Private Tales Out of Place

A private roleplay only for those invited by the first writer
His primal self roared through blood and fire, but little more than a gasp escaped his lips. She stole his breath again before he could find his voice,. Anticipation had built to an almost unbearable level, chest tight and struggling for air. Now that he had found it, it seemed he could not release it.

He finally found voice as she rose over him. He groaned her name, but the words he formed did not matter. Laid bare, exposed, but they did not listen to one another with their ears.

As one, they settled into the final steps of the dance. Though Hath knew, as he watched her almost pained expression, that he would not relinquish his hold on her for some time.
 
There was nothing left of her but the fire they’d been gifted by the stars. Like a river it ran through her veins now, down her spine, scorching away all but the very foundations. For all the Great Rites behind her Scabhair could say with unwavering certainty that no other feeling under the sun could compare to fucking a strong man in the light of the pyre. She’d heard tale of the great mountains in the east that spat molten rock from the earth, and thought them a gentle force when her eyes fell on Hath beneath her.

They moved like mount and rider unbridled, united only for brief moments in time. Her fingers were frantic against his back now, drawing harsh red lines far more permanent than paint. She pulled him closer and bared her teeth to the burning moon.
 
She breathed in the scent of his skin and arousal, dragging her nose through his hair before ducking her head to claim his lips. There was no art left in the kiss as she took him.She closed her eyes to the heady, breathless sensation binding her lungs. Her fingers dug hard under the edge of his jaw, his solid body her only anchor in a world ever more reduced to a formless play of light.
 
Her tusk nicked his top lip and it barely even registered. By the new sun they would be bruised, scratched, smeared in each other's paint, covered in each other's scent and thoroughly claimed. More than that, through body and soul they marked one another. No matter where their travels took them, he would always feel as if an aspect of her had been branded onto himself under the cool glow of Lessat.

A myriad of colours danced across the inside of his eyelids before he forced them open. Hath met her in one last, vehemently passionate kiss before he fell back to the ground with a great sigh.

Nothing but the joy of the moment filling him with a warm glow. He brought up a trembling hand and gently brushed the hair from her face.
 
In the end when he faltered it was Scabhair who held him fast against her. She let out a light, airy laugh and turned her head into the rough skin of his palm. She left a lingering kiss there with bite-swollen lips, then dipped forward to nuzzle their noses together.

“Rode hard and put away wet,” she murmured against his mouth, grinning ear to ear as she savoured the many aches left behind by his fingers and teeth.
 
He circled his nose against hers, before baring his teeth and letting out a soft growl. They both knew that she had claimed him. That any fight he had was thoroughly spent. They were also both aware that he wasn't disappointed at what had just happened. It was just a matter of letting her know that he wouldn't let a future challenge go unanswered. What would be the point in taking a reward that had not been earned?

“Rode hard,” he agreed, finally smiling back. His heart started to calm from the furious beat it had been drumming out. The haze, brought on by the ale and smoke, had been blasted away by heat but started to creep back in. He welcomed it. The fires still burned, the sounds of the other orcs continued, they had just receded from his perception. His gaze still belonged to her. As his touch turned gentle he seemed to be searching for something in her eyes. That silver grey was like the onrushing storm clouds that rolled in from beyond the horizon to bring the savanna to life.
 
Her lips brushed against his before she curled like a spoiled cat into the nook of his neck. Sweat cooled on her back, leaving sticky lines of smeared paint behind that would itch come morning. For now she was content to bask in the afterglow of their joining, tracing the patterns of his scars with idle fingers.

Scabhair propped herself up on his chest after a spell, mirth dancing in her eyes as she caught his chin between index and thumb.

“Something on your mind, Hath?”
 
Thoughts had become fleeting things when his attention had been held by the gentle brush of her fingers.

“Do you mean to keep me?” he asked softly, his voice a low rumble. An echo of her earlier question. His gaze broke from hers briefly. To their right someone had stumbled into a pair wrapped up in each other and harsh growls and gnashing of teeth had followed.
 
Her expression sobered. She blew out a long sigh through her nose, fingers clenching and unclenching in the grass beside his head.

“I don’t know,” she answered truthfully. “Would you like to be kept?”

It was not in the nature of clans like theirs to bond as tightly as the marriage humans knew. They travelled too often and faced too many adversities to view the world in such respect.

“I won’t stay here. Not now, and likely not ever.” There was a touch of sadness at the corners of her mouth as she met his gaze next. “It would be unfair of me to ask you to leave your clan. Especially when I can’t keep your blood alive.”
 
He felt his heart ache at the change in her expression. It was something she had lived with for a long time and he had dealt with for all of a few hours.

“I know and you didn't ask,” he replied, a slow nod acknowledging her for that. His chin rose from his chest and he reached up to run his fingers through her hair. To keep her gaze on him.

“You are mine now and when we go north,” he declared. Unlike in sex, there was no difference in his mind between her laying a claim to him or vice versa. “Then we see where the wind takes us. And if you decide you would be happy if we were carried together then I would stay with you,” he said.

Even if she decided that was the case, they would never be joined at the hip. It wasn't the way the pair of them were. She was strong, skilled and determined and far more than his equal. But an orc didn't let doubts rule them. She had claimed him and ever so well. What had started as respect had grown in his heart to something more. He watched her, waiting to see if she would challenge that assertion.
 
For a moment she regretted asking. The conversation might’ve been spared for the morning, when the sun dawned on the first day of winter.

But now the words her left her lips, and there was nothing to do but to forge through. No matter the hardship, an orc always met a challenge head on. For most that meant headbutting – Scabhair preferred a good ponderance by the fire.

Though usually she was at least dressed for the occasion.

Gingerly she pushed herself off his sweat-slick body and rolled onto the warm ground. Dry grass prickled her skin until she settled beside him, one arm raised to point at a constellation twinkling to the left of Lessat.

“See that big star? How it guards the circle of smaller ones? Back home we call it mathre.” She dropped her arm. “It was… hard. For a long time I couldn’t accept that I would never raise children of my own. But—”

Turning on her side, Scabhair propped herself up on an elbow to meet his gaze. “I cannot change that. I cannot take back this scar that…” she sighed, “you have a choice, Hath. Don’t throw it away.”
 
He followed the line of her arm. A strange sense of calm fell over him as she started to speak. It was as if he expected a long, drawn out tale. As soon as her arm dropped, so too did her voice. She didn't shy away from explaining how it was, but some scars ran very deep indeed. Right now, Scabhair could hide that pain from him as well as she could the lines across her body.

He rolled onto his side to face her. He winced as the dry grass peeled away from the marks she had left upon him. The firelight played tricks with his eyes, her expression seemingly fleeting between emotions as the light danced across her features. It was brave of her, he thought to himself. Scabhair had tried to veer him away, despite the fact that she wanted him. He hadn't. In the end they had collided head on.

He would never be able to truly see the situation through her own eyes. A father was not a mother. It was typical for both mother and father to raise a child, but it was the mother who grew the babe inside herself, the mother the child clung to and fed from as they ran across the savanna. Hath could never know what it was to lose that.

Once more, he did not answer at first. His eyes fell upon the scars that could be seen and understood. Palm hovered above her left breast, a glance up to her eyes before it settled there. His middle finger traced the groove across her breast, it cut a deep line, distorting the shape of the ring around her nipple. Just below the breast it split and his hand curled into a claw. Three fingers followed the soft, smooth scar tissue. His hand settled there where they ended.

“I never really knew my father,” he said softly. “Kardidua has, as long as I can remember, been my chieftain. The mark I leave behind on this world…” gaze dropped to the pale streaks that tried to come between them, “...does not have to be in the continuation of my bloodline. There are always those who need to be guided and shown our ways.”

Was he deluding himself? Was this a fleeting fancy driven by desire alone? The questions barely crossed his mind before being summarily dismissed. They had been beside one another so long, like orchids that grew on the same vine and became intertwined with one another. No bud would blossom from those tangled vines and leaves, but it didn't make tearing them apart the right thing to do.

Months were not much to a lifetime together. An orc lived fast. Everything started somewhere. Everything had an end. This had started here. Where the light that gave life to all had ended, only to begin again tomorrow when Lessat rose from the east.

“If I do have a choice, we go north as one.” He left her scars behind, palm settling comfortable at the curve of her waist. A gentle pull mirrored the tug he felt. It was the conviction in his eyes that carried the message, not his words or hands.
 
Though clouded over with the smoke of the herbs and the distraction of his touch, the memory of her confession – and his question – was not so distant as to escape her mind. A small smile curled her lips as he affirmed once more with sure words what he’d said then. She wouldn’t be surprised to find the sated lust crystallising into a different answer. She wouldn’t even be angry with him.

Just as the moon called to the sea in its eternal ebb, so did the Rites summon orcs to bask in the light of a sunless sky. It was beyond any one man or woman to resist their sway.

Scabhair closed her eyes to the caress of his fingers, unashamed of the scar even for what it represented. It was as much a part of her as her auburn hair and silver eyes. In those months that she’d spent recovering from the wound she’d often cried to the spirits in helpless anger; for denying her a death in battle, for dooming her to be the withered branch on the tree.

As soon as she could walk again she’d taken to the woods with nothing but her ire and a knife, determined to spare her clan the burden and her mother the misery.

With a low grunt she banished all thoughts of that time and pressed herself to the solid warmth of the here and now. Their past was only as valuable as the lessons it imparted to their future, and she’d learned all she could from the wretched scar on her chest.

“Then we go north as one,” she murmured and pressed her lips to his forehead. They split into a grin a moment later, and she pulled back to share her mirth. “We can outrun your mother, right?”
 
“Inodeirr can,” he replied. This time he couldn't even keep a straight face. Left corner of his lip twitched upwards in betrayal before he gave in to the smile. They had smiled together more often today that in the weeks before. He could lose himself in that smile, especially when it extended to her eyes. It highlighted some of the more elven aspects of her features.

An eyebrow quirked upwards. There was the aunt, the mother and the father. Too late to change the topic, she had seen that expression.

“I remind myself that your whole clan have their own giant lions. Will there be any concerns raised if we cross them?” He idly wondered if her father, who had gone to great lengths to secure her education, would be disappointed in an orc with absolutely no education. Hath didn't mention that. There had been enough conversation and he just wanted the simple pleasure of her warmth against his chest and the crackle of the fire.
 
Sscabhair let out a graceless bark of laughter, glad that he could echo the humour and not press the issue. There would be time aplenty to talk as they polished arrow shafts in the dead of winter.

“My mother chose a fucking elf, Hath. I could drag a Reach troll home for all she cares. And besides,” she added, shifting until the length of her back was pressed against him, “for resolving concerns, one giant lion is more than enough.”
 
He chuckled softly, chest shaking against her. He draped a heavy arm across her waist and held her close. He wasn't swept up in a drug and adrenaline fuelled high any longer. This felt as right as it had to challenge her for dominance. It amused him to think that if he could smell himself all over her, then Inodeirr's nose most certainly would.

His tusks barely even pressed against her sensitive skin as he instinctively rubbed them against her neck. He wondered what an entire camp where lions and orcs lived together was like. Though she had said there were less of them, and even more disparate than Charosh on the move.

He tried to stifle a chuckle and then nuzzled into her hair. He hoped she wouldn't enquire why. The mental image of a pale elf stood bare at the centre of the Rites as an orc stalked him through the shadows and writhing bodies amused him.

“Ghawek likes you,” he said softly. He tried to ignore a particularly vocal orc some distance away who seemed to really enjoy her curse words. That mattered more to him than Kardidua's approval ever would.
 
She knew the length of the day would eventually tug her down into a dreamless sleep, but for as long as they talked she felt alive, unburdened by all the realities the dawn would bring. The grass snapped easily as she toyed with the scorched blades, content to sink deeper into his embrace.

Between the warmth of the fire at her front and his strong body at her back, Scabhair knew she’d be asleep as soon as she closed her eyes. So she kept her gaze on the flickering flames, stretching out every bruise and ache along her body.

“Only because I whooped your arse at archery,” she teased on a low voice, amusement bleeding through all the same. “Did he teach you to shoot?”
 
Well, now she was definitely awake.

Auburn hair cascaded off her shoulder as she half-turned to face him, brows up. “Men have lost their hands for that,” she said softly, her voice only as loud as the hiss of the pyre.

Exhaustion might’ve claimed many already, but the Rites were still upon them. Like dry kindling, her blood needed no more than a spark to go up in flames tonight.
 
“Well, there are orcs back home who can stick their head into the open jaws of a gathamhr and come out alive.” She hummed, feigning thought. “Do you think you’re there yet, Hath?”
 
To find out would be an adventure of its own. And if he lost and had to tend to her until she was entirely spent, then he would pay the price willingly.

That same instinctive growl was let out. Right through his chest and into her back.

Trying to clamp his hand around her upper arm, he flung his leg out trying to pin her powerful thighs before she could turn and use them against him.
 
She laughed as he rose readily to the challenge. Instead of offering up resistance, Scabhair delighted in the strength of his grip, arching into him with a lazy grin. One of her hands wandered into his hair, tugging as harshly as he dug his fingers into her arm.

Her mouth met his, everything tender about her gone as she tangled their legs together and licked up the blood her teeth had coaxed from the split in his lip.

“Is that what you want?” she asked on a hard breath, searching his black gaze. Amusement danced in her silver eyes. “To tame a lion?”
 
He tasted the metallic tang of his own blood. “Yes,” he growled, because there was no other response to be provided and with invitation provided, he would take her roughly before the flames of the great pyre.

With his right foot planted he rolled towards her. The breadth of his shoulders looming above her as he tried to rise up onto his left knee. Hath tried to keep her pinned between his own legs.

Hath used the bruising grip on her arm as leverage to try and roll her forwards. He could not match the power in her legs, which she could use to drive up or clamp her conquest between her thighs. Beneath faded, streaked paint and fresh marks, the power in his arms and shoulders coiled. If he could pin her chest down, than he could heave her back up from the ground with ease.
 
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