Hi. Happy new year. Long time no see. We venture slightly into monsterfucker territory this time around, with orcs. Still mostly human but also...not.
Tabletops and Tablebottoms, 3: Fucked by Two Fighters
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Adventurer! Beware the fighter, who spends his entire life honing his sword arm. While any common squire can pick up a weapon and swing it about, few have such proficiency as a fighter. He might not know his way around a spell, but he knows they take time to cast, and that delay is the difference between his life and your death...
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When your horse catches and breaks his ankle in a rocky crag in the middle of the last place you needed any of that to happen, you start swearing. Kicking yourself mentally. Because it meant that the stablemaster in the last city you'd been in was right.
You stare out at the mostly-barren hills before you; grey and black rock that gives way to angry mountains that claw up from the land. Hardly a tree in sight. These are orc lands. And you are a headstrong greenhorn who was on a fool's errand in these shit-blasted plains. He'd said you should have just caught the next boat. And gotten a shield. All the grains of his unwanted advice begin dancing about in your head as you look at your poor horse.
"Should your horse become lame, or injured," he had said gravely; "you must do it a favour and kill it yourself. Lest you doom it to starving, dehydration, and predation while it lives, and suffers." You gulp back the image of his stern, wrinkled face as it swelled up in your memory, as you look at the horse. It whinnies miserably, its huge eyes going even wider.
For the first time since your adventure started, you draw your sword with a shaky hand, rueing that damn stablemaster. You cannot believe you are about to use your sword for the first time on your horse. With a heavy sigh, you raise your weapon shakily above your head...and stop when you hear it. The thundering. A storm on the horizon?
You whirl your head about, not to find a darkening sky, but a gathering on the horizon of the plains that yawned below the hills where you stood. Your blood chills in your veins as you watch the column swell and come closer, and you can hear the guttural calls of orcs. Horses' hooves knocking against dead, pounded earth. Gut twisting, you see that they were headed your way. You need to hide, now, but with almost no cover in these open, yawning plans, you are out of options.
The orc platoon approaches, and you desperately search the hills behind you, your horse already forgotten about. It whinnies plaintively, its eyes wheeling around as it watches you run from it, your sword still unsheathed.
Some metres away you are able to find an outcropping of rocks that seem to collapse in around themselves. You manage to wriggle yourself in, and the sound of the orc horde is swallowed by the sound of your own heart, beating horrendously in your ears. Time inside your hiding place seems swollen, minutes stretching ever longer as you listen for their approach...and their eventual departure. Fuck. You really should not have come this way.
It was many long minutes later that you stick your head out from the crag. The platoon's horses have taken them far, far to the distance; their rumbling barely registers on your ears now. To your shock, you can still hear your horse braying, whinnying to either be freed from its broken-leg prison or just finally killed. Relief tingles in your veins like fine wine, and you begin to emerge from the rocks.
"...good idea to come back for the horse," came a harsh voice. Orcs!
"We can tie it up in the cart," came another, even deeper, even more masculine voice. "Make good eating for the women back home." There were at least two of them. Your body was sticking halfway out of your hiding place when you caught the sounds of their voices, and when your outer coat snags and yanks you back inside, you land with a thud. Your sword slides out of its scabbard and you hear it clatter against the stone with a sickening rattle sound.
You swallow, and your throat is thick with trepidation. Distantly, but so terrifyingly nearby, the orcs' conversation stops. "What the hell is--" you hear the first, brasher voice say, but the other shushes him with a grunt. The air is still. Silent. You wished you were going to die literally anywhere else but out here in the plains of the orc lands by yourself. All at once, you see a heavy leg appear by the mouth of the crag, and then you are dragged out, feet first, by both orcs. Two heavy hands grip your shoulders, and you are yanked into the harsh light. Your stomach churns as images of your death dance before your eyes.
Pinning you down to the earth, the two orcs stare with questioning eyes at you, then at each other. One of them was dressed in armour of bone and earthy leather, plates stitched together and covering everything but a bulky, well-muscled torso. He looked like your textbook orc: broad shoulders, pronounced muscles, and scrappy armour. A single braid fell over his bulging shoulder; black, like the hairs that raced up out his pants to spray out across his chest.
The other, who seemed much older, wore only a wolf-pelt cloak and simple riding leathers that did very little to hide what was under them. This one was much more hirsute than his companion, with a softer body that had seen many years of battle and toil. A grizzled silver beard made his grimace more fearsome, more ancient. It matched the mats of hair that covered his body.
Both of them were as green as forest moss, the scars of battle riddling their bodies, some painted over with dark red ochre. Perhaps a signifier of their kinship. Though the horrible swords they wore promised death to their foes--or prey--you couldn't deny the stirring in your cock as you took the sight of them in.
