Tahara woke up in pain.
Nothing overly dramatic. Her back hurt, worse than most times but not the worst it had ever hurt. Something had clicked in her spine carrying - ironically - the spine of a raptor, but she had fallen in love with it the minute she saw the buzzards lift off at her approach. It was the perfect final piece.
Something in it all, the labour, the carrying, had reminded her of something and the whole thing was doomed from the start. Thankfully, it didn't seem like anyone had seen her tumble. The last thing she needed was more attention.
"Before I forget, Wildmark wished to have a word with you before long."
Tahara turned to her side, trying to find an angle that didn't make her spine creak in protest and failing miserably.
"Well, I really, really, really don't, though.", she muttered into her furs.
Chuckles' wet snout hit her straight to her ear and she groaned. "I'm up. I'M UP."
The hyena snickered at her, teeth bared and clearly feeling about as moody as she did herself. Tahara squinted outside, where the moon was already high in the sky, the last hours of night approaching. When had they last eaten?
Tahara rubbed her face in annoyance. Chuckles huffed at her and grabbed the last raw gazelle flank for herself in protest. The young orc didn't argue. "Yeah, yeah, I deserve that."
It took three tries before she managed to really stand - maybe she'd thrown out her back worse than she thought - but stretching helped, even if it was painful and before long, she was able to rummage through her things, finding a few strips of dried meat she'd left there. Meagre. But it would do.
Tahara sat down outside on one of the kodo ribs she had yet to arrange. She wasn't on a good vantage point but it was easy to see the walls of Razor Hill from here, the fires. No one was up now, but there still seemed to be more life coming from the town than anywhere else in Durotar. Home. Sort of.
Maybe it wasn't the place that didn't feel like home. Maybe it was her.
She'd been avoiding Vraxxar. She would have avoided Nakobu too, if that had been an option, but if she was going to raise animals here she needed fresh, clean water and not just every week or so. Kyra's company she hadn't minded, nor Atar'ka's really. The latter because she didn't really know what was going on and the former because she knew not to ask questions.
One of her favourite things about Kyra was that she let her handle her own shit. Even if it was weird or concerning, Kyra let her be. She was there for her when Tahara fell, but didn't step in before that point. She felt like she could be whatever she wanted with her sister. Even if that was sad, or angry or broken.
Kyra didn't look at her like she was about to crumble into a thousand pieces. She didn't take pity.
"Something others apparently just can't do…", Tahara muttered into the strips of meat, chewing with more frustration than real anger.
She was being unfair.
And ungrateful. Tell them what you think, see how quickly you're back on your own.
The voice in her head was harsh, but not wrong.
They were concerned. It was a good thing, right? Having people worry, people caring… that was more than she'd had. That's how families were supposed to work, no?
Why then, did it make her feel like crap? Like she was going to choke if she had to answer the question "Are you alright?" one more damn time.
Tahara fisted a hand into her hair and grunted.
"I eat when there's food. That's not your problem.", she'd told him in Nazmir. What she wanted to say was "I'm not your problem."
She was not… used to all of this. When she hurt herself it was her choice, her freedom to make that mistake. When she couldn't afford food, that was too bad. She'd make the money next week or figure out something.
She did. Not Vraxxar, not Nakobu, not Skint - none of them should have ever gotten involved!
You got that right. Nobody wants to be part of this anyways.
"Shut up!", she growled uselessly into the night. Not like anyone would hear her.
The truth was, that Tahara didn't know if she could get better. Whatever Nakobu and Skint saw, when she was… wrong, corrupted, whatever - that had been her. That had just been her. Not some demon taking control of her. It was just how broken she was.
And there was no fixing that. Not truly. Because trying to remove any of it would mean removing her.
Tahara wasn't convinced she existed without the chains. Skint couldn't see them. That was fine. It was fine. It was good enough. It had been good enough for her for years now.
Why wasn't it good enough for anyone else? Why wasn't she good enough?
She clutched her forehead, mind rolling into an entirely different direction that she really couldn't deal with right now. That wasn't her business.
Gingerly, Tahara removed the bandages from her stomach, frowning at the new scars. They stopped itching here in the dry heat of Durotar and seemed to be healing alright.
Somehow, Tahara had expected battle scars to feel a bit more… normal. Right. Orcs were supposed to have them, right? Except there was nothing glorious or exciting about them. Just another reminder of how she'd been too weak to handle her own.
Tahara got up with a sigh, looking around the bones. Her back still hurt… but she wasn't going to sleep anytime soon. She may as well put up those last few ribs. And if she hurt herself doing it, at least there was no one around to see it.
She just needed people to stop looking at her like she was going to fall apart at the next gust of wind. Even if that was true. Tahara had gotten good at pretending.
Why couldn't they?