As Ar-Tashk exited the arena of the fight pit, wreathed in a mist of black gore, there were a number of uruks, orcs, and even a couple other ologs, that chanted his name and even struggled against each other for the victor to give them a second look. Some looked like they wanted to issue a challenge to fight him right then and there, just to secure his notice.
After all, the Reaper was known to be a recluse, whose hand-picked subordinates had to be the elite of the elite. For the olog to have made an appearance that night, was a once in a lifetime type of event and it might be their only chance to catch his attention or prove their worthiness.
However, unknown to the eager greenhorns, if Ar-Tashk ever actually needed recruits, he already had plenty of orcs from the fortress to command around or throw into battle as cannon fodder. Having specific, devoted followers who answered to him personally was just a hassle, and he never liked having to distribute the spoils of war to soldiers who hardly contributed to the success of his campaigns. Moreover, accepting followers somehow would always turn into a backstabbing in Ar-Tashk's experience; Qol'dra's cowardly follower had only confirmed his bias during the fight.
For a warrior that valued dogged loyalty, it didn't make any sense to set oneself up for betrayal. Besides that, he was already wary of those with whom he was familiar with, living in or around the keep; bringing unfamiliar orcs around his slave was just asking for her to end up with her throat slit by some rogue idiot that couldn't control himself. Since the olog didn't care to engage in their petty nonsense, he dismissed himself from the fray, much to the disappointment of those who hoped to secure a leg up in the ranks.
Ar-Tashk was far more eager to return to the fort and his slave. The last thing he wanted was to be away so long that the goblins would grow bold enough to try to claw her through the cage bars, leaving her cut up and bloody again.
His mind was consumed with his concerns and pleasant thoughts of the alluring scent of human blood as he finally entered the keep. It was a scent he was becoming all too familiar with, tempted by. It had awakened a part of him that he didn't know was hungered and starved. But, as he crossed the entryway, the olog realized the smell wasn't just a lingering fabrication in his imagination; he actually did detect blood, lingering like a heavy cloud in the air; human blood. His throat became knotted as he breathed, "Isla-izub…"
Ar-Tashk snatched a torch from a nearby sconce that had just been lit by a goblin servant, shoved the goblin out of the way, and charged into the dark halls towards his kitchen quarters. It was, without the faintest hint of doubt, his own slave's blood that he could taste in the air. The scent was laced with the sourness of fear and adrenaline, mingled with a number of other foul stenches that Ar-Tashk couldn't exactly distinguish apart from the normal acrid odors of the keep. All he knew was something was terribly wrong.
As Ar-Tashk hurtled into the kitchen, the light of his torch sent the shadows racing away, only to reveal, at first, a goblin's corpse, headless and lying in a puddle of its own blood, which dripped onto the floor from the severed arteries in its neck. As he drew closer, the light of his torch illuminated the tall, armored figure of an uruk, who was in the middle of prodding the goblin's body with his sword. Ar-Tashk bristled and a snarl began building in the back of his throat as he recognized the uruk, "Ma gu-lat atal, bagbaur?"
Vezhir looked at his olog through icy, narrowed eyes, but, seemingly by a conscious effort, softened his expression, to act as if he was surprised to see Ar-Tashk. Vezhir used his booted foot to flick the deceased goblin's head across the floor to land at the olog's feet. "That's hardly how you should speak to the one who just stopped this greedy little shrakh before he could break into this… cage… you've made. You're lucky I was here, Reaper, so bite your tongue before you jump to conclusions."
The light of the olog's torch sent the overlord's shadow casting deep across the alcove of the cell, preventing Ar-Tashk from seeing the occupant within. He strode forward with an aura of death emanating from his entire being. Ar-Tashk shoved Vezhir aside, lifting his torch high to reveal Alaesia's withering, tiny form curled as deep in the recess of the alcove as she could manage. His gut dropped at seeing her so still, until his ears were able to make out the faint sound of her heart beating. She was alive.
Even with the minimal light, he could see pools of blood splashed on the bars, floor, and walls. Nearly all of her tunic was soaked in red. Ar-Tashk moved to unlock the cage, only to have Vezhir hold out the broken handle of Granyk's dagger for the olog to see, "You're going to have to figure out how to deal with this. That goblin tried to pick the lock and jammed the door shut."
The words fell on deaf ears. The olog's focus was entirely consumed the singular goal of reaching his slave, so Vezhir bowed away and started to clear the body of the goblin out of the way. With a sly smirk, unnoticed by Ar-Tashk, Vezhir dismissed himself from the kitchen, confident in having made the goblin out to be the perpetrator who had attacked the olog's slave. He's far too dull to work out what happened here.
Alaesia jolted from her state of shock when the bars of her cage were ripped violently from their settings in the stonework with a loud crash. She cried out in hopeless terror, hiding her face in her arms, as much as the damaged tissue from Vezshir's bite over her shoulder would allow. Any moment now she just knew he was going to assault her again; this time without the iron bars to keep him from tearing through her.
"No more, please, no more! Leave me alone!" she begged and pleaded, trying with futile effort to kick and lash out, anything she could to drive back her assailant. Her voice began to rise, becoming more shrill and winded.
"Amul!" Ar-Tashk caught the human's wrists with ease, as he murmured to her, "Shar, gu shik-nar, Isla-izub. Amul-latish."
Alaesia's eyes flew up to look up at him with a momentary look of pure panic, only for her expression to melt into breathless sobs as the looming presence of the olog breached the barrier of her senses. Tears poured down her cheeks, leaving grimy tracks under her eyes and blurring her vision beyond clarity. Yet in spite of her obstructed vision, Ar-Tashk's silhouette was impossible to mistake. Alaesia slowed her thrashing, unbidden, and allowed herself to slump against the olog's hands which were still gripping her wrists.
Ar-Tashk watched the will to fight leave her shoulders as he caught her and held her upright. Her compromised and battered state only fueled the fire of his own rage. How dare anyone harm HIS slave? Death was too easy, they deserved consequences far more dire than a simple beheading; Ar-Tashk found himself fantasizing about recruiting a dead-raiser, just so he could make the little goblin corpse pay, time and time again. Yet there was nothing he could do that would satisfy his vindictive sense of justice; the dead were beyond his reach.
A soft choking breath from Alaesia brought Ar-Tashk's mind slamming back to the present. He could still smell fresh blood flowing from her wounds and her skin was growing cold and gray against his. She was in urgent need of care. He didn't have time to worry about revenge.
He glanced around, trying to figure out just how much blood she had lost so far. One side of her tunic was soaked from shoulder to hem, the other side patched with long streaks. The bottom half of the fabric was completely stained red, still dripping slowly into half-drying puddles on the floor.
Ar-Tashk peeled the tunic away as gently as he could, revealing long cuts, deep bites and heavy bruising; there must have also been some sort of injury under her hairline on the back of her head, as blood was oozing down her neck. Her chest was marred with numerous small punctures, her legs sliced up and down, and her inner thighs caked with drying liquid. Even her round stomach was mottled with bruising and blood. She whimpered quietly at the olog's calloused touch, but didn't fight it as he examined the extent of the damage.
Ar-Tashk scooped Alaesia's brutalized form into the crook of one of his still-armored arms; he moved quickly to start a fire in the kitchen hearth by throwing his torch in, handle and all. He propped her up atop a great big oak plank, which at some point in the distant past had been the door to the kitchen, now turned into a table, and shoved it closer to the fire, where she would hopefully start to gain back some warmth from the hearth. He began to dig around to find some spare sackcloth to pack her deepest wounds with.
His slave winced and cried out at the olog's rough handling, in spite of his attempts to be soft. Alaesia could only just open her eyes as the great, hulking olog wrapped her twig-like hands around a canteen, and ordered her, "Drink, isla-iz. You must drink."
The woman's hands trembled at the weight of the canteen in her palms and her arms seized, refusing to move. Ar-Tashk caught the container before it could fall and spill, then lifted it to her lips. He tilted her head back with one massive hand bracing her neck, to allow the contents of the canteen to pour into her mouth.
The drink, a liquor Ar-Tashk had traded for earlier that week, was far stronger than the grog she had become accustomed to, and it burned all the way into the pit of her stomach. She curled and clutched at her throat, while Ar-Tashk pulled the canteen away to soak her more egregious wounds in the remaining alcohol.
The woman was extremely faint, but still she still cringed as her injuries seared at the olog's treatment. The spirits continued to burn as they poured over her open wounds, until she couldn't keep her eyes open any longer and a numb feeling overwhelmed her mind.
Translations*
Isla-izub - my life-maker
Ma gu-lat atal, bagbaur? - What are you doing here, asshole?
Shrakh - Shit/dung
Shar, gu shik-nar, Isla-izub. Amul-latish. - Quiet, do not cry, my life-maker. Calm yourself.
Isla-iz - a shortened/slurred version of Isla-izub (my life-maker)