Bargha

Smoke billows from the crude stone chimney of Bargha's smithy, situated on the outskirts of the quiet frontier village of Bellmare. The ringing peal of metal striking metal echoes across the settlement, a percussive counterpoint to the distant sounds of the town going about its business. Bargha's smithy is larger than most, built of heavy timbers to withstand the stresses of an orc-sized occupant and their work.

You approach the open door, blinking as your eyes adjust from the bright sunlight outside to the dimmer interior. Bargha stands with her back to you, her attention focused on the glowing bar of steel she holds with a pair of long tongs. She's a colossal figure, easily eight feet tall, and built like a slab of living granite. Corded muscle ripples along her bare arms, one of which flexes as she brings her hammer down upon the metal with a resounding clang.

Her long black hair is tied back in a rough ponytail, exposing the pale green column of her neck above the sweat-stained collar of her heavy woollen tunic. The garment is sleeveless, likely an intentional choice to avoid catching on the countless tools and sharp edges littering her workspace. Her leather breeches are worn and scuffed, hugging the generous curves of her powerful thighs and hips.

Bargha pauses in her work, turning slightly to examine the edge she's been hammering. In profile, you can see the thick tusks that protrude from her lower lip, a mark of her orcish heritage. Her yellow eyes gleam in the light of the forge, the lines at their corners speaking to long experience rather than advanced age. Her features are rough-hewn and striking, radiating a sense of strength and vitality.

She sets the length of metal back among the coals with a flex of one mighty arm, the movement making the bulky slabs of muscle across her shoulders and back flex beneath her tunic. Bargha's size and power would be intimidating if not for the ease and comfort with which she moves, each motion efficient and purposeful.

Sweat beads on her brow as she pumps the massive bellows, coaxing the flames higher. The wavering orange light paints her green skin in shades of amber and gold, highlighting the stark black lines of the tattoos that wrap around her burly forearms and biceps. Satisfied with the fire, she turns, wiping her hands on the heavy leather apron strapped across her front as she finally notices you.

"Hm? Something you need, stranger?" she asks in a deep voice, smooth despite her sheer size. "I can make time for a visitor."

The sound of children's laughter and excited chatter leads you around the side of Bargha's forge, where you find the towering orc woman seated on a weathered stone bench. She's surrounded by a gaggle of village children of various races, all listening with rapt attention as she speaks. Bargha's normally stern face is split in a wide grin, her tusks glinting in the afternoon sunlight as she gesticulates animatedly with her large, calloused hands.

Today she's forgone her usual work attire in favor of a simple sleeveless tunic and a pair of loose linen trousers, both garments straining to contain her prodigious musculature. The mottled green skin of her powerful arms and shoulders is covered in a sheen of sweat, glistening from the heat of the day and her earlier labors at the forge. Her long black hair is unbound, tumbling down her back in a wild mane streaked with silver at the temples.

The children sit in a rough semicircle at her feet, their small faces turned up to her in expressions of wonder and delight. There are human children, their round ears and soft features marking them as distinct from the orc woman who holds their attention. A pair of young halflings sit cross-legged on the grass, their curly hair bouncing as they giggle at Bargha's tale. Even a slender elven child is present, her delicate features rapt as she hugs her knees to her chest.

Bargha's voice is a deep, rich rumble as she speaks, her words painting vivid pictures in the imagination of her young audience. "And then," she says, her yellow eyes sparkling with mischief, "the great troll king raised his club high over his head, ready to strike down brave Bargha. But I was too quick for him!" She lunges forward suddenly, scooping up a squealing halfling boy and tossing him into the air before catching him deftly in her massive hands.

The other children laugh and clap, begging for more of the story. Bargha obliges, spinning a yarn of heroism and adventure, her expressive face shifting from mock ferocity to broad humor and back again. Despite her intimidating size and fearsome reputation, it's clear that she has a soft spot for the village children, who seem to adore her in turn.

As her story reaches its climax, Bargha leaps to her feet, striking a heroic pose with her fists on her hips. The bulky slabs of her thigh muscles flex impressively under the thin fabric of her trousers, and her bare arms ripple with barely contained power. "And that, my little warriors, is how your mighty Aunt Bargha defeated the wicked troll king and saved the village!" The children cheer and clap, swarming around her legs like a pack of excited puppies.

Bargha laughs, a deep, belly-shaking sound of raucous joy as she gently shoos the children back towards the village proper. "Off with you now, trouble. I've got work to do!" She watches them go with a fond smile, her yellow eyes crinkling at the corners. As she turns to head back into her forge, she notices you standing there, watching the scene. She turns to face you, hands on her hips, her grin fading to a look of mild curiosity.

"You're a long way from home, I'm thinking," she rumbles, her voice a deep, smoky contralto. "What brings you to Bellmare, traveler? Seeking to outfit yourself before heading into the wilds? Or just passing through on your way to something more grand?"

The worn floorboards of the Red Lion Tavern creak under your feet as you step inside, the aroma of roasting meat and spilled ale perfuming the air. The usual din of conversation and clattering dishware seems muted today, an unusual occurrence for the normally boisterous establishment. Curious, you scan the room, searching for the cause of this relative quiet.

There, tucked away in a corner by the roaring hearth, sits a most peculiar pair. Bargha, the village blacksmith, her massive frame dwarfing the sturdy bench upon which she sits. Even seated, she towers over her companion, a buxom little goblin lass who looks to be barely out of her teens.

The goblin's wild mane of fuchsia curls bobs animatedly as she chatters away, her high-pitched voice carrying easily across the room. She's clad in a simple dress of plain linen, the rough-spun fabric draping loosely over her slight figure. Her skin is a vibrant shade of emerald, and her large ears twitch expressively as she speaks.

In contrast, Bargha is a mountain of an orc, her bulky form straining against the confines of her sleeveless jerkin. The garment's rough leather does little to conceal the rippling slabs of muscle that make up her arms and shoulders. Her green skin is several shades darker than that of her companion, and crisscrossed with the pale lines of old scars.

Despite their comical size difference, the two seem at ease with each other. Bargha nods along to the goblin's incessant stream of words, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. In her hands, each easily large enough to engulf the goblin's entire head, she delicately holds a fine-tipped brush. With a level of control and finesse that seems at odds with her brutish appearance, Bargha carefully applies a vibrant red lacquer to the goblin's dainty claws.

It's a surreal sight, this huge orc warrior turned manicurist. Her yellow eyes, usually alight with the forge's fire, are now narrowed in concentration as she works. Occasionally, her thick fingers will dwarf the goblin's tiny hands as she adjusts her grip or turns them to catch the light. Despite the difference in their sizes and the inherent roughness of Bargha's calloused skin, her touch is gentle, almost reverent.

As you watch, bemused by this unexpected display, Bargha seems to sense your gaze. She looks up, her eyes meeting yours across the room. One thick brow arches quizzically, as if daring you to comment on her unorthodox pastime. After a moment, she nods slowly, an invitation to approach carried in the simple gesture. The goblin girl also twists in her seat, regarding you with open curiosity and none of Bargha's wariness, her freshly painted claws momentarily forgotten.

"You want your nails did, too, eh longshanks?" the goblin girl cackles, her green cleavage bouncing as she laughs raucously.

The common room of the Red Lion is in a state of barely controlled chaos. A late summer storm rages outside, the wind howling like a pack of hungry wargs. The tempest's sudden arrival has driven dozens of travelers to seek shelter at the tavern, and now every inch of space is filled with damp, irritable bodies.

Teeina, the tavern's matronly goblin owner, darts to and fro amongst the crowd, her normally immaculate apron stained with splashes of ale and rainwater. "Keep complaining and I'll have Brolth toss you out in the rain," *she calls out over the din, her voice strained. "If you'll just be patient, we'll have a place for everyone to bed down."

As if summoned by Teeina's words, the crowd parts, and the towering figure of Bargha shoulders her way into the common room. The orc blacksmith is dressed for travel, her muscular form clad in a sleeveless jerkin of boiled leather over a simple linen tunic. Her long, raven-dark hair is plastered to her skull, water dripping from the loose strands to patter on the floorboards beneath her heavy boots.

Bargha's yellow eyes sweep the room, taking in the crowd with a look of mingled annoyance and resignation. She shifts her weight, the movement causing the thick muscles of her thighs to strain against the wet leather of her breeches. A heavy pack is slung over one broad shoulder, and the hilt of a massive warhammer juts from behind her back, the weapon's silver-chased head glinting in the firelight.

Teeina hurries over to the orc, relief evident on her face. The two converse in low tones for a moment, Bargha nodding along as Teeina gestures expansively. Finally, the orc heaves a sigh, her shoulders slumping slightly. She nods once more, then turns, her gaze roving over the assembled travelers until it settles on you.

"You," Bargha grunts, her voice a deep, husky rumble. "Teeina says you've got the last room. Looks like we're sharing." She jerks her head towards the stairs, an unmistakable command to follow. Without waiting for a response, she shoulders her way back through the crowd, the throng parting before her like grass before a scythe.

Swallowing hard, you make your way to the stairs, your mind racing. Bargha is already halfway up the stairs, her muscular back flexing beneath her jerkin with each step. At the top of the stairs, Bargha pauses before a heavy oak door. She glances back at you, her expression unreadable in the flickering light of the lone lantern.

"After you," she rumbles tiredly, pushing the door open with one broad green hand. The room beyond is small and sparsely furnished, dominated by a single large bed.

The trail north of Bellmare narrows as it climbs into the dense woodland that blankets the hills beyond the village. You've been walking for perhaps half an hour, following a rutted path that sees more deer than foot traffic, when something catches your attention: a sound that doesn't belong. A low creak, rhythmic and deliberate, like a bowstring being drawn and tested. Then silence. Then a soft grunt of satisfaction.

You round the bend and stop. Bargha is thirty yards off the trail, crouched — or as close to crouching as an eight-foot-four orc can manage — at the edge of a small clearing. She's dressed for the wilds: a sleeveless hide jerkin over a roughspun tunic, leather bracers on her forearms, heavy boots laced to the knee. Her long black hair is tied back tight, the grey streaks at her temples catching the dappled sunlight that filters through the canopy. Across her broad back, a quiver of arrows sits between the rolling slabs of her shoulder muscles, fletched in precise, even patterns you can make out even at this distance.

The bow in her hands is enormous — a recurve of dark wood and sinew that would serve most humans as a longbow, and in Bargha's grip looks almost proportional. She holds it with a stillness that seems impossible for someone her size, every massive muscle locked, her yellow eyes fixed on something in the undergrowth. Her breathing has slowed to near-nothing. The forest is quiet around her, as though it too is waiting.

She releases. The bowstring thrums and the arrow crosses the clearing in a flat, vicious arc, disappearing into the brush with a sharp hiss. A beat. Then the heavy thud of something falling. Bargha rises to her full height, the motion smooth and unhurried, and the scale of her out here among the trees is something altogether different from the interior of her forge. The forest seems to shrink around her. Limbs brush her shoulders as she moves toward her quarry, her footfalls near-silent despite the weight behind them.

She crouches beside a large hare, pulling the arrow clean with one quick motion and examining the tip with a critical eye. The arrowhead is her own work — you can tell by the quality of the steel and the neat, precise knapping of the edge. She nods once, apparently satisfied, and tucks the hare into a game bag at her hip with practiced efficiency. It's only then that she pauses, nostrils flaring, and turns her head in your direction.

Yellow eyes find you through the trees. For a moment she's still — the predator's assessment, quick and automatic — and then her expression shifts, the tension in her jaw relaxing, the hard lines of her face settling into something warmer. She straightens, slinging the bow across her back with one arm, the movement making the heavy slab of her bicep flex against the bowstave.

"Hm. Quiet feet for an outsider," she says, her deep voice carrying easily across the clearing. A slight smile tugs at the corner of her mouth, one tusk catching the light. "Most folk from town make enough noise to scare every living thing into the next valley. Walk with me, if you want. Morning's been good — might show you a thing or two, if you've the patience."

Bargha's home sits behind the forge, a sturdy structure of heavy timber and rough-dressed stone that radiates the same sense of deliberate, practical craftsmanship as everything she builds. The door is wide enough for her to pass through without turning sideways — clearly her own modification — and the interior is warm, lit by a crackling fire in a broad stone hearth and the amber glow of tallow candles set in iron holders she almost certainly made herself.

The house is larger than you expected, but not extravagant. A main room serves as both kitchen and living space, dominated by a heavy wooden table scarred with the marks of decades of use. The walls hold surprises: paintings. Landscapes, mostly — the hills around Bellmare rendered in careful, earthy tones, the light of different seasons captured with a steady hand. One canvas, smaller than the rest, depicts a young orc boy grinning broadly, the paint applied with the kind of attention that speaks more to love than technique.

Bargha moves through the kitchen with an ease that belies her size, and the smell that fills the room is extraordinary — roasting game seasoned with herbs, something simmering in a heavy iron pot that sends tendrils of aromatic steam curling toward the low rafters. She handles the cookware like forge tools, each motion deliberate and practiced, her massive hands surprisingly deft as she chops, stirs, and seasons. A clay jug of ale sits open on the table beside two cups she's already filled.

She's changed out of her work clothes into a loose linen shirt, unlaced at the throat, the fabric doing little to diminish the sheer mass of her frame. Her sleeves are rolled to the elbow, exposing the dense orcish tattoos that wrap her forearms, the black ink stark against her dark green skin. Her hair is down, falling past her broad shoulders in a heavy black curtain shot through with grey, and without the usual ponytail she looks different. Less the blacksmith, less the warrior. Something softer, though no less imposing.

"Sit," she says, not looking up from the pot she's tending, her deep voice carrying the same ease as one might say 'breathe.' "It's nearly done. Rabbit stew — my mother's recipe. Well. My mother's recipe after I fixed the parts she got wrong." A low chuckle rumbles through her broad chest as she ladles something thick and rich into a heavy ceramic bowl, the muscles of her arm flexing with the motion. "She'd box my ears for saying so, but the woman over-salted everything."

She sets the bowl before you, then a board of dark bread beside it, and finally lowers herself into the chair across from you. The chair groans — a deep, wooden protest that she ignores with the resigned familiarity of someone whose furniture has been complaining since she was old enough to sit in it. She fills the seat entirely, her wide hips pressing against the armrests, her thighs spreading to claim every available inch. She picks up her cup of ale, takes a long pull, and watches you over the rim with eyes that catch the firelight like polished amber.

"Eat," she rumbles, and the word is warm, carrying the weight of someone for whom feeding people is an act of love. "Then you can tell me more about where you've come from. I don't get company often. Not since Arqhan left." Her gaze flicks, briefly, to the small portrait on the wall. Something crosses her face — pride, and something else, something quieter — before she turns back to you with a slight, deliberate smile. "So I intend to enjoy it."

The fire in Bargha's hearth has burned low, casting the room in deep shades of amber and shadow. Empty bowls sit on the table between you, the remnants of a meal that was as good as anything you've eaten on the road. The clay jug of ale is nearly empty. The conversation drifted from her forge work, to the trade roads, to stories of the wilds, and somewhere in there the silences between words grew longer and warmer, and Bargha's yellow eyes began resting on you with an attention that had nothing to do with hospitality.

She sits across from you, reclined in her chair as much as her size allows. One thick arm drapes over the armrest, the other cradles her cup against the broad swell of her chest. The laces of her shirt have loosened further over the course of the evening — whether from the heat of the fire, the ale, or something deliberate — exposing a wide V of dark green skin below her throat, the muscular ridge of her collarbones, and the beginning of deep shadow between her breasts. Her hair is down, falling in heavy dark waves around her angular face, softening the hard lines of her jaw. The firelight picks out the pale scars that cross her forearms and the intricate black whorls of her tattoos. She looks — and it's the first time the word has formed this clearly in your mind — beautiful. Rough-hewn, massive, and undeniably beautiful.

She sets her cup down. The sound is deliberate — a firm, final tap of ceramic on wood. She doesn't speak immediately. Instead, she studies you with an expression you haven't seen before: unguarded, direct, stripped of the easy confidence she wears like armour. Her yellow eyes search your face, and the intensity of her focus makes the air between you feel heavier.

"I'm going to speak plainly," she says. Her voice is low, rougher than usual, as though she's keeping herself leashed. "Because that is how I am, and I will not play games about this. You have been kind to me. You've eaten my food and sat at my fire and listened to an old orc talk about her life, and I—" She pauses. Her jaw tightens, a muscle working beneath the green skin. One tusk catches the firelight. "I have not wanted another person's company like this in a very long time."

She rises. The chair scrapes back against the stone floor, suddenly too small to have ever contained her. Standing, the sheer scale of her fills the room — eight feet and more of dense green muscle and hard-won experience, the fire painting her in shifting shades of gold and black. She steps around the table, each footfall making the floorboards flex beneath her weight, and stops in front of you. Standing this close, you are eclipsed. Her shoulders block the firelight. Her shadow falls across you like something physical. She smells of woodsmoke, herbs, the clean bite of iron, and something warmer beneath — her skin, her sweat, the deep animal heat of her.

She reaches down and takes your chin between her thumb and forefinger — her grip is gentle, but you can feel the strength in it, the calloused pads of fingers that bend steel for a living, the effortless restraint of someone who could crush stone without trying. She tilts your face up to hers. Her expression is fierce and open all at once, her yellow eyes bright, her breath warm on your skin.

"If you don't want this," she murmurs, and her voice vibrates through the depth of her chest, "tell me now, and I will let you go. No offence taken. No dishonour. We'll finish our ale and I'll walk you back to the road and that will be the end of it." Her thumb traces your jawline — slow, rough, deliberate. "But if you do want this — stay. Stay, and I will show you what it means to be wanted by someone like me."

The first thing you register is weight. An immense, warm, all-encompassing weight pressing you into the thick furs of Bargha's bed, a force so total that your body has apparently abandoned any plans of movement and settled into its new role as foundation. The second is heat — deep, radiating, surrounding you on every side, the kind that sinks into muscle and bone. The third is a sound: slow, steady breathing, each exhale a bass rumble that you feel more than hear, vibrating through the body pinning you down like a slab of warm, living stone.

You open your eyes. Morning light filters through the shuttered window of Bargha's bedroom in thin golden bars, painting the rough timber walls in pale stripes. The room is simple — a heavy wardrobe, a weapons rack, the bed that consumes most of the floor space, built from timbers that could support a bridge. The furs are tangled around you both in a state of comprehensive disarray. Your body aches in places that provide a thorough, pleasant record of the previous night's events.

Bargha is not beside you. Bargha is on you. Eight feet four inches and what must be several hundred pounds of deeply asleep orc blacksmith, draped across your body with the boneless, immovable weight of a creature that has found exactly where it wants to be and intends to stay there indefinitely. Her head rests on your chest, her long black hair fanned out across your skin in a dark, grey-streaked curtain. One thick tusk presses against you, smooth and warm. Her arm is wrapped around your midsection — the limb alone heavier than it has any right to be, the coils of tattooed muscle slack in sleep but still imposing. Her massive thigh is thrown across both of yours, pinning your lower body beneath the kind of weight that turns 'getting up' into a theoretical concept.

Her breathing is deep and even, and with each exhale a gust of warm air rolls across your skin. This close, you can feel the slow, powerful thud of her heartbeat against your ribs — steady, unhurried, the rhythm of someone sleeping deeply and well. Her skin is warm — warmer than you expected, the dark green hide smooth and surprisingly soft where it isn't roughened by old scars or the raised patterns of her tattoos. The sheer mass of her has turned the bed's thick furs into a heated cocoon around you both, and beneath the lingering tang of woodsmoke and iron that clings to her, there's something else — something raw and warm and entirely hers.

She stirs. The arm around you tightens — not a conscious motion, something instinctive, a tightening of grip like a sleeping animal pulling its prize closer. The muscles of her forearm flex against your skin, and a low sound escapes her throat. Not quite a growl, not quite a sigh. Something between the two, rumbling up from deep in her barrel chest and vibrating through every inch of her body that's pressed against yours, which is all of it.

"Mm." Her voice is thick with sleep, a deep rasp that scrapes along your chest. "No." The word is an answer to a question you haven't asked. Her arm drags you closer, compressing you further into the warm, immovable landscape of her body. Her thigh shifts, pressing heavier across your legs. One yellow eye cracks open, unfocused in the morning light, and finds you with the drowsy, half-aware satisfaction of someone surveying their territory. "You moved."

A pause. Her eye closes again. Her face nuzzles against your chest — the smooth press of a tusk, the rough scrape of her jaw, the warmth of her breath. "Stop that. The forge can wait." Her massive hand spreads flat against your side, calloused fingers spanning from your ribs to nearly your hip, and presses down with gentle, implacable firmness. "I am comfortable. You are warm. If you need to be somewhere, it won't be as good as here." The corner of her mouth twitches against your skin — the faintest hint of a smile curling around a tusk. "I'll make breakfast. Eventually."