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Jerom sighed as he scratched his beard, still not used to how much it could itch. He'd stopped shaving a month ago, but the chestnut brown hair had already grown quite a bit more than he had been expecting. None of that would really matter if he died in the forest ahead of him, however. He half-debated waiting another day before going about his task, but the restlessness and pain began surging forward into his mind before he quickly abandoned that line of thinking. It seemed the magical compulsion he was under wanted him to get to it right away now that he was here, even though he hadn't slept for the past few days in anticipation of his 'punishment' being carried out. He supposed sleep didn't matter much in the wake of a death sentence, even though it was technically 'atonement' for his 'misdeeds'. While it wasn't impossible he might survive waging a one man war against every single orc in the forest, he was entirely positive it was a suicide mission. He knew it, the priests had known it, and every one of his comrades had known it as he walked out the front gates of the fortress.

Readjusting his ill-fitted armor for what might have been the umpteenth time, he used one arm to heft his battleaxe up onto his shoulders, the only possession he'd been allowed to take from his time in the Order. He'd had to purchase and scavenge the rest of his gear along the way here, and without a horse to boot. It was a very long walk, and part of his sentencing, flavored with the whole 'trials and tribulations' rhetoric he had used to think was fitting when he was still a paladin of high repute.

Despite his brooding, he began to walk forward, the magical compulsion leaving him alone even with his slow pace. It didn't matter how long it took in reality, so long as he was constantly on the move. He was never allowed to rest too long in one place, usually no more than a day unless a priest gave him allowance to 'do some good for the people while you are here', to which he was unable to say no. They all knew he was branded a blasphemous heretic, even if it was only in name. They could all see the magic on him, and every church on his journey's path had been sent messages to not only expect him, but to 'help our brother to see the Light once more, Gods willing'. Even so, he had actually made it ahead of schedule. He wanted this done and over with as soon as possible, one way or another. Magic be damned.

The forest seemed almost peaceful as he entered, the midday light filtering through the foliage. If he had been there for any other reason, he might even have found it a nice place to stop for a bit of meditation. Despite the calm, he couldn't help but feel that everything was accusing him. The grass protested at his every muffled step. The gnarly branches of the trees reached down to scratch out his eyes. Even the songbirds grew quiet, as if knowing this was not an occassion to sing, but to watch and bear witness to the solitary figure below.

Jerom doubted anyone else would have noticed the subtle changes, but then the locals did tend to steer clear of the place. It was orc territory, after all, and every step he took caused him to feel more and more of the unnatural bloodlust building as the compulsion to kill finally began to take hold. It would grow worse and worse, turning him into a mindless beast until he had killed every single orc here, or died in the attempt.

He must have been making quite a bit of noise, since when he finally looked up he could see a band of orcs pointing bows at him, arrows knocked. He hadn't even heard them approach, much less get the drop on him like this. Why they didn't just kill him where he stood was beyond him, even as he felt his steps quicken towards them, his arms acting of their own accord as he began swinging his weapon at the first orc...

And just as quickly as he had closed the distance, he felt himself tripping somehow, a blow knocking the battleaxe into the air above him. As a foot smashed into the flat of his back and pinned his burly frame to the ground, he could hear the whirring of metal through air until it stopped just above his head, inches from his scalp.

"This one is feisty," he heard, followed by a booming chuckle. He was vaguely aware of his constant profanities and struggling before being kicked in the side, knocking the air out of him as it sent him sprawling across the clearing. Rolling with it, Jerom quickly leapt to his feet to face his new opponent, but before he could get a good look he felt a large and powerful fist smash into his face between his eyes, sending him straight into darkness.

*******

A cold feeling washing over him snapped Jerom awake, causing him to hiss in pain at the sudden headache he felt pounding through his skull. He was fairly certain it was worse than the last hangover he'd had, and that one had been pretty terrible. It had been the first drink he'd had in a very long time since joining the Order, but since he had been marching to his death he figured it wouldn't hurt to pick up the bottle once more.

"Oh good, you're awake," he heard a gentle voice say. "I was afraid the chief knocked your brains out with that strike. Good to see I was wrong."

"Where am I?" Jerom asked, unable to really take in his surroundings just yet. Every mote of light seemed to him a stab of the dagger, determined to gouge out his eyes.

"You're safe. As safe as a prisoner can be, anyway," the deep, soothing voice replied. "I can't tell you exactly, however, other than in the midst of an orcish encampment. You understand."

Jerom finally braved the pain, allowing himself a good look at what had to be his jailor. Even though he had been expecting an orc, he was taken aback by how the muscled, greenskinned man before him looked. Tender, ice-blue stared back into his own emerald eyes, a concerned look on his face.

"...You're..."

"Not quite what you expected?" the orc laughed, finishing his sentence for him as he placed a wet rag back into the tray beside him. It looked like the orc had been tending to him in some way. "I get that a lot from our prisoners. Oh, and here, something for the pain. I couldn't administer it while you were still out of it."

Ladling a concoction from a bubbling pot nearby, the orc brought it to Jerom's mouth. Jerom was about to take it for himself when he realized two things: one, he was chained down and practically naked, and two, he was kneeling before an orc who was also practically naked save for a loincloth.

"Yep, afraid you're chained down at the moment," the orc said, grinning around his jet black beard. "But if you're a good boy, I might consider taking you out for a walk."

Jerom blushed, despite the teasing not bothering him in the slightest. He simply said nothing as he allowed the foul-tasting potion into his mouth. Swallowing it before he could really get a sense of how bad it tasted, he felt it burn all the way down past his chest before he grimaced. Whatever was in it, however, was already starting to take the edge off of his own pain, allowing him to keep his eyes open for more than a few moments.

"There's a good lad," the orc said, but despite the choice of wording Jerom felt he wasn't being condescending. It seemed as if he actually cared for those in his charge, which was a trait he hadn't even considered an orc possessing before. But then, there were a lot of things he used to think were true.

"I know you more than likely don't care," the orc began, "but my name is Garen. Though most of you humans tend to just go "die greenskin!" or "bloody orc!" at me half the time, so I suppose those might do too, depending on how you're leaning right now."

"Jerom."

"Hm? What's that?"

"My name's Jerom," the human said, "though I don't even know why we're having this conversation. I should be dead right now."

"Well, you'd think that," Garen said, chuckling slightly, "but there are two things in your favor regardless of your outlook in life. One is that we know what a curse looks like and how to get rid of it, and the second is that we're under orders not to kill humans who enter our territory unless it is absolutely necessary. Even if the chief hadn't knocked you completely senseless when he did, our archers coat their arrows with a fast-acting poison that simulates death for a few hours but doesn't actually kill you. Of course we still used some of it on you anyway to be safe. You weren't exactly reasonable at the time, you understand."

Returning the ladle to the pot on the small iron stove, Garen began looking over the various plants and herbs that seemed to dot the place. He seemed to search for something before smiling, pulling what looked like an iron wand of some sort out of its hiding place.

"This," he said, brandishing it as if it was some precious artifact, "is what is going to allow me to take you out of those chains of yours while also making sure you don't try to do something stupid, like escape. If you'll look down, you'll notice there's no lock."

Garen was right, Jerom realized, as he looked down at the greenish-metal. Every link was perfectly sealed around another, but despite being bound in it he found there was no lock at all. He had to admit, he was slightly impressed at how simple it all was, despite being obviously magic. He had always assumed spells and magic were way more complex than they were, though. One of his flaws that he'd never quite grown out of. It seemed to glow as Garen brought the wand closer, and it was at this point Jerom realized the wand was not only a perfect cylinder and of the same metal as the chains, but it was also etched in runes and patterns he didn't recognize.

"This might hurt or it might not," Garen warned, closing his eyes as he focused. Muttering in soothing words Jerom couldn't understand, he felt the chains around him begin to heat up and vibrate as each link separated from another before fading entirely from existence. When almost all of it had gone, he found he could move his arms again.

"It's done," Garen said, opening his eyes again with a smile. "Guess I'm getting better at that. Only took me a few moments this time."

"You've done this before, then?" Jerom asked, feeling the chain around his neck. It was tight enough to not slip around his head, but it was loose enough so he wouldn't accidently choke or be unable to breathe easily. As quickly as it had warmed up, he found it to be cool again, but not entirely cold. It was almost pleasant.

"Yeah, but I'm only an apprentice shaman. My magic is still a bit raw," Garen replied. "But it doesn't seem to have hurt you either, so I guess that's another tick in my favor."

"Why are you being so..." Jerom began, before Garen shook his head.

"You may be a prisoner here, but that doesn't mean we're going to torture you. We aren't the savages your church depicts us as being. The chains themselves were so you wouldn't hurt yourself or another, in case a counterspell for our countercurse activated, or you just felt like being an asshole. But as for what happens next, that's up to the chief to decide. It helps that you came here under compulsion instead of by your own choice, even if that is a horrible thing to someone."

"Why free me, though?"

"Oh, you're not quite free," Garen said, "but you'll be allowed to roam the encampment a bit. That collar of chain ensures you can't leave the area unless we accompany you with this rod. And before you get any bright ideas, it shocks humans who try to touch or manipulate it. Especially if you're the one wearing that collar. Which you are. And no, a thousand times no, you can't endure it like a stupid ox with mutton for brains. We've had humans try, that's how I know. Always ends up with them begging for the mothers."

"...So I can just... walk around?"

"I recommend it even. You've been knocked out for a day or two now. I bet those legs could use some stretching. Don't worry about missing any meetings we may want with you; when the chief or someone else wants to see you, we'll find you and send you there straightaway. Even with that collar on, you're still going to be watched like a hawk. That's just how it is."

"Won't they just try to kill me though?" Jerom asked, more curious than afraid for his own well-being.

"No. Even if the chief hadn't expressly forbidden it, any who try to seriously hurt you will get a nasty shock from that collar. The reverse is true if you attempt to do the same to anyone else while you're here, unless you're fighting for your own life against something. Self-defense only. That said you might still get a few bruises. We're a rough people, and you might get in someone's way if you're not quick or careful here. And while you don't really have any friends here, do try to be respectful and mind your own manners. We might surprise you."

"Oh, I see," Jerom said, understanding finally dawning on him. "I'm an observer."

"Yes and no. But you seem to understand the gist of it. It's not often I get to explain all this to a clever little fox like you," Garen said, blushing at his own flirt, "Must've been an officer or something instead of one of the grunts."

"Paladin, before they decided I was a heretic."

"Oh. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..."

"Quite frankly I deserved it. I mean, you don't exactly shout "fuck the gods" in the middle of an entire ceremony and expect to get away with it. Doesn't matter, now."

"Anyway," Garen said, awkwardly clearing his throat, "I should leave you be. I have other things I need to take care of while you're getting your bearings. But like I said, someone will find you when they have need of you. So don't worry about getting lost. And feel free to come back here if you need any healing for more than simple bruises or just to chat."

"Noted."

If Jerom had felt confused at having a civil conversation with an orc, he found it dwarfed in comparison to the confusion he felt at opening the tent flap. The whole encampment was a bit chaotic, green skin flashing everywhere as orcs went about their day. Not many of them seemed to pay any mind to his presence, and those that did look quickly saw the chain around his neck before they went back to focusing on their current task. The last time he'd seen this many orcs was when they'd been at war with humans for encroaching on their land, despite the church's claim that the orcs were attempting to corrupt innocent souls with their "devilry". Sighing, Jerom just decided to go with it all for now, stepping out into the well-travelled pathways. He was quite burly himself, but even so the figures towered over him at almost twice his size. He also noticed most were either naked or in loincloths like himself, and that nearly all of them had an impressive amount of muscle. It must have been a war camp or something similar, since everywhere he looked he could only see males. The only ones who seemed to be ready for a war were guards dotted around the place, no doubt to ensure the camp remained orderly... and to keep an eye on prisoners like himself.

Losing himself in his thoughts as the crowd carried him around, Jerom supposed he should feel lucky to be alive. He wasn't sure of what the end goal would be of all this, but he could be in a dark cell still chained to the floor. He didn't understand why he was being treated so well, even as a prisoner. Not only had they spared him and healed his injuries, they'd allowed him to roam around somewhat freely. Granted, a gilded cage was still a cage, but being allowed to stretch his muscles was all he cared for at the moment.

A firm grip on his shoulder brought him out of his thoughts as he felt himself being steered toward one of the tent entrances. As soon as they were out of the crowd, he felt the grip spin him around a bit roughly, though not with the intention of harming him. Giving the orc before him a questioning look, he remembered the warning Garen had given about respect.

"...Um. What can I do for you. Ser," he added, unsure of what to say. He hadn't felt this flustered since he'd been a recruit.

"Oh, you don't need to be so damn formal, human," the orc laughed, causing Jerom to blush a bit. "I just thought you looked a bit lost, so I figured you'd come into my shop for a bit and sit down. Get some grub in you maybe. That sort of thing."

As soon as food was mentioned, Jerom felt his gut give a small gurgle, causing him to relent to the orc's suggestion with a nod. Before he could move on his own, the orc wrapped a beefy arm around his shoulders and guided him in through the tent flap. Even though he felt like he should protest, he had to admit it felt nice to be treated that way. It had been a while since he'd been able to relax a bit, and it wasn't like the bigger man could hurt him with the collar on.

Jerom coughed a bit as his lungs took in a bit of what smelled like too much incense in the air. Even though it was a large tent, being a shop, he still found his eyes stung a bit with the sudden intrusion of his airways.

"Oh. Sorry human. I forget our incense is a bit much for your kind."

"It's... fine," coughed Jerom, already adjusting to it. "Just took me by surprise. What is it?"

"Lavender. You'll smell it once you settle down a bit. It's mixed in with other herbs and such. Relaxes the mind and body after a hard day's work. Helps with the customers, too. By the way, name's Marcus. I know. Human-sounding name. My choice though."

"Jerom."

"Hm. Good name."

"...Thanks."

Jerom was guided past the makeshift counter and into another room of the tent, most likely the living quarters. Taking the seat he was offered, Jerom could smell more incense burning in here, too. It made his head feel a bit fuzzy, but he had to admit it felt nice to just relax, all of the tension he'd been holding in over the past month and a half just melting away. He hadn't even noticed Marcus had left the room to get a bowl of stew until the food in question was placed in front of him, snapping him out of what amounted to a light trance.

"Sorry it took so long. Had to heat it up a bit more. Here. My own recipe."

Jerom took the big wooden spoon from the orc's meaty fingers, before taking a bit of stew and giving it a test taste. It was still a bit hot, but it was savory with bits of meat and what looked like chunks of potatoes and carrots added in. He could also taste some sweetness to it, causing him to give Marcus a look.

"Honey," he said, as if he'd been asked the question more than once. "Makes it nicer, I think. You like it? I'm not usually one for cooking."

"It's very good..." Jerom slurred a little, finding it hard to concentrate on much besides the the meal and how relaxed he felt. "Better than I've had in a long time." He watched as his compliment made the orc beam with pride, the light from the incense gleaming off his tusks. The sight of it made him crack a smile, as well.

"Here..." Marcus said, taking the spoon from him and pulling up another chair next to him. Wrapping his free arm around Jerom again, the orc took a good helping of stew and began to slowly feed Jerom himself. He had to admit that it felt good to be held like this again after so long, and the incense mingling with the musk of the orc beside him caused him to lean into the embrace as he let his guard down bit by bit.

"You're really comfortable with this."

"Is that a problem?" Jerom asked, confused.

"No. Just most humans seem to think it's wrong. Like somehow I'll make them stop liking women or something. Strange people. Worse with the godlier ones, too."

"Oh. I guess that makes sense," Jerom replied between mouthfuls. Before he knew it, the stew was gone and he felt himself being picked up in the orc's arms.

"You look very tired. Maybe the incense is a bit strong."

"It's okay," Jerom said, feeling himself being laid down on something soft. Opening his eyes a little, he saw it was a pile of furs, probably a makeshift bed. Marcus wasn't far behind, laying down next to him and resting the human's head on his chest. He was vaguely aware that both of them were now completely naked and hard, though he wasn't sure how they'd both lost their loincloths. A small, quiet part felt maybe he should be a bit concerned about that, but it was pushed down by the lavender and musk invading his nostrils and making his head feel like cotton.

"I won't do anything if you don't want to," Marcus said after a while, as if addressing some unspoken question hanging in the room. "Just figured you had a long day. So I was hoping I could help you relax. But I made the incense too strong for a human. Sorry."

"I needed it," Jerom replied, "I haven't been able to relax for a long time now."

"Ah. Right. Compulsion spells," the orc spat with disgust. "Then it's good?"

"It's good. Can't think much though."

"Do you want to? I could snuff some of these flames an-"

"No. I don't want to think right now. I'll just brood again if I do."

"Then here. Let me do this."

He lazily watched Marcus get up and dig around in a drawer, before pulling out a few more sticks of incense. Setting them up near the bed, he muttered a bit before the incense sparked to life with three new flames.

"Orcish magic," Marcus explained, settling back into bed with Jerom. "I don't know much. Just a small bit. Good for fires though. Other little tricks here and there, too."

The words were a bit distant for Jerom as he felt the incense saturate his entire being, giving himself into the sea of relaxation. Whatever resistance he might have had before was swept completely away as he began to go into a heavy trance, the lavender and musk making him even more relaxed and horny than before. Everything felt good and right to him, as a dopey grin spread across his face.

"Oh. That was definitely too much," Marcus said, chuckling as he waved a hand in front of Jerom's face. "Such a handsome human, though. Strong too. Lot of scars, some from orcs."

"You... like scars...?" Jerom asked, gazing into the orc's hazel eyes.

"Means you're a strong warrior. Says a lot about you. This one used a blade, caught you by surprise," Marcus said, tracing a large scar across his back. "But you're here. They're not."

"Because I killed the coward. Shortswords aren't much good against an axe to the face."

"Handaxe or battleaxe?"

"Battleaxe."

"You like them big, then," Marcus grinned, winking.

"So what about this one?" Jerom asked, guiding the orc's hand to the scars on his shoulder.

"Beast. Probably a bite. Wolf?"

"Werewolf. Didn't turn though. Daily wolfsbane poultices and a month's observation to be certain. The werewolf wasn't so lucky."

"Impressive..." Marcus said, finding himself even more attracted to the smaller man as he traced another scar across his stomach. "This one almost killed you. Must've hurt like hell. Probably a polearm."

"Halberd. Impaled me while I was on my horse. Would have died without... one of my brothers," Jerom said, hesitating to say the name. "He killed the bastard what did it and did what he could to heal me on the field, when he wasn't protecting my ass."

"He was good at it. Very clean work. Glad you didn't die. Wouldn't have met you."

"Same. What about this one then?" Jerom asked, having Marcus trace over the scar across his right eye.

"Hm..." Marcus seemed to think a bit, before beaming through his dirty-blonde beard. "Older scar. Maybe your first. Training accident."

"I tell other people that a bandit did it," Jerom laughed, blushing a bit with embarrassment. "But I really just cut myself trying to impress some of my comrades. But you're good at reading scars."

"Orcs take pride in our scars. They tell stories of who we are, where we go, what we do. Remind us of mistakes, or triumphs. Or both. Some orcs do ritual scarring. Some humans, too. I don't like that though. Not for me. Plenty of scars already."

Some time passed as Jerom lay in Marcus' arms; even though he was bigger and stronger, the man had a gentle touch that Jerom had missed for far too long.

"Who was he? Your lover?"

"Who?" Jerom asked, confused by the sudden question.

"The healer who did this," answered Marcus, tracing the gut scar once more.

"...Brendan. And yes. He's dead, though."

"Oh. Sorry."

"It's not your fault; you didn't know. He was sent to kill orcs, too, a year ago. I never heard from him again, so I guess he's dead now."

"Same reason as you?"

"No. I was only sentenced like this because I kept asking too many questions about Brendan. His trial was quick and secret. When I found out he was framed for murdering a high priest, they decided to try to keep me quiet. So I blasphemed in public, so that they had to put on a public show of a minor offense."

"Smart. Make your brothers question their motives. Why frame him, though?"

"Because they knew he had a proclivity toward other men. Even though it's not exactly a rule, it's frowned upon. Many priests even go so far as to think it's the will of the gods for it to be only a man and a woman, so they're more extreme. He would get into heated arguments with one priest in particular about it. So they killed that priest and framed Brendan. Then they sent him off to die. Here, probably, though there are other orc encampments I suppose."

Jerom hadn't noticed, but Marcus had tensed slightly at the story. He wanted to ask more questions, but he could tell that despite the incense Jerom was getting more and more agitated. The shopkeep deliberated for a bit, absentmindedly tracing Jerom's scars as he decided what to do next while waiting for Jerom to calm down again. It felt nice to have the human against him, but he had no intention now of doing anything beyond this, even if he had considered it briefly before. If anything were to happen, he wanted it to happen while the ex-paladin was in his right mind and not wracked with grief or incense.

It wasn't much longer before he felt the rhythmic rise and fall of Jerom's breathing, signifying he had fallen sleep. Marcus smiled, looking down at the human with his disheveled beard and long hair. Despite the peace he saw now, he could tell the man had been through much more than older men of his species. He knew that this wasn't someone he wanted to cross paths with on the battlefield. From what he'd heard from the scouts before, the man was dangerous even when out of his mind with magically-induced bloodlust. A warrior like that, but with the full use of his mind...

Coming to a decision, Marcus slowly rose from the furs, careful not to wake the man beside him. He needed the rest, especially after his ordeal. Taking a paper from the small drawer, he focused as he muttered a spell in Orcish before thinking about what he wanted to say in the letter. Even though it spelled out the message in his own language, he knew that the magic would translate to something the man could understand. When it was finished, he placed it gently by the incense before he put the flames out with two meaty fingers. The other bowls had already long since burned out during the hours they had lain there, but he double-checked to be sure before he opened one of the roof flaps, allowing the incense to slowly filter out of the room. He did the same for the common area before finding his own loincloth.

"I hope we keep you," Marcus muttered, smiling at the human one more time before he went on his way to speak with the chief.