"Fellow residents of 847 Oak Street."
English first. Neutral territory. My accent softens the consonants just enough to remind everyone I'm foreign without making them work to understand me.
"I stand before you today because Maya Ruiz believes in community, and because thirty-seven of you signed a petition supporting a neighbor you barely know."
Scattered nods. Mrs. Patterson from 3B shifts her weight, folding chair creaking under the movement. She's one of the fourteen who filed noise complaints, but she signed Maya's petition anyway. Complex motivations, human hearts that hold contradictions without breaking.
"I am Ursak Irontongue, Assistant Professor of Comparative Linguistics at the university. I have been your neighbor for eight months, practicing cultural preservation in apartment 4B, disturbing your peace with the sounds of my heritage."
A laugh from someone in the back, nervous energy finding release. Good. Laughter means engagement, and engagement means they're listening instead of just waiting for this to end so they can return to their regularly scheduled quiet evening routines.
"But today, I ask you to hear not just my voice, but the voices I carry."
I open the first notebook. Hungarian pages, carefully annotated in margin notes that explain grammatical structures to future students who might never have a chance to learn if my visa gets denied.
"Szeretlek téged, mint a napfény szereti a virágot."
The words roll off my tongue like honey poured over gravel, Hungarian vowels stretching wide while my orcish vocal cords add bass notes that weren't in the original poet's intention. But love translates across species, across cultures, across the acoustic properties of different throat structures.
"I love you as sunlight loves flowers."
Maya's fingers pause over her laptop keys. I catch her eye, let the translation settle between us like a promise wrapped in linguistic precision.
"This is why I rehearse, neighbors. Not to disturb your morning coffee or interrupt your evening television programs, but to keep alive the words that might otherwise die in exile."
French notebook next. A letter from the archives, written by an orcish diplomat trying to negotiate safe passage for refugees in 1847.
"Nous demandons seulement la possibilité de vivre en paix, de préserver nos traditions tout en respectant les vôtres."
The French flows differently through my mouth, more nasal, less chest resonance, but still unmistakably orcish in its underlying rhythm. Like playing jazz on a classical violin; the instrument shapes the music, but the soul of the song remains.
"We ask only for the possibility of living in peace, preserving our traditions while respecting yours."
Ms. Cavanaugh makes a note on her clipboard. I can't read her expression from here, but her pen moves with the sharp efficiency of someone documenting evidence rather than enjoying poetry.
"One hundred seventy-three years later, I make the same request."
German now. A recipe forKraftbrot, strength-bread, traditionally baked by orcish mothers for children leaving home to study in human cities.
"Nehmt diese Kraft mit euch, meine Söhne und Töchter. Möget ihr niemals vergessen, wer ihr seid, woher ihr kommt."
The German consonants feel like rocks in my mouth, each syllable requiring deliberate placement. But the meaning burns clear and warm:Take this strength with you, my sons and daughters. May you never forget who you are, where you come from.
"This is what my mother told me when I left the clan territories to pursue education. This is what I tell myself every morning when I practice these dialects, when I rehearse the sounds that connect me to home."
Spanish next, because Maya deserves to hear her own linguistic heritage honored in this space. A poem by Federico García Lorca, chosen not for its relevance to orcish culture but for its celebration of voice itself:
"Verde que te quiero verde. Verde viento. Verdes ramas."
The Spanish syllables dance lighter on my tongue, Latin rhythm mixing with orcish depth to create something new. Maya's eyes widen slightly.
"Green, how I want you green. Green wind. Green branches."
A pause. Let the poetry settle, let neighbors remember that beauty justifies itself without requiring practical applications or noise ordinance compliance.
"But perhaps you think,why must he practice so loudly? Why can't linguistic preservation happen in whispers?"
Mrs. Albion nods from her folding chair, finally asking the question that's been hovering unspoken through fourteen noise complaints and thirty-seven petition signatures.
