Moonstruck

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It was night. The moon shone out over the land, bathing everything in a pale light. Upon the coast, a grouping of various tribal icons stood to welcome the rising tide as it washed over them. Next to the icons, a lone stake was affixed in the earth - shackled upon it, a limp figure clad in rags and sores. Consciousness slowly returned to the figure.

From famished gut and parched throat, a guttural groan escaped cracked lips. The familiar ache of wounds slowly reacquainted themselves with the stirring orc. Particularly sharp was a sore upon his shoulder - he attempted to move a weak arm to soothe the searing wound, but it was restrained somehow. Ah! The orc remembered being bound. But when? Perhaps earlier in the day; perhaps a thousand years ago. Either seemed as likely as one another.

His ears pricked up. As inescapable as his bonds was the roaring and rolling of some nearby tide. The waters let out a low growl as it slowly mustered and amassed volume, before propelling itself upon the coast with a zealous splash. The bombardment of wave upon rock continued and continued, an endless battle that would not end until the coast was ground to dust or the sea bled dry. Either seemed as unlikely as one another.

As the waves continued to roll back and forth, the orc’s thoughts likewise assumed a metronomic constancy of rhythm. Where am I? An ambush! Run, go! Where am I? Fate has entwined our paths once more. Where am I? Fate be a cruel bitch, just like yourself. Where am I? Information? I just want to make you scream. Where am I? Accursed beasts! Never-mind the bastard! Make back for camp with your lives! Where am I? Ya make good offerin’ ta waves, metink.

Where am I? That was a good question, as a matter of fact. The orc thought it deserved an answer. Dry eyelids scraped open to reveal the dull lustre of the inflamed eyes beneath. With strained effort, the beady bloodshot irises within were dragged from side to side. To the left, a black sea of roaring waves. To the right, some manner of statue or icon. The crimson eyes narrowed, the irises attempting to focus on the grim stone monument. Its origin and purpose were indiscernible in the depths of night. Or brain-damage had rendered the orc incapable of identifying simple objects. Either seemed as likely as one another.

The eyes’ raw flesh continued the round-trip of the orc’s surroundings. Below, tightly-knotted rope. Rags clothing a gaunt frame covered in filth and wracked in bruises. Above... a pale moon out to-night. Delightful, the orc mused morosely. Another roar! What was it? The waves, perhaps - a repeat offender, the orc admitted. Or the roar of his captors - judging by his poor state, it seemed possible they were of a roaring sort, he reasoned. The orc couldn’t blame them necessarily - most enjoy a rather good roar now and then, himself included. But it was night, and no doubt others would be trying to sleep - they could do without the sleep disruption. As the delirious orc noted, it was always important to be a courteous host to whichever gravely-wounded, dirt-covered prisoners one might be keeping. So perhaps it wasn’t the waves or his host. Perhaps a third suspect. Each seemed as likely as one another.

The roaring was a nuisance, but there were more important matters afoot. The orc let out a wearied, broken wheeze. He had abandoned them all. His pack, his friends, his sister, his mate and his daughter. It was his fault. Clearing his throat gruffly, he corrected himself - he had been taken captive, and his current state was not a matter of choice. The orc then disagreed with himself, accusing himself of not knowing the truth of the matter. In retort, he claimed that if he wasn’t so concerned with petty self-recriminations, he could have escaped by now. After a lengthy profanity-laden argument, he had to agree to disagree with himself.

The eyelids scraped shut and another pained groan emanated deep from within. There was a sharp throbbing in the orc’s head. It was no mere throbbing, the orc noted, but rather the kind of throbbing that would throb throbbingly as it throbbed. The orc took a moment aside to bemoan his dwindling powers of articulation. Indeed, the prior remark seemed hardly grammatically correct, and for one whose life dangled on a thread at the mercy of cruel captors, grammatical consistency was an inviolable law. Priorities must be observed, the orc emphatically stated to himself. His own logic was iron-clad. Iron-clad - that was a good one. Indeed, he had conducted himself with the appropriate decorum and etiquette for one bound in iron. Or rope. Was it not iron? It was rope, definitely. Perhaps it was both. Perhaps it was neither at all. Each seemed as likely as one another.

The world slowly span about, causing a wave of sickening nausea to descend upon the orc. Clearing his dry throat with a sickening squelch, the orc choked out a desperate complaint to no-one in particular. Heretofore and hitherto he had not complained about his poor state of affairs, he intoned hoarsely. He had been deprived of food and water for Grom knows how long, carried this way and that way, gagged and blindfolded, kicked and beaten around. And yet he had taken all of it in stride when others would have lodged formal protest! For even an orc like himself, he proclaimed, this spinning was too far! Or was it not far enough? Perhaps it was just far enough, give or take a little. All seemed as likely as one another.

I am losing my mind, the orc calmly noted to himself. After thinking it over, he agreed with himself. And sensing a consensus, he agreed with himself agreeing with himself. The motion was carried and the result recorded in memory’s annals for posterity.

The crazed orc continued to babble incoherently to himself. The moon’s pale light shone on.

((TL;DR: Sadok has been taken captive for three weeks now. Afflicted with thirst, hunger and guilt, he has gone utterly mad.))

((Aww. Poor Sadok.

((Poor Sadok indeed. I wonder why his shoulder is so sore.... *whistles innocently while looking above* ))