The Unsaid

[Sadok]

The Unsaid

   It never ceased to amaze Sadok how much might be said with the unsaid.

   The absence of speech often said more about a situation than the routine exchange of meaningless pleasantries. For all their wildness and bloodthirst, orcs were social beasts and gravitated towards stable social groupings, be they clans, warbands, tribes, packs or just families â€" each with their own specific etiquette governing typical behaviour.

   He was by the side of his newly-sworn mate, and on a normal night, they might be chatting fondly. They might tease and stroke, caress and fondle in a playful or an affectionate way. They might consummate their bond as new lovers do, their passion an unquenchable inferno. But this was not a normal night, and Kyrazha was deathly silent, her mind focused on her task.

   Sadok was no wildsorc, but even he could tell what his mate’s intent was. On the ground before her was a weathered scrap of leather upon which pooled several drops of a viscous substance. With just one hand, she was inspecting each razor-sharp tip of her arrows with utmost precision, and coating them one by one in the foul liquid. Her movements were deft, practiced and completely controlled.

   Yet her other hand told a different story. Bloodied from her evening hunt, she held his hand even while working with the arrows. This hand trembled and twitched, as though it were a coiled spring ready to explode. The trembling might mean anything to a stranger â€" nervousness, anxiety or fear.

   But though Sadok had not known her for long, he knew that she did not fear the task to come. If anyone approached their hut, she would nock the poisoned arrow to her bowstring, and without hesitation, she would fire â€" and to Hellfire with the consequences.

   That was her way. Relying in instinct, living in the moment, following her heart instead of her head. She might come to regret a course of action, but she never let fear paralyse her. She didn’t have to say any of this â€" Sadok simply knew there and then, watching the tensed she-orc finish her task, the bronze shortbow on her lap and the poisoned arrows within arm’s reach. Her sharp eyes rose to the hut’s coarse stone doorway, and he knew she would not rest, not falter until he awoke.

   She was stubborn, perhaps paranoid, but her instinct had proven a better judge of character than Sadok had as of late. He felt his coarse bone teeth scrape uncomfortably against one another as they clenched tight, a soft groan of pain escaping. They would be a permanent reminder that the gulf between how he thought the world should be and how it really was remained insurmountable. No matter how many times it hurt him, physically and mentally, Sadok continued to cling to his pride and ideals even when they proved untenable.

   That was why he wasn’t armored in Stranglethorn, when they told Trakmar about the miscarriage of his unborn cub within Kyrazha’s womb. That was why his weapons weren’t to hand, even when he saw his angry eyes narrow at him, glaring at Sadok as though looks could kill.

   His words were as fierce then â€" and there were many words spoken, full of rage and betrayal, speaking of broken promises and shattered dreams. But it was what was unsaid that remained most potent â€" the clenched fists, the combative stance, and soon the vice-like grip on his throat.

   He could still feel it now, days removed from the incident. A hoarse, contemptuous snort from the mighty Mag’har’s nostrils, then in a single effortless motion, clamping his clawed hand around his throat and hoisting Sadok high into the air. He was gasping for breath, the grip growing tighter and his eyes starting to roll back into his head.

   No weapon â€" it was within the shelter he and Kyrazha had made, far out of reach. No magic â€" his arms were spasming out of control and he couldn’t speak anything, much less a spell. He was unable to even beg Trakmar for his life as the life started to drain out of him, his legs kicking weakly at the Mag’har and barely even hitting.

   He didn’t even see the punch coming, but he felt it. A thunderous right hook with all the bitterness, all the resentment and all the rage Trakmar had carried about these past weeks â€" crashing upon Sadok’s frail features. It cracked the brittle cartilage of his nose, dislodged nearly every yellowed tooth in Sadok’s mouth, dislocating his jaw. The warm, salty blood was all he could taste as Trakmar let go, falling hard onto the jungle floor.

   He had believed Trakmar when he claimed to forgive Sadok, after his Vision Quest. He had been relieved when the Mag’har had wanted to re-swear the blood-oath binding them to one another as brothers. Sadok had wanted to trust Trakmar, had wanted to believe he could help him to move on from Kyrazha â€" to become Gosh’kar and reforge old friendships, and find a place in the tribe he had lacked since siding with Talonslayer, Hellbrew and Thunderfang so many months ago.

   But it was the unsaid that spoke louder, and Trakmar’s vicious attack had betrayed the anger he still felt. Whether he had ever truly forgiven Sadok or whether he had lied to him, and to himself; whether Shargla had fed his loathing and riled him up into action â€" it didn’t matter. It was over then, in that moment. Trakmar could never be Sadok’s blood-brother again. He could never be Gosh’kar. His days in the tribe were at an end too, perhaps. And Kyrazha’s heart, once torn between the Mag’har and the arcanist, had now hardened with hatred towards Trakmar.

   The nagging pain in Sadok’s gums returned him to present â€" far away from the balmy Stranglethorn jungle and back to the cool Barrens night. Kyrazha was still watching the door, still as primed to strike without a moment’s notice. She had said nothing, but her body-language was clear â€" she would kill Trakmar if he showed his face, even if he came unarmed under the pretence of an apology.

   Sadok’s cracked lips curled into a slight frown â€" would he be so keen so kill the orc he had once called brother? He thought about it, shuffling restlessly in the bedfurs. No, he wouldn’t. Perhaps Trakmar deserved exile. But he did not deserve death â€" and even if he did, he would not have the heart to finish it. Kyrazha’s instinct would mean she would fire without hesitation, but Sadok would always second-guess himself and dither until it was too late. Until Trakmar got him in the vice-grip again, and this time he wouldn’t take chances.

   What had begun as a strange, accidental love-triangle had raged out of control into a vicious blood-feud. Trakmar had thrown the first punch and he could not be allowed to throw the last. The time for talking had ended â€" all of Bloodmark’s lengthy speeches ultimately said nothing, and in a rare lack of decisiveness, he wasn’t prepared to intervene until he spoke with every elder. So Sadok would have to defend himself, with or without Kyrazha â€" the time for swift, silent action had begun.

   After all, some things were better left unsaid.

[Okiba]

Squeee! so good! more please!

=D

[Rhonya]

((I liiiike! But you already knew that. xD ))