Blood Debt of the Wild Elf
Page 9
“You should stay night,” says Jebruk. “Not travel Quiet Hills under a full moon.”
Gerrik seems inclined to remain in the tower for the night. She takes his hand and pulls him against the rough fabric of the deep elf cloak. She pulls he hood back so he can see the pleading in her blue eyes.
“Please, master,” she murmurs. “Elyana might be sold. We cannot overnight here. We must continue on.”
Although her words her true, there is an ulterior motive. Though her actions were willing, she feels dirtied by her encounter with Jebruk. She needs Gerrik to reclaim her and reassert his ownership as her Blood Keeper.
The small goblin looks up at her, worry at his brow, but tenderness in his beady eyes.
“Thanks for the hospitality, Jebruk, but she is right. We need to be on our way.”
“Hmmmph,” grumbles the old goblin with disappointment. “Two better than one, elf! Remember that next time you visit!”
VI
The Campfire
In the Quiet Hills, peace is in abundance, and as the night wind dies away even the eerie moans grow silent. Bronwen and Gerrik find a sheltered spot in the lee of a chalky hill. Bronwen gathers dry wood and kindling from the gnarled trees on the hill and brings them down from the hilltop. Gerrik sparks the wood to flame with a sprinkling of herbs and a snap of his magic. Soon, they have built a roaring fire and huddle close to it – and to each other - against the chill air.
“You leveled up,” says Gerrik, stirring the fire and reminding her of her behavior with Jebruk.
“It was nothing,” says Bronwen. “I did what was necessary.”
“You’re guilty, aren’t you?” Gerrik chuckles. “Don’t be. This isn’t real. That’s sort of the whole point of what I have been telling you. What we do, whether we live or die, who we screw around with; none of it is real. So long as you don’t get knocked up.”
“Knocked up?” She asks, not understanding the expression.
“Impregnated,” says Gerrik. “Seeded. I told you before, that is a fast track to never being able to leave this place. I don’t know how, but it somehow integrates you more fully into this fake reality.”
Bronwen says nothing for a long while, partly because she is struggling to understand these new rules, but also because she does not want to hear such a restriction. Gerrik, as her Blood Keeper, is someone she adores. Never before she met Gerrike had she considered children, but the thought of the goblin’s pups inside her makes her body ache with need.
Gerrik punctures the silence by asking, “Which ability did you choose for Level 3?”
“Oh! I forgot to even look!” Bronwen concentrates and summons the glowing text that will allow her to choose her new ability.
Choose your new ability…
Wild Elf(?)
Warrior(?)
Whore(?)
Jungle Camouflage
Treetop Dash
Power Strike
Follow Through Strike
Bust Enhancement I
Bronwen sees the two abilities she did not choose from when she reached Level 2 and she also sees three new abilities. She concentrates on each of these new abilities in turn to learn their effect. Treetop Dash allows her to move and leap from tree to tree in dense wooded environments at the same speed as running or walking normally. Since they have left the jungle behind, this seems less useful than it might have otherwise. Follow Through Strike will allow her to attack instantly if she slays a foe. Both of these new powers are permanent abilities. Finally, her slutty behavior has once again given her a choice of a new Whore ability. Bust Enhancement I increases the size and softness of her breasts to please her partners.
She looks down at her body through the glowing text that clings to her line of sight and touches her breasts. They are already so soft and plump, why would she want to make them larger? No, it is time to choose a useful ability.
She concentrates on Power Strike and makes the selection. Once every hour she can deal quadruple damage with a successful attack. Even forced to wield the Legendary Blade of Solona as an improvised weapon, this would inflict very heavy damage.
“Well?” Gerrik asks, looking at her with a curious smile.
“I chose Power Strike,” she says. “It will let me deal a powerful blow in combat.”
“Hopefully you won’t need it,” he says. “If things come to blows in Nokings, it might be too late for us.”
She puts aside her worries about the future and her fears for Elyana and focuses on Gerrik. After the experience she gained with Jebruk, she feels an unwanted gulf between her and Gerrik. It is not guilt, not exactly, but it is a potent feeling that leaves her ill at ease. Thankfully, she thinks she knows the solution to her problem.
She caresses Gerrik’s face. He looks up at her curiously as they sit together by the fire.
“What is it?” He asks.
“The firelight makes you even more handsome,” she murmurs.
“Handsome?” He chuckles. “That Blood Debt truly warps your mind, Bronwen.”
“I do not think so, master,” she whispers, letting the deep elven cloak fall from her shoulders. Despite the chill in the air, it is warm beside the fire, and beside Gerrik. “I have seen you save me and face hostile humans and lead me across the Quiet Hills in order to rescue my tribesmate. Tomorrow, you will venture with me into the heart of the enemy and we will prevail. But tonight… I am yours, my handsome goblin.”
Her first kiss is soft upon his lips. She studies his reaction and sees the flickering of desire in his eyes. She presses another kiss to his lips and he presses back, revealing hunger of his own as his slender tongue thrusts into her mouth and claims her with his passion. She yields eagerly to his lust, offering her tongue, her mouth, and her heart to him in the molten embrace of their lips.
Gerrik pressed her back to the fire-warmed earth, lying lightly atop her and kissing her with surprising strength. His hand is between her legs, parting her creamy thighs and caressing the warmth of her mouth through her tightly-wrapped cloth. She sighs against him, succumbing to the pleasure so swiftly that it almost feels as if she is falling.
“I never meant for any of this to happen,” says Gerrik between kisses.
“But it has happened,” she says, stroking his slender shoulders up to his pointed ears. “It has happened and we are together now. Bonded by the blood.”
“Mmmm,” he answers her with a fierce kiss upon her neck. She moans and exposes her soft throat to him. He kisses there as and moves lower, his thin lips brushing against her heaving breasts, but not lingering long.
“Ohhhh,” moans Bronwen, resting her hands on his head as he moves over her bare midriff and to her loincloth. He kisses her through the fabric, his breath hot against her thighs. His fingers slip inside and he pulls the cloth out of the way so that he can run his nimble tongue over her slick folds and up to the bed of her clit. She wails louder with pleasure, her voice like the haunted wind and her back arching as she thrusts her hot peach against his tongue.
Gerrik murmurs softly, his lust vibrating against her as his tongue pushes deep into her clutching cove. He lashes his tongue against her clit and drives her to even greater heights. She wails with pleasure, arching against him and trying not to crush his ears against her thighs. Her hips buck and she feels her abdomen tightening with her pleasure.
“Oh, Gerrik,” she cries, both hands upon his bald head. “Gerrik… my pleasure… I am cumming!”
“Yessss,” he hisses against her cunt. “Yes, cum for me! Let me taste it!”
Her muscles tighten further, cramping almost painfully, and suddenly she is there, on that sweet plateau of pleasure, her ecstasy rippling through her and colliding with Gerrik’s flicking tongue.
“Ohhhhhh!” She wails, arching powerfully, her breasts nearly bursting from her new top as her juices pour across Gerrik’s tongue and into his wide mouth. He presses that mouth to her slick pussy and sucks, drinking her sweetness as it flows from her throbbing cunt. S
She lifts Gerrik’s face from between her thighs, a flush on her face as her lips meet his and their mouths open in passionate embrace. She tastes her sweet dew on his lips and tongue and shares it in that steamy liplock.
The pleasure of his tongue was incredible, but Bronwen needs more. She pushes Gerrik onto his back and is atop him before he can offer a protest. She peels off her top, freeing her soft breasts to the night air and the red glow of the firelight. She unties his loincloth, takes hold of the stiff thumb of Gerrik’s goblin cock, and slides down onto him with a moan. His maleness hardly fills her, but his coarse hairs tickle her clit and the curving length of his cock presses against a delicious spot inside her.
“Ohhhhhhhh,” she shivers with pleasure as she takes him to the hilt. She rides atop her scrawny lover, her plump breasts heaving and her blonde hair tossed with each movement of her head. Her ecstasy rises quickly atop Gerrik’s cock. He cradles her round ass, squeezing and lifting her with each slide upwards, bracing her with each downward stroke as she feels his hardness inside her tender walls.
“You are so beautiful,” moans the goblin, looking up at her firelit body above him.
“Your seed, my Blood Keeper,” she pants, moving more urgently atop him. “I crave it inside me. Fill me with it, please!”
“N-no,” he moans. “Bronwen! We must not! The consequences are dire!”
“Damn them all!” She cries wantonly, riding fast and hard onto his cock and feeling it swell with his pleasure. “Cum inside me! Seed me with your pups!”
She sees it in his eyes as her pleasure nears its peak. For a moment, at least, Gerrik considers it and almost explodes inside her.
With a yowl of dismay, he shoves her off of him with surprising strength, knocking her to the ground. She cries out in shock, her fingers going to her cunt and furiously rubbing her clit as Gerrik hops astride the mounds of her breasts and wanks his cock above her face.
“Oh, master!” She cries, her orgasm peaking at the lewd sight of him stroking his wet cock. He squawks with his pleasure and his cock spurts out long ropes of cum that splash warmly across her face and in salty-sweet spatter into her open mouth. His prolific pleasure paints her elfin features with his glistening cockmilk, the warm spunk dripping from her chin, her cheeks, and even one pointed ear.
“Ohhh, Bronwen,” he groans, a smile spreading across his face. “I have made a mess of you.”
FACIAL +400 XP
The green letters float into the air and Bronwen cannot suppress a laugh. She feeds some of her master’s cum into her mouth, sucking it from her fingertips as she looks up adoringly at him.
“Thank you, master.”
He slumps beside her, searching his pack for a rag and pouring out some of their water onto it so that she can clean her face. He watches her wiping down her delicate features, a lazy smile on his face.
“When I came upon you wounded in that clearing,” says Gerrik, “I never imagined that this would be the path our meeting would take.”
“You saved my life,” she says, cleaning away a last dollop of spunk from under her chin. “You had to think I might reward you.”
“No!” Gerrik protests. “No, not at all, I was only thinking about sharing the truth with you and, you know, saving your life. When I saw how beautiful you were, I had hope we might become traveling companions, but I never even considered that, well, that you would be so…”
“Such a whore?” Bronwen raises an eyebrow and feigns insult. He starts to apologize and she laughs, falling beside him and pulling him against her soft curves. “My people do not have whores. Did you know that? We are free with our sexuality. Friends and casual acquaintances will enjoy the pleasures of the flesh together. Although, I will admit some surprise myself, since I saw you emerge into that clearing I hated you more than the orc that had wounded me.”
“Truly?” Gerrik looks at her with surprise.
“Yes, truly,” she laughs. “I was raised to think of goblins as cowardly orcs, which makes your kind worse than the brutes, but I have met two goblins now who were quite nice.”
“Yes, Jebruk,” says Gerrik, a touch of annoyance in his tone.
“Nice, I said,” she strokes his shoulder. “I do not have feelings for him.”
“Yes, but your feelings for me are all caused by that damned Blood Debt,” he says. “I may never know what you truly feel and what is imposed upon you by the rules of this damned place.”
“This is the place we are,” she says. “We cannot deny the rules. The experience and the holy text are more rules and I cannot deny those. But we can enjoy each other, right?”
“Yes,” he agrees, nuzzling against her and kissing her neck.
In the tight embrace, their naked bodies bathed in the warmth of the fire, the need no clothing or blanket to keep out the cold. They burn with their unexpected desire.
“Tomorrow,” whispers Gerrik, falling asleep against the softness of Bronwen’s breast, “we go into the heart of darkness.”
“And I would not have another by my side,” she whispers in reply, cradling him against her bosom.
VII
The Monster Moot at Nokings
“Slave auction at high moon!” Cries a goblin standing atop a wooden crate. “The finest slaves taken from elf and human stock! Pleasure slaves, house servants, laborers, and delicious feedslaves!”
A chill runs up Bronwen’s spine at the goblin’s last words. She grimaces and pushes through the crowd of monsters entering through the gate. A pair of rotting human corpses dangle from the crumbling stone walls of the port city and the words “No Kings No Beggars” are wrought crudely in iron above the gate. She shoves past an orc lingering by the entrance. He growls with anger, but sees her deep elf cloak and backs away.
Orcs, goblins, scalefolk, ratkins and the hunched, dog-like kobolds are the most common monsters among the teeming crowds in the streets. There are a few hulking, fur-backed bugbears, a group of extremely pale, elf-like humans in fine cloaks that might be the thralls of a vampire, and a trio of ogres sitting in the ruins of a stone house devouring a whole-roasted hog. Or at least Bronwen thinks it is a hog. She hopes it is.
There are other monsters moving among this crowd that are less human and more horrific. Slimy horrors she glimpses as she moves along the street, things with tentacles and wet, bulging eyes, and things that skitter on insect-like limbs. All monsters are welcome in the city of Nokings and order is maintained by the threat of swift retribution from any and all.
“Almost there,” mutters Gerrik, jostling through the crowd beside Bronwen with one clawed hand gripping her cloak.
She can see farther than him through the crowd and realizes they are approaching a wide open plaza in the town’s center. This huge open area is thronged with monsters talking, reveling, and trading. She is disoriented by the press of monstrous bodies around her and the grotesque sights, sounds, and smells of the marketplace.
There are butchers selling exotic meats, alchemists and witches selling potions, salves, and charms, loot traders offering weapons and armor taken from the dead, jewelers peddling everything from trinkets to massive rubies, and provisioners selling all manner of supplies. Scattered among these are dealers offering wares that only a monster might appreciate, such as claw snips, custom slave brands, suits of armor for unusual anatomies, and texts in monstrous languages.
Drunken monsters dance around bonfires that send streams of sparks high into the evening sky. Some laugh, some fight, and some sing to blasphemous gods. Taverns, inns, and slave brothels beckon on the edges of the marketplace, but overlooking it all is the vast, defiled cathedral where the slave market is held. One of the walls and parts of the roof have collapsed, transforming the ancient building into something like an amphitheater, with rows of seats and a raised stage built over where the altar once stood.
Gerrik tugs on Bronwen’s cloak and she leans down to hear him over the noise in the market.
“The bidders for the slave auction won’t be gathering in the church for a few hours,” says the goblin. “We should make our way there and try to find a way into the slave pens in the undercroft. If we cannot find your friend, we should go.”
“I must free my people,” says Bronwen, a growl in her voice as she surveys the depravity of the monsters.
They move through the center of the marketplace, weaving between a charm-monger and a stall run by a two-headed scalefolk selling whole boiled animals to grunting, fat-bellied orcs.
“Ey, dark elf!” Shouts one of the reptilian creature’s heads as they pass the stall. “Ey! We gots boiled tunnel ferret and dune rabbit if you like them!”
He steps half into her path, trying to block her way and holding up nets containing steaming, hairless boiled creatures. She pushes past, trying not to let the creature see her face. It grabs for her cloak with a clawed hand.
“Rude bitch!” It hisses, but its claw comes up short and Bronwen is able to disappear into the crowd.
She reaches the church, Gerrik close beside her. The walls of the church are built of the same gray-green stones that were used to build the city’s ancient walls. She can see the craftsmanship surviving in the ruined architecture, arches and eaves, and an impressive steeple.
Beneath overlapping layers of painted and smeared graffiti, most in languages she cannot decipher, there are the stone-carved markings of a temple of Quaysun, the human god of fishing and sea-trade. She spots small carvings of his bearded face beneath the cathedral’s arches. Most have been smashed away or covered in monstrous filth, but a few high upon the walls remain intact.
“This temple was the source of their downfall,” murmurs Gerrik. “This town used to be called Fairsea. The humans here chafed at the king’s taxation on their sea trade and the clerics at the temple claimed Quaysun would protect them. They declared they believed in no king and would no longer pay taxes. The emperor sent his fleet and the fishermen grounded their ships in the harbor, sealing it off. The emperor’s fleet could not enter and when they tried to land on the shores to the north, a great storm came and dashed their ships on the rocks.”
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