Chapter 25 Forla
FORLA
Iwake to gray morning light filtering through cottage windows, wrapped in warmth and the lingering scent of our lovemaking. Thoktar sleeps beside me, his massive chest rising and falling in steady rhythm, one arm still draped protectively across my waist even in unconsciousness.
For the first time in weeks, I feel truly rested. The bed is everything Anchor promised—soft mattress, clean sheets that smell of lavender instead of fear and blood. My body aches in the most pleasant way, muscles loose and satisfied from our night of desperate passion.
But something feels different in the daylight. The cottage that seemed so welcoming last night now feels... watched. Shadows linger in corners where they shouldn't, and every creak of the settling timber sounds deliberate, purposeful.
Where is Anchor? His boots are gone from beside the door, but he left no note, no indication of when he might return. The fire has burned low, and the silence feels heavy, oppressive.
I slip from beneath Thoktar's arm, not wanting to wake him. He needs rest after everything we've endured, and something draws me toward the village below. A need to understand this place in daylight, to see what Penmorvah looks like when its people aren't hiding behind shuttered windows.
I dress quietly and step outside into cool morning air that tastes of salt and something else—something organic and slightly rotten, like seaweed left too long in the sun.
The village spreads below me, its crooked streets already showing signs of life. Fisher People move between buildings with that same unsettling fluid grace, but their movements seem more coordinated now, more purposeful. Like dancers following choreography I can't hear.
I make my way down the winding path, drawn by curiosity and growing unease.
The morning light reveals details I missed yesterday—symbols carved into doorframes, arrangements of shells and fish bones that follow patterns too complex to be random.
Everything has meaning here, purpose beyond mere decoration.
The sound reaches me first—voices raised in excitement, the kind of crowd noise that suggests spectacle or commerce. Following the sound, I find myself at what must be Penmorvah's market square, though it's unlike any market I've ever seen.
Stalls line the circular plaza, but instead of selling fish or bread or tools, they offer stranger wares. Bottles filled with seawater that moves without being shaken. Nets woven from what looks like human hair. Carved bones arranged in patterns that hurt to look at directly.
And in the center, surrounded by an eager crowd of Fisher People, a familiar figure holds court.
Anchor.
He's set up an easel and several wooden panels, displaying what appear to be paintings to his rapt audience. The Fisher People lean forward with obvious fascination, their pale eyes bright with interest as they examine his work.
"Exquisite detail," one of them murmurs in that hollow shell-voice. "You captured the beast's rutting perfectly."
"The female's submission is particularly well-rendered," another adds. "See how her back arches? Classic breeding posture."
My blood turns to ice. I push closer through the crowd, dread building in my chest like a physical weight. The Fisher People part before me without seeming to notice, too absorbed in their examination of—
Oh gods.
The paintings are of us. Of Thoktar and me. Last night. Every intimate moment, every passionate embrace, every private touch rendered in vivid, detailed oils. Multiple canvases showing different angles, different positions, like he'd been studying us from every possible vantage point.
My hands fly to my mouth, stifling the scream that wants to tear free. The level of detail is impossible unless... unless he'd been watching. The entire time. Every kiss, every caress, every whispered endearment—all of it performed for an audience of one perverted artist.
"Magnificent specimens," a Fisher Person observes, pointing to a particularly explicit canvas. "The size differential is remarkable. And the orc's... equipment... is as impressive as the old stories claimed."
"The interspecies mating rituals are fascinating," another agrees. "I'll take the one where she's on top—for my collection of dominant female behaviors."
They're buying them. The Fisher People are purchasing paintings of our most intimate moments like they're scientific specimens, ethnographic studies of exotic animals in captivity.
"Ah, my dear!"
Anchor's voice cuts through my horror like a blade. He's spotted me in the crowd, and his face breaks into that same charming grin that fooled us so completely last night. But now I see it clearly—the predator's satisfaction, the voyeur's gleeful triumph.
"I was hoping you'd see these," he says, gesturing proudly at his collection. "Some of my finest work, I think. The lighting was challenging—had to work mostly from memory after watching through the windows—but I believe I captured the essence beautifully."
The crowd turns to stare at me with those pale, hungry eyes. Some smile with their needle teeth, others nod approval as if I'm livestock that's performed to expectations.
"You watched us," I whisper, my voice barely audible over the roaring in my ears.
"Naturally! How else could I document such rare behavior?" Anchor's expression suggests I've asked something absurd. "Outsider mating rituals are endlessly fascinating. The way you moved together, the sounds you made—pure poetry in motion."
"You sick bastard—"
"Sick? My dear girl, I'm a scientist! An artist!
Do you think the great naturalists of history apologized for observing animals in their natural habitat?
" His grin widens, showing too many teeth.
"You provided invaluable data on interspecies reproduction.
The Fisher People have been studying such things for generations. "
One of the buyers holds up a canvas depicting me in Thoktar's arms, our faces twisted in passion. "This one shows the moment of climax beautifully. See how the orc's tusks elongate during peak arousal? Fascinating adaptation."
The market square spins around me. These people—these creatures—don't see us as individuals, as people with feelings and dignity. We're specimens. Animals to be observed, documented, studied like insects under glass.
"The breeding pair should be honored," another Fisher Person observes. "Their contribution to knowledge is invaluable."
"Indeed," Anchor nods sagely. "Though I do hope they'll provide more opportunities for observation. I'd love to document the full reproductive cycle, perhaps study pregnancy behaviors if fertilization occurred."
The casual way he discusses our potential children—as if they'd be his property to examine and catalog—snaps something inside me. Rage floods my system, hot and clean and absolutely focused.
But I can't attack him here. Can't reveal my horror and fury to this crowd of monsters who see nothing wrong with violating our privacy, our dignity, our basic humanity. They're all complicit in this violation, all part of whatever wrong thing governs this cursed place.
"I... I need to get back," I manage, backing away from the market stall. "Thoktar will be worried."
"Of course! Give him my regards," Anchor calls cheerfully. "And do let me know if you'll be engaging in any more... activities. I have several commissions already, and fresh material would be most welcome."
The Fisher People laugh—a sound like waves breaking over bone. Several wave goodbye with fingers that bend in too many directions, clearly delighted by their morning's entertainment.
I turn and run.
The village streets blur past as I race back toward the cottage, my heart hammering against my ribs. Behind me, I can hear the market continuing its business, voices discussing the "breeding behaviors of surface dwellers" like we're exotic birds in some naturalist's journal.
We have to leave. Now. Before they decide to observe us more closely, before their scientific curiosity leads to even worse violations. The Fisher People aren't just strange—they're completely inhuman in their thinking, their values, their basic understanding of what's acceptable behavior.
Anchor's cottage looms ahead, no longer a sanctuary but a trap baited with false comfort. How many others has he lured in with promises of safety? How many travelers have become subjects for his revolting art?
I burst through the cottage door, gasping for breath and fighting down nausea.
"Thoktar!" I call, my voice cracking with urgency. "We have to go! We have to leave right now!"
Because if we don't, if we stay even one more hour in this place, I'm terrified of what other scientific observations the Fisher People might want to conduct on their captive breeding pair.