(THOB) Chapter 116: Ormanu (Patreon)

When night came a few of the adults had a fire burning as they did every night. It was a fire that would burn deep into the night, adding its crackling symphony to the forest’s echoes, a new member of its orchestra surrounded by the adults who would talk and drink and make merry if they saw fit. But though it burned so late and would last the whole night if allowed, the gatherings often came to an end before the darkest of the night. Each adult leaving at spaced intervals. Those new to the responsibilities of being husbands or wives always retired first, having drunk very little, retiring early either in a bid not to annoy their new spouses or a desire for the benefits of new marriages.

The adults too young for married life or simply yet to marry would follow. With no real responsibility to anyone but themselves, they would drink and get drunk, reveling in the tales of those older. Often they would leave in pairs, one unmarried male to a female, no doubt in search of a place to engage in whatever debauchery compelled them. The last were always those long married. Tired from the age of marriage, and in no hurry to return to the monotony of a married house or the troubles of children old enough to cause them but too young to take spouses. These men, for men they were, came to the gatherings to reminisce on their glory days. Telling tales of their youth and the way things used to be they would enamor the younger of the adults with glories of hunts and courtship.

Tonight, unlike other nights, Ezril chose to partake in this nightly tradition. Leaving the tent, he crossed the distance in slow easy steps, making a stroll of the journey.

The moon ruled the night sky, a crescent casting a soft glow on everything below it, but not enough for much to be seen. Still, he saw all. The tree branches dancing over ten feet high. The blades of grass peeking out from beneath the dried fallen leaves. The birds perched on branches, giving the night their final encore. Even the children sneaking around in the absence of their parents’ watch were not lost to him.

Looking around in his stroll the life the night presented to him was unlike the one he had grown with. Where he had seen silhouettes of things that were in the darkness and simply knew that they were, now he saw them for what they were, no details hidden from him save the colors of what he saw, and even that, he saw faintly. Each color paler than what they would have been had the sun been in the sky.

He strolled passed a gang of children, four at the least, playing with the leaves, and wondered how much they could see, and if they even cared about sight. Concluding that it was of no import to him, he went on his way. Plus, it was truly none of his business.

The gathering was far from silent upon his arrival. The ground, streaked with lengths of shadows, spanned beneath Ezril’s feet to disappear into the infinite blackness of the night behind him that existed untainted by the warm glow cast by the flames the villagers surrounded. Each person had at least one cup in hand, sipping—in the case of the women—and gulping—as was the case of the men—the contents of what inhabited these cups.

Never had he considered joining the gathering. But the moment his feet stepped beyond the comfort of his tent in a surprising need to escape Lenaria’s absence he’d found his mind wandering. And with nothing more demanding of him, he had gone.

He approached them now, a subconscious caution to each step taken, wary of what he would find in a gathering of people whose lives were dominated by time lived hidden within trees. However, the first sight undid him.

Lenaria stood at the opposite end of the circle from where he now stood. Her hair draping down one shoulder, she held a bowl in one hand and the smallest finger of the other trapped between her teeth as she licked away whatever had soiled it. But of all he saw, what undid him most was the eyes she fixed on him.

He could see the green of them so clearly he almost wondered if they glowed. He gulped visibly and she grinned. In recent days it seemed she took satisfaction in his mild discomfort.

A hand clasped Ezril on the shoulder, drawing his attention from Lenaria.

“Me thinks,” a voice boomed with a slur, “that you priests are supposing to be celibate.”

Ezril turned his head to the man who owned the voice that slurred each word with such drunkenness. The man was a huge one, easily a head taller. Ezril tilted his head back to get a view of the man’s face. On it the man bore a lopsided grin. A drunken grin.

Ezril knew him. Or at least had seen him on more than one occasion. He was the man who stood at the head of the tribe’s hunters whenever they returned from their hunts. He was always the largest of the men, and carried their largest quarry.

“But what you be doing when the sun was being up is saying different,” the man slurred on, ignorant of Ezril’s discomfort. “And I was thinking I coulds be making a move on that one.”

Ezril’s head moved on reflex to where Lenaria was at the man’s words. She was busy giggling at something one of the ladies was saying. When she looked up, their eyes met. She shot him a quizzical look and he flashed her an uneasy smile before returning his attention to the big man.

Apparently, the man had continued his rambling and Ezril had missed some parts of it.

“…And not that I’m to be complaining,” he was saying, “but does you not be thinking two ladies might be being too greedy yourself… be sharing with the rest of us. Eh, pries’.”

Ezril turned completely to face him, trying to contain his annoyance. As a child Olnic had taught him and the littler children the one thing about drinking as a man.

“A drink is a part of a man’s blood,” Olnic had said. “Every man deserves one every now and again… perhaps more than one. But the value of a true man is in knowing when he has had too much. A drunk man is rarely a good man. And being drunk can get you in more trouble than you’d think.”

Ezril had often wondered the use of the information then. It wasn’t like Olnic was ever going to let them have a sip of anything close to what the men always carried in their cups. He had also wondered why the man thought it was normal to have such a discussion with children barely past their fifth summer. The verity of the wisdom he had been impacting had also come into question, considering the man himself had been drunk as a barrel at the time.

Focusing back on the present Ezril caught the man watching him skeptically. Suddenly, the man stepped back and shook his head. The grin fell from his face. He spat to the side, turned over the cup in his hand, and they both watched the liquid it contained spill to the ground.

“Damned thing,” he muttered before returning his attention to Ezril. And Ezril couldn’t help but notice the drunkenness was nowhere to be found.

When the man spoke again there was no slur in his words, but his mastery of the realm tongue remained unchanged.

“I must be apologizing, Priest,” he said. “I was not to be thinking very much well at the time.”

Apologies offered, Ezril watched him make his way to the gathering where he clasped hands with another fellow. The sound of the impact had as much impact as that of the combined merriment of the gathering. When the man reached for a keg Ezril shook his head.

“Nidas.”

Ezril turned his head to regard his new guest and almost scoffed at the size of the man. This one was almost as large as the former, but he didn’t have to tilt his head as far back as he had with him. Plus, he didn’t think this one was much older than he was. Where are the men my size in this tribe?

“His name,” this one continued, “At least that’s what they call him. You should forgive him for whatever it is he said. He’s usually a nice person, despite his size.”

“Then he should stay away from what’s in his cup,” Ezril replied. “Drunkenness makes a mess of even the best men.”

The man gave a nonchalant shrug in response. “That’s nothing to worry about. He’s always had this uncanny way of shaking it off. It’s a funny thing really. I’ve never seen him get tired, not even while we hunt.” He paused, seeming to disagree with his words. “Well at least I’ve never seen him stay tired for long.” He mused. “Or drunk.”

Ezril wasn’t surprised. He had felt it the moment the man had stepped back, up until he had emptied the contents of his cup. The itch in his back. The flare in his scars. However, he had given it no real care. It hadn’t hurt as much as it usually did and, in truth, he had long since grown accustomed to it. He had no recollection of ever walking a day within the tribe when it didn’t react less than a count of ten times. Ezril looked around briefly, at Nidas, then back at his new companion. It would seem many are Tainted here.

His new companion offered him an easy smile. “They say that while his mother was still pregnant with him she was bitten by a poisonous snake.” He shrugged again and Ezril couldn’t help but wonder how close to being drunk the man was. “She survived without help,” he continued. “By the time she managed to crawl her way to help, she was strong enough to get back on her feet. Sadly, she died from another snake bite two years after he was born… or at least that’s what the stories say.”

The stories? Ezril’s brows creased in frustration. “And you are?” he asked.

“Oh! My apologies.” The man said the words as if having forgotten himself for a moment. “I’m Ormanu. The big one’s cousin. On his mother’s side, that is. The immortal bless her soul.”

“Ormanu,” Ezril repeated. It was a strange name as far as names went. Although it didn’t matter, most of the names he had heard within the tribe were strange.

“I’m—”

“Nurnal Isht Afik,” Ormanu interrupted. “I know enough to know this.”

“Yes,” Ezril said softly, turning to the gathering, “Nurnal Isht Afik.” If this was what they wanted him to be, then that was who he would be.

He walked to the gathering, Ormanu following behind him, with the satisfaction that the tribe’s elder at least knew who he was.

“Ah, the priest,” the man who had shook hands with Nidas greeted him upon his arrival. The man offered him a bowl of what they were all having. “Would you care for some?”

“I don’t know if you priests are allowed to drink,” he continued, shouting above the chatter of the gathering, “but I know your priestess has no problems with it.”

Ezril took the bowl from the man. He took a sip. The liquid was strong. The taste bitter-sweet as it went down with a stinging sensation. It left a hot trail down his throat to his stomach, where it settled easily.

Lips pressed in a thin line, he shook his head in a shiver.

“It is strong, not so?”

Ezril turned to the man not sure what he expected him to say. Deciding no words were needed, he offered his giver a nod. The man laughed and took a drink from his cup. Ezril took it as a sign that his response was acceptable.

He noted how the man drank his drink in gulps rather than sips.

As if sensing his observation, the man spoke. “It helps keep the heat inside for much longer.”

Ezril nodded. I’d say you have too much heat.

Lenaria sat at the other end of the fire, Nuralla at her side, fuming. The gathering was alive. And despite their scattered conversations with no singular collectivity, they seemed to be held as one by the flames that blazed at the center. One of the men leaned into a woman’s ear, whispering and making her giggle. Giggles that soon evolved to laughter, and she swatted him on the arm. Lost in their entertainment they remained completely oblivious of the other lady who stared daggers at them.

Nuralla said something to Lenaria then spat over her shoulder as the priestess shook her head in dismay. For the first time Ezril really looked at the lady. She was taller than Lenaria, easily discernable even as they sat next to each other. Though he couldn’t see her eyes, history within the tribe told him they were a soft shade of brown, unhidden by her hair which was cut short, sitting on her head like a mop. He had never been an admirer of short hair on girls, but on Nuralla he couldn’t deny the hair’s beauty. She laughed at something another girl said, her face lighting up, her already pronounced cheek bones emphasizing themselves all the more.

He took another drink of his bowl and smiled despite the taste. Lenaria, catching his eyes, smiled back teasingly and he turned his gaze away.

When Ezril looked away he realized the couple that had been flirting were now engaged in a heated conversation with the girl who had been glaring at them. Hands flailed in intense display as they mouthed words at each other, and suddenly the emotions began to weigh down on him.

Most of it was joy. But mingled within it he could taste the pleasures of lust and desire. The worry from the man who sat amongst a group of men whose singing constituted most of the sound at the gathering. Their voices harmonizing words in their local dialect. Though the man sang with them, his emotions were a sharp contrast to theirs.

The lady quarrelling with the couple expelled anger, and while the boy simply displayed annoyance, the lady with him was nothing but guilty. The man beside him slapped him on the back distracting him from the couple, and he turned his head to meet him. “You do know that is painful,” he commented, his tone calm.

“It is?” The man looked positively shocked. “I didn’t think it would be. Anyhow,” he continued without an apology, it seemed he deemed one was unnecessary, “you look too much, priest. Normally, we teach men your age to observe more. But it would seem we would have to teach you differently.”

Ezril ignored him, and raised his bowl to his lips. He didn’t get to taste the liquid when the morphed rage hit him. His gaze snapped to the arguing couple in time to catch the lady slap the man. The blow echoed above the noise of the gathering, and everyone fell silent. Even Ormanu who had been talking non-stop turned his attention to the source of the sound.

“…She’s not yours!” the woman hissed then slapped him a second time, the echo as loud as the one that preceded it. The man had leaned away from it, not being fast enough. He cradled his cheek in one hand now. “You are a man whore not fit for her,” the woman spat. “Naksh fi arukva id nal nunt…”

Ezril ignored them now, seeing no need to watch a drama play out with no understanding of the words being spoken. But her rage was palpable. And though he found it tolerable, he quickly realized he didn’t like the feeling that came with it.

He got up, tossed back the remaining contents of his bowl, swallowing it in one gulp. For a moment he was oblivious of the rage. His mind focusing on the liquid as it forced its way in a hot blaze. His eyes watering as it went down. He exhaled when the liquid settled in his stomach and turned his eyes on the man who had offered him the drink in accusation in time to catch watching him. Grinning.

“Told you he couldn’t resist it!” Ormanu shouted from where he was, and Ezril realized he had been unaware of when the noise had resumed in all its vTalod. He ignored the man’s grin, and his eyes sought after the quarrel. They found it easily.

The lady’s rage remained undeterred and the confrontation seemed to be escalating. He could feel it as much as he saw it. However, everyone was ignoring them. No, he reconsidered, they simply don’t care. He felt the rage heighten, its anger washing over him, some spilling into him. The feeling was disturbing. And deciding it was time to leave, he turned and walked away from the gathering.

He’d felt emotions before. Then, it had been understanding, like knowing a person was angered despite the mask on their face. Now, it was like being bathed in it, and he found he didn’t like it very much. From the edge of his vision he caught a glimpse of Nuralla’s darkened expression just as he felt a mild disappointment creep over him. Still, he continued on his way uncaring of the events now behind him.