I am accustomed to this reaction. I ignore it with practiced ease, focusing instead on Chantel, who has been intercepted by an enthusiastic woman wearing a geometric necklace that appears structurally unsound.
"Chantel! You actually came! And you brought... um." The woman's gaze travels up my frame, her expression shifting through several rapid emotions before settling on aggressively polite. "Your... friend?"
"Roommate," Chantel corrects quickly, her voice taking on that higher, artificially bright tone she uses when uncomfortable. "This is Faugh. He wanted to see the show. Faugh, this is Melissa, she runs the gallery."
I extend my hand carefully, having learned to moderate my grip strength in professional contexts. "Thank you for exhibiting Chantel's work. The space is well designed."
Melissa shakes my hand briefly, her fingers disappearing completely in my palm. "Right. Yes. Well. Chantel's pieces are in the back corner, next to the installation about urban decay. Help yourself to wine. There's cheese." She extracts herself rapidly, moving toward a safer cluster of normal-sized humans.
Chantel exhales slowly, her shoulders dropping slightly as she attempts to convince both of us simultaneously. "See? Totally fine. Nobody's freaking out or anything. She was just being friendly and professional, which is exactly what a gallery owner should be doing at an opening like this."
I consider this assessment as we navigate deeper into the gallery space, weaving between clusters of art enthusiasts and curious onlookers. The ambient murmur of conversation continues around us, though I remain acutely aware of how the crowd seems to subtly part in our wake, creating an invisible buffer zone around my frame.
"She is afraid of me," I state the observation neutrally, my voice pitched low enough that only Chantel can hear it clearly. There is no accusation in my tone, merely a factual recognition of what I witnessed in Melissa's rapid emotional cycling, the initial assessment, the visible recalibration, and the hasty retreat. I have seen this precise sequence countless times before. It is not offensive; it is simply the way of things. "That is understandable. I am not conventionally comforting in appearance."
"Okay, maybe a little, but that's just because she's never met an orc before and you're... you know." She gestures vaguely at my entire body. "A lot. Like, objectively a lot of person. But in a good way! A totally normal, non-threatening way that just happens to involve being seven feet tall and built like you could flip a car if you felt like it."
We reach her exhibition space, and I find myself stopping abruptly, my massive frame going momentarily still as I take in the full scope of what lies before us. The transition from the general gallery flow into this dedicated corner feels almost ceremonial, and I am genuinely arrested by the sight that unfolds. My gaze sweeps across the walls, cataloging every detail with the same methodical attention I apply to organizing our apartment, though this time the focus is entirely on her work rather than the arrangement of objects. Around us, the gallery crowd seems to thin slightly, as though even the other visitors sense that something of significance is happening in this particular pocket of space. I can feel Chantel beside me, her energy suddenly compressed into something fragile and expectant, waiting for my response with a tension that radiates from her small frame like heat off pavement.
She has five paintings mounted on the exposed brick, each approximately three feet by four feet. The color work is extraordinary, layered and complex, bleeding warm golds intodeep crimsons into shadowy purples. The compositions feel chaotic at first glance but resolve into intentional structure upon closer examination. There is emotion in every brushstroke, raw and unfiltered.
"These are exceptional," I tell her, studying the largest piece, which appears to depict fractured light through broken glass, though the interpretation remains deliberately ambiguous.
Her face transforms, lighting up with genuine joy. "You really think so? I mean, I know you said nice things before, but seeing them actually hung up like this makes me feel like maybe they're not complete garbage, which is a significant improvement from my usual confidence level."
"They demonstrate considerable skill and emotional depth. You should price them higher." I point to the small card listing her asking price. "This amount does not reflect the labor investment or technical complexity."
"Faugh, nobody's going to pay more than that for my work. I'm lucky if anyone buys anything at all." She fidgets with her clutch again, that nervous habit she cannot seem to break. "Most people just take a business card and say they'll 'think about it,' which is code for never contacting me again."
Before I can formulate a response, a distinctly nasally voice slices through the ambient gallery chatter with the precision of a blade. The sound carries that particular timbre of someone accustomed to being heard, to commanding space through sheer auditory presence, though in this case, the effect is more grating than commanding.
"Well, well. Chantel Evans. Still churning out this derivative emotional vomit, I see."
We both turn. A thin man in an aggressively pretentious outfit—velvet blazer, thin scarf, unnecessarily ornate glasses—stands three feet away, holding a wine glass and wearing an expression of profound disdain. I recognize thetype immediately: insecure, compensating through cruelty, structurally weak.
Chantel's entire body goes rigid beside me, and I feel the shift in her energy immediately, that particular tension that only genuine dread can produce. Her face drains of color, the warm flush from moments before evaporating entirely, leaving her looking small and hollowed out. Her voice, when it emerges, carries that telltale tremor of someone trying desperately to sound composed while falling apart internally.
"Martin. Hi. I... I didn't know you'd be here," she says, the words tumbling out in that characteristic breathless rush she adopts when anxiety overtakes her. Her fingers curl tighter around her clutch, if such a thing were even possible. She cannot seem to meet his eyes, instead finding sudden interest in the gallery floor beneath her paint-stained shoes.
I observe the interaction with complete clarity. This is Martin, then. The man from her undergraduate program—the one she has mentioned only in passing, always with that particular note of shame and self-recrimination that suggests old wounds. I file away every detail: his posture, his tone, the precise nature of his cruelty. These things matter. They will inform my decisions in the moments to come.
"I wouldn't have been, but Melissa begged me to stop by and provide professional critique for her little community outreach project." He gestures dismissively at the gallery space. "Though I have to say, Chantel, I'm disappointed. I had hoped you might have developed some actual technical skill since your undergraduate finger-painting phase, but apparently you're still trafficking in this sort of..." He waves his hand vaguely at her paintings. "Unrefined, amateur emotional excess. It's honestly embarrassing. This is exactly why legitimate galleries refuse to take you seriously."
I watch Chantel's shoulders curl inward, her hands tightening on her clutch until her knuckles turn white. Her breathing becomes shallow and rapid. Tears are forming in her eyes, though she is fighting them with visible effort.
The protective instinct that surges through me is immediate and overwhelming, a primal, simmering heat that coils through my chest and radiates down my arms with such intensity that I have to consciously unclench my fists. It is not anger, precisely, though anger is certainly present beneath the surface like magma churning beneath stone. It is something older and far more dangerous: the territorial, possessive recognition that someone I care for is being systematically diminished by a man who views her art, hersoul, laid bare on canvas, as beneath serious consideration. Her shoulders curve further inward, watch the fight drain from her frame, and something inside me shifts into sharp, lethal focus. This will not continue. Not while I draw breath.
I move across the space in three long strides, completely silent despite my size, and place my hand heavily on Martin's shoulder. My palm covers the entire joint, my fingers extending halfway down his bicep. I do not squeeze. I simply rest the full weight of my hand there, letting him feel exactly how easily I could crush bone if I chose to.
Martin goes rigid beneath my touch, his entire body turning to stone as the full weight and temperature of my hand settles upon his shoulder. His wine glass trembles in his other hand, the deep burgundy liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim, threatening to spill across his pressed shirt. I can feel his muscles tensing beneath my palm, sense the rapid spike in his heart rate as the reality of the situation crystallizes for him. He is, for perhaps the first time this evening, genuinely afraid.
I lean down, bringing my mouth close to his ear, and let my voice drop into the register I reserve for removing violent drunksfrom establishments. "You will apologize to Chantel. You will do so sincerely. And then you will walk out of this gallery and not return."
7
CHANTEL
Iwatch Martin's face drain of all color as Faugh's massive hand settles onto his shoulder like a boulder finding its resting place. The wine glass in Martin's other hand trembles so violently that drops of burgundy splash onto his pristine white cuff, and I feel a vicious little thrill of satisfaction curl through my chest at the sight. This man, who has spent years making me feel like my art was nothing more than embarrassing scribbles, who convinced me I wasn't good enough for real galleries, who made me second-guess every brushstroke for months after graduation, is now shaking like a leaf because my seven-foot Orc roommate has decided he's had enough.
