Preface: Greetings, all! This is the tenth chapter of the tale that began with “Heroes – Chapter 1,” and is the third story is a series that began with “What You Don’t Know,” also located on this site, although it features a mostly-different cast of characters.
As always, my standard disclaimer: The monster girls featured in this tale, and many elements of the setting, are based off of the works of Kenkou Cross, and as such this work is intended to be a tribute to his creativity. The characters, however, are my own. Pray neither sue nor steal; I have very little to take, but I love that which is mine.
Chapter 10 – Hogtied
Berala awoke with a deeply-satisfied yawn, slowly emerging from the comforting abyss of dreamless sleep with the gradualness of a flower bending to face sunlight. Her muscles protested her sluggishness, and she stretched out even further in her already wide-sprawled state, and then tried to pull her arms back in to cover her exposed skin – it was a bit drafty, and a chill ran through her core. To her frustration, her arms didn’t comply, and she tried again, her muscles straining to shift her limbs in vain.
It was when she noticed the tight pressure around her wrists and ankles that her eyes opened in alarm. She yanked, harder, and harder still, but didn’t move. Realization slammed into her, jostling her out of her lingering drowsiness. She was tied up – or, down, actually.
“Well, look who’s finally awake.” The voice was painfully familiar, and the sound of a lid being replaced on a jar punctuated the statement. Berala’s head was unsecured, so she turned it to glare at the woman sitting in the chair beside her. Despite her swollen eye, Priscilla offered her a broad smile, the expression bare-edged and cold as she leaned closer towards Berala, her hands lowering a container below the edge of the bed the high orc was stretched out upon. Setting the jar on the floor, Priscilla straightened, reaching over to take up a rag and clean off her hands, wiping away a thick gel that reeked of medicinal herbs, and with that in mind Berala glanced down at herself, seeing the smears of ointment on the scratches and bruises on her own flesh – and not a hint of clothing.
“If yer expectin’ thanks, ye can just ferget it,” Berala growled, turning her head away from her former subordinate. “Unless ye want ta loosen these ropes. I’ll thank ye up close and personal then.”
“I’m sure you would,” Priscilla responded, looming over Berala, her voice sounding like the purr of a housecat playing with a mouse. “You can go ahead and try right now, if you would like. I can wait.” Saying that, she leaned back, and watched as Berala strained and stretched, violently tugging at the ropes that bound her to the bed. Idly cleaning the last of the ointment from her hands, Priscilla didn’t speak as the naked high orc fought to tear herself free, but the ropes were astoundingly well tied, and by the end of her efforts Berala’s dark-hued skin gleamed with perspiration while the ropes showed no sign of fraying. “Try not to give yourself rope burn,” Priscilla suggested with a haughty ennui, dropping the sullied rag to the floor from her fingertips, “we’ve used up a lot of Roger’s stockpiled healing salves, you and I, and he’ll have his hands too full to make more right away.” Priscilla’s eyes wandered over the exposed prone body of Berala as she said the last, offering a satisfied implication of what she expected his hands to be full ‘of.’
“So this is how ye win, then, hunh?” Berala snarled, her muscles still bulging against the unyielding embrace of the ropes. “Yer boyfrien’ cheats in our fight, and then has his way wit’ me while ye watch?” She turned her gleaming citrine eyes towards Priscilla, offering a toothy grin of her own. “That sounds more like somethin’ Viola would do.”
“Oh?” Priscilla leaned back in her chair, her good humor abating slightly. “And who, exactly, are you to judge? Miss ‘Make Priscilla an Aunt Nineteen Times’ herself? Who had her goons beat me and started to take Roger by force?” She frowned when she saw Berala considering the quote. “Oh no. You said it. Just because you don’t remember it, just because you were mad when you did, doesn’t make it not count.” At this point, Priscilla stood from her chair, looming over the bound high orc. “You lectured me on our culture. Well, the weak get dominated, and here you are.”
“Yer gettin’ it backwards, Prissy-pants,” Berala smirked up at her. “Bein’ dominated doesn’t make me weak. Try doin’ it without the ropes – you, or yer boytoy.”
“You didn’t have ropes on when you ended up on the ground, either time,” Priscilla all but snarled. “You’re always like this – you make whatever excuse it takes to convince yourself that it doesn’t count when you lose, but you will cheat however you can to win at the same time. If you ask me, that’s the kind of thing that defines weakness.” Berala’s smirk decayed into a furious glower, and anger roiled against anger in the stares the two directed at each other.
Finally, with a mocking shrug, Priscilla plopped back into her chair. “So, I figure, the best way to get you to accept your weakness is to take our time with it. Roger won’t force himself on you – I wouldn’t ask him to, and I know that he wouldn’t do that even if I did.” Ignoring Berala’s gloating chuckle, Priss glanced around the room, drawing the high orc’s attention along with her stare. “He’s stubborn, and he has a gentle heart – you’ll come to love that, too. But no matter what you think, I’m not quite so soft.”
The captive high orc was distracted from her rival’s words as she followed Priscilla’s gaze, and her jaw dropped in horror. She scanned the shelves on the other side of the room, and the small table near the bed, rounding back to Priscilla’s side to notice another similar table – all of them laden down with a variety of tools that Berala had never seen before, but even her ponderous wit could quickly deduce the purpose of – except for those whose purpose she couldn’t understand, which were even more terrifying. “By the Demon Queen’s tits, what’re are all o’ those?” Berala roared, her platter-sized eyes falling back on the orc sitting placidly at her bedside. “Don’ tell me ye mean ta-!”
“As I was saying,” Priscilla continued calmly, casually cleaning a bit of salve from under one of her fingernails, “Roger would never force himself on you. But, by the time I’m done showing you how these little toys work… you’ll be begging me to have him take you.” Her eyes, narrowed with sadistic pleasure, fell onto the horrified high orc, and her edged smile grew sharper as she caught a whiff of something on the air – Berala’s pheromones, the high orc’s natural powerful scent betraying her body’s excitement.
“Now, lissen, Priss,” Berala started, chuckling disarmingly, though her voice was a tad too high-pitched to conceal her spiking anxiety, “surely we don’-”
“Aren’t you curious about these things? How they work?” Priscilla asked, slowly reaching over to the table beside her. “That’s part of the fun, you know.” Berala swallowed past a lump in her throat as she watched the orc pick up two stones from the table beside her. “Like these little things – they look like normal rocks, don’t they? But…” She rubbed one of them with her fingers, and then held the stone by its base. The rock was vaguely pointed to one end, which began to glow orange, and it was that tip that Priscilla extended towards her captive. Berala hissed as it touched her – at first, she imagined that it had cut her, but she quickly realized that the intense sensation was that of heat, especially as Priscilla traced a line down from her bare ribs down along her stomach. “It’s a forgestone, which has picked up residual fire mana from the elemental that heats Bronda’s forge. It doesn’t get quite hot enough to burn, so it’s great for wrapping in cloth for cold winter nights, or rewarming a cup of tea… or for this.” Berala squirmed as Priscilla lifted the stone and touched it to her skin in brief presses in random spots across her belly. Even after the stone moved on, the spots of her skin it had touched still bloomed with radiating warmth and sensitivity. “If you prefer, I have a candle that will do pretty much the same thing, if I’m careful with dribbling the wax.” She grinned as she watched the high orc try to shift away from the heated tip of the stone. “Oh, is it too hot for you, then? Maybe you’d prefer…”
Priscilla set the stone to the side, and then concentrated on the other she held, this one a smooth oval with a glassy surface. As the orc focused on feeding her mana into it, the stone seemed to pale, and when Priscilla shifted her grip on it, her skin briefly stuck to its surface. She didn’t give Berala a chance to reply, instead tracing another line over the high orc’s flesh, this time near to her neck. This touch was bitingly cold, more than ice, and Priscilla skated the tip of the stone over the skin of Berala’s upper chest as the high orc shivered, bearing her teeth in a growl. “Though it was wrapped in a cloth then, Roger used this same coldstone to help bring down the swelling where you decked me earlier. So it’s only fair I use it on you, right?” As she spoke, she leaned closer, trailing the icy stone down from the high orc’s neck, and began to ascend the slope of her breast. Feeling the chill despite the distance, Berala’s deep-brown nipple quickly hardened, only increasing the tense sensitivity she felt as the stone meandered upwards, closer and closer to that aching peak. Despite herself, Berala yelped as, instead of the icy touch of the stone, Priscilla pursed her lips and blew air across her nipple, even that touch enough to make the high orc shudder. “Dammit, Priss, this has gone on far ‘nough! Jes’ ye let me get my hands on-!”
“Aww, but we’re just getting started,” Priscilla answered, her voice slow and lilting, but she still lifted the freezing stone up from Berala’s skin just before it reached the faint boundary of her areola. “And look at all the fun things I brought out for you…” Priscilla returned the stone to the table, but began to lift a selection of bottles, each with a variety of viscous liquids inside. “Like these lotions, for example. Some tingle, some warm, most of them are very, very slippery…” Berala glanced from the bottles back to her captor, seeing the gleam in Priscilla’s eyes, the way the orc bit her lip eagerly. “That’s important, you know.”
“Why’s it important…?” Berala asked, too horrified to be ashamed of how small her voice sounded, especially as her former subordinate’s ominous chuckle sent a chill up her spine that had nothing to do with the now-absent coldstone.
“For many reasons. Roger will show you the main one, of course, but there are others… like those things, over there.” Priscilla nodded to the table on the other side of the bed, and the high orc’s wide eyes followed the direction, finding a selection of devices and objects of various shapes – although the general consensus amongst the collection was fairly phallic. Berala’s cheeks paled as she looked at each one, before glancing back to Priscilla, whose grin had slowly grown at the same pace as Berala’s confidence had withered. “Hey, you should enjoy those,” Priscilla suggested, motioning to a collection of small clamps connected by small chains, with each clamp having its tips covered with thin strips of leather. “They were an experiment by Bronda, the same cyclops smith who made your axe. She makes things like that sometimes to clear her mind… I don’t think it works, though, because she keeps making them. But, for you, just think of all the sensitive little places those could pinch…”
“Now, Priss, look, we can talk about this-”
“You’ve always preferred action to talking, Berala,” Priscilla pointed out, leaning in close to her former leader, till her face was just above the other woman’s, her cold eyes glaring straight down. “So what’s different now?”
Berala stared up into Priscilla’s gaze, but words didn’t come out, no matter how hard she tried. And so Priscilla got to speak next – but she only did so after exaggeratedly sniffing the air. “Someone’s getting all excited,” the orc purred, and the tip of her tongue dampened her lips. “And you know what effect you have on the rest of us orcs, right?” Her face hovered just above Berala’s, maybe even closer now, and their eyes only saw each other’s. “At this rate… maybe we won’t need any of those bottles, after all.” The paleness in Berala’s cheeks was replaced with a sudden heat.
“It’s a shame, though…” Priscilla leaned back, and Berala gulped in a breath to replace the one she hadn’t known she had been holding, but the orc toying with her was still composed, still grinning. “This one, I had to pay a week’s wages for, after all.” She leaned back over, holding up a jar with a shining golden label depicting a smiling bee woman. The liquid contents were also gold, but the shades were worlds apart – inside of a shining yellow metallic, this gold was warm on the eyes, and seemed to caress the light that flowed through it, making even the glow of the torches slow down so it could bathe longer in that suffocating molten embrace. “Belinda’s Best… the woman does wonders, they say.” Priscilla grasped the metal top of the jar, and her biceps stood out as she twisted to unseal the container, finally breaking it open with a grunt. She carefully set that lid aside, and – stopping to make sure that Berala was still watching – dipped two fingers into the honeypot. She lifted them to show the high orc how tenaciously the viscous fluid clung to her skin, resisting gravity to dangle from her fingertip, before lifting it to her own lips and sucking on the coated digits with an indulgent moan. “Delicious,” she sighed, before her tongue traced her lips once more, claiming the last bit of sweetness that lingered there. “Want a taste?” Her fingers slid back inside the jar, curling enough to draw out another wet coating. “Of course, since it’s made from liliraune nectar, it’s also a potent aphrodisiac, but…” Her fingers hovered over Berala’s lips, and one strand of gleaming gold threatened to dangle its way downward to Berala’s mouth – but Berala was staring up, at Priscilla’s eyes, the eager gleam there, the triumph…
Berala lunged forward, sucking the fingers into her mouth. Her tongue swirled around the fingertips, stripping them of every morsel of honey, even as the high orc glared victoriously up at her subordinate’s widening eyes. When she was done, she leaned back, the fingers popping free of her mouth, still damp with saliva. “You think a little honey is going to scare me, Prissy?” Berala crowed, her grin revealing a spread of white sharp teeth. “Pretty little rocks and hand lotion isn’t going to be enough to-” And the fire bloomed in her belly, and she felt muscles clench throughout her body as she shivered with a sensation she rarely felt outside of hours alone in the dark.
Priscilla grinned down at the blush spreading across the high orc’s face, and her own racing heartbeat told her everything she needed to know about how Berala was feeling. “Oh, no?” she asked, mockingly, and leaned closer, closer than ever before, until her lips were brushing the wild white hair near the high orc’s ear. “Because you’re lying, Blackberry.” The high orc’s eyes shot wide at the nickname – an awkward one, one that Priscilla had only used a couple of times before, back when she had been clumsily trying to be charming – but now it was uttered with a smooth confidence that thrilled the high orc. “You’re lying, and you know it. These things are enough – and I’m enough, without them.” She leaned back, and offered Berala a grin just as toothy and confident as the high orc’s had been. “You’re bending, Berala. And when I get Roger in here with us… you’re going to break.” Ignoring the high orc’s spluttered rage, Priscilla stood from her chair and turned to walk away.
“Just relax,” she smirked back at her captive rival, her eyes drinking in the sweat on Berala’s brow, the way her chest heaved, the rich color of her cheeks. “Lay back and enjoy the ride. I know I will.” And, her hips swaying hypnotically as she walked to the door, Priscilla left Berala alone in the dark room. Alone, aside from the fury that made her saw at the ropes binding her – and aside from the warmth and electricity racing through her body, making her glad that they didn’t even budge.
******
“Wherever Berala Blackaxe is,” Viola sulked, slumping in her throne and propping her chin up in her palm, “I hope she’s having as rough of a time of it as I am.”
The new chief of the orc tribe leaned back in her chair and listened to her sisters bickering. Like usual, no one wanted to agree on what they should do. It had been like this since Viola had taken over the tribe – even longer, back through the last bit of Berala’s leadership, too. That was where the problem had started: Berala had gotten lax, and now it was up to Viola to clean things up, like always.
Every day, another argument. Where to hunt. What to eat. Where they should have their base, even after they had put all their effort into fixing up this new cave system closer to the plains. And, with increasing frequency, who should lead – Viola offered a quick response to that question each time it came up, though she was running out of loyal enforcers to do the rebutting on her behalf. It was hard, leading a tribe of uncouth, pig-headed, greedy, lustful gluttons, she moaned internally, especially when none of them wanted to admit she was a born leader. The arrogance of them all!
At least today’s argument was more interesting, she consoled herself. Apparently, some of the scouts had noticed that there were Order soldiers going through the mountain passes west of them, a few knights on horseback and a bunch on foot. Berala had left standing commands that the aggressive zealots that had seized Goslar were to be left alone, and Viola had never bothered to update that rule, but now some of her subordinates were beginning to question its wisdom. After all, that side suggested, who were they to pass up free men for the taking? Of course, came the response, there were a lot of them, and they had weapons, which meant they weren’t exactly ‘free.’ But, one voice insisted, that meant they came with a free fight, which was even better!
This last voice troubled Viola, and she glared at the speaker from under the shadow of her crown (a new creation for the latest-come chieftain, cobbled together from some of their loot, though not quite as glorious in execution as her design had been). Matilda was the orc in question, her silver hair cropped short at the sides and spiked back, and while she wasn’t the biggest of their tribe – that distinction went to Isabella, one of the few still explicitly loyal to their chief – she was definitely the most violent. Viola couldn’t count the number of times that Berala had been forced to take Matilda to task, but now it would fall onto Viola to do that job – or at least to order someone else to, and not many of the orcs in her tribe really enjoyed fighting against Matilda if they had the option. The girl was a berserker, a born brawler with a well-used set of knuckle-dusters, and she tended to enjoy getting punched about half as much as she enjoyed punching – and she enjoyed that a great deal. Now, she swaggered in front of the others like a politician, trying to sell them on the dubious wisdom of jumping an entire army of rabid knights in full armor – and she had already won the support of Ophelia, the lustful black-haired beauty who most often tried to turn their tribe’s attentions toward capturing a communal mate.
“Umm, Ch-chief, your boar leg,” whispered a voice from beside Viola, and she glanced to the side of her throne to see twinned pink sidetails of little Cora, the smallest of their tribe – smallest not from age, since all of them had been born within the same couple of years, but just due to unfortunate genetics and a quick-to-shrink personality. The girl was their best cook, though that wasn’t saying much, and Cora took on a lot of the domestic duties around the cave, but that didn’t spare her the bullying of her betters. No, that was mostly staved off by her close friendship with Isabella, their resident genial giant. “I tried to season it a bit better this time, and-” Nodding quickly as her chief waved her off after taking the plate from Cora without a second glance, the meek orc shrank back into the shadows of the curving path that led up to the throne.
That had been one of the best parts of having this cave as their lair, Viola noted to herself yet again. She had advised Berala to pick it, since it was a decently large cavern with an entrance close to two paths that led down from the mountains, prime for ambushing caravans coming from the west towards the new town… not that there had been many of those. But, the cave also featured one great chamber that had a natural chimney that allowed light to fall onto its center, and, more importantly, the throne-ledge. Atop a narrow path that haphazardly curved from the floor, there was a ledge that overlooked the chamber, and it had been there that they had placed Berala’s throne – Viola’s throne, now. The floor below had become their feast-hall, and Viola sat high above the others, listening to all of their bellowed conversations with amusement, at least when they weren’t about choosing someone new to lead.
“Ummmm, boss?” rumbled the low voice of Viola’s best insurance, and the chief glanced up at the blonde-haired orc looming over her. Isabella’s soft face was as gentle as her nature, but the fact that she was the only one of them to have been taller than Berala – and the only one to occasionally best the high orc in arm wrestling, though never any other sparring – made the rest of the tribe cautious of crossing her. Isabella was slow to anger, but nearly unstoppable when she was forced across that line. “Cora didn’t want to say, but she was telling me that she overheard one of the girls say that they saw Berala this morning-”
“Where?” demanded the chief, whirling on her bodyguard.
“Outside,” answered Isabella, shrinking back. When Viola frantically gestured for her to continue, the taller girl continued, “On the plains.” Another pause, another wave. “On the back of a horse.”
This made Viola pause, but her curiosity couldn’t wait. “Heading towards?” she gesticulated, even more fiercely.
“The new town. She was tied up, and one of those lizard ladies had her…” Isabella paused as her chieftain gaped up at her, cringing back slightly. “Is that… bad…?”
Viola stared for a moment longer, and then began to laugh. She laughed loud and long, freeing a full-throated glee she hadn’t felt in ages, maybe since the day she and her sisters had chased off that high orc brute in the first place. She had had nightmares ever since about the old chief coming back to challenge her for her throne, but the fool had gone and gotten herself captured by those scalebrained mercenaries! It was perfect!
Beside her, Isabella managed a timid courtesy laugh along with Viola’s manic guffaws, glancing between her chief and the brawl that had broken out on the floor below as the orcs finally resorted to their favorite means of solving arguments. None of the combatants paid any mind to their chieftain’s mirth, lost in the melee, but Viola was fine with letting them exhaust themselves on each other. Why did she need to worry now? With both Berala and Priscilla out of the picture, she was set for life – and this would only be the beginning of her reign.
Her laughter finally dying, Viola readjusted herself on her throne and straightened her crown. Whatever those mercenaries were going to do to Berala, she hoped that they gave it to her hard – a fitting end for an unfit leader. It was Viola’s time to rule now, she proclaimed to herself even as fists and food flew, even as Matilda hurled Ophelia onto and through one of the dining tables, even as Cora begged them all to stop before they brought the cave roof down on top of them. It was good to be the chief, Viola decided as she ignored the chaos around her, and leaned back as she imagined just what her old boss was going through at that very moment.
******
“Here she is… all yours.”
Roger took a deep breath as he stepped into the room, adjusting his cloak around his shoulders. It was a small chamber, usually used for check-ups and treatment – not this, though he did recall at least a couple of times Priscilla had coaxed him into making use of the examination table when she didn’t want to wait until they returned home. The ropes were new, certainly, as was the prone, glaring high orc, and the frankly-alarming number of sex toys arrayed around the room like a deviant’s torture chamber. He was still stuck trying to convince himself that that was not exactly what this situation was, but hadn’t succeeded thus far.
Priscilla’s smile certainly didn’t help, nor did the way she looked at Berala. “So…” she purred, stepping around the makeshift bed, her fingers trailing along the edge of the table as she sauntered over to her seat. “How do you want to start? There’s the feather, that’s something easy, or there’s-”
“I want to talk,” he said, stepping closer to the bed, his attention on both of the women.
Priss paused, but her smile didn’t falter. “I had expected that,” she admitted, but then met his gaze steadily. “But talking doesn’t work on her. Trust me. Still…” She motioned towards him, and sat down, crossing her arms before her chest patiently.
Roger took a moment to try to compose himself. That wasn’t as easy as he had expected. First, there was the matter of the naked high orc right in front of him, glaring up at him with a mocking sneer. Her arrogance was supposed to be his challenge, but keeping his eyes off of- well, the rest of her, was definitely not easy. Berala was a daunting mix of both muscle and softness, and splayed out as she was there was nothing hidden from his gaze, though a flared tuft of white hair did its valiant best to keep her most precious secret. It was from there that the greatest challenge emerged, a thick feminine scent that spoke straight to his primal instincts. Despite his earlier exposure to it and the warnings that Priss had given him, he feared he wouldn’t be able to keep his thoughts clear for long. The musk of a high orc was just as powerful in driving the normal sort of lust as it was the battlelust of her followers, and Priss had said it was enough to keep their lovers eager enough to service an entire tribe, until they passed out from exhaustion. He understood that, now… and he wished he had worn looser pants.
“So, ye think ye have me beat, hunh, boytoy?” mocked Berala, her teeth bared in a feral grin. “Jes’ try touching me, and see how many fingers ye get back.”
“She only says that because she wouldn’t be able to count how many you had in the first place,” sniped Priss, and the high orc frowned, caught off-guard by the inherent unfairness of having an opponent on either side of her. “But, just in case, some of the things have a longer reach-”
“Thanks,” Roger interrupted her, looking down at Berala. He met her gaze steadily, despite feeling his heartbeat pounding through his whole body, with at least one place particularly standing out. “Tell me,” he demanded of her, his eyes narrowed, “if I were gone, and it was Priss tied down and you in the chair… what would you do then?”
He wasn’t certain what response he had expected from the question, until he saw it. Berala blushed at that question as her eyes roamed the room, and she squirmed and frowned for just a moment before her bravado could intervene once more. “I don’ need ‘er tied down to beat ‘er ass-”
“Yeah, thanks,” Roger insisted, raising his hand to cut off her tirade. “I guess the question, then, is how I want this to start… since I know how Priss does.” He offered his lover a smile, though her own expression had become clouded with a hint of confusion.
“Oh, yeah?” Berala’s confidence was back now, and her furious grin was all fangs. “Guess that means ye think ye know everythin’ about all Prissy, hunh?” She leaned back, and let her gaze crane over to the orc, who had begun to blush. “Did she tell ye that ye were her first kiss? ‘Cause that’s not-”
“I know,” Roger interrupted her, and Priscilla gaped at him in shock. He glanced at her with a warm smile. “I mean… not hard to figure out, really.” And not unrelated to how they had found themselves here, he mused, but only to himself.
“I was going to tell you,” Priss muttered in a soft voice, eyes falling to her lap, “but I just hadn’t found a good time to talk about-”
“‘Bout how we used to practice fer the tribe’s husband, when we got ‘im? ‘Bout how we took turns playin’ orc and playin’-”
“That was just practice!” Priss insisted, cheeks burning scarlet.
“Ye can’t call me ‘Blackberry’ like ye did back then and me not think ‘bout how ye moaned the first time I kissed ye-” Berala gloated, grinning up at the ceiling as Priss spluttered, looking between the two, frantically trying to find something to say.
With a sigh, Roger decided to end the havoc. He planted his right hand on the table, and stared down at the high orc. “But I don’t mind,” he declared, and watched Berala blink as Priss stared at him. “You see,” he continued, leaning down closer to Berala, even though that brought him closer to that powerful scent, that maddening warmth, “I accepted that Priss is an orc, and all that meant. We made things work for us, despite the stuff about strength and taking charge. And even before we got together, I knew she still had issues about you. I know what ‘tribe’ means to her, and I know what it means when it comes to you.” He straightened back up, and now it was Priss that he focused his gaze upon. “Because, at the end of it, I’m not worried about how she feels about me. And how you end up feeling about me, well, time will tell. But what scares me is how you two will end up feeling about each other.”
Beneath him, Berala laughed. “I thought so! Can’t take the comp’tition!”
“Not that,” he told her. “Because, if you are as much of an orc as you say, then I know how this works out for me. But if I do this, then I get to spend the rest of my life watching the two of you have this fight all over again – and I might be what you fight over.” He looked down at the high orc, whose bravado had slipped into shock.
“Ye cocky bastard!”
Roger ignored her protests, staring at Priss. “So if I’m going to force anything, it’s this. Priss, if you and I could make our solution work, find a balance between strength and weakness… you know the same one is the only thing that will ever work for you with her, too. You know what I mean.” Priscilla stared at him, her expression conflicted, despair mixed with love mixed with regret and pride. “And so… I guess this is what I want to use on you, Berala.” And, slipping his hand into his pocket, he drew out the item that he had been carrying since shortly after they had returned to his shop.
Priscilla’s eyes shot open wide. “Umm, Roger,” she pressed, watching as he slid the small knife from its sheath, “that may be a little more than what I had in-” If possible, her eyes opened even wider as he leaned over Berala. “Wait, no, don’t let her-!”
But she could only watch as, with impassive determination, he began to saw at the rope holding Berala’s left arm to the table.
A moment later, as the high orc watched on in shock, the rope frayed most of the way through. Not waiting for it to part completely, Roger turned to the lower rope on his side, and began to work to free her leg. She regarded him quizzically, before glancing over to Priss, who seemed to have sunken in on herself, frowning but not resisting his efforts to set the high orc free. With a triumphant sneer, Berala yanked on the remnants of the rope binding her left arm until it snapped, and immediately began working to free her right arm, not risking the possibility of Roger changing his mind.
It didn’t take long until Berala slid herself from the table, standing safely away from the other two as she flexed her muscles, restoring bloodflow to her limbs that had been held outstretched for hours. She grinned at her newfound freedom, and was in no haste to address her lingered nakedness, even with Roger standing not far away. “Ye’re gonna regret that, boytoy,” she told him with a leer.
His eyes were cold as he stared at her. “I don’t believe so, but we’ll see, I guess.”
One white eyebrow arched as she stepped closer to him, noticing the way that Priss also stood and took a protective step in her direction. “And what’s keepin’ me from pushin’ ye down on that bed right now?” she asked, and before anyone could react, her hand darted down, grabbing him between his legs. It was her who froze, though, and a blush spread across her cheeks.
Despite the value of what the naked high orc bandit had just seized, Roger kept his cool. He lifted his left hand, and it was at that moment that the two women realized that, the whole time, under his cloak he had been wearing the gauntlet from their encounter earlier in the day. “I guess we can just have this conversation all over again,” Roger suggested, and with a twitch of his thumb the hose underneath the blade of his hand extended towards the high orc’s face. “Just tell me which day next week you want me to wake you up for.”
The stillness in the room lingered longer than it should have. Finally, as if begrudgingly, Berala released what she held, and when her hand had returned to her side Roger also lowered his own. “Bigger stones than I wagered on,” Berala admitted, but the crimson heat in her cheeks kept her from reclaiming any bit of her lost bravado.
“If it’s a question of how strong I am,” Roger continued, keeping her eyes captured, “then I guess the answer is that I’m strong enough not to be afraid of you. And strong enough to insist that you not share our bed until you choose to.” At this, his eyes flicked over to Priss, who met his gaze with a burgeoning. if regretful, smile.
Berala stared at him for another long moment. Finally, she snorted loudly. “Yer both crazy,” she snarled, shaking her head. “Where’s my clothes? And my damned skull? My axe? Ye got another thing comin’ if ye think ye get ta keep my axe.” She whirled, looking around the room – while carefully avoiding the areas that held the various items Priss had gathered. Realizing that they must be in the other room, she stormed to the door, only to pause at that portal. She glanced back for just a moment at the bed, where she had been tied, and then to Roger and Priscilla. Then, with another outraged huff, she was gone, leaving the pair alone in the room as she began to loudly ransack the adjoining chamber.
Roger winced at the sounds of boxes slamming together, but turned to see Priss at his side. “I… understand,” she said, looking up at him with a melancholy smile, “even if I don’t agree. I should have talked to you first, before I tried to make you do this.”
“It will work out,” Roger said, slipping his arm over her shoulder. She snuggled in closer to him, and he tried to ignore the sounds coming from his shop – and the lingering musk in the air, which was causing a second mutiny against his decision. “I love you, and I’m sorry-” Before he could continue, she leaned closer to kiss him, silencing him with her lips.
“It’ll work out,” she reiterated, but leaned away after just a moment, her eyes searching his. “Did you really mean what you said? About figuring out that I practiced kissing with Berala before we met?”
Roger laughed, but his nod was his only response, and it caused the blush to spread in her cheeks.
By the time Berala had rediscovered her gear and managed to put most of it back on, shaking her hips to adjust her abbreviated lower garments, Roger and Priscilla emerged from the examination room. Roger cast a despairing eye over the mess the high orc had made of his shop, grateful she hadn’t managed to spill any of his concoctions that he could see just yet, while Priss crossed her arms across her chest, glowering at her rival. For her own part, Berala ignored the pair, chortling to herself as she replaced her beloved boar skull back atop her head. Only when she picked up her axe did she glance over at the waiting duo, and it was clear from the gleam in her citrine eyes that her independence had served to reignite her stubborn spirit once more. “Bet yer regretting not takin’ yer shot at me when ye had the chance,” she crowed at Roger, reaching down to readjust the narrow strip of cloth that covered the barest extent of her breasts – though managing to flash what it was meant to conceal in the process. “‘Course, ye would’ve ended up blubberin’ and beggin’ after jes’ a minute of me gettin’ my hands on ye, but-”
“Now who has regrets, hmm?” Priscilla demanded, her frown seasoned with challenge as her eyebrow rose even higher.
“Psshh,” snorted Berala, shaking her head. “Yer dreamin’. And I bet ye both will dream ‘bout it, too.”
Roger shook his head in exasperation at her bravado. “Where are you going now?” he asked bluntly. “Because you’re a wanted woman here in New Haven, and without Priss vouching for you, the Forked Blade will probably take you into custody, unless some of the people you’ve robbed get their hands on you first.”
The high orc’s grin spread even wider, and she hefted her axe onto one shoulder. “Let ‘em try. If they’re smart, they’ll get that I could knock over this whole town if they test me. And I’m in a mood to do it, too.” Her smile didn’t diminish, but there was a softness that flickered into her gaze as she glanced over to Priscilla. “I’m done wit’ ye, ye hear me? This’s it. I’m done wastin’ time with the two of ye.” The words were harsh, but Roger suspected her motives were kinder than she would ever let on.
“Good. I was getting bored fighting you,” Priss sniffed, checking her nails disinterestedly, and Roger fought to restrain a smile. The orc glanced up at Berala, one eyebrow raised. “What are you going to do now, then? You don’t have a tribe.”
“Yet.” The characteristic boldness didn’t feel as empty as some of her other taunts, and there was a new fervor in her eyes as she thought about that question. “Really, ‘s jes kind of embarrassing’, thinkin’ ‘bout how I left Viola in charge. She’s crafty, but too much of a coward to be a chief. Think I might go back and fix that li’l issue.” Neither Roger nor Priscilla decided to question her version of how Viola had become chief, especially with the battle-musk building in the air. The high orc’s eyes flicked back to Priss. “Do yerself a favor. Avoid the central passes through the western mountains. There’s a valley, few hours north of where we tussled, where two paths come down on either side. Keep yerself clear of there, if ye know what’s good fer ye.” Priscilla laughed in response, but Roger wondered to himself how honest that suggestion was – was it a genuine warning, or a way for Priscilla to find the tribe if she needed them?
With a final, proud snort, the high orc turned to the door leading out into the town. She grabbed the handle, but paused, looking back to the pair waiting across the room. She glowered at them for a long moment, and the air grew dense with tension – until she finally snarled and yanked the door open. “Good luck with yer tribe, then,” she barked, and before either of them could respond, she fled out the door and slammed it behind her.
For a moment, Roger and Priscilla were silent, as if waiting to see if Berala would storm back in. When she didn’t, the orc leaned against her lover’s shoulder, and Roger offered her a regretful smile. “I’m sorry for how it worked out-”
“This is better,” Priscilla reassured him, though he weighed the tone of her voice carefully. “Now, I won’t have to worry about the others in the tribe. Viola is a schemer, and she might have targeted you too. I should probably pity her for when Berala arrives to take back the tribe, but I don’t.” She laughed, low and dark, and Roger suppressed a chill racing down his spine. She glanced up at him, and reached out to trail her fingers over his chest. “But, if you really want to make me feel better, there’s an open jar of Belinda’s Best in there, and the bed is ready and everything…”
His cheeks burning crimson, Roger nodded. “If you’re alright with that as a consolation, I guess I can’t say no.” She arched an eyebrow, and then glanced downwards before looking back up at his face. “Okay, fine, yeah – that musk is powerful stuff.” He paused, then glanced over to his equipment across the room. “Just let me store one little thing, and I’ll be right in there.”
“What’s that?” she asked, noticing the way he held his fingers pinched together as he crossed to his storage shelves, small rows of drawers each labelled with a different vital ingredient for his potions.
“A piece I’ve been missing for a while.” He paused, turning back to her, displaying the long white hairs trapped between his fingers. “These were on the bed, and some got snagged in the ropes. This should be enough to make a dozen potions of boar’s strength, easy.”
Laughing at his industriousness, Priscilla turned to walk towards the examination room. “Well, better make good use of them, because I doubt we’ll be getting any more for a while,” she quipped, and pulled open the door. With Roger delicately placing the hairs in a new chamber of his storage shelves, he didn’t see the tender smile that Priss gave him. “If you take too long and I eat too much of this honey without you, you’re going to have to deal with the consequences,” she warned him, and he jolted, rapidly scribbling the label for his new reagent. With a final grin, Priss stepped into the room, and reached for the handle of the door to close it behind her.
As Priscilla pulled that door closed, she let herself imagine that she was sealing away all that had been bothering her: her unfinished business with Berala, her worries over her sisters, her dread of someone coming to steal away Roger. She let herself believe that this would be a new beginning for her, and that she could let go of who she had once been, and of the bonds that she shared with those from her past.
She had no idea how wrong that would prove to be.
******
Berala stepped out into the crowded streets of New Haven, and looked around with a wolf’s grin. She waited, glancing over the passerby – fat sheep they were, all unguarded and rich-dressed and laughing – and watching each face to catch the first hint of recognition, the commencing moment of what would become a crowd-wide surge of terror once they realized the threat that had slipped into their midst. She planted her axe beside her, and with her fangs on clear display she patiently gave the milling citizenry a chance to discover their peril. Any moment now…
Berala’s face had begun to slip minutes later when she finally got the reaction she wanted – or at least something like it. “Wait,” she heard a horrified whisper, and she glanced over to see a harpy and werecat walking in the direction of the shop behind her. The werecat had gone pale and was staring straight at the high orc, while the brilliantly-colored harpy next to her was looking around cluelessly. “Let’s, ah, come back later,” suggested the werecat in a hissed whisper, which drew an affronted scowl from her friend.
“Hey, you told me you would come with me to get my nutritional supplements from the alchemist!” scolded the harpy. “I’m molting, and if I want my feathers to come in right-”
“Later!” hissed the werecat, and she nodded surreptitiously towards the brawny invader standing casually in front of the alchemist’s shop. “Don’t you know who that is?”
The harpy cast a disdainful glance towards Berala, who favored her with a toothy grin. “Well, whoever she is, she could use a shirt,” stated the harpy, in what failed to pass as a whisper. “Those straps barely pass as-”
“That’s Berala Blackaxe!”
“Who?” demanded the harpy with owl-like imperiousness, and her squawk was just as likely from her friend dragging her away as from any sort of realization of mortal danger. The high orc watched the pair retreat down the street, offering only a jaunty wave before they turned a bend and were lost from view. That hadn’t been as much as the high orc had hoped for, but perhaps it was for the best – as much as she would like to burn off some stress by pounding some foolish guard into the ground, she didn’t want to be harassed all the way across town. Now, which way would be west…
Berala had only taken her first step down the street when she paused. Not far away, another woman was standing, her eyes narrowed and her hands on the scabbards of her twin swords. The lizardwoman was familiar to Berala by reputation alone, but the name of the commander of the Company of the Forked Blade was spoken frequently enough in these parts that Berala didn’t have to think long on it. “Evenin’, Steelscale,” Berala nodded, her grin challenging and her stance casual, and she strolled towards the other woman as if unaware of the threat in her eyes.
“I expect that Priss and Roger are unhurt,” Lacy snarled, and made no move to step out of the way of the high orc swaggering towards her.
“Only a bit of heart break,” Berala chuckled, forcing levity into the words. “Yer free to go check fer yerself, unless…” She paused, and shifted her axe on her shoulder. “Yer lookin’ fer a bit of play?”
“Something tells me that you are dumb enough to think that you would enjoy that,” Lacy replied evenly. The motion was subtle, but Berala noticed the way her thumbs pressed slightly on the crossguards of her two swords, loosening both in their sheaths. The high orc’s grin grew, and she lifted her axe off her shoulder, holding it before her. The tension in the air between the two was apparently obvious even to the passerby, as many of them swiftly found a reason to be anywhere else than on this particular street, soon leaving the tensed warriors alone on the stretch of road.
“Oh, ye better believe it,” Berala purred, her thumb rubbing the blade of her axe where it met the shaft. “I’ve got energy ta burn, and I’ve heard enough ‘bout ye ta think ye’d be good sport.” She stopped, sniffing, and then a decidedly pensive expression flashed across her face. “Wait… ye’re the other scent that was on ‘im.” Her axe lowered as she stared at the other woman with a furrowed brow. “Doesn’ that mean ye’ve given up fightin’?”
Lacy stared at Berala for a long moment before straightening slightly, her hands dropping away from her swords, but still not straying far. “I don’t have to. Roger asked me not to retire; he told me that he wanted me to follow the path that makes me happiest. I’m going to be staying here and establishing a home base for our company.” The lizardwoman let herself smile at the confusion on the high orc’s face. “He doesn’t care about tradition if it is something that hurts us. It’s like the deal he worked out with Priss – they share power, instead of one of them having to submit.” Lacy’s slitted eyes narrowed at Berala’s snort, but she noted the heat on the high orc’s cheeks. “You know, he would do the same for-”
“Forget it!” Berala growled, but when she lifted her axe, it was to lay it across her shoulder once more. “Someone ‘round ‘ere has to ‘ave an eye towards tradition, ‘eritage. What kind of un-orcy kids is he gonna make?”
Lacy’s smile was as sharp as the blades she had kept sheathed. “With me and Priss helping to raise them? They’ll be strong, don’t you worry about that.” The high orc paused at that, eyeing the other woman for a long moment, before shaking her head.
“Keep ‘em safe, then,” Berala snorted, and started walking. “We can fight another day; I’m done with this place.” And she stomped past the lizardwoman, who stood without moving until the high orc was well past her. She only glanced back once, and then continued to the alchemist’s shop, certain now that she had nothing to worry about.
Berala paused at the end of the street, which had begun to feature passerby once more, the crowd now ignorant of the epic duel that had nearly taken place. She watched as Lacerta entered the store, eyeing the lizardwoman’s smooth gait with something akin to admiration. Something within her called back in that direction; perhaps it was her robber’s instincts. After all, she should have at least nicked that jar of honey, or some of those interesting-looking devices Priss had laid out for her. Or… She shivered as she remembered the hardness in Roger’s eyes when she had threatened him, and the other hardness she had managed to get ahold of. That brought heat to her cheeks that had nothing to do with the honey, though she did unconsciously trace her lips with her tongue. Maybe he wasn’t as weak as she had taken him for…
“Pshaw!” she growled, and turned her back to the lot of them.
Once she had her bearings, it was easy enough to find her way towards the western exit of the town. A few more townsfolk did shy away from her as she passed, although even she was forced to admit it might have just been from her barbaric appearance as much as her dark reputation, and one time she chose to shop briefly at a vendor selling root vegetables while a patrol of lizardwomen tromped by, definitely in a hurry somewhere, but overall she was unaccosted even as she neared the gates leading out of town. In a more finished settlement, it would likely be as hard to get out of town as to slip in, but with so much of New Haven under reconstruction it was more of a matter of following a street until it faded away and continuing onward. Perhaps the town had once had walls, but they had long since slumped into heaps that had been reappropriated for the new construction, and so Berala’s grand escape concluded with a casual stroll over a hillside as she let the town recede behind her.
She looked to the west, noting the way the sun was descending towards the mountains that were her destination. It would take her a while to get there, and for a moment she was tempted to sneak back into town and steal a horse. Still, she was used to running long distances, and it was a point of pride that she was the best in her former-and-soon-to-be-reclaimed tribe at cross-country travel. Back when she had been younger, before she had run into the orcs of the tribe that Priscilla and the others had been daughters to, she had traveled that way on her own, all the way from the monster-controlled lands to the east. This little jog would be nothing but a warm-up, so long as the town didn’t send outriders after her.
Feeling confidence she hadn’t in weeks, or even longer – since Priscilla had challenged her for leadership, perhaps – Berala showed her fangs to the heavens. Let them send mercenaries after her. It’d be a good way to stretch before she had to beat her old tribe back into shape. It was time to start handing out reminders of why the name Berala Blackaxe was one to be feared.
Berala was so lost in her own visions of glory that it took her a moment to notice that the shape in the western skies wasn’t the bird she had initially taken it for. No, it was much further away than that, and the shape was all wrong. The wings were bat-like, and it had a tail. She used her hand as a visor as she tried to make out what it could be, until her eyes widened in the shadow.
If it was what she thought it was, then it looked like New Haven had bigger trouble to worry about than her.
Continued in “Heroes, Chapter 11”
Author’s Note: The Convention Curse struck just as hard as I had feared. I admit, I’ve not put down the pen – I’ve been working on my modern-day series, after all – but I hit a roadblock on this chapter. I think I’ve finally smoothed out all my issues with it, and feel decently happy with it – though I know not everyone will be perfectly pleased with how it all played out, I do offer a brief reminder that this isn’t the final Roger chapter. No, he has at least two more before this story is out…
Next time is going to be back to Simon, to head towards the answer of what happens to Mary Kramer. That one will be the last backstory-focused chapter in this story, I believe, but there will be more to offer than that alone. I still have a bit of outlining to do on that one, but I hope to be back soon with that chapter… maybe even sooner than usual, to help make up for lost time.
One last note about this chapter. MGE images help me write the descriptions and action in the story, so I have a collection of favorites that I use when I write on specific characters. There is an old artwork by Butter-T that I use when writing for Berala – it actually helped inspire details about Priss’s tribe back with I was writing Not Alone. With that in mind, several of the orcs of her tribe are also based on orcs featured in that image, specifically Viola, Cora, and Ophelia. Thus, I wanted to offer credit to the artist that helped inspire several of the characters in this and other chapters.
Finally, as is my tradition, I offer thanks to you, my reader. Especially to those of you who have waited for me to return… I hope to reward your patience with even more to read, soon enough. This story still has a way to go, and thus I have plenty of work ahead of me.
But, with this chapter finally done, a nap is in my immediate future, because, as always, I’ve put off… sleep…
~Wynn Pendragon
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I’m really glad you’re not abandoning this. Some of my favourite stories are probably never going to be finished. Still, I’ve enjoyed this, as much as the earlier meanderings of your delightfully fertile imagination.