Jura chewed her bottom lip. Yana was here as a member of one of the attendant teams, having found her and enthusiastically leaping on her back. Girshan, too, though he wasn't much for jumping, embracing her affectionately instead. Both were present, though as alternates for their team, they'd been hidden behind the others.
Jura was currently holding a dress in one hand and some... “What do they call this again?”
“Lingerie.” Yana said with a bright smile. “It's a human thing, but I hear it is quite popular in the, uh... Well...”
“It's all strings and lace. How effective could this be in combat?” Jura wasn't sure how to feel about any of it – but she'd seen the others. Tyr's other 'wives'... Feeling a twinge of jealousy at how elegant and well dressed they were. Jura's leathers were crafted in part by Tyr himself, and a master leatherworker – but she rarely wore anything else other than her riding clothes and loose linens, just like he did.
She wanted to define herself separate from him, to be her own woman and not give in to a craving for attention. To think about him all the time, it made her sick, but it was relatable to all of the other slaves who'd never been treated well... It left her wondering if she really loved him, or if she was just fooling herself.
Not because she didn't favor him, but quite the opposite. She wanted respect, and equity, to stand shoulder to shoulder with the man, but she couldn't help how she felt. How warm and kind he was, but only when they were alone or in very specific situations. How he looked at her differently from anyone else, making her feel so... Unique. But again, this could very well be the slave in her talking, and Girshan had made that painfully clear, leaving her confused and lost.
“It's not for combat.” Yana blushed violently all of a sudden, forced to explain the purpose of such a common piece of clothing. “You... Ah. It is intended for more romantic entanglements between a man and a woman. Oh, well I guess anyone can do that sort of thing... You know.”
“What's the point of wearing clothes during sex?” Jura asked, unfazed. She'd already 'been there' many times before. The mystery of it was gone for her, not that she didn't want to repeat it as much as possible, that was what orcs did and they were the best at it. Supposedly. “Won't they get in the way?”
A red face Girshan left them alone. Joining Samson and the others as they gathered around a stand of fried meats, leaving the women to their business. Even he couldn't stomach much more than that – having never been very bold with the ladies in the first place. Usually they just came to him. He was the tall, dark, and handsome type – having never had to put much effort into relationships. Letting them take the reins, finding that arrangement much to his liking, tacked onto the fact that these women were like daughters to him, it was only natural. And of all people, she'd picked him... Tyr...
Girshan didn't hate the boy, he liked him and was willing to support him if possible. But a girl like Jura deserved better, a quiet life without so much... Violence. Tyr would always find himself in a spot of trouble, that was his singular talent above all others.
“I don't know.” Yana frowned. “I've never...”
“Do you think I'd look good in them? Do you think he'd like them?”
“My fine orcish sister... Of course you would.” Mikhail nodded adamantly, his face popping out through the rack of clothing with such abruptness that both women leaped back in fright. He, of all of them, was not embarrassed in the slightest. A human woman would've found it strange, but orcs and beastkin were not the same. They appreciated his feedback as a male, and didn't find it inappropriate considering the nature of buying these things in the first place. “The black perfectly compliments your skin. As for the dress... I'd lean towards something blue or black as well. Black with blue trim might work, or maybe even a charcoal hue. I think you'd look phenomenal in red, but sometimes even if it seems like a weakness, it's good to lean towards matching our partner. Tyr likes blues and grays. Subdued water tones.”
“You're... Quite good at this, eh?” Yana said, surprised to find that Mikhail did not make her nervous in the slightest like other men. She was a skilled tailor, but Mikhail had a great love for fashion and was not ashamed to let it show despite being such a so-called 'alpha male'. That was part of it, or so he claimed.
“We know what we like. Tyr is a patron to me and mine, and like a... I'd say brother, but he's almost young enough to be my son or nephew. In any case, you're both part of our little family now. It is my honor to help you in any way that I can.” Mikhail winked. In truth, he'd always been sharp with women, and good at reading them.
In his constable days... Well, there were a lot of them, from all over. A guarantee that he had more children than he was aware of across the empire, maybe even in the lands beyond. Half of his earnings went to supporting the families he was aware of, though nobody would ever know.
They had seen Astrid, Sigi, and Alex at the festival. And he, personally, had noticed how Jura assessed them. Comparing herself to them, always frowning, it wasn't fair to her to feel insecurity like that.
Finding herself lacking in comparison, insecurities burnt in the breast of everyone, but oftentimes those of the female persuasion were the hardest on themselves. “You are their match, and more, sister. Tyr doesn't care about things like this, this fashion, but he'll see it for what it is and be grateful for it. He likes bare shoulders and a line that accentuates the neck, I think. Kid is weird, honestly, but it's true – he has told us as much. His fetish... Is necks.”
“Necks...?” Yana replied, touching her own. “Oh, he did mention something like that to Benny. I didn't mean to pry, but... Do I have a nice neck?”
Mikhail looked at her with a raised eyebrow. “Tyr is not assertive in that way. If you like him, you should just tell him directly. He is an idiot, but I doubt he'd say no.”
“Well...” Yana coughed. “Not exactly. I like him, but I'm not sure. Maybe as a friend...”
“I'm my own woman.” Jura interrupted, staring down her nose at the shorter man. “I'll buy what I please, and he can deal with it. I refuse to be subordinate to a male.”
Mikhail laughed, giving her a lopsided smile. “Aye, but wanting to be found pleasant to your life partner does not make you weak, a relationship is about give and take. Has he not done things for you, perhaps in the bedroom? Changed his ways to make you feel more comfortable? Tyr is aloof, and exhausting at times, but he cares in his own way.”
Jura blushed, deciding not to reply beyond a curt nod. As a generalized term, sex and all things romantic didn't bother her, but she'd be lying if she said talking about specifics wasn't a bit too personal for her liking.
“Exactly. If this is what you want to do, then do it. Do it for yourself, or do it for him. Or both, it's okay to want to be desired. A man who endeavors to please his woman is not a weak or inferior man. And that rule stands in the opposite. Otherwise, we'd all be miserable, and believe me when I say a lot of couples are.”
“I see...” Jura said. “Yana, will you not join us?”
The streets were thronged with people. Shoulder to shoulder under the round paper lanterns in the western style decorating the place. People didn't always come here just to compete or watch their nations bludgeon one another. Most of the shop fronts were just to make money, signing up for the competition with no interest whatsoever in actually winning anything. It was the single most profitable event in the ten year span between the 'true' trials.
“Join you?” Yana was sliding her delicate hands through the racks, looking for a color based on Mikhail's very valid suggestions. Most could alter their colors and shapes, but finding one out of the 'tube' style was difficult. All those in fashion either covered the shoulders modestly, or revealed a bit too much. Convincing Yana that she might need to make one with her own hands if she wanted to be satisfied with the choice. “Can we even afford any of this? These prices are insane.”
“Tyr gave us quite a lot of money.” Mikhail shrugged. “Like I said, give and take. What's his is yours, and so on and so forth, or rather his actual wife standing right next to you. I doubt he's ever said 'no' to you, and that means something. Reason why I regret getting married in the first place, believe me. Not sure if I still am, though... She... Scary... No kids though, thank god I didn't have to deal with that.”
“Anyways, sure, I'd love to walk around the festival with you--”
“In marriage, Yana.” Jura explained. “I've asked Tyr about it and he said it's fine. We could be together again, if you want to.”
“Fine?” Yana pursed her lips. “I don't want to be a part of some harem. I want someone all to myself. If it was just you, maybe. But there are a lot of them, and that woman on my team that kissed him, who is she?”
“An old friend, apparently.” Jura shrugged. “She's a manticore. They aren't married.”
“Damn!” Mikhail whistled, impressed. “Tyr really fu--”
“No, he did not lay with a manticore, she said that he refused her.” Jura said proudly. “Apparently, we need to ask the permission of the other families to bring her into the fold. It would be nice having a great spirit as a sister, though. I told her as much, but Tyr will not listen to me. Which means he must like Yana even more than that, another reason!”
“You are oddly accepting of this.” Mikhail said, smiling and winking at any of the blushing women passing by. A bit older, more mature, but he was a very dashing man. Especially in terms of his personality. “Women in my experience, regardless of the law, and rarely supportive of polyamory. Believe me, I've tried.”
“Do I look like a human woman?” Jura asked, properly irritated for the first time, enough to cause Mikhail to throw his hands up in apology. “It's fine. Things are different between our cultures. For we orcs, family and clan come first most of all. As long as they are worthy, I will accept a hundred women – but I'll always be his first. Understand?”
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
“Not really.” Mikhail coughed. “But I celebrate your liberal initiative. Tyr does not handle arguments very well, and never has. If he wants to do something, he'll rarely consult another person first, but you've been a good influence on him.”
“And I'll continue to be.” Jura said, well aware of how impulsive and stubborn Tyr could be. “Now help me pick something else out. I don't need this 'lingerie', I have a phenomenal body and it doesn't need any decoration.”
“You sure do!” Mikhail chuckled energetically. “Hell, if it were me, I'd--”
“I will assault you if you continue speaking, Mikhail.”
“Understood.”
–
Elsewhere, Tyr labored under the weight of Vidarr until his legs turned to jelly. The man was so incredibly heavy, even more so than his size would suggest. Which was something worth noting, because Tyr had carried a horse over his back. The upper limit of his strength, without infusion, was about a half ton. With infusion, he could handle... 1.5 tons, something within that region.
Laying him down outside some sort of trinket shop, abandoning the idea of taking him home, Tyr could go no further. Slumping down beside the man and shaking under the exertion, he still had a long way to go. Vidarr giggled affectionately, stroking Tyr's leg. The other primus' had long disappeared into the crowd milling about under the festive lighting. The worlds largest festival, as if that word could describe the act of building an entire city just for a 'game'. Everything seemed so wasteful.
“You're a good man, little brother.” Vidarr hiccuped, laughing at himself now. “I wish you'd give my sister a chance, she's even better than you.”
“Which one?” Tyr asked, looking around nervously. Daito was like a security blanket, but the man was nowhere to be found. With so many people walking about, he wasn't sure how to feel. Keeping his head low, but well aware that many were watching them with bright smiles. It wasn't quite so bad at before.
People waving at the two 'celebrities' and chatting amongst themselves. Maybe it was Vidarr who grabbed the most attention, lessening the strain. Or maybe Tyr was just stronger.
'Oh wow! A primus!'
'Is he... Drunk?'
'Amazing!'
Things like that...
“I dunno, brother.” Vidarr's eyes were closed, voice slurred. “Both of them. Sigi is who she is, but Astrid is very taken with you. Always was, she just won't admit it. You are so lucky, Jartor chose well for you.”
“We were married too young.” Tyr sighed, frowning. “How can we have a relationship like that? We are not in love.”
“If being in love was all that a relationship entailed, life would be much easier for our kind. My wife loves me, and I her – I was lucky too. Loved, I mean. She is gone now, and I miss her. I've taken others, but it is not the same. Our duty is to serve, and in doing so, we grace other houses with glory for all manner of... hic! Purposes. Political ones, usually. Get me?”
“Well yeah, that's pretty apparent.” Tyr hummed.
“You will not know what I mean until you wake up cold in the night to an absent partner that was only using you for the gain of her clan. It isn't wrong to do so, we exist to, again, serve. We are slaves. I have not lived as long as the others but already I feel such an...” Vidarr began to nod off once again. “I'm tired, little brother. I'm so tired. I just want it to end and join her, but my father... The gods...”
And then, without warning, he began to weep. Before the others could see, Tyr hoisted him up and activated his freerunner's, striding through the air as if it were the ground as fast as he could. Laying Vidarr against the wall of the dark and now empty arena, every ounce of his magic put to carrying him off and the man had still felt like a ton of bricks. Vidarr almost assuredly weighed a ton, as in 2000 pounds, 900 kilos give or take as the dwarves measured things. It was amazing, but there was some precedent.
Just had commented many times at how heavy Tyr was, but he was only about 400 pounds himself. Their bodies didn't explain that phenomena in any rational manner.
“Responsibilities are never what we want them to be.” Tyr said halfheartedly. He didn't know what to say, or what wisdom to impart. He didn't feel as Vidarr did. Couldn't feel that way, being aware of how young he was in the grander scheme. Trying to relate to a hundred year old man was incredibly hard.
“You don't understand.” Vidarr choked. “What awaits us. I know, we all know. We are immortal Tyr. Infinite life. We live forever and we'll never be at peace nor rest.... hic! We are all slaves to duty, and I don't want to be a slave any longer.”
Tyr frowned. “We are all slaves from the day that we are born, I think. Slaves to fate or destiny, or the gods. Duty, purpose. Does it matter?”
“No.” Vidarr groaned sadly. “None of it matters. It's a nightmare, and every one of us that is born is another caught in that infinite loop.”
“Then I'll free you, my brother.” Tyr replied with determinant eyes. “Perhaps I'll free us all.”
“No... You won't. But I love you for your stubbornness, for your stalwart heart. You... A broken child...” Vidarr chuckled in his drunken melancholy before falling back to sleep. Not much ceremony to it, leaving the other man frowning down at him with a roll of the eyes. So dramatic, always, Vidarr was different than the others.
Tyr stared over the flat land around them. There was the 'city', the pop-up population center built in the name of the games. There were many cities like it. Amistad, Kriegstad, even Dorian – the capital of Varia. Most were demolished or abandoned after the event, but some stood if considered significant enough of an achievement to warrant existing. One big joke, indeed.
Soft plodding boots split the night to herald the approach of Jartor joining them. Slouched and uneven of step, as drunk as the rest of them.
“Son.” Jartor smiled thinly.
“Old piece of shit that seeded me into this world.” Tyr replied.
“It is good to feel the call quiet itself, if only for a day and a night.” Jartor smiled. “And you, my son, how are you?”
“I am who and how I have always been. Just Tyr. Tyr of a liquor handling better than your own, it would seem. The only thing I've ever beaten you at, but I won't lie when I say that I feel a great pride in knowing I am your superior in this moment.”
“...hic! Indeed, color me impressed.” Jartor said tiredly, slumping down beside Vidarr and staring up at the stars. “We have not assembled like this in near five decades, it's not so consistent as it might appear, we remain busy. It's nice, though I should apologize for our general lack of decorum. I'm sure you've gathered that despite our status we are not so different from the common man. Still fallible.”
“You are different.” Tyr said. “The common man concerns himself only with laying a woman, eating, and sleeping. Shitting in the downtime, perhaps. In lieu of the latter two since we have little need for such, I'd call you very different. Compared to them, you're all monsters.”
Jartor nodded sagely at that. “You've grown into a fine young man. Somehow.”
“No, I haven't.” Tyr refuted that adamantly, glaring at the primus. Calling him father, whether it was true or not, seemed so odd now after all that had happened. “I'm a murderer, a butcher. I've killed men and they call out to me in my dreams, even after I was forced to confront these foul deeds by my master, I've been laughing at them. I have faults beyond counting.”
“And so you do.” Jartor replied wearily. “You realize them, and they are lesser for it. You do not understand how dark and evil humanity is just yet. That is a rare trait, reflection, and soon you will see them for what they are. Our kind will never reach the depravity they are capable of, it is impossible for us. To kill is not evil, but man... Man is evil. We are the shepherds.”
“There are no evil men.” Tyr replied. “Only--”
“Men with choices. Mmm. True enough, and I want you to know that I'm proud of you. I thought I raised you in the best way, but I didn't. I broke you, and you have endeavored to make yourself whole again. You are better than me, Tyr Faeron.”
“...”
Tyr had always wanted to hear those words, that his father was proud of him. And yet for some reason, all those words served to do is freeze the blood in his veins. An irreality to them, he didn't believe it for a second. “And why, exactly, is that? Proud of what, my victories in the republic?”
“Your victories.” Jartor laughed heartily. “While impressive, they were not so great as to shock and awe me. You did as was expected, and as was right. I'm proud because you were of the steel for so long and I did not see it. I always thought you... Well, it doesn't matter. You achieved vengeance where I could not. Doled out justice where I could not. Been where I could not. Fought Hastur, and gods know I wish I could erase that stain upon mankind myself.”
“Then why enable him?” Tyr asked.
“Because it was your mother. My Signe, wherever she might be now, it was her plan to begin with.”
“You lie.”
“I never lie. Ever.” Jartor whispered, and it was... Somewhat true? Tyr was sure he couldn't name a single instance where Jartor had actively spoken a mistruth. Surely, he'd been mistaken before, but he did not lie to people, certainly not to Tyr. He was honest to the point of his own son hating himself, an honesty that was reflected in that euphemism of the apple and the tree. “...hic! Signe said, and so we did. Too many mages.” Jartor mumbled incoherently, rapidly fading away into restful slumber. “Too many people...”
“What, then?” Tyr asked, and Jartor was silent. Slapping his father awake, something he never would've dared to do in a normal situation, the man frowned. Some manner of clarity returning to his eyes, but they weren't 'eyes', they were all white, with no pupil or iris.
“Ragnarok is drawing near, the convergence of planes. I don't know what it means, but my father told me of it. It's why I've resisted the call. Something bad is about to happen, and I've worked too hard and for too long to see it come without a fight. And for you... I remained awake for you. Always... You... Cursed to suffer, my failure evil was you...”
“Well, shit.” Tyr laughed aloud. “Tell me how you really feel.”
He tried and failed to rouse his father. Further discourse was impossible, leaving the two slumbering primus' behind. In deep contemplation as he returned to the city, masked and wearing his black robes and armor. Based on what he'd heard, being a primus was no blessing. Rather, it was an incomparable curse, but he supposed he'd already known that.
As for this 'ragnarok' apocalypse nonsense, he'd seen an event that might classify as such and lost three of his friends for it. People he still missed, very much.
It was time to work harder, it would seem.
They were tied up by bonds and oaths, but Tyr was free. Every day he'd manage to find a string and cut it, but it wasn't for them. For the world. For mankind... It was all for him, because he needed it.