Page 23 of The Passionate Orc
"And here they are! Our stars of the evening. Emryn Lister, whose delicate watercolor techniques bring such emotion to urban landscapes, and Nar Humperdink, the revolutionary orc artist whose bold strokes have captivated critics across the city."
The next hour passed in a blur of introductions, compliments, and discussions about artistic influences. I answered questions about my process while Nar charmed everyone with his honest, sometimes blunt observations about human art culture. Despite his size and warrior background, he spoke passionately about color theory and emotional expression in ways that impressed even the most pretentious critics.
Things were going surprisingly well until a waiter approached with champagne flutes.
"Ah, thank you," Nar said, reaching for a glass.
I saw it happening before I could warn him—his powerful fingers closed around the delicate stem, and with a sharp crack, the glass shattered. Champagne splashed across his shirt and onto the marble floor.
A hush fell over the nearby crowd.
"Sorry," Nar mumbled, his cheeks darkening to a deeper shade of green. "Human glasses are so fragile."
The waiter looked mortified, but I quickly grabbed napkins from a nearby table.
"It's fine," I assured everyone, dabbing at Nar's shirt. "Just an accident."
As conversations slowly resumed around us, Nar leaned down to whisper, "Maybe I should have brought my drinking horn instead."
I bit my lip to keep from laughing. "Maybe next time."
We'd just recovered from the champagne incident when disaster nearly struck again. As Nar turned to point out one of his paintings to an interested collector, his broad shoulders bumped a pedestal holding a delicate glass sculpture valued at more than my yearly income.
The sculpture wobbled precariously. My heart stopped.
"Look out!" someone shouted.
Three gallery patrons lunged forward, steadying the pedestal just as the sculpture tilted toward the floor. Crisis averted by inches.
Nar's expression of horror was so genuine that I couldn't help but feel for him. He stood frozen, afraid to move lest he cause more damage.
"Perhaps we should admire from a distance," the collector suggested kindly, leading Nar to a safer spot away from breakable items.
As the evening wore on, I could sense Nar's growing discomfort. Despite his success and the genuine interest in his work, he was painfully aware of how out of place he was in this environment. Every time he moved, people flinched slightly, as if expecting more destruction.
After selling four paintings and receiving two commissions, we finally had a moment alone near the refreshment table.
"Everyone loves your work," I said softly, touching his arm. "That's what matters."
Nar's eyes met mine, and I saw vulnerability there. "They love my paintings but watch me like I'm going to rampage through the gallery at any moment. One man actually moved his drink when I approached."
My heart ached for him. "Their loss. They're missing out on knowing the real you."
He glanced around at the elegant crowd. "Maybe the real me doesn't belong here."
I followed his gaze, seeing the stark contrast between my green-skinned warrior and the polished art patrons. "Do you want to leave?"
The relief in his eyes was immediate. "Can we? Your pieces are selling too. We've both made our splash."
"Let me just say goodbye to Ms. Petrovich."
After a quick explanation to the gallery owner (who looked secretly relieved that the threat to her valuable displays was departing), we slipped out into the cool night air.
The moment the gallery door closed behind us, Nar let out a dramatic groan. "By the ancestors, I thought I was going to destroy half the art in there before the night was over."
I couldn't hold back anymore—the laughter I'd been suppressing all evening burst out. "Your face when that sculpture started to tip! I thought you were going to faint!"
"Me? Faint? Warriors don't faint," he protested, but he was grinning too. "We... strategically lose consciousness."
