Dusk came and went before the Orcs reached the promised meeting spot. The sky was calm and veiled, with a tiny sliver of a moon and only a few bright pinpricks of starlight twinkling through the black haze. After cautiously taking a convoluted route back to the large road, they followed it, Durgrat keeping an eye near the ground while Razashûk occasionally scampered up a tree to survey the terrain for any sneaky ranger tricks, which he found no sign of. They finally stopped to rest a moment when they saw their destination up ahead.
There was, indeed, a dead oak tree by the side of the road, split in two as if some colossal axe had fallen from the sky and cleaved it. A soft rustle from the undergrowth behind it revealed that Torold hadn't broken his word despite the Orcs' slow arrival.
"Hands where I can see them," Razashûk hissed. Torold flung his arms skyward, dropping a cloth sack that landed with a distinct thud. Razashûk figured there was definitely something to this idea that he wasn't a very good ranger after all, if this was his idea of being graceful and inconspicuous. "What's in the bag, clever-clogs?" he asked. He couldn't tell if Torold was up to something, perhaps signaling some co-conspirators, or genuinely inept, and the Man's antics were making his stabbing hand get a bit twitchy.
The ranger crouched down and reached into the sack, his eyes still locked on Razashûk, and produced a pair of green cloaks, faded and worn but still perfectly serviceable. They were too small for Durgrat, meanwhile Razashûk nearly tripped on the hem of his a couple times while fastening it. But the heavy fabric hoods would hide their faces well enough as long as they kept their distance. "I was just trying to help," said Torold. "No need to be such a stinky egg about it." Razashûk knew those were harsh words coming from him, and made a mental note to maybe consider apologizing if they all lived through this.
Not far beyond the tree was a wide bumpy hill, with a path that led to a large wooden wall with a gate someone had left open, wavering and softly creaking in the breeze. "Before anyone says anything, that wasn't me," Torold whispered. Apparently he wasn't the only one drawing suspicion about his qualifications.
He skulked his way into the village, and the pair followed, keeping a safe barrier of a dozen or so paces between themselves and the Man. Neither of them felt terribly at ease in such alien surroundings. Despite their different homelands, the Orcs shared one piece of wisdom: it was wiser to dig into the earth than to pile things onto its surface.
It was disquieting weaving among so many dwellings and buildings clustered haphazardly together, poking up out of the ground, right where anyone could come crush and burn them into oblivion if they were so inclined. Razashûk and Durgrat had both heard plenty of stories about such things, of course, but it was different witnessing the vulnerability firsthand. No proper guards or watchmen, not even a wary beast to bark or growl at disturbances, no apparent escape routes to whatever safety could be found in the depths below. The village was less like a prized quarry, and more like a sick old deer dragging itself in circles on a broken leg. Suddenly the distress at leaving its security in the hands of Torold and his ilk was more understandable.
"I don't like it here," said Durgrat. "It smells off and everything's laid down all strange."
Razashûk preferred not to dwell on it. "You bitched about the plains and the forest too. Do you like anything that isn't a cave full of big sweaty morons groping each other?" He wished Durgrat could learn some dignity and just quietly seethe and resent everything until the dam burst and he ended up screaming at a bird or punting a rotten log into a pond while cursing Morgoth for ever bringing the mere possibility of him into existence.
"Maybe," said Durgrat. He looked down with an exaggerated, wide-eyed face that reminded Razashûk of a Warg pup begging for scraps. "I've only been here a short time. There's just so much I don't know." Razashûk rolled his eyes and spat through his teeth. He noticed Torold backing away from the glowing window of a small house and gesturing, and stomped over to meet him.
The ranger stood by the entrance to the house, which was made of splintery wood that was dull and weathered and obviously quite tough. There was a newly-repaired fence surrounding it, and a small garden with slightly lopsided rows of various green things sprouting from them. "I'm just going to let Dagna know we're having a couple unexpected visitors," he said. The Orcs attempted to shrink in the shadows against the side of the house just in case anyone strolled by. After a moment, Torold popped his head back out and motioned for them to come inside.
The interior of the house was warmer, in every sense. The wooden walls were just as rough and bare as the outside, but untouched by sun and wind, they remained a pale golden brown, and the floor was covered in rugs made of sheepskin and woven fabric, a welcome change from the cold muck outdoors. There was a stone fireplace, filling the air with crackling heat, and just off to the side of it hung a charmingly dreadful painting of a horse. Or possibly a boulder. Razashûk couldn't help thinking this must be something like what Ushûl's shack must have looked like, a long time ago.
A plump, broad-shouldered woman with her hair tied back in a thick braid was stirring at a pot of something that smelled like oddly appetizing dirt. Durgrat noticed Razashûk's gaze wandering over her ample figure and smirked.
Torold frowned at them. "Would you...don't...that's my wife, you twits."
"I can see why," said Razashûk.
They weren't quite out of earshot, and the woman turned around at the murmuring voices behind her, then jumped back. She caught her breath and glared at Torold, though her eyes kept snapping back towards the Orcs. "Oh. Great. What is wrong with you?"
"Let me explain! This will get us out of that mess we're in, trust me. Dagna, meet..." he paused, "...uh, the Orcs. Orcs, Dagna. Also, I'm sorry I didn't tell you they were Orcs."
"I'll be a ranger, he said. Once I've got a proper job I'll give up all these schemes, he said..." She sighed. "I can't believe you didn't at least get their names before dragging them in here. No wonder you never weaseled your way into high society."
Torold shook the dust out of his cloak and put it up near the fire while the guests introduced themselves properly to Dagna. Her weak Mannish tongue stumbled a bit over Razashûk's name, so he told her it was all right to shorten it, though he doubted she'd want to talk to either of them very much anyway.
"This will all make sense when I tell you what I've got planned," said Torold, "but I think we should settle down and eat first. I'm sure I'm not the only one tired and hungry from all that time out in the dank and cold."
Dagna nodded. "It should be ready by now. Make yourselves comfortable. With reason, I mean." She looked at the Orcs as if they were getting ready to chop up the furniture and set the roof ablaze.
"Relax," said Durgrat. "We don't want to wreck your stuff."
"Yeah," said Razashûk. "Don't, uh...what's the saying? Judge a book by its cover?"
"Exactly," said Durgrat. "That one I gave away didn't have any fucking on the cover, for example. It was just plain." He beamed with pride at his brilliant observation.
Dagna opened her mouth but Razashûk shook his head at her. It was bad enough being reminded of that unknown treasure slipping through his bony fingers. She appeared to understand this avenue of questioning wasn't worth going down, and got to plopping down a set of wooden bowls on the table and filling them with the stew she'd been cooking.
Razashûk waited to watch their hosts eat first, just in case it was poisoned. Once satisfied that he wasn't going to start coughing blood or pass out and never wake up, he scarfed it down. It was more meat-flavored potatoes than anything, but he wasn't going to complain. After all, it could've been poison-flavored.
He was loath to admit it, but he did feel less on edge with a full stomach, even as the people around him seemed intent on destroying any chance of a small lull of calmness. While Torold paced around in a corner gathering his thoughts as Dagna stared impatiently, Durgrat fiddled with the disgustingly shiny buckles on the bag he'd swiped from Morburzhûn.
"Must you fuss with that right now?"
"Uh, yeah. I want to know what's in it. Think of it as practice for when we finally, um...actually find something good," he said.
"Speak for yourself. I don't need to practice looking inside containers," said Razashûk, clenching his fist and trying to stifle the irritated growls he felt rising in his throat.
Durgrat ignored him. He flipped the bag over and dumped out its contents. A round glass jar of some thick, suspicious-looking black substance rolled out onto the table's wobbly surface and Durgrat caught it just before it hit the floor. He unstopped it and took a sniff. "Huh. It smells like dead plants, but none I really know of," he said, setting it down with a look of disdain. "It's all sweet and wimpy. I doubt it does anything fun, like explode when you throw it."
Dagna grabbed the jar and cautiously dabbed some of the gunk on her fingertip, then smeared it against her thumb and let out a little huff of a laugh. "I think it's hair dye. I knew a girl who went grey at twenty or so and concealed it with something a lot like this. Of course, it looked much stranger than if she'd just let it be..."
The Orcs tried their best to keep their composure at this revelation, but their best only lasted about three or four seconds. The knowledge that Morburzhûn was not innately built of pure darkness wasn't terrifically surprising, but it was delicious nonetheless.
"It's not that funny," said Dagna. "I felt a bit bad for her, even though we never got along that much."
"Well, we're monsters," said Razashûk. Durgrat nudged at his foot under the table as if to tell him No, act like we're not, you fucking dolt, but kept on grinning. He snorted again when the smaller Orc leaned over and whispered "I bet it's actually...dark brown. Oh, the shame."
The rest of the haul wasn't nearly as amusing, but still, they were grateful for the handful of scummy coins, several strips of clean cloth torn into bandages, and the knife-sharpening stone.
Meanwhile Torold had figured out how to best present his plan. "Here's the idea, right," he said, slapping his hands down on the table and looking intensely at everyone. "We all know about the bounty for bringing down any creatures of evil and corrupted origin, or that make us nervous."
Dagna crossed her arms and arched an eyebrow. "Go on."
"So, we just trick the elders into thinking I've killed these two. We split the reward with them, and I look like the best protector this village has ever had, seeing as nobody else has slain so much as an ill-tempered squirrel. I earn the people's devotion, the Orcs gain material wealth without resorting to violence, and we can maybe stop eating old potatoes three times a day, every day."
"Well, that's not the absolute worst idea I've ever heard," said Dagna. "But it's going to take a lot of planning and smarts if it's going to end with no actual deaths."
"It can't be impossible," said Torold. "There are at least two stories about people doing it, after all. Remember, that one about the troll-slayer?" He left out the part where the version Razashûk knew ended with everyone dying.
"Ah, I do vaguely recall that one. We used to have a storyteller in the town I was born in," said Dagna, her eyes drifting over towards the fire.
"Oh, really?" Razashûk asked, a bit curious about Mannish tales.
"Yes, he was just awful," she replied. "He thought stories ought to be more realistic and believable, so they were very boring. Even if the action did pick up for once, everyone kept stopping every couple of minutes to take a whiz or adjust their boots. But nobody ever told him how bad he was at it, because he was the tax collector's nephew."
"Hah!" Dagna flinched a bit, then relaxed after realizing Razashûk was smiling and not simply baring his teeth.
Torold sighed. "We'll sort out the actual strategy tomorrow," he said. "It's too late to think." He wandered off into a small side room.
"I'll be there in a moment," Dagna called after him. She tidied up the table, stacking the dishes and sweeping all the stuff Durgrat had strewn everywhere back into the bag. She gave Razashûk a pointed look. "Don't think I didn't see the way you've been gawking at me," she said, narrowing her eyes and making a thwacking motion with the long wooden spoon in her hand. "Don't try and feed me any clever lines, either. I've heard plenty of those kind of stories, too." She set it down and turned to follow her husband.
"Wait," he stopped her, "I have to ask, why are you both so...not pissing yourself with fear? I thought you lot were supposed to be terrified of Orcs but your composure is pretty impressive." Few Mannish folk had ever had peaceful dealings with Razashûk's tribe, and those who did came from lands far to the south and east. They carried themselves in a different manner than their paler cousins, and their loyalties lay with the Great Eye rather than petty turnip-farm lords.
"Who do you think I heard them from?" she said, and slipped away into the dark.
The Orcs had slunk over to a makeshift bed near the dying embers, and both of them fidgeted trying to get as comfortable as possible, which had little to do with the actual sleeping arrangements. The house creaked without provocation, they could hear Torold snoring in the next room over, and there was an occasional indistinct sound from outside that could have been distant footsteps. Razashûk exhaled sharply while adjusting the pile of wadded-up clothes he was resting his head on.
"Trouble sleeping?"
Razashûk nodded. "It's creepy knowing we're surrounded, and that woman has got me rattled."
"Yeah, she's smart. We should be careful."
"It isn't just that," said Razashûk. "She sort of reminds me of someone I knew. Same kind of body, same willingness to hit me with a stick when she caught me staring at it."
"Oh." He didn't know how else to respond.
Razashûk seemed like he might be drifting off again, but Durgrat still slid his hand into the other Orc's inner thigh and nudged his face into the crook of his neck.
"She smelled like the riverbanks after a thunderstorm," Razashûk mumbled.
Something in his voice hit Durgrat in the crotch like a fistful of ice. Even if the Mannish couple hadn't been right over in the next room and the house hadn't been spooking him in general, there was no chance of getting off tonight. He pulled away and rolled over onto his back, then shifted closer to Razashûk a few moments later when he noticed he looked rather pathetic and shivery, curled up all by himself like that.
He hadn't been anyone's big comforting dead weight for a while, not since...he frowned. Nothing in this place let his thoughts wander anywhere nice for too long, from the naked defenselessness of the layout to the knowledge that aside from their unusual hosts, they were among people very unlikely to settle for only pretending to kill them. He suspected it was having a similar effect on his companion. They'd barely got any mileage out of the fact that Morburzhûn didn't actually have hair blacker than the saddest wraith's dirge-writing ink, and Razashûk failed to inhale his food with the usual enthusiasm or make any weird little scribbles on his map. ("Shitty village begging for a razing" was what Durgrat liked to think he would've written.)
There wasn't any point in going over every tiny thing wrong with where they'd found themselves. Instead he pondered over just how much the reward for two dead Orcs was, and the various ways one might devise to split it up and skip town without leaving any loose ends.
Razashûk kicked him in his sleep, and he figured he probably deserved it.