Record Low pt II

[Zilrud]

The Ork heard the compliment, but there was no reason to respond. The idea behind responding meant he was acknowledging being wise. If anything, he had not been wise in his choice of meal. What shreds of his Orkish pride had been at stake, and even though he had felled the beast, the beast had inflicted what was potentially a life-threatening wound. So as the man prepared himself to begin helping with the disinfection of the wound, the Orkhai had not bothered to look at him. He had barely noticed the extra time it had taken the man being lost in thought over something but had not given it enough credit to expend the energy to acknowledge it.

With his head leaned back, his throat had opened up as well as his sinuses, and he could smell something of a chemical nature being used. He assumed that was what would be used to disinfect the wound. Rather than attempt to fight it, he remained there, with his head looking away from the man and waiting for whatever pain would come from the press of the disinfectant-soaked rag to his wound.

The counting he could have done without. As an Orkhai, he was impatient when it came to pain or war and would have rather just had it happen rather than count it out, but he was not the one fixing the wound. But the moment the antiseptic touched the inflamed, infected parts of the wound, there was a disapproving grunt, but in all actuality, the Ork almost welcomed it. Regardless of how much it hurt, it was a reminder that he was alive. His fists remained balls and pressed downwards against the floor, and his teeth grit to the point it sounded like they were cracking. No permanent damage would be done to his teeth, and it was just the teeth's edges clicking against one another as his eyelids came to a close.

The muscle around the wound began to spasm from the pain that was affecting the nerve endings, which showed just how much pain the Orkhai had actually been in. As the quads along the muscular thigh flexed, tensed, and hardened, the leg lifted just a bit, pressing it with what strength he had in the leg against the rag. And with there being extra pressure against the wound, the Orkhai lifted his head and stared right into the other’s face, looking to see what the man was doing or how he was reacting to cleaning the wound and being quite meticulous about it.

Green eyelids blinked, his eyes opened, the dimmed red orbs searched that face, and eventually, lowered down to the hand that held the rag against his wound and seemed more interested in the man’s hand(s) applying pressure, rather than looking anywhere else.

[Thomas]

Thomas was impressed once again. Beyond being physically strong and obviously sturdy, the ork could endure quite a bit of pain. He wondered what sort of life he'd had that he'd gotten so much practice, but he knew that most of the tribes of orkhai led brutal lives. This man was likely no exception, then, not like the more civilized enclaves Thomas grew up with in Grisic. That still left one bel of a question: what exactly was he doing in Lorien? The country was not known to have a large population of orkhai.

His eyes widened as the ork deliberately pressed his leg up into the antiseptic. The teeth clacking he'd actually witnessed before, or it would have alarmed him. He knew that he had little cause to worry about an ork's teeth as long as none of his body parts were inside one's mouth, so he paid it no mind. With the antiseptic applied, he grabbed a large clean rag and tied it loosely around the ork's meaty thigh. Normally, he would apply some kind of adhesive or a tighter tie to bind the cloth to the wound, but the doctor would be here to actually solve the problem, so there was no point in securing the bandage overly much when it would be coming off in a matter of hours anyhow. He just wanted to ensure nothing nasty contaminated the wound in the meantime.

With that accomplished, he smiled at the man across from him, feeling a bit triumphant. Sure, it wasn't much or even really anything, but it was the first time he'd bloody done anything in months. He couldn't remember the last time he'd used his hands to do something other than write, drink tea, or ministrate to Wendall. Not that any of these were bad pursuits, quite the opposite, but variety was the spice of life.

"I've done what small good I can, Sir. While we await the doctor, I can bring you some food, if you'd like? Oh, and some medication, if you'll take it. Something for your fever, perhaps. Maybe a blanket or two? Or if you will consent to being moved by the Hollows, they can help you to a guest bedroom. You don't need to stay this outbuilding if you do not wish to. Please, just tell me what you desire, and it will be done."

[Zilrud]

The Orkhai was happy to feel pain. It reminded him of a time lost to him, long ago. His most recent adventures had been dulled for more than one reason. So, while he could feel pain, it felt like a distant echo of what pain could truly bring to the once magnificent brute. Thankfully, though, for the man helping him and the Orkhai’s benefit, the question of what he was doing in Lorien had not been asked, not when he was helping instigate the pain he was feeling.

Slowly, his eyes closed, the thicker leathery eyelids shutting the dimmed red orbs from sight as he allowed that hefty sting to settle in with a growled grunt. As his chest began to rise and fall to offset the pain he felt. Eventually, the sting dissipated, and he felt a bandage tied over his wound. He finally opened his eyes when the man started talking again. He was offering him things… Why was this weak, fragile boy offering him things without payment? It had made no sense, and once more, his brows furrowed in thought as he was half certain it was indeed a trap. It was only a ploy to make him think it was innocence, but in all actuality, they wanted him healed because he would get to abuse the idea of a wounded Orkhai in his presence and bring him to bear against his enemies.

But again, he was shocked that he wasn’t even planning on keeping him in the building, a building which he had most likely destroyed in the events that led to him passing out on the floor. Without forming words, there was the lowest of a grunt and a slight nod of his head in the man's direction. His final words seemed to irritate the Orkhai; something about them had set him into a minor display of defiance.

Even though it hurt, much more distinctively now, he began to bend his left knee and rolled himself onto it, the freshly cleaned wound bleeding onto the new bandage. He quickly brought his right knee up, planted his bare foot down against the ground, and forced himself up. The shredded rags he wore once more fell into place, but the quick movement and blood loss had affected him to the point that he nearly lost his balance. Stepping around the human, the quicker step on the wounded leg led to him nearly crashing into the doorframe of the outbuilding and gripping it. His weighty collision with the frame caused the framework to groan and crack under the inertia. It stopped, and the Ork paused at the door, the frame offering nearly seventy percent of support to his frame.

“…You are soft.”

The man could take what he would from that remark, and those red orbs grew far dimmer as he felt something within his body. He could feel his body succumbing to the infection and blood loss. Sweat even trickled down the back of his head, down his muscular back, and into the tattered fabrics he wore.

“…Walk me.”

The deep voice grunted to the other man, he was going to walk it on his own, and he expected the other man to show him exactly where he was supposed to be going. If he was going to live or die from his own mistake, he was not going to have anyone carry him anywhere. He would get himself there. A glance was given over his shoulder for Thomas to see him at least waiting for him, and he would press from his rested place against the doorframe and began to simply start walking in the direction of the home that he could see. It was slow, painful even, but if he was to die, he was going to do it with what dignity he had left.

[Thomas]

One of the benefits of a lifetime of verbal abuse, indifference, and living at the capricious whims of and tempers of various caretakers throughout the years was that the pain of verbal slights was dulled. Actual physical pain made Thomas buckle quite easily. He was not brave in the face of torment like his guest was. Were it him, he would be asking for an armed guard and a sedan chair and some hot soup and a bed piled with the finest blankets. Words, though, despite being a domain where he felt most at ease, were mostly harmless.

Besides, he was soft. If he hadn't been before this marriage, he couldn't argue that he was soft now. Both physically -- a sedentary lifestyle and a kitchen that would make him tea cakes whenever he asked meant that some of the clothes he'd worn while traveling were now a bit tighter than he was used to -- and intellectually. This was the most exciting thing that had happened to him in months. In his old life, seeing someone bloody and in pain was a regular fixture. He would try to help as he could while assessing what they had on them that was valuable as payment or future leverage. Now, though, he was supposed to be an honorable man, and maybe he'd become one at the expense of the flinty survivalist impulses he'd once had.

The ork lumbered slowly but purposefully toward the manor house with Thomas in his wake. As before, the man took the most direct path, wading through drifts that were up to his waist as if did not even factor in to his planned route and using paths as they benefitted him before stepping off them again. The gardener would probably be annoyed that some of his precious flowers were being disturbed during Frost but Thomas resigned himself to the idea of another lecture. Making sure his guest did not fall over before he reached the manor house was more important.

When the big man reached the main steps, Thomas nimbly sidestepped him and opened the front doors, answering the issue of if this was a beleaguered guest or an injured invader.

"The blue suite, please," he said to his housekeeper. "Draw a fire and get clean white linens on the bed. You have approximately two minutes from when I started talking. Thank you."

She bobbed at him and bustled away.

He turned to his orkhai guest. "Welcome to my home, Sir," he said, projecting his voice as though he were on stage. He wanted it to be loud enough that anyone else in the general vicinity would hear, so there was no doubt that this man was to be treated well even if he weren't around. And then, in a more normal register, he added, "your rooms are right this way -- we'll just take a right into this hall way, another right at the bend, and it will be the third door on the left. It's called the Blue Suite. I think you'll like it," he said, remaining still and carefully watching the orkhai take in the manor home.

He wondered if it looked palatial to him, or nice, or just strange and foreign. This Rienese home was exactly the sort of thing he'd dreamed about as a boy when he'd let himself dream of anything, before he turned that part of his imagination off, but to a warrior such as this perhaps it was just a baffling collection of fripperies.

[Zilrud]

The Orkhai cared not for the damage he had done to the flora. Perhaps he should have, but his mind was more on getting to the ending destination rather than the path it took to get there. Once they had made it to the door, he had paused while the other had moved himself up and opened the door. The smells from inside were foreign to the Orkhai. He had only ever known three groups of scents. Rokhan, a cell filled with less than desirable conditions, and the smells of being in the arena, fighting for one’s life. The finer scents that came across his nose from within had his red eyes glancing at the man talking about something called a blue suite.

When the woman hustled away, his eyes followed her, and curiously, his eyes returned to the man. This one commanded her? That was something unique and had definitely not been something he had planned to learn about during his short stint with his would-be savior. The little one had some form of power… Or ownership. His gaze lowered over the man’s frame for a moment before landing on his face as he gave him directions on the way to go.

Slowly, he headed in the direction he had been pointed in. Moving down the hall, he was walking slower than he really should have been until he turned a right at the bend and looked at the doors on the left. Passing the first, the second, and he paused at the third. The door was open, and he could smell… He did not quite know the smell, but he was being offered something nice.

The home itself was too big. It served no vital purpose other than to show off. That could easily be done with an effigy to Jaxkael or having a significantly larger tent or hut. This was almost too much, and he did lift his head to see how high the ceiling was in comparison and entered the room. His eyes slid across the room, taking in what the room had to offer, but he had only been interested in one thing in particular.

His eyes caught the side of his goal, and he walked towards it and paused at the edge of the bed. There was, perhaps, a more ceremonious way of doing what he had done, but his leg was festering, and his backside just… Fell. His Orkish behind landed on the edge of the bed, and he sat on it, his muscular forearms resting on his knees for a moment as he hunched over, his breathing a bit labored as sweat trickled down his forehead, and he finally looked to the other.

Slowly, he blinked before his back went backward, his muscular torso landing with a creaking crack against the frame, but his arms spread out from his sides, and he merely stared up as the glowering shade of red in his eyes had almost darkened. He was tired, and the bed was soft… Warm… It felt good against both his weather-beaten and scarred flesh.

Slowly, his eyes closed as he let a breath out. It was peaceful, for a blissful moment. He was out of the weather for the first time and did not know how long. His flesh had been used to the sun-kissed plains of Rokhan, the warmth, and the beautiful atmosphere... But his flesh had known nothing other than Lorien’s harshness for so long he had almost forgotten what comfort felt like. Grunting a groan out, his feet remained flat on the floor as they hung off the edge of the bed, and he relaxed. If the doctor made it, fantastic. If not, at least he was comforted and shown kindness, although he would not outwardly thank the man for his kindness.

The Orkhai did not fear death. He feared the shame he would face in the afterlife if he died without remedying his situation.

...But this particular Orkhai was too stubborn to give in to death so easily, not until he was completely ready to pass through the veil.

So rather than his chest falling lifeless, the Ork’s eyes grew half-lidded. He merely gazed upward, allowing himself to fall into a half-conscious state, almost meditative in a primitive fashion.

[Thomas]

Thomas hovered nearby as the ork got into bed, knowing that he was useless. To touch a man who was so clearly determined to accomplish this task on his own would be an insult, and given the disparity between their heights and weights, he was unsure he could hold the orkhai's weight up if the giant proved unsteady on his feet. He was briefly dismayed when the ork seemed to fall into bed more than lie down in it, but was reassured when the big man curled up and passed out, his breathing deep and even.

Once he was sure that the stranger was passed out, he went to attend to his other duties as the co-Lord of the house. First, he neutralized Wendall. That was not hard -- Wendall and he had a good rapport at this point, and an understanding that Thomas did everything Wendall asked and in return Wendall did not fight him on the absurdist whimsy that seemed to occasionally occupy where Thomas' common sense should be. When he had put hats on all of the house Hollows, for instance, and learned to tell them apart that way Wendall had fussed and stuttered and carried on about it before giving up. Thomas was yielding in many ways, but at the center of all that accommodation and flexibility was an implacable core that it was best to accept.

This was one such time. Despite the many pragmatic arguments Wendall could have presented to Thomas about why caring for an unknown, injured orkhai who clearly had some sort of martial background could land them in varying degrees of hot water, he knew better than to bother. He instead gave the actor a look and told Thomas that he was owed a big favor in return, then smiled a bit when Thomas made an off-color remark about what that favor might comprise.

"Definitely not," Wendall replied in a tone that meant 'Actually, perhaps yes.'

Thomas winked at him and left. With that managed, he turned his eye to the rest of what needed to be done for their guest. He went to the library and found one of the only books they had on Rokhan, found the section on cuisine, and then marched to the kitchen and demanded the chef make something to the best of his ability that matched the descriptions therein. The orkhai he'd known just ate Griscian food, or at least tolerated it on the few occasions he'd seen them out with Ned, but he didn't want to assume that this man enjoyed fried dough and beer. When they had a conversation about what exactly Thomas expected him to do, it became clear that it was the blind leading the blind, so Thomas specified: thick cuts of seared meat, still bleeding on the inside but no longer cold, large and hearty vegetables, big loaves of puffy bread. The rest, the chef would have to figure out.

In the meantime, Thomas took some meat stew with him to the blue suite -- or more properly, the Hollows took it. As a Lord, he didn't carry things. And ate a bowl of it in a chair by his guest's bedside. He made no attempt to wake him up. He figured the big man could use the rest before the ordeal to come.

When the doctor arrived, Thomas was delighted to see that Wendall had sprung for a Necrodoctor. The two of them talked through what would need to be done based on what Thomas had seen: the wound thoroughly debrided then injected with Sinew Foam, then stitched together from the inside with Sinew Thread before a piece of Sinew Cloth would be added to mimic and approximate the skin. The recovery would be, if not instantaneous, than at least much accelerated based on this practice. The pain would be not insignificant, but Thomas was confident his guest was up to the challenge.

The only thing that he didn't like was how the necrodoctor referred to the Orkhai. Once it was established that it was unknown if he were Rienese or not, the doctor made it quite clear in the polite but cold manner that Thomas had grown accustomed to in this land that he considered the orkhai not a person, but a thing he was fixing for Thomas, no different than if he'd asked for a mason to assist with the manor's stonework. Still, he was an expert, and he was not hired for his bedside manner.

So Thomas found himself placing a hand on a muscular orkhai shoulder for the second time that day, hoping that this time there would be no choking. After all, they had company.

[Zilrud]

The Orkhai, although not expressing it, was thankful for the respite afforded to him from the cold. It was the only reason, really, he had taken the offer of going somewhere warmer and out of the weather. The Orkhai had not awoken. Shortly after, he was out during the procedure and unable to feel much of anything. The fact that he would still feel pain, where the wound had been would be fine with him, as he would have considered the full removal of the wound and pain as something quite dishonorable.

Had the Orkhai been awake to hear the doctor’s words, he would have agreed with him. Not because he truly agreed with him, but because that was the type of behavior that had become the norm for him and had given him the sour taste of most people in his mouth. The only good taste in his mouth was the flesh and bones of his meal.

The procedure finished, the Ork was resting quite well, there had been no issues, and the Ork did not immediately stir once everything had been said and done. Perhaps that was also good, or else the Orkhai would have possibly swung at the doctor for regarding the man who had offered him help in such a way. At first, even the hand on his shoulder did not wake him. It would take a couple of movements from the man’s hand against his shoulder to get him to stir.

Only after a couple of good attempts was a grunt and a tilt of his head. The thicker, green lips peeled back, showing the teeth in his mouth and the full display of his tusks. They were there to cause damage and shred meat. With the lips peeling back, the sharp teeth clacking together for a moment, his eyes opened as there was a sharp intake of air and his eyes attempted to focus. It felt like he had just fallen asleep.

It was a twitch of his nose that showed his senses were at least still intact. Inhaling the doctor’s scent and the other man’s, his head turned to regard the hand on his shoulder first. It was warm. He remembered this touch from before. His glowing eyes slid up the man’s arm to his face and settled on it. Why was he so concerned with a random Orkhai?

Turning his head, he found the person, who he assumed was the doctor. That was the look he expected to find on anyone who looked at him. It was the only look he had ever known in Lorien, save for the exceptions for the deranged who had paid for services rendered. Blinking in the doctor’s direction, the Orkhai’s eyes sharpened, narrowed even on the man. He pressed himself up, his biceps flexing, and the vein along the sides of his forearms became more prominent as he pressed down on the mattress and turned so his legs could hang off, having previously found himself laying along the side of the bed.

The blood rushed to his head, and unless Thomas had moved, the Orkhai would lean forward, resting his muscular forearms on his knees, lifting his left arm enough to notice the wound had been fixed, but he could still feel pain. Something about having it fixed nigh perfectly had the Orkhai bowing his head. Whether it was in shame or gratitude, in Thomas’s direction, not the Doctor’s, would be up for their own interpretations. His eyes actually steeled over for a moment because he felt the reason for healing him was about to be unveiled to him. Lifting his head, he leveled an almost irrationally anger-filled grimace at Thomas before looking to the Doctor, waiting for one of them to speak.

[Thomas]

With the good doctor's tender ministrations finished, mostly with the orkhai snoring, Thomas could scarcely believe his luck. Then the man had to ruin it by talking about payment for services rendered, for tending to "it" -- the doctor as well as Thomas could produce a reasonable guess that the orkhai was probably a "he" so this was just deliberate insult -- and then he continued, in that insufferably polite but closed off and cold Rienese fashion, to insinuate that he needed to be paid right away, in front of the orkhai, or else.

"Or else what, exactly, Doctor?" Thomas countered. "Send me a bill when you return to your lodgings, and you will be paid in full for your trouble. I will render no payment without a record of what you wish to be paid for, first."

It frustrated him that despite his rank as Celebrant, what Wendall had said at the start of their relationship held true. People knew he was a foreigner and they did not treat him with the dignity his official rank afforded him. Taelian got around this by being a decorated military hero and also looking like he would as soon punch the head off of someone's neck for an insult as politely tolerate rudeness, but Thomas was a more acceptable target.

The doctor sputtered at him sourly, but his attempt to double-charge or over charge or whatever other idiocy he had in mind was forestalled, at least for now, so he bowed stiffly and took his leave.

"Good day, Doctor" Thomas called out in the same pleasant intonation as the servants used for him whenever he was annoying them. Quite often, judging by the frequency he heard it.

After the man was gone, he rolled his eyes at the orkhai as if to say "can you believe that guy?"

"How's your leg, Sir?" He asked instead. "Any interest in some food? I believe we should have some basic foods you might enjoy ready by now, if so. Otherwise, I can let you sleep. But while I have you up, is there anything you want?"

[Zilrud]

This was not the first, nor did the Orkhai feel it would be the last time he would be treated in such a way. He was not human, and had he not felt like the room was spinning, he would have removed the doctor’s head and dealt with the consequences afterward. However, now that he had returned upright, his blood pressure had altered, and he had a hard enough time focusing without the room feeling like it was trying to take off with him still in place.

The exchange between them had the red eyes sliding back and forth until the one who had helped him had stood his ground, albeit with funnier, human-sounding Common that he was unfamiliar with. Watching the doctor head off, apparently dissatisfied, his gaze fell back to the other man who had rolled his eyes, trying to convey the message. Ironically, the Ork did believe that man; it was the type of person he had been around for many seasons.

The question of his leg saw the Orkhai lowering his faze to it and poking at the freshly healed wound. His thick, long, leathery green finger rubbed and poked a few times, testing out the elasticity of the work before looking back to the man and offering a grunted nod. “Sore… “ It was true, and it was most definitely sore. The promise of food, however, had the Orkhai lifting his head up. “Food…”

He thought to himself if he could afford to be indebted even further to the man, but he had not eaten, and when he had, it had not been much due to the wound he’d had for a few days. Survival had to take over his pride at that moment. He did nod to the man. “Show me.” He wanted to see the food. He wasn’t going to eat some ruined mountain of food that some humans tried to pass off as edible.

Pressing himself up from sitting on the edge of the bed, he grimaced as he attempted to put weight on his leg, favoring his right for a moment, bearing his weight on the one good leg. A low, rumbling, feral grow came from deep within his throat as he slowly flattened his foot against the floor and gently began to apply pressure until he felt enough stability to take a step. This experimental step resulted in there being a guttural roar of a string of sounds that did not have a coherent meaning. Baring his teeth as he quickly moved onto his right foot, using his leg as support, the Orkhai would repeat the motion. The pain was was enough to send a jolt of discomfort up his leg and spine but not enough to keep him from continuing until he reached the room door.

Nodding his head, he didn’t quite look back to Thomas, but his head had nodded in his direction.

“Show me where there is food.”

Annoyed, tired, wounded, but grateful. The Ork finally said his first complete sentence, showing he clearly wasn’t a stupid beast or a creature deservedly referred to as ‘it.’

[Thomas]

Thomas hadn't expected the orkhai to get up, let alone to bear weight on his newly healed leg. At some point, his mind would catch up to the man's endurance and sheer stubbornness, but not so early in their acquaintance.

So he was to dine with an orkhai dressed in rags. If he did so in the formal dining room, fondness or no, Wendall would eviscerate him. His study, then. That was where he did the rest of the stuff that the members of the household tutted at.

"Certainly. We'll take the meal in my study. I'll also be able to provide you a gift there, if you like. I --" he should just say 'I can offer you some of my husband's clothes, as you are of a size and I'm sure he wouldn't mind, but he couldn't. Something stopped him. He knew not what, but talking of Taelian lately had been painful, more painful by far than his absence, and calling him by his proper title stung, too. He looked away for half a second.

"A member of the household is about your size," he said instead. "I'd like to offer you a change of clothes. If you like your current clothes, the staff can wash and mend them. If you don't like them, or wish for something else, do let me know."

He led the orkhai this time, back to the great hall, then up the fancy split staircase that was needlessly ornate but that he would freely admit he loved because he adored many needless things, into a wing meant for the heads of the house and not guests. The ceilings were no less high, but the wood was paneled and more plain. The art on display was less speculative showpieces of current Rienese culture and more Wendall's family heirlooms. There was no need to impress anyone coming into this part of the house, in other words, because if they were here they were either the help or family. Thomas doubted the ork had the sense of aesthetics he did, though -- whatever the man's background, he didn't seem like he'd grown up in the service of nobility like his would-be rescuer had.

He opened the door to the study. It was a remarkable room in that it was made for a man of Taelian's size, and therefore of his guest's. The ceiling was correspondingly higher, as were the tables, the desks, and the chairs. Thomas maintained his own desk to the side of one meant for Taelian, and felt a bit like his looked like a set for a very fancy doll next to the argent knight's, but no matter. He couldn't use the stuff designed for Tae -- it was far too big. Hopefully, his guest would enjoy it, though. Thomas didn't mind having his feet dangle off the floor a bit if it meant his guest would be comfortable.

Once the orkhai was seated or at least had acquiesced to dine at the table, Thomas rang for whatever meal the cook had come up with. Given their conversation he wasn't entirely certain it would be suitable, but hopefully large portions of still bleeding meat, simple hearty bread, butter, and barely cooked vegetables would suit his guest's taste. And beer, he'd decided at the last minute. Get some more energy into the man.

"If you'll wait here a minute," he said to the guest, disappearing into the adjoining door to what was his and Taelian's shared wardrobe.

He knew exactly what he was looking for, and he was fairly sure he knew where to find it. He had a good memory for clothes. So in scarcely a minute, he returned with a robe -- the long, plush kind that would keep the orkhai warm and would cover him from neck to shin -- and a very loose pair of shorts. A tailor had gotten the measurements a bit wrong on Thomas' instructions, and they'd never quite fit Tae, but the orkhai seemed to be thicker in the thigh, so maybe these would suit. When he returned, he presented them, clearly excited.

"Um, do you like them, Sir? If you do, I'd be happy if you wore them -- I'll turn around, of course, if you wish to change."