The morning of the Valentine feast arrives with the kind of crisp winter air that makes every breath visible and turns exposed skin pink within minutes. I wake to the sound of organized chaos—voices calling instructions, the rhythmic thud of axes splitting wood for the massive cooking fires, and underneath it all, Drogath's booming pronouncements about proper ritual preparation.
"The sacred chocolate must be prepared according to ancient tradition!" His voice carries across the entire settlement with the authority of someone who believes completely in his own expertise. "Cupid the Warrior demands sustenance worthy of his blessing!"
I dress quickly and emerge from the longhouse to find the central gathering area transformed into a hive of activity. Tables constructed from planks and barrels line the space, while cooking fires send columns of smoke into the pale sky. The smell of roasting meat mingles with something sweeter—the chocolate preparations that Drogath oversees with religious intensity.
Kai stands near one of the larger fires, his massive frame bent over a spit of venison that he turns with methodicalprecision. Even focused on cooking, he radiates the controlled strength that makes him simultaneously intimidating and oddly comforting. His ice-blue eyes track movement around the gathering area with the awareness of someone who never fully relaxes his guard.
"Saela!" Shae appears beside me with the sudden materialization of someone who's been watching for my arrival. "Perfect timing. We need help with the flower arrangements."
She leads me toward a table covered in pine boughs, winter berries, and what appear to be carefully preserved roses from some previous season's storage. The flowers show brown edges and brittle petals, but Drogath has declared them essential for proper Valentine observance.
"The roses represent blood spilled in devotion," he explains to a group of younger clan members who nod with solemn attention. "Each petal carries the warrior spirit of those who fought to protect their chosen mates."
I bite the inside of my cheek to prevent inappropriate laughter. The earnest reverence with which the Frostfang approach some lost human traditions—which sound entirely wrong—makes mockery impossible, even when their interpretations do not sound like the old culture at all.
"Don't," Shae murmurs beside me, clearly reading my expression. "He spent weeks researching those symbols in whatever human fragments they could find."
"I wasn't going to say anything," I reply, though my voice carries barely suppressed amusement.
We work in comfortable companionship, weaving pine boughs through the dried roses to create centerpieces that manage to look both festive and appropriately winter-hardy. Around us, the festival preparations continue with the organized energy of a community that knows how to work together efficiently.
Falla moves between cooking stations with a healer's precision, tasting broths and adjusting seasonings while dispensing dry commentary about people who don't know the difference between "properly cooked" and "charred beyond recognition." His lean build and tied-back hair give him an almost scholarly appearance until he demonstrates the knife skills that mark him as definitively orcish.
"Ursik!" he calls toward the main fire where Kai's best friend wrestles with what appears to be an entire elk haunch. "That meat needs more time, or you'll be treating half the clan for stomach troubles tomorrow."
"It's fine!" Ursik protests, his loud voice carrying cheerful stubbornness. "Look, it's brown."
"Brown on the outside doesn't mean cooked through, you massive fool."
Their banter draws chuckles from nearby clan members, the kind of affectionate ribbing that speaks to long friendship and mutual respect despite personality differences. I find myself smiling as I listen, caught up in the easy camaraderie that makes this feel less like political obligation and more like... family gathering.
The thought stops me cold. When did I start thinking of Frostfang social dynamics in terms of family? When did these people become more than just temporary shelter providers?
"The sacred patterns must be perfect!" Drogath's voice rises above the general conversation as he directs the placement of red ribbons around the gathering area. "Cupid judges us by our attention to ceremonial detail!"
His dramatic gestures and absolute conviction in the righteousness of his ritual knowledge make him simultaneously ridiculous and endearing. The clan follows his directions with patient tolerance, adjusting ribbon placements and rearranging symbolic elements according to his elaborate specifications.
"Does anyone actually believe his interpretations?" I ask Shae quietly.
"It doesn't matter whether they're accurate," she replies, securing a pine branch with practiced efficiency. "What matters is that they give us reasons to come together, to celebrate survival and community. The specific details are less important than the intention behind them."
Her answer carries wisdom that makes me reconsider my amusement at orcish Valentine traditions. Maybe the point isn't historical accuracy but rather the creation of shared meaning, ways for isolated people to build connections despite harsh circumstances.
Maybe all traditions start as misunderstandings that become truth through collective belief.
"Besides," Shae adds with a conspiratorial smile, "some of us enjoy watching Drogath get worked up about ancient human wisdom. He takes it so seriously."
As if summoned by our conversation, the shaman appears beside our work table with the sudden intensity of someone who's discovered a critical oversight.
"The chocolate preparation requires female supervision," he announces. "Ancient texts clearly indicate that warrior sustenance must be blessed by the gentle hands of potential mates."
I stare at him. "You want me to help make chocolate?"
"Essential for proper ritual observance," he confirms with absolute seriousness. "Cupid's blessing depends on adherence to traditional practices."
The request lands somewhere between amusing and touching. Drogath's complete faith in his research makes participation feel like honoring something important, even if the underlying assumptions bear no resemblance to actual human customs.
"Of course," I agree. "Show me what needs to be done."
