Chapter Text
It would happen in the City of Beasts. Asarius has been nerve wracking enough trying to keep up appearances as someone who might actually belong here-- a charade Fjord has mixed feelings on. He was never sure he actually did want to fit in, but he knew he didn’t want to appear weak, and the masks he cast on himself felt more compulsive than truly tactical.
Fjord pulls himself over the lip of the well opening, ignoring Jester’s proffered helping hand as he wheezes his way to the surface and topples over the stone wall, the additional bruise from the tumble hardly noticeable amongst the myriad their fight with the demonkind had already inflicted.
Beau springs out of the well behind him, no doubt taking advantage of some fancy wall climbing to propel herself out, landing on the lip of the well with the balance and smugness of a cat showing off. At least Caduceus and Caleb have the decency to make it look like it took some effort-- both taking Jester and Yasha’s assistance to haul them out of the well.
Caduceus leans against his staff and smiles down at Fjord where he rests with his back against the well, making a show of re-lacing his boot to cover his wheezing.
“That was quite the adventure down there,” Caduceus says, sounding singularly unshaken for someone who’d just recently died, “I’m glad to be back in the sunshine.”
“Same here,” Fjord answers, “Can’t say I’m fond of fighting folks who mess with your mind either. Glad they’re done with.”
Caduceus nods, and then his nose twitches. A flash of confusion, or maybe alarm crosses his face, and Fjord can already feel himself reaching into the netherspace for the falchion at the cleric’s expression.
Caduceus shakes his head, and runs a hand across his face.
“What is it? Are you alright?” Fjord asks, standing warily while his eyes track to the street nearby.
“Yes, I’m fine,” Caduceus says, and he gives Fjord a peculiar, appraising look, “Are you alright?”
Fjord feels a shiver run through him, almost the same as when a yellow eye opens for him in his dreams, but the danger is passed now-- they're safe, or as safe as they can be in the City of Beasts, and Fjord squares his shoulders and in his most Vandren heavy drawl assures Caduceus that he's, "fit as a fiddle."
The truth is he feels a muscle deep ache from the fight, drained and ready to fall into a hot bath if they can find an inn with one.
The first step is even finding a place to stay, and Fjord isn't even sure where to begin in this place-- he has a feeling his usually genteel manners would get him laughed out of the city here.
Scuffed and bloodied, the Nein make their way towards the main street, their overall dishevelment not standing out nearly as much as it might have anywhere else. The trampled down mud road of the central thoroughfare is bustling with creatures, carts, and beasts of burden, and they have to yield at the alley entrance for a break in the crowd, Jester bouncing from foot to foot to get a better look at everything while a blushing Yasha helps Beau adjust her "slave" halter. Fjord's attention scans across the crowd, curious and repelled in equal measure until two of his half-kin come into view.
The first is a huge, powerfully built orc, the hint of age catching up to him with a stiff gait and cavernous wrinkles about his mouth and eyes. His hair is shaved down at the sides and a thick plait of hair, coarse as a horse's tail and white as frost, spills down his back. His tusks are enormous, pulling his mouth into a permanent downturn, and capped with bronze tips, engraved with the sharp lined runes of the Orcish tongue.
The smaller one looks like he's a year or so younger than himself, though Fjord has no idea how a full-blooded orc might age. Despite his youth, his arms are still thicker around than Fjord's thighs and he stands nearly a foot taller than the half-orc. To Fjord's eyes he appears the pinnacle of orc strength and barbarity-- a rolling swagger of a gait that has nothing of the impersonation Fjord feels in his own, skin a swirl of thick black tattoos, a scar across his nose set into a face that is blocky, but handsome in a way that Fjord's fine features can't begin to touch.
Fjord slinks behind Caduceus, uncomfortable even with the possibility of the eyes of the full-blood orcs sliding over him, judging the pitiful shadow of what he is compared to them.
Like an animal that can smell fear, the older orc's eyes twitch to the side alley the Nein are in, skating across the motley group until his gaze finds Fjord. The old orc's stride falters for a moment, and a look of confusion and recognition crosses his face. The orc takes a deep breath, and suddenly his be-tusked mouth breaks into something Fjord guesses is a smile before the moment passes and he walks on.
Fjord's gut twists, a sudden wave of nausea that actually has him catch a hand on Caduceus' arm to keep himself upright. Caduceus looks down at him and frowns, placing a palm on Fjord's forehead, the same shivery feeling running down Fjord's spine as when they left the well rocking through him once again.
"You're running a bit warm there," Caduceus says, his voice low and concerned.
"Are you still hurt Fjord? Why didn't you tell me?" Jester says, immediately locked onto his other side, fingers already clasped around her Traveller symbol.
"I'm alright, Jes," he says, giving her a small smile and patting her hand, leaning hard into the appearance of being well, in the hopes that it sticks, "just ready for some food and a bed after all that."
The inn they find is basic in the extreme-- there's barely potable water to drink, let alone bathe in.
Fjord hides a grimace at their lodgings, not wanting to appear precious about the lack of amenities beyond the hay stuffed bed. Jester has no such compunction against voicing her complaints, and shrills them loud enough for all of them. They end up with the usual split of three rooms, Fjord bunking with Caduceus. As soon as they enter the room, the big firbolg yawns enormously, sets his staff in the corner, and flops onto one of the small beds, practically sitting up in it to keep his feet from hanging off.
"I guess dying took it out if me," he says, and Fjord grins.
"Glad you're still with us, Deuces."
There's a part of Fjord that wants to know more, to know what's beyond death, and there's another part that wants to check in more closely on Caduceus' emotional state, but one seems inappropriate and the other lacks a certain masculinity.
Fjord eyes his own bed with distrust, kicking the lumpy mattress with his boot, certain he sees one of the mounds move. No power on earth or under sea could convince him it was a good idea to lay his bare skin on that, and moreover Fjord doesn't trust the rusting lock on his door against the City of Beasts. Sleeping in his armor isn't a comfortable solution, but neither is it an unfamiliar one.
Caduceus doesn't seem to have similar qualms about whatever might be infesting the beds-- whatever it might be would surely just join the living ecosystem that was Caduceus' whole person.
In less than ten minutes the room is filled with the whirring of winged beetles crawling out of the healer's staff to explore, and the soft but constant snores of Caduceus-- all safe noises that would have normally lulled Fjord into a quick sleep. Instead the buzzing seems to amplify in his head, pulsing with the aches along his limbs and a thudding heartbeat he can't explain.
The...sexual nature...of the fight with the demons had been decidedly uncomfortable, and the residual discomfort seems to stick to him as surely as the mud and muck from the bottom of the well has. He can't shake the feeling of itchiness under his armor, and the usual supple feel of the leather against his skin feels like it's chafing at his neck and wrists. Twisting in the bed and beating down a lump with his fist, Fjord entertains the possibility that the fight might have left some residual influence behind, though no one else has seemed similarly affected.
If anyone else had voiced discomfort Fjord would have been the first to tell them there was nothing to be ashamed of, but if it was just him-- if he was the only one having these chills rocking through his sweat slick skin, then there must be something wrong with him.
Fjord wakes in a puddle of sweat accumulated in his armor, unaware of when he fell asleep and just as exhausted as if he hadn't. His mouth is painfully dry, his tongue and lips sticking to his teeth, his jagged stumps of tusk. He feels as though all the moisture in his body is being sweat out through burning skin, like he's steaming himself within his own clothes.
When Fjord manages to catch his breath long enough to get himself out of the bed, there is a damp and clammy patch of moisture left on the bed, and Fjord's gut nearly revolts at the sight. Caduecues stirs in his sleep and Fjord freezes, panting and swaying on his feet until a particularly loud snore let's him know the firbolg has settled again.
The lurching steps Fjord takes to the door feel like he's back on the sea again during his first voyage, the rolling of the floor beneath him and persistent nausea just the same. He catches the handle and manages to slip himself through the door with some semblance of quiet.
Moving just those ten feet makes Fjord want to sink down to the floor, out of breath and exhausted, but he sets his sights forward.
There's a communal wash basin at the end of the hall that Fjord stumbles toward, the length he must traverse seeming to stretch and waver before him. He catches himself on the lip of the table supporting the basin, his weight sending grimy water over the edges of the chipped ceramic bowl. The water that splashes onto his hands is tepid and gray, and the thought of rinsing his face in it makes his ever more pressing nausea lump in his throat.
There is a pump out back of the inn that services the kitchens and stables equally, and it will at least be fresh pulled from the earth. Fjord braces himself for the flight of stairs between himself and his destination, swaying and pushing off the walls like a drunken sailer in a storm.
The pump shrieks with rust, and the first spurt of water is red with it, but Fjord shoves his head beneath anyway, frigid water spilling down his neck and beneath his armor like icy fingers. The intensity is almost unbearable, but Fjord keeps his head under the stream until the tips of his ears are numb and his bare feet are planted in sopping black clay.
"There you are filly," a low rumbling voice says, and there is a hand suddenly clutched in Fjord's hair, pulling him into a painful and wavering stand.
Fjord's stomach clenches and rolls, his limbs tingling as he takes in the enormous old orc who's holding him up like he weighs nothing.
"What," Fjord manages to croak, belatedly noting that his counterfeit accent has dropped, "what do you want?"
The orc doesn't acknowledge his words, just pulls his head back to look down in his eyes, examining him. Fjord twists in the orc's grip on his skull, batting at the iron firm arm that's holding him with no effect other than a self-inflicted tug at the roots of his hair. He feels like a kitten in the paw of a lion.
"What's wrong with him?" Another voice asks, just as deep but not so gravelly with age, and the younger orc steps out from behind the elder's shadow.
It is the two orcs from earlier in the day, obviously, but being so close to them makes them feel even more immense, and vastly more intimidating. The older orc cocks his head at Fjord's futile struggling and pulls him bodily towards his chest, crushing him against muscle and musky clothing.
"Nothing wrong with him-- just his nature coming out. He's a dam. Look at his eyes-- well into his heat now. Gruumsh knows how he managed to get out here all on his own."
In a single dizzying motion he's being picked up, carried bridal style. Fjord's head lolls against the big orc's chest, the smell of leather and sweat and the swaying motion of being carried making him dizzy.
His tongue feels thick in his mouth, and it feels hard to form words around it, "I've got friends, they'll look for me."
The old orc carrying him doesn't even break his stride, but the younger one gives him a smile, "I'm your friend now."