Page 11 of Steel & Thunder
Like how big is this city anyway? I haven’t seen a lot of it yet, but I can probably figure it out. The arena is the largest building I can see, which probably means it’s toward the center of town. There’s a tree line along the city’s outskirts, meaning we’re in the middle of a fairly thick forest. I think it’s maybe a mile away from us? Maybe less. It’s kind of hard to tell because those trees look...really big. Like, tall, taller than trees normally grow. I swivel my head around, and in the spots I can peak through between buildings, the trees look just as large. They’re like that almost all the way around. I can see a mountain range far in the distance ahead of us, so I’m pretty sure we’re facing north.
Alright, if the arena is in the center, and we’ve walked about four blocks so far—
I slam into the body in front of me, which has come to a stop without my noticing. I bounce off, shouting in both surprise and distress as I struggle to keep my balance. I shut my eyes as I tumble to the ground, unable to brace for the impact with my immobilized wrists. This is gonna suck.
Imagine my surprise when a thick, muscled arm catches me behind my shoulders.
“You really should be more careful.” I cautiously open one eye, though I already know who’s going to be looking down at me. “Do you not think you have spent enough time lying on the ground for one day?”
I huff in anger but say nothing as he helps me stand. Just another glare. If he thinks I’m gonna thank him for that, he can go fuck himself. Still, we’ve stopped in front of a house to our right, so I guess that means...
“We are here,” the orc announces. It’s a modest-sized house, single-story just like rest I see in the area. A single wooden door adorns the front with two square windows peering out on either side of it. He walks to the front door, leaving me little choice but to follow him past the wooden fence into the yard. He reaches into his pocket to pull out a ring of keys, unlocking the door and ushering me inside.
“Welcome to my home.” He shuts the door behind me, placing his key ring in a drawer. “I suppose it is now your home too.”
I’m not sure what I expected, but it’s as nice as any other home I’ve been in. To the right of the entrance is what I’d guess is the living room. It’s sunken into the floor, a few steps on either side of a couch leading down into it. There’s a fireplace along the wall and in one corner an armchair nestled between a pair of bookcases. In the other corner lies… a large pile of pillows and blankets?
Directly across from the entrance is a kitchen, a small wood-burning stove in the corner with a series of stone counters and shelves to its left. On one of the counters, closest to the living room and door, is a small wooden clock. In the opposite corner is a small wooden table that could sit four people if you really squeezed. I see a few doors that could lead to other rooms or maybe just a closet or pantry.
The difference that sticks out the most to me between this place and a human’s home is the furniture. It’s not that I don’t recognize it; it’s just constructed differently. The tabletops look like tabletops, but when you get to the legs, instead of wood that’s been cut and sanded, it’s like it was bent into place, bark and all. Same with the chairs and the couch. It makes for a very interesting look.
“Come, I will show you around.” Leash still in hand, he starts his tour. “Can you read?” He points to the bookcases in the living room.
“Of course.” I’m not a child.
“I have met many humans who cannot read.” He actually looks a little impressed. “Most of those are not in your language, but I do have a few you might enjoy when you are bored. I visit the bookshop quite frequently.”
“...Thanks.” Who cares if their slave gets bored?
“That is the kitchen. I do a lot of cooking, so you can expect to spend some time there.” He points out the kitchen as he walks past to a short hallway situated between the two open rooms. At the end of the hall are three closed doors.
“This is a spare room.” Ironstorm lifts one hand and places it on the door to our left. “Right now, it is just a bed and some storage, so nothing you need to worry about. This door—” He actually opens the center door and steps aside to let me see in. “—is the lavatory. You are free to use this as you need, no permission needed.”
Why the hell would I ask permission to use the bathroom? Although... Is that an indoor toilet? How rich is this guy? My family still uses an outhouse. Most families back home still use outhouses. I also notice a tall stone basin and a large wooden tub for washing. This is some relatively fancy shit.
“And finally, this—” He closes the bathroom door and moves to open the final door on the right side of the hall. “—is my bedroom.”
I’m actually ushered inside this time, though Ironstorm only stands in the doorway. The obvious focal point of the room is the large bed raised on a wooden pallet against one wall. It’s bigger than any bed I’ve ever slept in, and the head and footboard are made of the same bent natural wood as that of the rest of the furniture. The headboard even has leaves on it. Other than that, there are a couple of small tables, one next to the bed and the other in a corner alongside several large chests, one of which is open and stuffed with clothing.
I turn around facing him, uncertain of what he expects now, the fact that we’re in a bedroom not lost on me. He’s looking at me like he wants me to say something. “...You have a lovely home?” Is that what you usually tell the person holding you captive?
“Thank you.” He smiles, and my stomach picks that exact moment to rumble. I’ve barely eaten today. “I guess I should start dinner then.”
I follow him back into the living room, but as he enters the kitchen, I clear my throat. “Um. Do you think you could take off the...?” I face away from him and wiggle my tied wrists.
“Of course.” He moves to stand behind me and unbuckles the straps on the cuffs. I rub the feeling back into my skin as he places them on the smooth stone countertop. “Here, let me take care of the scrapes on your arms.”
I watch as he reaches onto a shelf above the counters and pulls out a small basket with some bottles and white cloth. Taking one of my arms, he opens one of the bottles and pours the liquid onto some cloth. I hiss at the sting as he dabs over the irritated and torn skin—alcohol to clean the wounds. He repeats the process on my other arm before releasing me.
“What about this?” I tug on the collar, but he’s already walking away from me.
“I am not terribly fond of that collar, but I am afraid it stays on until we get a replacement.” He places some firewood in the stove and uses some nearby flint to light it. “Probably tomorrow.”
“Seriously?” I don’t want a replacement. I want it off.
“Is it bothering you?” He closes the stove and watches me.
“Yes. I don’t like it.” Of course it’s bothering me.
