The slave quarters of the Korvinsfald returned to the silence of a crypt, with little more noise than the lapping of the waves, rattle of chains, or the odd, racking cough. Even excusing those sounds made by any of the dozens of Orcs having to answer the call of nature, Killian decided it to be preferable to continue any conversation he could muster. These Orcs could not only understand, but speak the trade tongue after all - at the very least, Sharroc had proven he could - and any talk however simple could do wonders to distract him from the sounds of the damnable sea.
"What does mean, bard?" Sharroc asked him suddenly.
Killian was taken aback at the question, unsure how to respond.
"Red Dwarf call you bard, what mean?" Sharroc asked again, attempting to explain.
Killian pondered for a moment. It was a question with such an obvious answer that he had never had to think about it before.
"A sort of traveling musician - a performer," said Killian at last, "I go from place to place, and if people enjoy my performance, they give me coin as payment."
"Musician" Sharroc hummed. He pronounced each syllable slowly, as if tasting each over his tongue. Suddenly, his eyes widened in understanding.
"You are druumak!" He exclaimed with excitement. Several heads turned at the sound of the familiar word.
"Yes…I suppose." Killian conceded, having no real comprehension of the word's meaning, and distracted from something brushing against the side of his boot.
"Where your druum?" Sharroc asked. Once again, Killian was lost. The Orc mimicked holding a large, round object with one arm, and striking it with his palm with the other.
"Dr-u-u-u-m" Sharroc sounded out at a snail's pace. Continually he struck the imaginary instrument, causing the chains that bound his wrists to dance violently. At last, the thought was conveyed across to Killian.
"Ah! No, not a drum," Killian corrected, "I play the lute."
Sharroc appeared crestfallen. "No druumak…what 'lute'?"
"A lute is a stringed instrument with a rounded resonator and fretted neck. Some bards prefer different numbers of strings, with some lutes having as few as six or as many as…" Killian paused, noticing the Orc staring at him blankly. With a sigh, Killian removed the case from his back. Setting it in his lap, he carefully undid the straps that held his livelihood.
"It looks like this."
Killian lifted the instrument carefully, as if it were made of glass. He moved the lute just close enough to the prisoner so that it could be seen in the pitch black, though Orcs could see much better in the dark than humans, unbeknownst to Killian. Upon spying what he held, Sharroc let out a gasp that caused Killian to involuntarily pull the lute back with haste.
"Ah! Grumshaal!" Sharroc exclaimed in awe. "You play thrumzak!"
Killian, presuming that the Orc had recognized the instrument and named it in his tongue, nodded conclusively.
"You play much, all over world?"
Killian shifted uncomfortably, replacing the lute into its case. "I have played a lot."
Sharroc thought on this for a moment, before coming to a decision. "Bard play often, maybe you play-"
Suddenly, a loud hissing interrupted the Orc's next words. Sharroc's eyes snapped forward, cutting through the darkness. His pointed ears twitched with the odd sound. Killian fearfully scanned the room. His eyes struggled to make out the figures sitting just in front of him; as such, it was a moment before he realized that the Orc on the bench ahead was speaking.
The Orc's voice lilted rhythmically, to Killian it sounded as if a snake was attempting human speech, and he wondered how Sharroc could make out a single word of the guttural language. Just as the hiss was reaching a crescendo, it was cut off by a low warning growl emitted by Sharroc that sounded like grinding stone. After a pause, the hissing began again, it was silenced by an abrupt and deafening snarl that nearly sent Killian flying off the bench once more. Sharroc glanced at him apologetically.
"Ghuzul no trust bard - no trust Dwarf or Island men." Sharroc shook his head. Ghuzul must have been the Orc that Sharroc referred to, Killian surmised. Studying the figure more closely, Killian could see the piercing glow of the irises as Ghuzul stared daggers at him before abruptly turning around. He was shocked to realize that the Orc was female.
"I tell her 'it not all Island men," Sharroc continued on, "Dwarf throk is good Island man. Bard is ruzgul of Dwarf throk, so is good man also."
Killian attempted to decode what he had heard. "There is a Dwarf named 'throk'?" He asked.
Sharroc shook his head vigorously. "No, throk work for Dwarf. Throk is man - your ruzgul."
"You mean Thorian?" Killian asked. "My nephew?"
"Nef-few," Sharroc breathed, "Yes, your ruzgul. He bring clean water to Orcs - my blodrak. He bring meat unrotten. Help when one sick. He good Island man."
The Orc called Ghuzul muttered something else unknown to Killian, though Sharroc appeared to ignore it. Killian smiled in amusement. Here Thorian had wound up employed in the trading of slaves, and couldn't even seem to do that correctly.
"It is good to hear he is good at something." Killian said sourly. He kicked out as he felt the brushing at his feet again.
Sharroc cast him a sidelong glance. "Why speak of nef-few this way?"
Killian sighed, "I have not seen Thorian - nor the remainder of my kin - for a number of roats now, and am the better for it."
"Why is this?" Sharroc questioned with surprise.
"That is a personal matter." Killian replied stiffly. He knew the topic was none of the Orc's business, though he was sure there was little the prisoner could do with the information anyway. He was irritated at how easily the subject seemed to bother him, even to think about.
"Mm-mm-mm-mm" Sharroc hummed rhythmically. His eyes remained closed until he decidedly shook his massive head. "Fight in Island-man blodrak not last. Will end."
Killian looked at him quizzically.
"Blodrak," Sharroc thought hard for the near translated word, "Family, everything. Blood thick, even blood of Island-man."
"Funny, I'd heard recently that water is thicker than blood in the Dracticos Isles." Killian snorted bitterly. Sharroc was shaking his head again.
"Water made thicker with blood. But blood is blood. You learn, Island-man." Sharroc reached to set a massive hand on Killian's shoulder, but thought better of it.
Killian clenched his fists, his eyes glued to the floor - what could be seen of it, anyway.
"What would the likes of you know about family, anyhow?" He muttered. Ahead of them, Ghuzul let out a wicked, snorting laugh. Sharroc said nothing.
A few moments went by in which nothing more was said as Killian cooled his anger. He clicked his tongue in annoyance.
There it is again, he thought, once more feeling the strange brushing against the side of his foot. He screwed his eyes into narrow slits, peering down hard to inspect the floor. A small set of beady, red eyes met his, and he let out a startled yelp in surprise.
"Ash take this thrice-damned ship!" Killian hugged his knees up to his chest as disgust welled inside him. "Whole pigsty is infested!"
The black rat chattered in irritation. It had been gnawing a hole through the leather boot it had found, and was agitated that its meal had been taken away. It blinked once or twice, swiveling its little head to search for a suitable substitute. It spied a set of feet close by that might satisfy the need. It would not be nearly as good as the leather scraps, but it would have to suffice.
Quickly it scurried along under the bench as Killian kept his vision carefully trained on the pest. The rat emerged just next to Sharroc's heel, delicately sniffing its new find. Killian was about to warn Sharroc, but before he could even let out a sound, the Orc raised his leg with sudden agility. Bringing his foot down with brutish force, he flattened the creature beneath his heel with a sickening crunch. Killian flinched.
Sharroc kept his massive foot atop the rodent as a slow pool of dark blood pooled around it, his face was contorted into a malicious sneer.
"Dra'zagh!" He snarled with venom. "Filth-eaters. Bring sickness to blodrak. On Island, on ship, always same. Has taken many Orc."
Killian was violently shaken. He had been too carefree, too arrogant. Now, he checked himself. He had been conversing so freely with these creatures - idly chatting as if engaged in a social call in someone's parlor. This was no parlor, it was a Dwarven slave ship, and this was no social call, he was surrounded by an enslaved race of the Unproven - creatures scorned by the Light of the Goddess.
He was not surrounded by humans, or Fair Folk, or even Dwarves or other Proven Races which would have been leagues better than who he found himself in company of. No, these monsters were savage predators, and the only thing that kept him safe were the chains that kept them at bay. In that moment, Killian felt very much like the rat under Sharroc's heel.
He mustered up the courage to speak.
"Your people have contracted diseases from the rats?" He asked politely.
"Aye, softling, we've lost people." The raspy voice answered derisively. It was Ghuzul who spoke, her fierce eyes looming once more in Killians direction. He wondered why Sharroc did not speak.
"Thousands," She cackled, "His daughter came down with the first signs of The Burn just 'fore we left port."
Killian was taken aback, he turned towards Sharroc. "You have a daughter?"
"Had," Ghuzul corrected. "They wrapped her in burlap, carried her up after she passed."