The sun was setting on the north. The sky was red as blood in the west, the shadows of the rocks long across the corrupted ground. Between any two that could hold a knot, strings were stretched, attached to rattlers made of anything that could be salvaged. Wood, rocks, weapons, bones. Pits surrounded the camp, stakes spearing anything hapless enough to fall in it, and nets and cages were ready to capture anything that might provide meat.
The camp itself was a simple affair; a small lean-to was propped up against a rock, the leathers of various animals splayed beneath the shelter. Crates were stacked against a tree, twisted and gnarled and blackened. The remains of a firepit was centered in the clearing, and beside it a stump for sitting.
Seia sat atop the stump rummaging through another crate, freshly taken from the Hillmen camps. His expression was grim, his features set. Whenever he found a package, he would slide the tip of his knife into it before tasting the tip. It never hurt to be safe.
The Southron was done before long. He simply sat there for a time, spinning his knife between his fingers, staring at the way the sunset reflected red against the blade. His thoughts did not go beyond the blade and its edge, yet tears came unbidden to his eyes all the same. He didn't try to wipe them away, instead looking between Antin and his saddle.
No. Better I stay, he thought. It had been too long since he had seen Priya. She had probably forgotten all about him. It would be better that way. Her face was still fresh in his memory, as if he had seen her not an hour ago. He had loved to run his fingers through her hair. He still did, every morning and every night. Truly, whenever he was not busy keeping himself alive, if it could be called that.
He took the lock of hair from its place tucked beneath his shirt, wrapped in its red silk ribbon. Tilting his head to one side, he traced a pattern with his thumb. A tear dropped onto the ribbon. With a sharp gasp, he wiped it off and then knuckled at his eyes.
“You are never going to see her again,” the orc said. It was chained to a nearby rock, as it had been for the last several weeks. The creature's legs had been savagely beaten, the mangled remains twisted at odd angles half-way between the joints. Every other word the petty thing uttered was punctuated by a shuddering gasp or a pained moan. “And she will die when the Shadow overtakes your lands and tears her apart limb from limb.”
Seia did not know why he had told the orc everything. Because it was there, and Antin could not speak back, he supposed. Even when the creature only threatened him and cursed his name, he enjoyed hearing some other voice than his speaking Westron.
Seia put on a smile, what would have been pleasant and friendly in any other face than his. The smile never reached his dead eyes, and he gripped his knife solidly as he stalked toward the beast. The orc shrank back at that smile.
“Tonight I am going to take your fingers.”
