This was not the life Tyrgvr had imagined when he set off to adventures on far away shores with his cousins and some other young men of their village a few seasons past. Fate and the gods had been cruel indeed, and during an unseasonable storm with waves who towered twice the length of their long ship he had been swept from the deck and after a nightmare of time adrift in tumultuous seas, landed far and away on these strange shores.
He had awoken in what must be a land of the gods, or of the spirits, perhaps some afterlife even, left only with that had been on his person when he’d been washed over board. Only his boots, leathers, knife and sword and a few gold coins to his name, their oddness speaking to him being a stranger in a strange land. The fruits and vegetables were strange, and monsters of legend walked the lands of this place with ease. Truly he must be a dead man walking, for who else could see such sights as these in Midgard?
There was however, a key difference to the stories of the wise woman and the elders of his tribe, of the stories that had passed down to him around countless firesides growing up. These monsters were women! All of them, from the most lethal dragon to more inoffensive beasts such as gnolls and dwarves! Should he ever return home his tribe would clearly think him mad if he spoke of such things! And more still, men of many tribes intermarried with the monsters of the world as if it was nothing. Tyrgvr could no more imagine taking a dragon to bed than any other legend… though dragons in this land were a fair sight more comely than he had ever been lead to believe they were. Perhaps the mighty Volsung would not have been a dragon-slayer were the dragons of Midgard as they were in this odd place.
Tygvr reflected on all this quickly at he watched the rather sharp-looking spear tips arranged around them and his company. While he might be a stranger in a strange land, he still thirsted for adventure and while it might not have been the one he chose it was the adventure the gods had chosen for him. The party he had fallen in with were tomb raiders as much as anything else, though dangers of all kinds ensured one paid and risked fairly for any gold or magic items one might recover, and merchants monster and man haggled fairly for such loot.
It was certainly safer than going raiding… but there were other hazards that didn’t exist in his world, beyond dangerous beasts and women that made the fiercest warrior look like a milksop. Dark elves loved adventuring parties. They were much as they were made out in the Sagas. Cunning, vicious beings, much practiced in stealth, deception, and in this world, the slave trade. It was always a risk when running down a tip or lead that it was in fact a dark elf plot to get human men out and alone.
The Dark Elves chatter among themselves in a sharp, rapid fire tongue that is not akin to his own Norse or the Common endemic to these lands as a lingua franca, their own tongue clearly letting them communicate securely in front of their captives. But there is a sudden silence, as an elderly crone stumps up to them, walking around the circle of slavers and their captives, eyeing them like an old woman eyeing cuts of meat at a market.
Finally, she tosses a pouch in their midst, the bag breaking open and releasing a noxious green cloud, tinged with the flare and spice of magic, and with no way to resist Tyrgvr slips from the realm of the conscious.
It is unclear how long it has been from their capture, but when he wakes the sun is high in the sky outside the mouth of the cave, and he is clad in naught but rags and bindings, a dark elf woman tying his leathers, sword, and knife in a bundle walking off with them only to be stopped by a matriarch. After another rapid fire exchange in their native tongue, the woman drops the bundle somewhat near him, an almost pitying look on her face. Apparently where he was going he would be needing his things, which almost certainly didn’t bode well.
It had felt like weeks, if not months of travel since his capture, most of it spent in the back of a wagon alone, eventually being joined by a few other taciturn men, each with bundles of clothing, armor and always weapons as the dark elves traveled along what was clearly a well-worn trade route, the elves on the cart possibly acting as some sort of agent for the various tribes and clans with whatever awaited them at their destination.
There was a change today however. They’d been given no midday meal, and the elves had taken them one at a time to a nearby stream and washed them, then anointed them with scented oils as if preparing bodies for death rites. Wherever they were it had been getting progressively colder and air had become more thin as they’d ascended into the mountains and it was clear they were now near their destination.
Once back on the cart they don’t have long to wait to see that destination, passing through a tight pass in the stone to come out in a great valley, shrouded in mists that jealously revealed rich green forests running streams and rivers and a lake as blue as any Tyrgvr had ever seen, surrounded on all sides by snow-capped peaks. It was also their first chance to see those who had likely summoned the dark elves here.
A party of them waited just inside the passage, lowering a mighty gate behind them. They stood seven to eight feet tall, and were built as statues of heroes were, their bodies slinking with defined muscle where it was exposed, clad in plate armor of fine make, carrying swords, spears and bows. The end of their limbs are where the monster truly began to show itself however, thick fur usually of a bright orange with black stripes and touches of white lead to great paws clearly belonging to some sort of mighty predator, and if one could ignore the generous cleavage displayed by all of them, a warm ruff of fur surrounded their necks, leading to fair faces, with large incisors and the eyes of cats, and rounded furry ears atop their heads poking out of their hair.
“Tails! They have tails!” hissed one of his fellow prisoners.
While they gawped as subtly as they possibly could, their presence attracting jeers and cat calls from the warrior women, calling for the cart to stop and let them sample the goods. The last of their number simply slumped on the floor of their cage, muttering forlornly to himself.
“Jinko. It just had to be Jinko.”
As they got closer to the main population center of the valley buildings began to reveal themselves in the chaos of green that surrounded them. The buildings ranged from small homes and farms to grand temples, all with a graceful kind of elegance to them, which both seemed to perfectly fit and yet contrast their soon to be captors, these warrior cat women their comrade called “Jinkos”.
There was no chance to plan an escape once the cart was opened, no chance to make a break for it even if they had been unbound or managed to free themselves from the manacles circling their wrists and ankles. They were surrounded by a crowd the second they’d entered the village, or town perhaps, proper. An outcropping of stone proving the final destination.
As the first man was pulled from the cage, the dark elf in charge began to cry out to the crowd in the common tongue.
“My ladies of the North! I bring goods of all manner from the South! All warriors captured with weapon in hand, first we have this excellent specimen from a knightly order! We have his full plate, broadsword and shield with him… his is clean of body, strong jaw… and as a rare treat blue eyes! Who shall give a hundred gold coins for this man?”
It was to be an auction then. Humiliating in and of itself, but he couldn’t help but wonder, an auction for what? And why was having their weapons to hand so important? Were they gladiators perhaps? Warriors to be fed to some arena? That at least would be a death with weapon in hand… it would not be much, but it would be something.
With that thought in mind, Tyrgvr awaits his turn, but every time he expects to be pulled from their cage he is pushed back, and another man called from further in the cart. The auction progresses quickly, and before long he is the last of the men to remain in the cart. He cannot imagine why he would be saved for last, he’s just a man after all, good with sword, bow and spear, and all manner of work certainly, but nothing of particular note.
He is hauled up on the stage and his rough excuse for a shirt is stripped from his back before the massive audience of warrior women, many standing next to men of all manner already. Looking for another champion or household staff perhaps? Or just along to witness the spectacle of what appears to mostly be younger women bidding.
“I have a rarity! Look upon his broad back, and see marks of a land we have never seen before! Indeed our matriarch had never seen the like of him, nor the make of his clothes, or the make and very steel of his sword, with his grey eyes and brown hair, spine straight with youth… who shall give me a thousand coins for a man from so far from these lands he might not be of this world?”
The crowd quiets in an instance, all murmurs. Considering the first of the men was started for a hundred coins, and the most expensive to go that he’d heard had gone for about a thousand, starting there seemed steep indeed. A ripple in the crowd however stops any contemplation about his value. A glorious blond haired jinko strides through the crowd, which parts for her like water before the prow of a ship. She’s tall, even by jinko standards and even standing at rest has a formidable air about her.
She slings a bag of gold at the slave master with a twitch of her wrist. The force and weight of the bag almost sending the dark elf woman tumbling to the ground.
“Five thousand gold coins. Take them and retire to the nearest inn as our guests for the night, then be on your ways.”
Far from arguing as would be expected of a trader, the dark elf doesn’t say anything at all, terror gripping her eyes as she bows and passes his clothes, sword, keys and a lead to his new owner, her heart beating like a jack rabbit’s when she draws close to replace his shirt and attach the lead before scurrying back to her cart at full tilt. The dark elf stank of fear. Who was this woman who had purchased him to inspire such emotions in seasoned dark elf slavers?
A tug on his lead however redirects his attention immediately to the jinko, leaving all thoughts of the terrified dark elf behind. Her skin was fair, and her bosom generous to say the least, and her hard warrior’s body… excited and enticed perhaps as much as it inspired a healthy respect for her prowess… his pulse raced, but not from fear. Something in the oils perhaps? The dark elves had drugged them a fair bit as well… but a low growl and another tug of the lead they’re off through the streets of the village without a word.
Tyrgvr takes in every detail he can as they move through the village, heading up into the hills where the homes become larger and walled, and temples become more prevalent and larger still than the homes. Perhaps he had been purchased by a noble of some kind? To afford such a sum she must be well off in such matters indeed.
He is not disappointed by her home. The single story building is larger, with several sizable outbuildings and large grounds, attended here and there by kikimora maids and their butler husbands, dressed in local clothing instead of the usual outfits such people secured for themselves. Each mated pair bowing in turn as they entered the grounds and the gate was sealed behind them.
He is led to a small entry way, and a maid brings a bowl of water, clearly the intent is for him to wash his feet from the dust and dirt of the road before stepping on the finely polished woods of the household’s floors, the same attendant vanishing with his weapons and clothes. However as he reaches for the water he is surprised by his purchaser once again, she forces him to sit, and far more delicately than he would have expected her great paws to be, washes his feet, and quietly indicates that he should reciprocate to her.
She may be his owner, but there was no point in antagonizing her unduly, and she had shown him a courtesy, in his homeland even if the courtesy was from master to slave courtesy must be matched with courtesy, so he slowly washes her great feet, even taking the time to massage the pads of her toes and the balls of her feet slowly, coaxing a soft noise from her that surprised him in how purely feminine it was.
As the sound evaporates, so too does the moment, the bowl of water left behind them for a servant to fetch and clean for the next person to pass into these halls, as she leads them through the corridors before stopping before a room at last, the door sliding aside to reveal a low table, cushions and mats of some sort of fibrous material serving as a floor. She directs him to the table wordlessly, and removes his bonds, setting them aside carelessly as if she’d already forgotten about them, silently turning to a small pot and beginning to brew an herbal drink.
The silent tension stiffens only slightly as she sets a cup of steaming green liquid in front of him, and another before herself, before turning to the great cabinet behind her, the dark wood shining richly in the soft light of the room, and bowing low to it, before opening the doors and turning to face him once more, kneeling on the mat.
His eyes widen in recognition and then in shock, contained within the shrine are two sets of armor, and two sets of arms, one seeming to be extremely well made examples of the common armor and weapons of the Jinko, and the other… the sword, the ax, the chain mail. The design and shape of the helm. There was no mistaking the craftsmanship of the Norsemen. The runes etched in the blades of both sets of weapons catching the light at odd angles, as his host finally begins to break her silence, speaking in halting Norse.
“I am Sigrid, daughter of Knut Brightaxe and Shalla, Lady of the Mists, I greet you in the manner of the blood of my mother, and of my father… and apologize for the manner in which you arrived in this place. I apologize also for that display in the market… it was uncouth perhaps, but I could allow no other to claim you when I saw the marks upon your body.”
Tyrgvr is now the one shocked into silence, managing to introduce himself as the warrior woman, now opens the doors leading further into what appears to be a whole set of chambers, bidding him to wait where he is as she vanishes behind a screen.
“As… joyed as I am to find a descendant of the blood of the Norsemen here I must ask your intentions Lady Sigrid… am I here as your slave? I heard much of the appetites of monster women in the South… am I to be some form of sex toy? Grist for the mill of your arenas? I only ask for a fair answer. I have waited through many long days of travel from the place of my capture to learn what my fate shall be.”
There is silence for a moment, almost as if the jinko is collecting her thoughts, or perhaps composing herself, before a very naked Sigrid slips from behind her screen, her bare skin on full display, warrior tattoos of one form or function, scars from battles old and recent marred otherwise flawless, silken skin here and there, and but for the great paws she was a goddess through the lens of a story-teller with a particularly randy imagination.
“You are to be none of those things honored Tyrgvr. You were brought here by whatever fate is thread for you, and I have brought you into this house to be my husband, would that I could have found and captured you in battle as my mother captured my father, but I accept the cast of the bones as they fall. I had no intention to seek a husband for a few years yet, I am still somewhat young, and inexperienced, but I hope you can find one like me appealing, and perhaps, in time, come to not loathe me… but knowing you come from the lands of my father… and I find you comely of course and…” the Jinko lapses into silence self-consciously, perhaps embarrassed at her babbling display of nerves.
Far from loathing Tyrgvr was more focused on keeping his lower half out of sight underneath the table. He did not love her, though love was hardly a requirement for marriage, nor was he truly accepting or happy with this turn of fate… but the bones had been cast long ago, this moment, and in the future the moment of his death had long been written… and to all honesty he had never come to look upon a creature so enthralling as the otherworldly beauty before him, in turns unearthly and familiar in her complexion and structure.
In the tense air following her revelation of her intent, he considers her words. His place in this world far from the home he had once known, where he was likely considered long dead. Was it a betrayal to his kin if he found something of a life here? Or was it living true to what their wishes would surely be? In those quiet moments of contemplation he can almost hear Sigrid shrink a bit. She had bared herself literally and metaphorically and he needed to respond to her. He takes a breath, centers himself, and makes his choice.
There are no words. Simply walking to her is all the response that is needed. The alternatives to rejecting her would likely be unpleasant indeed, and while staying too might be dangerous the blush on her cheeks, the uneasy, nervous smile on her face, suggested that it might not be so bad after all. A man of the tribes of the North had made his home here, marooned from another world, following his example wouldn’t be so bad… He reaches out to her, stroking her cheek gently, tenderly. She’s softer than she looks, even as her powerful muscles shift underneath her skin, fierce claws sliding in and out of her paws before a first, nervous, tentative kiss. As lips brush against lips it’s as if a spell has broken, and the powerful predator spins him around and pounces him square into her bed.
He finds his face nuzzled into her ruff for a moment as she presses as much of her over-sized body against him as she can as if trying to feel him with her entirety, or perhaps mark him in some sort of indelible way, before shredding what rags he had as excuses for clothing from his body.
Sigrid reaches for him almost gingerly, the giant, powerfully built woman looking a bit more like the maiden she was behind her armor than any but he would likely see. Her face awash with all manner of emotions, and a blush to resemble a wildfire as her paw pads make contact with his manhood. Her touch was at times rougher and softer than he’d have expected, even after washing the pads of her feet, a few experimental strokes of his shaft taking him to his full size.
Inexperienced as they both were it’s only a few moments of fumbling and a quick snuffing of the lantern in the room before she’s astride him, the brush of her flower against him coaxing a moan from her, making it clear she’s more than a bit sensitive. Sigrid only taking a moment to steady herself before shifting him delicately and guiding his tip to her entrance. She’s hot, hot enough to make Tyrgvr feel like he’s going to melt and she’s barely gotten his tip inside her, the wet gush of her juices covering him in what felt like an instance as she begins to lower herself.
Her paws find his shoulders, clinging to him with her mighty grip even as her interior clings to him, squeezing him like a vice of velvet as her hips continue to slowly slide down him, her interior molding itself to him like sheath to sword. The moments are long, almost in slow motion as she completes that long first thrust downwards, engulfing him completely, filling herself with the male she had chosen clearly giving her no small amount of pleasure.
Again, the hesitance and nerves vanish in a flash of orange fur and pale skin, the Jinko’s love making as violent as any combat he’d been a part of, thankfully without weapons, and at least some degree of consideration or his hips would have likely been powderized as she does her best to fuck him into the thin mattress, wet slaps filling the air as they come together with the type of impacts that would almost feel like physical blows if it weren’t for the pleasure rushing through his veins like lightning with every second.
Sigrid is similarly affected, her far more vocal noises of pleasure filling the room as she ups her pace, welcoming his exploring hands making their way to her waist and then up and around her body, feeling her as she moves, seeking out her sensitive spots as she rides him like a prize warhorse. Thrilling to his motions be they soft and gentle or aggressive and bold. Be it petting her ruff, fingers raking through silken fur or groping a massive breast, thick thumb sliding over a sensitive pink nipple.
Perhaps in times to come there would be hours of passion in a single session, but youth, anxiety, exhaustion and all manner of emotion conspire to make this giving of one’s self to another, reservations melting away with every jolt of pleasure shared between their bodies came to a thunderous mutuak climax, rolling through their bodies as if they were of one mind and one body for that singular moment. It was that instance, as that sensation faded, and her body slumped against him, a low rumbling emanating from her chest as she nuzzled at him like a kitten, his arms wrapping around her that he felt at peace for the first time since being torn away from hearth and kin.
The next day dawns with her vacant from her bed, and an impatient Kikimora rousing the sleep deprived Norseman and practically dragging him to the baths, where a slightly condescending lesson on how to wash himself by the local customs was issued in the same lecturing tone his mother had when telling him about eating all his mutton as a child, and yet another lesson on wearing the clothes that had been provided for him, before the officious servant delivers him to the front door with a swish of her feathery tail.
Here his boots await him, and a very nervous looking jinko, her ears flat against her head.
“I hope Taria wasn’t too rough with you… I wasn’t sure how I should behave, and ask for you to accompany me to the city today. I am called to counsel, and having you with me would… please me.” Her ears and tone perk up, shifting gears mentally “…and I thought we might go to the market! There is much in this land I would show you…”
To Tyrgvr, there is an unspoken question to her words as she outlines various local sites and places of interest, her eyes shifting from watching him slip into his boots to meeting his own eyes with a nervous sort of determination, faintly concealing the blazing spirit that would do a valkyrie proud within. When he rises, ready for the road she takes him by the wrist, as if escorting a prisoner she feared might run off.
He breaks the hold with a shake of his arm, taking her by the paw before she even gets the chance to react, interlacing his fingers with her own far more sizeable digits.
“Sigrid, I am adrift in this land, I have no hearth, no kin, no clan to call my own, with nothing but myself if that is enough for you, then I will walk with you, of my own will. You need not chain me or hold me like I’ll vanish at first light.”
The loud crash by the front door draws Taria back, wondering if there’s been an accident, or if the outlander her mistress has become smitten with has lost his senses and attacked her like a feral beast. Instead she is treated to the undignified sight of her mistress in a pile with her new male, chuffing loud enough to be heard from down the hall as she curled up with him then and there on the floor. Apparently the outlander was here to stay.