Zorubaash wandered from Wrona's cart, her words and warnings weighing heavily upon him. Dark things were growing and moving, boldly, in the shadows. He had been gone for too long. Much more was lost in that dungeon than he'd originally thought. Now he was free, flung into a world of darker shadows than those that Zanarick had cast. He would need to ponder, form a new purpose, and act. "He who does not act loses the initiative" was what Tharkum had taught him in their training. Zorubaash was tired of losing. He had wandered this world and lost many things, but now he had found something worth the fight. He had steeled himself in the dungeon, set to his purpose, and now he would renew that purpose and set to the task of achieving his goals...of conquering the gathering darkness and forging his own destiny.
Before he knew it, Zorubaash found himself outside the Forgeborn camp, standing beside his steam hut. Had they moved it so he would return to them? He pondered the trophies they had hung in his room. Good kills, all of them, and worthy glories to adorn his halls. Was it a compulsory tithe from his new people, or was there some sincerity behind it? He had to know. He must understand the heart of his people, if he was to lead them into this uncertain future. He must rekindle their flame. He must forge them, anew. His hands ran across the skins of the hut, absentmindedly, as he pondered these things. He could feel the spirits stirring. The Bear called to him, but not for tonight. It would need to wait one more day. There were pressing matters all around him, and he had resolved to forge ahead. Choosing the path laid before him, he turned from the hut and entered the camp.
He picked his way through the camp, soaking in the sights, smells, and sounds. He sought to know more about these wanderers who now called him "Chief". Guards noticed his passing but did not move to intercept him. He was like a wolf, examining his pack. Others were settling into their tents for the night. Occasionally, one would take note of him and nod in deference. He would return their gazes, unsure of what they were seeking. Gone were the children, trying to count coup on him. Their laughter and awestruck whispers were now replaced with the occasional, soft scolding or lullaby from their parents. How misunderstood, his people. How unlike the stories of terrifying monsters told within walled cities. Fierce they were, in battle. Passionate they were, in mating. Harsh they were, instructing their whelps. Tender they were, in loving their kin. What a glorious fire did burn within them!
Hagurth called Zorubaash from his reverie, as she stood at his side. He cocked his head, quizzically, but there was no malice in his gaze. "You seemed lost, staring across the camp. I wondered if you had forgotten where Mazoga's tent was." He furrowed his brow for a moment, pondering. Should he confide in such a young warrior? He supposed he could. She had found him, first, and had led him to this path amongst the Forgeborn. She had ever been at his side, during the quest to lay Lurog's Shame to rest and reclaim their pride. She had stood for him when he claimed his place as chief. She devoured his stories, as if they were life-giving meat. "Would it surprise you to know that I may be lost?"
She paused for a moment, startled. "The chieftain...lost? How can one be lost in the midst of his own people?!" He was shocked! In an instant, this young warrior had put the finger exactly upon the thing he had been searching for, and he laughed. At first, only his shoulders shook, in a low chuckle, but soon it erupted into a joyous roar. "YES! You speak truly and justly, Hagurth Forgeborn! What chief could ever be so, amongst his own people?!" At this, she seemed distressed. Whether out of confusion or shock, he did not know, nor did he particularly care at that moment. Still, he calmed himself, lowered his voice and his gaze towards her. "I thank you. You have shown me a great kindness, this night. May the Bear always walk beside you. I must go meet with my Forgemaster. We have much to discuss, about our people." He turned and left Hagurth standing in her confusion. Maybe the chief really didn't know anything, but he was done with being lost.
He headed for Mazoga's tent, straight and true, full of determination. He would know his people and lead them to glory, but first he needed to crack a glacier. The warriors barely realized who he was, before he strode past them, waving off their greetings. His resolve was set, and nothing would...Well that wasn't what he was expecting. Mazoga stood in the midst of the tent, bare, in the process of washing the soot and ash from a hard day's work from her lithe frame. Thousands of neatly arranged scars covered almost every inch of her green skin. She did not show any modesty before her chief. A thought then struck Zorubaash that perhaps he should have announced his presence before entering. "No!" he thought. Too many years amongst these demure races of man had taught him this modesty. Here stood a bastion of the savagery he had walked away from, all those years ago. She did not have such airs of propriety. She did not have time for them. They were a waste in savage times. It was her duty to be available, at all times, for her chief. Why should she feel something so...human, as modesty and decency?
He simply stared, soaking in the image of his people's priestess before him. White hairs peppered her dark brown locks, which were usually tied back in a neat braid and folded up, so as to keep it out of her way, while she worked in the forge. It was simple, yet elegant, full of utility and purpose. Now, it was undone and flowed over her shoulders, as she wiped her arms and neck. He longed to run his fingers through her glorious mane or pull it tight, in their mating. His eyes then cast their gaze upon her verdant skin, glistening in the moonlight from the damp cloth she had used to wash herself. It was normally muted by ash and soot from the forge, but now it seemed to radiate with vigor. She was aged and weathered, but her frame was sturdy and her slender back unbent by the years. Her muscles were well defined from years at the forge, robust yet delicate. He remembered how she had hefted Lurog's Pride, when Zorubaash had returned it to them. He was confident that she could handle herself well against any of the warriors in the camp, though none would ever raise a hand against her. His eyes rested upon her toned buttocks and elegant legs. There were slight dimples, in the small of her back, and desire swelled within him, but he forced it down, at least until he had enjoyed the sights a little more. He then noticed that there were no cuts on her backside. The front and sides of her legs, arms, and torso, yes, even the tops of her shoulders and along the sides of her neck, but not there nor along her back. It was as if every cut was in some place she could reach, herself. He also noted that the cuts stopped at her knees and did not continue down towards her feet.
"Will my Chief be taking me, tonight?" she asked, in a calm and collected manner, without looking at him. There it was! That damnable passivity. Even Nellothien, in her demure, elven propriety at least had passion. She at least struck him, when he slighted her. She at least had fire. She at least provided Zorubaash with a hunt. This was like caged game, waiting for slaughter, and it enraged him. He drew the blade and drove it into the ground and began to remove his gear, until only his breeches and boots remained. His furious gaze never left her placid face. "What do you treasure, Forgemaster?" he growled. "What does the heart of my people desire most?"
The Forgemaster winced at the improper treatment of her Grandmother's work. She walked over to it, picking up a dry pelt. She pulled the blade from the dirt and carefully began to clean it. With a skill that came from years at the anvil, she checked the edges of the blade for chips, cracks, and to see if it had warped. "My chief would be wise to take better care of his clan," she said as she worked. Satisfied the blade was not damaged she wrapped it in the pelt and set it near the door. Then, she cast her gaze at the chief. "My only treasures are my hands," she said blankly, showing him calloused hands covered in burn marks. "They are what forge the spirit of my people into the blades you take into battle."
She faced him, in her immutable splendor, a solitary stone in the stream. Her neck was long and slender, reminding him of his deceased elven lover. Where Nellothein's had been deep hues of blue, with elegant streaks of purple, Mazoga's was a simple green, covered in neatly arranged cuts along the sides. Her ears carried few adornments, so as not to distract her in the forge or get caught in her work. Her hair was now running down her back, past her buttocks. He looked full in her face, and took in the calm features. She had high and elegant cheekbones, with only a few cuts along them on each side. Her nose was straight and unbent or broken, and her nostrils barely twitched, as she breathed, steadily. Her piercing, brown eyes rested beneath elegant, ebony eyebrows. Her brow was not heavy, like other orcs, and carried few if any lines. He noticed that she did not have cracks at the edges of her almond shaped eyes, as those who laughed often would. He wondered if there had been any joy in her life, since the clan had been outcast in their shame. His eyes trailed down to her lips, like canopy leaves, resting gently against her diminutive, ivory tusks. He longed to draw her close and part those lips with his own and lock their tusks in passionate embrace, but it was as if a great, invisible wall stood between them, and prevented his impulses. Below those verdant petals, lay the mark of their former shame. An orange, inverted triangle hung below her lower lip and trailed to her rigid chin, symbolizing the treachery that had ended Lurog's mad reign.
How he longed to cup his hands about her face, framing her countenance, as he admired her, but the wall prevented him, again. Below her chin flowed that elegant neck, braced by sturdy musculature, and met the gentle curves of her collar bones. He did not dare ogle her supple breasts or let his gaze travel any further, as he feared his senses would fly from him, and he would shatter the wall between them, ravishing her there on the tent floor. He felt it would be a betrayal to take her in this manner. There was still much they needed to understand about one another. To take her now would be like taking a whore, and he longed to treat her in the manner her station and demeanor demanded. He did not wish to dishonor her or his people. He longed to be the strength upon which they stood. He desired to embrace them completely, before he embraced her. With these thoughts, he simply returned his gaze to the deep pools of her eyes, longingly.
For a moment, her calm nature broke his smoldering fury. Here stood something, unchanging, almost eternal. It reminded him of the dracolich, Zanarick, and his rage erupted. He gripped her by the waist and flung her upon the bed, pinning her shoulders to the skins with one massive hand. "Then teach me, Forgemaster!" he implored. "Teach me to treasure them as you do. I am a wanderer. I have known only the ways of the mountain clans and the simpering of these lowland curs. The Bear calls to me, and I follow. He led me to you, and I took this clan as a mark of victory." He lessened his grip and removed his hand from her shoulders. His own shoulders slumped and he looked away from her, ashamed. "I was a fool to think I was a proper chieftain for your people…Then I was taken to the dungeon." He stood, staring into nothing, lost in those memories. "For twelve days, I clawed my way out of that dark place, carving a bloody path through my enemies and facing horrors beyond my ken. There was no day or night. It was like an eternity of scraping for some tiny shred of relief. The Bear could not guide me, and the Warden sat on his horde, mocking me. I only had two desires then: freedom and the blade." He turned to look upon Lurog's Pride, laying in the wrapping, where she had placed it. "I would be free and carry the blade, or I would perish." He turned back to her, holding out his own hands and examining their callouses. "I fought and won, forging my will into hands worthy of holding the blade, again. I returned triumphant, and still you are far from me!" He let his hands fall to his sides and stood, almost defiantly. "For better or worse, I have returned, and I will not forsake the Forgeborn. I will not forsake my people, so teach me, Mazoga...or kill me."
He hung his head and waited for something. He knew not what to expect, and nothing came. There was only silence. He was wrong, and he knew it. His pride was strong, however. He did not seek to apologize, because he was full of that pride and self-righteous anger. He should have realized then who deserved his anger most, but his pride was too strong, that night...