CHAPTER 21 — END GAME
STEPHANIE
Roarg really did ask around about plumbing, and he was very pleased to learn that there are Elves who know how to install rudimentary piping.
He’s moving forward with the household’s upgrade and I’m not the only one excited about it; everyone is intrigued at the idea that we won’t have to pump well water for everyone’s indoor needs anymore.
But a flushing toilet is a thing that won’t happen just yet. Instead, Roarg upgraded to an Elven-designed composting toilet. It’s not bad. Let me say that another way: it isn’t an outhouse with silverfish and spiders trying constantly to set up shop in it, and huzzah for that.
As crazy as it sounds, I’m really, truly, honestly happy living as a Hammerfist. Things are very simple in Ogemaw by the Sea. Simple, and… good. I have built-in friends in the women I share my man with, and I have a husband who treats me like I’m his treasure.
The only thing that bothers me is my concern for Esther and Lisa.
Roarg tracked down Esther’s Dire Wolf for an update, and the wolf said Lisa’s been found and she’s doing well.
He confirmed that his Esther is happy. That part is good.
But concerningly, he admitted to some unrest that’s prevented Esther from visiting.
He assured Roarg that they’ll have the issues sorted out soon, and the wolf told Roarg to tell me that Esther is looking forward to visiting me.
I’m really looking forward to visiting with her too.
Namak?ga delivered a baby boy a few weeks ago. Snabazkur is his name, and both he and his momma are doing well.
Ulda has really relaxed. She’s still as serious as ever, but she isn’t snappy and short-tempered like she used to be. Some of her attitude was me bugging her when I first arrived here, but a lot of it was… pain. She was in a lot of pain.
But she’s doing good now. And Opkug is her girl, even if she isn’t her daughter by blood.
Joktepitha is still a scary woman, so perfectly carefree and easy-going that you’d never guess she’s a seasoned killer. (Thank God she likes me—and she’s not supposed to ever kill me on account of Roarg making her make a solemn vow that she’d never kill me.)
Crushosh is growing bigger every day. He’ll have a friend in his little half-brother someday, and everybody’s looking forward to it.
At the rate they’re growing, they’re going to be bigger than their older sister by the spring.
It’s going to be cute as heck to watch Opkug interact with them as they mature.
I mean, she’s been raised primarily by Ulda—this girl isn’t going to sit back and take anybody’s shit, let alone from her little brothers.
I smile to myself just thinking about it, and my hand creeps to my belly. To the little pumpkin sprout I suspect is growing inside of it.
“Oh no,” Roarg groans, covering his eyes with his arm.
My eyes shoot to him. “What?”
“Today, we go to town,” he tells me gravely.
I prop myself on his chest and peel his arm off his face. “We go to town all the time.”
It’s a fact that we do: I’ve been fitted for a full wardrobe of dresses, thanks to our many visits. Yet despite all the time we’ve spent in town, I never did find the ZULDANA outpost. And I've never caught sight of another game guide.
Of course I looked for that ZULDANA poster at the butcher shop.
But when I raced up to the door—the poster was gone.
When I asked Grimslaughter, the butcher, about it (by the way, he forgave me completely for the ‘only two’ comment since my misstep made him a richer man after the trespass payment from Roarg), he was genuinely confused.
He didn’t have the foggiest idea of what I was talking about when I tried to describe it.
And that was that. What else could I do?
Coins rarely show up anymore, and I’m still here and…
I’m really okay with that.
I’m a Hammerfist. I can cook a pie in a wood-fired oven. I’ve learned to preserve food. I bratsit. I can drive a team of horses all by myself. (Rijswijk the gelding is my favorite though and when I can, I drive him singly with the buggy.)
And remember when Ulda asked me what trade I could pass on to the brats?
I can read and write. My contribution will be teaching the whole house a skill that only the highborn in this realm can ever hope to learn. The Hammerfists are deeply impressed.
I’ve assimilated. I’ve accepted the fact that I’m the fourth bride to an Orc who’s really, really good at keeping his wives and brats happy.
Roarg gives me heavy-lidded eyes and presses his tongue to his sexy tusk. “Today begins the Harvest, or Fall Festival, and I will be with you.”
I purse my lips. “And that’s a bad thing because…?”
He catches me by the back of my neck and drags me right to his mouth—where he holds me, his lips just barely brushing mine.
“Fall Festival will see every tinker, potter, glassblower, dressmaker, and artisan you can imagine packed into the marketplace. We’ll be forced to visit every cart, booth, and tent to see what wares are for sale.
And we’ll inevitably buy wares. Loads of things, from useful goods to useless trinkets.
It will cost us much time. An exorbitant amount of money. And Stephanie? I. Hate. Shopping.”
I grin into his scowl. “Ohhh, this is about your weird aversion to spending money! You’re cute when you’re crazy.”
Growling, he answers me with aggressive morning sex.
When Roarg and I emerge from my room, bruised, bathed, relaxed, and dressed, breakfast is reheated for our spoiled asses and Joktepitha is thrilled with Roarg’s surliness about town. She crows, “Guess what day it is!”
Roarg gives her a stern glare. “Tri?us-meet, I already know.”
“Count them out for us now, it’ll only hurt for a little while,” Joktepitha assures him.
Every sisterwife but me is snickering. “What am I missing?” I ask, thrown.
“On Festival days, Roarg counts out a purse of coppers for each of us,” Ulda informs me.
“Ohhh,” I say, comprehension dawning. “We get to go hog wild and spend it however we want?”
“You have it,” Namak?ga agrees, smiling as she stirs something one-armed at the counter, cradling Snabazkur in her other.
She tosses a grin at Roarg. “Today, he’ll let us drag him all around, forcing him to watch us spend as frivolously as we please, and he won’t naysay a thing.
It’s painful for him. He turns into a complete ogre. ”
I laugh—but nobody else does. “Roarg’s really that bad?”
“I’m right here,” he grouses, feigning a grumpiness no one believes, not with the way he’s stifling a broad, tusked smile.
“Worse,” they all say at once, making me bite my lip, trying not to snigger.
Roarg is monosyllabic as we excitedly get ready and load up in the wagon, which has three rows of bench seats to accommodate a respectably-sized Orc family like ours.
The cobblestones ring with the sound of animal hooves as we reach town, where there are green people everywhere.
Wooly pelaged plains bison pull carts past us (those belong to Elves), and the first thing we splurge on is food.
Roarg treats us all to something everyone is very excited for, except for me, because this is the first time I’ve ever seen them.
Apparently, these are delicacies only to be splurged on in the rarest of occasions.
They’re called pizell sticks, which are basically kabob skewers, only it’s one unending strip of meat swirled up the skewer like a lollipop twist straight out of a carnivore’s wet dream.
I take a nibble. “Wow, this is good,” I say, and chomp into it, following Namakuga snuggling Snabazkur, Joktepitha with Crushosh in front of her, and Ulda behind me sharing her pizell stick with Opkug.
Roarg moves beside me. “I’m glad you like it, kwagara,” he rumbles, giving me a playful nudge with the back of his arm. “Pizell sticks are good for your stamina.”
Eyes scanning the square, seeing everything from a cloth kite stand to china teacups for sale, I nod sagely. “I think it’s safe to say I’m definitely going to need to keep my stamina up.”
“I’m that demanding?” he asks. Playfully, he tugs on my braids.
I ignore him and gesture around us. “There’s so much to do.”
Joktepitha laughs, and I realize how, in the purely verbal context, my answer sounded. “Hang on. I meant—”
“There is much to do. He’s very demanding,” Ulda says from behind us, prompting Roarg to spin his head on his neck like a big Great Tusked Owl.
Ulda snorts at whatever look he tries to send her.
“Do I need to present you with another pizell stick? Perhaps a bigger, thicker one?” he asks her in a dangerous, silken tone. “Bromnia of my heart, we should shore up your energy so I can prove who the demanding one is—I don’t think it’s me.”
“Well, if you’re offering,” she says. “You know I never complain when you present me with a good pizell stick.”
My face scrunches. “Why does this conversation sound so inappropriate?”
Roarg’s stride hitches, making him drop back a pace. But he catches up to me with no trouble whatsoever on account of his legs being a week long and me stopping to look at a bowl of pink crystals wrapped in wire. “What do you mean by ‘inappropriate?’”
I raise one of the crystals up, appreciating the way the sunlight filters so prettily through the gemstone. “It sounds…” I drop my voice to a whisper, “like you two are talking about sex.” I return the crystal to its bowl and bring my kabob up, taking another bite of greasy, flavorful meat.
Roarg’s blink is very slow. “Stephanie, we are.” His eyes drop to my mouth. He watches me lick my lip, his eyes heating. He grabs the handle of my kabob.
“Want to share it with me?” I ask, giving him a smile. There’s certainly plenty of it.
He takes the whole thing from me, then holds it in front of my face. “A pizell stick is said to be an aphrodisiac.” His lips curve in a naughty smile. “It’s said that consuming pizell makes a woman crazed for a pizell of a different sort.”