Private Tales Stuff Like This Happens to Everyone

[Corvus]

Haften Wood
Allir Reach

Corvus picked his way over a body, the blood-black earth beneath yielding to his boot as he leaned down to rifle through the dead bandit's pockets. A diagonal gash, shoulder to hip, told the story of his death, and the gape of his mouth told the story of the surprise with which he'd departed this world for the next.

Nearby, a fire continued to send smoke into the evening sky, freshly stoked before combat had seen those seeking it's warmth put to the eternal cold of death. He'd already picked over another pair of bodies, and a fourth lay in his tent where his throat had been torn out by Scalf.

The white wolf was presently chewing on the leg of a bandit, and a wad of wet cloth nearby said he'd spit out the first bite having found the hose unpalatable. A low growl rumbled from it's throat, and it's ears perked, and Corvus paused what he was doing, straightening his back and setting his hand to the hilt of his longsword.

He didn't speak, because he didn't have to.

Scalf smelled something. Something close.

 

[Scabhair]

Allir Reach was good, dark soil. Arable land, so of course it had been ploughed and sowed and ploughed again until it would yield no more.

The field she trod now was fallow, eager to soak up new life from the many corpses littering the trampled grass. If she had time she might follow the tracks, observe the patterns danced by tired legs, watch for the scabbing of desperate fingers through the ithir dubh – but there wasn’t time.

Indoeirr had her hackles up, her ears flat, her tail swaying through the air. Scabhair hummed, resigned to the realisation that there must’ve been some bandit she’d missed. The fighting had dragged out too long, staggered out too far. Blood matted her hair, though it was all red – human.

Unsheathing her bow, the half-orc nocked an arrow and palmed three more before she delved beyond the bend of the forest and into the open.

Even if it was another archer, she was the quicker shot.

And if it wasn’t—

well, it wasn’t.

Her muscles stayed relaxed as she stopped again. Her boots squelched on something fleshly wet, but she didn’t look down. Her silver eyes settled on the man and his wolf, and judged his colours and demeanor too steady for the band of frenzied outlaws she’d spent her evening cutting down.

“Who are you?”

Despite her tusks, the words rang out in clean common, an accent so crisp that anyone not looking would think her an Elbian scholar.

And they would be right.

 

[Corvus]

He wasn't looking directly her way when she first stepped into the clearing, but when he heard the voice and turned, he was expecting to find himself staring down an elf - maybe a regional guard. Instead, he was looking at... what appeared to be an orc. His height, packed with muscle.

Despite the easy way she held her bow, he kept his hand on his sword, not trusting that she wasn't going to try and drop an arrow into him.

"Someone hired to kill bandits... and you?" He asks, in a thickly accented voice that said he'd come from somewhere quite far north. His wolf, perhaps sensing she wasn't intending to kill him just then, had stood, but other than having it's ears back, did little more than stare down her and her companion.

 

[Scabhair]

Her mouth wrenched to the side, bemusement turned to amusement as she assessed the scene behind him.

“Someone hired to kill bandits,” she echoed, inspecting what she could see of his handiwork. No arrows – just cuts and tears. Man and beast.

The picture at her back would not be so different – the men she’d downed with her bow lay at the far end of the field, and she’d salvaged what she could at any rate. After the first few runs with Inodeirr, the two split up to deliver axe, tooth, and claw into the disorganised swarm of bandits that remained.

Now, her muscles ached, bone-weary from a long battle. Her gathamhr was limping from a lucky hit scored by some bastard in his death throes.

If the spirits willed it, she would fight no more tonight.

Scabhair slid her reserve arrows back into the quiver at her hip and motioned to the lively fire. “You mind?”

 

[Corvus]

He had made out far better than her, though he wasn't going to hazard a guess as to why. That feline with her told him she wasn't a heavy hand on the bow, and so she'd either fought more than he had, gotten unlucky, or both. He doubted she'd be walking around with a beast like that if she hadn't some skill to go with her build.

Not following the motion of her hand, he simply nodded the once. He hadn't fared perfectly himself, with his brigandine showing a few notches and dents.It was hard to tell which blood was his or theirs, but it was clear his movement wasn't impaired.

"I take it you were hired to do the same..." He says simply, staring at her eyes for a moment before sizing her up again, clearly waiting to see if there were any tell-tale shifts of the muscle to warn him of an oncoming attack. Despite his wild appearance, he wasn't a wild man.

But that didn't make him less paranoid about meeting strangers in a clearing full of dead bodies.

 

[Scabhair]

There was no tell-tale shift, no sudden change of pace – Scabhair strode towards the circle of warmth and settled down on a bedroll that had miraculously made it through without a single bloodstain. With her legs crossed she gestured Inodeirr closer, until the lion settled half into her lap with a heavy sigh.

None of them were young anymore.

She yanked her gloves off with her teeth before prying the wounded paw away from misguided attempts at nursing. With slow, careful motions, Scabhair began working a poultice of wort and yarrow onto the injury.

“It would appear so. I’ll be sure to have a conversation with Captain Duarde about their bookkeeping.” Her humor was as dry as her smile was tired. Clearly she anticipated trouble would follow her next words. “How shall we split the purse?”

 

[Corvus]

Watching her move, wary like a territorial dog, he waited until she sat and eased the feline towards her lap before taking his longsword and slipping it back into his scabbard. Unable to find an good place to sit, he went and found himself a small barrel they'd used to store something - presumably ale - and set it by the fire.

Easing himself onto it, he balanced himself so it wouldn't roll, and huffed faintly. It was her perfectly refined speech that was throwing him off more than anything, and his hands reached up to remove his leather helmet. Shaking out his shoulder length hair, brown flecked grey, he ran his fingers through his bloody beard of the same colors, sighing as he adjusted the set of the furs around his shoulders.

Winter was setting in, and that meant the cold. He loved the cold, and it was actually rather warm now compared to most but, he liked to keep his furs in good position across his broad back. "That is a good question. Though I wasn't hired by the Captain - he was out.

Their Sergeant hired me." Scalf meandered his way over, dropped next to the fire with a huff, snout settling on his outstretched paws.

"Corvus." He introduces, gruff, but far from unfriendly.

 

[Scabhair]

She nodded slowly, processing the words as her eyes followed his motions. He had the air of awareness that she rarely saw in lowland humans – as if the fur coat and the wolf hadn’t been a sign enough that he wasn’t from the Reach.

“That would explain this… mishap.” She sighed and wound a strip of clean cloth around the wound to finish the dressing. “Anis falbh gorbhedd,” she murmured to the lion. The great beast chuffed and nuzzled her head into her leg until they were both comfortable.

“Scabhair ri Eine, ri Aiforn, doirann cugu ri Manna ri Mladhmanna,” she said then, offering a calloused hand to the other warrior. “But you can call me Ryeine.”

“As for the bounty…” once upon a time, she might’ve insisted they count the dead and see who’d done the lion’s share of the killing, “...half and half is fine by me.”

She was too old for that shit.

 

[Corvus]

He half expected her to say they should count the bodies, but half and half was fine by him. Pulling his glove from his hand, he shook hers, calloused palm to calloused palm, and nodded once. "Ryeine." He repeats, making sure he was pronouncing it right more than anything.

The repetition would also help him remember. "I have some jerky if you're hungry." He offers, digging in a pouch. "I'm afraid I don't eat human, and most of their food around here is... questionable, or covered in blood." Holding out some strips of dried beef, he gave a tight lipped smile, dropping a piece to Scalf who slurped it up into his bloody muzzle without a moment's hesitation.

Looking up briefly, he found himself looking at a purple sky, and frowned. "We might be here all night if we don't move soon. The guard locks up their offices at night."

 

[Scabhair]

She declined the offer with a thin smile, nodding to the dead scattered over the field around them.

“Thank you, but I’m… settled.” When it came to matters of diet, Scabhair had learned to keep the details sparse and the meaning vague. Few humans appreciated the idea of their brethren cut up into sizzling morsels over someone else’s fire.

Inodeirr had already eaten her fill on the way over. Between the wound and a full belly, they weren’t going anywhere tonight.

“Even if you can ride that wolf of yours, you won’t get there in time.” She unfurled a leather roll to reveal a meaty thigh cleaved from a fresh kill. It was steaming in the cooling air, dark blood trickling into the black soil.

“You’re free to do as you wish. I shan’t keep you here.”

 

[Corvus]

He snorted, chewing at his dried meat. Thankfully, she hadn't taken offense to his remark about eating human. It was both joke, and truth. Shrugging, he then shook his head in response to the idea of him riding Scalf. "Naw, Scalf ain't for riding." He says simply, "He's a big boy but he ain't that big."

Reaching out, he gave the wolf a brief scritch behind the ears and looked to the sky one more time. "I suppose you're right. We can take turns keeping watch, if you'd like. While I'm sure all the bandits are dead, you never know if they sent a foraging party out before we arrived."

 

[Scabhair]

She nodded, listening while she worked on the meat with practiced motions. Aside from the hairy skin, nothing would go to waste. Bones for the lion – and the wolf, perhaps – tendons for fixing the arrows she’d broken, and the meat… well, the meat was happily sizzling away on a skewer, its purpose clear as day.

“Where is he from?” she asked, canting her head towards Scarf on the other side of the fire. He was an impressive beast, though she had full confidence in Inodeirr should a fight break out.

“I’ll take first watch then. It’ll be a while before dinner’s ready.” Scabhair paused a moment, lips quirking even as she reached into her pack for a carefully bound codex. “Do let me know if you change your mind.”

 

[Corvus]

He nodded, "I'll take second watch, then." He says, looking around and finding himself a bedroll. Bloody, but he could roll it up, secure it, and use it as a pillow. It would be more comfortable than dirt - you took your luxury where you could find it. After a moment, he answered her first question, though he did so without being verbose.

"Where I'm from; Sheketh."

To say he was a long way from home was putting it mildly, and as he secured the bedroll and moved to lay himself down, he took his scabbard off and laid it within reach of his hand, not wanting to have to search for it should she need to wake him. "And you? Where are you from?"

He slipped his glove back into place, then folded his hands over his chest, closing his eyes while he waited for her response.

 

[Scabhair]

The fire hissed and spat cinder as she prodded at the logs and turned over the meat. Sheketh, then. O’er the great Spine, through leagues of swamp and jungle, down ravines and across a stretch of the great Fjirstaf.

She tilted her head this way and that, checking the steak before yanking it off the open flame. As it cooled on the stone, Scabhair fished a bag of spice out of her pack and rubbed it into the meat.

“Here and there. All over. I was born in Taagi Baara, though.” The flesh was raw and red as she cut it open – perfection. “The great steppes north of here,” she clarified after a moment.

After indulging in the first bites of her dinner, Scabhair broke off the charred bone and handed it to a delighted Inodeirr. “What’s Sheketh like?”

 

[Corvus]

"Never been to the Steppes." He says, a hand reaching up to scratch the side of his nose before he settled in again, ankles crossed. "Mm, mountains. Fjords. Lots of water and snow. Higher up you get glaciers and the like, but down low the farmland is a bit more scarce. It's a hard country, but it has it's beauty. Just make sure you stay inside during winter, even garbed in furs you're likely to freeze to death in an hour."

Stifling a yawn, he adjusted the set of his hips, drawing in a deep breath. "And the Steppes?" He asks after a moment. "What're they like?"

 

[Scabhair]

“Empty,” she breathed, filling that single word with a sense of absolute wonder. Years in and there was still nothing quite like it. Aberresai came close, but the scorched grass and knots of trees still interrupted the sheer vastness the Taagi Baara could instill.

“Wide, open plains for leagues on end. You could live your whole life there and never crest a hill.” Scabhair smiled, peering up at the darkening sky. The first stars were beginning to peek out where the sun receded, assembling into shapes she’d learned to read before she could walk.

She paused, soaking in the tranquility of the moment before turning her eyes to the man again. “I heard from another Shekethi traveller that you’ve mountains that spit fire. Is that true?”

 

[Corvus]

"Sounds boring." He says, "I'm used to thick stands of trees, and even thicker brush." After a moment, realizing she was looking at him, he cracked open an eye, sizing her up. Closing it again, he nods. "Mm, yeah. Few on the big island, some on the surrounding. Every few generations they kick up an almighty cloud of ash and things become... hard."

There was a finality to that word. "But on the islands to the north, and even on the main one, you can survive well enough when they're dormant. Going north is about the only thing that'll save you when they do decide to talk, though."

 

[Scabhair]

The tell-tale scratch of quill against parchment joined the crackling of the fire as Corvus talked. Scabhair wrote down the new information in meticulous shorthand, dipping her pen into the inkwell whenever the black letters lost their lustre.

“Boring is a matter of perspective,” she replied at length, parchment set aside to dry. “I have seen cities where towers aspire to reach the sky. Forests that stretch untamed from shore to shore, as ancient as the soil beneath our feet. Mountains dressed in bridal white, with a blanket of snow so thick you could bury a standing orc in it.”

She ate the rest of the meat, unhurried as she savoured the flavour. “I still like Taagi Baara best.”

 

[Corvus]

Eloquence and orcs weren’t known to go hand in hand, but he found something distinctly charming in the cultured, clipped tones of her voice. Despite her clear, warrior’s build and bloody appearance, there was an obvious scholar beneath the muscle.

Despite himself, a warm smile crossed his lips, brief as a glowbug’s flash. “I keep hearing a saying around here, and I suppose you put voice to the truth of it.

How’s it go again?” He made a pensive sound, then nodded, smile returning as his memory brought the words to his tongue. “There’s no place like home.”

 

[Scabhair]

She hummed again, acquiescing. “I suppose that’s true. But then you clearly prefer the diverse terrain and snow of your own home. We are all the offspring of circumstance.” Though spirits knew she’d spent her life trying to surmount those limitations.

“What brought you so far west, then?” She’d have guessed coin. There was no shame in mercenary work, long as you could keep your head above the blood and know when to walk away. Oftentimes it was the only way to pay your passage through one region or another, especially where war was status quo rather than occasional catastrophe.

Between the wolf and the fur though, Scabhair could hardly recommend him a visit to the red sands of the Amol-Kalit.

 

[Corvus]

He was quiet as he considered her question, though it was one worth asking. They were both quite far from home, but him more so than her.

There was no hiding the way his face fell, and he was thankful that his eyes were closed. Pain was even harder to hide than the realization you were being asked an intensely personal question entirely accidentally.

“My wife died.” He says simply, and because, where he came from, truth was prized above all else, he continued, “And our adopted daughter kicked me out. So I had to find a new life.”

 

[Scabhair]

Oh.

Whatever she’d been expecting, it wasn’t that. Though this man was a but a stranger met by chance, Scabhair grimaced in sympathy. Loss was a part of life, but it didn’t make it any easier when death came to collect.

“I’m sorry,” she said, sincere despite the distance between them. Corvus was, she suspected, more akin in custom to orcs than the men of the lowlands. “You are welcome here.” For all it was worth.

 

[Corvus]

A rumbling noise, like that of a distant rockslide, emanated from his throat. He shifted again, lips creasing into a frown that explained all the age lines on his face.

With a deep breath, and a visible attempt at relaxation, he smiled. Though it was thin, and lacked the vibrance of true happiness, it was clearly an attempt to show his appreciation.

“Thank you.” She didn’t pity him, and for that he was thankful. She simply understood. He could live with that.

“Im happy to have company for once.”

 

[Scabhair]

She blew out an amused breath and stoked the flickering fire. “Your wolf doesn’t count?”

To Aiforn the gathamhr were like family. They trained and raised them from cubs; lived, hunted, and slept with them; often, they died with them.

But she’d seen how humans treated their animals. Hung yokes about their necks and used them ‘till they fell under the weight; kicked the dogs about on the streets; murdered packs of wolves even though it was their village infringing on the wolves’ territory.

They lacked all respect for beasts that could kill them with but a turn of the head or swipe of a paw. It was baffling.

 

[Corvus]

He snorted. “He’s fine company.” And she was nitpicking. He didn’t need to read her mind to know it was either a joke or something she felt strongly about.

Both? No. Just a joke. It was an out of place remark enough to get him thinking, but in the end he shrugged.

“But I can’t hold a conversation with him. He’s family, but even though I talk to him, he’s not exactly going to talk back - not in ways another person could.”