CHAPTER 2 — Impulse Buys #2
“That’s right,” she confirms, like this is no big deal.
“You will be joining with Roarg Hammerfist. Here’s our house,” she announces proudly, just as the trees open up and a large and sturdy stone and metal dwelling appears, stealing all my attention.
It’s a Zakopane-style home straight out of a storybook: basically a Swiss chalet with serious Art Nouveau tones thanks to whimsical wood carved accents and metal vines that sinuously curve up the sides of the house, framing huge bay windows and a grand front entrance.
...And Namak?ga is all patience—and amusement—as I gape up at it. “Could you be a helpful sister and get the door for me?”
Stunned into silence, I dumbly reach for the door with the hand that is not tied to hers, and grab the decorative brass handle of a very big oak door.
Its planks are stained dark, strapped and fitted with heavy black iron hinges.
I expect to have to really heave it open, but to my surprise, it swings inward soundlessly, revealing…
I suck in a breath, my eyes bugging out of my head.
I’m a bit of a forest architecture nerd, and one of my very favorite styles is called cruck framing, where crooked trees are riven and made into A-frames that form the roof and sides of a house. And this Orc house? This house is cruck frame porn.
Cobbleblock tree rounds are under our feet, each smooth-topped end chunk of a log laid solidly into the floor to be worn (and already worn) by untold feet.
Judging by the rings and sheer size of them, a great number of their years were spent growing in a forest. Probably in this very forest the house is hidden by.
One wall of the kitchen is entirely devoted to a fireplace, where a gargantuan ship timber supported by thick posts is anchored to the wall by metal straps and mortared stone.
The other has a table with a small bench and chairs.
Counters and cupboards are beyond it, and pots and cookery items hang from the walls everywhere I look.
And separating the kitchen from what is—I can see from here—a great room, is a hammerbeam truss entrance to die for.
I should know. I’m not an expert or anything, but I happen to have a Pinterest board devoted to hammer trusses and a major addiction for filling the folder with pics.
A heavy iron tie rod stretches from post to post on the hammerbeams, the center bearing some kind of ornate crest depicting a brawny Orc wielding a hammer.
Just… wow.
“My gosh,” I gasp, awed. My eyes slowly trace the wooden cruck blades, the struts, the purlins, the rafters—and then my gaze follows the heavy ridge beam that supports the peak of the roof. “This is crazy. This is my dreamhouse,” I moan.
Namak?ga chuckles behind me and kicks me in the calf to urge me forward. “That’s excellent news, since you’re joining our household. Move, girl.”
Grimacing at her statement, I still obey, stepping into a homey, tidy kitchen.
A surprisingly spacious U-shaped kitchen, with red cedar and white pine-colored planks everywhere, from the floor to the walls, to the thick butcher-block counters.
Little shelves are fashioned everywhere, creating endless nooks of various sizes for a variety of everything from hairy herb-looking plants to trailing green vines with colorful flowers.
It smells like spices and sweets—pleasant scents that get deeply disrupted as Namak?ga sweeps me in ahead of her, choking me with a strong whiff of her creepy fish.
When I cough, Namak?ga gives me a sharp look. “Please tell me you aren’t ill.”
“No! I just—” I wave to her fish. “That reeks.”
She glances at the fish sticking to her dress. “Wait ‘til it’s cooked. This is nothing.”
I shudder.
An Amazonian form enters the kitchen, drawn to us at a slow pace as if she’s in disbelief of something. And she’s looking at me.
It’s another Orc lady. Two silver shields sit below her shoulders, attaching fox-colored straps to an overdress of the same fall-leaf orange shade.
Her stomach bows out like she’s as pregnant as Namak?ga, which could lead the average observer to the concerning conclusion that pregnancy is a common side effect of marrying an Orc husband.
An array of necklaces decorates her breastbone, and like Namak?ga’s, the ‘beads’ dangling from the silver metal chains look alarmingly like human bones and, worse, humanoid skulls.
Her hair is a thousand tightly woven braids tied back to form a massive topknot, all of them as green as her skin is—darker, actually—and she has a wide black tattoo that sits between her bottom tusks—of which, she has four—running from her lip down to the bottom edge of her sharp chin.
Two swaths of black also pattern her forehead, tracing jagged lines down to her cheekbones before streaking back toward her slightly pointy ears.
They’re pierced with what looks confusingly like Orc tusks.
Her eyes are dark, and so is her scowl, which drops heavier and heavier over her face the longer she stares at me.
She transfers the glare to Namak?ga. “What in the emerald forge is this?” She makes a cutting gesture with her hand—at me.
Namak?ga smiles at her brightly, showing all of her very sharp teeth. “This is Stephanie, our new sisterwife.”
“Sisterwhat?” I squeak.
I’m not sure why the mere word spikes my heartrate—not when I’ve already been warned that I’m being dragged into some sort of freaky, Middle Earth poly situation. And yet here I am, hand slapping over my heart to keep it from pounding out of my chest. A freakin’ sisterwife?!
Something thuds loudly in the next room, followed by swift footfalls—and then a third Orc woman is pushing her way into the kitchen, which feels like it’s getting progressively smaller for every Orc that’s joined us.
This one’s face is tattooed too: creamy V-shapes drawn under each eye, and two creamy fawn-colored dots draw attention to her dark eyelashes.
Freckles dot her sage-toned skin, and her arms are bare, the muscle and strength of them shown off thanks to the sleeveless marigold tunic she’s sporting.
Her hair is parted into two fat braids, which she’s pulled in front of her so they frame her ample bosom.
Her earlobes are pierced, and jutting out of the holes are fangs bigger than the tusks coming up from her bottom lip.
A full skirt dyed a deep burnt sienna brown ends above her ankles (both of them bearing sparkly metal chains), showing off feet tipped with trimmed claws the color of basil leaves.
“Oh, thank the Eternal!” she exclaims. “Roarg has been hugging me lately in a way that I know means more than appreciation for me pushing out his brat.”
The second Orc, the scowling one, widens her eyes at the speaker. “Don’t you think it’s a little premature to thank the Eternal? We don’t even know what this—this—” she struggles to describe me and turns to Namak?ga.
“She’s a human,” Namak?ga supplies. She slaps the fish down on a countertop and starts plucking at the jute rope connecting our still-tethered wrists. When her end is freed, she waddles to a cupboard, where she stores the heavy burlap sack.
I start yanking at the knot on mine, working to free myself from the cord.
“We don’t even know what this human is,” the scowling Orc finishes, saying human like I’d say dogshit.
“I like your dress,” I tell her. “And your set of double tusks are pretty.”
They are. It’s weird, but they are. And sometimes saying something genuinely nice diffuses conflict before it can get a good brew on. I tend to run from conflict, so I’m very hopeful this works.
Her lips (the same shade of green as dill pickles) part like she’s going to say something, but nothing comes out. Perhaps the compliments knocked her speechless, and I am so fine with that being the case.
I turn to the third Orc, the one sending thanks for me being here. “Your ankle bracelets are epic. Did you make them?”
She smiles at me. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard jewelry referred to as ‘epic’ before, but I’ll accept that compliment on behalf of our talented husband, who made them for me. My, I like you already.”
“Umm, thanks. Look, I’m only here by accident, and I need to go—”
Namak?ga takes me by the arm, leaving sticky fish goo on me, dragging me to the door we used to gain entry here, and she pauses us only long enough to slam the door closed.
Blocking off my chance at escape.
She hauls me further into the kitchen, saying, “Time for introductions, then we bathe you. Then we make supper. Stephanie, this,” she points to the scowling Orc, “is Ulda.”
Oh yeah, Angry Face looks like an Ulda.
“This is Joktepitha,” Namak?ga says, gesturing to the friendlier Orc. “Ladies, this is our new sisterwife, Stephanie.”
“About that,” I wheeze-gasp. Every time I hear the word, I lose my breath and see spots like I might pass out. “I thank you, but no thank you.” My eyes fly to each of them. “Seriously though. You all share a husband? All of you?”
“And,” Namak?ga continues, ignoring my horror and glancing at something on the wall made of bones and wood—a primitive clock, I realize as she finishes, “we have just enough time to wash the travel dust off of her and get her into her own kirtle and hangerok before Roarg gets home.”
“What’s a kirtle and a hangerok?” I ask warily.
“A dress,” Joktepitha answers, sweeping forward and wrapping her arm around my shoulders, beginning to urge me deeper inside the house. Into the great room and main living area I find myself ushered, and in here, heavy timbers bear iron joints and forged accents that make my mouth water.
In the middle of the room is the biggest log I’ve ever seen. It’s a debarked redwood tree, basically, and it’s been hewn into a bench. Homespun pillows and padded cushions look like they do their best to soften the rustic seating option, but not by a lot, I bet. Still, it’s cool as heck.