Private Tales Out of Place

[Scabhair]

There was something to be said for a man who knew how lie down and take it. More still could be said for a man who could take charge after, and return the favour with the same fervour. It was one thing to know the joy of power; another to know the joy of relinquishing the reins to competent hands. If she could trust him to guard her back in battle, then she could trust him to fuck her from behind until they were both a mess of moans and sweat.

She didn’t give in easily – where would be the fun in that? – but he’d earned this, and she was more than happy to offer herself up for the taking. All in good time, of course.

When he moved she followed, squeezing her thighs around him as a quiet reminder. Her hands left him then, finding purchase in the grass instead. Scabhair met his eyes over her shoulder, grinning just the same as when she’d ridden him into the ground.

 

[Hath Charosh]

There was something in that look that elicited a frantic, desperate need. Another long growl reverberated through his chest. His rough hands roamed without clear purpose as he wrangled with his powerful lover. A grapple to get control of her legs might be followed by nails raking against her thighs, something that offered no real advantage. Indulgence in touch, finding the balance between conflict and harmony in the way only two orcs could.

For her strength, she was not so heavy that he could not lift her. One arm around her chest, the other her waist and he grunted and heaved her upwards. He stole her purchase on the ground, twisting until she faced the flames. Heat washed across her face, over his chest and shoulders. Then his large hand was around the back of her neck, just enough strength applied in that grip to demonstrate his control. Down he pushed her head and shoulders, having lifted her up, now he pressed her down. The only sounds he made were soft panting breaths as he became fascinated by the curve of her spine and the light playing across it as she bowed before the flames.

 

[Scabhair]

It wasn’t a Great Rite until you got manhandled at least once. Or womanhandled – for orcs the difference mattered none, so long as everyone was well-shagged come morning. It wasn’t so far away now, Scabhair thought. The pyre before them had quieted down during the night, not quite embers yet, but gentler and softer in sharp contrast to his rough hands.

A spike of liquid heat arced down her spine as he pressed her down, stolen from the flames themselves for how sharply it burned. For how sudden it was, the depth of her lust came as no surprise. She was of the Aiforn, and they of the gathamhr in turn. The many centuries together had seen them learn from each other in ways far beyond the hunt.

No air for words was left in her lungs, and Scabhair was glad for it. They’d done enough talking for tonight – for this night of all nights. If she had to spend her breath on something, she’d much rather scream his name beneath Lessat.

 

[Hath Charosh]

It almost felt as if the world had fallen into silence. There had been an unnatural stillness in the air ever since the eclipse had begun, it was just that the orcs chose to shatter that year on year. Maybe that had been the beginnings of the Rites. Alone in the dark with the eerie silence, the tribes found comfort in song.

It wasn't quiet, his focus had just honed in on several sensations and shut out everything everything else. Harmony and chaos. Peaceful, violent delights. Receptive to her body and nothing else.

Hath might have nearly ruined that purity by talking of their future, but it had been so easy to strip back to layers and find that primal core. To connect on a deeper level with no lingering questions between them.

A skip of his heartbeat and everything that had been muffled out returned. “Scy…” he desperately pleaded.

 

[Scabhair]

His desperation was a visceral thing. It bled into her, too – wherever he touched her he left fire in his wake, a thousand invisible bruises that only she could trace in the light of dawn.

Her heart ached as he called to her on a broken breath, stomach coiling with an emotion she couldn’t hope to name if she saw another hundred summers. She gasped for air as he filled her again, but her voice failed her. Scabhair arched her back, blindly grasping until she found his solid warmth, spine arching against his heaving chest. Her fingers dug into the muscles of his back, keeping him still and close and real, so that they might tumble o’er that brink together.

And all the while the skies still burned, a ring of flames to crown the moon in all her glory. The world still turned, and down below the orcs still lived, and yearned, and weaved their story.

 

[Hath Charosh]

Dropping his knees to the soil, he embraced her in turn. With an arm around her chest, he eased her back and up until they ended up kneeling tall together.

Hath never let her fall back to the earth. Even as they bucked and groaned and writhed his arm kept her pulled tight to his chest. It didn't matter where they had come from, or from what they were made. They were each other’s anchors and finally, a final act of the Rites, all sense of self was stripped away and she was part of him.

 

[Scabhair]

They were all of them destined for death one day. Humans, orcs, even elves. Some feared it for the pain, others not knowing. Though she wondered oft at night, no eve brought thoughts of of it so close to heart as this one. An end and a beginning, celebrated for the cycle they enshrined.

Nothing burdened Scabhair in that moment. The lines were gone between their kin, the Rite, the wind and stars – there was no room for fear when her soul was full of awe. As one they felt like fire; like the sun reborn, soaring high above the land in the blinding light of lives expired.

It took the fierceness of an orc to stand before the humbling spirit of the world; to face it and not lose the sense of self; to recall the surly bonds of earth and willingly return, so they might know to live, and live to learn.

With gentle hands she took from him the here and now, led them down to solid soil where they could fill their lungs with air again.

 

[Hath Charosh]

Colliding together, torn asunder and fusing into one, burning together in the fires of rebirth, all with the whole world as witness. Lessat and the Sun; Hath and Scabhair.

Chest to back they had clung desperately to one another as they had found that place of bliss together. If there was a moment where one could truly feel all the forces of the world beyond what could be seen and heard it was then. They went to that place together.

Slowly she guided him back to the ground. They were back to where they had started, returning with fresh marks to keep the memory alive. They faced the fire together with her flush to his chest, with his arm for a pillow.

He remembered how elated her bold declaration had made him feel after she had claimed him, but he had no words for this moment. They might have started with her held to the ground, but in the end they had risen together, held up by mutual support before falling together.

Even during the dry season it never truly became cold through the nights. Even this far south where the savanna merged into the woodlands there was merely a chill. Any discomfort from it wicking the sweat from their bare bodies was covered by the warm glow of the fading fires. If the pyre had been well built, it would still smoulder at dawn.

He communicated by touch with his free arm. No longer the iron grip, but no less possessive. He stroked her hair and traced the lines of her form as if committing her to memory with touch alone. That too came to an end as his warm breath was exhaled across her neck to a slow rhythm.

He felt truly content and something powerful deep in his chest that was tied to her. It made him feel light and free. At the time, he had thought he might have truly spoiled the evening by questioning what would come next for them. Now he was glad the could find sleep with that mutual understanding in place. A foundation for whatever followed. Wherever the wind took them.

 

[Hath Charosh]

The following morning

When he stirred it was still dark. The trees to the east were silhouetted against an indigo glow. That light was slowly chasing away the stars. Soon Lessat were emerge, giving birth to the new sun. It would be greeted with a more sombre atmosphere than the one the old sun had departed to. The pyre itself provided no light, but warmth still radiated from the ashes. It didn't give as much warmth as the woman draped across his chest.

A dull throb had started behind his eyes. Ale and narcotic smoke, fucking and dancing, all took their toll. The hundred patches where his skin was faintly sore from fingers, teeth and nails were quite welcome.

Other orcs were stirring. Some had stood up, dusting themselves down and hastily departing in different directions. Orcs had few firm customs over relationships. Some paired for life, others had a string of partners, the chieftain of the Ashlanders seemed to keep a hareem of men. If a female declared another orc the father of their child, the male(s) would be expected to protect mother and child whilst they were most vulnerable. That was about as far as the trappings of their culture went.

Some aspects of the previous night seemed like a blur. The dancing and song before the fire. Other memories were clear and vivid. They brought a smile to his lips and he softly nuzzled the crown of Scabhair's head. They would almost certainly need to talk some more when she woke. Or at least after they'd found food and water and cleared their heads. Recalling one aspect of the conversation, he wondered if Kardidua was actually going to deign to talk to him to voice her concerns or just level him with a withering stare. He found he didn't care either way.

 

[Scabhair]

Scabhair came-to with the sun. Her mornings had never been slow – hunting and college lessons waited for no orc. She was used to the dawn well enough, and to the swift change from slumber to awareness. It made the ache in her muscles no kinder, though, and the light no gentler on her eyes.

The spirit of the Rite seemed to linger still in her lungs, as if she’d never exhaled all the smoke.

A lazy grin crawled onto her face as she watched the men and women drag themselves up from the dirt, looking just as tired as she felt. Smeared paint and bruises decorated the best of them as they stumbled back to their tents together and alone alike.

“Busy night,” she said, and wasn’t surprised to hear herself croak instead. They’d not had a drop to drink since the mushroom ale. She glanced down at Hath and peeled a flake of yellow paint off his lips with an amused smile. Clearing her throat, Scabhair tried again, “Water?”

Her first reason was the itchy film of hay, paint, and sweat clinging to her skin; the second was burning wish to be long absent from the clearing when Kardidua appeared from her hut. It just so happened they both conveniently coincided into a jaunt down to the nearby river.

 

[Hath Charosh]

They peeled apart to a soft chuckle and found their feet slowly. Hath stretched towards the stars to a crackle of aching joints. The new sun had emerged on the horizon, still roped in Lessat's ring. It wasn't escaping just yet. Nor was Garesh, a hunter from their tribe followed by a female from a visiting tribe. Words were quick and terse, too quiet to make out.

There were two groups already at the stream. Those upstream were collecting water to make broths from the previous day's leftovers. Downstream the orcs were scrubbing off the paint. They weren't large groups of orcs. Only a handful and spread out, but the demarcation between clean and dirty water was clear.

Hath cast an unashamed, appreciative eye over Scabhair and wades in. A hiss escaped between clenched teeth as the cold. Even though the water didn't move quickly it sapped the heat from his legs but he kept walking until it reached his waist.

 

[Scabhair]

Cold for savannah standards, maybe.

Scabhair grinned broadly at the ignoble noise that escaped him. “Better get used to it if you want to come north with me,” she said on a soft laugh. “You’ll remember this as warm compared to where we’re going.”

Wda was the coldest of the rivers of the Spine, drawing directly from its icy peaks. She’d only gone for a swim there once, involuntary as it had been during a hunt gone wrong. Sayve and Bystra, on the other hand, were the furthest points of the Aiforn marches.

“Our Great Rites are underwater,” she said at length, using one of the rougher pebbles to scrub the grime from her skin. “The cold is… normal, after a while. The shamans teach us to breathe through it.” She shrugged, gesturing for him to turn so she could clean his back. “The meditation has probably saved my life a few times in the Spine.”

 

[Hath Charosh]

Another huntress had laid the paint across her back, but it was Hath who stood behind Scabhair to scrub off what still clung there. A stone of his own was pleasantly rough between the shoulder blades, but only his hands washed the lines that would not come off with water. No one but him had put those there.

"Underwater. How does that go?" he asked, his interest piqued as he tried to build a mental picture. The soft grunt that followed acknowledged the different climate he would have to endure. Whilst he had travelled north before, he wouldn't be ready for the winds that howled across the spine that seemed to cut through to the bone.

 

[Scabhair]

“Well, not the whole of the Rites,” she amended, turning back again so that he could return the favour. “But instead of the smoke, we first go to the sweat huts, and then into the river. Let out all the bad spirits, so that the blood of the earth can renew us.”

“The cold you feel…” she smiled, sinking deeper into the water until it reached to her neck, “it’s the world, reminding you that you’re alive.”

Her skin tingled where the current caressed her scratches and bruises, a pleasant reminder of just how different Charosh traditions were.

“The lack of breath eventually brings us to the same place as the herbs your shamans use.”

 

[Hath Charosh]

He could see the wisdom in the first statement. A rush of cold water could certainly send the pulse racing and remind one of how alive they were. A raised eyebrow suggested he was less enamoured with the way they used the water in their Rites. The idea of drowning was one of the few ways to shed his mortal coil that he couldn't bear to consider. Perhaps that was because one of his earliest memories was of one of his tribe being dragged under by a crocodile.

Hath leaned forwards and dropped his entire head under the water. Beneath the surface he rubbed his palms over his face to wash away the last of the paint. Breaking the water, he flung his dark hair back and ran his hands through it back.

There was a deep bark of laughter downstream followed by a cry and a loud splash. Bathyr stood at the side of the stream, a female emerging from the disturbed waters. A second woman was making a show of pleasing as Bathyr picked her up easily and threw her in after, before diving in himself.

"How do you make sure no one drowns?" he asked as he waded back towards the bank.

 

[Scabhair]

She pursed her lips. And that was why she preferred dancing.

“We don’t. We can’t.”

It was her turn to appreciate the view as Hath climbed up the bank, muscles shifting in the faint golden light of the dawn.

“Our tribe is small, Hath. The Hunt is our first trial, the March our second, and the Rites our third. It’s… how we ensure no weak blood is passed on.” She offered up a wry smile as she followed him ashore, content to let the rising sun dry the droplets still clinging to her skin. “Your herbs – have they never killed anyone?”

 

[Hath Charosh]

Despite the gravity of the topic Hath barked a brief laughter. He shook the water from his arms as he turned to face her.

"They've made the odd young blood so fucking brave they refused to back down to the wrong orc. If that counts. Not directly as long as I remember," he said. He understood though. Everything had a risk. Sometimes you had to leap. Whether that was into the path of a troll or towards someone with a bowl of fresh paint.

Hath turned to face the new sun, shielding his eyes with his hand. It was so small compared to Lessat, yet so much brighter.

"When we go north we cross the savanna first. The water is life. You have seen an almost dead land. One day the rains will come in as we travel. It will not stop for days. When it does, you will see life everywhere." He picked a path towards the tent they had left behind. It seemed a very long time since they had done so.

 

[Scabhair]

Every tribe faced their own challenges. Charosh had the dry season, with its looming empty skies and swathes of cracked land. Aiforn had the great leaps between the heat of summer and the dead of winter, where it could feel like going from Amol-Kalit to the peaks of the Spine in the span of a single season.

“I look forward to seeing it,” she said with a smile, silver gaze taking in the scorched scenery around them. It was the natural cycle of life, but blooming green fields would always be a sight for sore eyes. They were her home, after all.

“Inodeirr won’t appreciate being wet for days on end, though.” If Scabhair was concerned at the notion, her grin surely belied it. She stepped into the tent still smiling, intent on jotting down her impressions of the Rite whilst the memories of the night were still alive in her flesh.

 

[Hath Charosh]

It was a strange half-light that started to wearily chase away the darkness. Almost as if the world reflected the tribe in needing more time to renew itself after the unbridled release of energy.

Hath watched her gather her writing tools, thinking that she had missed her usual evening's writing. He sat beside her, far closer than he would have doke the day before, and briefly placed a hand between her shoulder blades.

The cleansing waters had washed the scent of him from Scabhair. A shame, despite the need to remove the itchy flakes of paint. He would put it back there. Later perhaps, after he had found some food. Leaning back onto his elbows he let the evening repeat in his own mind. Etching those memories deeper into his own mind as Scabhair did into her paper.

 

[Scabhair]

Despite the way the air had shifted between them, they could share a comfortable silence just the same, and Scabhair was thankful for it. Heat slowly crept into the tent was the light grew stronger, stealing the last of the cold from silver and olive skin alike.

She put down everything from dawn onwards – the painting, the contests, the feasting, the smoke, the dance. Even the sex, though she expected that no amount of argument and bared tusks could convince the wizened librarian to put that on the hallowed College shelves.

“What happens today?” she asked after a while, looking up as she mixed her ink anew.

 

[Hath Charosh]

"Listen carefully," he said before falling silent. Just on the edge of their hearing were low voices that found harmony. Too far to discern any words, but there were orcs singing.

"Some will sing softly around the pyre as the heat ebbs away, others will do as they please to while away the time. The tribe will gather when the new sun is at its highest. Normally in the hall, but maybe not this year," he said.

Sitting upright he peered down at the meaningless symbols. There was an elegance in their form he could appreciate even without understanding. This was a task she had set herself which demanded respect, but now he understood the goal too.

"The tribe...has a different dynamic after the Rites. It has to settle and to work before Charosh goes north." Adolescents who had proven themselves would take on new roles. The informal hierarchy might have shifted. Bonds had been formed or broken and for the orcs the social and working dynamic were intrinsically linked.

 

[Scabhair]

She nodded, listening without interruption as he explained the intricacies of his tribe. Did it come from him being on the outskirts with his uncle? Or was he simply that perceptive? Perhaps it was a combination of both – Hath didn’t have the sort of intelligence the scholars at the College would’ve praised, but he possessed plenty of cunning.

And outside the walls of Elbion, she’d pick the latter over the former any day.

Though her smile was half-hidden behind the curtain of red hair, her voice was full of the amusement it carried. “Are there any other customs I should be made aware of?”

She looked up then, silver eyes sparkling with mirth. “Before I’m in the middle of them, preferably?”

 

[Hath Charosh]

Hath cleared his throat but refrained from apologising again. An orcish face wasn't well suited to pulling off a contrite but he managed it.

"When we gather later, Kardidua will stand and talk. Silence is not required, respect is. If a shaman is reading from the flames there is silence. If they are throwing bones it doesn't matter. The shamans with an eye tattooed below the throat are always afforded respect."

His tone was far more seriously than the smile that reached his eyes. The clan wasn't one for standing on ceremony much beyond the Great Rites.

"Should have tried to make you believe something outlandish," he chuckled." Is your writing done?" he asked. There was no impatience in his tone, but he had a mind to fetch some food back to the tent if there was lots more left to do.

 

[Scabhair]

She nodded at this too, storing it as carefully into her mind as the words she put into writing. No matter how much she loved knowledge, some things were meant for orcs and orcs alone. Without context, without blood, without the wind in their hair, no human could hope to comprehend the full breadth of their customs.

If she ever did get it printed and bound, the Rites would find no home among the pages of her book. They were as deeply personal to their peoples as a gathamhr was to an Aiforn.

“Could’ve, would’ve, should’ve,” she teased back just as easily, then nudged him into motion with her foot. “I’ll be quite alright on my own, you know.”

 

[Hath Charosh]

Hath acknowledged that with a grunt and crawled to his belongings. He took out a leather sleeveless jerkin and trousers and got to his feet. The trousers clung to damp skin as he drew them up over his thighs. He left the jerkin loosely tied so he could finish drying as he walked. Whilst it felt appropriate to dress himself again, it also felt right to continue feeling the earth beneath his feet so boots were left where they were.

Hath felt a great sense of calm settle over him. The throb behind his eyes had almost gone now, there was just the fatigue from the Rites. Scabhair had put him in his place twice and he was deeply satisfied with the results. An orc found their place in the natural order of the world. They had aspirations and goals just as any human did, but they also knew to appreciate the ways things were instead of charging towards change at all times.

Hath turned back to face Scabhair, who was back on the sheaf of paper. She made a soft murmur as she considered a word before the soft scratching continued. Hath could appreciate the way things were right now.

“I'll bring back some food,” he said. “Later in the afternoon should ask Ghawek where we can assist. Maybe some hunting at first light.”

Even as he still felt attuned to the natural order of the world he started to feel the urge to put some distance between himself and the tribe. Food stocks would need resupplying. Hath brought three fingers to his lower lip, touching his tusk and then peeling them away. He hadn't made such a gesture to bid Scabhair goodbye before, but it was only appropriate for close family or a lover.