Out of the Frying Pan, Into the Fire

Never in her life had Joanne been exposed to this much of a man in one sitting. The men of SI:7 ensured the male prisoners were covered so not to offend the eyes of the female servants who often tended the minor wounds or distributed the food. In Fentulk's case, being larger than most, the modest covering was... too modest. Thoroughly inadequate, as a matter of fact. He was lying in the tent entrance where he'd collapsed, fast asleep... almost like an immovable boulder. And just as hard.

She couldn't take her eyes off it. She wasn't a child; she'd been told of these things. She understood what it was supposed to be like. At least her mother hadn't been so embittered and broken that she described relations with men as universally horrible and degrading. With the right man, it was to be enjoyed.

But Fentulk was... large. Everything about him was so intimidatingly large. The pathetic flap of cloth over his member was no match for it when it saw fit to stand at attention. It simply shoved the flimsy covering aside and stood proud and tall...

And she could not take her eyes off it.

One of his large brown hands was there as well, cupping his privates and occasionally scratching the sack of skin containing who knew what at the base of the rigid pole.

She was dimly aware of his contented snoring, like a gentle rumble in his chest. It seemed to belie the vision of wantonness his tumescent member flaunted.

Words of her mother's returned to her, warning her to be wary of the men when they had certain looks about them. Informing her that when a man hardens as Fentulk had, he wishes satisfaction, and will seek it out. She remembered the sadness and resignation in her mother's eyes all too well.

But Fentulk was not one of the men of the tower. Perhaps the rules did not apply in all cases. He sought to protect her from such humiliations as men like Derek would have happily applied if given the nod. And truly, as she continued to examine his body from head to toe in the halflight of morning, she marveled at his wild beauty. She let herself, for just a brief moment, long for his embrace. There was strength in his arms, enough to keep her safe forever. There was love in his heart, enough to take her from that miserable prison to somewhere far away where her 'employers' could not hope to retrieve her.

When he could easily have slit all their throats in their sleep. Being an Orc, such a warlike race, she was certain he would have considered himself justified after what was done to him. Yet he didn't even seem to consider taking such revenge. He followed her out without question; he didn't ask for a weapon or even better clothing. He wanted as far from that place as she did, as quickly as possible.

He must be a man of peace, she reasoned. A man of peace would not assault her. Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, she relaxed. There was no place on Azeroth safer than this tent in the mountains with Fentulk.

Quite suddenly, his body jerked, and his eyes flared open. His breathing quickened as he looked around in a panic, disoriented. He'd been dreaming... was he still there? Had the escape been a dream?

"It is all right, Fentulk," Joanne's soft voice soothed nearby. "We are safe."

Closing his eyes for a moment and visibly wilting, he tried to calm himself. Not all of him relaxed, however. His eyes popped open again, and he looked down his body.

Shame and embarrassment darkened his brown cheeks as he hastily sat up and covered himself the best he could with the cloth and his own hands. He couldn't look at her. How could she not have seen the state he was in? And after what those men threatened to do to her... to see him...

Fentulk sat stiffly, trying to think of anything but her looking at it, likely scared out of her mind by the implications. He drew deep breaths and thought about fishing off the deck of The Maiden's Fancy when it was becalmed. Getting rope burns from hauling in the sails during a storm. Passengers heaving their guts over the side in rough seas. Anything but the woman next to him in the close confines of the tent.

Gradually, his mutinous cock stood down, yet he could not bring himself to meet her eyes.

"Uh... I'll just... go see about breakfast," he muttered, and started to leave. "You stay here."

"Fentulk," she said, then laughed slightly. "I simply must relieve myself."

"Oh... yeah," he replied awkwardly. "Yeah... sorry. Come on then."

Together they left the tent. A campfire was crackling merrily, and the Dwarf sat on a log in front of it nursing a large, foaming beer mug. The High Elf, Gilveradin, greeted them warmly.

"Good morning to you," he called. Then he smirked. "Either you're the quietest Orc on Azeroth, or I passed out and missed the whole thing." At Fentulk's murderous glower, he backed off, holding his hands up. "Hey, sorry. Just kidding."

Joanne caught Fentulk's eye for a moment, then hastened off into the bushes. The Orc kept the two idiots in his sights while she was gone. Taking a moment, he located Moke off hunting small game and conveyed a request to bring a rabbit or something to him, then turned to the Elf.

"There any way you can get me pants?" he muttered.

Following Fentulk's discreet lead, Gil leaned closer and whispered, "What happened to your pants?"

Not wanting to go into the whole story, Fentulk debated how much he should tell. The less anyone knew, the safer they'd be, he figured. "Alliance caught me," he said with a sigh. That much was probably reasonably common enough. Gil's sympathetic nod told him he was right. "They took everything. That woman – Joanne – she helped me escape. Didn't have time to get nothin' on the way out."

"Oh!" the Elf said, realization dawning. "So you're not..." He pointed between Fentulk and Joanne as she emerged from the bushes. "You're not together?"

"No," Fentulk grudgingly admitted. He sorely wished they were, but it was grossly presumptuous of him to think it, an insult to the poor woman's kindness to let Gil continue believing it. "We're just... helpin' each other. That's all."

Gilveradin's eyes seemed to bore into Fentulk's. He suddenly appeared far more sober than his behavior implied. "Right. Just... helping each other. That's all it is."

Nodding slowly, Fentulk growled, "Yeah. That's all it is."

"Let me see if Shindigger's got anything," Gil said. "He's got a big ass for a Dwarf. Might be short, but it might fit you." The Elf headed over to his friend's packs and started rifling them. Shindigger didn't even take notice of him.

Moments later, Gil triumphantly returned with a pair of breeches cut for a Dwarf too deep in his cups to mind his figure. Still, Fentulk's bulky thighs were a hindrance, and Gil had to shred the pant legs just to get them on the Orc. Once in place, they were a snug fit, but did a fair job of covering what had been hanging free before.

Except that if his member hardened again, there was no room for it to do so comfortably. Shoving the thought away, Fentulk told himself to just keep thinking of passengers puking over the rails. That would keep even his strongest lustful thoughts at bay.

"Not terribly stylish, but I don't think they have Orcish tailors in Ironforge," Gil chuckled, appraising the only slightly less immodestly dressed Orc.

Rolling his eyes, Fentulk glanced at Joanne, sitting at the fire and trying to engage the nearly catatonic Dwarf in conversation.

"I wish you luck," Gil said somberly.

Shaking himself, the Orc nodded. "Yeah. Don't know these lands, and I got no weapons. Just Moke. You know what sorta beasts we'll run into?"

Gil shook his head. "I'm not talking about that. I mean her."

Swallowing a hard lump, Fentulk looked away. "Take more'n luck, friend."

"Women are interesting creatures," the Elf said wistfully. "They can surprise you, sometimes. You think you've offended them, and they're laughing at your ribald jokes. You see a frail shell and assume they're weak, and they can't be taken down by word or deed." Nodding toward Joanne, he said, "I see a woman who's damn grateful for getting out of that prison or whatever it was." Looking the attentive Orc up and down, he said, "Probably really grateful. You don't strike me as the sort to take advantage of that."

"I ain't."

"Good," Gil nodded. "I've known a few of you who wouldn't bat an eye. I have no love for the Alliance, but I don't hate their people." Gesturing toward the swaying Dwarf at the fire, he smirked. "If I did, that sod would have been carrion years ago. No, they're just people, trying to live like anybody else. It's their leaders – and ours – who don't know when to shut up and make peace." He clapped the Orc on the shoulder and grinned. "You make peace, maybe you'll get a piece, eh?"

The joke was so bad, even Fentulk couldn't help chuckling over it. Rolling his eyes, he grunted with amusement.

"Now, about the rest of it," Gil said briskly, rubbing his hands together. "Where are you two headed?"

"Friend of mine's meetin' us at Revantusk," Fentulk replied.

"All right. There's a path down to the grasslands over there," he said, pointing. "Take that down and you'll get to a road. Follow the road and avoid the Trolls, you should get there in a day."

"Already runnin' late," Fentulk groused. "Kora ain't gonna be happy 'bout that."

Bidding farewell to the odd pair, Fentulk took the lead down the path Gil told him of. The Elf even gave him a slightly rusty sword. He would have preferred a bow; his training in swordplay was many years behind him. But at least it was a weapon of some sort.

He kept replaying in his mind Gil's words when they parted company. The Elf said he'd watched Joanne once he knew she wasn't the Orc's mate. He'd even gone so far as to speak in Orcish to make sure she didn't know what he told Fentulk.

"I think there's more than gratitude there," Gil had said. "Maybe you can't see it, since you don't believe it's there, but I can see it. She won't turn you away if you approach her."

Part of him dismissed it as drunken ramblings, but it was a weak argument. Gilveradin Sunchaser seemed to wear drunkenness as a cloak when it suited him, and he had been stone cold sober when he said those words. Still, most of Fentulk denied the truth of it, while a small part sang with hope.

The trail was rough and winding; Joanne frequently clung to his arm to steady her feet on the uneven ground.

Puking passengers... puking passengers... puking passengers...

Moke circled dilligently overhead, relaying images of what awaited them at the bottom. Wolves, mostly. Large ones. Some gryphons glided lazily close to the ground, far below where Moke flew. Fentulk had to assume that, though he knew they were used by the Alliance as mounts, they would likely be hostile in the wild.

Halfway down, they stopped for a moment to rest. His body was gradually becoming accustomed to movement again, but it was a slow adjustment. He'd just been beaten so hard for so long... his muscles didn't want to flex.

"Are you well?" Joanne asked, touching his arm, a worried look on her face.

Puking passengers...

"Yeah," he forced himself to say. "Just get tired fast. Didn't used to be like this."

Smiling, she sat on the rock next to him. "I suspect you have not been treated so poorly before, either." Sighing, she gripped her knees tightly. "Please forgive me. How you must hate my people after what they did to you. And for such little cause."

He shrugged. "Bein' on a neutral ship, I saw all the races on this world. Ain't one more or less rotten than another. See a man stealin' from another one day, see one givin' his last crust to a stranger the next. Just people. Race don't matter."

"I wish that were true," she said sadly. "My experience has been terribly limited, I admit, but... my own kind." She shook her head. "They caused such pain, not just in you, but others. All Horde races. When a human or Night Elf was brought in for questioning, it was never... They never did to an Alliance race what they did to the Horde." Brow pinching angrily, she said, "And the names they called them... such filthy names. As if they weren't... people. As if they were animals."

Fentulk couldn't help feeling warmed by her indignation. The ancestors must surely have brought them together intentionally. In so short a span of time, she was already the most important person in the world to him. Yet he still had doubts that his affection, were he to voice it, would be welcomed. She was a human and he an Orc, after all. Their races were established enemies in this world. Few called themselves friends.

What of Karie? he thought suddenly, and his loins stirred in remembrance of their brief time together. That alone seemed a betrayal of the woman he was now with. But it was a good question. She had been completely unfettered by racial biases when she approached him on the ship. Could he possibly hope that Joanne would be as free of such concerns?

One glance at her face reminded him that Joanne was not, in any way, like Karie. The woman he bedded weeks ago was experienced in such matters; she knew what she wanted, and wasn't afraid to take it. Joanne was innocent in so many ways he felt like a rapacious barbarian next to her. He'd prove it if he pressed his suit now.

"We're all animals," he finally said. "Just... some're more vicious than others, I suppose." Standing stiffly, he stretched. "Better keep goin'. Don't wanna lose the daylight."

The remainder of the trail sloped gently down to the grassy valley below, and was much easier on them. Fentulk was barefoot and Joanne's shoes were ill-suited to such rugged terrain.

Their relief at finally reaching the bottom was short-lived as a pair of wolves leaped out of hiding without warning.

Roaring instinctively, Fentulk pushed Joanne behind him and met the wolves head-on with the borrowed sword. Moke swooped down from the heavens with a shriek and aimed for the foremost wolf's eyes.

Barely clothed and not even slightly armored, Fentulk took several bite and claw wounds in the battle, but he managed to defeat the beasts, with Moke's help. Gasping for breath, for even such a short melee took the wind out of his broken body, he turned to Joanne.

"You all right?"

Speechless, she nodded. Her eyes flicked over his body, from one tear or puncture to another. Small rivulets of blood ran down his brown chest and found their way around the contours of his muscular arms. Joanne was confused; how could the sight of him, bloodied from battle with a sheen on his skin from the exertion, cause such conflicting emotions? She was, at the same time, anxious to clean and bind his wounds, and desperate to run her hands over every inch of him for a completely unrelated purpose.

That strange feeling was momentarily quelled when he hunkered down and began butchering the wolves. She had to turn away lest she show ingratitude for his bravery by vomiting.

"Sorry 'bout this," he muttered as he worked. "We'll need food. Lucky us, eh?"

"Yes," she whispered weakly, "very lucky."

"If I had my pack, I could turn these hides into decent breeches," he continued. "Feel like I'm gonna bust outta these. Even fat dwarves ain't as big as Orcs." He chuckled as he cut the meat into small enough pieces to wrap in the hide. "Grow'em big in Nagrand. You'll like it there."

"What... what is it like?" she asked, hugging herself.

"Beautiful," he said, pausing for a moment. "Hills and grasslands. Trees. Bits of the land floating in the sky from when the world blew up. That was before my time. They got their own grasses and trees, up in the sky. Every day's like wakin' up in a dream." Snorting with embarrassment, he went back to the butchering. "Guess I miss it. Been gone so long, seems like a dream now."

"I'm looking forward to seeing it," Joanne said softly, turning slightly but not quite letting herself see what he was doing.

"Can't wait to show you," he rumbled quietly. A silly old wish of his in his youth came back to him as he looked at her. He'd daydreamed of flying up to one of those little islands with his mate, of making love in the sky. His throat closed, looking at Joanne, knowing that the mate in his dreams now had a face, and would always have her face, even if they parted ways and he never laid eyes on her again.

Wiping his hands the best he could on the grass, Fentulk gathered the meat in one of the hides and hoisted the makeshift sack onto his shoulder. "All right, job's done. Let's get goin'."

Nodding, she fell into step beside him.

As Gil had said, they found themselves on a road of sorts. It was mostly a dirt trail worn into the grass from heavy traffic over many years. There wasn't much cover from prying eyes there, either. If they were followed, they stood out quite well on such a well-traveled road.

Still, neither knew the area, and venturing far from the known landmarks would likely get them hopelessly lost. It was a risk they had to take. Firming his grip on the sword, Fentulk headed east with Joanne at his side.

A couple of hours passed uneventfully when they saw looming ahead a great sand-colored wall. Not knowing what a Troll settlement looked like here in the Hinterlands, Fentulk and Joanne were simply curious. Moke could only convey there were many Trolls beyond the wall; he couldn't tell if they were friendly or not.

"Could this be that village you're looking for?" Joanne asked as they paused on the road where it turned south past the settlement.

Fentulk shrugged. "Don't know. Kora said it was on the coast. We could be right outside that village or twenty miles from it. I got no idea." Brief anger flared in him over the omission; the damned woman could have given him more than 'walk east until you run into it.' He was walking east, and he had run into something. Were they the right Trolls or the wrong ones? A mistake at this point would be the end of them both.

"What is that, over there?" Joanne suddenly asked, pointing down the road.

Frowning, he looked where she indicated. Here was another puzzle piece to figure out. Further down the road was what looked like a tunnel entrance built into the mountains. Would that take them to the village, or further away from it?

"Don't know," he said. "Nobody said nothin' 'bout..."

Quite suddenly, he received a sharp warning through his connection to Moke, and went on the alert.

"Aw, fuck," he breathed. He didn't need Moke's image of Trolls boiling out of the settlement, armed for battle. He was looking right at it. "Come on!" he roared, grabbing Joanne's wrist and hurtling down the road toward the tunnel.

They must have been spotted from the walls, he reasoned. This pretty much answered the question of whether these were friendly Trolls or not.

The tunnel was clearly unnatural, made by skilled artisans. It was also so long they couldn't see the exit upon entering. Less than a hundred paces in, the echoing war cries of the pursuing Trolls joined their desperate panting. Moke soared ahead of them, reassuring Fentulk at least that there was no massive force of anything awaiting them at the other end.

Adrenaline barely kept Fentulk on his feet, and was not sufficient to make him oblivious to the pain. He'd been healed of several breaks to his legs by magic, but magic couldn't completely remove the long-term affects of what was done to his body. He ached in so many places he couldn't begin to count them all before he started running for his life. Now he feared any moment would send him crashing to the earth, unable to move another inch.

One glance at Joanne's terrified face told him that was not an option.

She didn't know much about Trolls. They were sometimes brought to the tower for 'interrogation,' but seeing them there wasn't the same as knowing something about the race. What she'd been told was that they were cannibals. They sacrificed their enemies upon altars to their serpent gods and feasted on the flesh and blood. They smeared the gore of their kills on their bodies and fell upon one another in frenzied orgies. She'd hoped the village Fentulk would have taken her to contained more... civilized Trolls, if such a thing existed. Only her trust in him made her swallow the fears instilled in her at a young age by the wagging tongues of the men of SI:7, so eager to frighten a wide-eyed little girl.

Looking back over her shoulder, she saw every fear realized in more than a dozen leering faces, some wearing tribal masks, all garbed in leather decorated with gruesome trophies. A sob broke from her throat and she gripped Fentulk's hand more tightly.

Sunlight nearly blinded them after the long dimly-lit tunnel, and for a moment Fentulk wasn't sure what he was seeing. It was a hilly landscape, rolling away in all directions. Here and there were tufts of bushes. Tall, winsome flowers carpeted the grass, swaying gently in a light breeze.

Directly in front of them was the ruined hulk of a siege engine.

Even to his untrained eye, he could tell it was a catapult at one time. Now it was a heap of thick timbers, its wheels mired in the ground. Near it stood another in a similar state, and yet another. Slowing to a halt, he looked at them in confusion. They were pointed at the tunnel.

"Wonder what...?" he began, and Joanne yanked hard on his arm.

"They're coming!" she cried, and he shook himself. Picking a direction, Fentulk started running again.

Moke's images were choppy and difficult to assess in the Orc's current state of mind. Ahead was a deep depression and there were people in it. That's as far as his attention went. Aiming for it, he poured on an extra burst of speed.

The 'depression' was more like a deep pit, with gently sloping tracks leading in and out at both ends. Fentulk and Joanne hit it from the side, however, and nearly killed themselves in the suddenly steep descent. Tumbling head over heels down the side, they came to rest at the feet of several surprised members of an Alliance military force.

"What in the name of..." a man who was clearly an officer roared, only to be cut off by the shocking sight of fifteen bellowing Troll warriors flowing over the rim of the defile.

A nearly naked Orc and hysterical human woman falling into their midst were not sufficient to stir the camp to battle readiness, but a frothing warband of Trolls was a different matter.

"Take those two into custody," the officer ordered, pointing at the shaken and bruised Fentulk and Joanne. "The rest of you, to battle!"