Record Low pt III

[Zilrud]

A study? What was a study? He had blinked as the other led the way, not quite understanding humans' desire and incessant need to have things they never used or forgot about until something else had piqued their curiosity. The Orkhai followed silently. Even with the mention of clothing being offered, he was fine with what he was wearing. Most Orkhai men did not even wear as much as he was currently wearing back in Rokhan. The only reason he had the excuse of pants he was wearing and the shirt was due to the weather in Lorien.

The man had definitely seemed to lose his train of thought without openly wording it, derailed by something. It was none of the Ork’s business, and he did not particularly care for that tidbit of information at the moment. Once the door to the study had been opened, the Ork took a moment to take it in and understood what a study was. It was… Something with furniture and books… It was like a training area, but for knowledge. The Ork had never officially been inside of a study prior, having lived out on the fields of Rokhan rather than some of the fewer wilds of their kind.

Hobble, stepping to a seat at the table, relaxed. The throbbing in his thigh was immense, and he was thankful for another break. And before the Ork could look up from the table at the man asking him to wait a minute, Thomas had vanished, and a thick brow lifted, and he looked one way, then the other, and snorted. He was quick, and it’s because he was small. He was certain of it.

Almost immediately, the Orkhai hated the clothing that was presented to him. They looked… Ridiculous. But then again, he was in tattered, stained, bloodened, and infection-scented clothing that was tattered and not even proper loincloth material. Groaning as he looked down at himself, then up at the robe, which looked offensive in and of itself, the Orkhai reached over, snatched them from the man, and pressed himself up to a stand.

He was going to wear them because they had fewer holes and were sturdier than what he was currently wearing. With Thomas’ offer of turning around ignored, the Ork didn’t have modesty, and even if he did have it at one point, it would have been beaten from him in the last few years. Without discretion for his current clothing, he hooked a finger into the collar around the neck of the tattered shirt and pulled at it. The tearing of the fabric could be heard until it ripped open from around his neck, and the tattered, filthy garment was laid on the table.

At that moment, the true visage of the Orkhai would be available to Thomas if he had looked. The Orkhai’s body had scars but weren’t merely little knicks or cuts. Some of them had bludgeoning scars, especially behind his right shoulder, with lacerative scars along his midsection and a couple of scars that looked like flesh had been ripped from his body. Either way, none of them were fresh, other than the one at his thigh. What was most notable, though, that stood out the most against his green flesh was the brilliantly blue geometric pattern that spanned from his left shoulder, down and across his pectoral muscles, and over to his right shoulder. It was made up of perfectly formed triangles that had not only turned the brilliant blue they were, but they had also become textured, like small gemstones that were still rough and not quite finished and polished for resale.

The lower garment was also treated with haphazard care, torn from his body, and tossed to the table. He also had scars on his legs that had not been perfectly visible due to the material, but not as much that appeared on his torso. The shorts were put on first with help from the table. Leaning on the table, it groaned under his pressed weight as he lifted his healing leg, slid the shorts on over his bare foot, and pulled them up a portion. The same would be done, though he put more weight on the table to get his right foot into the shorts and leaned down to pull them up. They were a bit snug around his thighs, but not annoyedly so. He could still move in them, which was what mattered.

Lastly, he lifted the robe and studied it. It looked, smelt, and felt like it was worth more than the table he had been threatening with his weight. Lifting his gaze from the blue material to Thomas, almost annoyed at the thought of covering himself up so much, he looked back to the robe and sighed with displeasure as he pulled it on. It was not closed, so Thomas would have to meet him halfway on that. He felt foolish in human-like clothes, but… If it meant he could at least get a meal, half an hour of wearing ridiculous clothing was worth a full belly.

Retaking his seat, he let out a grunt as he adjusted in his seat to the clothing he wore.

“Do humans always wear so much?” He asked, and although he sounded pissed off and annoyed, it was his attempt at conversing with the man. The first actual attempt at it, anyways.

[Thomas]

Thomas hadn't intended to look. It felt indecent to do so without an invitation. He would have felt the same even before he'd become a toff. One of the only things one could afford someone else was privacy, if they wanted it. The orkhai, it seemed, did not want it. Thomas looked up as his guest torn the makeshift chest covering from his body, rendering it unwearable, or at least in need of extensive repair, and he found the orkhai's casual disregard for the shirt thrilling.

Thomas was careful with his material possessions, even now. Money, he'd never been great with. He either didn't have it and was working on getting more, and he did and life was good, so why worry about it -- or that had been the philosophy before his marriage becoming a responsible member of the Rienese landed gentry. Stuff, though, could be useful if it was kept in good condition, so he'd done his best with his meager possessions ever since he was a boy.

The orkhai apparently disagreed.

Thomas had expected the skin color -- green, and rough like armor he couldn't take off -- because it had already been showing. The scars were something else, though. As always, the impulse to trace them or ask about them was there, but he governed it harshly. The man had been through enough. He was not here as some kind of demonstration. The blue pattern on his chest was something else again, though. Thomas' studies in magic told him this was a Mark, likely for Divide, and was proud of himself for recognizing one. The books Taelian had gotten him from the Covenant had been boring, but he'd read them, and it seemed had retained some amount of information from them, even. No small feat for one who had wanted nothing to do with magic for approximately his entire life despite possessing some himself.

He'd also been approximately prepared for the orkhai's musculature, but seeing him in a state of partial undress made his breath catch in his throat. This was the sort of man, the part of his brain that was scared of everything whispered, that could protect you. It wasn't necessarily true and it wasn't necessarily rational, but he'd long since learned not to argue with it on matters like these. The orkhai's arms, freed from the shirt the man did not much care for, bulged with thick corded muscle. His chest, green and blue with the stray black hair, rose and fell heavily with every breath. It was more bare at the top, perhaps due to the mark, before revealing a shock of hair across the remaining part of his visible torso.

Thomas schooled himself and turned before the orkhai went any lower. He wasn't certain if this was the man saying that he was allowed to look, and until he was certain, he wouldn't. He didn't turn back around until he heard the telltale rustlings of the soft cloth of the robe being pulled on. His eyes strayed to the soiled clothes on the table that they were going to eat on and hid a grimace. The man couldn't reasonably assume they were eating there. For all he knew, this was a changing vestibule before the intended grand dining room.

So instead, Thomas joined him at the table, sitting to his right rather than across from him. It was a decently large, handsome wooden square table, big enough for four Taelians or four large orkhais or perhaps seven Thomases, if they didn't mind intruding on one another's personal space a bit. The question made him laugh a bit.

"I suppose they do in Lorien, yes. It's quite cold here, so the people here are covered up, even indoors. In Daravin, it's expected to be completely covered. The Entente -- the rich folks with the most power," he clarified "even wear masks, so you cannot see their faces. Back home in Grisic, we wear a bit less than either of these countries, but we are still quite covered up, I think, compared to Rokhan. Is that where you're from, Sir? I have met a few Orkhai from my home of Starkwayte, but they dressed more or less as I do," he said, gesturing to his shirt and trousers. He'd doffed his waist coat before sitting at the table and hung it up with the rest of his clothes in the wardrobe; he wasn't an animal.

"And if that is where you're from, if you don't mind -- how did you find yourself all the way in Lorien? It's quite a ways," he said, leaving it at that. The and you don't seem to like it here or really even know where you are was left unsaid.

[Zilrud]

In truth, the Orkhai did not care. He never cared to adhere to the human convention, even when subjected to it for so long. His resistance to it was also what made him a bit of a spectacle to the humans and other non-Orks from the arenas. Once he had finished dressing and had found himself seated again, he allowed a large breath to pass through his nostrils and felt the throbbing in his thigh. With the throbbing, he was beginning to realize how extensive the wound had been, even if it had been fixed as well as anyone could have.

When the other chose to sit to his right, the glowing red eyes slid over to the other and studied him for a moment. Why was he sitting there? Why was he asking questions? No matter if one thing the Ork had learned was not to look a gift boar in the mouth. The man had promised him food, and for that, he would eat until he was stuffed, knowing not if this was to be his last meal for some time.

The mention of The Entente had the Orkhai’s eyes growing more narrowed, and he slid them off of the man. He had heard the term before, even knew he had been the subject of one or two of their bets during the time he had spent in the arena. Also, hearing the mention of the coldness of Lorien did him no favors. He knew how cold it was. It was something that had taken him years to grow used to the stinging chill his skin would eventually feel once it had turned cold enough.

Hearing of the Orkhai in Rokhan versus the Orkhai in Grisic earned a snort from the Ork. It was like comparing the Orks of the farmlands in Rokhan against those who had never felt the true earth in their hands, feeling the life that was waiting to blossom from it with enough dedication and effort. It was truly a sensation he had missed. Recently, he had only ever known the feeling of ice, snow, masonry, and cemented surfaces. In his mind, they had lost touch with what made them Orkhai, whereas others might feel the Orkhai in Grisic was the next step in evolution for the Orks.

The final question, though, had the large, green, mostly covered Orkhai lower his gaze to the table in thought. Normally, an Ork would be proud to tell a tale of war, bloodshed, and reliving their most honorable combats. The Ork instead felt shame at even thinking he could speak the words aloud. It was difficult to utter words out loud that he had only shared between him and his desperate prayers to Jaxkael. He couldn’t tell the whole story, and he still wasn’t sure what the man’s whole point of bothering him was yet. Not that he innately thought Thomas was bad, but the only thing he had known was that the man’s people had found him, and he helped keep him from his soul melding with Jaxkael’s eternal soul, full of shame.

“…because humans do not have honor, and for amusement.”

Luckily, they had been intruded upon at that moment by some of the Hollows who were carrying in some food. He did not move, ready to attempt to fight off anything or anyone who tried to make things less than ideal for him. But as the food was served, the rags he had torn from his body were picked up. This brought the Orkhai to gripping the edges of the table as he watched the clothing that had been his, taken away. He did not say anything, but a deeper growl sparked deep in his chest, almost as deep as his Mark of Control across his pecs. He would not attack. It was not worth it. He couldn’t move fast at all, and the food, although not his typical diet, was still food that would give him sustenance and fill him.

For the time being, he allowed himself to be distracted by something that, once in a long while, smelt delicious. The Ork’s red orbs scanned the table near-rabidly until he found it. There was no kindness or politeness about it. Once he had zeroed in on the seared venison, his right hand lurched across the table, stabbed his thick green fingers into the meat, and tore it from the main portion of the meat.

Without hesitation, he stuffed the hunk of meat he had torn, bloodened through and through, with a charred enough sear on the outside to be, perhaps, the most appealing thing he had eaten in some time. As the blue-grade meat graced his tongue, coating it in its almost purely raw and natural flavorings, the scent of the sear elicited a moan from the Ork. The feeling of the still fresh juices of the meat, barely touched by fire, ran down his throat, the delicious rivulets of flavor ran down his chin as well as he had torn a bite from the handful of meat he had simply taken for himself.

Sharp, treacherous teeth gnashes and sheared the meat, pulverizing and shredding the meat within a few chews. An avid swallow took the barely chewed morsel down into his trachea before another squelching press of his sharp teeth into the meat could be heard, and he tore that from the handful as well. The flavorful remnants of the slickness of the barely cooked venison ran down his chin once more, only this time, it was enough to drip from his chin, and it did not give the Orkhai pause at all. Though as he was chewing his second mouthful of meat, his did look to Thomas. And perhaps, for the first time since Thomas’s (un)fortunate run-in with the Orkhai, he did not look at him with a sense of anger, pain, or remorse. In fact, for the first time, he looked content.

Shoveling the rest of the meat into his mouth, he gave it a couple of chews as his eyes bore into Thomas’s, especially if he was still looking at him. “Eat. Or I will eat yours, too, little one.” With a deep breath taken in, the powerful jaw flexed and contorted as he eagerly chomped away at the last mouthful of venison. His right hand was drenched in the meat’s deliciousness, and he was already eyeballing his own hand, contemplating his next step…

And he did. Once the final piece of meat that had been torn from the prepared meat was swallowed, the Orkhai brought the palm of his hand to his face. The thicker, lengthy pink muscle of his tongue slathered across his palm, licking up the remnants of the meat’s seasoning and taste, from the butt of his palm, up to the tip of his thicker middle finger.

The Ork, was hungry.

[Thomas]

Thomas, a keen observer of behavior even in the most adverse circumstances, did not miss the shiftsi n the orkhai's demeanor. His dismissal of the Griscian orkhai Thomas mentioned, his disgust with both Lorien and Daravin, and his comment that he'd been brought here for the amusement of humans suggested a very ugly sort of time spent in Lorien. One that Thomas could hazard a few guesses at, unfortunately. As a Nameless, he only had rights that someone more important didn't deign to strip away.

Based on the man's extensive scarring, perhaps some of that amusement had come from torturing him, or having him hurt himself in front of others, or fight other Nameless. Or perhaps he'd been scarred before he arrived here, and he'd been made to serve tea to a group of bored artificers elsewhere in the West End. Even the most banal imagining enraged him. This man had been stripped of his dignity and forced to do things against his will. The idea that this country was supposed to be a bastion of arts and culture when it had this ugly underpinning girding its seedy core drove him mad. But he was here for Taelian, and for Wendall, so he would put up with it.

Wouldn't he?

He realized he'd been lost in thought while the ork demolished the venison, juices dribbling down his chin onto the robe as he made eye contact and licked at them with his long, muscular tongue. Thomas smiled and unconsciously licked his lips in return before neatly carving himself two slices of venison in between the man tearing off orkhai fist-sized chunks and putting them on his plate alongside the warmed up steamed vegetables. They were modified to grow in Lorien, but they were still similar to the stuff he grew up with in taste: turnips, cabbage, potatoes, carrots. They didn't look the same, and the textures were softer from the permafrost and then the steaming the cook had given them, but they still tasted reassuring and homey.

Unlike his guest, he ate moderately, chewing each morsel thoroughly. He just also somehow managed to do so with absolutely no pause. In polite company, he would be careful to slow down, to show he could take or leave whatever was being served because he had money and unlimited access to good food with no end in sight for the first time in his life. This was not polite company, however, so he made no attempt to modulate his habit of brutally efficient consumption.

"I'm glad you're enjoying the venison, Sir. If there's anything else you want while you stay here, please let me know. If it can be done, it will be done. I'm sorry for how you came to be in this country, but now that you've found your way to my estate, please allow me to host you while you recover from your injury and show you some proper hospitality."

He worried a bit about the offer, because based on the speed with which the ork was eating, he could consume the entire larder in approximately two days, but based on what he'd said about his life in Lorien up to now, Thomas felt the man was owed some recompense for the hardships he'd endured. If it ended up costing them a few extra trips to the butcher, what of it.

[Zilrud]

The Ork had been content to eat as he was. Tearing hunks of meat with each helping until he heard the politeness of silverware. After the second bite of his second handful of meat, he paused his chewing to watch Thomas's politeness. He had only ever seen humans eating with silverware because they had money. He had known Nameless humans who had to eat with their hands, and it never bothered them one bit to have had to switch. Swallowing the meat, he looked at the hunk of meat in his hand and then back to Thomas, who was also eating vegetables.

The Ork rarely liked a good potato and other root vegetables, but the meat was where it was. So for a long moment, he watched in silence, watching the man politely eat his food in his presence. Shaking his head, the meat in his hand landed with a splat on the plate before him quite recklessly, and the same hand that had been holding the meat reached over, gripping Thomas’s chair and pulled the man closer to him, mostly because his leg hurt to stand up.

“No, little one.”

Quite openly, the Ork invaded Thomas’s personal space and gripped first his left wrist, then his right wrist, pulling the fork and knife from his hand and setting them down with an unceremonious clanging. Going back to his own plate, the Ork tore a shred of the meat from his still half-handful of meat and held a partially seared portion of quite rare venison up and towards Thomas’s mouth. The Ork had a reason for this.

“Taste.”

The grunted order was given, and he would wait for Thomas to acknowledge the Ork’s idea, even if it was just for the moment for the Orkhai to feed him. Waiting for the other to eat the morsel of meat at the tips of his forefinger and thumb, he would wait until he chewed it. “You cut and cut until the meat is no good. No.” And when Thomas had finished that small morsel, the Ork dug his index finger into the other’s meat on the plate and lifted it up, hooked onto his finger, bringing his thumb to hold the other side of the meat in question.

“Bite… Or grab and pull, then eat. Nothing is better than eating blood-filled meat right from the beast itself.” The first, full, articulated, even educated sentence in common he had said from beginning to end. “Try it once. You might get bigger.” If Thomas acquiesced to his desire, the Ork would have the closest thing he could muster to a smirk at that moment. However, if Thomas turned him down, or told him to back off from educating him in the proper way to eat food, then the Ork would merely drop the meat on the plate and return to eating his own. Either way, he did have something to say. “…But you are still small, will not help much.”

Amusement showed on the Orkhai’s face. Regardless of their interaction, he returned to polishing off that second handful of meat, followed by a handful of the vegetables quite revoltingly to society, smashed into his mouth, and chewed down. But none of that compared to him grabbing the pitcher of beer and bringing it to his face. Curling his lower lip against the side of the pitcher’s top, he tilted the entire pitcher back, swallowing by heavy, gulping swallows, the fresh beer that began to quench whatever thirst he would have had. And only when the pitcher was just over half emptied would he place it back down, sliding it over to Thomas.

The Orkhai was quite content with the meal that had been prepared. Even if it was just a minor moment, the Orkhai felt better enough. He was not thinking about his leg and how to escape for those few delicious moments.

[Thomas]

Thomas was enthralled. His guest was teaching him something, which meant it was either something important enough to him that it was worth making an effort, or or vital enough to his culture, that using silverware offended him.

"If you insist," he said with a smile, taking the meat into his mouth and watching Zil's reaction as he chewed.

In truth, it was just a larger hunk of meat in his mouth than was really comfortable to chew. He didn't have the kind of sharp, tough teeth that his big green counterpart did, and human teeth were too dull to do as quick a job of grinding the meat into digestible slurry. It tasted damn good, though, so he made no attempt to disguise that he was having fun, even if it took him three times as long to finish than it have taken his orkhai companion. While he chewed, he took in being this close to the other man.

Despite the obvious and imminent danger, Thomas did not feel worried. There was something reassuring about being around someone who could crush him like a grape: if they wanted to, they would. There was no artifice or politics or subterfuge, here, just an appreciation for meat.

"Delicious," he averred, letting the orkhai know he may have had a point. "My growing days are done, Sir, and I am happy this way. Big fellows like you need someone to look down upon, or how would you know you are big?" He said all this with a smile, but while it was a joke, it was clear it wasn't intended to be mocking.

It really did taste good this way, and there was something appealingly primal about it. He liked exceedingly civilized things, too: high teas, fast trains, sixteen course meals with so many forks they ran to a second row, engraved invitations. For his whole life, he'd chased such things, but now that he'd caught up to them, he had to admit there was something to what his companion brought up.

The hunger for meat came with a corresponding thirst for beer. He watched the orkhai ignore his mug and gulp directly from the pitcher. Quite a lust for life, this one. Or perhaps it had just been too long since his last good meal. Perhaps both, he amended to himself as the Orkhai chugged.

He took his allotment of beer in good humor, pouring himself a half mug and then sliding it back to the orkhai. "Little guys don't need as much beer, I think. It wouldn't do for me to be a sloppy host. Besides, this is all for you, really. I'm just happy to share a table with a new acquaintance."

It wasn't just politesse. This was the first exciting thing that had happened in months. He made no attempt to scoot away. If his guest felt this comfortable close to him, he wasn't going to make the man feel awkward. Besides, it was kind of nice, to be so close to someone as they ate. He and Wendall typically ate on opposite sides of an oblong table for twelve, and it was all very civilized, but it lacked the immediacy of this.

[Zilrud]

Watching the other eat the meat, as it was meant to be eaten, the Orkhai gave a satisfied nod of approval before returning full-force back to his own meal. Grabbing himself another handful of meat, the largest fistful of meat so far, he took to it as if he had been struck by a sense of gluttony. The Ork did not care in the slightest if it was offensive to anyone who might have seen, and the fact that Thomas had not pulled away or scooted away from him after the demonstration of how Orks eat was not lost to the larger of the two. Happily polishing off the third fistful of meat with eager gnashing and chewing, he also took in another handful of the vegetables before pulling the pitcher up to his face to allow himself to polish off the rest of the beer.

With Thomas saying it was for the Ork, mostly, there was a satisfied grunt as he had demolished what had been there of the venison, some of the vegetables, and the beer. As he began to lean back in his seat, the Ork pulled each finger into his mouth. First, his smallest was treated to the near obnoxiously suckling of the darker lips against the thick, leathery finger. Then came the ring finger, the middle finger, the index, and eventually the thumb. A sharper tooth picked at each tipped nail before his palm was also licked clean.

A mere glance down at the Ork’s abdomen would see he had definitely put away a decent amount of food. The slightly lean (For an Orkhai) abdomen had pouched, just slightly, as the food had been eaten in such a gluttonous fashion that it hadn’t had time to properly move through his digestive tract in a usual fashion. Idly, his freshly cleaned hand ran down through the opened robe, the nails of his hand scratching over the hard-defined, slightly pouched abdomen and resting over it for a moment.

Belching, the Orkhai could smell the partially cooked meat on the expelled breath and gave a grumble of satisfaction. He had been fed quality meat, and for that, he would be thankful, even if he did not say the actual word of gratuity to his host. What he did, though, was after the belch, his bare feet planted firmly against the ground, and he allowed his left leg to lean a bit more off to the side comfortably. He reached up with his arm, the one with the hand resting on his abdomen was moved to rest its elbow on the backing of Thomas’s chair, and the Orkhai sat like that, overly stuffed for the first time in a time since he could not remember. He felt his eyelids grow half-lidded as he felt the haze of a full stomach coming over him.

Taking in a deep breath, deeper than he had been able to before, his muscular chest expanded more and more, pushing his elbow outward a bit along the top edge of that chair. Eventually, he exhaled and looked from the decimation of the food that had been served before him to the smaller human to his side. “What do you plan to do with me?”

He had never known any form of kindness from a human. And rather than keep it in the back of his mind, thinking the man was going to do something to him once he had been healed. But now he had been healed and fed, and the man didn’t seem too bothered with his presence. And perhaps the wording could have been better, but Common, regardless of his fluency, was not his first language. His features were stoic. There was no malice, contentment, or cheer on his face. The Ork, who had known glory and honor at one point in his life, may have looked slightly rundown, but he was on the mend and would allow himself to, one day, regain his glory, pride, and honor.

But first… What was the aim of the little Lord’s kindness?

[Thomas]

Thomas was enjoying watching his guest enjoy himself. He had eaten, perhaps to excess, and drank quite a bit, and seemed to be relaxing. A heavy muscular green arm was draped around the back of Thomas' chair in a gesture of companionship that was not lost on the human. He didn't quite lean back into his guest's arm because this was dinner at a table, not snuggling on a couch, but he didn't avoid it, either. He wanted to show the man he was appreciated, admired, liked, and respected with his body language and his actions as much as his words.

Which is why the question was such a gut punch.

What do you plan to do with me?

The words themselves didn't sting. It just showed the man was no fool, and had grown accustomed to people taking advantage of him. He hadn't looked medical care or food askance, but now that he was healed and sated, he wanted to know if there was a bill coming due. Thomas had been in the exact same position, many, many times. Unlike the orkhai, he often put himself in such situations deliberately, knowing that if it came to it, he could wriggle free once he'd had his fill, and leave with his belly and his pockets fuller than when he arrived. This man, though, was not a soft and charismatic sort like Thomas, and he recognized that such situations were often traps. He simply wished to know what sort he found himself in.

"Well, Sir, I will say that my intention is to give you a safe, warm area to gain your strength back, and to help you figure out what you want to do next. I can't say I fully understand what you have been through, but I have been a Nameless in this land, and there have been times it did not go so well for me. In truth, though I am considered high-ranking now, the natives know me to be a foreigner and do not treat me as they are supposed to. I don't wish to speak on my experiences overmuch, or to compare them with yours. I am merely trying to say: this land can be a cold, barren place of torment for people who are Nameless, and if that happened to you, I am sorry for it, and wish to make it up to you as best I can."

"Beyond that," Thomas paused, looking up at his guest. "If you'd like to tell me, I would love to be formally introduced to my guest. Would it be okay to know your name?"

[Zilrud]

This man, who knew nothing of him aside from what he was, wanted to help him figure out what to do next after he had finished healing and regaining his strength. Something sounded off about the offer in itself, to the point that the Ork’s eyes had narrowed on the man. Nobody was kind, not even Orkhai back home unless they were comrades of the same clan. They rarely even tolerated other clans’ presence without swinging a weapon or having battles of power.

With his narrowed gaze remaining on him, even while he spoke of being a Nameless, it made the Orkhai think, something he did not tend to do a whole lot of, mostly because he did just what his body reacted to doing. The only time he ever really thought was when it came to preparing for a battle. Aside from that, his body would lead him wherever it was meant to go.

“You can not make up what happened. It is not your burden, and you did not poison, drug, and take me from the fertile lands of Rokhan to this frozen prison.” The final words were spat out, and even his native accent of Mor’drub seemed to cling to his final words as his tongue had gotten the best of him at that moment. Spit clung to one of his tusks that, if one looked close enough, had filed the bone tips from and screwed in metallic points. That had not been of the Ork’s own doing, either.

Honor was lost amongst many of the sentient beings now in Atharen, thought for a moment; as Thomas continued to speak, it wasn’t all entirely lost on humanity. “Kill the ones who do not respect you and drink their marrow. It is what an Orkhai would do. If you earn your power, you wield it proudly.” Perhaps Orkish nature was incompatible with the idea of nobility, but the sentiment was there in what the Ork was trying to convey.

What the Ork had not counted on was that the only ulterior motive Thomas may have had was he wanted to know his name. This confused the Orkhai through and through, and the confusion could be seen in his glowing red eyes as he looked down into the other’s gaze. The Ork could smell fear, and he could smell the changes in someone’s scent when their pheromones and hormones reacted to different situations. In silence, he stared at him, not giving him a name or anything. Instead, he said something quite different, perhaps not what Thomas had intended.

The Orkhai’s face leaned a little closer, and the hand to the arm resting on the chair moved and neared Thomas’s cheek as the sharper nails of his index finger and thumb pinched against a small portion of skin, just up from the tip of his chin and pulled it a bit sharply. “I could peel the flesh from your face… Strip by strip and fill my hunger for living flesh. Pin you with one hand, eat you strip by strip with the other. The more you squirm, the more fearful you grow and the sweeter your meat would taste. And by the time any of your foreign friends could come to your side, I would have taken your face for myself.” His breath smelt of beer and had a slightly sweeter aroma to it as a result. The beer he had imbibed was not enough to get more than a wet throat out of it, let alone any other reaction.

His fingernail tips pinched harder, leaving a slight red mark on the man’s face before releasing the skin. “Nobody cares for honor and pride. A name is the last thing anyone owns before that, too, is taken from them.” The darker lips peeled back slightly, showing the sharper teeth before he pulled back, making sure to release the other in any way, and pressed himself up almost too quickly. As he had put weight on both legs, he was reminded of the stinging pain and aches his freshly mended leg still had as his body was healing from the procedure. A hand angrily came down to the cable. Plates, mugs, and silverware jostled as he did. Perhaps the most judgmental glare he could have offered was given to Thomas before he took slow steps away from him. It was apparent he was not going to give the man his name. He still felt there were ulterior motives that someone else would have for being kind to him. The mess, he was sure, the Lordling could have cleaned up with a snap of his fingers. Slowly and without finesse, the stuttering steps took him around the table in that robe and pair of shorts, and as he left the dining room, he paused. The Ork’s back straightened, seeming even taller than he had before, his chest and back tightening as his head glanced to the side and down, looking at nothing but not moving through the doorway.

“…Zilrud… of Clan Saraghen. Or that’s who I used to be… Not anymore… That was taken from me.”

Lingering a moment, having uttered his final sentence in defeat, he had avoided saying his name because he could not say it with pride. It was why, whenever someone during his servitude had asked his name, it was always Orkhai. Turning his head forward, he would begin returning to the blue room that Thomas had offered him before. And unless he was stopped, Zil would make his way back to the room, grab the pillow(s) from the bed and the bedding and strip it from it. The bed was entirely too soft. It reminded him of sleeping on too many furs back home in Rokhan. For so long, he had grown accustomed to the floor, to which he was dropping the bedding and the pillow(s), eventually falling onto his uninjured/non-healing knee and rolling onto his back in front of the hearth atop the bedding, allowing his heavier head to rest against the pillow. Turning his head to the side, he looked into the fire.

At least he is right about it being warm.

[Thomas]

For a minute, as the big orkhai's face neared his own, Thomas thought he was about to be kissed. What transpired instead was almost more intimate, and it made his face flush while his blood ran cold. This was no easygoing man. he was taciturn, but not stupid. This river ran deep, and the man had a head full of interesting things to say when he bothered to express himself.

The threat, Thomas didn't take literally. This was not a man who made empty threats. if he'd wanted to actually do what he'd stated he could do, he would have done it. He hadn't, so he was making a point: that Thomas had taken a risk in dining alone with someone who could in theory hurt him, and that bonds mattered little if all they offered was sparkling conversation. He didn't happen to agree. Sparkling conversation was worth a good deal, in his estimation, at least. The big orkhai had a point, though: what did it matter if someone promised to do something but didn't follow through, or couldn't?

Then he got up and began to leave, presumably to head back to his chambers. He hadn't asked for Thomas' name, and calling it after the man -- Zilrud -- seemed ill-mannered and presumptuous. So Thomas just thanked his stiffly retreating form the for companionship and bade him goodnight, and then called the Hollows to come clean up the mess.

As he did so, he though about what he knew of the man: smart, wounded, and appealingly foreign. Interesting, honorable, and rude. All together, an intriguing person, and the first person who kept Thomas guessing in many years. It was disorienting, but a bit exciting to talk to someone and not be seven steps ahead in the conversation, manipulating it to his desired conclusion almost without even trying.

For his part, Thomas went into the big bedroom he was meant to share with Taelian, where all the furniture was sized for the Argent Knight errant, and clambered up into bed, and tried not to feel bereft. He thought about all the good things that had come out of today, including a new acquaintance, and it brightened him somewhat. Wendall's company helped, too. Compansionship, thought Thomas, was balm for the soul. He fell asleep in Wendall's arms -- rare, for the two of them, as Wendall preferred his own bed -- and felt a bit more connected, perhaps, than he would have otherwise.