Grit and Dirt

Dorge watches the steam ribbon up from his mug and sighs. This wasn't exactly what he had in mind when the orcs told him they'd show him the way. Not that he was complaining, the hot mead was going a long way toward working the stiffness out of his arms and legs, doing wonders for his mood, too.
He is sitting on the ground in front of a fire, pretty well dead center of an orc village. He didn't remember seeing it on any maps but some maps were better than others. The best maps weren't strung up behind the bars of taverns. The maps that have any real information on them can usually only be read by candlelight or sword tip.
The orcs sitting around him are making fun of him again, but it feels pretty good-natured. The one that had ran up on him in the forest, Dorge thinks of him as Hunter, keeps making a goofy shocked face that Dorge can only assume is him retelling, over and over, the look on his face when the other three orcs joined the party.
There had been times when if felt like Dorge should tell them his name, and get their's too, but anytime he tried he was waved off. This felt like a we-don't-want-to-know-our-food's-name kind of scenario, but Hunter told him later that names are gifts, and you only give gifts to friends. Well, Dorge thinks that was the gist of it, but he had nodded and shut up.
Now one of the lower-case hunters is putting a blanket around Dorge and clapping his shoulders. He doesn't know if this is a show of hospitality or a reminder of just how fucked he is if things go south, solid chance it's both. His mug is taken and the cooled mead at the bottom is thrown out, the mug refilled. There seems to be some test among them of who can drink it the hottest, but Dorge doesn't want his tongue to be as scorched as his senses.
His companions become quiet and Hunter asks him a question, wanting him to retell how it was he was in that part of the forest, anyways. This might be the third time Dorge has told the story about the Paladin but the circle around the fire keeps getting bigger. They'll probably go dig the elders out of the crypt next to make sure they hear it, too. The thought of this makes Dorge bark out a laugh that he covers with a cough; that damn mead, it's probably the strongest he's ever had. Except maybe that one time with Hadel ren Mayver. That guy probably deserves a footnote somewhere.
Eventually he gets to the part in the story when he unwraps his bandage and shows the wound on his hand, which always gets a few appreciative grunts, but this time one of the women breaks the circle and takes his hand. He can't very well resist, as she thrusts her thumb into his wrist, forcing him to open his palm wide. She strips the dirty wrap from his hand and spits some poultice onto his wound, he might meta-throw-up in his mouth but Dorge the Warrior firms up and takes it. A second woman takes his hand now and wraps a clean white bandage around it expertly then grins and slaps his face. When they move away Dorge sees that the rest of the circle are watching him intently, and seeing the blush of red on his cheek from the slap the surrounding mugs are lifted and an orc "hurrah" ripples through. Dorge isn't so lacking in his Diplomacy skill that he doesn't lift his mug and take a deep drink, too.
Hunter gives everyone a look, smiling, Dorge thinks he says something along the lines of, "See? I told'ja so." in Orcish but can't be sure.
Then Hunter levels his gaze to Dorge and says, "We like your story. We don't believe your story."
To which Dorge opens his mouth to protest, but Hunter waves his hand, "We listen to many stories. Big stories, some. Elders...ver't canlode?"
Dorge squints into the fire, "The elders 'smell my flesh'?" then looks back to Hunter, "The elders think I'm telling the truth?"
Hunter nods but frowns, "Yes. So, we sent boys to find your relics."
At this Hunter tilts his chin and two younger orcs step forward, the shorter of the two carrying a package. He holds the flimsy box out to Dorge and lets it drop into his hands before he can quite get a grip on it. The boys don't like him, or at least the feel the need to show their asses. Some things are true among all races.
In his lap is not the sack full of relics Dorge buried off the Hurry. It's some old rectangular box, warped and faded white. He doesn't know what it is. He sets the mug down and lets his fingers trace down the corners, looking up at Hunter and then the rest. He doesn't know if he's participating in some ritual or being otherwise tested, but he doesn't think so.
Dorge gently pulls the lid from the box, grit and dirt falling away, revealing soft tissue paper, white and red. He bites his lip, forcing the mead fog from his brain. He pulls the tissue paper back and underneath is a tiny shirt and pair of leggings, each sporting a patch of a winking white cat with the words HELLO KITTY underneath. His fingers go numb and his mouth is open, trying to make sense of what he's holding.
He had seen these things before. Only once before, a long time ago. His shoulders ache as the full weight of the darkest part of the Venn diagram bears down on him. "Wh-," he starts, and stops.
She had bought this outfit for his oldest daughter one Christmas. He had been proud of her because it was just a simple gift. It wasn't practical, really, it was just something for the fun of it. And he had thrown it away. He had thrown it out with the rest of the recycling because he'd been too lazy to look in all the boxes to see if there were anything left in them when they were cleaning up. They both had looked for that cute, fun little outfit for a long time before he'd realized what he'd done. She had probably known what he had done long before but kept quiet as a kindness.
And now here it was on his lap, never worn, brand new, still. He looks up, the fire blurred, "This isn't what I buried. This isn't the relics."
Hunter shakes his head, "I know. But still yours? Still important for you?"
Dorge nods, running a finger down the soft material, "Yes."
Hunter nods and drinks from his mug, "Adver said it would be."