“The Taker?” Bronwen puts her spoon down and sits upright. The word raises gooseflesh on her arms and the hairs on her neck. She does not know its significance, but it still makes her afraid.
“You think of him as Death,” says Gerrik. “He is black within black, darkness within darkness, and he carries a gateway from one reality to the next. You are told to believe he is Death because it makes you fear him more. You are overwhelmed with false memories. It becomes hard to see the real ones.”
“I… I… remember something,” says Bronwen. She sees momentary flashes of riding inside a machine with other people, a city made of glass and stone, visions of a pool of warm water that beckoned her to another place and of a different life as a different person. “How do I know those memories are real?”
“Ah, that’s the problem,” says Gerrik, worry showing in his green brow. “There are so many more memories of growing up here on Nerth among the goblins. They are more vivid. How could these moments I glimpsed be real? I have turned this over in my head again and again. I awoke and felt wrongness in this place. I remembered, after following the orcs around for a while, and then I saw the Taker. When I saw him, I remembered being brought here. So I followed him and I found someone else he brought here.”
“Me?” Bronwen suggests.
“Well, yeah, you, but not the first time. The first time it was Scarlett. She seemed to remember almost as much as me. She believed me when I told her what I had figured out. Then… then she died. Killed in battle with a wood wight.”
“I’m sorry,” says Bronwen, lowering her head and setting aside her spoon.
“When she died, I was lost,” says Gerrik. “I rejoined the orcs and did things I regret. I almost gave up all hope. And then… I saw her again.”
“Scarlett?”
”Yes,” says Gerrik, although he seems even more miserable. “She was alive and well. At the first level. She had respawned and reset. Not only had it wiped her of any recollection of me, but she was no longer able to remember anything of her real life. I tried to get her to accompany me and instead she tried to murder me. I had to leave her with her people.”
Bronwen does not want to believe him. She believes in the goddess Adrahil, ancient and among the first gods, who defeated the serpent of the dragons and cast the demons down into fire. She believes in her tribe and her childhood among the Red Feather. She believes the words of her mother and the soft touch of her mother’s hand when she needed reassurance. Not these other confusing bits of memory.
“Everything around me feels real,” says Bronwen. “Realer than these moments I see when I close my eyes. And you tell me it is all fake? It felt real when… you were with me, master.”
“Yes, well,” Gerrik looks away, his green cheeks darkening almost to purple. “We are both real, so, um, it would feel real. Our desires and passions are real.”
“Yes,” she agrees, reaching a hand across the table to touch Gerrik’s long, pointed ear. He closes his eyes for a moment and groans with pleasure. He seems to remember himself and jerk away from her.
“But there is a place that may have more answers for us, Bronwen. The Taker has his own castle. It does not appear on any map, but I have seen it. There are more of them there, more like him, and I believe if we could somehow enter this place we would unlock the secret of what and why they have done this to us.”
“The Takers.” Bronwen murmurs. “Death. How could we face them?”
“We are not ready yet,” says Gerrik. “We must make ready and find more allies.”
“Like Elyana,” suggests Bronwen.
“Maybe,” says Gerrik. “Maybe she is like you and me. But you have to prepare yourself for the hard truth that she might also be like these townsfolk or, perhaps worse, like Scarlett. Another lost soul we will never convince of the truth.”
I am not entirely convinced of your truth, thinks Bronwen, but she does not give voice to her feelings. More than anything, she wants to save her friend.
“We will go to the oracle first,” says Gerrik. “She is a part of this false reality, but she still divines truth. She helped me to remember my name. I think she can help you remember yours. From there, a bridge might be built to your true identity.”
“If you say so, master,” says Bronwen, scooping up the last dregs of her stew and licking the spoon clean. “I will go wherever you command. I owe you my life. You are my Blood Keeper.”
“Well, you actually don’t,” says Gerrik. “And I’m actually not your Blood Keeper. That’s just another one of the rules the machines impose on you in this false reality.”
“Saying the Blood Debt is false does not change how I feel,” says Bronwen, setting aside her stew and rising from the bed. She walks around the rickety table and slides down to her knees to put her height even with Gerrik. He seems uncomfortable with her proximity, with her heaving breasts and her hand as she reaches out and strokes his gaunt face. “I adore you, Gerrik. You are my master. I will serve you and… pleasure you…”
She caresses from his cheek down his wiry chest to his groin. She feels his little cock stirring in his loincloth. Though she means to use her charms to convince him to let her save Elyana, this does not lessen the real desire she feels for the goblin. He is so handsome and wise. He, who saved her life and now keeps her blood. She craves his seed.
“This really is not a good time for this to—“
Bronwen smothers his objections with a kiss on his thin lips. Her goblin master stiffens against her, lips pinched tightly, until he seems to relax and yield to her kiss. Her tongue meets his, finding it long and flexible, curling against her tongue. His mouth is hot and bitter with the taste of the ale he has been sipping. She presses closer, her soft breasts molding against him and her hand beginning to squeeze his stirring cock through his loincloth.
“We shouldn’t do this,” he rasps against her hungry kiss.
“Command me not and I will not,” she whispers, her words steamy with her desire. Never could Bronwen have imagined her loins stoked to such an inferno by the thought of pleasure with a goblin. She would have rather died than face such a thing before she was saved by Gerrik. Now, she cannot control her yearning.
“We can’t,” he says, pressing at her shoulders with his clawed hands, but pointedly not commanding her to stop.
“The gods bless me with experience,” she says. “Let me pleasure you, master, so that I might gain in levels more swiftly.”
Before he can refuse her again, Bronwen activates her power.
Irresistible Kiss Activated!
The whore’s magic makes her lips tingle, a softly ticking timer counting down the seconds while the power remains active. She only needs a moment as she kisses Gerrik again, their mouths melting together in a passionate embrace. Bronwen unleashes the power into his scrawny goblin body, pure sexual energy flowing from their mingled mouths and her swirling tongue. He moans against her lips, trembling with desire as he is flooded with pleasure and the need to yield to her advances.
“MMmmmm!” He cries against her lips. She breaks the kiss only for a moment and Gerrik gasps, “Yes! Yes, pleasure me!”
Bronwen yanks his loincloth down as she kisses him, his hard cock springing into her grasp. She wanks him against the smothering weight of her breasts, sliding his rigid maleness between her squeezing tits. She tucks her chin and allows a stream of saliva to drip from her mouth and splash cross the head of his cock. She spreads the wet, slippery spit with her fingers and smears it into her cleavage.
“Oh, Bronwen,” he moans, resting his hands lightly on her shoulders. “W-what have you done to me? You’ve used your p-power and oooOOOH!”
She squeezes his cock tightly between her soft mounds, her pressed tits bridged by one hand to keep his cock trapped between them. Her other hand remains at the root of his modest maleness, squeezing and wanking him gently as she begins to move her breasts around his cock. His head drops back against the wall, although his hips are thrust so far forward
he can surely still watch as she begins to slides her crushing cleavage up and down, breasts pressing tightly against him.
Gerrik’s green cock disappears into Bronwen’s creamy cleavage. She works her back and shoulders and rides her pressed tits against the spit-lubed length of his hard cock.
At first, it is a bit awkward, his cock threatening to slide free of her breasts and the unusual motions requiring a great deal of her concentration. But Bronwen adopts a steady rhythm, arching her back and sliding forward until her lips are almost even with Gerrik’s and then sliding back down until her face is even with his slight paunch. She keeps her breasts pressed tightly around his cock with each movement. His cock is so small compared to her ample breasts that it is never seen once engulfed in her warm, soft flesh.
“Ohhhh, they’re so warm and soft,” moans Gerrik. “Damn it, you’re going to make me cum again!”
“Oh, yes, please do, master! Cum for me! Cum between my soft breasts!” She coos with delight at the thought of her immaculate breasts being fouled by Gerrik’s goblin seed. She pants with the effort of her movements, moaning with anticipation as she rides against his increasingly warm cock. His precum is trickling out and adding to the lubrication provided by her saliva.
His hands tighten their grip on Bronwen’s shoulders. She looks up at him, so adoring that tears well in her bright blue eyes. To be pleasuring such a lowly creature as a goblin, obscenely, between the mounds of her motherhood, should make her burn with shame. Instead, the friction of his cock is warming her heart. She craves his seed, she wishes to feel it spill between her breasts.
“Yes!” He croaks. “Yes, it’s so good!”
There are raised voices followed by a loud thump outside the door to their room. Gerrik tenses, but Bronwen ignores the sound and focuses her complete attention on pleasuring her master. Gerrik seems about to say something, but he jerks upright, sucking in a loud breath through his teeth.
Bronwen cries out softly as she feels the first spurt of his seed, warm and spreading between her breasts like hot jam. His cock jerks between her mounds again and again and milky liquid wells into her cleavage as if from some hidden spring. She rides her breasts up and down his cock, being sure that he empties every drop of his musky spunk onto her delicate skin.
Breast Sex +600 XP
“Oh, master, so much experience!” She cries, releasing Gerrik’s cock from between her breasts and looking down at the milky smear between her flushed breasts.
“Yes, good, but we have another problem,” says Gerrik, hastily tying his loincloth and looking nervously at the door.
“Come out of there, elf whore!” A man suddenly shouts from the other side of the door. Someone beats heavily, knocking dust loose and making the planks of the door flex with each blow.
“The goblin must die!” Another man shouts. “He has no place in our village!”
Several voices can be heard and Bronwen jolts with fear, realizing a mob has gathered on the other side of the door. They intend to hurt her master!
Not even bothering to clean off her breasts, Bronwen surges to her feet and grips her sword. She reaches for the door, intending to fling it open and hack her way through the stupid human peasants. Gerrik grabs her wrist and stops her.
“No,” he says. “The guards are not to be trifled with even in this small village. Behind this wardrobe, quickly. There is an old broken window. We can escape that way.”
Bronwen’s lust for blood will have to wait, she decides, for her master’s command is more important. She grabs the old wardrobe and grunts as she begins to shift it aside. Her arm and shoulder muscles bulge as she moves the wardrobe and reveals a small window with several broken or missing panes. Gerrik picks up the small table and hurls it at the window. The table bounces back into the room, along with a shower of glass, but the window is broken to bits that leave none in the frame.
Something smashes into the door behind them more heavily than anything yet and the hinges begin to pull free of the frame of the door.
“Quickly!” Gerrik shouts. “Boost me through and then follow me through yourself!”
Escaping out the back window of the inn and escaping from the village pursued by a mob is not exactly a heroic end to their visit to Aysgarden, but Bronwen must obey her master. She boosts him out the window and escapes behind him. The pair flee into the night.
IV
The Orc Encampment
Bronwen’s guts twist and threaten to make her vomit. Following their escape from Aysgarden, she had persuaded Gerrik to let her try to free her friends from the orc encampment. She had fantasized about how she might slash an orc’s belly open and lop off the head of another in order to free Elyana and the others of her tribe who were taken prisoner. It would be a glorious rescue.
Instead, they arrived to find the orcs had broken camp. A morning mist clings to the orc campsite, but this fog is not enough to conceal the many grisly reminders of orc savagery that have been left behind.
Bronwen looks out through her tears of fury. Several elf men are butchered, tied to trees and hacked apart, and a few elf women have clearly been burned to death. The stench of death hangs over the littered grounds of the former orc campsite. Bronwen wanders among the dead and the refuse, checking the bodies she comes across for signs that they are someone she knew.
“This one,” she finally says, kneeling beside the charred remains of an elf woman. “She was called Iuna and she was a fletcher in our village. She was nearly a sister to me. I remember when her mother gave her this necklace.”
Bronwen holds up the flawed ruby set into the gold necklace around the corpse’s neck. The early morning light catches the ruby and sends sparking crimson light in several directions at once. There is the hint of magic to the necklace. Some slight charm worked into the jewel.
“Sorry for your friend,” says Gerrik, placing a comforting claw on Bronwen’s shoulder. “She will live again, soon, if that is any consolation. But she won’t remember you.”
“It is not a consolation,” mutters Bronwen.
“Here, let me see that necklace,” says Gerrik, motioning for her to hand over the charm. He takes it from Bronwen and holds it up to the early-morning light. He whispers words of power and a nimbus of magic forms around his hand. Tendrils of violet light coruscate across the surface of the charm and then retreat and dissipate. Gerrik hands the necklace back to her. “Protective magic. It is not powerful, but in your current, um, state, I suggest wearing it.”
Bronwen weighs the necklace in her hand.
“It did not protect Iuna,” she says bitterly. She parts the golden chain at its clasp and Gerrik steps behind her to close the claps behind her slender neck. The ruby set in the golden amulet rests against the inner swell of Bronwen’s breasts. She feels protective warmth, like an invisible blanket, spreading over her flesh.
She concentrates on her sheet and the gods, or the machine if Gerrik told true, summon the words in the air before her.
Bronwen-of-the-Red-Feather
Race: Wild Elf
Alignment: Good
Class: Warrior
Status: Blood Debt to Gerrik
Level: 2
Experience Points: 2100/2500
Strength:
16
Hit Points: 37/37
Agility:
11
Armor Points: 2/5
Stamina:
12
Intelligence:
10
Willpower:
10
Charisma:
10
Special Abilities
Wild Elf Fury (Ignore Pain or Fear Effects for 60 seconds)
Irresistible Kiss (A persuasive kiss that cannot be refused)
Equipment
Charm of Protection (2)
Damaged Wild Elf Basic Armor (0)
Damaged ??? Sword (Inadequate Level)
Sexual Content – YES
Extreme Content - YES
Fertility – YES<
br />
Bronwen closes the sheet and wipes away her tears of anger. She takes out her sword and Gerrik gazes at it warily. She turns the broken blade over in her hand, admiring the intricate scrollwork on the blade itself and the gold bands worked into the grip. A single large pearl from a river oyster is set into the pommel and carved to depict the goddess Adrahil. Though the tip of the blade is broken off, the rest of the blade remains dangerously keen on both edges.
“I found this weapon when I awoke,” says Bronwen. “A master smith crafted this weapon. I do not know its power, only that I am not good enough to wield it.”
“You want me to identify it,” says Gerrik, anticipating her request. “Of course. Give it to me.”
She hands him the sword and he holds it in the flat palms of both of his clawed hands. He closes his eyes and once again begins to work his magic. Violet tendrils curl from his fingers and seem to caress the sword. The blade itself begins to glow brightly with a pure white light. It is so bright it is almost painful to look upon, but Bronwen forces herself.
“You have a treasure here,” says Gerrik, seemingly in awe. “The blade is damaged but… this is the Legendary Blade of Solana-of-the-Red-Feather. The damage is incredible and it will cleave armor of any type. Your chances of delivering a critical blow are quadrupled.”
The bright light fades from the blade and Gerrik hands the sword gingerly back to Bronwen.
“This is a weapon for a mighty warrior, Bronwen. You must be Level 150 or higher to wield the sword,” he says in a conciliatory tone.
Blood Debt of the Wild Elf Page 6
