Lynesse

Betrayal - Part 2

Carrion bird wings make this really unsettling rattle as they fold in. Something to do with how the feathers slide against each other. At least they’re prettier than vultures in Nagrand. My vision is blurry and blinking doesn’t seem to help at first, but I keep at it. I’m a very stubborn person, or so I’m told. 

Hearing Zal’jir’s rasping laugh is, honestly, more comforting than startling. His large, hunched form is bright blue in the Nagrand sun. Blazing white warpaint mats his fur, the lines shifting as he bats the birds away gently with his bow. It’s nice being in his shadow, I have to admit. “ZJ overheard Imriel talkin’ ta Risse. Imriel tell Risse she could have your share ov da gold if she made to Wor’var wit Bel an’ a story ‘bout Nelfies ambushin’ ya cart.” 

I want to laugh. I can’t. A weak exhale is all I can manage. 

“Ya bleedin’.” 

I weak exhale again. 

“Ya okay, tho, Tigah. It just a broken arm an’ holes. Ya rub some dirt on it, it be ok.” His tone is teasing. It helps. 

Sitting up is an excruciatingly painful struggle. ZJ helps, clucking his tongue against his tusk in an a matronly manner. “Paper armor, girlie,” he says in reference to the holes that litter my breastplate. It’s not the thickest I’ve worn. 

“Better’n nothin’,” my tongue feels thick, my orcish is clumsy. Being somewhat vertical makes my head swim in an incredibly unpleasant manner. I want to vomit. My vision starts to crumble at the edges again. 

“We get da cart to Wor’var, you get all de gold. Imriel can’t say no. Ya know dis,” he braces an arm under my legs and scoops me up, lumbering over to set me in the (mercifully) still upright cart against some sacks of oat and grain. I manage (mercifully) not to scream, vomit, or black out. Go me. Personal victories are good right now.

“ZJ,” it comes out as a pained wheeze more than anything, “the Talbuks ran.” 

“No worries. Talbuks go wit’ oddah Talbuks. I find ‘em. Dey got de Golden Thorn brand. Jus’ sit, Girlie. No raiders dis early,” he sounds sure. There’s a gleam in his feral eyes I don’t quite understand. I don’t question him and he lopes off easy enough, bow slung over his back.

I sit for what feels like hours. I’m sure it wasn’t actually that long, but it’s hard to tell time by foreign suns. Zal’jir’s brilliant red mohawk is the first thing I see as he trundles back, the violet talbuk team in tow. He hitches them up faster than I figure he could, unhindered by having only three fingers instead of five. He squints as he looks at me, clucks his tongue again, “Dis gonna hurt a lot. De wagon not made ta be smooth.”

I drop my head back bonelessly against the bag of oats, the heady smell of the kernels and burlap comforting, “Crate. Potions.” I can’t even make full sentences in Orcish anymore. He won’t understand Thalassian.

“Damaged goods give Imriel reason ta not pay. Take his money. Ya tough. I get you to Wor’var, den I was never here, kay? You get back to Imriel, you ask for Bel an’ Risse share. Imriel has problem wit dat I advise he give you Bel an’ Risse share. It fair. Take it, go home. Dey have steadier portals in Ashran. Easier t’ get back,” he says.

I only nod. It’s good advice. He turns on the bench and snaps the reins, the cart lurches forward and my arm and ribs kindly remind me that my bones are in pieces. Fuck personal victories.

I black out again.