it all chasing us around the marshes in winter. We cut off his supply lines, killed his scouts and patrols until he got the hint and started retreating towards the Spine where the terrain would be in his favour. Trouble is, of course, that there’s Bystra to cross before you can escape to the mountains. So he set up camp on the bank and sent all his soldiers to fell trees. By spring he’d built a bridge and a half and moved his camp to the Tristone island in the middle of the river.” Scabhair paused to borrow his mug and wet her throat, then continued with a blooming grin. “But Potiesz… was a noble. He knew nothing about the land. Nothing about how the sun brings the ice and snow rushing down from the mountains, how the rivers swell when the skies open up again.”

She peered up into the beginning of the eclipse and made a derisive noise in the back of her throat. “He and his whole army drowned in the end. We’d only lost one man, and that was to woundrot after an arrow grazed him.”

“Haven’t had any humans marching north since then.”
 
Scabhair had his full attention. The wrestling was forgotten, the cheers faded, his mug was set down. He sat more upright and turned himself around to face her and listen. They had talked of many things on their travels, but a conversation could have had days of silence before it was picked up again. Here with the tribe, in safety and with spirits soaring ahead of the Great Rites, it had been like condensing down a month of talk into days.

There didn't need to be much embellishment for his imagination to fill in the blanks. A charge of Gathamhr with lances raised was the one thing he struggled to picture. It would be a truly fearsome sight to behold. He wasn't sure he could ever hold his nerve against that, but then what would running away on foot achieve?

“We have not had such a victory in recent times,” he admitted. “Probably why Bathyr was quite so disappointed by the elvish ambush. Even if I don't quite share the sentiment.”

Hath kept his gaze on Scabhair, watching her as she watched the sky. He could see the slight softening of her features from the elven heritage. The longer, graceful line of her neck. Already there was an unusual quality to the light as the sun was captured in Lessat's wings.

“Do you document all your travels in your book?” he asked her. There was a moment's pause before he decided not to shy away from the admission. “I don't know what any of the writing means, but I like watching you concentrate so on it by the firelight.”
 
A light laugh escaped her at the question, and her eyes flicked over to Hath in amusement before she returned her gaze to the changing sky.

“Not all of them. Only the interesting bits.” He would know better than most how weeks on the road could smear into one long continuous march. One foot before the other, day in and day out. It was nothing worth spilling ink over.

“It’s not just for travels, either,” she continued after a beat. “I write about the people I meet, the languages I encounter. The plants, the animals, the weapons they use beyond the Spine. I write about the weather, and the quality of stone in the north and the south.” She paused here, thankful for the red light that masked the faint blush creeping over her cheeks.

“I’d like to publish it one day. Put my name on a shelf in that big library up in the College. Can you imagine that?” She chuckled again. “Some future human scholar learning about the world from an orc.”
 
What he said next surprised even himself. “I think that that would be an impressive achievement.” Hath nodded slowly as he came around to the sentiment himself. He was not one for the written word. Yet having seen the grandeur of the college and the attitude held in that city towards orcs it still seemed a lofty ambition to have one's own book added to the collection there.

Hath had never asked her to read any of it and he likely never would. That didn't mean he wouldn't ask Scabhair to tell him of those places she had travelled, or of events she had witnessed. A tale was to be told and if she ever needed her manuscripts then she would know it herself. He liked to think he could tell a good tale. The slow cadence of his voice could add weight to the important part of a tale, but he imagined Scabhair could probably weave a better story.

“I am certain it would be a more accurate account than any travelling scholar giving the land a vulture's glance.” It was an orcish expression for a greedy creature that observed the land from a distance and only noticed that thing it wanted above all else.

The match below had passed and Hath hadn't even noticed the victor. If there had even been once. It would not be long now and the fires would be lit.

“Another ale before we make for the circle?” he asked her. He might have offered to fetch them, but didn't for entirely selfish reasons. Left alone, with a victor's mark on one shoulder there was a good chance of male attention descending. An orc with their blood up and ale in hand could get quite heated about such things.
 
She smiled a little, her gaze wandering from the moon to the camp below. The tents were awash with the brilliant red light, orcs and paint and smoke all turning into one great swarming mass. The time was coming where thought would abandon them like blood from an open wound. Beast and man would become one under the fire pillar, indistinguishable and indivorcible but for three nights in a year.

Scabhair could hardly wait.

“Why not,” she said and stood, dusting off the dry grass that stuck to her clothes. “We’ll dance it away in half a candlemark, I wager.”

Her blood was beginning to thrum to the deep rhythm of a hundred feet hitting the ground in the same breath. There was no song yet, no chant to join in on, and yet the orcs were starting to move with more purpose, eyes clear and distant at the same time.

“Do you dance, Hath Charosh?”
 
“Who does not?” he countered. “Well,” he answered on his own. “Those orcs who like to spend the entire day inhaling smoke in their tents. But yes, yes I do.”

It was impossible not to get swept up in the moment. To join the convulsing mass of bodies as they moved to the beat. It would start as an almost organised affair, shamans leading the chants and voices carrying on the wind to bid the sun farewell.

It would be a chaotic affair within that half a candlemark. Music loud and voices sporadically joining it in song, the odd wild cry ringing out above it. He looked at her with an almost predatory grin, imagining how she might look before the flames. Hair fanning out, catching the firelight as it was plastered to the sheen of sweat across her shoulders.

“You are our guest. Join us for the Ngaraha if you want,” he said. Each tribe had their own dance. Several could be used, both for challenge or greeting in honor. One only had to follow the leader and repeat his words.

By the time they had more ale, the tribes were beginning to gather. Shamans and their younger apprentices were walking through the crowds with their clay bowls of smouldering herbs.
 
The last drink went down like water, and then they joined the line on the side of Charosh. Scabhair was practically bouncing on the balls of her feet as she watched the shamans near their end of the group, smoke trailing like a spirit waiting in the wings.

“Who else would I join?” she asked on a quiet voice as they waited. “There’s not another Aiforn for a thousand leagues each way.” What she failed to mention was that her tribe didn’t dance, precisely. Not like those in the south and the west. They spent the rest of their lives always on the move, and so for the Great Rites, the Aiforn stood still like statues, head full of smoke and lungs full of water as they sank to the depths of the eastern rivers.

Scabhair was partial to dancing, herself.

Her eyes only left the approaching shaman to watch Lessat inch ever closer to the blazing edge of the sun. The light was beyond golden now, the colour of molten steel, and near blinding to look at.

She kept staring anyway.
 
“Do not inhale deep if you have not before,” muttered the same warning given every time. It had never really made sense to Hath. How did one get to inhale deeply the first time? That was until he had witnessed them merely using it as an excuse to prompt the question of what did happen if one inhaled too deeply. Sometimes a group would ask a shaman to personally lead them through spirit dreaming for the rest of the day. Some orcs spent every ceremony chasing spirits.

Hath bowed his head as it was offered to him, taking the bowl in two hands cautiously. Leaning over the embers he half filled his lungs, holding the breath to the count of three and slowly releasing it. The warmth seemed to spread from the base of his neck up until it filled his head. He sighed contently, letting the moment of peace wash over him before it felt as if every emotion was painted with fresh colours. Every sound, every sense felt heightened. Hath felt his heart skip and he smiled towards the skies.

All around everyone was discarding the last of their clothes, covered only in the dried and smeared paint from the morning. Hath joined them as the bowl was offered to Scabhair. A single drumbeat rang out across the camp. The fires would seen be lit.
 
No more words passed between them as plumes of smoke curled through the air and towards the first stars twinkling on the satin blue of the skies. She spared them a long glance and one last thought before taking up the bowl herself, her heart already matching the growing drumbeat.

She wet her lips and breathed out, ready to fill her lungs with the spirit of the herbs. Every tribe had their own mixture, and even year to year the experience was ever different, ever changing. Like the children of the wind themselves, the nature around them never stayed the same.

When she passed the bowl back to the shaman, Scabhair grinned at the sliver of the sun peeking out from behind Lessat. Smoke curled from her mouth like from the maw of a slumbering dragon, blue and silver as it wisped up, up, up.

They were one now, Narhai ri t-Urogh – like droplets of water rushing towards the great ocean. Where one ended and another began, no-one could tell. Paint and sweat and blood ran freely down silver and olive skin, smeared by searching fingers and questing tongues.

She worked out the last of the smoke with a little shiver and glanced at Hath with a broad grin. He looked different in the new light, with the shadows of the first flames playing across his face. Young in one moment, then a skull in the next as the breeze blew the other way.

Her hand found his and she led him towards the circle, where the drums were louder and the chanting stronger, and the fires brighter still.
 
He wove his fingers between her own, letting her guide him at first before his feet caught up and carried them closer to the beating heart of the ceremony. To where the drums and the leading voice set the rhythm. Flames crawled up the sides of the pyre until they engulfed the mountain of wood. Hath closed his eyes and let the heat of the fire wash over his naked form as the light of the sun faded. The smoke made it feel exquisite.

A cry rang out above the rest. Dathimm. No shaman, but his voice carried much further. He called the words and Hath joined voice with his entire tribe and called them back.

He took short, sharp breaths now. Excitement honed to a fine edge by the powers of the burning herbs. Even though there was just the beat and the chant he had started to sway and stamp his feet to it. The last slivers of light were being swallowed by Lessat now, her wings and halo spreading free. It would have been easy to get lost in the moment, so he kept his grip on her hand, turning his dark gaze towards her briefly.
 
As the fire died in the sky, so it was lit below, bright and roaring like the lives they led. And it moved from the pyre too, like a spark jumping from the embers to set the plains aflame. Only now it burned behind her ribs, filling her heart and lungs until she joined the chant. The smell of the herbs lingered all around them, mingling with dust and heat as breath grew short and the singing louder. Her own voice sounded broken in her ears, timbre rough from smoke and screams.

Bodies moved along and around the fire like shadows on the wall, heavy feet matching the drumbeat of the heart as the soil sang with them. She caught his gaze and in the next moment they turned again. Red light limned the contours of her body, peeling her out of the black.

A glint of a tusk, a hint of a smile; the pace heightened then, and they switched places, Hath now closer to the fire, yet further from the light. Time mattered less and less as Dathimm led them ever louder into the long night, a sea of orcs moving to the ebb of the moon.
 
Her silhouette framed in fire, her hair suddenly a vibrant flame. They all moved as one yet also occupied their own - or shared - space. Hath heard a whoop and a cheer from another tribe. Yet Charosh raised their voices even higher. In shared voice each clan probably thought they had drowned out the others.

Hath swayed to the rhythm. One that he felt more than he heard. He dropped his weight low and stamped his feet then threw his arms high and arched his back. The crescendo came as the very last light faded. All heads turned towards Lessat. Voices raised not in song, but in shrill cries to bid the sun farewell. The ghostly blue halo that surrounded the moon bloomed into life.

Then the music struck up again, finding a more discordant rhythm. Several wood instruments seem to cry out in opposition. Musicians would have marks across their right arms too. Musicians showing off to attract the opposite sex. Likely an older ritual than the Rites themselves.

Dance seemed to matter more than song to the orcs now. His emotions surged, his gaze fell to hers. Then lower still as he watched her dance. The flames and the paint drew shapes that seemed to find a different rhythm to the one her curves swayed to. A heady rush of desire took hold. He stepped close enough that he could smell the scent of her hair and musk above the sweet herbs and burning wood.

Hath let out a low guttural growl that reverberated through the chest. A far cry from the snarling and gnashing of teeth that came before a fight. Yet it was also a noise that every orc felt at an instinctive level. Another challenge that demanded a response. Dark eyes that captured the flames didn't move from her own.
 
For the control and discipline she held over her own body during her waking hours, Scabhair relinquished it all to the Great Rite. No open steppe, no peak in the Spine, no vast sea could ever hope to match the sense of freedom that filled her chest as the flames roared higher. They were all equal here, reduced to earth and wind and fire as they danced in tighter circles around the pyre, as they sang their songs louder to the stars, as they praised the spirits of creation that wove them all into a singular people. Theirs was a bond stronger than blood, older than flesh.

Men and swords and words all turned to ash in time, but orcs persevered. They were the stubborn seed that clawed its way to life on a barren cliff; the tree that prospered when the wind tore up all the rest. Yet despite their age and tradition, the one thing that made an orc an orc couldn’t be grasped by either hand or mind.

Impermanence.

There was only one way forward through life, and they honored it like they revered the sun and the stars; viscerally.

The shapes of orcs were already moulding into one at the edges of her vision wherever she turned, bodies colliding in sweat and groans. It was not a thing heard, but felt; in the bones, in the blood. Soon the new song would drown out even the roar of the fire and the tribes, and they would finally worship on the same voice, to the same end.

She felt him as she did herself, each movement tuned as if they were to face an enemy in battle. Courting or hunting, fucking or fighting; to an orc the difference was only in the weapon they used and how deep they cut.

Shifting closer to the fire still, Scabhair waited until the paint on her skin began to melt. She dragged her fingers through the mark on her shoulder, then brushed the yellow over his lips, down his chin and neck, across the scars on his chest. All the while her eyes never left his.
 
Hath didn't join the fragments of songs and chants that continued. His chest heaved to draw in hot, heavy air. The growl that escaped his lips as he released it was much softer than before. Lips trembled as the mark of her victory was drawn down across his chest. Touch was heightened, yet almost distant at the same time. Muscles across his midriff quivered as her thumb grazed his sternum.

She marked him again. Hath gave himself over to raw instinct. Snatching her other wrist he drew it up to his lips. Eyes remained level as he bared his teeth and gently grazed her flesh with the tips of his tusks, leaving pale marks. It was an old instinct, fit for an old tradition. Marking her in turn with the glands every orc still had at the base of their tusks, despite not having used them to mark territory for thousands of years.

The drums seemed to fade to the sound of his own pulse hammering away within his head. The flames crackled and snapped. The periphery just seemed to melt away. Hath muttered her full name as he relinquished his grip on her wrist.
 
Her nostrils flared as his tusks grazed her flesh. It was shallow enough to avoid blood, his breath coaxing out freckled goosebumps despite the pyre. Silver eyes lidded to the pleasure of the sensation. The fire behind her ribs turned to liquid and dripped down her spine to pool in her belly.

It was a part the smoke had to play – she knew this in the back of her mind, but it seemed a distant, inconsequential detail. They were each reduced to innate instinct, the mores of civilisation and civility all burned away.

Her feet propelled her forward of their own accord. Scabhair raised her hands and cupped his face, the rough beard tickling her skin. She gathered the loose threads of her mind with no small amount of effort, pulling them into a coherent whole. Holding her tongue any longer would be akin to lying, and she could not abide dishonesty.

She pressed their foreheads together, exhaling sharply to clear her head. The Rite was still young, the pyre still high – he would have time to find another mate if he wished.

“I can’t…” she spoke against his mouth, her voice hardly more than vibration of the air itself. “I can’t bear you children, Hath.”
 
It was more than the smoke that altered his perceptions. The heat of the moment, the slow build of the dance until every orc was releasing their inhibitions to the wind. Hath felt more intimately connected with the world around him whilst also being kept behind a fog around his own mind.

They breathed the same air together, a mix of fire and hair, like the one that had brought their people to this world. Hath barely hear the content of her words, but he he was aware of the shift in her body language, the tone of her voice.

Staying there, with his fingers finally woven into her hair, their foreheads still pressed together, he let her words sink through that fog until their weight was impressed upon him.

Hath didn't say anything. His eyes met hers, watching the flames dance within them, seeing her exposed in a way that left her far more vulnerable than them having discarded their garments. Understanding flashed across his expression. There being children or not as a result of the day had crossed his mind, but it had not been at the forefront. Children were an aspect of life for the tribe. Their arrival was always welcomed and it was a sign of the tribe’s strength if many of them were raised to adulthood.

The beat continued, but their dance had found an interlude. He kept his tight grip, his shoulders rose and fell slowly as they shared the same air and he sought for a place where he could give her statement the consideration it deserved. To do otherwise would have been dishonest in turn and downright disrespectful. He couldn't do that with the esteem he held her in.

Hath had never really known his own father. In truth he had never really known his own mother. She was the chieftain and he barely remembered seeing her in any other light. Orcs told stories of the past when they held lessons for the future. And just as was the case with every one of the races of Arethil the experiences of the past influenced the way each individual and collective behaved. It was Ghawek who he held the strongest connection to within the tribe. It was a shame that she could not bear children. There was no denying that: they would have made strong children. It didn't preclude what he found he actually wanted more, which was to find that same bond he had with Ghawek with orcs of the following generations. There were always children who had lost their families to the dangers of the wilds, or even those that hadn't but needed guidance. For the first time Hath had done some genuine soul searching under the influence of the shaman's burning herbs.

Standing a little taller, the warm press of his forehead against hers lessened. Yet his hand still gripped the back of her neck tight.

“If you and I became a part of each other and there were young who needed our guidance on our ways…would you be opposed?” There was no formal recognition of adoption or responsibility within the tribes. Orcs fell under the wing of others all the time. It didn't matter to him whether that was possibly someone of her tribe or his, or even a lost soul. It turned out that what was important to him - the vital truth that decided what came next - was whether she would object to this.
 
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