David—or what I usually call him, stinkin’ Little Wus, mostly on the basketball court, or when he irritates me, which is often—’cause, well, he’s a fragile little, bobble-head human—flopped on his bed. If I did that, I’d pick my shiny ogre butt off the floor among shards of bed frame. He let loose a dramatic groan, more a whine.
To be honest, though the human butthead has been my roommate for more years than I would ever confess to in mixed company, I’ve never really figgered out much about his race, so who knows what the sound meant.
True, there are a lot of humans at our little private STEM college here on the Plain, and, well, other than to beat up on em on the basketball court, I’ve never really spent much time tryin’ to understand em. Maybe that’s a character flaw of mine. Or wisdom. ’Cause they’re neither wise nor full of character, as far as I’ve noticed.
“You’re done with finals, huh?”
I think that was actually a statement, cause he shoulda been pretty certain about that. Like we don’t practically live in each other’s pocket, sleep in the same room, share a class here and there, eat together, and humans aren’t the over-sharers that they are.
I almost killed him the first week we met, four years ago. Was overly annoyin’. He didn’t catch on to my deeper ogre growls. Fool. Absolutely no sense of self survival.
Woulda shoulda gone to the dean, asked for an ogre roommate, if Grandpapa Klow hadn’t said categorically when he saw me off for college, that I needed to learn more about humans, to succeed in the business world.
Kriz and I have already been pretty successful. Grandpapa is vastly successful, and I don’t think he can name two humans that he’s well acquainted with—he does hire a lot of orcs, a few trolls. The trolls work mostly in security—it’s a troll-centric career path for a reason. Kriz and I have learned they make great system administrators. Very patient and methodical.
But ignorin’ Grandpapa Klow’s advice is about the idjioticalist thing a bull can do. Bet he was involved in ensurin’ I got a human roommate. His influence is pretty broad. Old goat.
My mind must be wanderin’ some.
I didn’t bother to answer David. Maybe I was pullin’ a Kriz—my autistic cousin—on him. Did David, AKA Little Wus, want to strike up a conversation, or something? He’d just come from takin’ his last exam. Maybe he thought I’d ask him about it. Tut. Not what an ogre bull does. He should know that by now. Like I would care about his current situation.
I turned off my tablet, assumin’ there was no avoidin’ an interaction—’cause I know the human fool pretty well after all these years. Male humans think all time has to be filled with conversation—almost as bad as troll bulls. Maybe female humans are chatty too. But I wouldn’t know. Avoid em. So stinkin’ fragile lookin’. And their voices are so shrill. Maybe less fragile-lookin’ than an orc hen, but orcs have tools to rip yar eyes from yar face, flay ya for the fire.
Glad those I know keep their claws trimmed. Very civilized.
“Why are you worrying your tusk so hard?” David asked.
I hate that he noticed early on, and has made me so aware of my little, uh, it’s not a twitch. I’m not a nervous sort, so it ain’t no anxiety thing. I may have always done it, but he’s the one who made me aware of it.
I’ve found I do it a lot when I’m studyin’. Not IT stuff, which is creative, more EE stuff. There is art in code, buildin’ networks from scratch. To this day I can’t believe I let the fool talk me into minorin’ in EE—his major—instead of business. But I got him back. Now he minors in MIS. Says it’s too easy. Jerk.
Good thing Cousin Kriz is coverin’ our business side. As my partner in crime and demise, as Grandpapa Klow quips, one of us should know the difference between a balance sheet and a spec sheet.
I took in our mostly packed up dorm room—maybe as much not to look at David. No more nerdy posters on the walls, human knickknacks strewn about. Don’t know why humans like to hang stuff on their walls and litter every surface. Boxin’ our last study materials and strippin’ our beds, and we could head our own directions.
“I know. You’re thinking about how much you’re going to miss me,” he said.
I turned slowly to give him a glare. “That must be it.”
“Must really be feeling guilty about asking Thomas to join you in the Hamlet for the summer, instead of your best friend.”
I never invited Thomas. Can’t recall how it happened.
Oh, he said something else idjiotic. I asked him who he thought my best friend is.
David crossed his hands over his chest for some reason. Dropped his little human mouth open. He’s my roommate, I don’t know why he thinks that automatically makes him my best friend. But then, Thomas is far from my best friend and he’s going to the Hamlet with me for summer break.
He invited himself. Maybe twenty times.
I really don’t know how it happened—me sayin’ fine, whatever, or something. The human should go into politics. I was definitely manipulated. Stinkin’ manipulator. Be a good con artist. Which I guess is what a politician is.
I thought back to Mama’s reaction when I told her about bringin’ Thomas home. She said something like, one human is as bad as another. She’s got quite the sense of humor. Machete sharp.
Took David a few visits to figger out she’s a humongous tease—as long as she never has her fists on her hips. She should wear a “zero days free of sarcasm” sign. I could get her a cup with that on it.
That first winter visit, Mama scared a decade of life out of David. Shoulda put him in a diaper. Only the ton of ogre-style barbecue she pushed at him the next couple of weeks allowed him to recover. He prolly gained twenty pounds. Humans don’t have an ogre’s metabolism. Mama may have force-fed him. Under pressure. An ogre hen has a glare that can put fear in a one-ton steer, intimidate a cliff face to sheer. We bulls make it a focal point of life not to antagonize em.
“You don’t have to feel so guilty about leaving me out in the cold,” David blathered. “Stabbing me in the back and all.”
I think I looked at him one-eyed. What was the fool talkin’ about?
“I can read the pain on your ugly, I mean homely ogre face.”
That moment I think I intellectually interpreted my emotional unease with Thomas. There’s something about him that wasn’t clickin’ right in my itty bitty brain, more than his manipulative nature.
On the court, it’s easy to ignore his little obnoxious traits. His trash talkin’ can even come across as funny. But there’s always an unnecessary, demeanin’ character to it. Did I really want to bring that home? Trust. That’s what it is. Couldn’t say I completely trust him. Though I can’t put my finger on why.
Grandpapa Klow once said to me, look at those ya associate, and ya peer into a mirror of yar character. Something like that. Grandpapa loves to drop little dollops of wisdom. He cracks me up.
He always leaves me with a bit to mull over.
But I’ve never heard Thomas be less than respectful around elders. A key tenant of ogre culture—respect yar elders—and fear hens.
Say what ya want to my face. I can crush a fool if I feel like it, get really annoyed. That I don’t, displays character, in my mind. But I’ve never had to talk myself out of crushin’ Thomas.
~ Ezra ~
“Watch that knife.” Zarade’s snappin’ voice made me lurch. Thankfully my razor-sharp kitchen knife flowed upward, and not down at my fingers. “Get yar mind into what ya’re doin’ or get out of my kitchen and go where yar mind is wanderin’.”
Glaar giggled, what trolls call a giggle, and said, “The poor ogre’s thoughts are on those two cute cousins of hers due back today.”
“I know what her mind’s twirlin’ on about,” Zarade snarled. “I just don’t need a one-handed ogre hen in my kitchen.”
Vlasketh—accent on the keth, we usually just call her Vlas—just had to join in. “I’m lookin’ forward to seein’ that cutie pie cross-eyed one. He treats us orcs special.”
Special? “Kriz ain’t cross-eyed,” I growled. He just won’t look at ya level-like. Hates eye contact, like it might steal his soul.
“What’d I tell ya about that growlin’?” As though Zarade isn’t known to growl—like most of the time. The hypocrite.
Glaar laughed, what trolls call a laugh. “An ogre that can’t growl is like an ogre without lungs. Die right shortly.”
“Growl in here, she’s gonna growl in front of a poor human guest and send em into a tizzy. Em fragile folk pass out just hearin’ the Inn’s seasonal room rate.”
“They aren’t that fragile,” Vlas mumbled. Orcs are bad about talkin’ under their breath. Kinda sneaky like. I’ve wondered in the past if it has something to do with their itty bitty, pointy-sharp teeth.
“Ya can’t even smile in front of em,” Glaar said. Musta been readin’ my mind.
“I’ve never figgered why yall have a problem with our teeth,” Vlas said. “We’re beautiful folk.”
“Of course ya are, and short, like little pancakes,” Zarade said without lookin’ Vlas’ way. And spindly, I added mentally. Glaar laughed—for a troll hen, she’s fast to humor. “Now get to carvin’ that carcass or we aren’t gettin’ no food out to the buffet.”
I busied myself arrangin’ the vegetable platter I’d been fussin’ with—a change of pace from my key responsibility, carvin’ the carcasses. No figgerin’ what humans see in chompin’ down on carrots, radishes, and such. Cucumbers? Ick. Texture of thick pond scum. If a thing doesn’t bleed, no reasonable ogre’s gonna wanta touch it.
“Ya got yar mind into it?” Zarade asked me softly.
I nodded. I can lie—on the inside—don’t think the gods will spite us for inner sins. Now I’m worryin’ what the gods think of my thoughts. My mind has been everywhere this morning.
Zarade asked when Ike and Kriz get in. Kriz’ flight’s sposed to touch down two-ish. Who knows about Ike. A five hour drive, but that bull will be late to his own stinkin’ dirge singin’.
“I can grab one of the servers to help in here, if ya wanta go,” Zarade said, even softer.
“No. Not necessary. And ya can stop watchin’ every move I make, or ya’ll find a veggie platter in yar ear.”
Glaar and Vlas laughed. Vlas offered that was something she wanted to see. Zarade offered to measure a platter for her over-sized orc mouth.
That got a smile out of me, as I dashed water off the celery, next to join my four-foot platter. Celery. What is the stinkin’ value of that weed? Cows won’t even eat it.
“Ya shoulda joined one of yar cousins,” Vlas said, “instead of messin’ around at the Hamlet community college. Not like ya aren’t as bright as em.”
“Never had the slightest interest in runnin’ my own business,” I said, “creatin’ software systems for companies and municipalities.” I said that last word like it’s a common one used in the Range. It ain’t. A proper place is a hamlet or village. Sister and brother, son, daughter. Other words that haven’t really caught on among us. Honestly, I like sister and brother some—a ton shorter than hen sibling, or bull sibling. Go figger. A youngling to us is a son. Otherwise, it’s hen youngling. Those terms are—endearin’.
“So ya’re gonna stand on yar feet ten hours a day the rest of yar life with us?” Vlas asked. “Ya’re a Birs. Ya could buy and sell ten Inns.”
I hate livin’ under the Birs expectation. Been tired of it for twenty years. “Rather learn everything in Zarade’s head about runnin’ a kitchen and dining room, than sittin’ in front of a computer, with a headset danglin’ over my ears.”
“We are more entertainin’ to work with than wrestlin’ the average bear,” Glaar offered.
“Well, I’m entertainin’,” Vlas offered. “Not so sure about ya old back-bent ogre and troll hens.”
“That was rude,” Glaar and Zarade said together.
“Who’s bein’ rude?” Chanz asked, steppin’ into the kitchen from the cold cellar, hands full with a platter containin’ two roasted turkeys and a pig carcass. She slammed the door behind her with her booted foot.
Don’t know why, this day and age, goblins still wear those awful things on their feet. We love the feel of Range pine needles.
Zarade gave Chanz a stern glare, but didn’t put her irritation to words. Guess she’s given up on any chance of coercin’ the teen goblin hen to be less rambunctious. Never met a goblin with a gentle thread about em. So different than their near-cousins, the sweet orcs.
Not waitin’ for an answer, Chanz asked me when Ike was sposed to arrive. Stink. There ain’t an unmated hen of any race in the Range not countin’ the hours down. The poor bull’s gotta be as tired of his female followin’ as I am our Birs ancestry. Eh. Not that I’m not proud of our heritage. The near-slobberin’ over it, yep.
“She doesn’t know,” Zarade snapped.
“Forgive me for breathin’,” Chanz mumbled, droppin’ the heavy platter on the stainless steel counter hard enough to rattle the Inn’s shingles.
Zarade turned to her, extended a long, chubby ogre finger at her. And glared.
“What?” the clueless hen muttered. She otherwise doesn’t come across as dull-witted. Could she intentionally aspire to irritate Zarade every chance she gets? Musta. Not wise to go out of yar way to irritate a stinkin’ ogre hen—even for a goblin hen. I think that’s struck on a Continental coin. Or should be. Know it’s a common theme on many an ogre temple. More so than the dangers of angerin’ the gods. Prolly, not really.
Odd we ogres talk a lot about fearin’ to anger the gods, but we rarely find time to honor em with a visit to their shrines. But then, I guess gods don’t actually have to hang around a structure we build. We’re taught they live in the trees, the hills, the sky. Pretty much everywhere, and able to smite us for fun if they choose.
Maybe we don’t hear much from em these days because they crossed into the other realm with their favorites, the dragons, back, long ago. That would be considered pretty blasphemous, maybe. I’ll keep the thought to myself.
Regardless, most ogres fear our gods something serious. Goblins think we’re a little nuts about em. Not fearin’ the gods is prolly what got em so ripped apart, way back in the wars—just me thinkin’. Prolly shouldn’t do that as much as I do.
~
Three Cousins
Black Lake Book 4.1
Chapter One
~
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