A Sex Slave To Alien Masters (Erotica)

The slightly opening flaps of the tent were swept aside to reveal the mountainous form of the warchief, soon followed by the shorter Ulag. Talina could tell immediately that the conversation was no cheery affair. Shortly before setting off for Grolfir’s tent, she had quite expertly sabotaged Ulag’s armoury. It was nothing dangerous, merely a few little doodles across the armour indicating that perhaps Ulag shouted so much because he was overcompensating for his secret lack of testicles. She’d also carved a few clubs to look remarkably like male genitalia and left them in suggestive positions around the armour.

Ulag did not seem to enjoy the jest.

“I’ll flay them all for this!” he growled in his grizzled version of the orcish tongue.

“You will not. I’ll not have you lashing all the pups because of the actions of a few pranksters.” Grolfir managed a tone that was veering between long-suffering resignation and borderline annoyance.

“Then it was Nullik. The boy never knows when to keep his mouth shut.”

“Nullik?” Grolfir’s voice carried the name with a derisive laugh. “The boy is terrified of you, Ulag. Just like the rest of the pups. I doubt any of them would do something like that. They’d have to be insane.”

Above their heads, Talina felt her face form an invisible grin.

“Then what is to be done?” Ulag asked.

“Well, did anyone see the damage apart from you and me?”

“No. I found it and I came straight to you.”

“Then forget it, old friend. It was only a few clubs that were carved and a little hard work will get the paint off the armour. Just splash some more paint on so that they can’t see what was painted and then have them scrub it off the next time one of them steps out of line. Now sit, have a drink, you haven’t told me of the progress of the proving grounds for a while. Are we looking at any promising candidates for this year’s ceremony?”

Grolfir took a seat in the chair before his massive table and grabbed two cups from beneath before turning to his cask or orcish ale.noveldrama

Talina watched as Ulag snarled, clearly unimpressed by the warchief’s decision in the matter of the errant wooden shlongs. Then, he relaxed his shoulders somewhat and shook his head before taking up the offered seat across the table. There was a friendship there, unspoken but strong. Talina knew of Ulag’s reputation and none could have quelled his fury on the matter but Grolfir.

Two metal cups of orcish brew were settled upon the table and Ulag raised his in the chief’s honour before taking an apparently much-needed gulp.

“The Berserkers are by far the strongest. They’ll be ready for the north not long after their ceremony.”

“You think they will pass?” Grolfir lifted a dark brow inquisitively.

“Hah! Yes, they’ll pass. Anything you can throw at them. I personally trained three of them and the rest are just as bad. The Ice Wolves and the Nightraiths are nearing ready too.” Ulag took another gulp from his cup.

“And the Runts?” Grolfir pressed.

“Bottom of the shit pile, as ever. Ulla has fight in her but she does not fight with the others. I once saw her crack Nullik across the face when he tried to help her. Wrut is the most dangerous, but then he’s older than you. He’s usually the last standing, but the others soon overwhelm him after they take care of the weaker ones in the bunch.”

“And what of Ulf?”

Somthing in Ulag’s face suggested that he might have sneered in other circumstances, yet the expression was subdued in the presence of Grolfir.

“Your son is weak, old friend.” Ulag clearly didn’t relish saying this to the warchief. “He keeps his head in the clouds too much. He has fight but does not lead as he should.”

It seemed that Grolfir would speak again but he was interrupted by a clash of steel against steel outside. One of the orc guards bashing his own chest plate with his gauntlet to signal the arrival of another to the tent.

Elder Wren Stormbane made himself known. Long white braids of hair fell about his head and over his shoulders to frame the craggy lines of the old orc’s face. Age had long since caught up with the elder, bending his spine over and forcing him to walk upon the ancient war wounds beneath his cloak with only his walking stick for aid. A cunning, crow-like face was seen peering out from beneath the white braids with a long nose and equally long tusks that raised from beneath his lower lip and curved up to just beneath his small, yet piercing eyes.

The elder shuffled inside the tent and remained silent as he looked between Ulag and Grolfir. He was a stalwart practitioner of old ways and made even the scarred proving master look young by comparison.

“Yes?” Wren asked.

Grolfir and Ulag looked between each other as if wondering if the old orc might finally have seen too many summers.

“I did not summon you.” Grolfir peered at the newcomer, wondering if it was perhaps some sort of game. Wren liked games, those he played them with did not.

“Then what is the meaning of this?” Wren reached into his long, red robes and pulled out a scrap of paper.

Ulag stood and walked over to take the paper and read it aloud.

“You are summoned before the warchief to answer for your crimes of…” Ulag spluttered and stalled as he read the words on the page, “Extreme and repeated flatulence before your peers.”

Elder Wren did not seem impressed.

“It bears your seal,” he added in a dangerous tone of forced calm.

Grolfir frowned and stepped up to examine the paper. Sure enough, he saw his seal staring back up at him from beneath the simple handwriting. He turned and kicked open one of his chests to pull out the stamp on which the seal was engraved and found it still present alongside his other things.

It had taken Talina a couple of days to forge the warchief’s personal seal. She decided that the look on Wren’s face was definitely worth the trouble.

“Someone must have copied it.” Ulag suggested.

“Indeed?” Wren shuffled across the floor with the aid of his walking stick to take Ulag’s former seat, “I doubt I need to remind the warchief that it is a crime to forge his seal.”

“It seems to be a prank.” Grolfir suggested in a gentle effort to ease Wren’s obvious anger. The old orc might have been withered but his influence had lost none of its reach over the years.

“Lot of those going around, aren’t there?” Ulag tilted his head toward Grolfir pointedly.

Before either of the orcs could reply, another clash of fist against chest plate signalled the arrival of someone else into Grolfir’s home. The great orc resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the new interruption. He was somewhat surprised when he found himself looking upon Ulf entering the tent.

Ulf had been expecting to find his father alone and so to come face to face with the elder and the proving master was quite a shock. He immediately stood up straighter as Ulag leered down at him as if suspecting to find white paint across his hands. Presenting himself with a classic salute, Ulf stood to attention and remained silent.

“Speak, boy.” Elder Wren did not seem to have the patience for formality.

“Warchief, I am to inform you that the human will soon be ready to resume his place in the provings.”

Grolfir raised a dark brow at this news and remained silent on the matter.

“What else?” Ulag demanded.

“Well… er… there’s nothing else, master. I was just told to inform the warchief.”

“Why would our warchief be interested in knowing that the human boy is nearly ready to resume his place in your pack? Do you keep him constantly updated on the human’s bowel movements too?” Ulag had approached Ulf and began jabbing the young orc in the chest.

“Um, no.”

“No what!?”

“No, master.” Ulf quickly corrected himself as he stepped backwards.

“Good, now quit your interruptions and begone. You have your own proving to think of.” Ulag kept prodding Ulf until he’d jabbed him completely out of the tent. Then he turned back to the other two orcs and grinned evilly. “I love my job.”