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punk-in-docs · 7 months ago

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A song of rage and salty waves: part I

— Emperor Geta x reader (Salacia)

— 2.5k words

— Read all parts here: Part I — Part II — Part III — Part IV — Part V

Summary; You were raised outside of this Rome. Born into peace. To know of fathomless deep seas, and skies so big, they wrapped around your whole sight. The way that at night all you can smell are lemon trees kissed by salt. The jasmine plants wound around the white walls of the villa. Salacia. And now you are sent to Rome for your father in the Senate. There you will catch the attention of Geta; in all the wrong and darkest of ways— any reblog and comments are greatly appreciated 💙💙💙

TW!! some dub con/ threat/violence/basically forced marriage/forced smut situation/Geta is such a vile human being/Macrinus is villain sorry denzel ily

You’re imprisoned in Rome.

You certainly didn’t come here of your own free will. Your father had tugged you here from Corsica. Employed clever charm with letters and schemes from his high position in the senate.

As the role of your sex; you were born to obey.

He sent you imported silken stolas the colours of cornflowers or lazurite, with gold fibulae at the shoulders. Gem inlaid jewellery, rings to decorate every finger, and earrings the sway. A golden net for your hair. Wheedled you into coming to join him. Sending servants to travel with you and take heed of your every comfort.

He made sure you dined on plump fresh fruit. Seafood of lobsters and crabs. Drank wine so rich dark it looked black.

You despise it. The stone pillars and temples. And gods of old. Eyes watch you everywhere. See you. Follow you.The governing heat and noise and sweaty heaving mass of all forms of life.

You were raised outside of this Rome. Born into peace. To know of fathomless deep seas, and skies so big, they wrapped around your whole sight. The way that at night all you can smell are lemon trees kissed by salt. The jasmine plants wound around the white walls of the villa.

Salacia. The ocean nymph and the being of your name. Crowned with seaweed in your hair. Sea foam dripping off your fingers. Ripped from your home, an isle by the sea, at the whim of another.

Imprisoned here in this cold marble city. A fish out of water. Gasping dry on the shore.

Pulled inland and stolen away. You can’t hear gulls or waves anymore. It sickens you. Heart pangs that throb for home.

When you arrived, pulled back your folded palla down to your shoulders. He welcomed you with open arms and fondness. Wrists linked in gold cuffs. Tugged you to his chest and embraced you warmly. Hissed in your ear - abrasive like harsh sea spray - spies are everywhere.

He needed you close by. For reasons you had yet to fathom.

You dined like spoilt deity’s. Breads and wines, fish, fruits from far regions fattened by the suns heat, and succulent meat roasted in sweet cassia spices on a spit.

He had urns of flowers - picked by the servant - placed in every room. Lilies, juniper branches still bearing dark fruit, lavender, oleanders.

Companions join him and he is boastful of you. A nubile creature offered placement at a table of old muddled men. He introduces you to trusted friends and advisors in the senate.

One man in particular takes keen interest as to your recent arrival. His name was Macrinus. Man of information and resources. Dealt in cunning and cruelty though you found him sincerely charming. Your father watched you with a desperate eye.

Macrinus bore a smile so dazzling and blinding it made you dizzy; made think of the sun god. Apollo and his light cast across golden wheat fields. Notes of fine music. He sipped his wine slow, as he learned the flavour of your name. Where you came from. Understanding the rolling sea foam in your veins.

There’s a game to be held at the coliseum. He will have your father as his guest - and you by a very pretty extension. He nods at you; his eyes glimmer like pooled liquid gold in the half lit dark. It almost makes you feel safe.

They dine and drink into the small hours. Yet you slip away.

You watched this awful city out your window that night in your silk dress the colour of night time tidal waves. The air is stale. Carrion to you. Hot. Full of dust and sweat. Here, It smells like mulberry trees and a green garden waiting for blessed rain.

You couldn’t hear the sea. Or your sisters. Your mothers humming as she wove cloth and mended clothes. And you wept.

Salt found in your tears to be your only sacred comfort of home.

You are soft to this hard stone city. The coliseum is magnificent. As large as it is those who hold their powerful fists over its rule. Clutched in gold. Fine for the rich. Deadly for the slaves and warriors thrown into the pit at the whim of others. Met with carnivore teeth and sand and death.

The senators, generals, and the rich merchants watch from their perch, up among the gods they serve, presiding in shade and clothed in perfumed silks and jewels. Ladies and men both.

Your hair took hours to fasten in its current coiled style. Plaited and weaved. Your dress is the colour of the softest blue shore. Your servant lavished your arms and fingers in golden finery. A serpent cuff coiled around your arm. Skin draped in lemon oil because it’s the small piece of Corsica you carry here with you. Serenity to push against this place of gore, butchery and death.

You find yourself seated here amongst giants. Macrinus is seated one side. Your father the other. He fondly lays his hand across yours in gentle touch.

His palm is damp. Gold rings wet.

His face looks haggard with age. The lines by his eyes more prominent. Rome is poisoning him. The golden apple just a fingertip shy of his reach. St Bartholomew flayed and stripped of skin piece by piece. Schemes and plots lay thick in his mind like rot. Sweat beads down across his brow and the thinning salt pepper of his hair.

He says something to Macrinus that you’re too absorbed to hear. It’s low. Dragged through a growl. He appears unmoved, with a slow flick of his eyes to you. Watching this finery and loudness devour you. Your eyes so full wide and round. Salt and innocence entwined.

You all rise when the emperors pass by, Geta and Caracalla, who stride in, garbed in gold and cloaks. Come to take their rightful place at the mouth of the box where you are seated.

They are like twin suns to the Roman people. Lion gold hair kissed by fire. They burn and twist and shine with it. Make noises like gold coins that clack when they move. Strung in riches and golden crowns of olive leaves and branches.

Together they make you think of Romulus and Remus. Raised rabid by wolves. And they certainly make an impression. You’ve heard tale of the voracious nature of the blood sport they all but live for. Faces limned in the glory of gore.

The crowd cheers for them. They nod and wave but it appears barbed. The games begin with a wave of applause and a regal hand.

Caracalla twists and casts an eye in your direction. Seeing new meat.

The way you sit sedately and can’t cast your mind into the butchery and violence happening below. The clash of steel. The hollow squelching cries that proceed death. The spill of viscera and the scatter of brain matter from split heads.

Each new gash or split in skin made them smile. The taint of blood. Metallic sour. Spilling of offal and exposed bone.

He tilts his head like a clever wolf. Eyes darken. His sneer as terrible as a skulls. He leans across and whispers something to his brother with a knock of his arm to gain attention.

Another set of wolfish eyes join the first in hooking to your skin. Silly soft girl. Made of gentle sea breezes and lapping blue waves calm and soft enough to wade in. Pearl shining in moonlight. So watery and weak. So good. Untouchable.

Geta swept his gaze on you from head to toe. Appraising you hungrily through greedy eyes. The beauty of your figure in that soft folds of that stola. The gold that crushed your neck. Broaches at your fair shoulders. Hair glistening and finely arranged.

He liked the way you winced when another sword blow came. The pull of your brows and how you had to look away. He wanted you gathered up in his lap; fingers crushing your jaw as he turned your head; force you to watch as the men cleaved at each other and drew blood. Hacked off limbs. Laugh at your revulsion.

Looking at you sat there; He has an urge to take his dagger, slit that fine silk from your shoulders and bare your real beauty. Grab it off you and snatch your dress down. Spoil himself on your curves. Grab your breasts. He’s sure you’ve tits that even a goddess would envy. He’d reel you in by grabbing your ass that definitely needs a spank and some attention.

You’re even prettier than some of the finest whores he’s had grace his bed. They never kept his interest too long. Too entwined in filth and sin like him; you look pure as a vestal virgin.

He likes that. He wants to pluck it off you and spoil it.

You don’t dare meet his eyes. Of course you don’t. He’s an emperor. He could have you executed for looking at him wrongly. Instead; you wring your hands in your lap and squirm. Close your eyes tighter with every dying wail.

He turns back to the fight. As do you. A gasp flies from your mouth when you draw your eyes to one of the measly soldiers in the arena. Your father left his seat to stand, mouth gaping.

You saw the familiar arrangement of strong limbs. Garbed in warriors clothing. The way his arms shook holding a sword. Inexperienced and struggling. The fight was not fair. The same head of hair that matched your own.

Your oldest brother.

Macrinus grinned. “He’s not my finest fighter. But I wager he’ll be good sport.�� He smirks.

Your father turned, cursed the gods, and exploded with venomous rage. Flew for the man with his fists. Grabbed his clothing. You tried to restrain the storm of his temper - but then you’d got that trait from somewhere hadn’t you? - an ocean thrashing wild and free. Terrifying in its rage.

“You promised me.” Your father roared. Spittle flying.

“I never promised to protect your traitor of a son. Let us see if the gods spare him. Yes?” Macrinus commented.

You couldn’t take your eyes from the pit. Nor could your father. He clutched to you like he could barely stand. Weakened and shrinking. Hand a vice on your shoulder. It burned like the sting of sun but you couldn’t shrug him off.

Your brother was meeting with an opponent far larger than he was. A Retiarius. Helmet, trident, dagger and a net.

Of which had currently knocked your brother to the blood dusted dirt. Spearing the trident deep into his thigh. Pinning him to earth like a bug. His cry of pain ringing out. Blood sheeted down one side of his head. His scream is the most horrible thing you’d ever heard.

You can’t help it. Where you’re stood, you cry out. It pours forth from you.

The Retiarius loomed over your bother like a terrible storm cloud. Looking up at the stands for direction. The whole audience cheered and screamed for more.

Geta stood up and the crowd bayed. He sneered at the sight before him. All the power of a god; crammed into a mortal man.

He raised his arm. And hesitated for a moment. Before he smirked. And pointed his thumb right up.

Death.

Your father wailed. The huge lumbering gladiator descended onto your brother. Flinging the net off and cutting his throat in one fast slice. Blood poured and pooled around lifeless eyes. Stained the sand.

Macrinus stood to his feet and clapped along with everyone else. The emperors’ laughed like hyenas at the sight. Blood and pain only made their smiles grow.

Before you knew what was happening, the palace guards had you and your father surrounded. Hands viced around your arms. Your shoulders. Your father too.

Traitor. He decried. A traitor in the senate. The tarpeian rock.

Just like his now dead son. People’s poised against the glory of Rome. Against Caracalla and Geta. Death to all.

Macrinus spoke harshly to the guards to release you. He backhanded you across your cheek. Your eye felt like it was going to burst. Cheek flamed with fire. Lip cut and bleeding down your chin from his ring.

He then wasted little time in digging his fingers into your finely done hair. Hauled you along screaming. Tears streaming.

Your father could only watch, limbs wrenching forwards in terror to help, as Macrinus marched you across the stands to where they sat.

He threw you to the ground like a feral animal. Tumbled you onto your knees. Skimmed your hands. As you squirmed and cried at your body twisted to his cruelty.

“Your majesties. I have personally uncovered a traitor in your court. Senator Aurelius. Not only was his first born placed in rebellion against Rome. But he himself has been sowing seeds of treason in your senate. I bring you his filthy kin as recompense…” He spat at the Emperors. Releasing your mussed hair to throw you to their feet.

They examined you as one would a creature. Nothing of humanity left. Devoid of any feeling. You crawled slowly to your elbows. Tried to claw away sobs. Raising up but not daring to look at them. You weren’t worthy. You feared them.

Geta was the one who rose slowly to his feet. Coming to stand before you. “We are most grateful for your revelation, Macrinus. You will be rewarded for such loyal service.” Though he spoke to him, his eyes never left you.

You father shouted and cried pleas. They go unheard. He snaps to the guards who hold him. “Silence that treacherous snake-“ he barks. They beat him into submission.

You stay cowering on the ground. In amongst the gritty dirt, and the blood like those slaves and gladiators. That’s how they saw you. That’s how much you were worth. Held in the same regard as the dirt on their shoes.

You feel a ring clad hand tip a finger under your chin. Blood dripping down onto that digit as he made you raise your head to look at him until your neck hurt.

“What is your name, pretty little traitor-“ He sneers. Because that is all you are. They’ve tarred and feathered you with the same brush.

You give it to him through tears that run freely. You give this awful golden haired emperor with dark lecherous eyes your name.

“Salacia.” You cry. Voice watery and cloaked in heavy salty sobs. Lips parted. So soft and pliable. Lovely and ripe and waiting for him. A gift from the gods-

He tilts his head down at you. Looking like some sun gold lion. Showing his canines in a cruel white smile.

“Imprison them. Both.” He smirks.

He thinks he may have them bring him your fathers head on a platter. Strangulation seemed too soft. Too forgiving. He had to make an example of you.

He had a particular way in mind for your fate. He watched you get led away crying as he sucked your sweet blood off his thumb.

You tasted like salt and sea foam

Tagging in the hopes this finds its way to the right people—

@indouloureux @trashmouth-richie @atabigail @lunatictardis @waywardrose @ceriseheaven @hillarymurray4 @lurkingprincess @ramona-thorns @joequinnswhore @iliveforotps @eddiesskittle @roosterisdaddy36 @rose-tinted @lluviamg06 @ravensfromvalhalla @fujiihime @youaremyfamiliar @captain-tch @ghosttownwherenoonegoes @svenyves @sammararaven @feralgoblinbabe @groupie-love-71 @andromeda-andromeda @morganamoonstone @gvtosbith @munsonswhore @shenevertricks1831 @hazzaismyreligion @harrys-titties @anaisweird @cinnamoncunt @red-lipstick-bisexual @wheels-of-despair @tvserie-s-world @callmeloverr @ho-for-joequinn-fics @bettyfrommars @rip-quizilla @songforeddiemunson @usedtobecooler @peachesandfiends @littlelioncub43 @heyndrix @babybluebex @blueywrites @joejoequinnquinn @cool-nick-miller @sheneedsrocknroll92 @rehfan @pedgito @dracomaledicte @gamingaquarius @mypoisonedvine @ddejavvu @sharp-and-swift @chaptersleftunwritten

#emperor geta #punkwrites #joseph quinn #ancient rome #gladiator 2 #gladiator #i would die for this man #geta is a bitch ok #lots of holy goddess imagery #idfk what im doing #i wrote this in a fever dream induced daze at 2am ok #pls dont kill me smut in next chap ofc #geta is a hugeeee nasty prick #the title is so douchey I’m sorry #smut to come !

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insirisarts · 8 months ago

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Origins of Olympus - Reimagined

Chapter 1: Welcome to Camp Oasis!

The sun beamed down onto the sand; the sky was clear of any clouds. The heat of the desert would’ve been unbearable for any human unlucky enough to be caught in its never-ending expanses. After all, mortals could not find their way to a place like this, especially not to its oasis. Even if they did, the gods would smite them for trespassing onto the sacred land. A place where the finest of greenery and produce grew; food was abundant, the water was so clean, you could drink it from the source, and filled with fauna so docile, even tigers could have been considered house pets. However, these individuals are by no means ‘mortals’. For these people are children of the gods. Blessed to walk the lands of Gaia with the grand powers of their parents. Striking the earth with powerful volts, bringing the motions of the tides, guiding souls to their final resting place, and even becoming the light of the sun themself.

An echidna stood tall on the entrance platform, backlit by the magic doorway behind her. Orange scales shining in the mid-afternoon sun. Her large wings sat solidly on her back, accentuating her posture. The woman's human upper half was covered with a red-orange dress, which was trimmed and decorated with gold. Gold bracelets were also placed on her upper and lower arms, and on the end of her serpent tail. Each of these bracelets were jeweled with three bright orange stones which matched her fiery irises. Scales traveled up the young woman’s body, spotting her shoulders, ears and face with the same burnt orange as the asymmetrical horns buried in her dark brown hair. Her heavy-lidded eyes surveyed over the slowly building group. Demi-gods to be specific.

“Hello everyone, I am Kaykrea and welcome to the Oasis of Demeter.” Kaykrea introduced, catching the attention of the present demi-gods. She had situated herself on the marble steps leading to the entryway of the camp, which was blocked by a form of powerful magic that none of the others could quite figure out.

Beside her was a girl who had arrived earlier that day, a harpy named Marshie. She was white winged harpy, in a dark crop top with a long striped light purple shawl that fell past her shoulders. Her laurel was decorated with small golden sunflowers and sat atop her long strawberry blond hair, some of which had been pulled back to make a cute loose ponytail. Her outfit was finished off with some jean shorts that stopped above her more eagle shaped legs and taloned feet. They had taken time to chat during the wait and already found that they got along rather well.

“I will be your designated camp counselor.” Kaykrea's large, scaled wings spread to frame her sculpted body; her lower serpent body raising the human half to stand tall over all of the campers. “Today will just be a simple meet-and-greet with a tour of the campgrounds. Then we will have a short session with The Oracle later this evening.”

Many already had looks of admiration or excitement on their faces; except for a man with long shaggy white and red hair off to the side, who simply rolled his eyes at her. She figured that this one may eventually become a problem and mentally noted to keep an eye on him. “First will be introductions, we will start with you.” She stated, pointing at a man with black hair and yellow highlights, frizzed by what appeared to be static.

The man stood a bit straighter now that the attention was on him, his black eyes widening slightly from being singled out, “I am Mario, son of Zeus, God of storms and lightning!” Mario proclaimed. His looks only pushed the idea. His toga was black and yellow with hints of white under the garment and light blue accents. Lightning motifs could be found in his laurel, arm armor and his white sash in the form of a lightning shaped fibula brooch. Throughout his arms and legs, his veins seemed to glow an electric yellow on his sun-tanned skin. He stood with confidence, almost looking like he was about to burst with unstoppable energy.

The Echidna nodded in approval; a child of Zeus was sure to bring some excitement. “Thank you, Mario. Now you, the one in blue.” She moved on, gesturing to a man with a much shyer demeanor, as he sat much more hunched over compared to the rest of the group.

“Uhm… Jakey, one of the sons of Poseidon.” Jakey mumbled, just loud enough for Kaykrea to glean. Besides the small, high collard coverup on his shoulders, he was shirtless, showing off his swimmer's body. The armor over his left pec was layered and traveled over to part of his back, with large light blue inset jewels glittering in the light. At his hips sat a blue 5-layered skirt-like bottom that split at his right hip, the exposed part of which was covered by a cloth tied to the skirt. His arms and legs were protected by silver armor shaped like fish and similarly jeweled like the rest of his armor; his hands were covered in dark blue fingerless gloves. A tasteful crown was planted in his brown and blue hair with the same light blue gem, his hair had been put into a french-styled braid on both sides of his head that then came together into a long skinny braid in the back. On his back, sat a long bident with jewels spotted on the head, and the end had a shark fin shape.

Kaykrea nodded in satisfaction and was about to move on to the next camper when a new voice joined the group.

Distant shuffling sand could be heard from the distance. “I’m sorry, I’m here, hold on-!” Shouted a young man with short white hair. His ears were pierced with round red earrings and accompanied by golden ear clips covered in rose leaves. His neck was adorned with a red choker. A cropped himation draped over his right shoulder which was pinned by a sort-of star shaped fibula brooch. His two-layered red skirt with gold trim swayed with the movement of his legs. He had shoulder pads that appeared to have rose designs that matched the rose on his dark gray belt, which matched the leather armor on his arms. Small white wings flared from the shoulder pads and his golden shoes. Two hooked swords were connected at the hilts which gave the shape of an S sat on his back along with a small satchel, assumedly a physical god pocket, likely it had all of his other essentials in its magic confines. He skidded to a stop with the rest of the group; bending over to catch his breath, using his knees as support.

“I, huf, apologize, hrff, I was distracted, hooh…” He rushed between labored breaths; his body lightly shook from overexertion.

“And… who might you be?” The orange serpent inquired, drawing out her sentence.

With one last deep gasp of air, the white-haired man responded, “I’m Bryan, the son of Aphrodite; the goddess of love, beauty and passion herself!” Bryan flicked his hair back haughtily and stood with his head held high. The motion made him look back and lock his eyes onto Jakey. This made him freeze in the middle of his display; a light pink softy grazed his face, and he awkwardly took a few steps back to get a proper look at the other man, honey brown eyes holding an intense stare.

‘…Poor guy…’ Kaykrea sympathized, even though the boy in blue didn't even seem to notice Bryan. However, she quickly corrected herself and went back to the meet-and-greet. “Thank you, Bryan. Now then, let's move on to… you.” She brought attention to a man with ashy skin.

The man with the sides of his head shaved and a braid going down the back of his scalp, a chunk of which was bronze. Thick sideburns lead to a scruffy but well-trimmed beard. He awkwardly lifted his hand in a wave.

“Ah, Xylo. Son of Apollo.” Xylo greeted. His laurel also had a bronze color, sporting, strangely enough, pomegranate leaves. Bronze spartan armor on his torso and lower legs, along with a layer of leather pteruges at his waist along with shoulder pads that had sun designs glazed on. Over his protective layer there was a bright multi-colored sash, going from a dark purplish blue to a bright sunny yellow curving around his body to also become his belt and dangling the leftover fabric in the front. The cloth was pinned down by bronze peronai on his right shoulder and where the cloth hung off at the belt, they were in the shape of the sun with four points, inside being bright yellow glaze. He had single point claw gauntlets in a similar sun shape attached to thick fingerless leather gloves. At his hips, an open hip cape hung to his knees, a bright pattern depicting a sun in a wavy sky adorned the garment. Another odd part of his look were his dark purple eyes, it almost looked like they didn’t belong, or that he didn’t belong.

Kaykrea had scrunched her nose in frustration, heavy lidded eyes glaring aggressively, bowing her head to show off her dark orange horns at the ashen man. Apollo… Apollo… Mother…

“Ah… thanks.” She bluntly stated.

Xylo had an expression of mild offense but decided to leave it be for the time being.

As the rest of the meeting went on, more of the godly children introduced themselves. A second son of Poseidon named Mitch. He too, lacked a shirt and wore a coverup on the upper part of his torso and wore a far more gaudy golden crown. Although, his face was half covered in black scales. He was much darker than Jakey, with a more deep sea/ocean look to match with his black and blue clothing, with small bioluminescent adornments. He also held the trident, at this mention, Jakey made his own snide remark about poor choices in part on their father.

The man KayKrea had taken note of earlier was named Brandeen, who was a son of Ares. His style leaned towards more human than Olympian it appeared, not that it was any concern to her as plenty of gods and demi-gods had spent at least some time around mortals and their ever-expanding culture. His overall appearance was dark, his disheveled black and white striped shirt and ripped black pants made up part of his look. A dark red pleather biker jacket with the sleeves measly ripped off, which was accented with smaller bits of a brighter red, brought it all together. Around his arms were bandages with blades tied at the ends that pulsed with divine energy; those must be his weapons.

Further back was a Satyr woman named Relena, the adopted child of Artemis. Her hair was a subtle mix of light and dark brown and subtly blended into the fur on her ears and face; which were both rather animal-like. She was dressed in much more casual human clothing, having a halfway split turquoise and light pink short jacket over a plain white crop top, the pink matching her horns. The jacket had its sleeves ripped off, showing her strong arms. Her jeans were intentionally ripped at her knees, keeping it out of the way of her more animalistic legs and hooved feet. An attempt was made to paint her hooves the same pink as her horns. Slung across her hips sat an ornate silver bow with a quiver of arrows.

At the end of the lineup stood a man almost completely clad in black, battle armor being placed over his original clothing. His name was Brick, one of the very few children of Hades. He had a black war helmet with the holes for the face covered by a bright purple energy. His speech was short and abrupt, only giving his name and heritage in a sharply cold manner.

Kaykrea knew there were other campers yet to arrive, but she had to start with the tour before it got too late in the day. So, with a large flap of her orange wings, she instructed the present campers to follow her for the tour of the grounds. With an expert waver of her hand, she dispelled the magic that blocked off the entrance to the camp.

Entering through the enchanted doors of Camp Oasis, guarded by large spear-wielding statues, they followed a small path. The path led to a sort-of roundabout, which had small sections of path that lead away to other parts of the camp. Surrounding the group was a quaint little garden, and at the roundabout’s center was a marble fountain that poured water as blue as the sky. Many flowers covered the area surrounding the outer rim of the path around the fountain. However, Bryan took particular interest in the Rose bushes.

“Oh, I heard about the nature here!” He exclaimed with adoration and fondness, earning him odd stares from the others. “About how it all seems to live or even thrive! These roses are beautiful, what do you do to make them grow like this?” He would have continued to fawn over the red flowers if he weren't interrupted.

“Bet you sure know a lot about this junk, huh?” Mario taunted. It sounded playful, but that didn’t stop Bryan from shooting the other with a sharp glare.

“Sure do…” The white-haired man mumbled. Mario sucked in his lips, like how one would with something sour, he figured that he shouldn’t have spoken up.

“Alright!” Kaykrea interjected, clapping her hands together to catch the two boys' attention. “Let's get a move on up the path!” She ushered, wanting to avoid a first day conflict.

Up the path was the training area. Fully packed with dummies, targets and even a small sparring ring with a little viewing area. A good handful of campers took potshots at the targets, using either their weapons or godly powers, with varying rates of success and accuracy. Further down was a sports area, consisting of both old Olympic sports and modern human sports. Next to the sports fields were the cabins. They were charming, being made in a rustic style and crafted from the same wood as the surrounding towering trees. She said that cabins would be assigned after the tour, during dinner. Most were able to house two or so people and stood overlooking the surprisingly close gulf that led out into the ocean. Nearby, a dock sat with fishing boats stranded on the shoreline. Fishing equipment had been provided on the dock, along with some outdoor cooking equipment in a small shed nearby. Next was the camp hall, for campers to meet and socialize. A bonfire circle sat just beside the mess hall, it had yet to be lit, although it seemed to have been recently stocked with firewood.

“This is where we will have our rendezvous after you settle in and have dinner this evening.” She explained, letting everyone gather before continuing. “Then The Oracle will come and give us a free prophecy. Afterwards, you will earn the right to meet with them eventually, but that is a discussion for later throughout your stay.”

Then the mess hall. The Hall was very large, it would have no trouble fitting the entirety of the camp once they were all there. A heavenly smell came from the building, a mixture of sweet and savory that caused the campers mouths to water with anticipation. Finally, was the shower and bathroom area, having both separate and unisex washrooms, and a small bath house.

She pointed to a distant building. It was a small temple, with a securely locked door. So secure in fact that there was no lock, only magic.

“That is where The Oracle resides. You are not to bother them unless you are given passage, or they decide to summon you.” She declared with finality. Asserting that the building was fully off-limits otherwise.

With that the campers were released and left to their own devices. Some had gone to chat by the cabins and others went to either look around the camp or to use the training area. Kaykrea herself went to the mess hall to finish preparing for that night's feast.

Soon enough, they were brought back to the mess hall, where an entire buffet was set up. Different tables had different types of food. Fruits and vegetables were set to one side of the buffet. Large fruit bowls held exotic fruits not even native to their part of the world, and the veggies had been grown right on camp property and harvested that day. A range of different meats sat in the middle of the arrangement, from the finest steaks to moist and well-seasoned fowl and poultry, to fish from both fresh and saltwater. At the other end were deserts and drinks. Pies, cakes and pastries alongside juices, nectar and ambrosia. It was now bustling; some others had arrived at the camp over time and joined in on the festive atmosphere.

During this time, Kaykrea went around telling campers to take a card from a small deck. The cards were in pairs of colors and a cabin number, and those with matching pairs would bunk together. On occasion, some did not get a cabin mate, not that any of them seemed to mind, like Mitch. However, most did have two people. Xylo and Jakey, Relena and Brick, even Brandeen had a cabin buddy. Although, she had not learned his roommate's name yet. Glancing around, she could see the Demi-gods socializing, looking for anyone who had a matching card or simply enjoying the food. Bryan approached her to receive his card, fittingly, red. Not that she knew if anyone else had a red card, but she had caught a glimpse at his. She internally chuckled at the mild irony.

“Did anyone else get red?” He inquired over the crowd, causing a brief awkward silence as everyone else double checked their cards.

“Over here!” A voice replied, a hand darting up over the crowd to display their card.

Bryan made his way over to his roommate for the summer. Only to come face-to-face with Mario. He could hardly hide his disappointment. Obviously still salty about the comment made earlier that day. Mario held a poorly disguised expression of awkwardness, not knowing how to tackle the subject. Kaykrea was about to confront the two about perhaps changing cabins before the man in black and yellow asked if the shorter boy would be willing to meet with him outside. With a stiff nod, Bryan followed the fellow demi-god out the door. Just to be safe, the serpent woman discreetly accompanied the two.

The full moon hung at the edge of the sky, the final dim glow of the setting sun moments from vanishing. Cool night breezes chilled the earth from the heat of the summer day. The pair stood in silence, not sure how to begin the conversation. The tension was thick enough to be sliced by any blade. Which Mario dared to do.

“Listen, I’m sorry about earlier… I thought it sounded joking enough, but I could tell it flumped entirely.” He kept his warm black eyes on the ground, not really wanting to see the look the other man was possibly giving him.

“Yeah, I get that.” Bryan spoke blankly, staring off in a random direction. “But it still hit a cord… kinda sounded like my mom…” This came out far more dejected.

“Really? Why would Aphrodite, of all gods, judge flower stuff?” The raven-haired man replied in mild shock.

Kaykrea was inclined to agree, very odd for the goddess of love.

Bryan continued, waving his hand in circles to sort his thoughts. “Not so much the flower thing, more so just not really understanding or accepting my interests…” The other supplied, “Me not being like my siblings… or her.”

“Whoof, I feel you there, my dad doesn’t really give me much thought. Given that he has so many other kids.” Mario chuckled at his little jab at his father; he was right after all, Zeus wasn’t known for his… marital devotion.

Kaykrea had to quickly stifle laughter at the thought. She couldn’t risk getting caught.

“Not to mention that a lot of them have become either legendary heroes or have impacted history in some major way.” Mario ended his sentence with a light huff of amusement and an awkward lean “Those kinds of expectations can make someone pretty awkward huh?” he asked rhetorically, obviously trying to railroad to find common ground.

Quickly, under his breath the black-eyed man added on, “and dad can’t keep his clothes on so-”. The smug smirk that plastered his face made the other demi-god snerk a little, a light red came to his cheeks and ears in embarrassment as his lips scrunched to a futile attempt to hide his amusement.

“Gross-“ the man in red shot back with a humorous sly grin, gently shoving the other. “-but… same… only with my mom.” He amended, “Anyways, no one likes to think of the goddess of love and beauty being a violent god, despite her history. I just can’t help but wonder about it.” This came in a more soft-spoken cadence, walls starting to fully drop.

“Yeah?” Mario tentatively eased. “I’m sure it must make things awkward?” He raised an eyebrow. Although drama in the Aphrodite family was not surprising, nor unheard of, seeing that outward facade be shelved for honesty and openness took Kaykrea aback slightly. Maybe she shouldn’t have eavesdropped on this conversation. It was beginning to become a little too personal and raw.

Bryan began to lean in, speaking both softer and with sincerity, the haughty persona being fully abandoned before responding. “Mhm.” He started with a small nod. “You see, I’m a huge fan of the legendary wars and heroes of the past. That led to me digging, especially since my mother was one of the main causes for the biggest war in our history…” his eyes seemed to shine excitedly, passion bleeding from his slight movements and the small grin on his face.

“I couldn’t help myself.” Bryan continued, “I just wanted to understand why we had to throw that part of our past away. Just because our family represents the many forms of love doesn’t mean we couldn't enjoy combat or sparring. Heck, I even got a gift recently that-”.

All of a sudden, Bryan trailed off, his eyes becoming listless, losing that excited bright shine. The feeling of discomfort filled the still air, and his muscles tensed.

“What?” Mario cocked his head, “Something else on your mind?” He pushed.

Bryan backed off, glancing to the side in embarrassment. “Sorry, shouldn’t have said anything…” he muttered under his breath, shoulders sinking subconsciously.

The black clothed man quickly waved his hands, trying to brush off the others embarrassment. “No, no! I was just… uh.” He took a pause; he was ruining this again.

“It’s ok. Not many people know about my mother’s past with war. Especially after The Iliad was published.” The shorter man chuckled, starting to backtrack “But I want to know… even if she doesn't really like me digging into it.” Bryan was standing normally now, a lot more bashful and uncomfortable talking about his family.

Mario planted his hand on the other in a comforting gesture, rubbing small circles into his back. In return, Bryan leaned into the touch slightly, the muscles near his shoulders flexing oddly. It was like he wasn't used to touch, or at least it had been a while since he's been comforted. Although, from what Kaykrea had observed, and her prior experience with the Olympian gods. The awkward nature of the white-haired man seemed to suggest the former.

Bryan lifted his head to look at Mario, taking a small calming breath before speaking again. “To be honest, I don’t think I know much anyway. A lot of my own memories are fuzzy…” This earned him an odd look from Mario, and Kaykrea couldn’t help but do the same. It is rather strange that he would have a bad memory. Was this what the smaller was trying to talk about before? Well, whatever the case may be, the black-haired man let it be and merely nodded in acknowledgment.

It seemed the two had spoken their peace. Overall, a little more comfort had been built between the two. Mario stuck out his hand, offering an apology and a truce to their minor conflict, which Bryan accepted with a small smile. Kaykrea huffed a small sigh of relief, glad that a fight hadn’t broken out on the first day, nor that any enemies were made. She made a quick escape back into the mess hall, moments before the other two made their reentry. It was felt in the room, everyone could tell that whatever issue was happening between the two, it had been sorted out. They went off to join the others again, starting to take far more enjoyment in each other's company than before. At least that was resolved.

About two hours had passed at this point, Kaykrea taking the time to clean up as the festivities came to a close. Many campers had joined together into small groups or cliques and every once in a while, there would be thunderous laughter that would trail back into a comfortable buzz and light chatter. She was frankly quite surprised; no fights, mild and quickly resolved conflicts, and not a single misunderstanding! It was almost as if they were in a normal human camp and not a camp full of physical embodiments of natural concepts. Although she knew that it all had to come to an end soon, it was almost time to meet with The Oracle and she needed to pick up the mess hall before then.

“Okay, everyone!” Kaykrea called, waiting for the campers' conversations to end before she announced, “It is almost time to meet The Oracle, I would like all of you to go to your cabins and drop off your things, decide who wants what bed and such. We will meet back at the bond fire, I will move on with the night whether you make it or not, so be there if you wish to listen to The Oracles’ predictions.” With that, she went to clean the tables of the leftover dishes and scraps of food.

The campers had left for their cabins to drop off their things and to get sorted before heading to the large bonfire. When it seemed that all had arrived, Kaykrea used her flaming blade to ignite the kindling, and soon enough, a fire was brought to life. The flame was large and danced with the slight breeze of the night. Cracks and pops from the wood soon followed, allowing the meeting to officially begin. Xylo, with hardly any regard for the current evening event, suddenly pulled out a large bag of marshmallows, announcing a query of whether anyone wanted some. Most around the fire whooped at the human treat, receiving their share from the armored man.

Mitch had grabbed two and offered one to Jakey, who had taken it upon himself to grab his own from the son of Apollo rather than accepting one from his brother, Mitch practically looked scandalized. Mario had done the same with Relena, who happily accepted the offer, and Bryan, who simply denied the sugar pillow after giving it a questioning glance of uncertainty. Brandeen seemed all too eager to receive the food from the violet-eyed man. The two had been talking a lot earlier and appeared to have hit it off in some fashion, although Xylo did give him a standoffish look. Kaykrea was far from amused, seeing how all began to disregard what this meeting was about. She simply rolled her eyes and slithered away when Xylo attempted to offer her the bag's contents. In return, he merely shrugged and received a plush confectionary for himself.

The fire in the center of the gathering began fully burning in a bright blend of reds, oranges and yellows. Accenting the woman's appearance and making her look just as bright as the flames. With a faux clearing of her throat, she called to attention all of the present campers for the night's announcements.

“I’m sure some of you all are anticipating the reason as to why we are out so late.” She began, more so wanting to give a reminder to the campers. She continued “First, I do have a few announcements. Starting off, in a few days we will be having the Trial of Ares, which will be a sort of… death match.” This statement brought a few panicked faces and alarmed exclamations to the campers “However, with less… death involved. Close to death, I should say.” Her amendment melted some tension, but the atmosphere still weighed heavy in the group. “It will allow us to see who is at the top, and where others' experiences lie before we get into the real training.” Uncertainty followed the final word of the first announcement, nervous glances were shared between the others.

“Will we get anything?” Was a quick question from Xylo.

“Excuse me?” Came the indigent reply from the camp counselor.

“If one of us wins the trial. Do we get anything?” He clarified.

“That will be discussed at a later time” Was the firm response from the brunette woman.

“Now then. Secondly, as you all know, there is a special guest for you all tonight. They would like to pay a visit to all of you.” Suddenly the meeting area was filled with gasps of awe and excited mermers at Kaykrea’s reveal, some nodding that they did, in fact, remember the prior mention. “There is a message that they would like to give you all, a prophecy.” Her voice suddenly hardened as she followed up with a demand. “I do ask that as a way to show respect to The Oracle, you must stay completely silent, and to not have… snacks, while they are here…” This prompted Xylo to quickly hide the bag of marshmallows and for everyone else to swiftly finish their part of the treat. “Are we clear?” The serpent finished, allowing for any present questions.

Xylo ended up asking another query, the primary one on everyone’s minds. “What if we have questions about what they say?” Soon pipings of agreements followed and Kaykrea was quick to respond.

“There will be no questions for The Oracle at this time.” she asserted. “Although, perhaps in the future, but not today. Am I clear?” She took a pause so the campers could give their affirmation, albeit tentatively. “Alright. Introducing… The Oracle.” The winged woman slithered back as the flames of the bonfire began to grow unnaturally, responding to the approaching powerful presence. The once gentle breeze started to pick up and blow back locks of hair. Even the moon appeared to shine brighter as a soft flapping of wings could be heard just over the cracking and popping of the fire. A small shadow formed in the glowing space above the flames, and as it came closer to the light, The Oracle was revealed.

They were small, looking no bigger than the length of an arm vertically and horizontally if the wings and tail were fully stretched out. Right, they had a tail, covered in small iridescent scales that transitioned from black to a deep blue to a bright green, speckled throughout were small white spots, it’s unclear if those were the scales shining or just part of the pattern. Underneath was a black belly with long smooth scales that came up to the main ‘head’. The bat-like wings shared similar traits to the tail, with the black, blue, green with white speckles, pattern. Their head could hardly be considered a ‘head’, since it was just a single large eyeball. The unnerving sight was only enhanced by the odd shaped iris and pupil, which had the shapes of diamonds. The iris itself shared the previous color pattern of the tail and wings. The eyelashes themselves didn’t help either, being large and thick. The top half was long and had two protruding chunks on either side that enhanced the bat-like look. The bottom came to multiple sharp points. Large openings where the eyelids met showed the connective corners. It all was so disproportionate and unnatural, yet here they were, right in front of the small crowd.

A voice, as soft and smooth as the nearby ocean waves, whispered through the open air. Despite not having a mouth, The Oracle spoke as though projecting their message straight into the minds of the camp's inhabitants. “Ah, and so arrive the children of the gods…” Like a knife through butter, the voice cut through the silence, demanding the attention of all those present. The single eye glanced with a piercing gaze over the group, barely stopping on anyone specific. But still, The Oracle already was seeing the future of the campers. “How interesting… hmh… very interesting.” The eye began to glow in rings, looking like the flaring of the sun when looked at through a window or from a recording. The fire began to build, and the smoke rose in large plumes as the small bat-serpent form took to hovering over the pit. Finally, they spoke of what they were seeing. “Darkness looms over the future for one of you, and with it will come terror and destruction. Greatness follows another, a coming day where you will become a great hero. But, not without great loss of those who you love and believe to be close friends. And one of you will assist to break open the earth, and free The Titans from Tartarus. The Future is filled with bloodshed.”

With the final declaration from The Oracle, the fire suddenly is extinguished, leaving all to be shrouded in the darkness of night. The Prophecy held very few good omens it seemed. An unnerving silence filled the air as the small eyeball-bat disappeared into the star-filled sky, swiftly blending in and vanishing from the scene. Soon hushed whispers filled the area as uncertainty and fright began to grow. Kaykrea was quick to initiate the ending statements for the night and sent the campers back to their designated cabins to rest. Although, it would best be assumed that not many got much rest, whether if it was discussing the words of the Oracle, concerns on the upcoming trial, finishing unpacking, or ponderings on how the summer may be more interesting than at first predicted.

Kaykrea stood at the shoreline straddling the camp, nearby was The Oracle’s abode, where the small creature was resting. She didn’t want the others to see, but the prophecy frightened her. She knew that the lives of gods and demi-gods could get dangerous, but… bloodshed… terror… The Titans. What would this mean? Was everyone here doomed right as they crossed the threshold? Perhaps even before they arrived? Not only that, but nothing said that The Oracle was safe either. It appears that maybe She has bitten more than she could chew. But she would do anything for the camp, anything for The Oracle.

Next chapter

Previous chapter

First chapter

Please watch the original Origins of Olympus series, while this story does make major changes; the series made by the Origins MCRP crew is important to understanding the Reimagining, and it's good to support the original material if you can. It's free on YouTube with multiple perspectives. If you see any way that I can improve my writing, or any grammar/spelling mistakes please let me know!

#origins of olympus #origins of olympus reimagined #origins mcrp #fanfic #fanfiction #ooo #ooo ri #illustration #art #digital art #The Greek gods are not all related in this #I feel that’s important to say

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baebeylik · 4 months ago

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Gold disk fibula. Avar. 7th Century CE.

The Hungarian National Museum.

#art #culture #history #avars #avar #ancient culture #ancient history #medieval history #medieval #hungary #the Hungarian national museum #gold

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wyrmst · 22 days ago

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Out in the Cold (Part Eight)

M Orc x M Troll (Hulder) Reader

PREVIOUS || STORY TAG || NEXT

Wordcount: 6233

Content Warnings: Discussion of Abuse, Discussion of Depression/Mental Health, Drinking (Mild)

I’m really excited about what these next few parts are building up to. Hopefully it will all be worth it for our leads in the end? Who knows!

Now that the fire has dwindled out, you drearily start redressing.

You let out a feeble sigh. You’d usually be waking up to get your job assignment right now; Torg always would get up before you to put together a breakfast, since he's an early riser anyway, and you’ve never been good at mornings. If you focus, you can almost trick your brain into conjuring the scent of cured meat and runny eggs cooking.

On the bright side, all of your articles of clothing have completely dried while you slept.

As you groggily pull on your second boot, you hear a twig snapping in the distance.

Your head snaps up, eyes drawn to the tree line for signs of movement.

Now that the snow has slowed to a lazy dusting, you can fairly easily make out a familiar green form. Urguk is in a half-crouch stance in the distance, frozen in place where he was creeping forward through the trees. You can’t tell from this distance, but knowing him, he’s internally panicking over the unintentional noise he just made.

His eyes go wide when he realizes that you’re making eye contact with him. You’re frozen in place yourself, staring back, unblinking.

Finally, after a few shared excruciating moments of stunned silence, staring at each other in shock; he snaps out of it, breaking the spell. He takes off in a sprint back into the snow-covered woods in the opposite direction, clearly more concerned with speed now, rather than discretion.

Oh no.

If he's out here scouting ahead it means that the rest of the hunting party isn’t very far behind - you have to go, now.

You clamber to get your pack back together, triple checking that you’ve put the fibula in there securely. Then you scurry off into the woods, running as fast as you can sustain.

You’re almost to the meeting point. You just have to make it there before the orcs catch up.

Then, this can all be over. You can finally go back to your old life…

LAST AUTUMN

You knew this was going to happen eventually.

He must finally be tired of you…

Torg hasn’t spoken more than two sentences to you in one sitting for the last week. When he does, it is clipped and terse. He’s not spoiling you with physical affection the way he usually does, either.

He’s spent longer than usual at work, brushing you off when you ask about it. When he is home in the evenings, he’s pouring over a thick tome at the table and making notes in Orcish script in a small notebook- usually when he reads at night, he does it lying in bed before sleep, with you curled up against him.

He hasn't been snapping at you or anything of the sort, but you can feel the undercurrent of agitation, even from across the room. You can tell chronic grumpiness when you see it.

There wasn’t anything you did to warrant this behavior, you don’t think- or at least you can’t remember doing anything, besides your typical mistakes. But come to think of it, maybe he’s just finally had it with you constantly making mistakes. Maybe it’s not so cute anymore…

He sits, freshly dressed after showering, pulling his boots on with a thousand yard stare… glare may be more accurate.

He's dressed far more finely than usual today, in his best cold weather tunic - the one with the gold thread embellishments on the sleeves and hem. He's also put in the set of carved bone earrings you've only seen him wear to festivals, and his hair is partially braided up.

You roll out of bed and let out an exasperated sigh.

He doesn't respond.

The tension is killing you.

“Torg.” You square yourself in front of him, firmly placing your hands on his shoulders. The muscles are so tense there, they feel like solid stone. “Talk to me. Please.”

He looks up at you as if he’s actually seeing you for the first time in a week. You feel a tiny bit of relief in the small, fond smile that forms around his tusks, but it's short lived.

"Sorry." He grumbles, running his hand through his hair in irritation. "Trade meeting today. It's been stressful planning for it. It always is."

You knead your fingers into his tightly knit trapezii, causing a guttural noise to rumble out from deep in his chest. His brow unfurrows just a bit.

"Oh. Well, I don't have any other plans today. I could come and help y-"

"No. You can't." He says firmly, gently squeezing your fingers after pulling them off his shoulder. He stands and retrieves his cloak from the hook, working to fasten it with the fibula.

“Why?”

"I just- I need this to go through without a hitch."

You can read the subtext loud and clear.

And if you come, you'll fuck something up for sure.

"...Fine." You say, tight lipped and arms crossed. Your ears flatten against your head in displeasure. You sit back down on the bed, watching in silence as Torg finishes securing his cloak and tries to explain his reasoning.

"This location is so remote, all of our trade partners are vital. We rely on them for anything we can’t make ourselves. This group only comes through twice a year and- I can't risk insulting them or causing some kind of… incident… It would cost us a lot. You understand that, right?”

You don’t answer.

When he's finished, he approaches you, then leans in for a goodbye kiss. Feeling petulant about the whole thing, you quickly turn your head, avoiding his affections completely.

"Don't be like that." Torg says in a frustrated tone, more begging you to cooperate than anything.

"I'll be however I like!" You snap forgetting yourself and finally letting the frustration of his recent behavior get to you. "You're sure being however you like lately."

He rises back up and lets out an irritated sigh, pinching his glabella with two thick fingertips.

"...I can't deal with this right now. I'll be back later."

He leaves the house without waiting for your response, shutting the door with barely controlled force, just short of a slam. The frame still rattles in protest from his strength.

You flop face down against the bed and let out a loud, vicious string of curses, into your pillow, the sound muffled by the thick bedding. You carry on until your anger and hurt is spent, then you lay there limply for a while longer still.

Now would've been a perfect time to snatch the fibula and make a run for it, if he hadn’t worn it today.

Especially if you’re about to get thrown away, once again…

Eventually, you get up and listlessly dress for the day. As you're idling in the living area wondering which of your friends to go bother, you catch sight of something that piques your interest on the table.

Normally books in Torg’s house are completely written in Orcish glyphs, not unlike nearly all of the other writings in the rest of the settlement. But the cover of this one has multiple versions of the title across the front.

Universal-Elvish Dictionary (Orcish Script Edition), the Elvish subscript- which you are fluent in- reads.

“Oh.” You mutter, picking up the thick, well used book. The notebook with Torg’s stark handwriting still sits beside it. You tilt your head to read it, finding through skimming his translations that it's a ledger of supplies and their quantities, likely a trade order. “He must’ve forgotten this…”

You immediately feel the urge to be helpful and bring this to him to avoid the stressful complication that forgetting it will surely cause him.

But why do you even care about his big, stupid feelings?

As if he's not going to be upset when he finds out you've been planning to rob him this whole time…

Clearly he only thinks of you as nothing more than a fuckable nuisance anyway...

But you can’t keep those thoughts in your head for long. Even if you’re mad at him at the moment, you don’t want things to be harder for him when they don’t have to be. He’s obviously been struggling lately, even if he’s trying to hide it from you.

You let out a sigh and scoop up both the book and the ledger into your pack, then throw on your own cloak and head out into the windy, early autumn morning.

It's not hard to figure out where Torg went, as a few familiar orcs repairing some wooden fencing were happy to point you in the right direction. Luckily for you, there is a vague path to follow through the woods, so you don't have to worry about getting lost.

After a bit of a walk through a heavily wooded path, you exit the treeline to see an elven caravan setting up camp in the expansive alpine clearing against the swath of rusty oranges and deep golds.

Torg sticks out like a sore thumb amongst the throng of shorter snow elves, all looking waifish and delicate in comparison to his hulking build.

The look on his face- stressed is an understatement. He looks like he's going to be physically ill at any moment, despite his best attempts to keep his composure.

The elven woman conversing with him- or attempting to converse with him, is more accurate- doesn't look much better; her facial expression is polite, but you know masked social discomfort when you see it.

Even more of note, the elven woman standing next to him has what appears to be an occupied baby sling tied across her body.

Torg acting suspicious lately. A woman with a young child. A meeting he very clearly expressed you could not, under any circumstances, come to…

This certainly looks bad for him. And would be much more suspect if you doubted for a moment that he had no interest in women.

Torg's expression morphs to one of subdued horror when he looks up, color draining from his face as his attention is drawn by the crinkling of dry leaves and pine needles under your boots as you approach.

"Hello, can I be of assistance?" You smoothly say to the elf, who seems to be the chieftain based on the pop of colored ribbon woven into her hair and her intricate facial tattoos.

"Oh, you must be new, yes? Thank the stars that he finally found a translator. How fortuitous!" The wariness in the woman's face softens into a mix of relief and glee. "I am Eirlia. I'm the leader of this tribe."

"Yes, I've only been here a few seasons." You bow and give her your name in return. "Pleased to meet you."

You glance at Torg; complete shock. Might as well have dropped his jaw on the floor, if he didn’t have too much pride for that.

Good. Serves you right. You gloat inwardly. To his credit, though, he doesn't try to intervene.

You wordlessly dig into your pack and pull out the dictionary and notebook, and transfer them into his hands.

"So, do you stop here regularly?"

"Yes, but this stop is a bit of a special case. We only speak the old tongue, so we typically trade only with other elves or groups that speak it. But we rest here whenever the route brings us through." Eirlia comfortingly pats the bundle hanging from her as she speaks.

"I hope you don't mind me asking, how did you end up trading with a group of orcs if that's the case?"

"We are safe resting here. Nothing thinks to disturb us with a settlement of orcs nearby, not even large predators, let alone bandits. The least we can do in exchange for that protection is offer trade. The difficulty in communication is ultimately immaterial." She smiles at Torg, who offers a stilted smile in return, despite him clearly not understanding a word she's saying. "Jotnar are safe, per their cultural obligation to be good hosts. Torg is clearly one - his horns just happen to be in his mouth."

You have to restrain your laughter at the sentiment.

"Oh, it's really commendable that you've not let the language barrier stop you, then."

"I think we both know how complicated elvish grammar is." She chuckles. "That's not to say I'm not thoroughly relieved you're here."

"Speaking of, let's get started, shall we? I don't want to take up too much precious daylight with my prying."

You look at Torg, who is now looking over the ledger in his hands.

The actual communication goes quite smoothly, thanks to Torg's detailed planning and Eirlia’s impressive memory of what the settlement usually buys from them.

And you certainly can't discount your own ability in the language either, of course, even if you're a bit rusty.

Once all the preparations are made, Torg and a few of the stronger looking elves load the crates of goods into the cart. You try to help where you can, but heavy lifting isn't your forte, so you mostly end up hanging back and getting more acquainted with Eirlia. You also get acquainted with her young child, who is seemingly old enough to peek their head out to watch the people loudly moving around freight. You speak the child in elvish as well, though they pretty much immediately return to sleep. It’s good to know that you’ve still got your trademark charm.

"Anything else you want to say?" You ask Torg when the cart is full and you’re ready to depart.

"Invite them to dinner while they're staying here, please."

"Torg would like to invite your people to evening mealtime, for as long as you're staying." You convey to her, and find yourself smiling fondly without even thinking about it. "I can personally vouch that the food is much, much better than common knowledge would have you believe."

"That sounds lovely! I'll bring whomever is interested along." She grins at Torg before turning back to you. "It's so nice to be able to speak almost directly! This will make this stop so much easier from here on- you are here permanently?"

"I hope so!" You laugh, purposefully avoiding answering the question directly.

Mercifully, the awkward silence as you ride next to Torg on the way back isn't as oppressive. It at least feels different than the silence you have been experiencing the last week- this definitely seems to be more of Torg silently chiding himself than anything else occupying his mind.

You're nearly back to the settlement when he finally clears his throat to speak.

"Thank you." He grumbles, fists clenching the oxen's reins like he thinks they'll take off at a gallop at any moment. "And I'm sorry."

"Apology accepted." You sigh and rest your head on his bicep. You're tired of being mad, anyway. "I probably didn't have to snap like I did."

"I'd have snapped at me too. …You think I would've learned after the last time you proved me wrong."

"...You haven't been yourself. I'm worried." You say after considering your words in the silence for a few more minutes. "I just wish I could be of more help."

Torg doesn't say anything, but you feel the weight of his gloved hand come to rest on your opposite shoulder.

You've nearly nodded off leaning into the comforting warmth of his body when the cart comes to a rickety stop. After helping you safely descend despite you reassuring him he doesn't need to, he finally speaks again.

"There is something you can do that would be a huge help while I make sure these goods get to where they need to go." He says as he pulls a small, tightly wrapped bundle from underneath his cloak. "Take this to the Shaman for me, please. They'll know what it’s for. Bring what they mix up back to me as soon as it's finished."

"Oh. Alright?" You say with a tilt of your head, but take the package regardless.

"Good. Just don't get lost." He teases with an amused smile much more befitting his usual one.

You make a playfully overblown indignant huff, then head on your way.

Contrary to popular belief, you've been here long enough that you know your way to most places you need to go by heart now. So, you easily navigate to Shaman’s home- it is attached to the infirmary, after all, so this was one of the first places you memorized the location of, out of necessity from your various early mishaps, as embarrassing as it is.

"Hello," You call out in your most charismatic voice as you enter the deserted-looking hut. "Anybody home?"

Shaman’s home, despite being spacious, seems to be packed to the brim with various types of magical ingredients and tools- colorful glass jars that catch the light from the windows, assorted raw minerals and living plants on every shelf, a corner with faded stretched vellum, spools of thread and a loom, a potion mixing station sporting curly glass tubes and peaks, and as many cut herbs drying on a rack above you that it can reasonably hold. A steadily bubbling cauldron sits on the hearth. A mossy, herbaceous, earthy scent hangs over everything like a veil.

But of most note to you is the numerous spirit motes hanging about in the air and all over the surfaces of the workspace.

"Ah! What is it you need?” Shaman pops their head out of the back room, and seeing you there, moves with a surprising quickness for their middle age.

“Torg wanted me to bring you this.” You produce the wrapped sachet, a pungent herbal, yet clean scent emanating from it as you hand it over. "I assume you know what they're for? He said you did, at least."

“Mhmm. Good, very good!” They nod, seeming to recognize the leaves on sight. “This won’t take long at all- it’ll be a waste of time to go and come back. Why don’t you sit, and we’ll have a chat while you wait? I imagine he’ll want this right away.”

“Ah, sure. That sounds nice.” You take a seat at the stool by the counter, watching as Shaman pulls out a mortar and pestle. They do take the time to offer you a steaming mug of tea before getting to work, which you happily accept. “He did say to bring it back as soon as it’s done.”

"Yes. Can't imagine going without is making things easier for him."

Shaman gathers a few other ingredients to their workspace from their stores- a small flask of a clear oil, a handful of shriveled mushroom caps, and several dried herbs, none of which you recognize, save for the dried chamomile flowers.

“So, he has some sort of…" You are still not quite sure how to phrase your question. "Ailment?”

“Mmmhm. I’m sure you’ve noticed that he has not been himself lately. It’s because we had run out of our store of weeping sage, which are the main component of his medicine. We had to wait for Eirlia’s group to arrive to restock. It was cutting it close already, and they were later than usual, given the rains we’ve been having.” Shaman shows you one a few of the dried silver-blue flower clusters in their palm before tossing them into the pestle with some of the others. “If only I had a live plant, this wouldn't be an issue… But he’ll be as good as new, once he gets this back in his system.”

"I'm relieved, if a bit surprised. He must be good at hiding whatever this illness is- he seems as hale and hearty as ever."

"Yes, well…These sorts of ailments are easy to hide, not being on the surface."

“I see. So it’s not a physical condition, then.” You find yourself watching a loose mote, your fingers instinctually stalking it across the countertop like prey.

"No. Every scar is a ghost of the injury that caused it, even ones that are not directly on the body. And the old wound that pierced Torg’s heart has caused a lasting shadow on his mind.” They say, nodding their head subtly in time with their hands grinding the leaves under the pestle. “The medicine helps. But medicine can’t fix everything itself. Sometimes, healing comes in other forms.”

There’s some truth to that, you think. You too know that emotional wounds scar just as much as physical ones.

The ground powder in the mortar has turned a deep, beautiful indigo, much darker than the color of the flowers and leaves themselves.

“It’s good that he has somebody now.” Shaman continues, and grins at you with their ornamented tusks, crow’s feet folding at the corners of their eyes. “Not that he doesn’t have the whole tribe. But that’s different. It’s been good for him to have someone that’s his, I think. That is healing, too.”

“You think so?” You’re flattered, but you can’t help but feel a little guilty, knowing your plans.

“I know so. Last week or so notwithstanding, I have never seen the man so vibrant and full of life since I've known him, hah!” That’s saying a lot, since Shaman is perhaps the closest friend that Torg has, at least one of equal standing, seeing as they spend so much time working in proximity. “Coming from an Old Ways tribe myself- it can wreak havoc on the mind, even long after you’ve left that way of life behind.”

That also hits close to home, closer than you’d like to keep thinking about.

“Oh, uh. Should you be telling me about his… past trauma- and medical information? Isn’t that… I don’t know… Private, perhaps…?”

Shaman cackles, nearly spilling the mound of powdered dried leaves as they dump it into a waiting concoction already bubbling away. A plume of blue-green steam billows from the top momentarily, matching the glow of their irises and fingertips.

“You joined his household didn't you? What’s left to keep private between the two of you?”

They have a point- and it makes you feel like a villain.

You quickly hatch an idea to assuage some of your guilt.

"Say, I actually just came from the trade meeting with the elves- maybe before they move on, I could ask them to bring a live plant next time? Would you be able to keep it alive here?"

"Hahah, oh I'm sure that he was over the moon with that. I know I would be!" They dump a few more ingredients onto the mixture, one by one. "I would be more than able to care for the plant, certainly. That would be a very kind act, and make things much easier."

The conversation thankfully shifts to less pointed topics while they finish mixing the potion, but you can’t help but continue to mentally overanalyze the last week’s events.

Torg’s been having such a tough time already and… perhaps you have been a bit tough on him, yourself. Too tough- tougher than you needed to be…

By the time Shaman has finished the mix and packaged it for easy travel, the guilt is starting to eat at you and you’re more than ready to actually return Torg’s apology.

It’s getting close to dinnertime, so you hurriedly make your way back to the middle of the settlement where you suspect Torg will be.

When he turns to greet you, you press yourself against him in a tight hug, your arms wrapping around his solid trunk of a torso.

“I’m sorry.” You say with a sigh into the front of his tunic. Delighted goosebumps rise on your forearms at the heavy feel of his palm lovingly rubbing your back. “I haven’t been very considerate lately, have I?”

When you release him, you produce the packaged vials from your pouch and place it directly into his hands. He nods, immediately removes one of the vials of dark blue liquid, and downs it in one go.

“It’s okay.” He smiles- this one almost reaches his eyes. “Neither have I."

And then, he just… drops the subject. There's no drawn out guilting or demands for repentance. Just quiet acceptance that you've both kind of been jerks lately, but that you don't need to keep being jerks.

You feel lighter once dinner rolls around- more able to do your newfound translator role with better humor and a more relaxed air.

All in all, around a dozen brave elves, in addition to Eirlia and her spouse, take up the dinner offer- which is honestly more than you expected.

They seem to enjoy the food and the company, even if just for the sake of novelty. Eirlia seems thrilled; perhaps even moreso about the strengthening of bonds with their trade partners through cultural exchange than the dinner itself.

The orcs in the tribe start off being the more trepidatious of the group of elves at first, to your surprise; acting with caution to not offend or more likely, not to accidentally break any of your willowy guests.

Eirlia is effortlessly charming and entertaining. Despite the indirect nature of communication, she has great stories, even recited second-hand. It’s not a surprise that she and Torg have developed a good rapport, even with the lack of a shared language.

Even the baby doesn’t fuss, and barely even seems to wake up at all during the meal- comfortable enough in their sling and clearly used to being exposed to the sounds of joyful gatherings.

And if you thought you were bad at handling the consumption of rotgut, the elves that tagged along with her are absolutely abysmal at it. What followed was a humorous display of far too intoxicated elves either falling asleep or trying to flirt with orcs that had no clue what they were saying.

It was a surprisingly boisterous meal, shared with good company.

Hours later, after Torg had sent a couple of hunters to help Eirlia escort the still intoxicated elves safely back to their camp, you and Torg finally returned home.

You immediately strip out of your cloak and boots, fully spent from the events of the day. You can’t imagine Torg isn’t feeling similarly drained.

You still need to write correspondence to your guildmaster that you’ve been putting off. Perhaps Torg will fall asleep soon, and you can take care of that…

Before you can get much farther on that train of thought, you’re distracted by Torg speaking up.

"I got you something." Torg says, entering the house behind you with a bottle in hand.

You know what it is as soon as you see the swooping curves of the script on the label.

"For me? How'd you get this?" You laugh incredulously and take the bottle when he offers it, then feel foolish, remembering the literal elven trading caravan that is a short walk away, out in the woods. "I didn't see it in the ledger."

"While you were distracted. Managed to get the point across with just the dictionary. I don't think it's to anyone else's taste, so you have an entire crate to yourself in the tavern cellar. It should last until they come back, as long as you don't develop too much of a habit..."

You hurry into the kitchen with an excited wiggle and… of course he doesn't have glass stemware, so you grab two of the wooden mugs and return.

Torg has unmade himself and all but collapsed in the big armchair, so you clamber into his lap, making yourself comfortable. Seeing you wanting for hands, he takes the mugs from you with a pinch of his fingers and places them on the nearby table, stealing a kiss as he leans in. Then he watches in unconcealed amusement, head leaning in his hand, as you take your dagger from your belt and begin to crudely open the elegant, fancily designed bottle.

"Look, I may have lived in a noble house for a while but I know how to make do." You giggle, unable to keep the stupid grin from your face, and finally dig the cork out with your blade.

The wine glugs smoothly into one mug after the other, and you hand the first mug of dark sanguineous liquid to Torg before taking the second one for yourself and setting the bottle down on the table.

“Thank you.” You purr, pressing a kiss to his bearded jaw from your angle below his face before you take a long sip of wine.

Thank the Spirits- Actual wine- Something you can drink that doesn’t immediately burn your nose and throat. It’s nowhere near as bad as some of the gutter wine you’ve drank in the past either, but actually a pretty decent variety.

“Mmn.” Torg affirms and takes a deep breath before tasting the liquid in his own cup.

“How’s it taste?”

“Like juice.” He concludes. “Old juice.”

“It is old juice.” You can’t help but laugh.

You watch in silent horror as Torg knocks back the entire thing at once and sets the empty mug back on the table with a dull wooden rattle. You think about stopping him- but it’s too late now, and you know that isn’t anywhere near enough alcohol to actually get a man of his size drunk in the first place. So, you just keep laughing instead.

“And it’s meant to be sipped.” You wheeze, wiping a tear from your eye.

“Ah, well.” He shifts into a deeper groove in the chair, a low rumble of a sigh coming out of his chest to match the content smile on his face. His broad palm makes for a pleasant, comforting weight on the small of your back. “Too bad, then.”

You speak happily about the events of the day, and the accumulated stress begins to melt away. You’ve soon sprawled out over his lap, head laying on his chest and legs hanging over the arm of the chair, as you slowly enjoy your gifted wine.

Then, you remember an errant thought from earlier, and a devious smile spreads across your lips, ready to tease.

“So, when were you going to tell me you had an elven love child?” You try to keep your tone as genuine as possible.

Torg gives you a look of confusion, followed swiftly by a look of dead-eyed reproach. Your smile simply grows in response.

“No.” He grumbles out a laugh. “Not taking that bait.”

“But-” You try to continue your plot to pester your lover, but he is being just as obstinate in his desire to not feed your mischief.

“Nope. Don’t even start. You know I like men.”

“I mean, you don’t have to necessarily like the process to successfully make a child-”

“I don’t want children. And that child isn’t even blue.”

“Don’t want children? But then who will run the tribe when you’re too old and grey?” You say, faux scandalized, and slump into him dramatically. “It will be anarchy.”

“I hope by time the anarchy sets in, I will be long since retired.” He laughs. “Like I said before, I’m elected, so I don’t need an heir.”

“But what about… I dunno-” You swirl the wine remaining in your mug, running out of steam for this particular strain of teasing. “You legacy? Or whatever…”

“We can keep trying to make an heir all you’d like.” Torg leans down and growls into your ear, tightening his grip on you. The tip of your ear flicks in response, and he nips it gently. “But, the only baby I want in our house is you.”

You can’t help but let out a giddy string of flustered giggles, your reign of torment effectively shut down.

When you regain your breath, another thought from earlier has resurfaced.

“That does remind me, Shaman said something interesting earlier, when I picked up your medicine.”

“Yeah?” Torg tenses slightly underneath you at the mention of it. “What’d they say?”

“They said I was good for you.” You say smugly, taking a long sip.

“Ah, they’re not wrong.” Torg laughs and kisses the top of your head, one hand holding the back of your neck. You can feel the points of his tusks gently press against your skin. “I guess they told you all about… why. They do love to talk.”

“They told me a bit, mostly some euphemisms about not all scars being visible. But I think I’d rather hear about your scars from you.”

“Mmm.” Torg furrows his brows. “Not sure where to start.”

“Was it the exile?” You gently touch his chest through the fabric of his tunic, trying to provide some sense of comfort. “Even if your family is awful, it still feels bad to leave it behind. I know that well enough.”

“It got worse after the exile, sure. But I’ve always been this way. For as long as I can remember, at least. My father hated it.” He laughs bitterly. “And to be honest, he hated me. Hated that I was weak. It was a thorn in his side that the supposed future chief of our tribe wasn’t even able to drag himself out of bed some days. A peak example of strong Orcish blood bested by what? Sadness?”

He pauses, eyes somewhere else for a brief moment. He rubs circles on your hip in thought. You stay silent save for a supportive hum, wanting to give him the space to confide in you.

“But being sad doesn’t even begin to describe it. It wasn’t sadness. The sadness didn’t help- But it was emptiness- Is emptiness. And when the emptiness was too much, I was angry. …Part of me still is. Even with the medicine. I have his temper. It was only a matter of time until it all blew up.”

“Let me guess- something bad happened and your father was there to make it worse?”

“Yes. I had lost a friend and I… was not in a good way. Heartbroken. And that made everything so much worse. And the worse my mental state was, the harder he pushed me. I could deal with him being a blowhard before that. Just ignored him. But I felt like I was weak and- so I guess, felt like I deserved it in some way. Weak is the worst thing you can be as an orc- at least in the Old Ways.” You squeeze your fingertips against his skin sharply, as if to refute the statement without speaking, and he continues. “Usually my mother was good about keeping him in check, but… she was on a hunting trip when it all happened.”

“So, she wasn’t there to intervene.” You conclude on your own.

“No. And he was ruthless. Tormenting me, picking at the wound, wouldn’t let up. And that’s when I finally snapped and fought him, like I told you before. Right in the middle of camp.”

“I hate this man.” You hiss, the slight intoxication from the wine has made you much feistier than normal. “If I ever see him, I’m going to bite him.”

That draws a welcome, deep laugh out of your lover, and he squeezes the hand on your waist in affection. But the joy quickly evaporates from his voice.

“What then?”

“I left with everything I had with me at the time, which wasn’t much. The supplies in my pack and what I was wearing. I’m lucky I was wearing my mother’s cloak pin that day- I didn’t get the chance to say goodbye to her, and it’s the only thing I have to remember her by.”

You feel the sting of guilt in your chest. As if you couldn’t feel any more like a villain about this.

But, that doesn’t make any sense... Why would a simple family heirloom be fetching such a high buying price…?

“That’s awful.” Your ears flatten back against your head, and you try to change the subject, being eaten alive from the inside out by guilt. The item you’re planning to steal is so rich in sentiment to him- the last tie to a beloved family member- and you’re still going to take it from him when you abandon him. An added insult to the already festering injury. “I’m glad you don’t take after him, then.”

“In a lot of ways, I am just like him. Like I said, I have his temper. And when I’m angry I want to tear the whole word down around me.”

“Oh, you couldn’t be more wrong.” You say, cupping his jaw in your hand lovingly with your free hand. “I’ve never met the guy, but the way you’ve described him… Ugh. No way. I may not know the bastard, but you’re nothing like him.”

Torg grunts softly, and you can tell just from the tone of the noise he doesn’t quite believe your words.

“I mean it! You are patient and kind and surprisingly gentle.” You say and stretch up to press an emphatic, wine-soaked peck onto his face as you recount each trait. “Empty or not, temper or not- it doesn’t matter. You’re a good man, Torg.”

He softly strokes his fingers through your hair. A genuine smile finds its way to his face, adoration clear in his expression, and his whole countenance seems a bit lighter.

You can’t help but recall what Shaman said earlier about healing coming in different forms.

“...Thank you, kitten. That means a lot, coming from you.”

>> ✨ MASTERLIST

#exophilia #monster lover #monster romance #monster x reader #orc x reader #orc #monster x monster #male reader #mxm #male x male #fantasy romance #queer romance #series: out in the cold #oc: torg #oc: reyr #nine of words

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