---

The sounds of the village outside were at first all the real company the man had after sitting in his prison for several days on end. It was not the guards who kept him company, rather the sound of freedom just outside the walls. The odd tradesman or merchant, followed by women and their young children all kept the day lively down the short ways into the heart of the community as it was only their indistinct voices and the sound of their business that could reach the half blood man's ears. Little here happened in the cell as it were, as the guardsman, when he was present, did little more than ensure their captive was provided the most basic of food and drink, and then was off again to leave the lone soul in isolation; leaving him to sit with his charge of vagrancy.

Between the bowl of water and stale, tough slices of bread, there was little else to do outside practice his art and moreover, meditate and pray. This had been the nature of things, the ritual, all up until the old stone prison became less solitary. A reclusive man had been brought in and casually cast into a cell down the way with the same disregard they did the man-orc, left to surely rot until they could figure out what to do with him at all. So he had been told, the reason for this was that his own trial would be delayed until the people of the village would provide testimony and witness for him - they would not. This left him in a purgatory, one resolved only by the local magistrate and justice, both of whom had better things to do than worry about one vagrant orc and now one lone man. It was clear, however, to Gorosk what this man's charges were as the militia who dragged him announced his charges.

"Vagrancy, drunkenness, traveling without the permission of their lord", all things that could be believed and from the sound of it, the man was not even conscious or coherent enough to resist in little more than word. Probably content to sleep off the rest of his alcohol and by spying him through the most extreme angles of the narrow cell, this too was confirmed as he slept haphazardly with his back to the wall. At least now the follower of perfection's ways was not alone. If he wished conversation he probably would well have it when the man came to and he did, although the man was not forthcoming. He called himself "Renault" and did not dispute what he was charged with although he spoke little on it, seemingly content to instead remain in withdrawal from the situation.

For whatever reason it was, the sole two prisoners of the entire village were far more introverts than they were extroverts, huddling around their core sense of identity and either doing battle with it or using it to sustain themselves in this time of waiting; with much waiting to be done still.

What came next over the passing days was different from their circumstances, for when the militia returned, this time they came late and loudly. The sound of horse and cart outside alerted the two men to their return, as did the urgency it arrived and the roar of their torches which cast a great orange glow into the barred windows. They dismounted and drew out another man, whom they berated for the militia's misfortune of needing to travel at this hour as the Marches were the lone inhabited land with such a legendary background for nightfall's threats. Were it any later past the hour of twilight, it was quite possible none of them would have arrived at all both Gorosk and Renault knew, so the anger they redirected toward their captive was hardly surprising. They cast him in, carelessly this time, with Renault, hurling him in after having kept him aloft by the arms and shoulders.

They bothered not to even charge him formally, shutting behind him and before the cell's former single occupant the wrought iron bars and securing the lock and its bolt. Like the man from Andallia, the newest addition was very human, whereas Gorosk's identity was not quite clear to the other. Perhaps for the better, for the time being, as even the half orc knew that his heritage was at least a major subject of his imprisonment; if an orc wished not to be seen as a slavering, bloodthirsty warmonger bent on pillaging everything in reach, it would take no shortage of concession and kindness to the mundane folk to persuade them otherwise - too, too many years of old wars and raids long past made it impossible otherwise and the village of Redbarrow was no exception in any sense. But for both Renault and the newcomer in "de Brey", specifically Quentin, the night was spent having to rely on the fact that neither of them might kill the other during it. Fortunate enough for them both, the two were amicable enough to not resort to conflict and would rather nurse their respective wounds to pride than fight over what little space they had.

Come the next evening, just as the sun had begun its slow crawl toward the horizon, the warmth of the day fading in this spring season, the militia returned again. The rattle of their flimsy, poorly kept chain, the creak of their open wagon and hoof fall of their horse gave them away, but this time they were not alone. More horses and more men on foot too, with the latter being obvious through the narrow hole to the outside world that the prison's first member could see; a mob of five men, all wearing armor and armed with spears, shields, barring one with a crossbow. They looked as raggedy and disorganized as Gorosk remembered the rest to be, not professional soldiers and certainly only the peasants wearing the mantle laid upon them. But what filled his emerald eyes with surprise, most likely, was that their captive was a woman. A tall, robust woman, one that dwarfed them all in much the way they made say, a man made a halfling seem insignificant.

She was not just shackled but kept in chains, bolted to the wagon itself and only unlocked by one man and his set of keys as they followed her in, letting her bonds scrape along the stone floor as she shuffled on. While she seemed to be a human, her shade of flesh in its pale slate tone and odd markings was anything but human, and as she passed by her new company in this forsaken little holding place, spears leveled at her, she was put into a hold of her own. The men, as they stood in the hall between the cells, were clearly quite tense until she was locked in, her chains removed, and her shackles taken off. It was likely they had spent hours, if not a few days keeping her under arrest, and when one of the men announced her charges it was clear why beyond just appearances; "unlawful hunting, disturbing cursed ground, and conspiring with beasts".

For all listening, these types of accusations were not light in the Marches, and any one of them was a serious charge. The type of charge that would surely merit an actual sentence than just being kept captive until the purveyors of the law in this land could come around to carry out whatever sense of justice they deemed fit. Likewise, it was overwhelmingly clear why they came with so many men and arms, as the woman was more than just intimidating through her presumed physical power, it was evident she had a friend in nature. Nature, that very thing that devoured the unwitting, tore them asunder, and left only grim evidence of their once being here in this land, was in some way her ally. Was she a witch? Had she made some pact that had twisted her so like this? Or was she some sort of poor, unfortunate being with the luck to be this way on her own?

Whatever the case was, the resident guard cast out the rations while the rest stowed their equipment, preparing to leave. Once he had finished, the sound of the entrance's door being secured for the night, they all had been left with one another for the first time...

@BangoSkank@Ghost Shadow@Hellion@TyrannosaursRex

---

"Not-- not a vagrant." was Renault Beaumont's lone defense to his charges, croaked through a bloody lip as the militia dragged him through the heavy reinforced door of the prison. He was unable to focus; everything around him a blurred, distorted mess. Was the world spinning from the wine he drank? Or the swift, merciless beating he received from his captors? Two were more alike than he knew, and at the very least, one did not avail the other.

Thrown into his cell with a discard that bordered on contemptuous, Renault groaned as his battered body met the hard ground. With the sudden motion threatening to expel the contents of his stomach, Renault clenched his jaw tight, not daring to so much as part his lips until the nausea passed. After a minute or two of measured breathing bolstered by sheer willpower, Renault let out a held breath, finally able to get his bearings. Moving into a seated position, Renault pushed himself back until he was pressed against the damp stone wall of his new home.

Though still dizzy and beset by what felt like a blacksmith's hammer pounding against the anvil of his skull, Renault could not stave away the fatigue that washed over him. Within minutes of sitting down, his eyes slowly drifted shut, and his head fell forward; a single snore heralding what would be a deep, restless slumber.

Upon waking, the consequences of Renault's actions had become more apparent. His mouth was filled with the taste of blood and bile, and a stiffness had settled into his joints, eliciting a dull ache every time he moved. The pounding in his head had grown incessant, boring deeper into his brain. Though sore and sluggish, instinct at the unfamiliar set in, and Renault's hand shot for his hip, catching air.

Remembering where he was and what had happened, Renault cursed under his breath before being wracked with a coughing fit that sent waves of sharp pain through his chest. Ribs were bruised, broken maybe; a souvenir left from the militia. For a time, he thought himself alone in the prison, its sole resident. How long would he be left here? Weeks? Months? Maybe years? Would he go mad, reduced to a starved, raving animal before expiring? Would be a fitting fate, he supposed.

A sensible man might have wept, or shouted, pleading his innocence against the uncaring stone. But Renault did no such thing, his sense long given way to brooding. He laughed bitterly to himself, huddling in the corner and resting his head against the dank wall. But soon he realized he wasn't alone, another was there with him, an invisible brother in chains.

The phantom voice tried speaking to him, and though Renault answered, he was not totally forthright. It was not for secrecy's sake, but for shame; cruel memories best not recalled. Renault would keep their bitterness to himself, leave the wounds to fester in his heart.

Time dragged on, and Renault could scarcely tell the hour, let alone the day. His only indicator of time was whether the prison was dark or...slightly darker. But when the militia came back and the orange glow of their torch-lights beamed through the barred windows, Renault perked up from a half-asleep daze; bits of straw stuck in his matted hair.

Any questions Renault had to the militia's presence were answered by the sight of a third prisoner being dragged through the front door: a weatherworn man, dark-haired and sun-beaten. Tossed into Renault's cell with somehow less care than they had with him, now there were two.

Not even a full day later, the militia returned a second time. This time their captive was a woman: tall and thickly made, she seemed a giant to the untrained eye. But a giant she was not, at least not fully. Though human in appearance, size notwithstanding, her skin was the color of slate, and presumably just as durable. Shackled, chained, and bolted, it was uncertain whether the woman was so heavily-restrained out of fear or necessity. Had she come willingly? Or were her hands stained crimson with the blood of the militiamen?

Led into a cell of her own and her charges announced, Renault noted no mention of murder or assault. Though perhaps rightly-feared, this woman, as far as he knew, was no active violent threat.

With their 'food' distributed and the entrance sealed, silence fell once more on the prison. A silence that one never grew used to. It was the silence of trapped isolation, of captivity. No warm bed to sleep on or furs to crawl under, no rest from a day's labor. It was stagnation in a five-foot square.

Crawling towards the barred door of his cell, Renault pressed his face against the cool metal, looking across the hall and into the dark void of the vacant cell. Licking his lips to alleviate their dryness, Renault asked a single question, letting it echo off the walls of the prison:

"What's your name?"

If you were to ask a Goliath to choose between captivity or death, they would laugh, as their response would be the obvious choice that didn't include enslavement to anyone or anything. They would tell you that Kavaki, The Ram-Lord, did not create their kind in his image as a means of vanity or for aimless pleasure, but to thrive across the known world as hunters, spiritual teachers, artisans, gatherers, and warriors. To compete fiercely. To build upon civilizations that came before them. Build for a better future in order that the race of pseudo-giants would influence and enlighten each other, as well as those who were foreign to their ways.

However, as the world changed, and what was once a thriving race of nomads began to disperse and disappear, captivity -or more importantly, survival- was the viable option.

While Goliaths, by nature, disliked captivity, the five or so years Vah'lux Ki-ao'uthal was held within one of the few orc strongholds in Thraduum, had steeled her nerves against such things. The hardship and unspeakable conditions were in no way for the faint of heart, and yet she took a bit of comfort imagining that prisons of the human realms would be much more accommodating in contrast. Their morales were slightly more balanced in certain situations, and their laws, not meant to kill, but to teach. Still, there was always a twinge of uneasiness, especially not knowing what would happen next in a land she knew virtually nothing about.

Physical and mental exhaustion from the endless journey caught up to her, yet upon entering the stone and iron prison cell, the Goliath chose to stand as she watched the nervous armed soldiers quickly exit. Her weapons, armor, and any other belongings taken away and very much out of reach, and left only with the heavy tan-colored cloth underwraps that covered her upper torso, waist, and hands. Even her hide and fur stitched boots were taken on account of the several sharp shards of obsidian fastened along the shin, which could be potentially used as a weapon, leaving her barefoot. Nothing that bothered the large, muscular woman though. In fact, a breath that had been held for awhile was released, as though relieved that she was finally left alone; a slight snicker escaping her lips looking down onto the meager scraps of what was considered sustenance in a bowl. Outside of immense starvation or malnutrition, very rarely would she partake of food she hadn’t hunted, killed, prayed-over, and prepared on her own, or, at the very least had some semblance of trust in those offering the food.

Food for the vermin was more like it.

Staring out past the bars and into the darkness across the hall, she closed her eyes for a few moments, allowing the long day to slowly evaporate from her mind and soul. This had been the drill for years in captivity, breathing exercises taught to her as a youngling, to prepare for any situation as well as decompress from the most challenging. The rage within, that stored energy into which her kind would pull from in times of need, while ever present, wasn't needed. Not now. Not in this place. But as she quieted the noise inside her mind, thoughts of weeks earlier began to surface.

---

The journey just to make it out of Thraduum was perilous at best, and many who managed to escape from the Orc stronghold miles behind them, met the unfortunate fate of dying from the harsh conditions that the land had to offer any traveller. Water, for one, was scarce, and predators lay in wait as several former captives fell, never to rise again to see another day. Those who could hunt, fared as well as could be expected, just on the fringe of starvation or dehydration, and while plenty were willing to share, squabbles amongst all races present were inevitable as each had a reason to survive. Each wanted to return to their place of origin.

As the days passed, and the groups dwindled in numbers, Vah’lux and the ebony dire wolf decided to head their own way, to tread the roads least taken in order to evade any last vestiges of bounty hunters on their trail. The Goliath had the knowledge to live off the land, just as her father, and his father, and many generations before her had done. In was ingrained in her mind. Survival and trust amongst each other was their only hope. The dire wolf was exceptional at aiding in the hunting process, and kept watch during the night when rest was needed. Fortunately, only a handful of situations required combat, be it a small goblin raiding party, or a caravan of pirates out to collect anything they could for their own. No mercy was shown to these braggards, as no mercy would have been shown to Vah’lux and her companion.

It was shortly after that when the Goliath’s journey would come to an abrupt end, and her new fate would await her in the darkest of places...

---

The voice echoed from a ways down the hall, breaking the silence, and snapping her from the meditative state she was in previously. She knew there were others imprisoned as well from the occasional shuffling of feet, a cough, or some other easily audible indication, but to what species of creature -whether man or beast- was unknown to her. However the single voice, still seemed more human than not, it's natural dialect clearly Common. Vah'lux did not respond though, unsure if she was even being addressed directly, but more so, she was simply not in a conversational mood.

Vah'lux narrowed her eyes to scan across the hallway into the other cells, hoping to make out who may be speaking.

For all the searching the vibrant eyes of the towering woman did, they found no obvious sign of where the voice originated from. Her ears, however proved keen enough. The man's voice, questioning and beckoning with its curiosity, was from down the hall near the entrance; the goliath had passed him at some point it seemed but it was reasonable she did not notice her fellow prisoner. After all, a band of men playing as soldiers had their weapons trained on her and she was burdened with many shackles and chains, or at least as much as they could spare, her mind simply must not have been there in that moment. Instead, across from her, all the seemingly painted woman would find was a lone cell, a mirror of her own.

From the cracks between the old stone, some pools of water had formed and a green film had now covered the seeping mess, the entire room across from hers bearing little of remark beyond a puddle upon the floor. However, as she stirred closer and with greater lucidity from her meditation, it became evident that someone's silhouette was cast from the central cell. It bore the lone window into the block and now, with twilight settling in, the last glimpses of sunlight. There were torches lit beyond, that much had been clear when the guardsmen left, but it did little to make the dank confines their whole sorry lot found themselves feel much better. It was not as though the monsters outside would dare bother such a place as theirs as it were - far too much effort to contend with rusting iron and blocks of aged stone.

@Hellion

Gorosk had become quite accustomed to silence through his life and his time in this cell had been marked by copious quantities of exactly that. Alone in a small cell with bland food sufficient to do little more than keep his organs functioning he'd been passing the time meditating when he could, pacing when he couldn't meditate, practicing his maneuvers when pacing failed to help him focus, or shadow boxing when he felt the frustration of being restrained building up inside him.

In recent days new unfortunate souls had been added to the simple but seemingly solid jail. Perhaps they were guilty of their charges as he was of his, but perhaps not. The first prisoner, a human, seemed perfectly happy to join Gorosk in silent meditation or perhaps brooding or perhaps recovering from his bender. He had thus far been a very suitable fellow imprisonee. Though after his arrival there was slightly more noise than he had become accustomed to it was reassuring to hear another's footsteps and breathing once more.

He had thought that perhaps this was how he would spend the remainder of his time, however long that proved to be, in prison. In relative silence alone but together, just waiting for the day the guards got tired of fetching them stale hard bread and water. Perhaps it was a test.

It wasn't long before two more arrived, the human at night with no charges announced and a rather unceremonious arrival into the same cell as the other prisoner, the final an apparent Hunter or perhaps a Witch, he got a better look at. A very large woman, pale skin tone and markings, not human but not quite a giant, something new; and escorted with a guard dramatically more in number than he knew were even positioned out here. Her charges were more serious than his own or the drunken vagrant. Her charges likely meant death. Perhaps she deserved it, but something seemed odd about all of them arriving so soon after each other. Gorosk returned to silence and stillness to observe.

For some time they had all done largely the same. Trapped animals it seemed to Gorosk, like him, slowly feeling out their environment. From the cell that houses his oldest companion in this predicament and the other fresher arrived human came the sound of movement and the first words Gorosk had heard from any of them.

"I am Gorosk," he replied, noting that the massive Witch or Hunter or whatever form of devil she might be seemed to move to the front of her cell, moved to the front of his cell hoping the light at his back might conceal his heritage awhile longer, and waited to get a better look at cohorts, particularly the two menfolk.

Deleted

The slowly rusting iron gave only slightly within the holes it was pinned within at the shaking, making more racket than anything of progress worthy merit. They seemed unbreakable, at least in this moment and this place due to the drab, dreary nature that the prions's collection all found themselves in. For de Bray in particular, the sentiment of hopelessness perhaps clung to him more now as his attempt failed miserably; if he wished to even dream of escape from this, not just his collective sum of worries, he would need strength beyond strength to do so. Strength he, as a mere man, did not have. By no fault of his own in any sense, de Bray was trapped and as trapped as it came, only having the immediate company of Beaumont.

Once the noise of rattling the wrought iron bars settled, the prison was back to its uncomfortable silence. The occasional voice that spoke out and back seemed interrupted by the effort but not truly swamped. After all, who would not test the bonds and bounds of their prison? It was only fitting that another of them did in desperation. They were trapped and cornered with little option but to await their fate or try something else, de Bray being no different.

@TyrannosaursRex

A talkative lot they had become as each voice echoed off the dark, damp stone walls, each syllable pushing the next one along the stale air, reaching the ears of the Goliath who stood merely a fingers-length from the iron bars of the cell door. The silhouetted prisoners voice was much lower than the other two, but aside from that, nothing more could be derived from her vantage point. It was a matter of relying on sound until the situation changed.

Her lips parted as though to say something, but then hesitated for a moment. While open to sharing her name with the others as they have done so willing, Vah'lux did not know them even in the least bit. How did she know that her whole predicament was not a ruse, in order for the Goliath to lower her guard. To reveal anything that could put her at a disadvantage amongst potential enemies.

However, she smirked to herself, shaking her head side-to-side slightly at the ridiculous paranoia which had invaded her mind since her captivity amongst the Orcs. Their brutality and own brand of "hospitality" had left a scar deep within her soul that caused trust to become a tough sell. But this was not the place. She was no longer plagued by the scourge of Thraduum. Countless miles were between that wretched place and their once gladiatorial champion.

"Vah'lux" She finally said in a low, husky voice common; her native accent interlaced into each syllable breathed.

---

Silence. Renault bowed his head, scooting away from the bars back towards his corner of the cell. The wall was clammy and uncomfortable, but at this point, familiar. Not much else one could do here than rest, or think. A man in his position might pray, but Renault hadn't prayed in a very long time. As if on instinct, he drew a hand up towards his chest, pressing against the fabric of his dirtied undershirt. They had taken his pendant. By the gods, was nothing sacred?

For so long, he had carried the weight of that pendant with him, part of him now. Why couldn't he remember them taking it? Resting the back of his head against the wall, Renault bunched the fabric of his shirt between his fingers, as though willing the necklace to appear. Hitching a lone breath, he let his hands fall to the floor.

"I am Gorosk." The words pierced the silence, seeping through the cracks in the stonework. It was the voice of his unseen companion, answering Renault's call intended for the newest arrival. For the few times Renault had spoken with the disembodied voice, its name was not one of the things revealed.

Gorosk...Renault hung on the name for longer than a moment, as though he were meditating on it. He wondered where he might've heard such a name, racking his brain for anything from his time spent in both Dorrathar and Andallia.


When another voice spoke to his left, Renault turned head towards his fellow occupant: the man with the graying black hair. Introducing himself as Quentin, Renault nodded once in understanding.

"Renault," he answered hoarsely, his own name sounding, for the briefest of moments, unfamiliar. All his old titles: Ser Renault of House Beaumont, Ser Renault de Andallia, now faded to dust. His family name was only a memory; who was he now but Renault Oathbreaker?

There was solidarity in the fact that this Quentin did not reveal his surname, either. Perhaps he, too, had something to hide, something that led him to this same cell. If so, then the two of them had more in common than Renault initially believed. But solidarity or not, Renault would keep his full name to himself, for now.

As soon as Renault answered, Quentin took to straining against the iron-wrought bars of their cage, as if strength and will alone would bend them. "Save your strength," he began to say, the harshness of his voice vanishing with further use. "If you couldn't bend steel before, doubtful you could now."

It was then the woman of mighty stature decided to speak, proving she understood Common, at the very least. Vah'lux. Like Gorosk, the name did not strike Renault as one being immediately familiar, but he knew that after taking one look at her. This woman had traveled some ways to be here.

Renault thought of something, some...word of encouragement he could offer; to her, to the other denizens of the prison. But no speech formed, no address of optimism, for there was none to be had. What had gone so wrong all those years ago - for a man of faith to find himself without conviction?

To the surprise of the forsaken man, stricken without his pendant and already seemingly ignored by the heavens above for his failures prior, the name "Gorosk" was exactly what he expected it to be the moment he thought of it. Almost mouthing the words as they attempted to form on his lips, it was all but guaranteed that the man who announced himself was an orc. Or, at least partially an orc, but an orc all the same. Just as the land of Thraduum was not kind to its new natives or anything that dared there from outside, so too were orcish names harsh. Was he a mercenary or a raider of some variety? At least, those were the initial thoughts that slung themselves off into the dark of the conscious for Renault.

An orc outside of Andallia and the warring nations of the south had to have been an unusual character. It stood to reason that was why he was arrested at the very least. Even if he wasn't rabble-rousing and killing things for the sake of making them dead as many orcs were prone to do, he quite likely was a sellsword, especially with a name as "Gorosk". It was clear he was not hiding his identity, at least not in that sense, as no one would reasonably tell such a fable that Renault come imagine.

@Lord Wyron

Gorosk.

Why that name didn’t rise to the forefront of her mind when it was uttered earlier, she did not know, but one thing was for sure, it was of no human, elven, or dwarven ancestry. How could the Goliath have been so numb to that which was so obvious? Perhaps it was the exhaustion that she felt, her mind wasn’t considering names at all. But in a moment of clarity, the last several years of slavery and harsh treatment weighed heavily on her mind, and every muscle in her large, ridgid frame tensed. The growls and taunts of the the creatures who ruled the Thraduum territories echoed in her head. The lashings with gnarled rope and shards of fastened, sharp stones, fresh in her mind.

The name. The language.

Vah’lux lifted both hands up to the bars, curling her thick fingers around the cold iron -knuckles cracking as her grip tightened- and leaned in closer to the cell door until her forehead touched the metal cross piece.

"Thaaval." She growled through clenched teeth in her native language, her tone threatening as the heat in her face slowly rose to the surface of her slate-colored skin. "Thaaval, ah'lek fhorad eh'lakt ooteka." Each syllable clearly carried anger with it, yet her voice did go beyond a normal speaking level. This was for the creature in the cell. Not to alert their captors.

“I thought I smelled the cowardly blood of an Orc…” She growled in the common tongue.

Deleted

Whatever language the giant spoke it was lost to Gorosk's ears. Not only could he not understand the words but he wasn't confident he had ever encountered it before. Perhaps it was a curse, he considered, for though the meaning of the individual words was unknown the feeling behind them was quite evident to him. Her forehead pressed against the metal, her hands clutched tight around the bars hard enough that the pale slate tone of her muscular hands paled further. Each word came out a carefully pronounced growl, they had a meaning of some form, and each word was low enough it could only be meant for herself or for him.

“I thought I smelled the cowardly blood of an Orc…”

That part he understood, all too well.

Gorosk stepped up to the bars assuming a similar posture to the giant woman's own only he was relaxed where she was tense. His long pale green arms hanging out between the bars, that they might meet each other better. He spoke in a gravely tone that was less bestial sounding than a full blooded Orc but without the precise diction of a man.

"I only caught that last part giant. You are half right on that. I have the blood of the Orc, I am a half blood, but I am no coward. What of you Vah'lux, giantess who speaks in codes. What are you? Conspiring with beasts, disturbing cursed ground, uttering curses?"

Speaks in code?...

“Do not disgrace the language of my people.” Vah’lux growled, trying to keep her composure in the presence of a perceived enemy a mere stones throw away. An honorless slaver race with little-to-no remorse for those kept under the watchful eye of their master. She despised their kind, but with good reason. At least, good enough reason of her own.

“Half-blood or not, an Orc is still an Orc.” She turned her head and spat, as though ejecting the very words from her tongue. “The only curses I have are meant for you, poison-blood, and they can be very extensive.”

The woman suddenly closed her eyes for a momentary pause, realizing the rage within would do her no good in a prison such as what she found herself in. The supernatural strength and heightened abilities granted to her kind by the great one, Kavaki, during that time would be only wasted on futile attempts of revenge. No...the Orc will one day meet his end. But not now.

“I hail from the honorable Kathaal tribe of great Goliath hunters, gatherers, and warriors.” She finally breathed out, opening her eyes once again as the anger within her began to subside, allowing for clarity of thought. “And I only conspire with those who would be a friend of the natural order of things. Beast or otherwise.”

The Goliath let slip a slight grin. “However, the unnatural, the honorless, the half-breeds of this forsaken world, for they are the real abominations...”

As the two of the four entered into a spat amongst themselves, the ambient silence of the night began to fall over them all. What little activity and life came with light, darkness put out, and between their conversations and deeds among the confines of their shared prison, all now that was left to hear otherwise was the dull roar of the torches. The crackle of their slow burning pitch and turning flames, how they cast precious light and some semblance of warmth upon the stony walls. Were it not for these things, the fire and the thick walls, one could only entertain the types of things that would be scouting them out now.

The militia guardsman who maintained the prison, as he had been each night before, was absent as well; not a clink of keys or sniffing of dogs or any such variety to be expected like to the far more civilized west. Here was desolation, true and unadulterated, but at least this time they were not alone - although that could well have been for the better at this point. Regardless if that were true or not, they had entered the first hour of night as one. The real question was, would they see another together? And if so, how many more? Some of them were marked, stained in some invisible way that only a few knew what to do with, while others were just drifters on the wind. Without such poignancy in mind, it seemed they would trade words for the time being and the night was young after all, perhaps in due time they would come to recognize they shared more in common than they had apart. Yet that? That would likely only come with an act of fate, a fate none of them were even aware of quite yet...

@BangoSkank@Lord Wyron@Hellion@TyrannosaursRex

---

If realization hadn't told Renault that Gorosk was Orc-Blooded, then Vah'lux's response certainly did. The woman who mere moments ago was still and quiet as a statue, suddenly began spouting utterances in her native language. The words were alien to Renault, but one's tone-of-voice transcends language barriers, and Vah'lux was angry.

"I thought I smelled the cowardly blood of an Orc..." She finally spat in Common, venom dripping with every word. With hands clasped firmly 'round the bars of her cell, Renault wondered for a moment if she'd pry them apart in her subdued fury.

Blindly scouring his hand across the ground to find the wall beside him, Renault propped himself up to his feet, every movement drawing cracks and pops from his joints that were accompanied by an appropriate grimace.

The two began exchanging barbed remarks, and it was evidently clear that any experience Vah'lux had with Orcs was a negative one. Not surprising, perhaps even the standard. Orc war bands and raiding parties were sadly not uncommon, and Renault's blade had been called upon more than once to defend the unprotected villages. But a Half-Orc...Renault had heard stories of Orc warlords forcing themselves on female captives, whether a progeny was expected or even intended was a different story.

Putting the grim thought behind him, Renault moved until he, too, was pressed against the cold iron bars. "There's no use in quarreling here, we're all brothers and sisters in binds, now. We're going to be here awhile, best make the most of it."

Renault's wise words fell on mostly deaf ears. Gorosk knew him to be right, there was no point in letting the Goliath's words eat at him. The reputation of his lineage was known about the world, it was no surprise that one might hate him for it but the words ate at him just the same. Likely because he knew she was not entirely wrong. She could not know it, but she had touched on precisely the underlying conflict of his life. An Orc is still an Orc, however much that blood may be diluted or distilled. Even as he tried to dismiss her words that very poison worked within him.

As the night fell on them all he paced slowly about his small cell, trying to calm his blood. Poison Blood, Honorless, Unnatural, Abomination. The Goliath was not wrong, but she was also not right. Gorosk unclenched his fists and worked on his breathing. Whether she was wrong or right depended on him. The order of his mind could overpower the chaos of his blood. He would prove her wrong.

Gorosk turns to the window to distract himself from both new and old frustrations. He peers through to see what he might see out there in the world beyond these cells.

The world outside through the barred window of the orc-blooded man's cell was another place, another time altogether almost, as from his viewpoint he could see past the darkness and into the modest village down the hill. Golden glows radiated from shuttered windows, thin slits of light peaking out into the pitch black. No single one proved strong and even with the number there were, there were not many. The road leading down, while visible in the day and only truly a short ways away, felt quite distant and cold where it vanished beyond his innate ability to see in absolute darkness, and it reappeared only near the low wall near the outskirts where a few torches in the open burned; hopeful, tragic little endeavors set to ward off whatever might dare in the hours of darkness. It was more an attempt than anything else, the Marches were merciless after all, and if it were not the weather that would get one killed at night, it were those things hunting in it.

People spoke in hushed tones about wolfmen just as much as they did literal wolves, yet in both cases neither were bothered by the flames. Bandits, brigands, thugs, thieves, and all their like feared not fire either - many went so far as to even wield it as a weapon. All these things and others were great reason for the absolute lack of anyone out, even at such an early hour. The village, as it were, was vulnerable in every sense, so much so that the fear they addressed the goliath with was as sincere as it came. It truly was no elaboration of thought to imagine she alone, if she so much escaped, and took up arms could likely raid most the land here by herself. Such was the natures of monstrous blood, Gorosk would be able to reflect. As a whole it spoke leagues about the village and how now and then some lights dimmed for the night but never went out for fear of the cold or fear of those in it.

@BangoSkank

The human -or, at least, she assumed so- was right, even while his words had become a futile attempt to dissuade and break the tension that flowed thick between the Goliath and the half-Orc. There was an uncontrollable loathing for the other that surged through Vah’lux that evening. But could one blame her for the emotional outburst that had been an accumulation of the last five years under the heel of Orc slavers?

The irony of it all, however, was that the pseudo-giant woman who hailed from an honorable race of hunters, warriors, gatherers, traders, healers, and peacekeepers was exhibiting exactly the behavior of what those on the outside of her tribe and culture assumed she was. The very things she accused Gorosk of...

Had she in fact become the mindless and soulless beast the villagers and sentinels whispered about? The woman who, while strong of mind and body, was also fair, justice, and friendly to those who did not pose a threat to her or her kind. Had she simply lost who she once was to the evils of the world? It was no question that the Goliath’s nomadic lifestyle, while keeping them rooted to the lands they occupied for brief time periods, also kept them rather isolated from the rest of the kingdoms and cultures throughout, only choosing to trade with very few races for goods and services. In the grand scheme of things, Vah’lux truly had a lot to learn about the world and it’s creatures, whether great or small.

She noticed Gorosk’s dimly lit frame stepping away from the cell door, toward the back, where line of sight was lost to her at that point. It was as though the “abomination” had chosen the way of peace rather than to continue such a waste of words as it had become.

The Goliath too stepped away from the cell door and allowed a drawn out breath to escape through her nose, thereby releasing the last vestiges of anger for the moment. She then proceeded to sit on the muddied pile of hay which was just too small to lay on due to her size, and leaned back against the cold stone wall, drawing her knees up close and bowing her head.

“Kavaki, sovereign father of our people.” Closing her tired eyes, she began to whisper in her native language of Gol-kaa. “May your spirit guide me from this place as your children do not belong in cages. I have been caged for far too long as you know. What is your will for your vessel? What is my purpose?...”

---

What tensions had risen within the cramped confines of the prison dissipated just as quickly. With a heavy sigh, Renault seemed to visibly deflate, slumping against the wall and letting gravity take him down again. Even as he spoke, the words felt hollow coming out. How could one be expected to make the most of this - confinement. As it seemed, if the four of them weren't sentenced to death, it was just-as-likely they'd be left here to starve. Easy for a man to go mad within these walls that whisper such cruelties.

Though Renault had spent the last seven years trying to escape his past, coincidence -- or fate-- found him here with nothing else to draw upon. The Holy Order of Andallia taught him the value of poverty and humility. Noble sons that they were, those who joined were poor fellows united by faith and restrained by discipline. To live a comfortless life was devotion, and to deny yourself was to achieve closeness with Erithar.

So here he was: Andallia's most devout outcast.

Swallowing once, he mustered the breath and courage needed to speak again. "I've read about your people before - the Goliaths. Though more...conjecture than anything else, I suppose. What cruel fate brought you here?"