Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Don’t forget: No Scratching!”

Brent did his best. The warm evening air made his arm sweat below the bandages, sending the scabbed edges of the wound into a fever of itching. He tossed and turned late into the night, then woke up scratching. He had managed to make it bleed -- and overslept. Brent groaned, and grabbed for a long sleeved shirt to hide the evidence. Sunlight was streaming in.

Her bed was pristine, evidence Lyra had not returned that night after her Hot Date. He found her hunched over a cup of coffee in the dining hall, face showing both wretched pain, and cat-got-the-cream level smugness by turns. Brent slid onto the bench opposite, waving to the bar-maid. The establishment Orrig’s client had put them up in was unusually smart, even by city standards. They actually had table service.

“Where’s…?”

“Orrigs at the front desk, talkin’ to the owner.” Lyra’s tone was flat as she eyed her cup. “Ugh. I ask for a pick-me-up that hits like an Orc, and they give me this!? Shoulda just gone back to the dive bar.”

Brent waited. No more information was immediately forthcoming. The barmaid arrived, buzzing with more energy than the pair of them combined. He placed his order.

“And where’s…”

“Thistle? You missed her. Picked up some food and scurried back to her room.”

“Oh.” His heart sank. Lyra gave him a sideways look.

“Funny though. She asked after you too.”

“....she did!?”

“Yeah. Wanted to know if you were awake, you need your bandages changed again.”

“Right.” He tried not to let the sting show. Lyra’s eyes were glinting at him dangerously, and he sought to change the subject. He was already regretting sitting near her. “So….good night?”

“Awwww, yiss. This hard-ass mercenary babe likes a taste of the finer things in life. And, my lady is the most fine you ever did see.”

Brent had not needed to know that. Lyra paused, then grinned. “But enough about me. How goes the courtship of Sir Brent?”

“...”

“Aw come on. All those cosy one-on-ones. Soft healing touches. You mean to say the flower of passion remains in bud!?” Lyra cackled. He contemplated throwing his bench at her. “Have you seen under her hood yet?”

“No.”

“You’re not even trying! Fortune favours the bold. Or some sh*t.”

Perhaps the entire table.

“Kitchen’s cooking pancakes. You could take some up to her, maybe forget to knock, catch a glimpse…”

“I would never do that!!”

The metal fork he was holding, snapped in half. Brent blinked the black rage away from his eyes as Lyra blinked at him, then at the pieces of fork. “....Okay, Gods, okay. I’m just winding you up, alright? Sheesh.”

She was answered only with death glares.

“Seriously. I’m not going to try snatch a peek either. Wouldn’t work anyway. Gal wards her room.”

That was news to Brent. “She does?”

“Er, yeah, I’d stake my cut of the loot on it. Take it from someone who dates her own gorgeous Mage. If she wants privacy, she can get it.”

A soothing thought, that Thistle didn’t have to worry about being intruded on all of the time. Brent felt his anger ebbing away accordingly. Lyra watched him a moment longer, then sighed. “Gods, you are far gone.”

And with that, the anger was back. Lyra held up her hands in submission. “Okay! Okay! But for the record, I totally get it.”

“Yeah?”

“That sweet vulnerability thing she’s got going? Adorable. Even moreso knowing she’s strong enough to take the three of us apart.”

That was certainly true. Although Thistle made it hard to remember just how powerful she was. Brent was also certain that, outside of evil spirits and monsters, she would set herself on fire rather than hurt a fly.

“Thank you Brent. You’re a good friend.”

He didn’t feel like a good friend. He had lashed out and yelled at her over the Cave-Elf mess, now he kept scratching and messing up his wound.

But he had managed to talk to her and not make a complete fool out of himself. She had told him about the Echo, and it felt like he might have helped a little bit. So that was something, Right?

Lost in reverie, he jumped when the barmaid reappeared at his shoulder, now laden down with his order. He had broken his fork, so dug in with his knife and spoon.

“Orrig’s rules say no dating colleagues.”

Brent knew that of course. It had never mattered before given the selection available. He wasn’t sure whether Lyra was warning or threatening him to bring it up now. She looked at him, askance. “And I don’t wanna see Sweet-Flower get hurt. So what happens if what’s under the hood doesn’t fit the dream? You dump her?”

“No.” Brent growled through his bacon. The temptation to throw the table at her was back. Although he was painfully aware she had power over him at that moment, with the Orrig-Threat hanging in the air. “I…I don’t care what she looks like.”

The moment stretched. Then Lyra beamed and broke it with a exaggerated knock-back of her coffee. “Well then! I graciously accept my role as Wingman. Wing-Elf?”

“Uh.”

“Don’t worry, Brenty. I am an expert.”

“Expert in Vot?”

“...Archery! Yes! I was offering Brent here some lessons.” Lyra gasped. Brent choked on a sausage. Orrig was looming over the table. He had no idea how much the Orc could have heard. “Always helps to broaden the skill set. Some ranged skills, bit of woodcraft, perhaps he won’t get nom-nom-nommed on by the cave-elves next time.”

“Hmmmmmmmmm.” Orrig droned, then leaned over to pick up the broken fork. His brows lowered further at Lyra. “Dis is on your tab.”

“What…? Brent broke that!”

“Because you provoked him.” Orrig’s tone was flat. Brent chuckled as Lyra fumed. “You vill return to yesterday’s contracts. Get scrips signed. Only then, I can bill.”

“Fine. Fine, Dad. M’tired with sitting around in this dump anyway.” Lyra scowled. Pushing her chair back angrily, she flounced to the door. Before turning to flash Brent a thumbsup. And a wink.

Brent wasn’t sure what he had agreed to.

Chapter Text

Orrig watched Lyra swing dramatically out of the room, then landed a hand on Brent’s shoulder. “Ve need to talk.”

“Oh…um. Okay. Now?”

“Not here.” The barmaid was very slowly wiping a table nearby, giving every impression of definitely-not-evesdropping. Orrig squinted at the clock on the wall. “I vill be filing papers at ze guild dis morning. After, ve talk.”

“All right.” Brent sounded about as unenthused as it was possible to be. Orrig probably could have handled the exchange better from the get-go, but he wasn’t going to be able to salvage it, particularly as – he was already late.

Orrig had always disliked the paperwork.

Perhaps, against his better judgement, he should just let this encounter between Brent and Thistle run its course, Orrig mused on the way to the guildhouse. Perhaps it could be the making of them. Perhaps his new contractor could bring out the boy’s softer side. Perhaps she could even unite Brent and Lyra. That was the longest civil conversation Orrig had heard from the pair of them, outside a job.

…Perhaps the fallout would split the team three ways, so broken Orrig could never, ever hope to fix it.

Ugh. This was exactly the sort of situation he had hoped never to have to manoeuvre. Under these circumstances, his thoughts went to his lady love as they so often did. What Would Dotra Do?

“Pshaw. What is problem, exactly? Boy fights for his love, first other suitors, then if last standing fights girl too. If he worthy, she will take him, if not, do better next time. Is simple!”

…Orrig was a stranger to how non-orcs handled their love life, but he didn’t think it worked quite like that.

He missed Dotra. His hair felt stiff, pinned up in its topknot for too many months, and it was still many months more before the winter season and home.

“Haha. Now you are lovelorn, my orc. No wonder you feel like indulging dis nonsense.”

The Dotra of his thoughts was probably right, but it was more than that. Thistle and Brent both struck him as desperately lonely – Thistle’s situation he hadn’t even begun to guess at, Brent’s history, he did know. The boy had no family he wanted to return to, no friends Orrig was aware of. Just his job, what mentoring Orrig tried to give him, whatever antagonistic relationship you’d define he had with Lyra and lately, this situation with Thistle.

Even if he warned the boy off, there was little to no chance he’d listen, Orrig suspected. All it would do is firmly draw the line that if Brent crossed and it all went up in flames, he’d be the one sacked. Did Orrig really want that?

As the guildhall swung into sight around a corner, the usual long queue that would form by 9am every morning was nowhere in sight. That was good news. His bureaucratic responsibilities would be short lived this morning.

….As it turned out, there was a queue, it just was….not queuing. As the human behind the counter explained with exaggerated patience, the Guild had purchased this new contraption that spat out a ticket with a number on. Then you sat around until the new speaky-box-thing shrieked the number on his printed ticket.

And how long vould dat take? Orrig enquired.

Well, his ticket was number 9356, aaaand they were on….9314 right then. So only 45 tickets to go!

And how long vould dat take? Orrig enquired.

Ohh, not very long at all. Some mercenary groups had shown up together, so there were 4 - 5 tickets to a whole team.

And how long vould dat take? Orrig enquired.

He didn’t know, now would you please take a seat!?! Please!!

Orrig sank grumpily onto a chair. It creaked under him.

At least when queuing, there was some tangible progress that he could monitor. He didn’t mind standing. It kept his back straight. He could enjoy some fresh air. Less chance of being talked at by some idiot.

“Why hello there! Mister Orrig, wasn’t it?”

Speaking of which.

“Mrrgh.” Orrig grunted.

“I heard you were back in the city! So glad our paths crossed!” the speaker was a human man who dropped onto a chair next to him. Lightly armoured, a small crossbow hung from his hip. Probably the “Lyra” of another team. “My man, you and your crew are on fire this season! That giant toad! Sorting out that mess in the salt hills? Now those cave elves. Colour me impressed.”

“Is good vork.” Orrig acknowledged.

“Got to hand it to you, I never thought you could shake your crew into a decent team but here we are. Although, a lot of the praise goes to your new recruit. I heard that mage of yours totally bailed you out with the Drath business. Powerful and a team player, that’s a rare breed.”

His eyes landed on the stack of papers Orrig was holding. “Are you registering her today?”

Orrig moved his hand to splay his palm right on top of the papers, just to ensure there was absolutely no way this man could read it, even with the paper turned over and upside down.

“Ah, don’t be so paranoid! I’m not trying to steal her!” the man laughed like he had told a very funny joke. “...not that it isn’t up to her, if she wants to shop around. No sense in settling too early, am I right? Ha ha.”

Orrig stared at him from under his eyebrows until he started to squirm.

“Actually! Ehm.” The human coughed awkwardly, and shuffled some papers in his hands around. “I hadn’t introduced myself. The name’s Elric, and…I had a proposition for you and your crew, if you’re up for it. A joint venture with my team?”

Orrig had never entertained joint ventures in the past, Brent and Lyra could barely work with each other let alone an unfamiliar group. But they had been doing so well lately…and a team up meant a bigger job, it meant bigger rewards. “Go on.”

“Aha! Got your attention! So. It’s another Cave Elf job, so, obviously, I thought of your lot. Your mage blasting the head off one of them – incredible, given the buggers are meant to be practically flameproof. Get this though…the job is to capture it alive.”

Orrig frowned, and held out a hand for the bounty sheet. Elric pulled it away, grinning at him irritatingly. “Ah - ah! No. This one is by guild-invitation-only due to the threat level. And for now, my team has first refusal, and yours too, if you sign on...I can give you some details now though. First up, the bounty is nine hundred gold.”

His surprise must have shown on his face. Elric grinned again, before leaning forward. “That’s per team. Nine hundred, per team.”

“Eighteen hundred for vun cave elf? Vhy?” Orrig muttered.

Elric looked down at the leaflet. “One thousand of that is for live capture, so if we end up killing it, that goes down to eight hundred split between two teams - still not so shabby. There’s been a bunch of smaller contracts taken out on this thing over the last five years, it’s a slippery little bugger.”

That sounded like a misuse of guild payment lawsuit waiting to happen to Orrig. “How can dey guarantee is same vun?”

“Oh, trust me. Guild have run it past legal and they’re sure they can roll it into a single job, this thing has some tells. First off, it knows magic. Terrifying to know the creatures can sling spells too.”

“You is mage? “Yes Sir,” “You criminal?” “No Sir,”

“It likes to hide its face to infiltrate settlements, it knows common and get this – it names itself after plants. Every time.”

“My name is…Thistle. It’s Thistle.”

“Most recent contract we got was a couple months back, a little village outside Southport, it called itself ‘Rose’. Attacked a baby! You were actually dealing with that Toad about the same time, funny how things work out huh?”

“Rose! Hey Rose!”

Thistle jolted in her chair, shoulders and hands curling into what Orrig recognised as her ‘threatened prey’ posture even as the lout behind them continued: “Rosemary, what’re you doing, where’s our drinks!?”

“Before that, there was a contract out for ‘Violet’, trying to steal cattle from a farmer. Then a ‘Sage’...”

“Hey, that smells great,” Brent paused by the camp fire. “What’s that smell?”

Thistle’s head popped up and Orrig could hear the smile in her voice. “It’s only eggs, but I added Sage from the fields we passed through yesterday. It really adds something, doesn’t it?”

“Vas baby hurt?”

“Huh?”

“Vas baby hurt.” Orrig repeated himself slowly. “You say she attacked baby. Vas baby hurt?”

“Oh. Oh, right…” Elric scanned the notes. “No, the mother got to it in time. Lucky.”

“Hrrmph.”

“So, those are just some details. But I got a full dossier as soon as you sign up with me.” Elric said cheerily. “How about it? Partner?”

Orrig grumbled under his breath, tracing the paper of Thistle’s guild application slowly with his big fingers. Don’t respond too quickly, he thought, let it look like you’re weighing it up.

“I…fink…team focus on jobs close to home for now. Already done two big jobs, drath and horses. Ve stay local. Vould have to travel far to find dis elf. So I fink not.”

“Aw. That’s a darn shame.” Elric said commiseratingly. “Don’t ya want to talk it over with your team? Maybe they got a different view. Big opportunity, this.”

“Is big.” Orrig acknowledged. “Vill discuss. But I fink not.”

“Yeah, if you could. Particularly with that mage of yours. She’s the main one we want on side, not going to lie, rest of you are just a sweetener…” Elric chuckled heartily once more at his own not-joke. Orrig forced a smile that showed teeth.

“Number 9356! Excuse me, number 9356!”

“Gootbye.” Orrig said with relief. He rose to his feet.

“Hey though…how did you know we were after a female?”

A cold chill ran down Orrig’s back. He shrugged his shoulders, glad he was facing away from the human. “Rose. Sage. Dey are female names, yes?”

“Well yes….I suppose that is true. Good detective work though, I don’t think the guild has ever caught a female Cave Elf, they usually stay deep underground. Kinda surprising you just assumed it.”

“Did not know dey are rare," Orrig lied.

“Oh yes, very, by all accounts. Maybe that’s why this one knows magic. Who’s to say…well, maybe she will, when we catch her.” Elric stood up, patted Orrig’s pauldron again on his way past. He turned and looked back before he reached the door. “It’s just – stands to reason interested parties might have made enquiries outside the guild, the creature's been at large so long. But you wouldn’t undermine the guild, would you Orrig? You wouldn’t take an unlicensed job?”

Orrig glared at him. Opening his mouth, he enunciated himself carefully. “Is. Your. Job.”

“It is. Well, best of luck friend. See you around, perhaps…” Elric chuckled. And finally left.

“Number 9356! Mister Orrig!”

Orrig looked at the man behind the desk, looked at Thistles paperwork again. And shook his head. “Извини. Dis is not right. You have spare?”

The server rolled their eyes (yes, stupid old Orc, let them think that) and gestured to the trays of empty forms. “There. But you’ll have to queue up with a new ticket again, we can’t hold it.”

“Dat is fine.”

Orrig found a booth where his work could not be overlooked, opened Thistle’s document and the blank form to compare the two.

Thistle

He needed something nondescript that wouldn’t raise eyebrows. Orrig thought for a moment, before scribbling: Thisbe Donovan in the box. Brent’s family lived a full continent away, and linking her to him gave a plausible excuse for her joining the team. Somehow, Orrig couldn’t imagine Brent objecting, if it ever came up.

Magical Proficiency – Ground/Terra, let’s stay away from the flowers association.

School attended – Orrig knew he couldn’t fudge this one. The Guild would check the school records, it was one of the few exceptions to their hands-off attitude. He reluctantly rewrote “Self Taught” in the box.

Race/Species – Human

Start date – that seemed harmless enough. His mind strayed back to that day, that dark hall, those Drath. There had been a few minutes where he thought that he would never see Dotra again, that the best he could do was ensure Brent and Lyra survived the day.

Then there had been a few minutes more when he thought he couldn’t even do that.

The queue was even longer this time, but now Elric was no longer pestering him, the time felt like it flew by. Orrig kept a sharp lookout for the human, or any member of his team on the way home, but saw nobody.

He had been at the guild house a lot longer than planned, he didn’t get back to the inn by late afternoon. Lyra was lurking around the restaurant again, clutching a sheaf of signed scrips. He took them off her (he’d file them all at the next town, somewhere with a less irritating queuing system) and set her off to call the other two together for a team meeting.

Thistle arrived first, clutching her satchel nervously. Orrig attempted a smile to put her at ease and waved her towards a chair that she then perched on. Brent shuffled in looking miserable. Lyra sauntered in last, swivelled a chair around and sat with one leg either side of the back, hugging it, chin on top. “What’s up boss?”

“Now dat Brent arm fixed, ve are ready to vork. I made enquiries. Dere is good jobs to be had to da vest, Riverside. Ve vill travel dere, finish season dere.”

“Ugh, really? Riverside, isn’t that the middle of b*m-f**k nowhere?” Lyra sounded disgusted.

“You just don’t wanna leave your giiiiirlfriend,” Brent leered.

“One, true. Two, shut up!” Lyra flushed pink.

“I..uhm, I think that’s a good idea Sir. It’d be nice to be out in the country for a while!” Thistle ventured nervously. Her eyes crinkled up in a hidden smile. “I’ve never been to Riverside, but I heard it’s lovely.”

Never been. Good. That would give them some breathing space.

“Uggggh, you’re such a suckup.” Lyra groaned, raising the back legs of her chair up and them slamming them into the wooden floor. The barmaid flinched, then glared, at the noise. “Fine. Whatever. Don’t have a choice, do I?”

Orrig nodded in approval. “Goot. We leave tomorrow first ting. Finish business, get supplies and pack dis evening.”

“Whaaaaa–!? I promised Margot we’d get lunch tomorrow. Ugh! What’s the harm in one more day?” Lyra moaned. Orrig gave her the most unimpressed look and the elf slowly drifted away, mumbling to herself. “Cmon Thistle. If tomorrow’s the country, tonight we’re going to enjoy the town.”

“A-a-actually I thought I’d get an early nigh–waaa!!”

Orrig sighed as his archer dragged a protesting mage towards the door, then turned to the third member of his team. “Vat is it?”

“Uh.” Brent hesitated, then threw his chest out as though he were going into battle. “You wanted to talk to me. Sir.”

Oh yes.

Brent and Thistle. One who was never wanted by his family after his mother passed. And the other – Orrig could only begin to imagine what Thistle had gone through.

Brent though, he’d defend his friends to the death. Even Lyra. When push came to shove, they looked out for each other. Meanwhile Thistle had been chased from town to town for “attacking babies” but wouldn’t hesitate to come to the rescue of passing acquaintances, one of whom had recently insulted her.

Brent knew all about what it was to be prejudiced for what he looked like. Thistle couldn’t bear to have anyone see what she looked like, for reasons Orrig thought he understood now.

“Ven ve travel again, I vant you to look after your arm. Ve are lucky to have healer on team. You vill listen to her. Do everyfing she says. Understand?”

“Oh. Oh! Yes, I will!” Brent looked like he had received a stay of execution. Some of the colour came back into his cheeks and he started to grin, flashing a fang. "You got it!"

"Goot."

Orrig watched him go, then went to the bar to order a shot of the hardest Vodka they had to offer.

It was time to leave this city.