As he was deep in the midst of tending to his half-conscious slave, Ar-Tashk felt the approach of another presence in the entryway to the kitchen behind him; it was a familiar and unwelcome presence that made his mane stand on end with unease and repugnance, that of the goblin witch.

The dum-shatraug steeled herself as she entered the kitchen and slowly approached the angered olog with extreme caution, like one might approach a cornered beast.

"The overlord advised your slave had need of my healing arts…" she edged near, but kept wisely just beyond his immediate reach. Not knowing how much of her words he understood, and not keen on waiting to find out, she repeated herself in black speech, hoping it would stay his wrath until she could talk some reason into him.

Internally, she detested the whole situation; it wasn't so much an issue that others sought her magic for their own purposes, but more that the brutal nature of orcish men was so diametrically opposed to keeping those she worked her magic on alive. The overlord wouldn't accept any fault when any of his breeders failed, regardless of the reason.

The witch had been flogged for "incompetence" when at least two other female humans were killed at the caves in the last week; he had had her weave her magic on them and it had taken root just fine. Their unfortunate demise had only occurred after Vezhir had worked himself into a bloodlusting frenzy, after her spells were cast. As far as the witch was concerned, it was his fault, but her only defense was to keep his victims alive. And it looked like the olog's snaga was in critical condition.

Ar-Tashk was sorely tempted to crush the witch, all it would take is one good swing, but he had become acutely aware of just how easily he could accidentally further the damage his slave was suffering. One wrong move in anger could knock the life out of her. Yet, everything about the witch, particularly the fact that she was a filthy goblin, made him want to tear her to pieces.

"You understand, troll? Your slave needs a healer," the witch tried to dismiss the olog, waving her hands to shoo him away.

Knowing that the witch was right didn't make him any more happy to let her near his slave, but he knew he had to relent if she was going to survive. As Ar-Tashk reluctantly moved to obey, he was stopped by Alaesia's fragile hand grasping at the edge of his armor. He looked back to meet her gaze, which wandered wildly from the inability to focus, almost as if she was struggling to see.

Her face was contorted with panic as she choked out a plea, "D-don't leave!"

The olog felt a powerful instinct wash over him, possessive and wrathful, but also somehow pleased; his slave wanted him to stay, even begging for him to stay. He nodded with a grunt and settled at the head of the makeshift table. He positioned himself so he was half-hovering over his slave near her head, but still out of the witch's way.

"Don't be stubborn. You're going to make this more difficult," the witch hissed her displeasure, only to be drowned out by a growl from the olog.

"Az nar adhn-gu," He wasn't leaving his slave's side, and that was final.

"Fine. But you must know, these wounds aren't going to heal easily… I hope your slave has some fight in her," the witch muttered.

If the human hadn't already been so drained of vitality, the witch would have been tempted to weave her time-bending magic to quickly advance the tissues' mending process. But with how much strain that would put on the human's energy, the witch believed doing so would probably kill the human, and her spawn, outright. No, the witch would have to simply hope the human could survive the long and time-consuming effort of traditional healing methods.

Ar-Tashk had to be convinced by the goblin that it was in his slave's best interest for her to stitch as many of the wounds shut as possible. It was a much more delicate procedure than any he had the capacity to provide, particularly in comparison to cauterizing wounds as he was apt to resort to.

Still, the huge bone needle that the witch used looked so oversized, the olog could only picture it piercing right through his slave's gaunt limbs. But under his watchful supervision, the witch worked on the procedure with cautious precision, careful to not inflict any additional, unnecessary damage to Alaesia.

When the only damage remaining to be fixed was internal, the witch came close to losing her head from the olog's defensive snap reaction to not let the witch even get close to that part of Alaesia's body, "Atish-krut, dagalush!"

"Amul-latish, olog!" The witch argued, reverting to black speech so she was positive he would get the point of her words. She hastily explained that his precious slave would bleed out if he wasn't going to allow her to staunch the wounds.

Ar-Tashk hesitated, though his great big hands gripping the table started to cause it to splinter from the pressure. Something clicked in his mind and he relented with great reluctance, while stewing in his thoughts. The witch seemed far too familiar with the procedure as she opened Alaesia's legs to begin stitching her internal lacerations.

Alaesia cried softly and clung to Ar-Tashk's hands as he held her fast so the witch could work. In low black speech he questioned, how she knew of his slave's internal injuries.

His intense gaze bore through the witch, making her hesitate. She continued sewing slowly and dismissed his question, "Silence, I need to concentrate. Your noise tangles my hands."

"Nar… Lat ghashkrut-gu!" He refused to accept her evasion. He made sure she saw him lean close, narrowing his eyes, while threatening; she should think long and hard before answering his questions: what exactly did she know of his slave's condition?

The witch carefully proceeded with the completion of her task after taking a significant amount of time to consider the olog's demand. She worked in silence while trying to find the right words to avoid invoking his avaricious rage. Alaesia had since gone limp in Ar-Tashk's hands, completely spent by the ordeal.

Every so often though, she would wince as the olog and goblin witch noticed her belly being punched from within. When the final stitch was finished, Ar-Tashk growled another query for the witch to worry over; how much longer did his slave have before she would birth her spawn?

The witch wiped her hands with a spare sackcloth, before finally responding. "I estimate she will give birth soon, it could be any day now. Whelping is not always exact, every female is different. If it happens too early… the whelp might be underdeveloped. It or she might die."

Over the past number of days, he had thought long and hard to recall when he had first found her, and had finally come to a conclusion; when he had captured her, his slave had clearly not been carrying a child. He distinctly remembered there was no faint hum of a second heartbeat within her until after he had returned from his campaign. Ar-Tashk grunted as he listened to the feeble ticking in his slave's chest, trying to pinpoint which was her heartbeat, and which was her whelp's, "You know more, goblin. Speak. Mukh gugsh-gu? Mol gugsh-gu? When I take her, there no whelp."

The witch shrugged unwittingly, "Maybe your little slave has been pregnant since you got her. I wouldn't know anything about it."

It took all of Ar-Tashk's willpower to bite his tongue and avoid squeezing the life out of the witch. It was obvious she was avoiding the answer and none of the details were lining up. Her familiarity with that treatment his slave so desperately needed was too convenient. And Vezhir just happened to bring some female goblin around to tend to his slave while he had been gone on campaign? It didn't make sense.

What had Vezhir said during the briefing, Ar-Tashk wondered as he thought back to the campaign itself. He had devised a plan to build an army, which required Ar-Tashk to clear a number of orc camps, and take any human snaga from the camps to the caves. And the overlord had been in the process of recruiting a… goblin witch! Ar-Tashk's breath caught. Vezhir had said the dum-shatraug could twist souls and time. Why had Vezhir needed orcs culled and mannish slaves gathered? Why would he need a witch to twist souls and time?! Just what had happened to HIS slave while he had been gone?

The foreboding, hulking form of Ar-Tashk filled the archway between the witch and the door, stopping the goblin as she was attempting to slip away after gathering her supplies. He put his question more bluntly, in no uncertain terms demanding an answer; if the dum-shatraug wanted to leave this room alive she would tell him exactly who had suffered his slave into such a wretched state, but he already knew the answer.

The olog's massive hand clamped around the witch's throat until she choked out a single word: "Ve….zhir."

Ar-Tashk hurled the witch across the kitchen, sending her sliding through the entryway and into the shadows of the hall beyond. There was a stifled smack as she must have struck a wall, but it must not have done too much damage, as he heard the witch yowling before scurrying away.

The image in his mind of the overlord touching his slave set Ar-Tashk's blood on fire. Vezhir wouldn't even be overlord if it weren't for the olog's loyal, unchallengeable support. The olog had never wanted anything in his life just for himself. Everything he had ever won in war was paid forward in tribute to Vezhir, except for the only time he had ever been compelled to take a slave for himself. Yet Vezhir had welcomed himself to her without a second thought towards the olog's claim; he had left her near dead!

The thought of seeing his slave dead caused a visceral anger to seethe through the olog. In a fit of blind outrage he slammed his fists against the table upon which Alaesia lay, making both it and the slave shudder. Her eyelids cracked open ever so slightly, then widened with unease. He looked down at her pale, battered form, finding himself surprisingly enraptured with the human whose anxious heartbeat pulsed in the air.

The sight of her no longer shivering from the chill of blood loss eased Ar-Tashk's agitation. He lifted her head with one hand, feeling her shallow breathing puff on his skin, as he pushed the folded rags of an old caragor hide under her neck for comfort. He went to withdraw only to find her trying to prevent him from doing so by resting a quivering hand on his.

"D-don't… go…" Alaesia breathed, her voice shaky and cracked. She was so utterly terrified that the nightmare would return if the olog was to leave her line of sight. Every inch of her body screamed in pain and fear. The visage of the Reaper before her was terrifying, he was still armored to the teeth, and painted in the blood of the fight pit, yet at her bidding, the murderous behemoth paused. She let out a mournful chuckle and tried to gesture with her limp, trembling hand towards his face, "M-maybe… it t-takes a monster… to keep away… m-monsters…"

Ar-Tashk was taken aback. He had never considered that just as he saw her as a tiny, pathetic pinkskin, she might see him as a giant, mindless beast in comparison. He had a difficult time fathoming what her perspective must be like, surrounded by all manner of servants of the Dark Lord that could easily overpower her. The idea of ever being overpowered was too foreign for the olog to comprehend; that was his enemies' fate, never his. As his gaze fell across her, his eyes stopped at her stomach.

Vezhir had overpowered her in Ar-Tashk's absence, both during his campaign and while he was away at the fight pit. How many times she had endured the overlord's attacks, the olog couldn't begin to guess. All he knew was that it was the overlord's spawn, growing ever bigger in her gut.

He wanted to cut the tainted thing out of her, to rid her of any trace of Vezhir's blood coursing through her. But he was held back only by the fact that he knew the act would kill her. He found himself wanting to preserve her, no longer for the sake of eliciting a plea for her life, but in an overwhelming desire to keep her all for himself.

"Shar. You must rest, isla-izub," the olog brushed a lock of fiery red hair out of Alaesia's face, which contorted as waves of pain rolled over her. He could hear as her heart raced faster at his touch. Ar-Tashk found himself decided: Vezhir would die at his hand.

****Translations****

Dum-shatraug - fate witch

Snaga - slave

Az nar adhn-gu - I'm not leaving

Atish-krut, dagalush! - Keep back, goblin!

Amul-latish, olog! - Calm yourself, troll!

Nar… Lat ghashkrut-gu! - No… you will answer!

Mukh gugsh-gu? Mol gugsh-gu?- When did this happen? How did it happen?

Pinkskin - human

Shar - quiet

isla-izub - my life-maker