Attempts at Communication

Pocketing her cell phone, Sam regarded her... guest. He was sitting with his back against the door, knees up and arms resting on them. He sort of had a hang-dog look about him, kind of world-weary. And so not normal. Her hand went to the pistol grip for reassurance.

Whatever his weird personal issues, she'd nicked him with the scissors trying to cut the suit off. Like he needed more trauma. Sighing, she picked up the first aid kit again and cautiously approached him.

"Look, uh, let's try this again, okay?" she said nervously. "No scissors this time. I'll just... uh... do the best I can."

His yellow eyes darted up when she spoke and he looked at her askance, clearly distrusting. His hands went to the floor and he pressed harder into the door. He looked like he was preparing to spring aside if she went for him again. She slowly knelt in front of him and continued speaking in a calm, reassuring voice.

"It's all right, I won't hurt you," she soothed. "Just let me have another look. Take it easy."

He trembled slightly, and flinched when her hand touched his injured leg, but he didn't pull back. She watched his face, his eyes focused on her and full of suspicion, then they darted up to something past her shoulder and he nearly shot backwards through the door. A startled bark of shock ripped from his throat.

Sam whirled to see what frightened him, but there was nothing there. Not even a dead animal head, which was strange because all the walls of this cabin had at least two. Frowning, she scanned the area he must have been looking at but couldn't see anything that might have shocked anyone. Darûk wasn't even on that side of the cabin. Turning back to him, she froze.

He was shaking hard, eyes wide, brow furrowed in clear confusion. His breath came in gasps as he blinked rapidly and kept staring over her shoulder. If he'd shown any signs of normal behavior before, she would have rolled her eyes and swatted him for trying to scare her, but he looked quite like he'd seen a ghost.

Standing, Sam went to where he was looking. The only thing there was the refrigerator and the kitchen counters. Granted, there was a shadowy section the central lighting didn't penetrate all that well, but surely he wasn't freaking out over that. There wasn't anything there.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" she murmured as she went back to him. His panicked hyperventillation seemed to be subsiding, and the shivering slowed.

It was difficult for Nargratûrz to regain his composure. He'd been focused on her when he saw him. He thought his heart might stop beating. I killed you! his thoughts roared, but no words came from his suddenly dry mouth. Standing by the white thing, arms crossed over his chest and a smirk on his face, was Grishosh. So real... he even bore the wounds Nargratûrz gave; his midsection was ripped open, spilling several feet of gut from the gaping wound. Black blood flowed down the front of his body, down his legs, pooling on the floor...

Then he was gone. Nargratûrz had never seen a gûl before, but he'd heard stories. Seeing one now unsettled him completely. It took him several moments to realize the sharlob was looking at him with her forehead bunched. He took a few deep breaths and tried to calm down. Maybe it was his imagination. By the Hand, let it be nothing it all!

"Okay, that was weird," Sam murmured, watching as he gradually settled. Once more going to his leg, she carefully turned it so she could see his calf. He grunted slightly and his eyes shifted to her again. She tried to ignore him as she gently prodded the site of his wound.

Damn goo pack, she thought to herself with annoyance. Every time she pressed the area, that black shit oozed out. Since nothing red was mixed with it, she had to assume he wasn't very badly injured. Likely the tough covering he had on protected him. She just did not want to accept that this could be his actual skin, because if it was, that black shit could only be blood. Deciding there wasn't anything for her to do here, she let him go. She stood and returned to the kitchenette, putting the first aid kit away.

Unsure what he might want to eat, she rummaged in the fridge. On the bottom shelf, happily defrosted now, was the steak she'd planned on grilling for her dinner. She glanced over her shoulder at the man and decided those gaunt cheeks and sunken belly were more in need of a juicy Porterhouse than she was, and lifted the plate out. When she approached him with it, his eyes nearly popped out of his skull and his mouth hung open. A thin rivulet of saliva slid out the corner of his mouth and dangled for a moment.

"Guess you're pretty hungry, huh?" she said with a smile. "How do you want this cooked? Medium or ra-"

With alarming speed, the man lurched forward and snatched the meat off the plate with his clawed hands. She hadn't even noticed the claws, she realized, and now she was too shocked by what he was doing now to dwell on them.

He literally dove his face into the meat and tore off hunks as easily as if it were bread. If those were fake fangs, they were the best made teeth she'd ever seen. His hands were shaking and his eyes were closed. His expression was one of sheer bliss. Sam gaped at him as he consumed bite after bite with only a cursory effort at chewing. The meat's juices poured from his mouth and ran down the front of his leather jerkin.

Sam backed away, repulsed. That settled it for her; this was not a man. Not even Dale's batshit friends were so dedicated to their craft they would eat raw meat. However, her initial revulsion was gradually replaced with something akin to guarded sympathy as she watched him tear into the steak as if he hadn't eaten in days. His growling breaths changed tone, and now he purred, sounding almost enraptured.

Finding herself backed against the sofa, Sam slowly sat, then drew her knees up and wedged herself into a corner. Darûk, attracted by the scent no doubt, trotted up to the... whatever he was, and gave him a hopeful look. Though he paused and grunted what sounded like a warning, he made no other aggressive move toward the dog. Darûk took the hint and slumped back to the hearth rug to lie down.

The relative quiet was interrupted by a chirping sound from her laptop, and she jumped a little. Sam eased off the couch, too afraid of this guy now to make any sudden moves, and slid into the desk chair. A quick peek at her inbox told her Dale had sent her an email. Darting quick looks at the... whatever, she read her cousin's message.

Just thinking you might need these if he's got some screw loose and only wants to speak Orcish. First file's a dictionary, second's a grammar thingy. I hope he doesn't pull any Orc moves on you. Keep the gun handy.

Dale

Her brow furrowed. 'Orc moves'? What the hell did that mean? she wondered. Deciding she'd rather not know, she plugged in her portable printer and printed out the files.

Looking over the dictionary, she frowned. She'd done her college-required sentence of foreign language courses, focusing on French because it was the soft option and all her friends were doing it. This language bore absolutely no resemblance to French, or any Latin-based language she knew of.

"Aanash?" she murmured, skimming down the list of words and meanings. "What the fuck? Bolkat?"

Nargratûrz paused in the middle of licking his fingers clean and jerked his head up. He scrambled to his feet and rushed over to the sharlob.

"Pukhlat ghashanu-izub!" he said eagerly, barely stopping himself before bowling her over. [You speak my words!] Sam nearly hit the wall in her attempt to avoid a collision. Darûk leaped to her feet and raised her hackles, growling at the... whatever guy.

"Whoa, there," Sam warned, holding up her free hand while the other held the papers to her chest. "You just get your ass back a few feet, all right?"

Breathing heavily, his eyes alight and body quivering, he obeyed her gesture and took a few steps back.

Taking a deep, calming breath, Sam edged toward the couch. Having this guy's undivided attention did not put her particularly at ease. "Let's have a seat, okay? Get comfortable or something. This'll take awhile, I think."

Sam settled herself on the couch. She swallowed hard and forced herself to beckon him over. He managed to restrain his undeniable excitement, and perched on the other end of the couch.

Poring over the printouts, she formulated a few phrases to try out. It was a rather simple language, she realized. Nothing particularly complicated with regards to syntax and sentence structure. No weirdly conjugated verbs like English was rife with. Feeling a little more confident, she turned to him and gave it her best shot.

"Mol lat bugduz?" [How are you called?]

He looked like a comfortable wave of heat had just washed over him. With the closed eyes and the blissful smile, she wondered if hearing his own language again had as satisfying an effect as that steak did. Recovering himself, he said in a guttural voice, "Nargratûrz."

Forcing herself to smile, she replied, "Bugduz-izg Sam." [I am called Sam.] Checking her list, she ventured, "Kul-lat throquûrz dâl?" [Are you still hungry?]

Regardless that the meat wasn't nearly enough to assuage so many days on such spare rations, Nargratûrz didn't want this conversation to end, much less pause long enough to feed him more. He shook his head. "Nar. Kul-izg bârzuga." Grinning, he added, "Sam." [No. I am finished.]

Sam had to really work at it to smile back. All those sharp teeth, especially with such a recent display of their sharpness, were not very comforting to see.

Not bothering to translate what he just said – a negative headshake was enough for her – she dove back into the word list.

"Kul-lat Uruk?" she asked in a quiet, uncertain voice. [Are you an Orc?]

He looked startled by the question. Not 'what makes you think I am' sort of indignant startled; more like 'isn't it obvious?'

Nodding, he said, "Akh. Uruk." He pressed his hand to his chest.

"And that would make me...," she muttered, flipping through the pages, "sharlob." She glanced at him; he grinned and nodded again. Asking anything more complicated would entail a good deal more energy than she had left at the moment. Stifling a yawn, she decided to wait for her numb nuts cousin to come, since he could actually speak this language.

A slightly distressed look stole across Nargratûrz's face, and he said almost sheepishly, "Amal glu-izg?" With a sigh, Sam hunted through the dictionary.

When she figured it out, her cheeks darkened ten shades, she was sure. "Oh, honey, I'm sorry," she apologized, and took him to the little bathroom. Flipping on the light, she pulled him inside and showed him the toilet. "You, uh... glu there," she said awkwardly.

In all honesty, the strange seat wasn't terribly different in concept from the various holes found or specifically dug for the purpose in his clan's holdings. None had water in them, though. But as before, if the sharlob wanted him to use this thing, then he would obey. This was her domain, after all. He untied the laces of his breeches and set about the task of relieving the pressure he'd endured for what seemed like hours.

Sam retreated to minimum safe distance once he started undoing his fly. Curiosity might have gotten the better of her at any other time, but for now... Best to keep herself aloof until Dale showed up. But as she stepped back behind him, she took a good long look at his body. He wasn't unnattractive, she had to admit. Sure, his face was... uh... unusual, but in spite of a period of near starvation, he was still built like a brick shithouse. She had to remind herself that he tore apart a Porterhouse with claws and teeth sharp enough to give Darûk a run for her money.

When he finished, she led him back to the couch and urged him to sit down again. "Lat dhûl tul," she informed him once she'd consulted the word list again. [You sleep here.]

His brow furrowed with disappointment, but he nodded without voicing any protest. Sam almost went back to the dictionary to figure out how to tell him he'd better suck it up and sleep on the couch because her bed was off-fucking-limits, but she restrained herself.

Standing up, she fetched an extra blanket and pillow from the linen cabinet and helped him settle in. She used gestures to indicate he should lie down, which he complied with, then she draped the blanket over him and went around turning off lamps. Too tired herself to be worried about changing out of her clothes, she burrowed under the comforter on the big bed in the corner.

As the cabin gradually darkened with each light she touched, Nargratûrz lay still on the soft couch and watched the flames in the fireplace. The stories he recalled about shara-hai and Orcs typically described violent encounters. The most common beginning to such tales was, "Brîz khlaaruzat aaraarshi." [The horns were heard at dawn.] What followed was invariably a battle that left few survivors, or more often none at all.

He wondered if the tales were lies, or if such a long time had passed since his folk walked Outside that the shara-hai had forgotten they were enemies. Nargratûrz was relieved in either case. He was warm for the first time in days. The bitter wind was no longer gnawing his hide. His belly was full. Whatever this sharlob, Sam, wished of him, he would give.

Something blew against the window pane, startling him. Glancing over, he saw a tree branch waving its spindly fingers Outside. Another gust of wind threw a spray of black against the glass, and Nargratûrz froze. It seemed to be blood, the way it slowly dripped down the glass pane in rivers. His breath quickened as the branch formed into a clawed, black hand, and idly scraped at the window.

Terrified, he squeezed his eyes closed for a moment, then slowly cracked them open again. The branch had returned, and only the bluish white earth could be seen blowing past the window.

What is happening to me? he worried. These things he was seeing seemed so real, yet did not stay. The beast, Darûk, was sleeping peacefully in front of the fire as though nothing were amiss. The sharlob was also asleep in her bedding, unaffected by his visions. They could not be real.

It was a long time before Nargratûrz succumbed to fatigue and let sleep take him.