RITUAL
Synopsis: a young orc is taken by his tribe to undergo a coming-of-age ceremony
CW: kidnapping, drugging, amateur tattoo w/ needle, manhandling, ritualistic behaviors, orc tribe in modern suburbia
A/N; not my usual stuff but had a pretty fun time writing this. Req by @butter-and-too-much-bread !!
The hazy green reflection of an adolescent orc bounced off speckled glass, bulging eyes downturned to look at his own hard flesh and broad, flared nose. He couldn't help but poke around in his mouth with a thick finger, massaging his gums where two large tusks should be by now. How ironic was it, that he was a late bloomer in receiving his tusks but more than double the size of his orcmates.
He pressed sensitively to the gummy flesh beneath a small, prodding canine, next to his bottom left incisor. The tooth was fat, a thick wall of calcium and enamel that has been growing for approximately six months. The other orcs who graduated training camp with him had tusks fully grown nine months ago...
The sharp white piece barely peaked above his bottom lip to uncomfortably press against the top one, making the orc give a grunt as he turned to pick up the unzipped duffel bag crumpled on his bed.
"Daggok!" His mothers voice called, "You're gonna be late!"
Daggok snarled at the nagging as he thundered down the stairs in his work boots, reaching the kitchen by the time she finished rushing him.
"Already gone." He called back, opening the crooked door of his childhood home.
The blistering sunlight fell upon his small eyes, bringing a hand up to shield them as he stumbled forward blindly. He remembered parking on the right of the driveway curb, envisioning the blue, beat up ol' pickup truck that's been his baby since his 12th birthday.
Squinting desperately, he flared his nostrils in aggravation when a peculiarity struck him. A very real peculiarity, that felt oddly similar to a brick. The object hit him so hard he lurched backward, tripping over his own feet. Before he could fall back, two powerful hands grabbed his oversized arms, pulling them behind his back as his feet were brought together by the rough tightness of a rope.
The buzz of cicadas basking in the summer heat droned in and out of Daggoks pointed ears, the grunting of several men much louder as they steadied him with what felt like countless hands. Warm, perspirating fingers tugged at his forearms and elbows, his right shoulder and just below his jugular, pushing him down ever so slightly. He would've screamed if not for the semi-sweet, bitterly acidic washcloth shoved in his mouth, making him drool as his tusks press awkwardly against it. A blindfold was pressed against his eyes and tightly tied against his head, roughly without an inch of nurturing care.
The tangy sticky sweet flavour of the rag was beginning to slide down daggoks throat now.
Voices hushed him as he let out aggressive wails, trying to toss and turn as he felt himself lunged up like a piece of furniture being carried. He felt himself jolt as the brutes holding him stepped each foot closer to a humming vehicle, old rock music playing faintly from a misty radio.
Daggok let out a howl at suddenly being dropped, the feeling of falling scaring him moreso than the pain of hitting the back of the trunk. He heard the slam of its door in front of him, his blinded eyes now even darker as all light removed from the trunk. The last sound he could make out from the muffled cage was the sudden blast of the radio as someone stepped on the gas pedal, lurching him forward with cigarette smoke seeping into his nostrils.
The sleepy blackness of the trunks safety latch mocked him, weak gruff hands unable to escape from their binds as his head lulled back and forth, exhaustion he'd normally feel after a day of slinging boards of wood and dry wall at his father's construction site. Daggoks soft eyes closed, a muffled snore leaving his gagged mouth.
The sudden jolt of the car going over a speed bump forced daggok awake, his head hitting the trunk floor with teary eyes. He still couldn't see, could only feel the rough road that whatever car he was in could barely survive from. Every roll forward was another bump bump bump on harsh gravel, making the orc's body vibrate uncomfortably as he laid on his hands.
His mind was a string of words, consciousness so dulled he couldn't think of what to do, of how he got here at first.
It wasn't until a harsh stop of someone stomping on the breaks, his body lurching back against the trunk side of the backseat, did he remember the hazy, breath-snatching kidnapping he had experienced earlier. How long ago was that? It felt like it was the next day already, how long had his body been stuffed and cramped into this tiny trunk? He tried to kick his tied feet, flailing them to feel for anything else in the trunk that could help him. Something metal clinked against the back of his work boot. The more he kicked it, the farther it pressed against the curves of the beat-up sedan.
A car door slammed shut, then another. Two more followed, nearly simultaneously with boots trudging against a mushy, unpaved road. Daggok could smell the petrichor within the trunk, could taste the earthy, fresh dirt in his gagged mouth. They were no longer in the rural, semi-suburban neighborhood he was raised in. From the lack of rushing cars nearby, the lack of fellow-Orc chatter, Daggok wondered if they were somewhere on the outskirts of his farming town, no powerplants loud enough to roar in his ears or highways nearby to drown out the sound of the birds chirping outside of the trunk.
Is this....what I think it is? Daggok wondered to himself. Could it really be? Is it finally his turn?
He hadn't been briefed on what would occur, on when it'd happen or who would take him. The orc had only heard stories from his older cousins, his friends that had finished their apprenticeships who had all disappeared without a trace at some point or another, which they recounted from.
"They tie and gag you, sometimes using this kind of medicine that knocks you unconscious; I didn't get that though, once my head hit that cold trunk I was out." One of his buddies recounted.
He was right, Daggok confirmed. These trunks really aren't uncomfortable. Couldn't they have picked a better way to transport their soon-to-be warriorkin? He knew it was a tribe tradition, but did they really have to do it so...coldly?
Some shuffling from outside the car commenced before the click of a latch rang, the trunk opening to release a wave of bright light. Even from beneath his blindfold daggok winced, the change from the thudding darkness now blinding him even greater than the fabric on his eyes.
The gruffs of two men became more labored as they hauled his big body out of the trunk, the brush against large tusks and warm palms grabbing his thighs made Daggok shiver. A short distance had been made with the sound of a busted creaky door opening, light shifting once more.
Before he knew it, he was thrown to the floor, a flurry of dust rising to clog his throat and pores. The cold of a knife pressed against his temple, fabric ripping against his ear as the blindfold once wrapped so tightly was pulled off like ribbon.
It took a harsh moment for Daggok's dark eyes to adjust, the green of them turning to a muddy brown in the dim light.
"Get up." A rough, tusked voice sounded, a heavy boot pressed against his side.
Daggok could see the male, recognizing him as one of the few orc men his peers revered. He was... tall. It was like a skyscraper staring down at him, broad shoulders and fat tusks glaring with sheer bruteness.
The tied orcling shook with his cheek smoothed against the wood-dusted floor, adrenaline coursing through his thoughts but his feet shaking as they struggled to lift his knees.
But all of a sudden, and without warning, his panicked instinct took over. He bolted to the padlocked door viewable between the shoulders of two orcs. Like a bear stomping through the woods, he lunged toward that swinging door of metal without a forethought.
The grunts of two orcs double his size grabbed the elbows of his arms tied and pressed to his tailbone, lifting him off his hopping feet and pressing against his hot skin. Fat fingers grabbed at his midwaist, soaking in sweat and the hard ripple of his stomach, not quite defined but as solid as an iron bull. He was a weapon to be trifled with, on his way to becoming just as tall and rugged as the forefathers in front of him.
"Lef me--go!" He grumbled through the sheer gag pushed to touch his tongue.
A warm hand was pressed against his teeth like a mouth guard, ring finger between his lips as he tasted salty skin and the threatening but, unphazed look of an orc that was restraining him. He almost whimpered, as shameful as he thought, from how prepotent the leader of the kidnappers was; his boot came to push Daggok's chest, forcing him against the chair with a foot-shaped bruise on his swampy skin. The males leadership was so clear it almost left a bad taste in Daggoks mouth, a distinguished look of scar and missing flesh decorating the older orc as the rest of his brethren watched from the dark, golden eyes shining as they brerudgingly stayed quiet.
"Trying to leave... don't you know what'll become of you if you don't stay?"
Well, his buddy sure didn't tell him that part. He never knew anyone who successfully got away; that just, never seemed like an option. But Daggok knew the warrior wasn't looking for an answer. Still, he muffled through the heated hand gag.
"Coufn't hep it.." He shrugged, relaxing now that he could recognize a few faces from his fellow tribe that he remembered; men he had looked up to since prepubescence.
The orcling didn't really *want* to leave, not if it meant not getting his status like the rest of his peers. But what orc child could help that back-of-the-mind desire to escape his elders who clearly weren't here to play nice?
A silence only broken by the heavy exhales of orcmen and their cigarettes dying left the room quiet for a moment. Waiting. They waited to see what Daggok would do. But he stayed still, as if he had an option between the two breathing down his neck and forcing his hands behind his back.
"You're to stay here for seven days, seven nights.. your brothers are being held elsewhere, and you will not see them. Not until your Garrosh."
Garrosh. The final ceremony. The worst part, and the most gratifying. Daggok could imagine the pain of his lashings after being paraded around town, the suffering and the sensation of freedom as the last one hits him.
The musty air of the basement came back to his plump lips, the hand suffocating them now gone only ro be replaced with a slapping push to his cheek.
"are you listening? Kid, you won't be told this again. Wanna look like an idiot at your ceremony? "
Steel fingers that smelled like pine grabbed his chin, crinkled black eyes only millimeters away from him as they stood watching Daggok shrink away. The fingers pulsated forward, forcing his head to nod no with a tight grip on his jaw.
"That's what I thought."
The leader of the group, probably an industrialist by day, turned around with sweltering muscles lining his spine and girthy neck.
The leader threw an ancient-looking patched robe at Daggok, little rock-like beads lining its V-neckline. The orcling could imagine, it was just like the one each orc who had faced this ritual had worn, when they were carried out on a spit as a gagged masterpiece, or held by a dozen men with unwavering and bulging arms who had taught them their future.
"Put this on. And get up."
------
The next week was a level of hell that Daggok couldn't have possibly imagined in the months that he waited for this kidnapping. His kidnappers, the men who had raised him, lined his back with a hot, searing needle to create the crest of his tribe, one that had existed on every orc who had reached maturity in his town. He witnessed the dark scars that were leftover of orc men in their mid-age, decades having passed since they received their honorary marks and yet still as prevelant and encapsulating as ever. A majority of the week was spent resting, calloused hands occasionally rubbing in a vaseline-like substance to promote healing.
When he wasn't resting, he was put through meaningless trials to prove his worth, himself versus nine others just to withstand an uneven beating, his bare chest pressed against the biceps of an orc much too strong in the pouring rain to increase his strength.
But that seventh night finally came, and with it the eighth day of his ceremony. It was far too early when he was picked up by the scarred and burnt warrior he had come to know far more familiarly within this past week. His arms pulled and pushed each way, a million hands holding up his legs and the wide expanse of his back, fingers clenching his nape as he was hoisted above. The sun barely peaked above the horizon as a crowded footsteps could be heard, silence following him until he and the orcmen had reached a threshold, where the silence was replaced by screams of excitement and congratulation. Like he was told, Daggok remained silent, feeling his hips clenched by his leaders hands, his ankles held securely as he could hear, but not see the sounds of the townspeople of his tribe. The motor of pickup trucks revving from behind and bright yellow torches swaying in his face was a sight he could hardly behold. He was sure his mother was in the crowd of people behind or fronting him, for she would not miss the moment every orcling dreams of when they reach their age of Picking. Their Garrosh. Their warrior ceremony.
Hazy pink sky made his eyes adjust softly to the outside world, which he had not seen during the day for a week. Was it over? His kidnapping, his trial? His markings, still dulled by a pain, were cherishingly held by his fellow tribesmen, those he now held an equal ranking to.
This was it, and finally: he felt an aching pain in his gums, where his tusks had previously only barely peaked from.
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