He didn't go to bed. Instead, he lay a cup of water on a stool int he middle of his room. He was on his knees, keeping his head bowed towards a small statue of a warrior in the corner. The statue itself looked maniacal to most people: it depicted a creature holding a giant axe with a hideous bare-toothed roar on its face.
To him, it was not only divine, but a reflection of the divinity within himself. He reached down slowly-- almost as if reaching down to pet an animal-- and took a small satchel from his hip, and brought it up to the table.
The single candle in the corner flickered, a jagged, valleyed scars shimmered on his chest.
He slowly unwound the satchel, and tapped the ashen material inside into the cup. Immediately, the watter hissed and roiled like an angry snake, bubling as if a fire had been put underneath it.
The orc grasped the cup in his hands with the softest tips of his fingertips.
"May I be in solitude, that I become in your eyes a saint," he said to the statue, not daring to look at it. "To the pariahed lord-- My debt..."
His eyes cast down to the unearthly two handed warhammer int he corner, before flickering back. "My debt shall never be forgotten."
He drank from the cup, then set it back down.
He sat in silence for the rest of the night as pain in every nerve and fiber in his being burned like an inferno, and said nothing.