Private Tales The Beating of Skin Drums

A private roleplay only for those invited by the first writer

Urosh

The Barbarian
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North of the Wda river, a caravan rattled along a dirt road, passing through a narrow, rocky valley. Urosh, son of Unas, watched them from behind a boulder, crouching low in the grass. Mercenary outriders rode up and down the column of wagons, well-armed, but few in number. Too few. Perhaps a dozen in all to guard ten wagons and twice as many merchants.

Placing fingers to his lips, Urosh let out a piercing whistle that echoed in the valley.

At his signal, the warband emerged from the grass as though birthed by the ground itself. More than forty raid warriors, orcs and half-orcs all, charged down upon the hapless caravan, throwing spears and firing shortbows as they ran.

Urosh charged with them. His feet tore through the grass and he vaulted off of stones. He shifted his grip on three javelins, tossing one into his right hand. He paused only long enough to aim and hurl the weapon at the lead mercenary guard at the front. The javelin's leaf-blade cut through the air in a long air, striking the guard true and carrying him fully from the saddle and into the ground in a spray of blood.

Urosh gave a loud whoop of exultation and hurtled down into the fray as orcs collided with caravanners and guards in a desperate collision of bodies and steel. Tall as a young tree and broad as an ox, young chief Urosh rushed in without fear. He wore no armor, nor anything but simple deerhide trousers and boots. A tomahawk bounced from his hip as he ran and he hurled the second of his javelins at a merchant as he rushed in, skewering him to a wagon, before taking up his ax in one hand and his javelin in the other as a spear.

Rori
 
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The carriage rocked violently as the driver screamed, the reins snapping as horses panicked and bolted against their harnesses. Rori’s breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t seen a battlefield before, only the neat, glittering parades of soldiers marching in her uncle’s city. This was not that. This was raw, violent chaos.

Through the small window, she caught flashes: an orc, taller than any man she had seen, cleaving down a guard as though he were no more than wheat to a scythe; arrows hissing through the air and thudding into wood and flesh alike; a wagon overturning as terrified horses reared.

Inside, panic erupted. The Lady beside her clutched her skirts and bolted for the door with a scream, the maids on her heels.

“Wait, no!” Rori’s voice cracked with fear, her hand half-raised in a useless attempt to hold them back. Her warning was drowned out by their shrieks.

One cut off abruptly.

Rori flinched as the head of a spear burst through the carriage wall, wet and glistening. It dripped crimson onto the embroidered hem of her gown. Her stomach lurched. She slipped from her cushioned seat, sinking to the floor of the carriage.

The screams outside came in waves, guards crying defiance, merchants begging, women wailing. All of it seemed distant, muffled by the rush of blood in her ears. She pressed her hands over her mouth to smother her own yelp as tears burned in her eyes.

She wanted to run, but her body would not obey. Instead, she curled against the seat, skirts tangled around her legs, whispering prayers she had not spoken in years.

Please, let them pass me by. Please, let them not see.

Wood splintered again nearby as heavy footsteps pounded closer. The carriage door rattled.
 
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Beyond the carriage door, the clash of metal and screams reached a fevered pitch, then one by one they lessened until all that remained were harsh laughter and the groans and sobbing of the wounded and dying.

The carriage door nearly ripped off its hinges when it slammed suddenly open amid the wrenching of wood. An enormous half-orc with braided hair stood just outside, along with several others. One made to dart forward and grab the woman on the floor of the carriage, but the large half-orc cuffed him in the ear.

“No prize but mine,” he rumbled, slapping his chest proudly and baring his tusks at the others. They backed away.

Blood-spattered Urosh stepped into the carriage, his axe in one hand, caked in gore and hair fiber and bits of shattered bone. He sought to grab the woman by the arm and haul her out.

“More than traders,” he said gruffly, “More than gold and spice.”

She was not expected, but looked important by her dress and by the carriage. This had not been part of the information he received from the scouts.

“Who are you?”

Rori
 
Rori gasped as the carriage door was wrenched open with a crash that shook the floorboards beneath her. Orcs crowded the opening, their eyes fixed on her, faces smeared with the gore of the people she had known. Her stomach lurched, and she pressed herself against the wooden wall, desperate to shrink from their gaze.

She recoiled from the first who reached for her before another stepped in, near filling the entirety of the carriage on his own. She looked up, eyes wide and horrified. The word prize whispered in panic through her mind, and her blood ran cold. She did not embarrass herself by resisting when this one reached for her, dragging her roughly from the carriage, aware of the ax in his hand. The warm smear of blood from the fallen touched her skin, and her stomach churned.

Outside, her gaze was drawn unwillingly to the carnage; butchered bodies sprawled across the dirt, guards and merchants alike twisted in death, the air thick with the iron tang of blood. She pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a scream, every instinct screaming to run, but her legs wouldn't move.

“I…” The words faltered in her throat. Fingertips trembled against her lips, and her eyes welled with tears as she stared at the bodies of people she had known for so long..

“Au.. Aurora…” she whispered, her own name barely audible..

Closing her eyes, she let herself pray in a trembling, whispered voice, clinging to the gods she had scarcely thought of since leaving home.

"You who carries souls on the winds,
whose light warms the Summerlands,
Let me pass as softly as the sun sets,
Let the pain be brief as dawn,
And guide me safely, swiftly home."


Her voice cracked on the last line. She did not look at him, did not dare meet Urosh’s eyes, only clenched her fists and waited for her end, hoping her gods would hear and be merciful.
 
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“A good name,” Urosh grunted.

Many nights had he traveled the sacred hunting paths in the tallest parts of the Spine. On good nights, he could sometimes see the dancing river of soul lights in the sky. Those from the furthest tundra often saw such sights they claimed. He liked the dancing rivers of light that the Allirians called auroras. And he liked the look of this woman who spoke through her fear, even though it threatened to choke out her voice, instead of being mastered by it.

He nodded in approval as he caught some whispered prayer. It was good to pray to the gods, whichever she sought comfort in,

“Be brave.” His hold on her arm stiffened to keep her upright. “You will not be harmed.” He would not let them.

He stepped over the corpse of a mercenary guard missing an arm and most of his face from ax blows, no more than red ruins which no soaked the ground.

Urosh wore a powerful scowl, “Tajnash, you did not say there would be women.”

A nearby orc on a warg looked at Urosh in answer, “I did not know. Their wooden carts all look the same.”

The crunching of bone rose as the warg’s teeth found the skull of a fallen merchantman and began to worry and gnaw.

“No,” Urosh made a sharp motion with his axe. “What’s done is done.”

He looked back to his captive, “you are noble stock? High bred?” Looking her over he thought she must be in all these fine clothes, “Your people will pay blood coin to get you back?”

Around them in the valley, the warband picked over the spoils of the day.

Rori
 
The sound of the orc's voice was a distant drum in Rori’s skull, a high, keening ring filled her ears and made each word seem to come from far away. She could not stop looking at the ruined bodies, their limbs a twisted puzzle she did not want to solve, and bile rose hot and bitter in her throat. She clamped a palm over her mouth, fighting a dry, animal panic that wanted to wrench itself free. She could not, would not, vomit before them. Not here.

'Be brave,' he had said. The words landed on her like a gauntlet. She forced herself to breathe through her mouth, slow and deliberate, though her heart hammered as if it might break her ribs.

He said she would not be harmed, and tears glistened in her eyes as she looked up at him. Way up. He was enormous, his skin streaked with blood and his eyes steady. How much could an orc’s promise be trusted? She did not know. She did know that they were clearly a savage, barbaric tribe who slaughtered innocents before picking at their bones and pockets. Still, his hand on her arm held her upright and that steadiness soothed a fraction of the trembling inside her.

“Y—yes,” she whispered at his question, the syllable barely more than a breath. The word traded in on her dignity like a coin she had been forced to pawn. She drew her chin up as if she could call some small dignity back into being.

“My—” She stopped, the word husband sticking in her throat. Honestly, she wasn't entirely sure that if her life was left in his hands, he'd part with his much loved coin for the sake of her safe return..

“The King is my uncle,” she managed, voice steadier now despite the constant urge to keep her breakfast in her stomach. “If I am returned unscathed, he will meet your price.” She folded the hope into a practiced certainty because hope, even borrowed, was safer than despair.

She kept her gaze on Urosh’s face a moment longer, testing, bargaining without words, then let her eyes drop to the massacre again, as if anchoring herself to the awful proof that she was still alive.
 
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“A King’s niece. A fine prize then,” Urosh grunted as orcs nearby who heard came forward and slapped him about the back or beat their chests in approval.

He frowned abruptly. “Which king?”

There were many and this one might be poorer than they hoped, but then he looked on her and saw she was shattered by the scene around them. Tears welled in her eyes and she looked ready to vomit.

Urosh shook his head. “No. You are strong, be strong, Aurora with the fire hair.”

Her hair did look like flame, or like leaves in the fall, all reds and golds and browns.

“We go soon. Do not run.”

He let go of her, watching to see if she did try to make a break for it. This would go poorly as the wargs were still hungry. They had not had their fill of the carrion dead yet.

It did not take long for the warband to pick the caravan train clean, there were several more survivors, a merchant who might also be ransomed and two mercenaries - a man and a woman, both elves - who would make fetch a fine price at Bthkairk.

As the sun waned on the horizon, the orcs drifted from the remains of wagons and bodies, leaving the wreckage as the only testimony of their passage and this fight.

The camp of the orcs was nothing grand, just some tents in a clearing, with a fire in the middle. Night was falling and the air felt very cold. Urosh set this Aurora down by the fire and handed her some dried elk meat and a hunk of cheese, while the others danced and celebrated their victory around the fire. Mead flowed heavily and they drank whatever they’d found among the caravan too.

Rori
 
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Rori should have been screaming. She knew that. Somewhere inside, there was a voice begging her to shriek, to claw, to run. But her throat was tight, locked by the sight of slaughter that still burned in her mind. She could not think beyond it.

Her chest heaved, a sharp gasp escaping her lips as the orcs slapped each other’s backs and beat their chests in triumph, the sound thunderous, brutal. The force of it looked enough to send any ordinary man sprawling into the dirt.

“The… Anirian King,” she answered shakily, the words spilling out before she realised she had spoken. Her gaze lingered too long on one of the beasts gnawing at a soldier’s remains, bile rising again, until the deep rumble of Urosh’s voice pulled her attention back.

Strong? The word twisted inside her. She did not feel strong. Her limbs trembled, her body still felt smeared with the blood he had dragged her through, and her mind reeled with horror. She was hollowed out, emptied, her fear a cavern inside her. And yet, when he looked at her, expecting something, she nodded, dazed, as though agreeing might keep her alive.

At his warning not to run, she swallowed hard, hugging her arms around herself as he released her. She did not move. She wasn’t stupid.

By the fire, she folded herself small, tucking her feet in close, the flames’ warmth doing little to thaw the chill inside her. When he offered food, she took it because refusal seemed dangerous, though her hands shook so badly she nearly dropped it. She brought the meat to her lips, but chewing was near impossible; the taste of iron still clung to the back of her tongue, the stink of blood thick in her nostrils.

Around her, the orcs danced, shouted, drank deep, their victory roaring into the cold night. She glanced up at them, brow furrowed, before her eyes found the one who had torn her from the carriage. She studied him, his scowl, the hard set of his shoulders, the blood still drying on his skin.

“What’s your name?..” she asked quietly.
 
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"Urosh," he grunted, spitting a hunk of meat on his knife and holding it up to his mouth. He tore away a chunk and chewed. The cooked meat tasted well enough, a boar they'd killed the day before. The caravan had spices they'd taken today. Urosh wondered what it would taste like with some of those.

Hard, jade eyes glanced at his hostage and he jerked his chin at the food in her hands.

"Eat."

A passing warrior handed him a ram's horn of mead, slapping him on the shoulder. Urosh grinned and drank half the horn, the honey wine overflowing and spilling down across his chin and chest in rivulets. He hardly noticed. He pulled away from the horn, smacking his lips and grunting with approval. Good mead.

He passed the horn to her, thrusting it at her insistently.

"Drink, it's good."

A frown creased his brow at her expression. Why did she cower, her people had died good deaths in battle. They would be welcomed into their afterlife, unless their gods were cowards who shunned war. He knew little of the Anirians, except that they were said to be strong, with battlemages, and lived far, far to the west.

Rori
 
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Urosh…” she echoed softly, tasting the unfamiliar name as though speaking it might make him more real, less monstrous. Her fingers tightened faintly around the chunk of food he insisted she eat, though the sight and smell of it still turned her stomach.

At his curt command, she forced herself to raise it to her lips. Her jaw ached from clenching so hard, but she bit off a small piece, chewing slowly, forcing it down as though swallowing stones. Her throat convulsed, and she coughed once, covering her mouth with the back of her hand, but she managed not to be sick.

When he thrust the horn toward her, she flinched back instinctively, eyes darting to the mead spilling over his chin. His insistence left no room for refusal, and so, she reached out cautiously and took it. The carved ram’s horn was heavy, slick from his grip. She brought it hesitantly to her mouth, the sweet, sharp scent filling her nose.

She drank just enough for the mead to wet her lips and tongue, then took another large gulp of it. “Good,” she whispered hoarsely, offering it back to him.

Her eyes flicked to his face again, trying to read him, searching for some hint of mercy or cruelty in the gleam of his gaze. Around them, the orcs roared their victory, untroubled by the carnage left behind. She tucked her legs closer beneath her skirts, arms folding protectively around them.

"Will you take me to my uncle?.." she asked, aware of how far they were from Vel Anir..
 
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“Take?” The half-orc’s broad brow furrowed. “To Vel Anir?”

He snorted, shaking his head and grabbing the mead horn back to swallow another mouthful of meat down.

“No. Your uncle is far. The Reach. Past Falwood. Past Savannah..”

Hundreds of leagues away. And should a warband of orcs seek to cross that distance - by boat or land - they would not be welcomed open armed. It would be a tooth and nail battle across all that distance. One none of them would survive. To say nothing of placing themselves in the lands of these battlemages and their hellfire magic.

“We will send paper words. He will send gold back.”

Urosh nodded to himself. This was a thing he had done before. Not on such a scale though.

“Stay.”

He got up, draining the last of the horn, then tossed it aside and wandered over to a nearby tree. He lowered his breeches and pissed on the roots. Nothing like a piss after battle. Better than during.

Grunting, he turned around and stomped back only to find one of his orcs inspecting Aurora, trying to pull at her hair and pinch at her skin.

“Back,” grunted Urosh, waving a hand.

“Fine flesh for the meat market,” snarled the orc, Bakhun, who did not step away.

Rori
 
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Her brow tightened at his answer. It was lifetime between here and Vel Anir.. Her ransom would come, perhaps, but only after a slow, awful waiting. If the caravan failed to reach its destination, her husband would track them down from the wreckage they'd left behind. Whether that prospect filled her with relief or dread she could not tell. Both felt like knives twisting in her gut.

She kept her eyes on the fire as Urosh told her to stay. Orcs moved through the camp with the careless brutality of animals, and she felt the weight of their stares on her now that she was sitting alone. One of them inched closer, his fingers greedy as they found the silk at her shoulder. She turned away, forcing herself not to show the panic that wanted to tear out of her.

“Leave me be,” she snapped, the words sharper than she’d meant. Fear ran like ice under them, but the sound steadied her more than prayer had.

Urosh’s voice cut across the din, his order had given her a sliver of safety, however thin. For a moment she felt a small easing until green fingers tugged at her hair.

Her fingers found a rock at her side. It was small, ordinary, but it felt solid and true in her palm. For one hot, bright instant she weighed the choice, to yield and be pawed at, or strike and risk whatever wrath that would bring down on her. The memory of the slaughter, and of the merciless way those orcs treated the dead, hardened something inside her.

“I said leave me be.” Her voice did not tremble now.

The orc reached for her face. She swung. The rock met the side of his skull with a sick, dull thud.
 
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Bakhun stumbled backward, grabbing at his bloodied brow in surprise, which quickly turned to anger. The orc went to pull out a knife, fingers wrapping around the handle.

Urosh shoved the smaller orc back in the chest, hard, sending Bakhun stumbling away. The orc snarled at him and Urosh straightened up to his full height, baring his own tusks in answer to the challenge. At last, Bakhun withered and scampered off, form disappearing in the shadows cast by the firelight into the dancing circle of celebrating orcs.

Grunting at the end to the confrontation, Urosh turned to Aurora, eyeing the rock.

“Good hit. Now they think twice of messing with Fire Haired Aurora, mmh?”

He smiled, tusks white in the firelight, though it faded at her expression.

“Are you hurt?”

The big half-orc knelt at her side, verdant eyes roaming across her figure to see if there were any injuries. He should have done this earlier. Urosh gripped her gently by both arms, moving her this way and then that way. He saw no wounds.

Rori
 
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Adrenaline still roared in her veins, so loud she could hear it in her ears. The moment the stone struck flesh she’d felt a wild, animal surge of triumph, snatched away an instant later by the sight of Bakhun’s twisted, bloodied face. When the knife flashed in his hand, her pulse stumbled, terror slicing through her chest like a blade of its own. She could barely breathe.

And then Urosh was there. The sound of his shove was like thunder, the smaller orc’s snarl cut short as he backed away, retreating into the firelight’s edge to lick his wounds. She knew, somehow, that he would not forget it. Nor forgive it.

Rori’s heart pounded as she looked up at Urosh. Her breaths came too fast, shallow and unsteady, but her scowl held, a brittle mask she wore like armour. The rock slipped from her fingers, tumbling to the dirt, and she curled her hands into fists rather than let him see them tremble.

She expected fury. Retribution. But instead, he praised her. The words made her blink, uncertain whether she’d heard him right. He knelt, his shadow falling over her, and she felt his hands, large and rough, but careful as he searched her for wounds. She didn’t flinch, only frowned at him, the tension in her shoulders refusing to ease.

“I’m fine,” she said quietly, though her voice still shook with the aftershock of fear.

Her gaze lifted to meet his, the firelight catching in her glassy eyes. “It’s going to take quite some time before you get your coin…” she went on, her tone steadier now with something between despair and grim realism. “Do you really think I’ll survive that long?” her brow arched.
 
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The half-orc stood and shrugged at her words.

“You and I are alive tonight. Tomorrow… not even the Mountain Fathers know.”

She thought too much on the future, worried about maybes. Such thoughts were a poison, a paralysis of the mind.

“Many ways to die. Bears and wolves and falls off cliffs. Why fear them all.”

Aurora should think on the dangers of this moment only, but so too the pleasures of life. She drew breath, so she should be glad. Her friends did not, so she should weep. She feared the orc, so she should be angry.

He poked her in the chest, just above the sternum. “The money will come or it will not come. We all die in time. Until then, you live. You eat,” he wrenched away a wineskin from a passing pair of orcs who gave it up after some snarling, “You drink.”

Holding up the wineskin to his lips he drank deeply, the fermented grape a sweet and bitter taste. He held it to her.

Rori
 
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His way of thinking really was that simple. The blunt certainty of it both baffled and frustrated her. As his thick finger prodded the centre of her chest, she glanced down at the spot, rubbing it with a faint scowl as though to wipe away the touch.

“I didn’t mean wolves or bears or cliffs,” she muttered, exhaling a huff of disbelief as she watched him drink. Her gaze slid past him, over the camp, to the orcs laughing around the fire, their faces smeared with blood, to the few survivors from her caravan huddled against a tree in terrified silence.

“I meant your... tribe.” The words came quieter, taut. “I won’t be worth much if they take a knife to my throat when you’re not looking. None of us will."

Her eyes returned to him, searching for any sign that he understood. Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t. He spoke of living and eating and drinking as though life were no more complicated than a hunt. As though the dead strewn behind them were just… part of it.

When he held the wineskin out, she hesitated before she took it, fingers brushing his as she brought it to her lips. The smell was strong, sweet and sour all at once. She drank deeply, perhaps more than she meant to, and the burn of it caught her by surprise. She coughed, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth, the sting sharp in her throat.

Her eyes watered, and she frowned up at him again. “You all slaughtered innocent people without thought,” she said, the words slipping out before she could stop them. “Unarmed people, for what? Sport?

Her voice was soft but edged with something brittle and dangerous, grief tempered into anger, and too much courage for her own good.
 
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“Sport?”

Urosh did not understand and so he frowned.

“No. It is life. Today we were the hunting wolves and you the deer. Tomorrow may be the other way.”

He patted her back twice and firmly as she coughed to help clear the airway.

She spoke of unarmed and this too he did not understand. The merchants were no warriors, but they had their little knives and little swords. Raids cared not whether they be warrior or merchant. It was not as if Urosh fell upon her village and burned it all and slaughtered all her people - such would be a different kind of raid.

“We gave them good battle-deaths. They go to your gods with honor.”

The half-orc grunted with a nod. A good raid. Clean deaths, as he sought to give the game he hunted.

“My people will not harm you. They test the limits. They will not cross them.”

Or he would kill the offender.

Rori
 
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Rori’s brows drew together, disbelief flickering across her face before it hardened into something colder - anger. “Hunting wolves and deer?” she echoed, incredulous. “You think that’s what this is? That slaughtering merchants and farmers and innocent women is the same as chasing game through the woods?”

Her voice trembled with fury, though she kept it low, aware of the many ears nearby. “Those people weren’t your enemies. They weren’t soldiers. They were people. They weren’t given ‘good battle-deaths,’ they were butchered.

When he patted her back, she stiffened under his hand, swallowing down the urge to recoil. Her gaze searched his face, the calm certainty there, and it unsettled her more than his tusks or the blood still drying on his skin.

“You talk about life and death as if they’re simple things, but they’re not." she said finally, voice quieter but no less sharp. "You take lives as if they mean nothing, and then speak of gods and glory as if it excuses you.”

Her jaw tightened as she looked away toward the firelight. "It doesn't."
 
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Urosh grunted and took the wineskin, guzzling down more of the Allirian drink as she hurled her words at him as if they were spears. Oh yes. Fire in this one, as he’d thought. Good. Fire was life. Dangerous, but also warmth and light.

The half-orc wiped the back of a hand across his mouth and gave her a shrug.

“Our ways are not your ways. Life is sacred. Death too is sacred. No excuses,” he sniffed at that word, “What is, is.”

He noticed the way she stared at the blood spatter on his skin. Yes. He did need to wash. He was not a wild bear to fall asleep caked in the blood of his enemies.

A humming in his ears announced the effects of the mead and wine. Urosh gulped down another tug of wine, then tugged her by the arm.

“We go.”

He could not leave her at the camp by herself. She had been right about some things. Some among his band might not kill her, but there were other fates best avoided.

He marched her through the camp, the fire dancers whirling around them, alive with drink and meat. The smell of smoke hung thick in the air and the beat of the drummers filled the night air with a thrumming tattoo. She wouldn’t understand. She came from a different people.

Urosh led her to his tent, a simple structure lined with furs. He grabbed a change of tunics, roughspun stuff. Then led her by the arm away from the camp through the wood, not too many paces distant. The sound of drums still beat out loud from the camp, but the sound of running water joined it. A stream ran there, not very wide, but deep enough.

Pointing at the stream, Urosh nodded, “Wash.”

Leading by example, he tossed the change of clothes on to the bank, pulled off his deer leather shoes, and waded into the water, which came only to his waist. In the night, it was cold, but a good cold. Sharp and refreshing. It reminded him of the mountain air of the Spine. He splashed water across his chest, wiping away the blood and dirt.

Again he beckoned to her, “Wash.”

Rori
 
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She huffed at his words but bit back the retort burning on her tongue. There was no point. They came from different worlds, his carved from blood and bone, hers from silk and lies.

When his hand closed around her arm, she stiffened. “Go where?” she demanded, though her voice was swallowed by the din of laughter and drums. He didn’t answer, only pulled her through the chaos, and she stumbled to keep up, her pulse pounding like the beat that shook the air. Eyes followed her, hungry eyes, mocking eyes, curious eyes, and each glance felt like a touch she couldn’t shake off.

“Will you let me go?” she hissed, tugging against his grip. He didn’t.

The next thing she knew, she was in his tent, breath shallow, chest tight. Furs, smoke, steel, then the forest again. For one foolish, fleeting heartbeat she thought he might be setting her free. But then..

Wash.

She blinked at him, at the stream that cut silver through the dark. In a river? Surely not.

But he was already wading in, boots abandoned, water pooling around his waist. He moved like the cold didn’t touch him, like he belonged to the wild the way she never could. She was jealous, really.

Rori lingered at the edge, glancing toward the darkness where the trees whispered and the drums still beat from the camp. Finally, she crouched, dipping her fingers into the stream. The cold was a shock, biting and sharp. She hissed under her breath and splashed her face anyway, watching the blood and dirt spiral away like ghosts into the current.
 
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Urosh nodded with approval as she finally splashed some water into her face. Satisfied she wasn’t about to go bolting off into the bushes at the moment like a frightened deer, he dunked his head under the water. The frigid stream closed over his head and he closed his eyes, enjoying a moment where he felt and heard nothing but the pull of the river and the rush of its path. Then he broke the surface, tossing his dark hair and shaking it like a dog.

He waded forward frowning at her as she still crouched there by the stream, lightly splashing herself in the face. Leaving the rest of her filthy. Urosh snorted. City dwellers.

“The rest of you will stink, Anirian. Wash.”

He pointed insistently at the middle of the stream where he water ran deeper.

Rori
 
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Rori watched him sink beneath the surface, his broad shoulders vanishing under the dark water. For a moment, only the ripple of the current remained. She cast a glance around them. Shadows, trees, no other orcs. When he resurfaced, shaking the water from his hair like some wild creature, she couldn’t help the quiet huff that escaped her..

“I do not stink,” she muttered under her breath. Her voice was thin, fraying at the edges. “I will freeze if I—” She stopped herself, growled softly, and shot him a look of pure exasperation. “You know what? Fine. I will not have a bloody Orc say that I stink." she grumbled to herself with a shake of her head.

With a glare meant to wound, she sat at the edge of the riverbank, tugging off one shoe, then the other, her fingers stiff with cold and resentment. She unlaced her dress, the fabric so heavy as it was, she'd surely drown in it, and let it slip down around her ankles. Her cheeks burned crimson, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her flinch. Beneath, she wore only her corset and thin silk hose, the remnants of civility clinging to her like ghosts.

Rori drew a breath, lifted her chin, and stepped into the water.

The cold hit like a blade. She gasped, the sound sharp and strangled as it climbed to her thighs, then to her waist. The shock stole her breath entirely, but she kept moving, jaw clenched tight against the shiver that wracked her body.

It took all she had not to retreat. She scrubbed at her skin, splashing and muttering curses between shuddering breaths. The blood and dirt slid away in cloudy ribbons, carried off by the current.

Still, her gaze flicked toward the far bank, just once, then again, longer this time. She waited, watching him, calculating. For the moment when his back turned, or his guard dropped. For the chance to bolt.

Because the moment she saw it - she ran.
 
  • Orc
Reactions: Urosh
She hurled the word orc like a curse. Not the first time. His own people did the same, had called him half an orc - half a warrior. These words only fed him as dry timber feeds a flame. It led him to train harder, fight fiercer, until he rose as a leader of exiles and clan outcasts of this new war band.

No sign of annoyance crossed his face at her insult, he let them roll from him, no more than rainwater on stone. Though he nodded again with approval as she stripped from her dress and in her undergarments only stepped into the stream to bathe.

Urosh splashed more water across his back, looking away from her toward the camp. She would not catch a cold tonight. Last summer he killed a great cave bear in the Spine and took its hide. The thick brown fur would keep her warm in his tent. He had other furs, but the bear was the warmest and so he would give it to her.

He would need to figure out who else among the camp he could trust to watch her, he could not be with her every moment. Others might try to despoil his captive and that would not do. He would not allow it. No. They would sleep tonight and he would find someone in the morning who he trusted and -

Amid the sound of the drums and the running water he heard splashing. Urosh spun around and watched as the fire haired maiden ran for the far bank. He watched her for a moment, annoyed. She ran with the determination of fear, swiftly.

Not swift enough.

Grunting with annoyance, he gave pursuit, sloshing through water until his bare feet slapped on the far shore and carried him hard and fast across the ground with the speed of one born to the forests and the mountains. Quick as a stag, he hurtled after her as they broke through underbrush covering where woods met the stream bank.

Ever alert, Urosh caught a glimpse of several pairs of amber eyes in the darkness as he ran. Wolves. Urosh ran faster, gaining on her with every step.

Rori
 
  • Scared
Reactions: Rori
Rori ran.

The world narrowed to breath and heartbeat and pain. Cold air slashed at her lungs as she tore through the trees, her hair streaming behind her like fire set loose in the dark. The forest was a blur of silver and shadow, branches clawing at her arms, her feet bare and bleeding as they struck against stone and root and earth.

Run.

The word pounded through her skull, louder than the drums she’d fled. The wet silk clung to her body, bitterly cold, stealing the heat from her skin with every step. Still, she didn’t stop.

Behind her came the crash of pursuit, Urosh’s steps, impossibly fast, gaining on her, but she refused to look back.

A snarl ripped through the night.

Her head jerked toward the sound, and her stomach turned to ice. Shapes moved in the darkness, low, sleek, and deadly. Wolves. Their eyes gleamed gold between the trees, keeping pace with her.

Her breath hitched. No, no, please no...

She veered left, branches whipping across her face, but the forest was alive now with movement, a circle closing in. She could hear her own heartbeat, a wild drum against her ribs, could feel the sting of every cut on her skin.

A blur of black fur cut across her path.

Rori had time for a single gasp before it slammed into her, the impact driving the air from her lungs. The world spun, a storm of dirt and bark and pain as she tumbled, striking rocks and roots, her body screaming in protest until she skidded to a stop in the dirt.

For a breath, there was silence.

Then came the growls, low and guttural, surrounding her like a closing fist.

Rori pushed up onto trembling elbows, her heart thundering in her throat. Wolves emerged from the dark one by one, their fur bristling, their teeth glinting white in the moonlight. Their breath clouded in the chill air, their eyes burning into her.

Her gaze darted from one to the next, breath shallow, the taste of blood in her mouth. Her fingers closed around a rock, apparently her new weapon of choice, and as the first wolf lunged at her she screamed as she raised it to strike.
 
  • Orc
Reactions: Urosh
Urosh slammed into the lunging wolf with all the weight of a charging boar, launching the black-furred beast backward. It twisted as it fell, writhing on the ground only a moment before springing back up again, but away from Aurora.

She lay fallen upon the ground where the wolf had tackled her, a rock raised to ward them off. Alone, they might tear her to pieces.

Urosh would not let them.

The drums seemed distant now in Urosh’s ears compared to the pounding of his heart that galloped within his chest as he bared his own teeth in challenge at the gathering wolves. Many waited there, a whole pack. Urosh slapped his chest and growled back at them.

They fell on him, in a flurry of slavering jaws and snapping teeth. One seized him by the forearm, fangs ripping into his flesh and seeking to wrench him to the ground while another, gray-furred one went for his leg. Urosh kicked that one mightily in the chest and heard and felt the crunch of ribs beneath his heel. The beast yelped and whined, but another took its place.

Pain lanced up his arm from where the black furred demon clung to him, its weig he dragging him off balance. He clubbed it over the head with a fist, stunning it, then wrapped it up close to his chest in a crushing gripping. He could feel the jaws of another close around his thigh and another scratching at his back. He stood like a mountain, unmoving, and crushed the black furred pack leader to his chest squeezing his forearm around its throat with all his strength until he felt a trachea give and its growling turned to gurgling. It let go of his arm as it struggled to breathe, but he snatched it up, one hand on lower jaw, one on upper, and pulled them apart with a brutal motion and a savage roar. Its jaw dislocated and it flopped away from him on the grass, whining and gurgling pathetically.

He smashed a fist into the one gripping his thigh and it yelped and bounded away. For a moment, the wolves circled, watching their leader thrash about. Then the black furred one shot up and ran out into the darkness. The rest followed.

Where once there had been only snarling and violence, now there was a sudden stillness. Urosh grunted. He could feel his own blood flowing warm and freely from his forearm and thigh and scratches on his back. He sank to a knee beside Aurora, his chest heaving for breath.

“Are you…” he sucked in air, looking over her drenched form now covered in dirt and grass, “bitten?”

Rori