Chapter 17: [017] [Awake]

Rick woke up with a certainty that he wasn't sure how long he'd been asleep. He was well rested, with a warm, fuzzy looseness to his limbs that made him want to just lay there and sleep some more. Though the tickle of his beard against his chest concerned him. Even in the post-sleep fog, he was sure it was a sign that he'd been out for at least a couple of days.

The roof was unfamiliar.

The pale, round face with solid black eyes devoid of pupils was doubly so.

Rick blinked up at the maiden as she stared down at him.

Startled, he pulled up the blanket to cover himself.

The maiden let out a tiny 'eep' and leapt away. It gave him the chance to get a good look at her. She had to be one of the shortest maidens he’d seen, barely a head over a meter in height. She had two long and curved antennae that doubled her height. They were waving around frantically as she tensed in panic. Rick held still, glancing at the slab of sectioned chitin covering the top of her head and running its way down her back. The carapace made her look like she was wearing an oversized armored hoodie.

The maiden slowly turned her head away from him.

“Wait!”

Rather than stop, the maiden let out an even louder “eep” and curled into a ball, rolling away at incredible speed.

Rick was left wondering whether he'd just imagined the whole interaction.

Sitting up, he winced. His body ached like he was in the final stages of recovering from a bruise. Probably a reminder that he'd almost become Eva's not-so-Happy-Meal when he was last conscious. Seeing how his last memory was of Monica coming to the rescue, and that he could still feel all the bonds, then... had they won? Or had things gone horribly bad?

Seeing he wasn't chained, he had high hopes. Where was he, anyway?

He could recognize the yurt building configuration, but this was far fancier than his former cell by several orders of magnitude. The walls and floor were covered in furs and rugs, boar almost one and all, except for the furs on the bed, which he didn't recognize. Thick leafy curtains hung from the ceiling, dividing the room into sections and leaving everything with heavy shadows. There was a faint smell of smoke mixed with well-cooked meat and something… sweet. The light streaming in through the holes at the top of the yurt told Rick it was somewhere nearing noon, and he wasn’t chained to anything, so that was a good sign.

But then again, he was naked and sleeping on a large fur rug, covered with several furs on top. Another good sign in his books.

Following on the teachings of Dia, he checked himself a second time to make sure he had missed nothing. His body felt bruised, but nothing was broken, bleeding, or bandaged. But there was evidence of the fight, lumpy scars littering his chest, shoulders, and thighs. Most of the larger ones were about half a pencil in thickness, but there were so many. Jagged and erratic, scattered with no rhyme or reason, they turned his torso into a road map of an European city.

On some level, the scars made him think of Monica. The maiden's body had scars all over, none as ugly or twisted, but that made her that much more terrifying to others. Did he want to present himself as a threat? Then there was that memory, right before Monica caught him, that feeling of something filling him out and rushing through his body.

Something... imposing, large, larger than himself and everything else. Something that had looked at the face of annihilation and said 'No'.

That settled it. They would serve as a reminder of that feeling.

Looking around again, he felt like there was another question inside of him now.

Was this tent his, or someone else's? Who was running the show?

With a shake of his head, he put those questions aside and took the moment of calmness to examine the events that had led him being here. There had been an underlying set of problems that he’d refused to acknowledge or tackle, and it had nearly gotten them killed. Some part of him insisted he would've done the same things considering what he'd known, but... no.

Rick’s fingers lingered on the bumps on his chest. Things had to change.

Time to get moving. His body complained at the loss of warmth, and the movement, and everything else.

He discovered a large mug of hazel colored liquid sitting right next to his bed. Giving it a sniff, there was a flowery scent to it, with a hint of… mead? The liquid had the same consistency of warm honey, and a quick tiny sip confirmed it had a similar taste, just less sweet and earthier. His stomach rumbled in complaint, demanding food. So he took a small gulp, then followed with a longer one. The liquid flowed smoothly down his throat, a soft tingling warmth spread from his gut all the way to the tips of his toes. Invigorating.

The pain and aches within him eased, and by the time he’d finished the mug, they were gone. Rick was left energized and sharp, like he'd just taken a fresh cup of coffee. It made it easier to move about the yurt. He found his spare set neatly folded on top of a chair. The only other objects nearby being rudimentary bandages and flasks that contained ointments, oils, and herbs. For all intents and purposes, it seemed the hut was used for healing, and he’d been its exclusive occupant. Seeing his boots tucked under the chair, the socks keeping the hole plugged; he was sure this was Dia's work.

Fully dressed, he stepped out into the world.

The mid-noon sun smacked him like an old arch-enemy. Rick winced and protected his eyes from the glare. Only did he realize his way was barred by a spear a moment later. The owner of said weapon was an Orc with a scar across her face. The injury had the shape of a claw-mark that dragged itself down her face, nearly missing the eye. She looked familiar.

Her gaze trailed from his face, down to his chest, squinting when she looked back up at him.

“Are you going to tackle me again?” Rick asked.

The maiden let out a grunt, raising the pole out of the way. With a side-way nod of her head, she pointed at one of the nearby huts, one bigger than the others by a sizeable margin, longer with a taller roof. The thing was new, Rick noted, definitely hadn't been such a thing in the tribe before.

"Spikes expects you at the talking hut,” the Orc said.

“Who is Spikes?”

The tall green maiden cocked a smirk. “The chief's… pet.” She chuckled, waving him off and turning to leave.

Apparently, now that Rick was out of the hut, her job was done.

Rather than rush to the meeting, he tried to get a feel of the camp. It was obvious things had changed.

The divide between the tribe and "everyone else" was very apparent. The green-skins made up most of the ones that didn't walk around wearing chains or had hemp rope tied to their ankles. Everyone else was shuffling about, doing chores, their faces a poster representation of "begrudging compliance". Humans were nowhere to be seen, and Rick had a sinking suspicion that the guards posted in that part of the tribe would be strict.

There was little doubt that if the tied maidens wanted to escape, they could break free. But Rick had a sinking feeling that the rope wasn't really meant to stop them, only to slow them down long enough for others to react. It was a strange feeling. The Orcs and the rest of the tribe felt like they were ready for a full-blown fight.

Their prisoners didn't. It all felt just so… relaxed from the 'slaves'. As if everyone was doing a stage-play, and they were the ones having to put up with the shittier role.

Business as usual, it seemed. Rick's mind wandered off to the question of who was steering things once more.

"No time like the present to find out, I suppose."

There was nothing about the "meet-hut" that made it stand out from the rest of the buildings in the tribe other than the size, the freshness of the pieces, and the guards surrounding the place. It had an off-handed minimalism about it, as if it’d been made with the sole purpose of being quick and cheap to cobble together. Which made sense considering how it must've been built within days, if not less.

Rick didn’t bother to ask for permission. He walked straight through the reed curtain and into the pavilion.

The guards paid him no mind; either they knew he was supposed to be there or just didn’t consider he was someone worth stopping.

Stepping inside raised many alarms within him.

It was a large undivided space, unlit torches and braziers littered the edges, wooden posts were placed every four meters, stripped of any decoration. At the center of the large hut stood two maidens. The first was the Orc that had lost her arm to Kiara in the meet-and-greet with the Vampire. Her arm was no longer missing, and she now wore a set of green-leaves put together to look like some undersized toga. Opposite to the tall green giant was a maiden practically half the size, dressed from head to toe in glossy black metal armor covered in spikes. It was as if someone had tried blending some variation between a medieval knight and a porcupine. That must be Spikes.

The helmet hid the maiden's face, exposing only her soft jawline, petite mouth, deep snarl with pearly white teeth.

There was something familiar about her.

But it was the third occupant that detected his presence first.

“Rick?”

He could recognize the voice anywhere. Monica.

She'd been at the very back of the room, seated on a throne of leather, fur, and animal bones. Massive boar skulls decorated both sides of the throne, each the size of Rick's torso, with fearsome tusks and painted ochre. The whole thing screamed tribal warlord, and the feline on the throne had looked bored out of her mind until now.

With a perking of ears, a widening of eyes, and a manic grin, she'd straightened up.

He knew that look. “Wai-”

“Rick!”

The glorified chair exploded in a rain of bone fragments and strips of leather. The Sabretooth had neither walked nor run, but leapt forward with everything her powerful legs could offer. She rocketed forward, barely even touching the ground, passing cleanly between the two startled maidens and reaching him within a split second. Rick resisted the urge to jump away, trusting she'd stop herself, and cautious that any sudden movements could make her think he wanted to play.

She stopped barely millimeters away, air rushing all around them from the sudden deceleration. Large fluffy paws hovered over and around him, close but not touching. Her blue eyes were a mixture of joy and concern. Self-restraint fighting against elation in equal measure. Her gaze poring over him, carefully looking him over, sniffing him, poking him so softly he didn't feel her touch. “Rick… ok? Hurt? Good?” There was an uncharacteristic waver to her voice.

He stood still, feeling like he was some museum piece, one she was trying to observe while cautious of potentially breaking him. “Yeah, I’m feeling better. Just… slow hug, ok?”

Monica looked into his eyes and gave a solemn nod. “Careful.” She proclaimed, leaning down and wrapping him into her large fuzzy paws. The maiden pulled him closer against her with an inexorable but gentle embrace, head leaning into his shoulder and licking the base of his neck, inhaling him as if she’d forgotten his scent.

Rick returned the hug, wrapping his arms over her shoulders and nuzzling against her powerful neck and mimicking her gesture against the bed of snowy hair. She had that smell of dirt and wild berries that washed through him like a spring breeze. It brought a wave of emotion, he hadn’t realized how much he’d missed her until just now.

The week spent locked up with a half-deranged Eva rushed through him like a gut-punch. Monica held him, keeping her hug tight but fair, not letting go until he’d loosened first.

“Are you done with your male?” The Orc grunted, clearly annoyed.

“No.” The Sabertooth replied, wrapping Rick slightly tighter. “Urtha no have Rick, mine.”

The Orc growled, crossing her arms. “The discussion is not over. You have not decided.”

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"We need to decide what to do with the ferals." The maiden in the dark armor spoke in a forced, gruff tone.

It was also impossible to mistake it for anyone else. Rick blinked. “Dia?”

The clanking of metal that was the spike-covered maiden twitched, hesitating. “My tribe name is Spikes.”

He glanced at Urtha and the smirk on her face, then at Dia's tense stance, and then at the feline still hugging him. “Monica?”

“Dumb talk.” She replied, making a gesture at the door. “Come?”

"It is not dumb, we have to-."

"The chief clearly does not want to get involved with the human settlement," Urtha declared, nodding smugly. "She is wise. They will hunt us down the moment the opportunity presented itself."

Monica snorted, rolling her eyes. "Come?" She caressed his hair.

"One sec." Kissing her cheek, he pried himself from her arms just enough to glance at the other two without a fuzzy obstruction. “Could someone explain what’s going on?” Though he had several questions to 'Spikes' about the name thing, this didn't seem like the proper time. Probably best to wait until they were in private.

“The…” Dia hesitated, glancing at Urtha. “Under the command of the Ghoul, the tribe had aggressively recruited outsiders through attacks on smaller villages, as well as assault anyone travelling to or from the city. It was from these search parties that... chief Monica recruited the force she used to drive the blood-suckers away." She spoke crisply. The healer grew calmer the more she talked. "The city's situation is dire, especially because the tribe also forced many citizens to go feral, the-”

“We did no such thing.” The taller maiden replied with a steady growl. “The Ghoul and her ilk attacked on their own. As far as we're concerned, Sinco's baron left many to their fate.”

“Baron bad.” Monica nodded emphatically.

Rick hid the grimace, remembering how the first noble they’d had the misfortune to encounter, a baron, had tried to take Monica away from him. He probably should’ve clarified that the guy’s name hadn’t actually been “baron”. But that was for some other time. Right now the concerning thing was that, apparently, the metaphorical wheel driving the tribe was in Monica's hands, and there was a rather aggressive copilot with an added backseat driver.

Rick had an urge to look for the safety belt.

“And-”

“This is not something a male like you should involve himself in.” Urtha’s tone was dismissive and harsh, like gravel running down a mountain. She gestured at the door. “You hold no voice here.”

He suppressed the first thing that came to his mind, taking the moment to glance at Monica and then at Dia. The feline was not happy, but remained quiet. Dia said nothing as well. Their collective silence rung alarm bells in his mind. “What would happen if the chief were to leave the tribe?” He looked around the room for a long, quiet second.

"If she leaves, there would be no guarantee the next chief won't hunt her down with the full tribe's might." Urtha snorted.

So it was that kind of situation. There was a wide smirk on the Orc's lips as she said that last part, and it was pretty damn clear she was trying to goad him into some kind of reaction. Once more, his eyes roamed from Monica to Dia. The feline looked entirely unflappable, while Dia squirmed, looking away.

Monica might be in the driver's seat, but Urtha had the foot on the gas. Rick's jaw set into stone, and he wondered what might happen if the Orc were to die. Certainly not something convenient. If she was here and pushing away the way she did, then she clearly had the support of the tribe. At least to a large enough degree.

He also felt like the Orc was intentionally cornering him into rushing a decision of some sort. One that would put his people in danger.

His.

He blinked a moment, feeling his hand on his chest. Clearly, there were some things he needed to think through. This wasn't the time to rush, he lacked information. Rick glanced at Monica, then Dia, then at the green maiden that wasn’t even half as intimidating as Monica despite being marginally taller.

“I think I’ll take a walk. You big girls can keep butting heads all you want.”

Ignoring Dia’s hesitation, he stepped outside.

Monica followed right behind him, not missing a beat and tucking him closer against her once she had the room to maneuver. Considering the height difference, it ended up with her bellybutton at the same level as his shoulders, and his head brushing against the underside of her chest. “Hat tit.” The feline declared, shifting slightly and pressing the bottom of her cloth-covered mounds against the top of his head more firmly.

Rick did his best to ignore the slight coloration his cheeks took, shaking loose from her grip and giving her a rueful smile. “I should’ve never let Kiara teach you that.” Monica stuck her tongue out at him in response. “Speaking of, we need to talk to the others for a bit.” He patted her hip. “And then-WHOA.”

Monica picked him up by the hips and hefted him up like he was a beer-keg. Any attempt to jump off was immediately impeded by her iron grip, thus locking Rick into being seated on her shoulder. The feline's ears flicked against his ribs, and she quickly adjusted him to make escape harder still. He glared, and she smirked, turning to the increasing number of maidens that were looking their way.

“Rick here!” She rubbed her cheek against his outer thigh. Then she raised her voice to a mild roar. “Rick! Strong!”

His face burned.

The crowd was split. On one hand, the green-skins hollered and jeered. On the other, the "captives" would either roll their eyes or quietly glare. Monica ignored his attempts to convince her to let put him down. The Sabertooth paraded the tribe, finding new maidens to impress with "the strong Rick". She'd point, she'd coo, and she'd show him off at every turn, preening whenever someone nodded in acknowledgement or praised the chief on "her catch".

He mostly resigned himself to the experience of being a literal trophy, giving little waves here and there, and trying not to let the whole thing get to him. Though it was hard not to have some of her enthusiasm rub off on him. But it wasn't until he saw an Orc walking around carrying a wooden chair strapped to her back like a backpack, with a man sitting on it, that he connected the dots.

"So that's where you got the idea?"

Monica swelled, swaggering her way forward. "Urtha say very strong help strong, strong help weak, weak help very weak. Monica very strong, help Rick."

He poked her ear, making it flick. "I can walk on my own."

"Monica help."

Leaning over her head, he poked her some more. "Mhm... and is that all you are doing?"

The feline hesitated, fidgeting. "Urtha say Rick weak."

Rick took a second to ponder that. Not the statement itself, but that it had bothered Monica. Had the Orc impressed or befriended the Sabertooth? His thoughts turned to the kingdom, and how maidens were considered property. The culture that had built around that notion had not been kind to the feline. It had been one reason he'd opted to hit the road. What sense was there sticking around if it didn't feel like home? It was clear the tribe didn't agree to the kingdom's ways, maybe...

“Do you like it here?” The question was simple, his tone serious.

Monica stopped, glancing at Rick for a second and then looking around. “Monica not know.” She declared after a few seconds. “Better than city.”

Rick’s hand idly scratched her behind her ears. “And why would that be?”

Rather than answer, the feline walked up to an Orc, tapping her shoulder. The maiden turned around, looked at Monica, and smiled. “Lucky catch?”

“Yes.” She nodded vigorously, pointing at her passenger with her free hand. “Rick strong.”

The green-skinned maiden gave Rick one long look and chuckled. “He must be if he’s caught the chief's eye!” With a wave, the maiden turned and continued off.

“That why.”

Rick nodded, scratching his cheek in consideration. "Do you like being in a group?"

"Weird, a bit. But not all bad. Some nice."

He absently kept scratching her ear. Back in the city, most everyone she met would be scared shitless of her, and either actively or passively trying to get rid of them. It left a bittersweet feeling. "And what are the things you don't like?"

"Urtha say Monica decide all complicated, Monica not like." She huffed loudly, then stuck her tongue out. "And food bad."

He laughed. "That it is.” His gaze lingered on the maidens as they walked, his mind running through the options. Monica was allegedly in charge, wasn’t she? Would it even make sense to settle in? He’d have to get around Urtha to get anything done. It wouldn’t be like Monica or Dia wouldn’t want to help… but then again, something had happened while he’d been out. Something had shifted in the dynamics.

One thing he was sure of, it was that Urtha had too much control. Getting rid of her was an option, but... was it even viable? There was little sense in looking at the tribe as a prospective ally if their allegiance entirely depended on the massive Orc's collaboration. Besides, how much had his experience as a slave been the tribe's own ways and how much the Ghoul's doing? There were too many unanswered questions.

His thoughts ground to a halt when he saw a familiar dark-skinned man walking next to a red-headed Hobgoblin that was carrying one of the larger cooking pots. “Yasir!” Rick called out, waving from Monica’s shoulder.

“Who?” the feline asked, tilting her head to glance up at him.

“Friend, good friend.” He proclaimed.

Monica nodded, gently putting him back down on firm ground and walking up to the Hobgoblin. “Friend.” She pointed at Yasir with her claw.

The Hobgoblin stared up at Monica. There was a split second of tension, of a sharp look and a flicker of defiance. And as quickly as it came, it was gone. The red-head sighed, shaking her head. "I understand, chief." Bowing her head slightly, she reached out to the rope that was loosely wrapped around Yasir's waist. With a flick of her fingers, the rope burnt where she touched it, cutting it cleanly and only leaving a wisp of smoke behind.

The man had not moved an inch, head low, with his hands clasped in supplication.

“Are you alright?”

Yasir only moved when he'd been spoken to, cautiously rising from his bow. “I-” He glanced at Rick, then at Monica, and then at Rick again. “Are you close with the chief?”

“I told you I had a big cat.” Rick chuckled. “I think I need-”

“Richard.” The man reached out, grasping his hand and staring at Monica with hesitation before bowing deeply again. “I beg for your help.” His grip tightened. “The feral pens.” His eyes were wild, gripping him like a man holding on for dear life. “They have my wife in the feral pens.”

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