Nurnen is humid, hot; miserably thick and wet air that clings to armor and skin alike. Most uruks need to shed some weight to avoid painful chafing and more dangerous overheating. Most complain of the uncomfortable air, but Takra could hardly care less. Whether it be rain, snow or shine, cold and wet or dry and hot, he merely shrugged unneeded layers off or back on again with little complaint. The show must go on, regardless of how comfortable or uncomfortable he and his fellow performers may be. 

   Takra had to take everyone’s comfort into account. How restless is the crowd? Can he recapture their attention in time? Does he need backup? His green eyes flicked lazily through the crowd as he leaned on a nearby stone wall. Shifting ferals sitting in a tight knit group. A warmonger captain clearly debating on taking his cumbersome armour off. Two uruks from the dark tribe standing opposite of the crowd gathered in the center of the ruins, speaking in hushed tones. And three uruks clad in thick, black cloaks- most likely from the mystic tribe- looking rather uncomfortable, indeed. Takra never understood those mystics; always wearing things inappropriate for the occasion and being all around weird. But they were paying customers, and he wasn’t being paid to judge them too harshly…

   Two of the older lads in black began to shed their layers in an annoyed huff. It was amusing to see how their hair stuck to their faces and necks, and even more amusing watching the tallest of the lot clearly be stubborn about taking his own cloak off. Now Takra was interested in how this would play out. He had some time to kill before he had to perform, so why not see if this high and mighty uruk caves in and stoops to the rest’s level…?

   He desperately wanted to. Takra notes how he shifts from foot to foot, fingers twitching and fiddling with the hem of his cloak. One of the shorter mystic boys elbows him sharply in the ribs, saying something to the effect of : “Quit being an idiot and take the damn thing off already!” Oh? This is a common occurrence? This big, strapping lad doesn’t like taking off his clothing, hmm? It was amusing watching him go through the motions, clearly wanting to take it off, but stopping just short of actually moving to do so. Why wouldn’t he take it off…? Perhaps he is disfigured? Or is he shy? He was becoming distracted, distant. Staring off just to the side, away from the hustle and bustle of the ruins. Not big on crowds, I see. Mystics rarely were, it would seem, as most preferred more… relaxed and quiet settings. The tall lad’s other companion, still shorter than he is, grabs the back of his hood, roughly yanking it down and- O-Oh…

   Thick, black hair tumbles out from underneath the hood, sticking out this way and that in a messing and too loose braid. Though his face was mostly hidden by the hair that was sticking to his sweat covered face, Takra could see the vague outline of his features: the underside of his sharp eyes, highish cheekbones that still held some softness to them, black paint that was smudged from overexertion, all framed by a lovely strong jaw… Takra was pleasantly surprised. This lad was quite handsome, indeed. Why is he hiding underneath all that clothing, then…? He had an itch to go speak with him; Takra needed a better look, needed to hear his voice and learn his name… 

~~~

   His lips were chapped from his teeth constantly worrying and tearing at its tender skin. There was little tact in the kiss, for it was clumsy, if not a bit shy. Had he truly never done this before…? The thought set Takra’s heart ablaze. This uruk- Hûra, he was told- was heads and shoulders taller than he was, but he allowed the much shorter uruk to lead him astray from his companions. Takra was truly taken by how handsome Hûra was, even as close as he was pressed against him. He tangled his slender fingers into long, soft black locks. This lad took remarkably good care of himself, for being as recluse as he first seemed. Perhaps a bit vain, even, with claws long and sharp, stained shiny black and polished and filed down precisely as they were. Takra was a bit vain, himself, with his silly obsession with pitch black feathers and shiny, golden things. He had the urge to give this uruk something, a small little keepsake to remember him by. The thought of being forgotten never bothered Takra, but for whatever reason, he couldn’t bear the thought that he would fade Hûra’s memory… A first kiss wasn’t the only thing that Hûra received that day; he was also gifted a small token, a simple golden necklace that had a few interesting charms woven into it. It clearly was important to the bard, and to be gifted it so openly and with a smile that reached well past his eyes…? Hûra couldn’t help but to kiss him again. And again. And again… and again-

~~~

   Hûra has fled his clan, and is now drifting from place to place. It has been many years- decades, even- since he’s seen a certain bard, though he has never once forgotten the way that he made him feel. In Cirith Ungol, at an outpost, there is singing and merry making. Hûra slips in unnoticed, merely wanting to dry himself off from the rain pouring down outside the large caverns.

   An uruk is singing, and Hûra can't stop his heart from skipping a beat. He has prayed to an unknown force for so long to be reunited with his bard… But, no, Hûra thinks. Surely this couldn’t be him-

   Upon listening more closely to the song being sung, not only is the voice familiar, but the song itself seems to be painting a rather vivid picture of the uruk that would be assumed to be the bard’s “muse” . One that seemed all too familiar to Hûra…

   The realization would come swiftly and rather painfully. Hûra’s heart leaps into his throat, his blood pounds in his ears and though he feels faint, he stands far too quickly for his own good, nearly causing a fight to break out among those seated around him. He knows that he isn’t hiding his emotions at all, but he doesn’t care. He needs to know if this is really him- if this is truly Takra…

   Standing to the side but close enough to still be seen, Hûra studies the bard singing intensely. Shorter stature, light orange skin, light brown hair that reaches just past his shoulders, feathers woven into his garb- Emotions Hûra hasn’t felt in many, many years overtake him at once. He nearly collapses from their intensity, catching the eye of Takra who is still performing. He flashes that smile of his, the large one where Hûra can see it reaches past his eyes and deep into his heart.