Blood Debt of the Wild Elf
Page 4
1 HP DAMAGE
She knows her life is slipping away. Less than a held breath’s length between damage messages. She has only a few minutes left and nothing to stop the blood. There were herbalists among the Red Feather tribe who would know which plant might heal her. Holy women of the Red Feather might call upon the goddess of the elves, Adrahil, to restore her health. But Bronwen knows she is a simple warrior and at the lowest level. She has nothing to save herself.
1 HP DAMAGE
She rolls onto her back and looks up at the sky, golden between the leaves gently stirring above her. She will see the goddess soon. This alone fills her with a sense of peace. Her body seems to grow lighter as if she is rising to meet the sky. But she has not moved. She is alone, bleeding out on the floor of the jungle.
The snap of a twig pulls her fading consciousness back to reality. The blood is barely trickling through her fingers. Every part of her is cold. She draws in a shallow breath and weakly lifts her head. She looks in the direction of the sound, expecting to see the featureless black face of Death.
The creature that peers through the brush could not be more than half Bronwen’s height, with gray-green skin and a gangly physique bordering on the emaciated. Its head is wide and flat, with a face dominated by an overly large and pointed nose. Long pointed ears stick out from its head. Its arms are long in comparison to its overall height and its clawed hands grasp a wooden staff wrapped with beads and totems. Similar charms dangle from the woven vest and belt it wears over its simple loincloth.
“Goblin,” croaks Bronwen, a smile weakly playing at her lips. Of course, she thinks, she managed to beat an orc, but she is going to be finished off by one of their lesser cousins. Conniving and clever, but otherwise weak, goblins can be found wherever orcs are found. The goblin steps out into the open, brandishing its gnarled staff. Bronwen struggles to focus her gaze on the red text floating above its head.
Gerrik Woundlicker – Level 9 Goblin Shaman
High level for a goblin. She can’t recall ever encountering one of their shamans, but surely she has before. She fumbles for her sword and tries to push herself up. Pain shoots through her side again and she cries out and drops her blade.
“Thank god you’re alive,” says the goblin in an unusually clear voice. “If you had died you would have reset and I would never be able to help you.”
“Help… me?” She groans, “Hate goblins. Kill… you.”
Bronwen tries to lift her sword again, infuriated by the idea that this goblin would pretend to help her. It scurries over to her, ignoring her feeble attempts to attack as it squats down and presses at her wound.
1 HP DAMAGE
“You’ve lost a lot of blood,” says the goblin, again speaking in a way more like a human. It begins opening pouches on its belt and sprinkling powder over the wound. There is an alchemical hiss and a distinct burning sensation. The goblin murmurs, “Just try not to move.”
Bronwen’s head drops back onto the sun-warmed moss. She grimaces as pain stabs through her wound. She counts in her head, waiting for the last point of her life force to tick away. It does not. She looks up at the goblin, her eyes burning with hatred for its kind, but her body too weak to fight it.
“Finish it, goblin scum,” she moans.
“The name is Alex,” says the goblin. “Well, they gave me the name Gerrik, but that’s not my name. Alex is my real name. From before I was stuck here as this goblin.”
1 HP HEALED
Bronwen decides the goblin is speaking nonsense, but the strength slowly returning to her limbs is more confusing than the goblin’s words. Her smoldering wound is closing up and her shallow breathing is returning to normal. The goblin lifts a vial of foul-smelling liquid to her lips. Bronwen’s eyes blaze with fury and she grabs hold of his arms to stop him.
“Don’t fight it,” says the goblin. “Drink it. I can heal the wound but you have lost too much blood. This will restore your fluids.”
Her instincts are to fight and kill this green-skinned little beast. She thinks of all the ways the goblins have hurt her tribe by stealing food and indulging in the same perversions as the orcs. She has vague memories of killing her first goblin when she was only a young girl. He had been left behind after an orc and goblin raid, wounded but still dangerous. Her mother had given her a bow and arrow. It took three arrows to kill the pitiful creature and she had cried after it was done.
1 HP HEALED
This one is telling her the truth. He is helping her, this one called Alex even though his name is written as something else. She does not know why, but she decides she would rather live than die even if it means accepting the help of this goblin.
She feels as if she has crawled through a dessert. If this potion he is offering could alleviate that then it would be worth accepting it. She nods slightly and lets the goblin press the vial to her lips. The scrawny creature upends the vial and the oily liquid pours bitter across her tongue. She gulps it down her throat, fighting the urge to retch and spew it in the goblin’s face, amazed that anything could taste worse than the orc’s cum.
1 HP HEALED
“Lie back,” says the goblin, easing her head back onto the moss. “You need to gather your strength. It will take time for the poultice to restore your health, but we cannot wait for you to fully recover. The orcs have won this battle and it won’t be long before one of them comes this way.”
“Why?” Bronwen manages to ask as saliva returns to her mouth.
“I saw the Taker bring you here,” says the goblin. “You will think of him as Death. That is what you have been made to believe.”
“No, I was… fighting an orc,” she says, managing to push herself up on her elbows. The goblin’s attention is drawn to her ample breasts and her soft, pink nipples.
“Your body was fighting an orc,” says the goblin. “Then you were brought here. It is difficult to explain… uh… wow, your breasts are really just right there, aren’t they?”
Bronwen looks down at her bare chest.
“So?”
“So it’s a little distracting,” says the goblin, looking away.
“We wild elves are not like human women,” says Bronwen. “Women rule our society and we feel no shame in baring our breasts.”
“Okay,” says the goblin, wetting its lips.
“You are a pervert,” decides Bronwen, covering her breasts with one arm. “You want to defile me like those orcs do to all their slaves.”
“No, no, no,” says the goblin. “It’s not like that!”
1 HP HEALED
Bronwen wants to be intensely angry at the goblin. That is how it should be. Instead, some unwanted feeling is forming within her like a pearl in the shell of a deep river oyster. Affection? Desire? She tries to shout, but the angry curse refuses to leave her lips.
“What is it?” The goblin asks, sensing her discomfort
She hears a chime sound and green text floats into the air.
BLOOD DEBT ACQUIRED
The goblin’s status text also changes to green indicating that he is an ally. Bronwen opens her character sheet again and sees that her status is changed from Bleeding to Blood Debt to Gerrik Woundlicker.
Her eyes widen as full understanding dawns on her. Blood Debts are owed by wild elves to the person who saves their life. It is akin to marriage and slavery and a protection oath all in one and it is the most sacred pact of her people. Because this goblin named Gerrik has saved her life, she realizes, she now owes him a Blood Debt.
“You are my Blood Keeper now,” she says, sitting up fully.
“Oh, no, I never even thought about that,” he says. “Look, you can cancel that, okay? There is no need for the Blood Debt stuff.”
“There is no canceling a Blood Debt,” she says. “It is ordained by the gods. You witnessed it in the holy text that appeared in the air. You feel it.”
She places her hand on the goblin’s chest. She can feel his heart beating beneath her palm. She looks into his bea
“I do feel it,” says the goblin, shifting uncomfortably. “But about that ‘holy text’ floating in the air—“
Gerrik’s words are interrupted by the crude shouting of orcs nearby. He leaps to his feet and helps to pull Bronwen up. He is surprisingly strong for being half her height. And handsome. She had not realized how handsome he is until just now.
“Stop looking at me like that,” hisses the goblin, taking Bronwen’s hand. “We have to get out of here. The orcs won’t let a goblin keep a human around.”
“My tribe,” I say. “We can go to my tribe.”
“Your tribe was scattered in the fighting. Most of the women were taken as slaves. It will take days for that spawn to fully repopulate. The raids are on a weekly schedule.”
“Spawn?” She cocks her head, trying to judge his meaning. “There is a schedule to the raids?”
“I’ll explain later,” says Gerrik, trying to peer through the dense jungle foliage. “Right now we need to go west. Towards the nearest human settlement. It’s our only chance.”
“They orcs took my people as slaves!” Bronwen shouts, anger welling inside her.
“Yes, every time they raid your village,” he says. “And they sell them at the evil moot in Nokings to the south.”
“We have to save them,” she says. “Please, master.”
The word “master” comes out of her unbidden. She covers her mouth with her hand, as surprised as Gerrik to hear herself say it. There are more shouts from the orcs and they are definitely coming this way. The goblin seems to shake off his surprise and he begins pulling her from the clearing. She manages to hold onto her sword and tattered loincloth as he yanks her through the trees.
“We can go to Nokings and try to rescue your friends,” he says, pulling Bronwen behind him. “After I explain what is happening to you. After we get out of here. For now, we have to go towards the human settlement. The orcs won’t follow there.”
She wants to argue, but instead she says, “Yes, master.”
Their escape from the orc raiders is never a sure thing. With the Red Feather tribe defeated and most of the elves captured, the orcs are out in force hunting for lone survivors. More than once, they can be heard searching very near to Bronwen and Gerrik. The goblin pulls her down into the underbrush and they conceal themselves from the hunting parties. Gerrik presses his skinny body against Bronwen’s ample curves and she cannot ignore the poking of his arousal against her backside.
“Stop that,” she hisses, squirming against him.
“Stop moving,” he warns, “You’re only making it wo--”
She clamps a hand over his mouth as a pair of massive orcs stomp passing. One of them stops nearby, untying his loincloth and dropping free a massive hose of orc cockmeat.
“We not find anymore,” he grunts and begins to urinate loudly into a bush unpleasantly close to Bronwen and Gerrik.
“Yeah,” agrees the other orc, taking out a piece of disturbingly fresh meat and biting off a hunk. “Already caught three myself. How many you take?”
“Just one,” says the pissing orc. “But she was pretty one. Hair like fire and blue eyes. Skin like cream. Beat her magic and put her over shoulder. She wear my collar now.”
Elyana! They must be speaking of her tribal Spellweaver, Elyana. Every tribe elects a Spellweaver for casting charms on the warriors and battling against corrupt magic. Bronwen has memories of playing games with Elyana and teasing boys together when they grew up among the tribe.
There was even a flirtation between them as they grew into womanhood. Taking a fellow woman as a hearthmate was not uncommon among a tribe dominated by women and there was a time that Bronwen had considered Elyana a possible hearthmate.
The orc grunts and stuffs his cock back into his loincloth.
“We go back,” says the orc. “Enjoy our slaves.”
“Good,” agrees the other orc. “My cock needs an elf to keep warm.”
The orcs laugh together as they stomp off into the jungle. Bronwen waits until she is certain they are gone before releasing her grip on Gerrik’s mouth.
“Sorry, master,” she says. “They speak of my friend, Elyana. I have to rescue her.”
“We will,” says Gerrik, his brow furrows sympathetically. “Once I have had a chance to explain everything to you and you have had a chance to recover fully.
Disagreeing outright with Gerrik would cause Bronwen too much pain. She certainly could not refuse him if he commanded her. But the new affection she has for him gives her another idea for getting what she wants.
“You know, I have nearly reached the second level,” she says, turning to him and favoring him with a seductive smile. “Once I reach that level the gods will restore my hit points completely.”
“Right,” says Gerrik, trying to avert his gaze from her breasts as she squeezes them between her arms. “But you have not even healed to half your strength. It would be foolish to try to defeat a monster, even with my help.”
“There are other ways to gain experience,” she says, running her hands over the goblin’s scrawny chest.
She can hardly believe she is feeling such desire for a goblin. Whether it is the Blood Debt or gratefulness for his aid, she cannot say for certain, but her body craves the pleasures of his touch. The goblin seems as confused and uncomfortable with her caress as she knows she should feel. He watches her long fingers trail down his skinny chest to his small pot belly and over the modest bulge in his loincloth. She feels the hardness growing within.
“Ohhhhhhhh,” moans Gerrik. “I… I’m not so sure this is a good idea…”
He catches her wrist, but does not pull her hand away. She squeezes his hardness through his loincloth.
“I almost leveled up when that orc made me pleasure him,” says Bronwen, wetting her lips with her pink tongue. “I gained experience from it. I could do the same for you and that would let me level up.”
“Th-that would be, uh, helpful, I suppose,” stammers Gerrik as Bronwen begins to unwind his loincloth. The fur-fringed cloth finally falls down his skinny thighs, exposing his green cock with its pinkish tip. She grasps it in her hand softly and coos with lust, her body suddenly alive with desire.
Gerrik is certainly no match for Bone Carver when it comes to size. Bronwen strokes him and admires his cock, only a bit longer and scarcely thicker than her thumb. A single droplet of precum beads at the tip.
“Really,” moans Gerrik, watching in disbelief as the beautiful elf wanks his cock. “We sh-shouldn’t do this right here. There could b-be more orcs.”
“Do you forbid me, master?” She asks with a giggle, leaning down and taking his cock into the slick warmth of her mouth.
Gerrik promptly forgets all his objections as Bronwen begins to suck him. She is eager, but not at all rushed, taking the time to suck him properly and even fondling his bollocks as her mouth slides up and down the goblin’s hard prick. She moans around him and he lets out a little whine of goblin pleasure. She feels a surge of intense desire. That lust burns in her loins and she cannot help but thrust a hand between her shapely thighs and begin to pleasure her velvet cunt and throbbing bud as she sucks Gerrik.
“No, I-I cannot deny you,” moans Gerrik.
She pops her lips free from his cock and strokes him against her lips, asking, “And after I am recovered, you will take me to the orc encampment to rescue my friend?”
“W-we can try,” says Gerrik. “Once you are—OHHHH!”
She returns to sucking him, plunging his entire cock into her mouth and tickling against the back of her throat. She slurps wetly at him, drawing him closer and closer to his pleasure. As she sucks him, the pleasure builds in her pussy, and along with it the need for her desire to be quenched. She pops her lips free from his cock again, panting with her excitement, and pleads, “Fuck me, master. Please. I need your cock inside me.”
She releases him from her grasp and sinks back onto the soft earth behind the jungle brush. She parts her thighs and pets the silky furrow of her pussy. A part of Bronwen is ashamed at her behavior in the presence of such a lowly creature. But Gerrik has helped her. He has saved her. And he seems so handsome with his prominent brow and oversized nose, his hard cock glistening with her saliva.
“I, um, I cannot deny you, Bronwen,” he says, veritably leaping between her parted thighs. She cries out in surprise and then his smallish cock thrusts into her slick folds and she is wracked with a wave of pleasure. Gerrik thrusts furiously, slapping his skinny hips against her and driving the small curve of his cock in and out of her pink slit. “Oh! Ahhh! Ohhhh that’s so good! Oh, Bronwen, it’s tight!”
His pink tongue lolls out of his mouth and he thrusts with wild abandon. The sight of him pumping his hips and thrusting furiously into her might have made Bronwen laugh if it didn’t fill her with such intense pleasure. She wraps her ample legs around his seemingly frail body, pulling him deeper and gasping loudly as a trembling wave of pleasure ripples through her pussy and up into her tummy.
“Oh, yes, it is good,” she cries, her fingers tangling into the grass around her.
Bronwen’s soft breasts jiggle with Gerrik’s intense thrusting. He grabs her biceps and presses down onto her, his tongue hanging out of his mouth and his body patting against her. He tenses up and cries, “Oh, gods, I am going to… you’re going to make me…”
“Yes,” cries Bronwen, losing herself in her own pleasure. “Cum for me! Cum inside me!”
“W-what?” Gerrik cries, his voice hoarse with pleasure. “Inside you? That will make you pregnant.”
“Yessss! Seed me with your child! I need it!” She has never known anything more in her life. She desperately wants to be bred by her beloved Blood Keeper, the man (or goblin) who saved her life.
-->