My name is Sophia Sicklemouth, the first wife of Gordon Sicklemouth.

My husband is not a good man. Even when I married him, almost 45 years ago I wouldn't have said so. But until 10 years ago, I might have agreed he was a Great man, capital 'G' great. The kind that will have marble statues and books made about them in a hundred years.

I at least thought he would be a good husband when I married him, he was always a hard worker. Even back when we met he was successful. He had managed to move up from being a poor oarsman from the slums to a trader, then an investor, then a consultant, then the leader of his own merchant group. Despite his success and cheeky attitude, he had had a gentle nature, he even used to be honest. He always paid what he owed and expected others to do the same.
Of course, even back then I knew he was a scoundrel. With handsome features and a silver tongue, he went chasing after whatever girl caught his fancy. And I knew he mostly fancied exotic women.
After all, that's why he courted me. My great-great-grandmother had immigrated into the Crater Sea and brought with her a drop of blood from a rare ogre tribe, from far to the east of here. 
For whatever reason, I of all her descendants was the only one to ever grow the antler that tribe were known for. As far as I know, I'm the only horned orc in the Crater Sea. 
The short velvety brown antler growing from the left side of my scalp fascinated Gordon for some reason. And so because of it and its rarity, he chased after me relentlessly. 
He'd bring me expensive gifts, talked with my family, challenged my other suitors (I was quite a looker back then) and gave me incredible service in bed. I fell in love, so I agreed to marry him.
Of course I knew he would go for other women. For a bull-orc of his size and wealth, it would be stranger if he didn't, I never minded as long as he stayed with me. She-orcs aren't the jealous type.

And then as his harem of exotic beauties began to grow, we realised he was sterile.

It's not uncommon in orcs. Blood alchemists call it 'hybrid infertility'. Maybe one in six of us can't bear children. For all I know I can't. Although I never tried with anyone else. Bull-orcs are very much the jealous type.
I think some part of him never really accepted it. His other wives and I would suggest adoption, or for his brother to donate seed if blood-relation was so important to him. Both options are common enough for orcs, infertility is just a fact of life in orcish society. But he would keep saying it was unnecessary, that it was just a matter of time. 

He took all manner of alchemical treatments. Visited shamans and oracles and bought nick-nacks from sea witches. He once tried to make me drink the piss of a goat that had been fed some special elixir before we had sex. Of course I told him to get lost. He convinced another of the wives to drink it though, which she still hasn't lived down.
As the decades grew on, and his harem grew from 3 to 7, to 10, I began to realize a change in his pattern.
Desperation had set in. And the charming scoundrel who wooed me became a lecherous old man. He stopped giving affection to the wives who'd proven his infertility and we become glad not to receive it.

He became crueller. He would swamp new girls with attention and keep them isolated from us older wives. He would convince them that he loved them truly. Until they failed to become pregnant, then he would discard and ridicule them as if the failure was theirs. Then he would begin hunting for the next poor woman.

At wife 13 his methods changed from seduction to entrapment. He began picking women who were running from things, or with unpayable debts. He would push them into marriage in exchange for protection or money. He wasn't very successful. Most of his new girls wisened up and fled, ancients protect them. Which Gordon hated more than anything.
I began to hate my husband, but I still loved this life. The villa we had built together was luxurious, and I loved my fellow wives like sisters.
Then Gordon's taste grew younger as we both grew older. I began to think of the girls as daughters. I like to think I'm a good mother despite my sterile husband.

His last was wife number 14. He'd grown distant from all of us. He would come for a few days and then leave for a few months. He became strange, spending all his time alone and even eating separately. He would admonish us if we ever moved or cleaned his things so we stopped going into his room altogether. 

We wives would joke amongst ourselves that we were already widows, and were only visited by our departed husband's spectre.
Years went by without a new wife, and we thought he finally gave up on children. He had found a new obsession though, growing his group and focusing on training the next generation. One day he left and didn't come back. 
I thought he might have died for real finally, and that his trading company had only forgotten to tell us. I still left his room alone though. I honestly mostly stopped thinking about him.

His harem was never content to sit idle of course. Many of us had jobs, and our household is self sufficient even without Gordon. Most of us had only been his wives in name alone for decades at this point. So really why would we worry about him?

Then after three years without a word, he finally came home dragging a tiny pink thing from the south that could barely even speak Graboshen. 
He would have never brought home a goblin before, and I think she might have been his youngest ever too. 

When we met her the first night in the bath, I thought she seemed polite enough to join our household and I let her be. I personally never had much issue with goblins and I encouraged the other wives to be kind to her if she ended up staying.

But Gordon did have issues with goblins. He, like many orcs, saw goblins as inferior. Strength and size are highly valued in orcish culture. Maybe because our kind can vary so much. A larger she-orc has healthier children, and a stronger bull-orc can better provide after all.
So it's unavoidable that we'd see our smaller cousins as lesser. We children of ogres can only survive in the miasma because of goblin ancestry, but who would want children with any more goblin blood? When doing so would doom your own offspring to be seen as lesser.

Gordon was always a proud man. Proud of the size of his body and proud of the size of his personality. Something had changed if he'd chosen a goblin for a bride.
But what was there for me to do? When a new woman enters an orcish household it's traditional for the other wives to back off for a while. And in Gordon's harem, it's better to let the girls figure Gordon out on their own. I'll be here to comfort them when they need it, or help them establish themselves elsewhere if things go too sour with Gordon. If only I knew Picklish and I could just ask the girl what she wanted to do.

Gordon of course takes his new bride out the next afternoon, and I don't expect them back before late.

In fact, their date goes so late that I decide to go to bed before they come back.
I'm woken by a rough shake on my shoulder. "Sophia! I want you to look after Pimple." This must be the first time Gordon's come into my bedroom in decades.
It's late, perhaps 5 hours after sunset.
"Why? Is she sick?" I ask.
"She tripped while running." 
That doesn't sound right to me. Goblins are known for being nimble. That and their incredible ability to shrug off serious injury. Why would she need my help? Why was she running so late at night?
"Tell her the medicine and bandage is under the counter in the kitchen," I tell him. I was sure she was older than 20, "she should be able to take care of herself."
"She's knocked out."
I sit up. I don't like where this is going. "What have you done Gordon?" 
He grunts at me, "I already said, she tripped and fell. Now hurry before she bleeds out in my bed." 
Nothing for it, I get out of bed still in my nightie. "If it's that bad send for a shaman, and what did you do to make her run?" 
"She's a whore and a thief and she owes me. It doesn't matter why she ran. Just make sure she doesn't die. She'll give me a son soon." 
"She's pregnant? And I won't believe she stole anything." I think she had seemed too polite to be a thief, and far too shy.
"Not yet. But the sea hag said if I take a pixie abed I would find my fate and create a miasma-touched. I have always known I was fated a son and if he's shaman all the better."
Wonderful, he talked to a sea witch again.  You thought he would realize their quackery after the 300th time he got his hopes up.
"You've gone blind you daft old fool. She's a little big for a pixie, isn't she? And where would you find a pixie anyhow, they can't live in the miasma." I say as I follow him out of my room and across the courtyard.
"Shuttit you hag, I'm no fool. A contact 20 years ago told me that southern goblins often have a drop of pixie blood, and you can tell when that blood is particularly thick when a young goblin has silver hair. See, the sea witch's prophecy was tricky, made me think I had to search the mainland for a long while. Only when I remembered about the silver-haired goblins did I come back to the Crater. And on my way back who happened to ask for passage on my ship? A pussy with silver hair. Fates on my side this time."
What a cask of goat piss.

We enter Gordon's room, it's not as messy as the last time I saw it. But there's still a stack of dirty dishes, he's left his dirty bedding out and there's stains on the floor. If the cum-stink is anything to go by he's been enjoying himself plenty at least with the poor girl.
The dirty bedding twitches.
"Ancients what have you done!" I rush over to the girl, she looks like she has one foot in the grave. She's covered in nasty grazes that are still leaking blood, it's soaked into her hair and the mattress. Her dark pink skin is turning black and purple across her stomach. She seems to be asleep, but her sleep seems restless and she spasms periodically. Her skin is cold and clammy.

 
"Get a shaman."
"It's not that bad Sophia, just clean her up and let her rest."
"Go fetch a shaman Gordon, she's past half dead."
"She's goblin, they're hard to kill."
"Go fetch a shaman or I will swear to the magistrate that you raped and beat her! And if she dies maybe I'll say that anyway."
With a grunt, my wretched husband leaves. 

For the next few hours, I tend to the she-goblin. I found fresh linens for her and wiped the blood, sweat and dust from her body. With a warm damp cloth and comb I brush the dried blood from her hair.
When the shaman arrived he gave Pimple a draft to help make blood, he cleaned her wounds with distilled spirits and then applied a balm to seal them. He then placed a spell on her broken wrist so it would heal quickly and straight. 
Over the next few days, I continued to nurse the poor girl. I had bought her pyjamas and cleaned the room which I had kicked Gordon out of. I don't know where he slept but he continued to lurk around the Villa during the day. 
All the while his harem discussed what to do with him. Whatever had happened was almost certainly Gordon's fault and we wives felt somehow responsible for the goblin. 
We pooled together what we knew and interrogated Gordon, who remained obstinate. Ultimately we decided to wait for the she-goblin to wake up before getting a magistrate involved.

The law in Grabosh is decided by the king, who selects a lord for each region and city. Each lord would then choose magistrates who would administer the law for common folk. In theory, whenever you're wronged you can gather witnesses and approach a magistrate. He'll listen, and then if he believes the king's law might have been broken he will set a date for both parties to meet in court. With this system, even the poorest in Grabosh can expect a fair trial. The problem is that magistrates are very busy and often don't want to involve themselves in domestic matters. Worse the king, lords and magistrates are all orcs. Often priding themselves on high ogre pedigrees traceable back to the time of Bog'ra The Virile. So they are often callous to goblins.

This means if Pimple survives we can certainly put the case in front of a magistrate, but if it's just the women of the house against their husband they won't want to be involved. What's more, if it's only about the safety of a foreign goblin... Frankly, our odds of the magistrate even giving us a court date are negligible. If she died it would certainly be considered murder and would be treated much more seriously. But I refuse to let this girl die under my watch. I will spend a hundred palms of bronze if it keeps her alive.
Maybe when Pimple wakes up she'll know of some witnesses.
She looks like she's sleeping quite soundly now. Occasionally she wakes up for a few minutes, but she seems dazed and disorientated. She was even so sweet to call me grandmother in her delirium. 

Gordon is still visiting her while she rests, I've told him to leave too many times but he won't listen. He'll ramble about prophecies and debts, and becomes belligerent if we press him.
The fact the other wives now look at him as if he were a stain on the floor and refuse to speak or remain near him is an appreciated act of solidarity. But it's not helping his temper or patience. 
This is not the man I married. I've long joked now that that man had died a long time ago, but the cheeky oarsman I knew is gone. When did he get so bad? He couldn't have been like this in the beginning. 

Regardless of what happens in court, this will likely be the end of this living arrangement. Pulling some strings I should be able to have the villa transferred to my name. It was built for us wives and I doubt Gordon would want the public embarrassment of every wife bringing a divorce case to the magistrate. 
These women I've lived with now for so many decades are my best friends, my family. And as always, I shall see that my family are all safe and happy. I will keep Pimple safe.

Until one evening when I come to check on her, I realize she might not actually need my protection.