Private Tales Voices

[Hath Charosh]

"No. They have ox and sheep," Hath replied in earnest. Words felt difficult to wrap his lips around. It was not just because the human tongue always sounded strange to his ear.

Orcs did not make small talk. They spoke of what they needed and would then be content to sit in silence. The exception was stories, but these had purpose. Stories were lessons, they were how they preserved their culture and their teachings. It was how orcs established a pecking order through their deeds.

"I do not believe that elves ride sheep," he added, taking a deep breath. It didn't do much to pit the pain from his mind so he took a deep swig from the flask. It burned on the way down. He waited for it to take the edge off the pain.

 

[Oriole]

Her laughter was sudden and unexpected, breaking the cool morning quiet.

"No, I cannot ride sheep." Oriole picked up his empty cup but left him with the flask. She trusted him to self-medicate. Taking the cup back to her pallet, she freed him from small talk while she washed the cup to put it back on the fire to boil more water.

"If you still want to go home today, you should lie back down and rest, Hath. I will keep watch."

Being honest, she was rather tired; it had been a late night and she had put a bit of oomph into healing him. Her eyes burned, but she was accustomed to bedside vigils and would persevere. While she did not think it wise for him to go tromping through the woods on his own in his condition, she was neither his wife nor his mother, and therefore could not be the boss of what he did.

 

[Hath Charosh]

Hath caught himself looking amused at her reaction, but not before she did. The next moment he was stoic and pained. Orcs rarely smiled broadly. Showing teeth and tusks was often a sign of challenge.

Leave without her knowing. Do not let her see where you go, the voice said. This time it was easy to disagree. He did not feel like trying to get up and slink away quietly. He didn't even feel like trying to tend to himself. His spoken voice drew a line between those points.

"I will go when I wake," he said firmly.

---

"I may...go with you on to town."

It had taken time to fall asleep. The hunter heightened his senses, kept him safe. It didn't help him rest when his body needed it.

When he woke, his thoughts had collapsed down into a more focused direction. Hath could limp away from here back to his little hide away in the rocks. He wouldn't be able to hunt for days. The gnolls would notice that.

Also, the elf hadn't killed him yet.

 

[Oriole]

She had spent the morning going through her things and sorting them back into their right places. It helped to take stock of what was missing and what she would need to procure as soon as possible.

When Hath woke, he had come around to his senses. Oriole wasn't the type to gloat over being right. That wasn't the point. The point was that he would continue to heal rather than shambles into worse trouble a few days later. Though she knew quite literally nothing about him, he was still a person -- and one who had helped her. She gave a shit.

"Tomorrow, then. If you are feeling up to it." The proviso was clearly spoken, as much a threat as a promise. "I am in no rush to be anywhere. If you would prefer, I could walk you to your camp instead?"

A compromise. If he was well established and settled, she would feel more at ease leaving him behind in recovery.

 

[Hath Charosh]

"Hm."

It was, at least, still verbal communication. A look of determination settled on his face and he managed to sit up. He looked at the wound, this time without poking it. For some time he had been running almost on pure instinct to survive the wilds, but he could still learn from his mistakes.

The camp had been tidied up. The goblins had made a mess trying to rifle through her possessions.

Not safe to bring anyone back to your camp.

The voice had woken up as well. This time it's concern sounded too ludicrous to even consider.

What was even left at the camp? He carried his main possessions on his back. A few stripes of dried meat were hardly worth returning for. There were his furs to protect against the harsh nights.

"I need to find my bow," he declared, planting a hand on the ground. It had been discarded whe the goblins had rushed him.

 

[Oriole]

Hm. So little and so much was said in a single syllable. It was something of a non-answer, but she already understood that he was not much of a talker. Was that a refusal to go to his camp, then?

His declaration was not much help. Oriole frowned and stood up, hastily abandoning the journal and graphite in her hands. She didn’t rush over to him, but she ventured closer with a hand out like she was approaching a panicking horse. At the same time, it also took a lot of willpower not to kick his hand out from under him.

“Hey, quit that. Sit still, will you? I can find your bow for you if it’s important.” Oriole huffed. Was he stubborn, reckless, or just stupid? She was having a hard time determining that for herself.

 

[Hath Charosh]

He growled at her.

It wasn't the sound of a wounded animal about to bite. Instead it was the deep rumble of frustration. There was no logical response to her admonishment. Just because he wanted to find it himself did not mean it was sensible to get up and go walking around.

Hath didn't even raise his gaze to her. Brow furrowed, he slowly lowered himself back down to the ground. His body was already grateful for the lack of tension through his wounded flesh.

"There are a few things at my camp to collect, but there are gnolls nearby. Please find my bow."

 

[Oriole]

A growl wasn't really an answer, either, but it said more than the hm and he laid down without her admonishment. Better yet, he asked for help.

"I know," she replied shortly. They would not be in each other's company if not for said gnolls.

"I will find it for you. And unless gnolls walk into camp, don't you dare think of getting up while I'm gone," she warned him with an assertive point of a tattooed finger. "If you are going to walk anywhere tomorrow, you need to let your body rest."

Finished with being bossy, Oriole picked up a satchel, came near enough to flip his blanket back over him, and tended to the fire. Her boots crunched in the frosty snow as she marched off in the direction she had first seen the orc.

She found his ax first. Last night's breezes had half-covered it with powder dyed pink and brown by blood and gore. Oriole plucked it up, cleaned it off in the snow, and put it over her shoulder without a second glance before she carried on with her search.

Finding his bow proved to be a little more difficult than she had anticipated. Tracking was not her forte, and she made several passes around the area before she finally picked up the trail he'd taken. Her gaze followed it, winding deeper into the woods, but she abandoned any ideas or curiosity when she found his bow quite by accident. The quiver of arrows had been scattered and she did her best to collect them.

Oriole returned (mostly) victorious. Arriving with the same noisy, crunchy footfalls, she still called out to Hath before entering the camp to be sure he knew it was her and no one else.

"Bad news, Hath: I only found four arrows." There was a grin in her tone. "Good news: I think this is also yours." The half-elf deposited his things beside him.

 

[Hath Charosh]

Hath reached for the axe. He wrapped one hand around the haft and dragged it across the bare earth to bring it closer. If the goblins returned, then he would die on his feet with a weapon in hand.

"It was dwarven," he muttered.

Hath didn't know how it had come to be in the hands of orcs. It had once been called Orc Biter, which suggested it had fallen into their hands in battle.

He had challenged another orc on the eve of the Great Rites and come out the victor. The axe was his prize. It wasn't the prize he had wanted. She still chose to warm the bed of the loser.

Not that they used beds during the Great Rites. The bare earth and the warmth of the great pyre was enough.

"I can make more arrows. Thank you."

Wrapped his tongue around human words was becoming more natural. He hadn't forgotten the language, not in six months of the wilderness. It just felt strange.