The dark, inky green flesh of the orc warlord shifted over taut muscle as his hand trailed down, coal black talons, sharp as steel blades, brushing lightly over the elven woman's throat, feeling the dance of her pulse beneath her flawless flesh. Long, powerful fingers wrapped around her neck, grasping her as easily as she would a willow wand, the grasp firm but not quite constricting, yet there was no doubt at all that he could snap her neck or choke the life from her without effort at all. "You speak from fear, little one." She rose, his arm outstretched, lifting her until she dangled on the tips of her toes, his head craned down to look at her.<br/><br/>Eyes the colour of polished amber, divided by slitted black pupils, peered at her, turning her head this way and that, like an antiquarian appraising a rare find, his dark lips tugging into a harsh smirk, baring more of his yellowed tusks and fangs. "Everyone fears me. It is the way of things. You are a pet, or a brood mare." His shaggy black mane tossed as he turned to look at the outburst, grinning as his favoured pet cast forth her accusation, his body shaking as he loosed a deep, harsh, barking that was clearly laughter. He cast the broken elf a glance out of the corner of his eye, his voice purringly menacing, and unmistakably mocking. "You shall become like Doshvin, in time. Your kind become addicted to submission." She was, quite unceremoniously, dropped to her feet, and he turned, barking in his native tongue to a nearby orc, who bustled off at once.<br/><br/>With an easy swagger, his rough leather kilt swaying around his powerful legs, he walked to his forlorn pet, reaching out to offer her the palm of his hand, as one would to a dog or a horse, offering her the chance to nuzzle into his touch. He was a cruel beast, as was his nature, but he cared for his pets, his boars, his hunting hounds, and his elven maidens. While the runner went to fetch a tonic from the shaman, he thought to amuse himself, slowly winding his pet's chain around his gnarled, scarred fist, an indication that she was to be led. Looking back over his shoulder to Shaelee, he growled, even his mocking humour forgotten. "Follow. I have yet to decide if you are worth the keeping."<br/><br/>The orcs were a hardy race, rarely ill, needing only medicine for the direst of wounds, stoic in the face of agony and injury, and able to survive on almost any nourishment. Though they were infamous for their loathing of bathing, they had no hatred of water, and even the most conservative orc ended up taking a swim from time to time. The hot springs near to the camp had once been a shrine to some god or another, but the orcs had little appreciation for them, reserving them for the shaman's use, or when they needed to tend an injury. The harsh, sulphurous scent wafted upwards as he led the two down into the darkness, dispelled only when he took a torch from a rack on the side of the wall, and a guttering light soon cast a small ring of illumination against the darkness.<br/><br/>Once, the line of pilgrims had stretched out beyond the mouth of the cave, but they were alone, excepting the few things that scuttled in the darkness, and the orc left the torch in a rusted steel ring long set into the wall, kicking off his boots and shucking his kilt. The shackles were unlatched from Doshvin's wrists, not out of kindness to be sure that they did not rust, and he set them aside, climbing into the water. "What use are you to me, creature? Do I need another fuck toy?" It was a challenge, of course, as he stared at Shaelee, sitting with his back to the pool's edge, the hot, bubbling water rising up halfway along his chest, a hand held outstretched towards Doshvin, unspoken permission for her to go to him. "Come here, perhaps you can learn a lesson from my Doshvin on how you should behave. It may save your life."