Her Name Was Joanne

How many days had it been now? They seemed to stretch endlessly, and without sight, the blindfolded orc barely had a sense of the passage of time. What he could discern was that there were two shifts of torturers. After a few rounds from each shift, he began to identify their scents, their voices, the methods they brought to bear.

If Fentulk could choose which shift he preferred, it would be the one without Amarn in it. The fire mage not only seared his flesh, he set fires within the orc's body, or so it seemed. Delighting in the way the orc cringed from his heat-filled hands, Amarn often teased, holding an open flame beneath Fentulk's armpits or his genitals. Often, the taunting would lead to contact, filling the cell with the sounds of agonized roaring and rattling chains. A cold wave of healing would wash over him, pulling him back from oblivion, and it would begin again.

What hair Fentulk had was burned off within a day, and he was apparently no closer to giving them what they sought by the end of a week.

After Amarn's shift left, Fentulk sagged with relief. A respite, a moment or two of peace, time to gather himself for the next shift.

The soft footfalls that must belong to the lady came to his ears, and the door of his cell opened. He had not been visited by her for several rounds now, not since that first time when he said such stupid things to her. Trying to straighten, he pulled on the chains to haul himself upright into a more dignified pose.

"I... please, it is only me," she whispered nervously.

"Sorry," Fentulk rasped. "I ain't had time to clean up. Been busy." He tried to smile, but even that hurt.

"Water," she said quietly, slowly tipping a cup to his mouth. It was cool and the first sip he'd had since the last time she came. Only now he realized how desperately thirsty he was, and sucked it down forcefully. When she pulled back, he nearly wept.

"More?" she asked. He nodded, and she continued giving him water until he was fully satisfied. Then she offered him bread.

It was different, this time. Before, she'd brought stale, hard bread, clearly not the best or even remotely fresh. Now she gave him soft bread still warm from an oven. It had a honey-sweet scent and taste to it as well.

"Good bread," he commented.

"Thank you," she replied. "I thought... it would be better fresh." He felt her lean closer and whisper near his pointed ear. "Do not tell them."

He shook his head. So close, he could smell her. She had a flowery scent, very faint, that reminded him of meadows and tall grasses swaying in the breeze.

"How is it you speak Common?" she asked.

A thrill went through him for a moment. She was willing to stay and talk with him. She was curious about him. Such a blessing in this horrid place!

"I was a sailor," he said, his voice a purr as he tried to keep it low. "Out of Booty Bay. Had to learn it."

"I must go," she said quickly, and he realized the next shift was on its way.

"Your name!" he blurted. "Please. Tell me."

She hesitated a moment, perhaps undecided. "It's Joanne," she whispered, then he heard her hurry from the cell.

Joanne, he thought, testing the name in his mind. He would hold onto that name, that voice, and perhaps he could face another shift today.

But this shift did not come unaccompanied.

"Well, now," the one-eyed man's voice greeted as the group entered and took up their usual positions. "You've had some time to think about it. Dredged up some memories, I trust. Joanne seeing to your needs, I expect." Then he chuckled. "Some of them, at any rate."

The men surrounding him mimicked their leader's humor, and Fentulk felt a surge of anger. Were they in some way insulting the woman? He kept his rage in check for now, but knew it would be there if he wished to call upon it.

"All right, Fentulk, I believe you know the drill," the man sighed. "One more time, from the beginning. I don't think I have to tell you what happens if you don't give me the story I want to hear."

"Do you wish me to lie?" the orc snarled before he could stop himself.

"Oh my," the one-eyed man said in mock surprise. "Look at you. Have we not sufficiently demonstrated the consequences of a belligerent attitude in these conversations? Apparently, a refresher is needed. Derek, if you would be so kind."

Derek was the sort of man who disdained weaponry of almost any kind, with the possible exception of fist weapons. His preference was to engage his enemy, or his victim in this case, at close quarters, and feel every blow he applied, see the impact in their pain-filled eyes. Perhaps even smell their fear. Rounding on the restrained orc, he kicked Fentulk in the gut so hard, the bread he'd barely stopped tasting in his mouth came back up. The man's large fists, clenched together like a club, swung up into Fentulk's utterly unprepared face, whipping his head back. Knocked completely off balance, the orc hung loose-limbed from his chains, barely able to get his feet back under him before they were kicked away.

The one-eyed man must have gestured to the others, for the ones who had stood idle now joined the fray. He let them continue for what seemed an eternity, then one by one they dispersed, the last kicking him in the knee hard enough to crack the bone. Fentulk gasped for breath and failed to suppress a groan.

Even as the first tickle of healing touched his leg, it was cut off.

"No, not just yet," the one-eyed man said. "You realize, of course, Master Fentulk, that we can do this all day, every day, forever and ever. It matters little to us. It's the king, you see. He's the one who wants to see results in a timely manner." Leaning close enough to make the orc recoil, he purred, "You know how it is. Life threatened and all. Gets people rather... jumpy."

"I ain't no threat," Fentulk growled. "Got no interest in the fucking king."

"Look at it from his perspective, won't you?" the man said reasonably. "There's a war going on, and King Wrynn... well, he doesn't get on well with your Warchief, now does he? Stands to reason he'd be a mite paranoid when a big, hulking brown orc comes screaming northward in his direction..."

"I wasn't goin' north for him!" Fentulk roared, his voice cracking. "It had nothin' to do with him."

"Indeed? Are we finally going to hear what your mission was?" His voice was mocking, but interested. "I'm all ears. Do tell."

Would it get him in worse trouble, telling them the truth? He'd somehow managed to keep it locked inside him through all the pain and fear. Had he reached that point yet? The point where silence gained him nothing, and he had nothing left to lose? It certainly seemed that way. What else could they do to him short of murder now?

"Yeah," he muttered resignedly, nodding his head briefly. "Weren't no mission. Just... a quest. Personal. Lookin' for a mate. That's all."

He could almost feel the men looking at one another in confusion and disbelief.

"Nice try," the one-eyed man scoffed. "The only orc settlements north of Stranglethorn are controlled by the Blackrock, and they don't like the Horde any better than we do. I doubt their women would give you the time of day before cutting your throat."

"Not... an orc mate," Fentulk mumbled, bracing himself for the inevitable reaction. "Human."

The cell was so silent, he could hear his heartbeat, and mused it would be the last sound he ever heard.

"You're joking," the man breathed.

The orc shook his head slowly. "No joke. I swear it. On my ancestors. I just... want a mate. That's all."

"That is... positively... the most asinine thing I've ever heard," the man replied. "You expect me to go back to the king with that piece of shit? He'd have me hung. How does this have anything to do with... oh, dear." The man released a cruel, derisive laugh. "Oh, I see. Yes. This 'Karie' didn't just fuck you, she fucked you up. Is that how it is? Found you liked human pussy, is that it? Can't get enough of it now, eh?"

"She... she was a good woman," Fentulk insisted, though there was little point in defending her now. The man wasn't listening.

"Oh, I'll accept that she was 'good'," he chuckled. "She must have been 'good' to make you crave cunt so much you crossed into enemy territory..."

"I weren't in enemy territory!" the orc bellowed angrily. "You fuckers grabbed me in the jungle!"

"Details, details," he replied dismissively. "You were headed for enemy territory. Oh, this is rich. Someone fetch Joanne. I'm certain she'll want to hear this as well."

Fentulk started and shook his head vigorously. "No. Don't. Leave her outta this."

The man laughed explosively. "What? Oh, right. You can probably smell her pussy, and it's got you all excited. Maybe we can work something out for you, hmm?"

"Did you call for me, Mr. Dorath?"

Cringing, Fentulk tried to hide his face behind his raised arm. Whatever was going to be said from here on out would likely be words he would never want her to hear.

"Yes, Joanne," the one-eyed man, apparently Dorath, said smoothly. "This might interest you. Would you believe that this bit of filth isn't trying to murder the king at all, but rather intends to go on a raping spree through Elwynn Forest?"

"That ain't what I said!" the orc roared, throwing himself against the chains with such force he could hear his tormenters take a step backwards on the stone floor.

"Shut him up, Derek," the man snapped, and his subordinate let loose with a barrage of punches that took the orc's breath away. By the time they were satisfied that he would not protest again, he hung weakly from the chains and could feel tears welling in his eyes behind the cloth.

"It ain't what I said," he whimpered.

"What else would you call it, orc?" Dorath hissed. "You think a human woman would throw her legs open for something like you?"

"Not... lookin'... for a fuck," Fentulk sobbed. "Not a fuck. More...more than that. A mate."

"Are you listening to this, Joanne?" the man laughed. "He wants to stalk some woman... like you, I imagine... and claim her as a mate. I wonder if she'll have any say in the matter."

"Heh," Derek sneered. "You should see the look on her face, orc. Looks like she's gonna spew."

"I suspect he's already set his sights on you, dear," Dorath chuckled. "Well, if he could see, he would. She's a pretty little thing, Fentulk. A vision, in fact."

There was scuffling, and the orc heard feet scraping on the floor, followed by a muffled scream. Then fabric ripping.

"Yes, she's quite lovely," Dorath purred. "Such firm tits. A little small for my tastes, but a handful never goes amiss."

"What're you doin'?" Fentulk cried, panic and fury in his voice. "Let'er go! Don't hurt'er!"

"No?" the man replied innocently. There was a whimper, as if Joanne were restrained with a hand over her mouth to suppress another scream, and the orc yanked on his chains again. "I think we've hit on it, gentlemen. He won't break if we hurt him. Twenty silver says he sings like a bird if we each have a go at her."

Had Fentulk not been blindfolded, he would have seen red as the blood rage overwhelmed him. He bellowed incoherent threats in orcish, throwing himself so violently against his chains that they cut fresh wounds into his wrists and ankles. The men converged and beat him with cudgels and whips, but nothing seemed to subdue the orc this time. The pain was nothing; let them flay him alive if they must, but he would protect her. She had done nothing. He couldn't... wouldn't let her suffer on his account.

The beatings, once solely focused on his body, were now aimed at his head as they sought to knock him senseless. Little by little, his wild fury broke down along with the rest of him, and Fentulk finally succumbed. His legs gave out first, and he hung freely by his wrists. He felt almost detached from his body, fading away into darkness, hearing only the sound of helpless, hopeless sobbing.