Private Tales Out of Place

A private roleplay only for those invited by the first writer
Though she didn’t expect him to react badly – wouldn’t have told him if she did (wouldn’t have painted his arm either) – it was still welcome to feel nothing but understanding from the man she’d come know.

She kept quiet as they moved slowly to the sound of song and flesh. Her thoughts were sluggish from the smoke, slow to provide an answer to his question even inside her own mind. It was her own fault, really; the Rites were reserved for remembrance and reverence, not for reflection.

The details they could figure out on the way. The winter would be long and there would be many evenings with nothing to do but to talk. Tonight didn’t have to be any more complex than a yes or no.

Scabhair smiled a slow smile, leaning back to take in his full expression. He was rough around the edges, kept sharp by the wilds and the road. But who else could understand a wandering soul than a fellow traveller?

“No. I would not.”

She tipped forward, then, and kissed him fully to erase what doubt remained. There was no one instant in which they went from separate to joined; merely a sequence of analog moments until Scabhair and Hath ceased to exist.
 
A kiss was an even more intimate gesture among their kind. Touching foreheads was a more common expression between family and friends. He parted his lips and felt the soft rasp of her tongue against his. On the road he had grown accustomed to her voice and scent, but it was entirely different to have her so close that she drowned out everything else.

The fire coursing through his veins had died down to give him space to breathe, space to think. It didn’t take much to stoke those flames again. Even if he had wanted to stop and dwell on what had just passed between them, they were past the point where he could logically lay it all out.

A soft growl left his lips as he drew himself up and loomed over her. The sun blotted out and the depth of the darkness would only deepen. The white lines that caught what light there was broke up his silhouette. His eyes always captured the dancing flames.

Hath’s breath hitched, pace increasing as he left concerns behind and immersed himself in the moment. His lips left hers, before being gently pressed to her cheek. She would feel his warm breath fan over the patch of moisture left behind, hear him inhale sharply as he drew in her scent. Tips of his dusks graze ever so gently against the curve of her neck. He wanted her, desperately so.
 
She let him escape through her fingers with an indolent smile, turning her head to better afford him access to her throat. One of her hands caught in his hair, tugging on the black mane as if she were reining in a gathamhr.

With her right she slipped into the sparse space left between them, leaving smeared impressions of the purple arrow on her own belly as she thumbed the scar on his hip.

Her mouth parted against the sharp ridge of a clavicle as she dragged her tusks along the line of paint and bone. She didn’t bite down on his shoulder but the promise was there, enough to cut her breath short and bid her eyes closed shut.

The heat of the Rites was all around them now, the smoke and the flames having done their work. They were among the few still standing; most had taken to the ground, bodies glinting with sweat as they fought for the pleasure of being on top.

She grabbed his ass and pulled him flush against her, then made good on her promise with a grin full of sharp, sharp teeth.
 
There was little as exhilarating as a challenge met. Earlier in the day her victory had been decisive, but if offered her no advantage now. There could be no confusion now, not with the way his body reacted to her. His hands drew back along her shoulders, nails raking through the lines of paint but marking her flesh anew.

Both hands clamped down to the outside of her shoulders. With a rough shove he put some space between them, left foot sliding back across the ground to give himself purchase. With chin lowered to his chest, he matched her smile and stared back from beneath his brow. Gaze fell across her body, as if it wasn’t obvious enough that he wanted to take her.


Orcs typically met the first light of the new sun the next day still marked in their paints. The afternoon ushered in conversation about who was carrying signs of someone else’s decorations.


Corded muscles of his neck bunched up and his jaw tightened into a more aggressive visage. He leaned his weight into her without driving her back. He would mark her, he would claim her, he would take her.
 
This was their song and dance. No fancy gowns, no uptight rules, no lines drawn between them but those they chose themselves.

She grinned back, licking her teeth as they circled each other on a narrow patch of dirt by the pyre. An orc behind her moaned as her lover mounted her; just beside Hath a trio of bodies lay in a tangle of lips and limbs, writhing in pleasure. There were more beyond the pool of firelight, filling the air with the smell of sex and the sounds of skin against skin. Suffice to say it was the most distracted she’d been during a fight in a long while.

In contrast to Hath her body felt light and lax, as if she might sail into the sky if she jumped high enough. She invited him closer with a half-step back, hoping to bait him into a lunge that would end with him in the dust and Scabhair exactly where she belonged – astride a powerful beast.
 
This was the beating heart of the ceremony. Where the pulse quickened and drumbeat found its most frenetic pace. The musicians had mostly absconded towards the tents with orcs who had become enraptured by their performance. But the drumbeat remained. The embers would glow all through the night, the new sunlight would reveal new mates so wrapped up in each other they would only give it their attention for a few minutes.

Hath nearly fell for the bait, lunging forwards but planting his feet and keeping his momentum in check. They grappled briefly. Scabhair drove him back before he regained his balance, then slipped away before he could gain purchase on her body.

Dropping his weight he stalked her more carefully. She had a low centre of gravity, powerful legs. Oh how he admired those thighs. He could almost give in to sweet surrender just so he could trace every powerful line with his hands. Hath let his tongue slowly swipe over his top lip. He could still taste her there.

Hath stepped in closer, left arm swinging around and grasping for her arm. Just needed to find enough grip to use his weight to drag her down.
 
He closed in and so did she, doing nothing to stop him from grabbing her wrist. Instead her free hand came up had against his sternum, forefoot planted firmly between his legs. She curled her fingers around his neck and they collided, paint mingling with sweat, breath with breath.

Her laughter was a fleeting thing. She caught those chapped lips into another kiss, pushing bodily forward until she could literally sweep Hath off his feet. The dry grass would make for a soft landing, but softer still were the breasts pressed against him.

If he only submitted, Scabhair would let him touch her everywhere she ached – for his teeth and tongue, for his rough fingers, for his full attention. .

She trailed along his jaw and breathed out against his ear, “Let me ride you.”
 
Hath had already planted one foot on the ground, preparing to surge upwards when the moment seemed right to try and roll them over. His chest heaved against hers as he struggled to draw in air. Her soft breasts crushed to the smooth, hard planes of his chest as it rose and fell.

His capitulation wasn't voiced. It was still unmistakable. The tension eased out of the bunched muscles across his shoulders. The pressure of hands he'd braced strategically against her let off. His rough fingertips traced the ridges of her spine and the lines of paint still clinging to her skin.

Closing his eyes he pressed his forehead to hers. A stronger musk mingled between them from the exertion, their conjoined heat enough to stave off the evening chill even if the fire had not been burning high.

Opening his eyes, he pressed a soft kiss to her lips. Surrender had never looked like such an attractive prospect.
 
“Good,” she murmured, cupping his jaw for a long spell. Her silver eyes traced every line on his face, as if she were trying to memorise what he looked like in the red of the fire and the blue of the moon. She would not call Hath handsome, for there were enough handsome men to go around in every city whose streets she’d walked. There was little to be said for a sharp jaw or a wide smile when the eyes were as dead as the earth in winter.

But he was beautiful, in the way the howling wind and the smell of fresh soil were beautiful. He was a part of the world she understood, and revelled in understanding.

The timeless moment snapped as she shoved him down onto the ground, following swiftly herself as soon as she’d taken in the sight of him laid out before her. Scabhair straddled his waist, biting her lip as she settled over his hard stomach. She basked in the contact, silver eyes never leaving his even as her mouth bloomed into a wide grin. Her auburn hair tumbled across the expanse of his chest as she leaned forward and gave a teasing, testing squeeze of those wonderful thighs.
 
Hath allowed himself a moment of reflection as he watched her watching him. He didn't know what was going on inside her head, but she didn't need to explain. Her thoughts were her own and her intentions had been made abundantly clear.

They had been swept up in the moment, but his desire for her had been taking shape for far longer. Kneeling softly by her side had not been a spur of the moment decision. Little moments of time, spread across the weeks they had spent together were points where he had viewed her in a particular light, in a different colour. The Great Rites had just been the opportunity to draw it all together. Like the windows she had shown him from on high in Elbion - that one itself a turning point he would always remember - lots of little coloured fragments that formed the complete picture.

Matching that salacious grin, before his brows met and he almost whimpered as she shifted her weight. Pinned, but with the struggle over, his hands were free to indulge in touch. He drew her hair back across her shoulder. He placed his right hand on her knee, gripping hard and running it up the length of her thigh. A low rumble of desire left his lips.

Take me, every part of his body screamed, but dark eyes held the deepest depths of desire that had been growing day by day.
 
Her lips fell open for shallow breaths to pass as his touch wandered higher, skirting over sensitive silver skin. She caught it moments after he’d gotten a taste and began rubbing slow circles into the rough skin of his palm. She brought his hand up to her mouth without averting her lidded gaze, sucking on each finger with a grin that would’ve made the devil kneel.

Lingering briefly at the soft flesh of the wrist, Scabhair relinquished the hold of her teeth with a wet pop and led his hand to her breast. The long scar began just above a dusky nipple, splitting into three deep marks as it curled over the edge of her ribs and down across her belly. The white lines caught fire as she moved against him, her eyes speaking volumes even when her lips did not.

Patience, her body whispered back, fingers traipsing over his shoulders to twist into those black locks. She arched off him fully now, sweat glistening in a fine film as light chased shadow across her shifting muscles.
 
He drew in a deep, stuttered breath, held it and then let it out slowly. One corner of his lips curled upwards into a smile, letting his focus settle on touch and the path she had his hand chart across her skin. The inside of his wrist still tingling from rasp of her tongue.

The fire crackled and snapped. For an instant she was bathed in a brighter light. His eyes quickly followed the path his hand had followed. Catching sight of the tight scar tissue his fingers had traced. That was what they were. Scar tissue layered over the old. Every experience laid on top of the last to build the soul. One couldn't paint over who they were.

He bit at the middle of his lower lip, eyes flicking back up to meet her gaze. He physically ached for her. She enticed and soothed at the same time, stirring up a maelstrom that he had no intention of understanding or controlling. Like the great wind spirits that carved across the savanna as a swirling vortex, one could only follow the flow, not fight it. He turned his head into her touch, lids half falling over his eyes.
 
Scabhair was a study in scars. From the shallow grooves left by grasping thorns of the Spine to the markings scored by Inodeirr with one fell swoop of her paws, her body bore them all and every shade in between. Some faded with time, white to silver to grey. Others remained forever etched into the tale told by her skin, seen by many eyes but understood only through the touch of the few.

Hath would be one of them, now. Despite the heady scent of smoke and sweat and sex, this thought stood out clear in her mind, a note of sharp clarity against the mist of colours and shapes that made up the patchwork of their surroundings. Even the fire was a distant hiss now, its warmth a spring caress compared to the fire in her belly, the flames that licked out of every point of contact.

She closed her eyes to his touch, leaning forward until her hair hid them like a curtain from the world; leaning low until their lips met again, more desperate now. A hitched moan escaped her as her breasts brushed against his chest. Her brow furrowed for a moment as she gathered her focus and his hand in hers, to lead him slow and sure.
 
Enshrined together in her hair, sharing the same breath, pressed close, he didn't have to concentrate to be intimately aware of how she reacted to his every touch. His fingers were coarse, not smooth. That too was a part of a story. Many times the bowstring had been the line between life and death, rolling across his fingertips. Her name hung heavy on his lips once again, spoken just for those within the auburn shrine. Scabhair led, he followed. In the end, she was the one who had claimed him.
 
Her grip on his hand faltered when he first pressed against her. No amount of self-control could’ve kept the keening sound in her throat and so she released it without shame against his mouth, drank up the warm air offered in return. New breath felt like living fire as she drew it into her lungs, arching above him, against him, her hips rolling to the rhythm that belonged to no-one but the two of them.

Both her hands now tangled into his hair as she pressed their foreheads together, thumbs skirting along his jaw and over the curve of his tusks. She pressed a lingering, open kiss to the corner of his mouth before turning his head roughly to the side. Her hot tongue scored a trail along the tense cord of muscle in his neck, cool breath soothing the red lines left behind by her teeth.

As the saying went – no Rite is really great if you don’t wake up with a few bruises.
 
A soft sound caught in the back of his throat as her teeth brushed against his skin. Soft at first, but then scraping hard enough that he could feel the echo of the sharp pain after they were substituted for her tongue.

A soft growl rumbled through his chest and into hers but he left his throat exposed, vulnerable. The noise was an instinctive response, but it was exhilarating to allow himself to be so beholden to her whims.
 
The greatest joy of being an orc was the privilege to feel alive in every moment. From battle to hunting, from running to riding, from dancing to fucking. Their souls soared with the winds, on this night of all nights, louder and clearer than on any other. Neither drums nor pyre could drown out the song of their people.

Scabhair joined her own voice to the ancient chant, timbre breaking like a log in the fire. She left crescent marks in his broad shoulders, her grip all the harsher the tauter he drew the string in her spine. Though she filled her lungs with every breath nothing seemed enough, the air like dust until she drank it from his lips.

Finally she pulled away, matted auburn hair clinging to her skin as she met his dark eyes with her own livid gaze. Releasing her hold on his hair, Scabhair traced the contours of his face, her ghosting touch a sharp contrast to the bruising force of her hips. She parted his lips with her fingers and lingered there, breath cut short by the lance of desire the sight sent to the pit of her belly.

Her eyes fell closed as she threw her head back and rode him towards oblivion.
 
The curtain rose, the angry flickering light returned. Hath's shoulders rolled from the ground just far enough that he could nip at the offered fingers. He could feel where the grass peeled from his skin, leaving little indentations across his back. Crushed grass and dry earth mingled will all the other heady scents.

His hungry gaze took in everything. Her hair either stuck to the sheen of sweat across her chest ll. Streaked lines of paint altered their shape. She was stunning like this, caught in the flames but driven by her own heat.

Skin hot to touch, sweat beaded across his brow and chest. Hath watched her writhe, nothing else in all the world matter. The flame haired huntress who had found her quarry quite willing to fall.
 
She pulled him up then, with the hand still tangled in his hair, and gave Hath a bruising kiss.

They were entwined now, hands scrabbling against sweat-slick skin, smearing paint and drawing patterns anew. She could feel the pressure building behind her ribs, so close to bliss it was nearly pain. Heat pooled in her belly and she could hardly breathe for how brightly it burned. The last of her control fled; bled out on a long moan.

Scabhair wrapped her arms around him, braced against his shoulders as she choked out his name. Blood roared in her ears, the crescendo of her own heart drowning out the rest of the world. Her soul took flight whilst the body remained chained to the earth, all her shattered pieces held together by a single man.
 
The hand pressed firmly to the small of her back traced up her spine and buried itself in her damp locks at the nape of her neck. His right hand came up and cupped her face, thumb smearing a line of paint across her cheekbone.

Hath whispered her full name to call her back to him. He pulled her close, foreheads pressed together, the tip of his nose rubbing against hers. With deferential care he pulled them back down. Drawing her back from the roaring rush of the wind and down to the stoic earth below. The feasting moon witness to their joining by the firelight.
 
The white in her vision eventually faded around the edges to let the world back in. Sounds and smells and sights returned to her one by one as her heart settled again in her breast, matching the heavy drumbeat of the body pressed against her.

Scabhair sighed, smiled; kissed the warm hand at her cheek for a long moment before raising herself slowly on steady thighs. (There were advantages to being an Aiforn.)

His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths as she watched him, paints and sweat aglow as the light played across his body.
 
He could have almost been content just to watch her. The ragged tempo of her breathing had slowed to a regular rise and fall of her breasts. Hath could have studied every inch of her body. The huntress astride the prize she had claimed, framed in tousled red locks and with triumph in her eye. Almost.

Hath hadn't realised that the beating drum had stopped, replaced entirely by his own quickening pulse. Submission was willing, but that primal fire that was a part of himself that could not be denied, would not permit him to be so passive. His hand roamed across her chest, rising up to gently grip her throat before his thumb tugged at her lower lip. Not a sign of protest, just a hint of the strength that lay barely restrained just beneath the surface.
 
Anticipation was everything. Like drawing back the string of a beautiful bow until your muscles trembled at the strain. The weight and pleasure of release reverberated through the whole body then, along the wrist, down the column of the spine and through the legs into the ground.

Their breaths mingled for a moment as she leaned in, holding his dark gaze with her own. She hovered there, tusks glinting as she grinned down at her lover. This was their dance; the give and take where every effort was rewarded, but no reward was ever free.
 
Nothing was masked or hidden from her sight. Everything he felt played out across his face, or was carried in the tone of his voice. Hath might have hidden behind ceremony to make his intentions known, but that same well-trodden ritual was what had stripped everything back and left him exposed.

Her coy grin was too much. He smiled to match it for just a fraction of a second before his gaze darkened. The primal need drawn forth. He would not plead with her.

Soft moans turned to feral growls. He clamped his hands around her arms and a brief struggle ensued. The guttural noises and intertwined twisting limbs stopped almost as soon as it had started. Hath drove her arms back over her head, using them as leverage to peel her from his chest. There they stopped, back to slow, laboured breaths. Fire-kissed, smoky air, heavy with musk. Mostly their own. His expression softened as he claimed a kiss, relinquishing his hold on her wrists.
 
They shared a love of travel, and their joining was as as much a journey as their trek across the steppes. An exploration not of the world outside, but the one within. In their people it was windblown ash come down from the far peaks of the Spine, carried whence on currents so ancient none but the sky remembered.

Thus the Great Rite sang in her blood, a chant no orc ever needed to be taught. Tonight there was no Hath, no Scabhair, no Charosh nor even Aiforn. The smoke had stripped them down to their bones of earth, their soul of wind and fire. Where they kneeled now there had been thousands of orcs before them, not in place but in spirit, back to the hallowed time of Uroghosh.

And she might’ve claimed her mate the same way as Scabhair did now – with bated breath, a hand in his hair, and a sharp roll of her hips.
 
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