Orcs vs Elves (part 12)

Death! Death!

Deathshade's caw drew Scimitar Darkblade from the back of his home on Denergar Rock, his hands rubbing against eyes, pushing grit and exhaustion from them.

"What is that you old... buzzard..." Scimitar trailed off as he stood upon the balcony of his home and, with his eyes adjusting to the morning light, saw the unmistakable prows and sails of elf ships, their multi-hulled shapes cutting through the water like elegant blades, aimed right at the heart of what had been his home for the past few weeks.

Scimitar had not expected to find Denergar Rock quite so welcoming. When he had arrived with Melindan and Jewel, it had been barely escaping from the hold of a trolloc piratess and her not so tender mercies, and the first people he had met had been an extortionist gang of what could only be described as feral goblins. And yet, there had also been Tevin, the minorc, who had taken them under his broad (if metaphorical) wing and given them a place to stay until they had gotten their feet under them...

***

"Well, you could be a barmaid," Tevin said, his rumbling voice rumbling and deep as he looked down and down and down at Melindan, who regarded the idea with an expression between temptation and irritation. Jewel shook her head as she stuck her nose into the various corners of Tevin's hovel, sniffing slightly.

"Is this really your home?" she asked, her hands on her hips.

"Oh aye," Tevin said, scratching at his broad jaw. "I never expected to have a place quite so nice."

Jewel, who, for all her rustic origins, had been raised under loving parents and in a quaint little village, looked about herself in gathering exasperation. No, her affable father might have not been the strictest pech in the world, but he certainly would never have allowed his daughter to live in a hovel with junk strewn about the floor. The minorc, based on everything that Scimitar had seen in the short time he had known him, simply broke things by merely using them - and let their rubble be cast aside. It was not negligence, exactly, but rather the simple fact that he was living in a city and life that was not made for him. The scattered detritus were all the kind of items and articles of clothing that Scimitar could see being used by a human or elf, but in the massive palms of the impossibly strong minorc, they simply crumbled to pieces.

Jewel started to pick the items up, tossing them into a nearby bucket that was normally used to catch rainwater. "Well, we can at least clean this place up. Make it a bit more tidy." She pursed her lips, and her voice dropped to a mutter that Tevin didn't hear - but Scimitar did. "I never knew that being on an adventure would involve so much tidying up after men... damn pirates!"

Scimitar could imagine just how odious her trip aboard Captain Marrowcrack's ship had been for Jewel - his concerns had been for her mother and the obvious way she had kept her daughter safe, but it seemed that while Melindan had paid on her back, Jewel had paid on her hands and knees.

... er...

Not like that.

"You could become a dancer!" Tevin said, and Scimitar realized he was still trying to think of professions for Melindan to take up while on Denergar Rock.

"I would rather..." Melindan sighed. "I would rather just have a moment to catch my wits. The past few weeks have been nothing but disaster after disaster."

"Well, you can head upstairs!" Tevin said, cheerfully.

"... upstairs?" Scimitar asked, his brow furrowing. The hovel that he stood in looked like one big chamber, a wooden house constructed beneath the overhanging stone ruin that made up a good chunk of the overall structure of the ramshackle pirate town that made up what could be called civilization on Denergar. Tevin walked to the back, where a hanging curtain was sprawled, and yanked it back to reveal stone steps that were carved in an ancient, intricate style. The artwork was geometric and precise, and it looked as if it had only been lightly weathered by time and tide.

"Up this way," Tevin said. "I can't fit on the stairs, and since I live here, no one has headed up."

Scimitar frowned, then placed his hand on Melindan's shoulder. "Wait here." He said, then took the steps two at a time, his hand tightening as he manifested a deathlight blade in his hands. The stone stairs led into the very overhang that loomed above the minorc's hovel - and he was rather shocked to find it was not solid stone, but rather a carved out living area. The smell of mildew and mold was heavy, and whatever wooden furniture that had been here was long rotted away. Vines hung from the ceiling - but he saw three chambers, a central one and two heading towards the edge of the overhang. It was sized about right for an elf, but he could see why Tevin, the massive brute, couldn't have fit up here. He walked to one of the adjoining chambers and whistled as he saw that there was a clever kind of thin slit constructed in the overhang.

From outside, snarling and slightly cubist dragons were worked into the stone. But here, he could see through and past their bodies, the shadows of the sun hiding his eyes and his body, but allowing him to see out and for air to seep within. He could see the raucous pirates ambling along the streets, some of them jeering and shouting, and quite a few sleeping in gutters, as seemed to be their wont in the daylight hours. He stepped to the other chamber and found that this had one thing that had not rotted to nothingness: A large stone lever.

He threw it.

Scimitar took a moment to kick himself for the impulse, even as ancient machinery within the room groaned, creaked, and spluttered as something wet was splashed into. You idiot. You idiot! You've been in tomb delves before!

And yet, it was not a barrage of spikes or poison tipped darts that assailed him. Rather, it was the entire far wall of the room swinging down with a creaking clatter, and settling into place with a plume of dust and a crash of stone on stone. And now, the enclosed chamber was an open balcony, with extra room and a small stone railing at the edge. Pirates swung around at the noise, and quite a few goggled up at him.

Scimitar stepped to the railing, letting his manifested blade shimmer away into purple sparkles.

"... honestly?" he called over the railing, to Jewel and Melindan, who had come hurrying out the front. "Not half bad."

"Oi!" A pirate called up at him. "Is that place open for business?"

"We're not a bar!" Scimitar said.

"Yet!" Jewel exclaimed.

Melindan and Scimitar blinked down at her.

Then... slowly, Melindan smiled.

"Yes, yet!" she said. "But soon, the Minorc's Maze will be open for business!"

The pirates looked rather excited at that. And Scimitar, scratching the back of his neck, wondered precisely how much of this idea was going to be loaded onto him and Tevin. Tevin, for his part, seemed as placid and unassuming as ever - and seemed entirely unperturbed when he and Scimitar were dispatched to the dump. Rotting furniture and driftwood was gathered in heaping armfulls, and Scimitar found his remarkable talents put to an end he had never imagined.

"Well, if you can make a sword, you can make an awl right?" Melindan asked, smiling. "I've repaired some furniture, we can work on it, right?" Her green hand caressed his back as he glowered down at the pile of wood that he was meant to turn into a chair and a table. Scimitar opened his mouth, and then closed it. He sighed.

"If I were a high elf," he said, his grin growing gentle. "You'd never hear the end of this."

"Eh, that's why I always liked you spidery types most," Melindan said, then smiled at him - and that warm smile made Scimitar think thoughts he had not had in quite some time... thoughts that were quite a bit easier to entertain, now that poor Frondon was dead. But then Jewel, who had been busy gathering fruits that might have been fermentable from near their cave-site landing spot, walked by and shot a curious look at the two of them, and guilt kept Scimitar from doing anything but smile back. Then he got to work.

The first chair was a disaster, as there deathlight burned quite hot and easily set wood aflame.

The second?

The second worked quite fine.

The third, fourth, and fifth followed shortly after, while Jewel experimented a little with her fruits. Soon, a dreadful concoction that knocked Tevin out cold after a single glass was brewed up in the makeshift still in the back - and while Jewel apologized profusely... Melindan put up a cost in copper and silver. And shockingly quickly, the Minorc's Maze was open for business... and with Jewel serving as the barmaid, Melindan as brewer and manager, Tevin as brute labor, and Scimitar as bouncer, the quartet brought in their first take, invested in buying things - including some actual bottles - and the next take came headier and headier...

And on the third day, with Jewel working to clean up in the back, Scimitar locked up the front door they had installed between what had once been a hovel and was now the first level bar, then headed to the second story to close up bar there and then head, at last, to the private part of the stone section of the bar... when he saw Melindan standing at the entrance to the living chambers. She was looking quietly pleased with herself, her long, pointed green ears up and quivering.

"Gods," she said, quietly, looking around herself. "It feels good to be scheming again."

Scimitar chuckled. "This is what you call scheming?"

Melindan's expression was wry and amused. "Oh Scim..." She sighed, then turned her back on him - her face collapsing into an expression of sorrow for a moment. "My life feels as if it has been tossed on the storming seas, ever since the orcs attacked the village. It has been one desperation after another, I haven't even had time to properly grieve Fron..." She put her hand to her chest. "But the fact you are here, and Jewel is safe... it..." She shook her head. "It gives me some real hope that this scheming might actually mean something."

Scimitar nodded. He walked over, bending forward ever so slightly to place his hand on the curvy gobliness' shoulder. He squeezed her and murmured. "I miss him too, Mel."

Indeed, the pain of his friend's death seemed to strike hardest now, when they had time to think about him - before, it had been survival crisis upon survival crisis. Now? Scimitar shook his hand, while Melindan put her hand on his hand, squeezing gently. She bit her lip, then murmured. "Scimitar..." She hesitated, then whispered. "My bed is... awfully cold these nights."

To call any bed here, in the warm and balmy paradise that was Denergar Rock, cold was absurdity... and utter honesty. Scimitar knew that sometimes, one could be ensconced in the finest palace and still feel the bite of loneliness. The sudden and shocking awareness of a long temptation being at last tasted left him feeling dizzy, while Melindan slipped from under his hand and into her own bedchambers. Scimitar followed after, closing the stone door behind him with a single thrust of his palm. Melindan turned to face him, her curvy green form concealed only somewhat by her pale white blouse and her long, leather leggings. She sat on the bed, her ears perked up, and she murmured softly. "My daughter may hate me for... for what I had to do to survive. But you... you understand, right?"

"Of course," Scimitar said, quietly.

"Then you understand... how badly I've wanted this for years, Scim..." She bit her lip. "I always loved Fronden, but... a girl has an imagination, you know?" her sharp teeth glinted in a little smile. Scimitar chuckled and brushed her long hair behind one sharp ear. His finger teased her eartip as he leaned down and purred against her lips.

"I always did think he was the luckiest pech in the whole of the Many Hued Nations..." His mouth found the wife of his best friend's lips, guilt and exhilaration both exciting him beyond measure. Skillful fingers, the fingers of an expert rogue, worked along the buttons of his own tunic, and soon, Scimitar's ebony black chest was exposed to the warm night air that slipped through the narrow slit windows. His nipple was attacked by Melindan, who sucked upon him as her hand delved into the hem of his pants. Her nearly feral growl buzzed against his skin as she purred.

"Lets see if you're as big and thick as I always thought..." Her hands closed - or attempted to close - around his shaft. A wriggle of his hips and a yank of her delicate fingers had his massive spider elf cock springing free, slapping against her shoulder, smearing pre-cum against her pale green skin. Her eyes were wide and her mouth opened as she squished one ear against his chest, tilting her head around. "G-Great gobs!"

Scimitar chuckled.

"That fit in my daughter!?" Melindan exclaimed.

Scimitar froze.

At his expression, Melindan's expression of shock and awe shifted to wry amusement. "Scim. Please. She's not that good of a liar."

Scimitar's chuckle was entirely sheepish. "Y-Yeah, well... she is half goblin. And you are always claiming how flexible you are."

Melindan barked out a fierce laugh. Her hands tugged her tunic up and over her head, dragging her tits with it and letting them jounce fetchingly as she dropped the top over the edge of the bed, letting it crumple upon the stone tiles that made up the floor. Her breasts were hefty and large for a gobliness, and tipped with nipples the same dark hue as perfect emeralds. They seemed almost as hard as gemstones, jutting and begging to be sucked, tugged, teased, twisted, and nibbled. Her belly had a bit of tummy fat that she had earned from her years of being a mother... but they retained the slight definition of her equally impressive years as rogue, dancer and spy. Her thighs twitched as she skimmed her leggings off, revealing her thick, cushy rump and her equally delicious looking pussy. She was soaked, her juices flowing between her thighs, begging and cajoling as eagerly as her words might have.

Melindan rolled onto her hands and knees, thrusting her rump into the air, then smacking one fat ass cheek the same way that one might bang a drum - her buttocks jiggled and her purr rang out as insolently: "Well, drow boy, mount the fuck up and show me what my husband never did..."

Her dirty talk inflamed him and her body drove Scimitar to a wildness that even her daughter had not quite managed... but Scimitar still held himself in control. He placed one hand upon her hip, then shoved. Melindan squeaked as she was flopped around onto her back, and before she knew it, her thighs were spreading around his hips, her arms were pinned above her head, and Scimitar bent over to press forehead to the top fof her head. He had contorted himself to whisper into her ear while grinding the tip of his ebony cock against her needy snatch - and his whisper was full of all the tenderness that years of friendship could provide.

"I am not here to mount you, Mel." In the darkness of the chambers, to her night adapted eyes, his smile was as dazzling as the moon and stars. "I'm here to make love to you."

He thrust.

The single easy movement belied the fact this was their first time - her body accepted his girth and his length and her groan of husky pleasure rang off the walls, clear and resounding. Her back arched, her toes curled, and her fingernails bit into her palms as she clenched her fists in pure bliss, her spine arching as she tried to lift herself off the bed. "Oh gods!" She moaned. "Oh Gods!"

Melindan found her mouth muffled - and delightfully so - by Scimitar's mouth as the slender dark elf began to pound her into the bed, his cock glittering with her juices each time he pulled out. Every time he thrust, he thrust deep and his balls clapped against her ass, ringing impacts that filled the chamber as much as her muffled mewls and grunts and whimpers. Plap. Plap. Plap. Her tits swayed against his chest, her nipples grinding, begging to be sucked on - and Scimitar managed to tilt his head down and catch one between his lips, sucking on her greedily as he slid his hands from her wrists to her shoulders to hips, pinning her down as she moaned louder now. Without his lips forced against her mouth, she was able to fill the room with her joy.

"Yes! Ah! Yes! Yes! Fuck me! Fuck my goblin cunt silly! Ah! Oh gods! Oh gods! I'm cumming! Scim! Scim! I'm cumming! I'm cumming!" She trembled and his cock nearly was squeezed from her cunt as she clenched on him as if a silken fist was gripping and milking him. Scimitar focused hard, using every bit of his self control to keep from simply spurting thick ropes of his seed into his best friend's wife - he thought of Frondon, and of whatever heaven he lurked in now, and knew that if his friend was not going to haunt him as a ghost... he would need to work long and hard at this task, this most pleasurable task.

And thus?

Thus it was that when Scimitar emerged from his chamber to see that the elves had come to Denergar Rock, it was not merely blearily and annoyed. It was with the cuntjuice of a gorgeous gobliness still wet on his shaft, and her mumbled mew from the bed - begging him: "Come back to bed, Scim..."

But Scim stood there, gaping, as he watched the arrows begin to whistle through the air - and heard the cannons begin to roar. On the first level of the bar, he heard Tevin's deep, bassy rumble of a voice.

"Well, that's a mite rude."

The minorc turned and bellowed up to the balcony, to the half naked spider elf.

"We need to get to the port! They'll need every hand they got."

Scimitar blinked, then nodded.

And hurried to see if he could save this home of his - through any means.

***

Firak Skulltaker sharpened the blade of his profession as he lounged behind the berm thrown up by goblin engineers - his skin glittered with sweat despite the chill of the elves' northern forests, the heat cast off by the great guns of siege engineers creating a balmy, summery climate even as the sulfurous stink of the flamespoke powder filled his nostrils. And yet, despite the clamor, the din, and the danger of the leaping guns...

Firak would rather be here than anywhere else.

The guns roared in their alternating pattern, and cast iron balls shipped from the great foundries of Bloodrock and the other conquered territories shrieked through the air like damned souls, crashing into the walls of the third and final fortification of the elves holding these passes. The first had fallen thanks to goblin sappers. The second had been sprung by a daring raid of dracorcs dropping during the night and throwing open the gates. The third and final had learned from each prior triumph, and now presented a bristling array of magical and martial defenses against each of the Hoard's tricks and tactics.

So now, the generals were doing what the Hoard did when cleverness failed.

The cannons roared again and again - and smoke billowed out in vast curtains, which cast themselves wide and clinging across the frost strewn ground. The crystal ice and stone wall of the fortification showed many cracks, but the magic of the elves showed itself in how much damage it had taken. The few human castles that had not fallen to treason or desertion had been reduced in mere hours by the guns and the crews that goblined them.

"Oooh that was a good hit!" Nija Lordwhip whooped as she peeked above the berm. "Those walls are coming down soon."

"Keep your head down, Nija," Yorak snapped, his own head tucked near to his knees as they waited. "Those elves can put an arrow through a gnat's asshole at this range."

"They're not on the walls, they're not shooting," Nija said, shrugging her muscular, orange shoulders. The hobgoblin had seemed pallid and withdrawn, after the defensive battle that their squad had fought - and Firak could understand why. But as the other forts had fallen and victories had mounted - and the stories began to circulate from other parts of the army of how elves treated Hoard prisoners - the strange enervation that had struck her had receded.

Firak was not one to think deeply on the feelings of others. And yet... and yet something rankled him about the tales that he had heard. Gejin Honorblade had threatened to strike his head from his shoulders for his shameful crimes - and yet now, the rumor abounding around the camp was that the elves were ten times worse than anything he had done. Sometimes, it was hard to keep straight whom had broken what law of war first - or if there even were such laws, in this battle to the hilt between two such clearly opposed powers.

Something is wrong here, he thought, and not for the first time.

The cannons boomed and echoed, and Nija stood more fully up.

"What in the hells..." She whispered.

"Get down!" Firak snarled and sprang to his feet. But to stand, he had to peer over the berm as well - and saw, also, that the castle walls remained strong and true. Yet, the flag that fluttered proudly from the tower was coming down, and in its place flew the broad, white paleness of some bedsheets. His brow furrowed and he muttered.

"The elves are..."

"Surrendering!" Nija cried out, then shouted. "They're surrendering! They're surrendering!"

"Elves don't surrender," Yorak growled.

The guns, though, did cease. The goblin engineers took their time to take their clothing off and throw themselves into what passed for baths behind the lines, washing off grime, oil and flamepowder residue, while Gejin Honorblade prowled along the back of the berm, glaring at blademasters. He pointed at Reji and Kalem, but notably passed over Firak and his squad - instead pointing to the junior squad behind them.

"The commander needs an honor guard. These elves may be up to something tricky," Gejin said, his voice grave.

"Probably are," Yorak said.

Firak shook his head. "Something is wrong..." He frowned. "I..."

"Oh right, you have a little elf love slave," Yorak said, chuckling softly. "I know Honorblade has been giving you a hard time on that - but if she was really upset about it, she'd have had your head off your shoulders when she had her chance, eh?"

Firak frowned.

The truth was that Mephileph Icewild, the haughty snow elf that he had defiled on the field of battle - what had come over me? was the thought that yet bedeviled the young blademaster - knew fully well that if she told his commander that she had been raped, that Firak would be decapitated in a single fierce blow, and his head used for sport by orc children. She held this above his head in their little tent, forcing him to debase himself for her pleasure - fetching, carrying, calling her 'my lady' and rubbing her feet. Everything she could think that made him wince, cringe or scowl, and she did it... and the worst thing was she thought it was fear of death that made him servile, and not the fact that he felt a great guilt at what he had done.

It was infuriating, and all the more infuriating that his tongue was stopped, as if by a lead weight, about even his close comrades.

"So, what does having an elf pet get you in terms of insight, Skulltaker?" Yorak asked.

"I don't know. The elves have a different view on death - they show as little fear towards it as an orc, yet, sneer at our bravery, calling it the foolishness of beasts," he said, frowning. It was stranger than he even dared tell Yorak - several times, Icewild had threatened to open her throat... but not in the way of a despairing human maiden from one of their melodramatic morality plays, but rather, as a threat. As if she would gloat in some divine afterlife - save, she never mentioned an afterlife.

I would dance upon your grave...

Maybe she meant as a ghost?

Beyond the berm, the commander of the assaulting force rode out on his warbeast, flanked by two squads of blademasters, their swords sheathed and one holding aloft a hastily constructed flag of peace above her shoulders. The elves emerged from the fortress in their bizarre, sensual combat uniforms, their ice blue bodies glittering even at this distance.

Firak frowned. "Nija, think that we... Nija?" He turned, his brow furrowing. Where had Nija gone?

The sudden cry of shock and alarm that split the air jerked Firak's head around. The aftermath of the moment was plain to see - as plain as the horrified looks on the orc guards. A glittering ice blue arrow jutted from the commander's throat. Gejin Honorblade had drawn his sword and was looking around wildly. The elves were frozen as well - but then a bellow shouted from the lines.

"Treason!"

More arrows thudded into the blademasters that had tried to serve as the honor guard to the commander. Gejin sliced one in half, but was struck in the shoulder. The elves withdrew, as quickly as they could, but a goblin crew scrambled to their weapon. As the elves bounded away, their feet barely seeming to touch the ground, the cannon roared. Smoke swept out and the elves were scattered - most untouched, but one unlucky fae had been turned into glistening red meat by the spray of shot and powder.

"Kill them! Kill them all!" Nija's voice suddenly shouted from Firak's side - she already had a bow in her hands and had knocked an arrow. She loosed, shooting at the distant elves, while Firak saw that the entire Hoard line was beginning to surge forward with fury. The elves who had remained in the fort tried to push the door shut, but their reactions were sluggish - some ran to the walls and started to loose arrow after arrow after arrow. Each struck home on a different orc, trolloc or dracorc as the line rushed the gates - but there were more bodies than arrows, more fury than precision. Firak trailed near the edge of the lines, biting his lip, as he saw the orcs and trollocs were butchering their way through the elves...

No.

Not butchering.

"Come on, lets show these traitor bastards what they get what they mess with the Hoard!" Yorak growled, furiously, his eyes blazing - but Firak felt his own belly tighten. He shook his head.

He turned and sheathed his blade, then began to trudge away - the sounds of the sack ringing in his ears.

***

Mephileph Icewild was in his small tent, as was customary, sprawled on the large fur blankets that were used for warmth. What little comforts that Firak had managed to scrounge for her were laid about - a pillow here, some better rations there, a single book that he had found from the loot. She was dressed in her thin little bikini top and her rump hugging thong, and she smirked as she lifted her gaze at Firak.

"Back from yet another defeat?" she asked - as the past few times he had returned, it had been from patrols that had needed a great deal of violence to survive. The first time, she had rubbed his pain into him by forcing him outside to a private meadow and mounting him, as if he was a toy.

"... no..." Firak said, quietly, then thumped down in the corner of the tent. His scabbarded blade rested on his shoulder as he regarded Icewild - his eyes not seeing even her aching beauty.

"I'd say a coin for your thoughts, but being an orc, you don't-"

"Why do elves fear flamepowder weapons and not blades?" Firak asked, softly.

Icewild remained very still. "I shall not tell you, beast."

"The third fort cast a surrender before we had even struck at it. The passes are open, woman," Firak said, angrily. "We are soon to march into the elf heartlands - not merely the ice lands here, but the home of those other elves you spoke of - wood and high elves."

Icewild shifted around onto her hip, then onto her back, regarding him as her silvery hair spilled down her shoulders and to the curve of her breasts. Her eyes narrowed.

"Why do you think we don't fear blades?" she asked.

"Your warriors throw themselves at us without care of danger-"

"We're more skilled," Icewild said.

"Don't lie to me, Mephileph!" Firak thrust his finger at her, his eyes flashing. "You know precisely what I mean."

The curvaceous noble-elf pursed her lips.

"We elves do not die as mortals die," she said. "When our bodies are wrung of life, we are reborn. It takes some time, but we retain memory and soul." She smirked, slightly. "Unlike humans, we don't go to an afterlife."

Firak regarded her with brooding intensity, his knee drawn up to his chest, his other leg tossed wide as he sprawled there - unknowingly giving her a remarkable view of his chiseled green body. He was distracted by his thoughts - too distracted to note the brilliant, icy blue eyes of the noble-elf's eyes gliding along his broad, broad shoulders, too pensive to consider the way her teeth dimpled her lower lip. She pressed her thighs together and then suddenly took hold of the furs she laid upon, throwing them over her chest and thighs, as if she were cold. Firak did not even notice - his mind ranged far afield.

"We have no afterlife," he said. "The Hoard lives on in bloodlines and in memories, not in some other realm."

Mephileph's eyes widened. "What?"

"Humans have a goddess. You elves seem to think that you reincarnate-"

"We don't think we can. We know we can," Mephileph said, softly. "I've been reborn half a dozen times - and I'm more staid than... than..." She shook her head, then moved around, shifting so that her legs were beneath her and she was sitting up, her bare shoulder the only thing visible under the furs. "But... but you say you fight like that without... anything but... but..." She paused. "Why?"

"Do you care? Care about some brute?" Firak asked, chuckling bitterly. "You still haven't answered me why you fear flamesmoke weapons."

Mephileph remained silent a moment. Then, softly. "I shall tell you, if you tell me why you fight. Does your kind love combat so much that you would risk total obliteration of all you were, and all you can ever be?"

Firak laughed, softly. "I enjoy sparring - and I am a Blademaster because I'm good at it. But no, I'd much rather be back home, in Bloodrock, practicing a great deal on the finer arts of..." He coughed, realizing the indelicacy of bringing up such acts to this woman. He shook his head and turned his gaze aside. "We came from the Garden, a verdant place of splendor and beauty, where our first Blood Shamans tasted the fruit of knowledge - that gods are shams and that blood and this world is all that matter. Our first Elder, Thendar, was granted a vision in those days. The world was a threat, a grand and terrible danger. A great and enslaving chain was to come from the heavens, to turn the whole world into its serviles."

Mephileph frowned.

"We left the Garden, and my fathers found the human kingdoms - whose slaves were plentiful, even if some were called serfs or peasants. We cast them down. Now, in my time, we come here, to seek the Great Enemy."

"We have no slaves!" Mephileph hissed, furiously.

"And yet, you attacked us!" Firak snapped back.

"That is some news to I!" Mephileph put her hand to her chest, her eyes flashing.

"And more, you claim to have no slaves - yet, does not your Everqueen rule eternally? Do the pech and goblins in your lands have any say in the way of the world?"

"Of course not!" Mephileph sounded genuinely shocked.

"Ah!" Firak thrust his finger at her, shifting to his knees. "And you say you have no slaves."

"We don't beat them," Mephileph said, her voice growing angry once more. "And they have no complaints." She paused. "And the fairies have their own army as well - those crude and clanking armorites. So. There!" She nodded, primly.

Firak frowned. "And the flamepowder weapons?"

Mephileph opened her mouth, then closed it. She sighed, her breath not leaving the trail of fog that Firak's did, even in this tent. "Flamepowder weapons are one of the few weapons that can slay an elf, truly. Permanently."

Firak nodded, slowly. Much was becoming clear.

"So, you hate slavery enough to wage war on the greatest army to ever marched - an army of immortals," Mephileph said. Her voice grew as cruel as the ice that she was named for. She lifted her one bared arm up to regard her fingernails with a wicked smirk. "It must cut deep, then, to have me enslave you so, out of fear, fear that your short life-"

Firak grabbed her wrist, suddenly, and yanked her forward, his nose flaring. "I am not afraid of dying!" he said, fiercely. "I am... ashamed."

"Ashamed?" Mephileph asked. "Then why did you imbibe so much Flurasbane before a battle if you didn't plan to-"

"What?" Firak blinked, his hand releasing her wrist, slowly. The reaction was not shame or regret, but pure confusion.

"Gods, you brag endlessly of your blood shaman and yet they did not design your nose with the ability to scent..." At his growl and expression, Mephileph shook her head and then laid back against the cushion. "Flurasbane is a simple powdered flower, many a spider elf uses it for their orgies. It reduces inhibitions and inflames passions - I've scented it many a time. It smells a little bit like pepper and sweat, with a coppery aftertaste."

Firak sagged back. "I thought that was your scent."

Mephileph paused. "If... you didn't take the bane..." She blinked at him. "... then why... did..."

Firak hesitated, his hands going to his knees.

A shadow at the flap of the tent almost drew his attention - but he was too focused on trying to pierce through his memory of that hazy battle. It was more difficult than he would wish to admit - his thoughts kept drifting to Mephileph and her sensual body. And yet, he could remember someone pressing to his back, a purring voice whispering into his ear, urging him on, and on, and on.

Nija.

"And she had a bow in hands when..." He hesitated.

"Did you hear that?" Mephileph hissed, her pointed blue ears twitched up.

A dull brown rock rolled into the room, unfruling with a soft thump into a stumpy, four limbed lizard-creature. Mephileph cooed, softly, even as Firak started to stand, his eyes growing wide. He drew his breath, to shout a warning - that was no adorable rolllizard, that was a-

The thunderlizard's belly roared with a concussive blast, vented through its complex lung system and blooming out of its shell, while the venom sacks on its thighs and arms sprayed the air with stinging agony. Firak clutched at his face, stumbled, trying to hear anything over the ringing in his ear, trying to see anything through the blinding white flash that the venom had made in his eyes. Tears streamed down his cheeks...

And Nija Lordwhip's club brought darkness and blessed relief. He sprawled next to the equally unconscious Mepheliph, while the orange skinned hobgoblin shook her head, whispering.

"Sorry it had to go this way, Fir. Sorry."