Chapter 13: The Damned Pt. 01

The sky was a blade, burning blazing blue, endless, cutting down in deep shards through the roiling storm clouds. The thick, hot, heavy atmosphere brought the promise of thunder and lightning. Far below the burgeoning storm, the lush humid plains of the high south stretched wide and wet, fed by the steaming breath from where the jungle met the mountain. Cicadas buzzed and whined from the treeline, and the scent of rain-heavy loam and sweat hung thick in the air.

And across that plain of thick swaying grass and perspiring vegetation, they rode.

Utterly naked but for their swirls and streaks of warpaint, the hunters moved like gods given flesh; sun-bronzed bare skin gleaming with oil and sweat, muscles taut and bulging like coiled rope, honed from fighting, hunting, riding and fucking. Their athletic nude bodies, hard and wet and firm and soft in all the right places, swayed in perfect rhythm with the war-steeds they rode bareback. There were seventeen of them, men and women alike, tattooed in ochre and coal, oiled hair adorned with beads, blades strapped to thighs and hips and backs. They wore their weapons like the tight embrace of lovers. They rode like they'd never fallen. The Reavers of the Ash-Kar, the most feared warriors upon all the plains of Tel Mudera, were on the hunt.

At their front rode their champion.

Only twenty winters, but already a titan among his people. Tall, broad and swarthy. A predator in bronzed skin. His bare smooth chest was marked with tribal glyphs and scars. His powerful, youthful body was carved like a statue of war, every oiled muscle honed, every sinewy movement fluid and precise, lethal, erotic. Two long braids of midnight hair swung down his back, weighted with beads carved from bone and obsidian. His cock; mighty, long and thick, completely shaven of pubic hair in the tradition of his people gone back countless generations, throbbed as it slapped against his thick muscular thigh in time with the rhythm of the horse, the oiled purple head gleaming in the stormlight as each bound of the steeds flank made him harder. His blood was up for the hunt. Painted lines traced down his flanks, across his abdomen, hips and thighs and taut muscled buttocks; symbols of rank, conquest, virility, and death.

One hand gripped the leather reins of his warhorse, and in the other, a massive war-spear of intricately carved bloodwood, its haft bound in serpent leather. The black iron tip was smithed to a lethal, jagged point.

The storm overhead darkened the sky, near blotting out the blazing blue slashes. The Ash-Kar Reaver band slowed their ride and fanned out, eyes sharp on the long swaying grass and distant trees, silent as ghosts and as ready to unleash violence as the gathering storm above was. The storm was their God, their master, and they served it with furious piety.

One of the Reavers approached the leader; her skin copper-gold, shining with oil and sweat; swirls of dark ash-paint covering her heavy, pert tits which swayed with each movement of her horse, her thick dark nipples pierced with rings of bronze and bone, stiff with arousal as she took in the sight of her leaders cock, as hard and ready for action as his spear.

"Zoran," came her voice like smoke, low and sultry, bowing on the back of her steed.

He turned to regard her. Her hair was coiled in loops tight to her scalp, her legs long and bare, her cunt shaved to smooth and oiled perfection. Her tits hung heavy and perfect as she bowed, resting firm and perky on her chest, proud and stiff-nippled as she straightened again. She held a long sickle of blackened bronze in one hand, lazily at her side. She was his senior by a few years, and had taken his hard flesh purple-tipped spear inside her in every imaginable way many times; but she addressed him with the honour reserved for Elders when they were upon the Reave

"Sigala," he responded, his eyes drinking in her form, his cock swelling.

"There," she said, her voice a purr of reverence as she pointed her sickle to a distant copse of trees. "See how the trees are dead? Burned. This was no fire, no strike of lightning from the sky. Venom did this. That's where it nests."

Zoran's gaze tore from her breasts and followed her blade until his piercing blue eyes fell on the hill. It was charred at the top; the tall trees blackened, burned out, stripped of bark. Bones scattered around their roots; some animal, some human, some something else entirely.

Sigala was right, as ever. The Chimera had made its den there.

The riders slowed, the grass swallowing the thud of hooves as the Chimera's nest drew near. The breeze shifted, sour and metallic, full of rot and ruin. Vultures circled lazily overhead. The ground was scorched in patches where the beast's horrific venom had seeped into the loam.

Zoran raised his spear and the tribe halted as one, not a sound among them.

He dismounted with a practiced grace, his powerful bare feet sinking quietly into the damp earth. His legs flexed, thighs roped with muscle, sweat, oil and pre-cum trailing down between them in lazy rivulets. The black spear never left his grip. His eyes, as blazing blue as the slashes of sky which still fought to pierce the rolling storm clouds above and rimmed with smudged ash paint, scanned the horizon. Behind him, the others dismounted, naked and silent, one by one, their gleaming bodies dropping into crouches in the long grass. Sigala dropped into a crouch beside him, her breath even, the swell of her breasts rising and falling slowly in time with the swaying grass. Her eyes met his. She nodded.

They began to crawl through mud and grass, through the humid stench of the Chimera's wake. The Reavers moved like one body, fluid and silent; lean, tattooed muscle, breasts and swollen pricks all rippling under their shaved smooth, slick sun-bronze skin, their weapons held low, eyes sharp as razors.

They found the bones first. Jovan, the herdsman from their tribe; or what was left of him. A half-shredded leg. A jawbone. Charred shattered chunks of ribcage picked clean of meat. Nearby, the remains of two smaller bodies, shredded, poisoned and picked apart. Jovan's nieces, taken from the outskirts of the village by the Chimera the night before, who he had foolishly and bravely come after without waiting for the Reaver party. His last mistake.

Sigala made a low sound in her throat. Not grief, but fury. Zoran's fingers flexed on the haft of his spear. He whispered,

"For them, then."

And then it rose. The massive Chimera erupted from the shade of a copse of broken trees like a nightmare. It moved faster than anything that size had a right to, rising on enormous bat-like wings, its disfigured lion head, covered in black soulless arachnid eyes, roaring with monstrous hunger. Its huge, scaled, six-legged reptilian body rippled with muscle, and its long, deadly scorpion tail, as thick as Zorans waist, curled high overhead, the stinger drooling blackish-green venom.

Zoran screamed a battle cry; a prayer of death to their storm god, and the rest joined him. As if in answer to their prayer, the sky opened, a flash of lightning painting the scene in brilliant red-white light as thunder cracked, deafening. The skies opened as Zoran launched himself forward, spear low, mud exploding beneath his feet, rain hammering against his taut body, spurring him on. Sigala was beside him in a blink, naked, shining, her sickle flashing as the Chimera swooped on them.

Its tail lashed, missing Zoran by a whisper as he rolled to the side, but impaled Xichi, the young Reaver at his back, with a vile crunch. The stinger thrust between her small breasts. Venom pulsed into her chest in waves as the tail throbbed like an ejaculating cock; but even as she fell, the young Reaver hurled her obsidian axe with deadly precision. The axe bit into the Chimera's flank with a wet thunk and the monster pulled away, roaring in pain, its stinger leaving Xichi's breast with a sickening tearing sound. The beast's six razor-sharp clawed paws tore into the sodden ground as it landed heavily and turned on the Reavers surrounding it.

Zoran met it head-on. He slid beneath a claw swipe, slicing his spear upward in a brutal arc that caught the Chimera's ribs. Blood sprayed, thick, hot and dark, splattering him across the chest and painting him anew. He roared and stabbed again, this time into the middle shoulder beneath its wing.

Sigala leapt onto its back, her thighs clamping around its scaled spine, and swung her sickle with all her might into the beast's neck. It bucked, screaming. Another Reaver, Chimali, dove forward and hacked at the tail with his axe; but the tail turned midair and the stinger caught him in the stomach, lifting him and flinging him through the pounding rainfall like a rag doll as he screamed, the venom already flooding his taut athletic body as he splashed into the rain soaked earth, blood and blackness oozing from the rend in his abdomen.

Two more Reavers circled wide, flanking as the thunder rolled and the lightning flashed again. Spurred on by the violent encouragement of their god, they both hurled weighted nets of heavy black vine-rope and polished obsidian, trapping the Chimera on the ground. Zoran climbed, fast and brutal, fingers digging into the rope and the beast's mane as it twisted against the nets. He reached the lion's head. Its breath was hot and wet and rancid in his face as he arched his shoulder back, and with fluid grace and sheer force, plunged his spear through the monster's largest left-most arachnid eye.

The Chimera wailed and staggered, trying in vain to flap its wings against the netting covering it. Blood and ichor poured from its skull, and the tail thrashed, wild and half blind. Sigala leapt clear, her naked body drenched in the rain; her hair coils came loose around her breasts and shoulders as she landed with a roll and leapt to her feet gracefully, sickle at the ready. Zoran held on with fierce determination. The beast tried to shake him free, to crush him with its bulk, but he held fast, planting a foot against its scaly breast and driving the spear deeper, deeper, until the black iron tip broke through the other side of the skull with a crack as loud as the thunder.

Then; silence. As quickly as it had begun, the storm subsided. The Chimera collapsed.

Zoran stood over it, chest heaving, its blood spilling down his chest, groin and thighs, his braids thick with gore. The spear was still lodged in the thing's skull.

Xichi and Chimali were down, envenomed, wounded and barely breathing. But the tribe still stood, and the Chimera did not. By the grace of the storm, they had avenged Jovan and his nieces. The Reavers gathered in a loose circle, breathless, their muscular naked bodies shining with sweat and rain and fury, covered in blood and viscera. Sigala reached out, gripped Zoran's arm with blood-slick fingers.

"For them," she said again. Zoran nodded.

"For all of us."

He turned and surveyed the field. It stank of blood and venom. The Chimera's corpse steamed in the heat, flies already thick around the shattered skull. Its tail twitched once, postmortem, curling like a dying question mark before going limp in the tall grass.

Chimali lay in the grass rigid, limbs stiffening, the black trace of venom snaking up his torso to his throat. Xichi gasped wetly, eyes fluttering, foam and bile spilling from her lips, blood leaking from the jagged hole in her sternum. Without urgent aid they would be dead soon.

But Inzara had other plans.

Still in her teens, Sigala's sister Inzara was the youngest priestess of the Thunder God in all of the Ash-Kar. She knelt between the two bodies, her thighs slick with sweat and mud, her skin sun-bronzed and glowing. She wore nothing but a choker of oiled leather and carved, varnished bone which denoted her station. Her supple breasts were full and bare, rising and falling with each sharp breath she took, nipples dark-pink and thick and long, erect in the humid air. Her fingers were stained with crushed herbs, which she chewed and spat back into her hands before pressing them into the wounds with a kind of fierce tenderness, whispering over their broken bodies in a tongue older than the tribe itself. Sweat and rainfall trickled in slow rivulets down her olive skin, pooling between the curve of her tits and in the small of her arched back, trickling down the cheeks of her toned, smooth, peach-like ass. Her chin-length hair, dark red and wild, was damp with sweat and oil and tangled, framing her angular, flushed face in chaotic waves as her intense, violet eyes narrowed in focus.

Zoran stood back and watched her, the weight of his bloodied spear forgotten in his hand; the swelling heft of his own shaft taking precedence as he gazed upon Inzara.

Every line of her body moved with strength and grace. Her slender belly slick with sweat, the curves of her hips flexing as she leaned over the wounded. Her lips, wet and plump and swollen from chewing the acrid herbs she spat into the wounds. Her hands were soaked in blood and venom and dirt; and still he'd never seen anything he desired more. His cock was fully hard, twitching and leaking pre-cum with every breath. He didn't care who saw. It was the way of warriors, of the hunt, of conquest and survival. Desire followed death.

"Don't," came a voice at his shoulder.

Sigala stepped in close and dragged him into a rough, punishing kiss, tongue pushing into his mouth, her hand grabbing the thick slippery shaft of his manhood and squeezing, stroking achingly slow and deliberate as she rasped against his lips. "You did your part, now let my sister do hers."

He growled low in his throat, kissed her back, his hand sliding up to grip one of her breasts. His fingers, strong and calloused, kneaded the soft ample flesh as his tongue slid into Sigala's mouth. She moaned, pushed into him, her hand moving faster on his rigid prick, her pussy already wet for him; but he was already pulling away, breaking the kiss with a snarl. He pushed Sigala away from him as his gaze returned to Inzara.

Sigala glared, lips wet and bitten. But she said nothing as Zoran turned and strode through the long grass, cock still thick and engorged, until he dropped to one knee beside Inzara. Her hands didn't stop moving. Her breath came fast, her brow furrowed in focus. Xichi, her wound closed and no longer angry, lay beneath Inzara, breathing gently, eyes closed as Inzara gently massaged her poultice-smeared hands over her breasts and shoulders.

"You have saved them," Zoran said, voice lower, reverent. Inzara didn't look up.

"I slowed the venom and tended the wounds. That's all."

"Do not underserve your talents so. It's more than any other could've done," he replied, insistent. Still, she didn't meet his eyes. Just pressed her palm to the breast of Xichi and lowered her head, her lips sensuously brushing the unconscious woman's neck as she murmured a final magick word.

"Their bodies will heal. But it is the will of the Thunder Lord whether their souls deserve to return to them."

Zoran watched her. Watched the strength in her body, the control in her fingers, the curve of her back and the way the light clung to the sweat trailing between her breasts, his cock achingly swollen between his legs, his smooth shaved balls tight and heavy.

Then he rose. He knew he would fuck her, of course he would; he had lain the groundwork of their relationship ever since Inzara had begun to blosssom to womanhood, even as he had fucked her sister; knowing words, accidental caresses, whispers of the thrill of the Reave. He was the Reaver-Chief, and what he desired was just a matter of his to take. Not yet; not while she worked. But that promise of union spurred him on. He walked away from the priestess, cock swaying heavily, back to where his stallion waited. At its side, hanging from the reins and the now drenched blanket covering its back, hung a great obsidian sabre. Zoran unsheathed it and approached the Chimera's carcass, raised the great blade with one hand, and brought it down in a single, vicious stroke. His Reavers all cried aloud in frenzied unison as the enormous lion's head hit the earth with a wet thud, jaw slack, tongue spilling loose.

Zoran lifted the blade high above his head, blood still pouring down the curve of his forearm, muscles gleaming, cock heavy, erect and hard as iron.

"Tonight," he roared, voice shaking the air like the voice of the Thunder God itself, "the Ash-Kar feast on the flesh of our enemy!"

And as one, the Reavers responded in a wordless roar.

--

The village throbbed with heat and blazing firelight, and the sound of drums so loud they made the dirt shake.

Tents of stretched hide and sun-bleached bone flanked the central clearing, packed with swaying, writhing bodies and smoldering coals. Smoke curled thick from firepits where haunches of descaled Chimera meat roasted over open flame, skin blackening, fat hissing down into the embers. The air was thick with the perfume of sweaty bodies, meat-smoke, spices, mead, tobacco and sex. Drink-sodden breath on bare skin, oil burning on torches, the blood-warm scent of bodies pressed close together in revelry.

The Ash-Kar were celebrating.

Their dead had been honored with flames. Their wounded were resting, kissed by healing tongues and sacred poultices. The rest; the warriors, the young, the fearless, were feasting. Gorging themselves on the flesh of the Chimera, dancing like they were possessed by the Thunder God itself, fuelling themselves on charred meat and thick, strong mead and sweet hot chocolate wine and fucking openly, brazenly, like wild creatures.

Naked flesh moved everywhere, adorned only in beads, rings, and streaks of oil, sweat and fresh ash. They moved in spirals and waves, some grinding hips and breasts together in time to the drums, others sprawled across woven mats or the grass, mouths locked, fingers buried deep between thighs, inside cunts and anuses, wrapped around engorged cocks, hair fisted in ecstasy. Moans rose between thundering beats, echoing over the percussion like devoted, ecstatic carnal prayer.

One young girl straddled a warrior near the firepit, her cunt slick with sweat and desire, her fingers tangled in the thick braids of his hair. He suckled her breast as she rode him, her cries sharp and unashamed. Beside them, two boys kissed feverishly, their cocks hard and weeping precum in slick stringy rivulets as they stroked each other in time to the pulse of the drums, desperate for the other to cum. A group of four women knelt in a circle on the far edge of the clearing, slick with oil, their dark hair braided, their hands moving over each other with reverence. They took turns licking at one another's thighs, suckling and hungrily lapping at their wet, shaved cunts, heads pushed between legs painted with runes of fertility and fire, faces buried between ass cheeks, tongues tracing symbols until one of them screamed and shook in climax, her pleasure lifting into the night like smoke.

Laughter burst through the noise as someone upturned a jug of mead over their own chest, then was tackled by two lovers who greedily drank and licked it from her tits and belly. More joined. Bodies writhed. Tongues searched crevices and openings. Someone came screaming into the earth, back arched, fingers clawing the dirt.

The drums pounded on in encouragement, fuelling the orgiastic revelry like the thunder god who'd spilled his seed of lightning across the sky and called the sun into being.

Bodies slick with sweat and dripping meat-fat undulated in the orange-dark of the fire circle, no longer separate but a tide of limbs and mouths and pulsing want. Hands groped, mouths searched, hips bucked in wild, ritual rhythm. A pair of muscular male Reavers, smeared head to toe with the blood of the Chimera, fucked in the grass with a need that bordered on violence. One straddled the other, riding his cock with a snarl on his lips, his asshole stretched out and slurping wetly with sweat and Chimera blood and spit as his warrior-kin thrust his thick, turgid cock into him, balls slapping loud and wet against his buttocks. Their muscles straining, fingers digging into sweat-slick skin. Around them, others watched, moaned, joined in, licking, kissing, stroking, biting.

A trio of herdswomen twisted together near the embers, their thighs glistening with the mingled wetness of many lovers, their mouths wrapped around each other's nipples, tongues exploring every fold, every soft swelling curve, every hole. They passed a long horn of mead between them, dripping it down each other's bellies, licking it from hips and tits and cunt and mouth.

The Elders sat atop thrones of carved stone and woven wicker at the centre of the celebration, creased, leathery faces calm and knowing; bodies wrinkled, cocks thick and half flaccid, breasts drooping, but still taut, ropey, muscular. They smoked thick, oily pipes; long stems carved from monstrous jawbones and fossilised wood. The smoke was heavy, narcotic and sweet like over-ripened fruit. They sat close to the flames, murmuring thanks and rites while they watched the young fuck and dance and scream and sweat with immense pride. A boy knelt before one such elder, cock twitching, hard as iron, and was rewarded with a kiss of smoke blown into his open mouth. He shivered, eyes rolling back, and licked the Elder's semi-erect prick in reverence before three more bodies joined him, dragging him down into the dirt, laughing, kissing, stroking him until he came in the dirt as the Elder watched.

In the center of it all, the heart burned. The black heart of the Chimera roasted slowly over a pit in the center, speared with a blackened iron spit and bleeding slow, thick drips of fatty juice into a sacred dish. There, it was stirred with ash, mead, crushed herbs, coca, and the piss of a buxom Ash-Kar priestess of the Thunder God who stood by the dish, naked but for gold rings in her nipples and a crown of vulture feathers weaved through her tawny hair. She cupped her hands in the hot thick rank mixture and smeared it across her massive abundant tits, her belly, her face, and across the faces of those who knelt before her; warriors, lovers, parents and children each receiving the blessing. She ate hot thick handfuls of it, and offered it to any who wished to eat from her hands or lick it from her body. Smoke curled up from the spit fire, black and red, the scent thick with magick, fuelling the Ash-Kars revelry with it's potency.

A pregnant woman danced with her belly painted in the mixture, her hips swaying, swollen tits bouncing in time to the drums. Two men flanked her, slick brown cocks erect, rubbing her stomach as they kissed her throat and thighs, their fingers delving into her hot, dripping places. The drums pounded harder. The chants grew wilder. Names were shouted to the stars; names of the dead, the living, the unborn. Names of spirits that had once ruled the sky. Names of ancestors, gods and demons. The mead and chocolate wine kept flowing, poured from skin bladders and gourd pitchers. Warriors poured it over their bodies, over the asses of their lovers, down into open mouths. The dirt was wet with spilled drink, blood, and cum.

The night was alive with the vibrant, fierce defiance of the Ash-Kar, and nothing in the plains could dull them.

Zoran stepped through the smoke, moving with fluid grace. The oil on his skin caught every flicker of flame, his muscular body gleaming bronze and blood-dark, painted in the spoils of battle. His long, girthy cock jutted proudly in front of him, already swollen from the blood, the triumph, the sex all around and the relentless pulse of drums. A fresh smear of ash and chimera blood ran down his sternum, bisecting the lines of his hard abs like a god's scar.

He drank deep from a horn of mead, the liquid spilling down his jaw, throat, and chest. Firelight lit his blazing blue eyes from within, and his grin was all teeth. The tribe parted for him as he walked; some touched him in passing, reverent fingers on his arms, thighs, cock, jaw. Others simply moaned and opened their legs or mouths in offering, but he partook of none yet.

Sigala found him near the fire pit. She was naked, slick, flushed with wine and want. Her tattoos glistened with sweat. Her thighs were streaked with semen. Her eyes burned when they fell upon him. She didn't speak, simply grabbed his cock in both hands, knelt, and sucked it into her mouth like it belonged to her. Zoran groaned, hips flexing as he thrust his cock deep into her throat. She sucked hard and fast, ravenous, and then stood, kissing him with spit and precum still on her lips. They fell together onto a pile of furs beside the fire, the drums shaking the ground beneath them. Sigala arched her back, legs spread wide, her cunt already gaping, soaking as Zoran fell upon her. He entered her in a single brutal thrust, her moans echoing into the night, lost in the white noise of drums and revelry. She clung to him, legs wrapped around his hips, nails digging into his back as he fucked her like a thunderstorm; raw, pounding, relentless. Every thrust of his mighty cock making her tits shudder. He greedily licked and sucked her nipples in turn as he fucked her deeper and harder.

All around them, the revelry surged. Bodies writhed and cried out, slick flesh grinding on slick flesh, moans rising to the stars. Zoran thrust deeper, faster, biting her shoulder, growling into Sigala's throat; but then his eyes lifted.

And he saw her. Inzara. Nude, alone; stretched out on a mat of hide and woven reed. Her naked olive skin glowed in the firelight, violet eyes heavy-lidded as she nursed a long pipe between her lips. Her legs were crossed, hips tilted, one hand resting idly against her thigh. Smoke curled up around her wild red hair as she watched the revelry like an Elder. Her eyes locked on his, and Zoran faltered mid-thrust.

Sigala felt it. She looked up, following Zorans gaze, still impaled on his cock, and saw where he was staring. The realisation was a punch to her gut. Her voice was a snarl.

"If you want to fuck my little sister so badly," she hissed, "then go and take her."

Zoran met her eyes without a word. No denial. No shame. Just the blazing blue of his eyes, and an almost imperceptible nod. He pulled out with a slick pop, his cock wet and angry, and moved to stand; Sigala reached between them and gripped his girthy, slick cock in one hand, the other caressing Zorans set jawline as her voice lowered, tinged with sadness. "I've seen how you lusted for her since her blood broke. Aye her body is younger than mine, her cunt tighter than mine, but mark my words, Reaver-chief; she is beyond you."

Zoran gripped Sigala's wrist firmly, pulled her hand from his slick cock, his blue eyes boring into her, expression twisted to a sneer at the affront. His voice was a growl.

"None are beyond me."

He let her wrist fall from his grasp and stood, not sparing her another glance as he stepped over her prone, dripping body, and moved through the revelry towards Inzara.

She didn't look at him when he approached; not immediately. She reclined like a vision of some long-forgotten goddess of youthful sensuality, legs spread wide in the firelight, her smoothly shaven pussy, merely a slit with barely the faintest hint of labia visible slick with sweat and mead, glistening in the humid air like a sacred offering. Her breasts, round, pert and proud, rose slowly and steady with her breath, nipples erect, thick and long and inviting. Her slender hand held the pipe to her lips, and the smoke curled from her nostrils in lazy spirals.

She looked up finally, lazy and deliberate, and when her violet eyes locked with his, there was no hiding the heat between them.

"Done with my sister already?" she asked, exhaling smoke with a curl of a smirk, her voice low, deep, and soaked in teasing knowing. "Did she draw your seed from you so quickly, Reaver-Chief? Hmm." She absently licked the tips of her fingers. "Sigala is ever so talented with her cunt."

"I didn't cum," he said, stepping closer, voice raw. "It was not for her this night."

Inzara tilted her head, pipe resting gently against the swell of her breast, her legs still open.

"Tsk," she said. "She will be disappointed then."

He knelt in front of her, towering presence collapsed to the dirt like a warrior at prayer. His eyes never left hers. One hand, calloused, reverent, slid up the slick of her thigh. The other slid up over her abdomen to her right breast, his thick, nimble fingers resting there, teasing her nipple. Inzara inhaled deeply, lazily running her fingers through his thick black oiled hair. "You stink of the Chimera," she whispered. "Of the battle. And of my sister."

And Zoran, with a hunger so sharp it almost bled, rasped in reply.

"I wish to stink of you."

She dropped the pipe into the dirt. Her hand shot out and tangled in his braid, yanking him forward until his mouth crushed against hers, tongues snarling against one another, breaths stolen, bitten. She moaned low, hips rising to meet him. He slid between her legs, the press of her cunt against his thigh hot enough to burn. His cock pulsed against her belly, slick and eager, leaking.

"Say it again," she demanded, lips swollen.

"I wish to stink of you. To reek of your cunt and your breath and your ass. To have your scent on my fingers. On my chest. In my lungs. On my cock."

She smiled.

"Then take my scent."

Zoran pressed her down onto the matt, his hands roaming over her sweat-slick skin, gripping the curve of her hips as if trying to memorize the shape of her. Inzara arched beneath him, her thighs spread wide, her pussy pressed hot and wet against his taut abdomen as he kissed her again; deeper, rougher, tasting the acrid bittersweet herbs she used to heal in her spit and in the way she breathed against his mouth. He pushed her thighs apart, forcefully, roughly; she gripped his cock in one slender hand and guided his throbbing cock-head to her slit, rubbing him there just a moment before allowing him to enter her fully. She gasped as he filled her, stretching her tightness. Zoran grunted with the effort. Sigala was right, he thought; her cunt was tighter.

Ten feet away, across the fire, Sigala watched. Still naked, still glistening from the fuck Zoran had abandoned mid-stroke to fuck her younger sister, she sat on her haunches in the flickering shadow of the chimera's skull, her legs spread, one hand between her thighs, the other pressed flat to her own chest, breathing ragged. Her eyes locked on them, unblinking, torn between violent jealousy and unquenchable desire as she touched herself watching them, fingertips circling her sensitive, engorged clit.

She wanted to hate it, to hate her younger sister for taking what was hers, to hate Zoran for wanting her sister more; but her cunt throbbed and ached as she watched him fuck her. She moaned low in her throat, biting her lip as Zoran's back flexed, the curve of his muscled ass framed perfectly by firelight and her sisters thighs as he pounded between Inzara's legs like a man possessed.

Inzara gasped, loud and sharp, her head thrown back into the furs. Her thighs clamped around Zoran's hips, one arm flung wide, the other clawing down his spine. Her voice, normally quiet, came rough and broken from her throat.

"Harder,"

Zoran growled something into her neck, unintelligible, animal, and the air around them seemed to crackle with the intensity. Every thrust of his cock plunged deeper and deeper inside her, claiming her inside and out. "Harder, fuck me harder, make me cum,"

Sigala, panting, trembling, came alone and in silence, back arched, legs shaking, fingers still working, tugging at her own breasts even as tears burned hot at the corners of her eyes.

Zoran buried himself to the hilt in Inzaras hot needy cunt, his breath a growl in her ear, and his hands found the meat of her hips, slamming her down to meet him, again, again, feeling her climax beneath him, gushing round his cock, her tits shaking as her body shuddered under his hard strokes. Her nails raked his chest, violet eyes snapped shut in ecstasy, her nipples, so long and thick, taut like diamond. He snarled something guttural, his spine bowing, cock pulsing as his orgasm built.

Inzara felt it; she kicked him off of her with surprising force, rolling to the side, violet eyes blazing, even as her plump, shining lips curled into a wicked grin.

"No, you do not cum inside me. I am not my sister. I will not be one of your breeding cattle."

Zoran stood, cock achingly hard, so ready to cum that it hurt; confusion drawn across his swarthy handsome features.

"But... I am Ash-Kar. A Reaver. I claim what is mine..."

"No," she rose to her knees in front of him. "I am not yours. You are mine. When you cum, you cum for me, and I say you rain on me like the thunder god themselves." Her slender, slippery grasp gripped his thick shaft, working it in long, fast strokes from the base of his manhood all the way up to the very tip, faster, more aggressive.

And he came, hard. His body locked, cock pulsing in her grip, ropes of thick cum splattering all over Inzaras face, her hair, her tits; spurt after spurt until she was soaked in his seed, laughing, licking her lips, rubbing his cum into her breasts, as Zoran threw his head back and laughed into the night sky like he truly was the thunder god, triumphant.

Across the fire, Sigala watched, still breathless, fingers soaked, lips parted in a silent cry as her own climax ripped through her like lightning. She didn't look away. She couldn't. Caught between sorrow and ecstasy, she watched her champion, her lover, sink to his knees and kiss her sister, taste his own cum from her lips, their bodies pressed and intertwined, as the Ash-Kar continued the celebration around her, feasting on lust and flesh alike.

--

The jungle bled heat and menace as the sun lowered, painting the thick meaty leaves in a blood-fire red. Steam curled in the underbrush. Trees stood like monoliths, bark gnarled into screaming faces by time and moss. Insects hummed with feverish madness. From the outcropping above the clearing, the Ash-Kar Reaver party watched, silent as specters, painted in symbols of storm and blood, seventeen bodies coiled tight as pulled sinew. Naked. Oiled. Muscular. Their bronze skin shimmered in the dying sun and the reflections of the firelight rising from below. Hard cocks, blood up for the kill, jutted proudly in anticipation. Glimpses of cunts gleamed wet with bloodlust and the promise of war. Their eyes burned with the hunger to conquer, to maim and butcher their foes. Weapons of bronze, obsidian and black iron were held tightly in grips, eager to be drenched in blood, hands shaking from anticipation and adrenaline.

Zoran crouched at the edge of the outcropping, spear in hand, jaw clenched so tight the bone showed through the skin. Every breath steamed from his nostrils like a bull before the charge. His cock fully erect, gleaming, throbbing, his muscles wound and flexing as he watched the Mol-Kurak tribe below begin their blasphemous ritual in the village clearing below.

"They're perparing the sacrifice," whispered Chimali beside him, voice rough with disgust.

The Mol-Kurak were no threat to the Ash-Kar; not physically. But their corruption, deviancy, and their worship of the vile ur-deity Yx'Khal-Vir was an existential threat, ever looming; one that the Elders of the Ash-Kar had deemed too dangerous to be allowed to exist. Zoran and his Reavers had eagerly agreed.

The Mol-Kurak danced in the clearing, naked bodies twisted and malformed. No paint, no grace. Just filth, dirt, shit, dried cum, old smears of human, animal and monster entrails formed a crusted, disgusting patina on their bodies. Their skins were self flayed in places, revealing raw meat scabbed and scarred, carved into spirals and teeth. Some wore the bones of their victims as masks. Others pierced themselves mid-step with obsidian slivers, screaming praises to the effigy of their hideous malformed deity which loomed large and wrong above them.

A towering blasphemy of crooked limbs, writhing wood, nailed-together bones and leathered flesh. Its empty face was a tangle of skulls, dried flesh, putrid effluence and smoke. From its six drooping, warped tits, crudely formed of bone and clay and rotted bloodwood, hung entrails soaked in black bile. Its gaping orifice, pulsing between twisted legs, dripped foulness into a massive raging firepit that hissed and fumed and perfumed the air with a foul rankness. Beneath it, bound, weeping; a child. The young boy was too clean, too whole to belong to these lunatics, obviously a hostage from a raid on another village. He was lashed to a spire of bone with vines, face tear-streaked and smeared with whatever they'd painted him in. Blood. Feces. The unthinkable. His mouth was gagged. He writhed, whimpering against the post as two masked Mol-Kurak cultists approached with jagged blades made from bleached jawbone and corroded bronze, thick with a patina of green and black. Ready to eviscerate the child; to gut him and add his innards to their god.

Zoran's breath hissed between his teeth. He rose slowly, the jungle wrapping him in steam and silence. His cock stood full, thick and proud, oil and sweat catching the starlight. Every inch of him radiated rage, heat, and purpose. He turned just enough to see Inzara, crouched in shadow, legs slick, mouth parted, ash and blood painted between her tits and across her throat like a curse. Her violet eyes met his. She nodded once. Below, the cultists raised their blades. Above, the Ash-Kar moved as one. Zoran's voice cut through the dark like thunder, guttural and full of bloodlust.

"Suffer none to live!"

The Ash-Kar Reavers hurled themselves from the high ridge like bolts of lightning cast from the hand of their thunder god.

"For the storm!"

The Mol-Kurak barely had time to turn before they hit the earth. Zoran landed in a crouch, black-iron and bloodwood spear already thrusting upward through the throat of a bone-masked cultist, blood geysering across his chest as the man's windpipe collapsed inwards with a wet crunch. The ash on Zoran's skin turned black with the blood spray as he ripped the spear free, the barbs tearing the throat of the Mol-Kurak priest fully out in a torrent of gore and bile, spun, and drove it into another shrieking tribesman's ribs with a sound like splitting bark.

Ash-Kar Reavers crashed into the circle like a living stormfront, utterly without mercy. Bare, oiled bodies smeared in death and fury, weapons hacking, fists crushing, teeth gnashing. Chimali caught a Mol-Kurak cultist by the head mid-leap and slammed him face-first into the rocky edge of the firepit, over and over until their face was a demolished red mess, jaw and skull split open like ripe fruit, strings of gore, smashed teeth and shattered bone covering the stone. Xichi ducked low as she ran past Chimali and flipped a Mol-Kurak dancer over her knee, snapped her neck in one swift, violent motion, and tossed her corpse into the firepit where it charred rapidly, skin bubbling in the intense heat.

Inzara surged into the fray with her own blade, a hooked obsidian knife, red already with her first kill. She moved fast, slicing through two Mol-Kurak in a whirl of red-streaked thighs and flying hair. Her tits bounced with every strike, sweat and blood gleaming across her skin, and her moan as she sliced the throat of a naked shrieking priestess, then carved the blade down through her sternum, stomach and cunt, was nothing short of orgasmic. Zoran's eyes found her even in the chaos, his cock aching, his fury and need running wild, burning as he watched her gut the priestess and revel in the slop of her entrails.

The effigy of Yx'khal-Vir loomed above them, sick and disfigured. The cultists screamed to it, clawing at the ground, their blades forgotten, begging for salvation; but it gave them none, only overseeing their slaughter with impassive silence.

Zoran broke through the center of the circle like a thunderclap, catching a zealot mid-prayer and smashing his face in with the butt of his spear; the zealots nose shattered inwards, blood spraying in a mist as he fell to the ground, choking on his own blood, gargling. Zoran turned to the child, still lashed to the bone spire, and with one swipe of the cruel black iron blade of his spear, cut him free.

The boy fell into his arms, sobbing, but Zoran had no care nor time for the infant. He shoved him toward Kamilka, a large breasted, raven-haired Reaver who had borne three children of her own already; Kamilka wrapped the boy in her arms, embracing him tightly to her voluptuous, blood and sweat slick bosom, and sprinted toward the trees, taking the child away from the bloodshed and chaos.

Then Zoran turned on the effigy, towering silent and horrible above him.

"Fuck your god," he snarled, and drove his spear straight into the base of the thing, again and again, until it splintered, cracked, and crashed to the earth in a howling, shrieking collapse of bone and bark and bile, shattering, rolling over the firepit, parts of it catching flame as it rolled to a stop in the centre of the village clearing.

The Ash-Kar roared in triumph. Xichi bent next to its shattered severed head, squatted and and pissed on the wreckage, rubbing her cunt in victorious ecstasy.

Inzara knelt in the dirt beside thesmashed torso of rhe effigy, arranging the gutted intestines of the Mol-Kurak priestess into a crude banishing sigil, her gore-slicked fingers working nimbly. She murmured a few words of prayer to the storm, then pulled some bitter leaves from the leather pouch strapped to her ankle. With calm precision,

she pushed the leaves into her mouth and sucked the gore from her fingers, chewing everything together before spitting the mix onto the entrails. Satisfied, she stood and nodded to another Reaver, who dragged a burning torch across the remains of the effigy. Soon the false god burned, screaming from somewhere beyond the void, bainished by primal blood magic as the Ash-Kar howled into the fire in victorious defiance.

Chimali and another Reaver, Vatek, shorter but broad as two men and thick with knotted muscle, dragged the few survivors of the massacre from their ragged hide tents; a few women, a couple of young men, some children; screaming, begging and trembling as they were pulled by the hair and thrown brutally to the ground. Vatek threw one young man face down, his grin animalistic as he kicked his legs apart and pulled him up by the waist. The muscular, broad Ash-Kar spat on his hand and rubbed his thick, rigid cock before spreading the struggling young mans ass wide and forcing his prick deep and hard in one brutal, violent stroke. The young man screamed in pain, begging, but Vatek simply wrapped his hands around his throat, roughly squeezing his windpipe from behind as he thrust harder and faster into his anus, the wet, harsh slap slap slap sound filling the clearing, louder than the crackling of the blazing effigy.

More Ash-Kar circled the remaining survivors, cocks hard, cunts wet, ready to take their spoils.

Inzara glanced to Zoran; their eyes met. She was glorious, bathed in the blood of their enemy, body shining with oil, exertion and gore; her perfect pert tits rising and falling with each deep breath; but her expression was stone. She nodded toward Vatek and the others, and slowly shook her head.

Zoran understood. He obeyed.

In a few swift strides, he reached Vatek and gripped his shoulder, yanking him back. Vatek stumbled backwards, his bloody, shit-smeared cock tearing from the young man's asshole with a wet ripping sound. The young man dropped to the dirt, sobbing, bony hands covering his bleeding anus. Without a word, Zoran drove his spear through the boy's back, severing his spine and spraying blood across the ritual clearing. The boy's body went limp.

Vatek rounded on Zoran, his face a mask of fury, his bloody, shitty prick still hard, throbbing.

"What the fuck? How dare you interrupt my claim, bitch-born?"

Zorans blazing blue eyes narrowed. Vatek was a great warrior, proud; and he had every right to be angry. Zoran had just taken what was rightfully Vatek's to claim. The rape of their enemy was part of the Ash-Kar Reaver tradition; the spoils of conquest, violent release after combat. Fuck the survivors, and then slay them. Vatek was right in this. But Zoran was the Reaver-Chief. If he let the insult, no matter how justified, go unpunished, he would appear weak to his Reavers; to her.

With lightning speed and almost inhuman fluidity, Zoran swung the butt of his spear into Vateks throat; not hard enough to destroy his windpipe, but enough to crush it sufficiently that Vatek dropped to his knees in agony, clutching at his neck; bloody, desperate wheezing gasps bubbling from his mouth. The others froze as Zoran kicked Vatek across the face with the sole of his foot in a stamping motion, sending him spinning into the dirt, nose broken, unconscious.

Zoran turned, cock still hard, chest heaving, blood drying in streaks across his thighs. Inzara stood across the fire from him, her blade lowered, her violet eyes glowing as she nodded in approval.

"We are Reavers," he spat. "Not rapers. From this day on, we will not take our fleshly pleasures from those who fall to us. They are beneath us. Do you understand? They do not deserve our seed, or our cunt." His eyes scanned his Reavers; none protested. "We are mighty! We are the fury of the storm. Say it!"

Their voices raised as one. Insufficient for Zoran.

"Louder!"

"We are the fury of The Storm!" Their cry echoed through the jungle, through the night, across the plains of Tel Murda. One of the surviving Mol-Kurak, on her knees in the dirt, all bones and sagging tits, began to mumble thanks to Zoran for his mercy. Zoran sneered and motioned to the survivors.

"Kill them."

The Reavers fell upon the survivors, man, woman and child alike. As twisted, deformed and cursed as they were, they were still plainsmen, farmers, not the warriors or cruel priests of their deviant tribe. It didn't matter to the Reavers. They dispatched them with ruthless brutality, stabbing, slicing, snapping necks before tossing the bodies to the fire pit. The air stank of putrid death and burning flesh.

Zoran approached Inzara. She nodded a silent thanks, but Zoran looked away, grimacing, towards Vatek.

"Heal him. He will have need of revelry tonight..." He turned to walk away, but stopped; his hand shot out, gripping Inzaras red hair with force, pulling her to him. Her violet eyes shone defiantly, but her pussy tingled and her nipples engorged as Zoran pulled her close, the smell of sweat and death strong upon him, and whispered hoarsely, without love, into her ear. "As will I..."

--

The sky over the Ash-Kar village was dark with the weight of rain not yet fallen, the promise of the storm to come, and the air hung thick with woodsmoke and distant thunder.

Inside the hut, the light was dim, soft amber spilling across furs and reed matting. The air was warm, the kind of still heat that clung to bare skin and refused to let go, its humid caress leaving a glow and rivulets of sweat on her bare body.

Sigala sat naked on the mat, her back straight, her long legs tucked beneath her. One strong arm cradled the child at her breast. Zoran's son, her son, whose lips suckled hungrily at her nipple. Her other hand rested idly across her thigh, caressing herself. Her hair was tied back from her face in a warrior's braid, but her body bore no fresh marks of combat. No blood. No glory. Just the weight of absence. Of being left behind. She had not been on a Reave since she had begun to show signs of her pregnancy.

When Zoran stepped inside the hut, she didn't turn right away. Instead she cooed to their son, eyes closed softly, and inhaled. He smelled of fire and blood. Sweat. Death. She opened her eyes. His bare chest was streaked in the blackened remnants of ash-symbols worn down by the exertion of the day's battle. His muscles flexed under the shifting shadows, and his cock swung low and heavy between his thighs. He moved like a panther that had fed well, yet still hunted.

Sigala looked up, eyes hard.

"The Mol?"

Zoran's voice was low, edged with fatigue and satisfaction.

"All dead. And their god destroyed."

She looked down at her son, suckling in half-sleep at her nipple, then back at Zoran. Her expression didn't soften.

"You left me behind again."

"You gave birth only four moons ago."

"I healed. Im ready."

Zoran didn't respond. Sigala's voice dropped, biting. "I bled beside you for years. Killed more men and beasts than most of your Reavers. And now I'm just..." she gestured at the boy, nestled against her breast "this."

Zoran stepped closer, eyes drawn to the sight of her bare chest, the curve of her hip, the fullness of her tit in the child's mouth.

She saw it. She saw the look.

"You'll watch me feed your son," she said, "you admire my tits as tools now, but you won't lie with me."

"You have served me well."

She spat on the dirt in front of him. The child gave a faint cry and a murmur. She shifted the child gently, laying him on the furs beside her. Her hand reached out and gripped his cock at the base, slow and firm.

"I still can. I still do."

Zorans hips rocked, his cock swelling under her touch until he was fully hard. He moaned involuntarily, then grimaced and pulled away.

"When I lead the Ash-Kar," he said, pulling back from her grasp, "you'll have your place in my harem."

"I had my place as your one and only!"

Zoran snorted, cruel and derisive.

"You were never my only, Sigala. Now, quiet. You will awaken my son."

Sigala exhaled. She knew this was a futile battle. The silence that followed seemed to stretch out for eternity until Sigala cleared her throat.

"While you were Reaving, did you... Is what the elders say true? Of the other villages?"

Zoran cracked his neck.

"Aye. Three, four villages we have found now. Abandoned. Nothing taken but weapons, not food nor cattle. Our Reaving makes them fear us, they run with their pricks shrivelled between their haunches in our wake." He grinned. "In time, the Ash-Kar will be the lords of Tel Mudera."

"Elder Kurak whispered woe. Says that she saw doom from the empty villages in the fire. What if they are uniting? Retreating to regroup, to come against us?"

Zoran scoffed, his blue eyes ablaze with murder, cock throbbing.

"Then they will fall. It doesn't matter if they die apart or as one tribe. We will hunt them and kill them all."

Sigala watched him leave, his muscular ass flexing as he walked out of the hut and closed the flap. She knew he was going to her sister, to quench his blood in her. But she still wanted him.

She took the child to her breast again, and drifted to a fitful slumber.

The heavens had opened, the thunder god pouring it's fearsome climax over the plains. Zoran, drenched and dripping as the lightning crashed overhead, found Inzara on the riverbank, ankle deep in drenched silt and loam. Mud streaked along her thighs, her belly, over the curve of her breasts. Her nipples were hard against the cooling air and pounding rain. Her hair clung to her neck and shoulders like tendrils of night.

Zoran reached for her, hands rough, fingers splaying over her hips, dragging her forward. She leaned in, breath steaming against his throat, and the gasp that left her mouth when his body pressed hard into hers was sharp, biting.

Rain fell in fat, warm drops, turning the shore to thick, sucking mud. It clung to their ankles, splashed up their legs, streaked across their thighs and backs as Zoran pressed Inzara down into the earth like she belonged there, rooted, wild, untamed.

She arched beneath him, her slick thighs parting in the mire, mud streaked across her breasts, her stomach, her face. Her hair was already soaked, the dark red strands slicked back from her flushed cheeks. Her breath came in gasps as Zoran knelt between her legs, dragging one hand up the inside of her thigh. He cupped the back of her knee, pressing her leg wide, and leaned in close, his body a furnace against the chill of the storm. Rain slicked over his shoulders, down his back, tracing the curve of his spine. His fingers found the heat between her legs and he groaned low in his throat. Inzara didn't answer. Her hands fisted in the mud. Her hips rolled, begging.

Zoran slid two fingers into her pussy, slow, thick, curling deep. Her back arched like a bow, her mouth falling open in a voiceless cry. His palm flattened against her mound, his thumb circling; not gentle, not teasing, but demanding. He fucked her with his hand the way he fought, with precision, with rhythm, with a warrior's control. Every thrust of his fingers drove deeper, every stroke sparked louder.

She bucked beneath him, gasping, grinding into his hand. His other hand pressed her shoulder into the mud, holding her steady, watching her unravel with every slow curl of his fingers. Her cunt pulsed around him, and her moans were swallowed by the roar of rain and thunder. Inzara reached for him, fingers digging into his arms, her nails carving lines down the muscle of his biceps. She whimpered, and then her whole body shuddered, pleasure crashing through her like a lightning strike, her legs trembling, her hips jerking uncontrollably as she came against his hand.

He held her through it. Didn't pull back. Didn't speak. He slid a finger through the slopping mud and into her anus. She cried out, lost in ecstasy and the storm, as Zoran fucked her pussy and asshole at the same time with his hands. He moaned, his cock aching, warm rain pounding off his body as he worked her goles, pure heat and passion until she came again, squirting over his hands, down her own ass, into the mud.

She rolled away from his grasp, through the muddy shoreline, then got onto her knees. The mud sucked at Inzara's knees as she braced herself on all fours, rain slicking over her back, tracing every line of her spine. Her thighs were streaked, trembling, her cunt swollen and dripping with heat. Her breath came in ragged bursts, fogging the air beneath her as her fingers dug into the soaked earth.

Zoran was behind her, crouched low, his hands already locked tight around her hips.

He pulled her onto him like spearing a great beast, and fucked a hard, deliberate thrust into her cunt that made her cry out into the storm.

Mud splashed. Rain poured. Their bodies clapped together with a filthy rhythm that drowned out everything else. The wet sound of him moving inside her, the gasp and grind of skin on skin, the groan rumbling in Zoran's throat as he slammed into her again and again, mud splattering across their perfect rain slicked bodies. She pushed back into him, wild, her ass slapping against his hips, cunt tight around him, slick and needy. Every movement sent a jolt through her core, her tits dragging in the sloppy muck beneath her, nipples scraped raw by grit and earth, every nerve screaming.

Zoran held her steady, one hand sliding up her back to fist in her hair, the other gripping her ass hard enough to bruise. His cock drove into her with savage rhythm, all thunder and no mercy. She moaned, throat raw, nails clawing ruts in the dirt.

"Fuck me harder. Harder. Reave me!"

His body was fire behind her, slick, flexing, every muscle pulled taut like a bowstring. His thick, long cock pounded into her with relentless force, the sound of it obscene, wet, messy and loud in the rain and the splattering of mud. Inzara's whole body trembled beneath him, her cunt clenching, dragging him deeper inside. Zoran leaned over her, chest slick to her back, breath hot on her ear, fucking her harder, rougher, one hand gripping her mud-slick tits, squeezing and pinching her diamond-hard nipples.

Inzara's thighs were shaking, her breath ragged, the mud smeared across her ass and down her legs slicked now with sweat and rain and her juices.

Zoran drove into her harder, faster, the slap of his hips echoing across the riverbank like a war drum. His fingers dug into her ass, spreading her wider. Her back arched. Her hands slipped in the muck. Zoran snarled, low in his throat, leaning in to bite at the back of her neck, lips dragging across her wet skin. Inzara growled right back, rocking into him with raw, unfiltered need, her ass grinding into his pelvis, her dark red hair a soaked and tangled mess swinging with every slam of their hips. Zoran's breath hitched. His pace stuttered for half a heartbeat.

Inzara felt it; felt the thickening pulse of his cock against her walls, the tightness of his sac slap against her clit. He pushed deep inside her; and she pulled forward, kicking at him in a violent spray of mud. His hand slapped against her hip, grabbing in vain as he tried to hold onto her mud and rain slicked skin, but his grip found no purchase as his angry engorged cock pulled out of her cunt. Hot and heavy, thick with veins, the purple tip gleaming, his cock dragged wetly over her ass, slick with everything she gave him. He groaned, too close to stop. His cock jerked in the rain, untouched, as he sprayed hot thick ropes of cum over Inzara's wet, round ass, down her thighs and into the mud. Zoran collapsed on all fours, breathing ragged; the muddy silt sucking his hands deep into the shore.

Rain hammered down on them, and the storm cracked the sky. Inzara shifted, hips swaying, thighs glistening. Her hand slid down to her cunt, two fingers slipping inside with a wet squelch, her moan low and deliberate as she worked herself in front of him. She kept her fingers working, slow now, dragging it out, luxuriating in the mess he'd left on her. Her body trembled with the aftershocks. Her cunt throbbed. Zoran sat back on his heels, breath still ragged, chest rising and falling. Mud coated his thighs, slicked down his calves, sucked at his knees. His cock hung heavy, softening, streaked with the remnants of thr seed he'd spilled across her skin. His hands were trembling, balled into fists in the mud.

Inzara was still on all fours, her body aglow with passion and rain. She exhaled slowly, deeply, then eased herself upright. The mud clung to her breasts, streaked her stomach and thighs. His cum was still dripping down her legs.

He watched her. Said nothing, until, in a voice weaker than he intended;

"I want you to carry my son."

His voice cracked, just slightly. She didn't turn to him right away. Just stood in the rain, water sliding down her spine, sluicing down her proud tits, over the flare of her hips.

"You already have one."

The words were quiet. Flat. She turned her head only slightly, just enough for him to see the edge of her face, her wet hair clinging to her jaw. "With my sister."

He swallowed. "That was before I -"

"Before you what, Zoran?" She turned now, fully. Her breasts rose and fell with each breath, smeared with earth, nipples drawn tight from the chill and the tension. "Before you decided I should be the next cow in your harem?" Her lips twitched. Not a smile. Not quite. "I prefer the feel of your cum on me," she said. "Not inside me."

He flinched, leaned forward, elbows on his knees, rain slicking his hair to his face, his eyes dark and fixed on her.

"I don't just want your cunt," he growled. "I want you. Whole. Utterly."

Inzara stepped forward until she was standing over him, her puffy pussy inches from his face. His head tilted back to meet her eyes.

"Oh, Reaver. You are an impressive stud. A truly wonderful fuck. But I have told you before that what I give you is a gift. When you fuck me, it's at my pleasure, for my pleasure. I am the will and the voice of our god, not some cattle-wife to be weighed down with mewling children and chores. You will not spoil me as you spoiled my sister." She smirked. "Did you know she and I were lovers?"

Zorans jaw fell slack. "I didnt think so. Since you pierced her with your seed and made a mother of her she has refused me. She used to delight in my tongue, gorge herself on my cunt juice, but no longer. You ruined her." She ran her fingertips teasingly across Zorans jaw. "I will not let you ruin me like that. You'll never own me."

She turned as the rain subsided, and walked away, back straight, her legs streaked with cum and mud, her hair plastered to her neck, every step a blade across the pride he hadn't known was so easily cut.

Zoran remained seated where he was. Naked, caked in wet mud which slurped and sucked around his ass and ankles and balls. Cock limp, leaking the last of himself into the silt. He gritted his jaw. Had Sigala been right? Was Inzara beyond him, as unthinkable as it seemed?

The river beside him rushed on, swollen by the rainfall. His own pride swelled as he watched it.

No. He was the Reaver-Chief of the Ash-Kar. He was Zoran. Men and women fell at his feet, to his spear or to his cock. He took what was his. And any who stood in his way, who thought they were beyond him, be damned. He stood, slurping from the mud, and walked to the river, looking to the sky above, the stormclouds clearing; the slashes of blue, like the blaze of his eyes, cutting through, and roared a challenge to the world like an oath.

"I will have what is mine!"

As his voice rang out across the vallley, another voice from the treeline responded; cold, alien. An accent unlike any Zoran had ever heard, chewing the language of the plainsfolk of Tel Mudera like a mouthful of unfamiliar, distasteful herbs; a voice which chilled him more than the mud or river.

"Indeed you will, Reaver. And I will help you."

Zoran turned to see a figure emerge from the shadows of the treeline. It was a man, but a man quite unlike any Zoran had ever seen. He was tall, slender and... covered. The clothes he wore were utterly alien to Zoran. His body was not naked, but swathed in finery; a coat of black and gold material Zoran had no concept of, which shimmered and shifted in the half-light, sleeves ending in puffed frills; his long slender legs in grey, sleek spotless pants which flared at the knees. Knee-high buckled leather boots which shone with a polished gleam despite the mud of the riverbank. In fact, Zoran could have sworn that when the man stepped, he hovered over the mud.

The cloak Zoran understood. Some of the eldest of the Elders, when night fell, would sometimes have need of a second skin, of buffalo or horse hide, to warm themselves. But the man's cloak was not of horse or buffalo; it was sleek, cut, with a large hood rumpled at the shoulder and tied at the strangers collar with a clasp of shining faceted rock which reflected the light like a waterfall.

This vision, this alien stranger in all his finery, could have been beautiful to Zoran; until he glided forward and the light caught his face. His skin was pale, as if the sun never reached it. His features were angular, drawn, lips a little too wide, nose a little too long and sharp. One side of his face bore faint burn scars, the pale white flesh pulled and pockmarked. His hair, black with streaks of grey, was coiffed back, long at the top and shorn short at the sides and back with precision, and as dry as if the rain storm hadn't touched it.

His eyes, though. It was his eyes that chilled Zoran to the bone. They were pits of blackness, like two pools of the void. No light reflected in them, sunken in his sockets. Veins of darkness lined the eye sockets like onset necrosis. And then he grinned, showing perfectly straight even teeth, black as pitch.

Zoran tensed, his naked body dripping, sleek, coiled for battle. He balled his fists and barked to the stranger, ready to pounce.

"Who are you?"

The stranger bowed, a theatrical movement both fluid and awkward, and fixed his black void eyes upon Zoran; boring through him, seeing him.

"I am a wanderer. An exile from my people, banished for my unorthodox genius." He chewed through the plainsfolk tongue, his accent so strange and foreign to Zorans ear; some words meaningless, others spat with the intensity of an Elder in the midst of a smoke trip. His next words fell like rainfall on firewood. Strange, distant and meaningless, alien, but with enough weight as to stop Zoran in his tracks. "I was once First Chair Arcanist of the Oesterorte College of Sorcery, and chief Advisor to the 13th Sorcerer-King Melkior of Nazadstok far to the east." The stranger chuckled; his accent strange, yes, but Zoran recognised the tone; pride, laced with bitterness.

"But those are honorifics stripped from me by the dull-wits and cravens who had the audacity to think themselves as my peers, now burdens which I no longer bear. You may simply call me Ossisoul. And I come to you, Reaver, to offer you a gift."

Zorans voice caught in his throat.

"What gift?"

The stranger grinned wider, rictus spreading across his pale features.

"Power, Reaver. The only power which matters. Immortality."