A Tarnished Knight in Booty Bay

 The Tarnished Knight groaned from the dull throb emanating from his forehead. His head felt as if an ogre was using it for drum practice. He tried to move, but once he was awake enough to move in spite of his aching head he realized his mobility was limited by the iron manacles which bound him to the curved wall of the ship's hull. 

Slowly he remembered. He had taken a ride from Stormwind Harbor aboard the Relentless under Captain Hicks, and the ship had been attacked by a pirate ship called The Firebrand, which flew the flag of the Blackwater Raiders. 

He remembered fighting, and then leading a boarding action, taking the fight to the raiders. He remembered his compatriots being pushed back to the Relentless and the Tarnished Knight being cut off. What he didn't remember was the club that had rendered him senseless.

Focusing, he summoned the healing energy of the Light to remedy his likely concussion and headache. He settled to his knees and began to pray; meditation and prayer often cleared his mind and allowed him to figure out his next move.

Before too long a pair of sailors appeared, one a green-hued troll and a goblin. "Time for your interro... interview with the Captain," said the goblin as the troll unlocked the chain connecting the manacles to the wall, leaving the manacles in place like an oversized pair of handcuffs. They conducted the Tarnished Knight to the almost-luxurious Captain's Cabin, and then left, leaving him alone with their captain.

"Well, well, well... what do we do with you?" said the pirate captain. She was a Blood Elf with long black hair and luminescent green eyes. "You managed to kill quite a few of my crew before we took you down; clearly, you are a skilled combatant. Ordinarily, we'd just have slit your throat and tossed you overboard as fish food. We still might do that, unless you give us a reason to spare your life and earn your freedom. We could use a good healer; would you be willing to join my crew?"

"No," responded the Tarnished Knight. 

"OK... how about ransom? Anybody willing to buy your freedom from us?"

"You saw my armor," said the Tarnished Knight with a suppressed smile. "All my earnings have gone to support the orphans of Stormwind and Boralus." 

"The Order of the Silver Hand?" asked the Captain.

The Tarnished Knight shrugged. "You can ask, I suppose, but don't hold your breath."

The Captain sighed. "I guess that leaves us with personal service to me. What service are you willing to offer me?"

"Well, I do have some skill with my hands and mouth..." the Tarnished Knight offered.

"So you are skilled at either talking your way out of trouble with your mouth? Or brawling your way out of trouble with your hands" asked the Captain.

The Tarnished Knight smirked. "I meant more of a more intimate, personal way of using my mouth and hands for your... satisfaction".

 (The rest of the pages are written in [Thalassian], and practically illegible.)

A Steamy Romance - A Tarnished Night in Darkshire

 

Succubus

The Tarnished Knight smiled up from the table in the Scarlet Raven Tavern at the beautiful and sultry woman who had approached him.

"Sir Paladin, I was wondering if I might ask you for a favor; my home is some distance away, and I was wondering if you might give me an escort home?" she said, pleading.

The Tarnished Knight looked at her long brunette hair, warm brown eyes, and thought he detected a smirk; clearly she was not as afraid as she professed.

"I would be most happy to see you home," said the Tarnished Knight with a smile.

He finished his Hearthglen Ambrosia and stood, offering her his arm. "Shall we?"

The two left the tavern and headed on the road that would eventually lead to Raven Hill. She led him along the road until she guided him off to the side road which led to the Tranquil Gardens Cemetery.

"My home is right here, on the left," she said. Leading him across the fallow field, she unlocked the door and ushered him inside. "Thank you so much for seeing me safely home. May I offer you some ale?"

"My throat is a trifle parched. An ale would be lovely," the Tarnished Knight replied.

She fetched him an ale, which he quaffed in one long gulp. "I feel... strange..." he declared before he fell to the floor.

He awakened later, his head pounding; whatever she had slipped him in the ale packed quite the hangover! His wrists were manacled to the basement wall, and in the center of the basement was a summoning circle. His armor and weapons were piled in the corner, and he realized that he was quite naked.

"Ah, you awaken," she said. "Now to disgrace you by making you violate your Oath of Chastity!" The woman began casting a spell, chanting in [Demonic], summoning a Sayadi demoness - a seductive Succubus. The woman, now revealed to be a Warlock, settled herself in a comfortable chair on the far side of the summoning circle. "I will enjoy watching!" she exclaimed, pulling her skirt aside to reveal that she wore a skimpy pair of red lace panties. Her fingers slipped underneath, and she began pleasuring herself.

The Tarnished Knight's erection grew prominently. "Do your worst, I will not succumb!"

Inside, he smirked, remembering that he had taken no Oath of Chastity... but the warlock didn't know that!

(The rest of the pages are written in [Demonic], obviously from the Succubus' point of view.)

Gaaron (03) - Green and Growing

Gaaron

Gaaron had just about settled nicely into his new… job? Occupation? Prison? “Whatever I want to call it, it is a damned sight more comfortable than my share of a cell in the Stockades, that much is clear!” he thought to himself. 

Gaaron had been an inmate of the Stormwind Stockades when a riot had broken out. As a result of his actions during it, Gaaron was recruited by a secret organization called the Disposable Operations Personnel Engagement team, or D.O.P.E., which served the Alliance as deniable operatives whose failure would not embarrass the Alliance or upset any delicate political considerations if they were captured or killed. The team was run by a dwarf named Lucius Stonehand and consisted mainly of convicted prisoners who were quartered in a specially sectioned-off student dormitory room in the floating city of Dalaran, capital of the Magiarchy of Dalaran. As the home of the Kirin Tor, the city was the centerpiece of learning, open to both the Horde and the Alliance while it currently floated over the Crystalsong Forest area of Northrend, acting as a bulwark against the depredations of the Lich King. During time between missions, Gaaron was permitted his armor, weapons, and other equipment, to keep all of it in condition for the next mission. His other teammates shared something similar to Gaaron's room, connected to a common room where they were served their meals (by far a much more comfortable existence than their previous accommodations). Between missions, the members of the team were also allowed to seek legitimate employment within Dalaran, so long as it was legal. After all, their quarters and the food may have been paid for by D.O.P.E., but they were convicts; anything else required them to supply the coin.  

Gaaron responded to such an offer of employment. The local herbalists had made it known that they needed some manual, unskilled labor, and he needed to learn more about botany and the cultivation of herbs to improve his chances out in the field. 

“Hello, good sir! How may we serve you?” asked a gray-haired balding gentleman as Gaaron entered the shop.

“I am told that you might have a job for manual labor, helping to take care of plants,” said Gaaron.

“Ah yes. It’s been hard to fill, so many in Dalaran think that honest labor is beneath them,” said the fellow. “I am Edwin Egan, and my wife Dorothy runs the place with me. Well, she does the hard work; I’m just a glorified shop clerk and bookkeeper.” Edwin led him over to his wife and passed him over for her supervision. “She’ll get you started, young fellow!” 

Gaaron learned the basics swiftly; All the job truly entailed was replacing the topsoil of the in-ground plants with fresh fertilizer, and ensuring each plant was watered, which for some plants meant a sprinkle and some a whole can or more. But it was this basicness of the job that made it tedious, something that no haughty novice would want to waste time on, but made for excellent learning material for Gaaron. “This book here details the care and watering schedules, and this shelf has books about the specific uses for each,” Dorothy informed him. 

“Umm…” Gaaron said, embarrassed. “I don’t know how to read. At least, not well.”

“Well, that sounds like an excellent place to begin, then,” said Dorothy with a warm smile. 

As there were no available wax tablets or chalkboards, Gaaron discovered that soil made a passable substitute. Weeks passed this way, with Gaaron spending the time when he was not involved in a D.O.P.E. mission (including preparation and recovery time) working as an herbalist, until one day as he was working, Dorothy introduced Gaaron to her daughter, Patricia.

“Patricia is an alchemist,” Dorothy said. “When you are ready, she has volunteered to introduce you to the basics of alchemy.”

“But I have no money to pay for lessons,” observed Gaaron.

“That doesn’t matter,” said Patricia. “I am happy to help, and lend you some books that might help with the basic principles.”

Thus did Patricia spend time teaching Gaaron how to read during his work breaks, and it opened his mind to a world of possibility that he quickly took advantage of. After his work in the cultivation rows was finished for the day, Gaaron would steal the supplies he needed to continue at night; slowly over time to not be caught, he accumulated several quill pens, some low-quality paper (easily come by in a city of students), and candles. He obtained a few seals and a supply of red sealing wax, and late at night, during the only time he had left to himself, picked up practicing the “fine art” of opening seals of messages. With a hot blade to leave the wax intact, he would slide the blade under the seal to gently pry it off, rather than slice it through completely. 

The why was obvious; sometimes it was more useful to know how to reseal the messages he had no permission to read after he read them, rather than steal the message and risk the tampering being discovered and the information rendered useless by the discovery. People often acted differently when they thought people knew what they were up to, and changed plans accordingly. Human nature, but one that made his role in D.O.P.E difficult. 

Besides, it left Gaaron time to address the small niggle that had begun to grow in his mind; Dorothy and Patricia were generous and kind, and helped him out of the goodness of their hearts. It seemed strangely foreign to Gaaron that there were people - not many perhaps, but a few - who were not solely motivated by self-interest of one sort or another. Certainly, the people with whom he had associated in the past, from the whores in Goldshire to his comrades in the Defias Brotherhood, to the other prisoners in the Stockades were not motivated by any altruism or kind impulse. They, for one reason or another, were selfish, and often cruel and cold in that selfishness. 

But not the Egans, and that puzzled Gaaron for a long time, until the only conclusion Gaaron could agree on some months later was that the Egans would be thoroughly disappointed in him and hurt by his actions if they knew Gaaron was stealing the supplies. The idea worried him. He would do anything to avoid it.

The next time he needed to resupply, Gaaron went the long way home to buy his candles instead.

Gaaron (02) - The Stockades

 

Gaaron picked up the longsword, feeling the balance fall just beyond the steel gold-plated hilt. “I can work with this”, he muttered. “I mean, the officer was probably a pretentious fop, but he knew a fine craftsman.”

Stormwind Guard officers paid for their swords as part of their commission, and since almost all were from noble families, they often vied for the most ostentatious show of wealth where their personal property was concerned. This sword, taken from the lifeless fingers of one of the casualties of the uprising, had caught his eye despite the serpent-scale scabbard and its lion-headed basket hilt. 

Bazil Thredd had been, if not the right-hand man of Edwin VanCleef, had been his left-hand, and his capture during the riots which led to the death of Queen Tiffin had been a severe blow to the operational effectiveness of the Defias Brotherhood. His incarceration in the Stockades had been itself something of a scandal; clearly, the magistrates were as corrupt as the families from which they came. Although in theory, he was just another inmate, life inside the Stormwind Stockade had its own social hierarchy. In here, Brazil Thredd was as close as one could get to royalty. Prisoners who had money could arrange for decent food, decent clothing, and even laundry service. Someone - different people each time - met with Thredd every couple of weeks and brought him money, food, wine, pipeweed… anything outside of magic or weapons.

Gaaron snorted at the thought. He did not for a minute believe that those might not also be available, given sufficient gold. Guards always could justify looking the other way, for the right price.

Of course, Gaaron hadn’t set out to make the infamous prison his new residence. Several months earlier, Gaaron had been working for The Dockmaster out of Jerod’s Landing, as part of the lucrative smuggling route from Lakeshire in the Redridge Mountains, down the Nazferiti River to Klaven’s Tower in Westfall and back again, and his job had been crewing one of the shallow-draft barges making the run. Smuggling was not a capital crime, but since Gaaron could not afford the stiff fines attached, he was sent to the Stockades until his debt was somehow paid. 

Granted, the system did not address how inmates were meant to earn the money required to pay the debt, thus being caught red-handed and poor, Gaaron earned what amounted to a life sentence. The violence and filthy conditions of the Stockades meant that a life sentence was only a few months long anyway…Unless you knew someone, which he did; the inmates of the Stockades were ruled by violence, lust, and greed, and the Defias Brotherhood ruled the inmates, and Bazil Thredd ruled the Defias Brotherhood. Gaaron’s reputation for his ruthless skill with blade and gun gained him attention. A few well-chosen “arguments”, and some well-placed “accidents”, and he now stood him in good stead as one of Thredd’s newest bodyguards.

Even then, the uprising of inmates against the Stormwind Guard establishment had taken him completely by surprise. Not being a part of the planning meant not being part of the “need to know”, and while Gaaron was as trusted as anyone in the Defias Brotherhood could have been, it was clear to him that he was still on the outside of operational security. Gaaron had been allowed a sword taken from the casualties, which lessened the immediate concern, but even though he was now armed, it still rankled that as one of Thredd’s top guys he had been left so in the dark.

“So… what happens next?” asked one of the other members of the Defias Brotherhood.

“Next? We do what the Brotherhood has always done under the greed and corruption of the Council of Nobles! We will keep our freedom until we get assurances - backed by the Cathedral of Light - that they'll give us decent food and water. That we will have access to healers of the Light when we get sick or injured. We still have some guardsmen alive; they won’t charge in here and risk them, or risk the infamy that would come with the death toll of those who would dig us out.”

Gaaron kept his face carefully neutral, almost certain that Thredd was lying. The inmates had very little food, and Warden Thelwater was unlikely to give them any more. Nobody outside the prison had any inkling that something was wrong. All it would take to cover up massive casualties would be to tell a story of a plague outbreak. He could hear the officers now, “Sorry, but we had to burn all the remains. Couldn’t risk the contagion spreading.”

It was far more likely that Thredd would wait until the guards tried to retake the prison, and sneak out in the confusion, maybe with the help of some smuggled potions of invisibility or somesuch. Gaaron could not blame him for making an escape plan, even though he was certain that such a plan did not include himself. Including Gaaron would throw off the chance of a successful escape, and what other plan could there be but one that was a guaranteed success? 

He was still pondering the question some hours later when the Alliance strike team broke through the guard into Thredd’s headquarters. Brazil Thredd had two guards in addition to Gaaron. The chamber door burst inward, shattered by mystical violence. Three of the assault team charged through the door; the leader was a plate armor-clad warrior wearing the tabard of the Scarlet Crusade. The next was a Quel’dorei archer, clad in dark colors. She let fly an arrow with a stone arrowhead, glowing with green runes. The third was a Night Elf glowing with a nimbus of Shadow energy.

Thredd used his twin blades to knock the arrow aside, where it detonated with an explosion that would have torn the flesh of its intended target asunder, had it landed as intended. The Scarlet Crusader engaged Thredd, and the two of them seemed evenly matched. One of the Defias rushed the archer simultaneously, and she backpedaled before them, parrying their swords with wide sweeps of her hardwood bowshaft.

Gaaron let his sword fall to the ground in a clatter. He felt no loyalty to Thredd, given his expectation that Thredd would betray and desert Gaaron in the final circumstance. He simply had no motivation to help Thredd and the other Defias; perhaps his lack of opposition would earn him leniency.

The shadow priestess assessed Gaaron as not being an active threat, and the shock of having so misjudged Gaaron showed on her face as Gaaron’s blade came up almost of its own accord. Before she could react, Gaaron’s sword passed over her shoulder; a Defias bravo had come through the door unnoticed, and Gaaron caught his blade before it could chop through her pretty swan-like neck, then reposted the longsword’s point into the Defias’ throat. She, in turn, intoned a spell in a voice that sounded as if it had come from the crypts of the damned, and a burning sigil appeared like a brand on the foreheads of the two assailing the archer. They screamed in agony, and the archer put a pair of arrows into the belly of each of them with preternatural celerity. 

The three of them had no difficulty in putting Thredd down like a mad dog, earning himself the long-delayed execution he so richly deserved.

“Thank you for your help there, fellow!” said the Scarlet Crusader before he reversed his glaive and brought it across his head.

Gaaron fell, his consciousness fading swiftly. “No good deed ever goes unpunished” flashed through his mind before everything went black.

When Gaaron came back to consciousness, his first thought was “What a comfortable bed…” before opening his eyes and realizing he was in a chamber near the entrance to the Stockades staircase from the street level.

The chamber had clearly been set up as an infirmary, and several beds were occupied by either injured guardsmen or inmates. A young human heard him stir and came to stand next to him. He wore chainmail armor, and his tabard proclaimed him to be one of the Order of the Silver Hand. He smiled at Gaaron. “Nasty little head wound, you have there. Lay back down, all is well. Let me get your attending healer.”

Gaaron lay back down; head wounds were deceptive, and could be quite serious, but aside from a residual headache, Gaaron felt perfectly fine. Still, he had no objection to spending more time warm and comfortable while he could.

It was not very long before the paladin of the Silver Hand returned with a dwarven fellow. He was bald as an egg, but the wealth of spiky black hair more than made up for any cranial lack. His skin was an unusual hue for Ironforge dwarves, who spent much of their lives out of the sun, but instead, his skin had the same color - and possibly, the same texture- of uncured leather. He was clad in black, ironically for the same type that would not be out of place by a member of the Defias Brotherhood or an agent of SI:7, Stormwind’s espionage service.

“May we have a privacy ward, young Paladin?” the dwarf asked politely of the attending medic, who nodded and cast the Warding of Confession; within the ward, one was safe to speak and think in confidence. 

“Hello,” greeted the dwarf. “You are Gaaron, formerly of the Defias Brotherhood, correct?”

“Yes, I am part of the Defias Brotherhood,” Gaaron confirmed.

The dwarf chuckled. “Oh, I don’t think so… I think helping save the life of one of my agents has pretty much written an end to that chapter of your life. Still, Grail - Grail is the Scarlet Crusader who fetched you that rather nasty blow to the head, by the way - made sure that there were no witnesses who survived.”

Gaaron nodded, without understanding why the fellow had knocked him out but left Gaaron alive.

“Which brings us to my being here,” said the dwarf. “I run a group of agents, former prisoners convicted of crimes, and offer them the opportunity to earn time on their sentences by going on missions for the Alliance.”

“I don’t understand,” replied Gaaron.

“Well, the assault on the riot in the Stockade was a perfect example. All four of my team are technically prisoners, but they live in a normal small apartment between missions. They are fed, trained, and allowed their own weapons and armor and whatnot, whatever the tools of their trade require. They can even take odd jobs between missions for a little spending money. When the Alliance has a mission that is very dangerous, or too sensitive for normal forces, I send in my team to get the job done.”

“And if they fail, it is blamed on a band of known criminals,” Gaaron commented.

“Yes, all of my agents are what we call in the business as ‘deniable assets’. It's a dangerous job, but each mission reduces your sentence remaining,” said the dwarf.

“And your… agents, you called them? When their sentences are deemed to have been finished?” asked Gaaron.

“At that time, you get a full pardon. Freedom,” said the dwarf. “We lost one of our own in Stockades; if you hadn’t acted the way you had, we might have lost two. Or more. So… I have an opening on the team. Interested?”

Gaaron took a moment to weigh his options, although he did not seem to have any; if what the dwarf was saying was true, and there was such a team of convicts and criminals acting as a sort of ‘suicide squad’. Then for them to be as effective as the dwarf said, they would need to operate in total secrecy. There was an old saying “Three people can keep a secret if two of them are dead.” What the dwarf was explicitly not saying was that if Gaaron turned down the offer, it was not likely that he’d leave this room alive; what kind of an idiot would let someone turn down a job offer to become part of an ultra-secret group of operatives and live to tell of it?

Thankfully for Gaaron, Gaaron was not an idiot. “Yes, I’d like the job.”

“Excellent!” said the dwarf. “My name is Lucius Stonehand. Welcome to the Disposable Operations Personnel Engagement team.”

“DOPE? We’re dopes?” confirmed Gaaron with a chuckle.

“Yes, you are!” confirmed his new employer.

Gaaron (01) - Surena Caledon

Surena Caledon

Gaaron carefully made his way from the camp of his employer, the Defias bandit chief Dead-Tooth Jack, near the Ridgepoint Tower in southeastern Elwynn Forest towards the Brackwell Pumpkin Patch. Having been taken over by the Defias leader of the Elywnn Forest, a man named Morgan the Collector, it served as a go-between for Defias operators and high command of the Brotherhood in Moonbrook. The main house was used by Morgan the Collector and his lieutenants and once a month Dead-Tooth Jack sent the Defias share of his ill-gotten gains to Morgan the Collector, who would in turn send tribute to his higher-up located in the subterranean Deadmines. 

The journey was not without its dangers; the amphibious murlocs inhabited the shores where the stream that ran south from Stone Cairn Lake to the river Nazferiti which separated the Elwynn from Duskwood were alert and vicious. Too far near the road which connected Westfall to Goldshire, Eastvale, and eventually Redridge, and you could end up hanging from a tree limb by Stormwind guardsmen. 

And of course, there was always the hungry bear population, who did not appreciate having the humans and murlocs poach what the bears regarded as their fish.

Gaaron had joined the Defias Brotherhood once he had reached a certain age, where acting as a bouncer for the brothels in Goldshire had ill-prepared him for any other career besides an outlaw. As members of the Defias Brotherhood were frequent patrons of the Goldshire courtesans, Gaaron had no difficulties in joining them. 

Gaaron also knew better than to draw attention to himself; it was not beyond the Defias bravos to slit Gaaron's throat and seize his courier package for their own. As a rule, there was no honor amongst thieves, and the Defias were adept at betrayal. Disposing of his body was a simple matter of leaving his corpse in the stream, and the murlocs would make short work of his remains. 

Fortunately for Gaaron, he was almost invisible in his green leather armor, which matched the greenery of the Elywynn Forest very well in the dusk of twilight. Morgan the Collector had both sentries and roving patrols, but Gaaron found his way to the back of the farmhouse base. He carefully took a quick glance through the side window, which was mostly covered in foliage.

The room was large, with a stone fireplace opposite the door. A desk was pushed against the wall, and Gaaron knew that the locked drawers contained records and ledgers, albeit enciphered. Morgan the Collector did not appear to be in the room, just Morgan's second-in-command, a large muscular enforcer named Erlan Drudgemoor, who was clad in tight-fitting midnight-black leather armor; typical of the leathers worn by the Defias Brotherhood elite in Westfall. Leaning against the desk was the Collector's mage, Surena Caledon. According to rumor, Surena had been recruited from a coven of warlocks, who operated in secret, by Drudgemoor. Morgan the Collector had wasted no time in making use of her arcane abilities, nor her beauty, taking her as his lover. 

"Erlan, Morgan will be gone for at least a couple of days... why don't we make the most of it?" she said, her voice low and husky. The brunette wore a black full-length skirt, covered in silver runes and symbols. Her blouse was low cut from her shoulders to just above where the shirt tucked into a dark gray belt, and her apple-sized breasts set high and firm, were barely concealed by the blue trim. "Don't you remember how you promised once we'd gotten away from Darkbinder, that we'd be together?"

"I remember," said Drudgemoor in a low voice. "He wanted you in his bed, and you went willingly," he accused.

"I had no choice!" Surena said, her voice redolent with pleading. "If I'd gone with you openly... how long do you think you'd have lasted? He'd have sent you on the most dangerous jobs, far away from me. I went to his bed, but he is not who I dream about at night..." Her voice dropped back onto a husky purr. "Whose hands do you think I dream of, touching me?" As she spoke, she leaned further back, arching her chest out. Her hands came up to her breasts, touching them through the minimal coverage of her blouse. "Whose fingers do you think I dream of touching me?" Matching her motions to her words, she took a breast in either hand and began gently squeezing her orbs.

Erlan was captivated by her actions. "I can almost feel the drool about to fall," Gaaron thought contemptuously. Gaaron had been born in a Goldshire brothel, and been raised not by his birth mother, whoever that might have been, but by an ever-changing cadre of "aunties". Sex had never been a mystery but rather a medium of commerce, and while the women had been pliant and enthusiastic about the attentions of their customers, Gaaron had heard what they truly thought of the patrons; how pathetically easy they were to control, to please, and how eager their egos were to hear the baseless flattery. 

Not that Gaaron didn't enjoy the show; but that was what it almost always was - a show. An enchantment designed with a goal in mind, whether a golden bejeweled bauble or a simple gold band. Gaaron had a lifetime of experiencing the 'magic' of romance, and how at best it was a mutual delusion, and usually a cynical, insincere exploitation.

"How I've dreamed about your fingers pulling my nipples," she said, pulling the blouse back until it was a mere framing for her breasts. She grabbed her nipples between thumb and forefinger, pinching and twisting. "Do you like my breasts, Erlan? Would you like to make my nipples stand up like this so that they are ready for your lips?" She moaned in pleasure. "Is your cock hard, darling?" she asked.

Drudgemoor nodded. "Yes," he croaked hoarsely.

"Show me," she asked, continuing to play with her breasts.

Erlan dropped his hands to his leather codpiece, a shaped piece of thick leather reinforced by metal, and undid the lacing that held it in place. It hit the wooden floor with a dull thud. Erlan then unlaced his small clothes and fished out his erection. 

"Yes... now stroke it for me. Make it ache with need, darling," she said.

Erlan obediently stroked his cock with a circle formed by his first three fingers and his thumb.

Gaaron watched as a sultry silence, punctuated only by Surena's moans, fell across the room.

Gaaron had almost decided to work his way around to the front door and knock when Surena spoke again. 

"Seeing your cock so swollen and purple makes me think of other things... other things I want, other things I crave...: she crooned. She raised herself until she was sitting on the edge of the desk, rather than leaning against it. Ever so slowly she raised her skirt, gathering it above her hips, revealing the dark blue mageweave panties she wore. "I am so wet, so ready," she said. She ran her fingers over her mound, pressing the soft material into the sensitive flesh. As she touched herself through her panties, the wetness darkened the gusset of the panties, turning the color almost black.

"Come closer," she commanded.

Erlan moved closer, standing between her spread thighs. 

Erlan watched as her hand dipped underneath her panties, and both Erlan and Gaaron watched the motion of her fingers underneath the material.

"Such a good boy... you deserve a reward, I think," Surena said. She removed her fingers from her panties, redolent with her scent. Gaaron could see the wetness glisten in the light.

"Do you like my smell?" she asked, wiping one of her fingers on his upper lip. Erlan growled his arousal at her.

She smirked. "It's nothing, compared to the taste." She placed the other fingers of her hand into his mouth. Erlan sucked on her fingers enthusiastically, running his tongue over every square inch of skin, giving her fingers a thorough cleaning.

While doing this, Surena used her other hand to remove her panties entirely. When they dangled around her ankle, he reached over with her other hand and grabbed his hair. Leaning back, she guided his mouth to her aroused, swollen cunt. "It tastes better fresh from the source," opined Surena. Elan moaned his agreement.

"Darling, come to me tonight. Morgan won't be back for days, my stallion. It is long past time for you to take me, to let me feel every inch of you inside me. Tonight, come and reclaim me - put your seed in my belly, Erlan. Make me yours! Mark me with your scent, with your seed."

Erlan came up for breath just long enough to groan a fervent "Yes!"

Gaaron had seen enough. Quietly, he made his way to the front and pounded his fist on the door. "Morgan!" he called out, concealing that he was unaware that Morgan was not in residence. He smirked as he made out the sound of Erlan hastily lacing himself back into his codpiece; by the time the door opened, Surena looked as she had before the lustful encounter.

"I've brought Morgan's cut from Dead-Tooth Jack; I will need a receipt," Gaaron said. Surena opened the desk drawer and prepared Gaaron's receipt. 

"Smells like a brothel in here," commented Gaaron. Erlan glared at him but Surena just laughed. "Jealous?" she asked.

"Who wouldn't be?" Gaaron replied with a smile. 

"Nothing happened here!" claimed Erlan.

"If you say so. Not any of my business," shrugged Gaaron.

"Erlan, go check the sentries and ask them why Gaaron was able to approach without being challenged," requested Surena.

Erlan left to obey, and Surena stood next to Gaaron. "Nothing. Happened," she said pressing something into Gaaron's hand.

"Absolutely nothing" confirmed Gaaron; Surena's machinations were indeed none of Gaaron's business. 

He left, heading back to Dead-Tooth Jack's camp, smirking. Surena had made the mistake of thinking that Gaaron was like most men, led around by his cock, and giving him her wet panties was a gambit to entice his silence and loyalty. 

Instead, she had given him the incriminating evidence he might use if Gaaron needed proof of Surena's infidelity, although he suspected that her plotting would conclude sooner rather than later. These kinds of games of power and control always did, and it was never a happy ending at that.

Snow FitzSilver (06) - An Honest Job

 The fellow that many people knew by the name of Jonathan Chess immediately spotted this half-brother's adopted son entered The Curious Octopus, a tavern in the Mariner's Row region of Boralus, and smiled. Jon was very aware that Jon both intimidated and impressed his adopted nephew; Snow FitzSilver had been taken under Jon's wing, to a degree, and had the makings of a first rate intelligence agent. Snow was currently spending a lot of his free time at a stripper bar called the Steel Rose, which was slowly stealing clientele from the Scrimshaw Gang's headquarters, the Kelp Club. Jon's younger daughter Cassia was a bouncer at the Steel Rose, and a friend of Snow.

Jon's eldest daughter Reina periodically slept with Snow FitzSilver; very little happened in the Chess household without Jon knowing about it. Jon was aware that Reina had been the aggressor where Snow was concerned, and that Cassia had no interest in Snow romantically; as neither points of information was Jon's business, he ignored them.

Jon did enjoy speaking with Snow; he suspected that Snow suspected that Jon knew everything, but was smart enough to keep the suspicions to himself. Jon approved - learning to keep one's cards close to the vest was important in Jon's business.

Jon was the personal spy and occasional assassin for Jaina Proudmoore, and had been her man ever since she had taken up the rulership of Theramore. Jon has been recruited by the former Alliance spymaster Elling Trias, and working as an Agent of Cheese had provided him with cover for extensive travel and an opportunity to gather intelligence reports from Trias' agents. 

Jon was aware that his years of work had left him physically damaged; his body was festooned with scars, burn marks, and other souvenirs of torture. He was slower, and less inclined to put himself in harm's way. He was happily married with Alia, and adored his children. Jon hoped that if he had lost a step, that Snow would be a worthy replacement.

He loved his children so much so that he had never wanted them to follow him into service.

"Mind if I sit down?" asked Snow, after he made his way up the stairs and all the way to the end of the balcony.

"Please do," said Jon.

"Thanks," Snow said. "I'd hoped to find you here." He settled himself in the chair opposite the back wall; Jon always kept his back to the wall, a habit of longstanding. 

"Oh?" said Jon.

"Yeah... I need some advice," said Snow. 

"...So long as you remember that free advice is sometimes not what you paid for it... quipped Jon with a chuckle.

"Well, its like this... I've been offered a bodyguard job for a Ren'dorei lady, who is travelling to the subterranean city of Hallowfall. She wants to study the phases of the Beledar crystal, but she is not sanguine about her safety amongst the Arathi."

Jon nodded, recalling what he and Alia had learned in their sojourn under the lands near Dorn. The light provided by the radiant crystal, which had served for many years as a constant form of light for the under-realms, allowing the settlers to grow food in abundance. When Sargeras plunged his sword into Azeroth, the stability of Beledar was affected, with the radiance shifting to periods of shadow. The creatures of darkness took the opportunity to attack he Arathi settlements.

"It might well prove dangerous," Jon agreed, nodding. "She might need a good right arm, under the circumstances, even if the Arathi don't bear the Ren'dorei any ill will." There was much danger in and around the area, noth the least of which was the constant encroachments of the Nerubian forces of Queen Ansurek and the kingdom of Azj-Kahet. "So... what is the problem?"

"The problem is that I don't want Cassia to be left without backup," admitted Snow, blushing.

"I see," said Jon. "Snow, understand me clearly when I say this with love and respect; my children don't need protection. They were raised to be able to assess risks, and undertake them when they deem it necessary. Cassia has backup, even when you don't see it; her family is always there for her, and her boss at the Steel Rose is a friend of Griffonclaw's."

Snow looked crestfallen. "Oh," he said in a meek voice.

"Make no mistake, kid. That you feel that the family is important enough for you to put yourself in harm's way is proof that Griffonclaw made the right choice in adding you to the family, but understand that it goes both ways - the family will always be there to back you up, as well." Jon stood, and clapped his hand on Snow's shoulder. "Besides, I can always use another set of eyes down there. Just remember to make the reports on the back of the letters you send home to Alia." One of the first lessons Jon had taught Snow was how to write invisible ink.

"Letters?" said Snow.

"You don't want her to worry, do you?" said Jon. 

Ultryk (01) - Home Sweet Home

Ultryk sat in a dark corner table of the Broken Keel Tavern in the goblin town of Ratchet, nursing his pewter tankard of the local specialty, Wiley's Wicked Ale. Although the taste was not the best ale Ultryk had ever tasted, he did find it mildly amusing when a new customer drank it for the first time; when the can was opened, the beverage made the sound of a rough voice laughing a cruel laugh, and if the customer actually drank it, they took on a ghostly ethereal aspect and a bloody red hue. Some speculated that the ale was brewed in barrels placed over the victims of pirates, and their unresting spirits made the drink imbued with a haunting malevolence, but Wiley, the goblin proprietor of the tavern and brewer of the ale refused to comment one way of another. 

Either way, Ultryk approved - it made for an entertaining spectator sport. 

He was enjoying the drink, and eating an early dinner of a dozen Bristle Whisker Catfish Bites (made by frying chunks of de-boned catfish flesh in a cornmeal batter). Ultryk had been introduced to it at the last Kosh'harg festival in Razor Hill, and Wiley had been convinced to add it to the menu, given the preponderance of seafood available off the dock (Ultryk was not convinced that Wiley was too concerned about only using raw Bristle Whisker Catfish in the making, but the food was delicious even so). 

He was just finishing when a trio of Orc warriors descended on his table and confronted him.

"You are Ultryk, are you not?" said the fellow, apparently their leader. He stood taller than average for an Orc, and was as muscular as seemed proper. His hair was a deep crimson, and tied up in a topknot, the long ponytail falling halfway down his back. He was clad in leather adorned with thick bands of metal, and both the iron and leather had seen better days; the metal was spotted with rust, and the leather was stiff and cracked. He held a large, two-handed battleaxe in his right hand. It, too, had seen better days.

"I am Ultryk," Ultryk confirmed.

"Have you no other name? No clan? No ancestors?" asked the orc in a mocking, aggressive voice. His two companions smirked, watching their friend.

"Actually, I do not. I was raised by Orphan Matron Battlewail in Ogrimmar; I was brought there when I was found in Ashenvale near the Splintertree Outpost; I have no idea who my parents are." Ultryk shrugged; the Matron had not been kind, and had worked her charges hard but no harder than most Orc parents would have.

At least there had been regular meals; not all orc children were that fortunate. In fact, many of the children of the orphanage learned to fight for every scrap as growing orcs required a lot of protein, and many lost their portions to other children if they could not defend themselves. Only the strong flourished, much as in life itself.

Ultryk had learned to fight smarter, not harder. He was shorter than many, and not as brawny, but he had a certain native cunning that had served him in good stead. Ultryk had learned to prefer to strike from a distance or by surprise, and preferably both.

"No wonder you learned the ways of the coward!" the Orc said with a sneer. "Perhaps we should call you Ultryk Ur'gora?" Ur'gora was Orcish for "Dishonorable" and considered one of the worst insults someone might bestow; clearly the fellow wished to goad Ultryk into a fight, regardless of the fellow's many advantages; Ulttyk's weapons and mail armor were in his bedroll in the stables.

"Perhaps I should. Thank you for the suggestion," Ultryk said.

"You are a coward without honor! Have you nothing to say?" the Orc said, the disbelief mixing with scorn.

"Only a fool fights in a burning house" replied Ultrk, quoting the old Frostwolf saying.

"Bah! All of your coin, on the table. You will pay for your reticence for a Warrior's Feast in Ogrimmar!"

Ultryk slowly and carefully placed his money pouch on the table, his face burning with embarrassment. He sat very still while the three Orcs bought some skins of wine with what had been his money, before leaving.

He waited five slow minutes, and then said to Wiley "I'll have to owe you for the meal."

Wiley shrugged at Ultryk. "I'd rather have a live customer than a dead one; and I am grateful there was no damages; their type never pays for what they break anyways."

Ultryk nodded as he left the tavern.

*     *     *

The three Orcs tossed their empty wineskins behind them as they happily made their way up the road's steep incline towards Crossroads. The Crossroads was the largest Horde town in the Northern Barrens, aptly named for the crossing of the  Gold Road and the road from Ratchet, and sword-work was easy to pick up there.

The first two didn't even notice when their third fell over, dead from a crossbow bolt. The leader and his companion snarled when they saw Ulrick stand, putting the crossbow end on the ground so he could use both hands to re-cock it's powerful corded string. Confidently, the two charged up the slope covered with long, golden grass. 

The leader was too enraged and too far ahead of his companion to note the flash of an ice trap halting the companion's progress. "Ur'gora scum! I will feast upon your liver!" he screamed at Ultryk loaded his crossbow, and in one smooth motion fired.

The bolt passed the leader harmlessly. He laughed "Hah! You are as bad with your chosen weapon as you are at being..." Ultryk would always wonder what the fellow might have said before he began screaming. It was hard to annunciate clearly when a beautiful Savannah Huntress had just buried her powerful fangs in one's throat. Savannah Huntresses had a coloration that made them perfect ambush predators the tall golden grasses of the Northern Barrens.

"That's my girl, Katya..." he said to his hunting partner. Ultryk looted the possessions of the dead orcs. Ratchet merchants would pay good coin for weapons and armor they could resell, and asked no inconvenient questions. Wild creatures would take care of making the dead bodies unrecognizable once he dragged them a little further off the road. 

Ultryk worked out of Ratchet because as a Bounty Hunter, he appreciated their pragmatic approach to things.

Tyana Blackwood and Laurel Nox AI art

 

Laurel Nox

Tyana Blackwood 01

Tyana Blackwood 02

Griffonclaw AI Art

 

Daffyd Wildhammer 02 - Last Night in Ramkahen (Smut) WIP

Daffyd stepped on the balcony at the inn in Ramkahen in the desert region of Uldum, only the moisture from the Vir'naal River stopping the dry air from being a dust-laden hell. Sandstorms aside, Daffyd found the area and mysterious ruins fascinating, not the least because of the Tol'vir.

The Tol'vir were the descendants of an ancient race, created by the Titans to guard the Titan's tombs, many of which had long fallen into ruins. The Tol'vir had been created with stone skin, but an ancient curse from the Old Gods had turned the stone to flesh. When Deathwing returned, the Tol'vir found themselves pitted against the Neferset Tol'vir, who served Deathwing, who promised to restore them to their ancient stone-skinned forms.

"What sight can possibly be more appealing than the view from the bed," asked Valencia from within the inn room. Valencia Blacksong was the reason why Daffyd had come to Ramkahen; some time ago she had hired Daffyd to guide her from Gadgetstan in Tanaris to Ramkahen so she might pursue the translations of recovered scrolls that were her passion. The trip had been dangerous; there were many treasures in Uldum, and its antiquities were popular amongst the indolent wealthy with pretentions of sophistication, and the fear and adrenaline had resulted in bedsport when Daffyd had guided her successfully to the city. Valencia did have some vices that were impossible to legally obtain through normal channels, and so Daffyd made semi-regular trips to Ramkahen with a case of Silvermoon Port, and concealed stashes of Bloodthistle.

Valencia paid well, and the periodic 'bonus' of her company was added incentive. She had taken delivery of her shipment at the house in Ramkahen she rented; a small house functioned as a library and office for Valencia's scholarly pursuits, with a tiny bed stuffed into one corner. Daffyd had 'consulted' with the palace official Kazemde, a Tol'vir whose remit included finding accommodations for visiting foreigners like Daffyd. For a modest fee, Daffyd had been given the metaphorical keys (Tol'vir had no door locks) to a comfortable house whose bedchamber was rather luxurious.

Valencia

Valencia had come in the night like a sensuous specter, taking full advantage of her Ren'dorei affinity for the Void and shadow magics to appear at his front door virtually unseen. She had dressed in a a burgundy red dress that was floor-length. but had slits all the way up her thigh, showing  lots of slim, muscular leg encased in lilac silk fishnet stockings Daffyd could see that she wore a simple pair of black sandals. Her hair was a tangle of green tendrils that reminded Daffyd that Valencia was as deadly as if her hair had contained serpents; she was a mistress of the dark arcane Void magics.

Fortunately, she liked Daffyd.

She had filled his arms with her slender form and captured his mouth with a fervor that left no imagination as to how much she had missed him while he had been away. Her body molded itself to his, and her mouth nibbled at his lips teasingly. She moved her attention to his throat, her sharp, almost vampiric canines marking him with bruises; it would claim his as her own for the duration of his stay.

"Miss me much?," Daffyd asked. 

Valencia tore her mouth away from where it was devouring his shoulder. "Maybe," she said, working his way down his chest, unbuttoning his shirt as she worked her way south. "I mean, why would I miss you?" she asked, rhetorically. "I mean, after all, you bring me letters and news from the outside world," she continued, stopping long enough to suck Daffyd's nipples into her mouth. He moaned, and she continued, her mouth traveling lower. "You bring me the things in life that make living in exile bearable... my wines, my cheese, and my smoke." She stopped at his waist, and undid the leather belt holding up his trousers. "And most importantly, you bring me this," she said, fishing his cock out from the confines of his soft mageweave underwear. "A nicely-sized hard phallus, the only one within a hundred miles sized for use without being split in half by a monster kitty cock; even a small Tol'vir erection would be harmful ... although I do know some of my cousins whose cunts would drool at the prospect." She laughed. "I'm not into that much pain."

"How much pain do you like? asked Daffyd, curiously. 

"None of your business!" she grinned. "What I do want, though, is a nice, long ride to remind me of why men are worth all the trouble." She stroked his hardening cockshaft gently, the way one might pet a shy stray cat, and like the cat Daffyd wanted to purr.

She licked the cockshaft, eliciting noises of pleasure. "So first... we do this!", she said, engulfing his purple engorged cock head and half his shaft into her talented mouth. "Your first load... lets get that drained," she said, running her tongue around the bulbous head, using two fingers to pump his shaft. 

"I am entirely at your disposal," Daffyd agreed. Valencia smiled. "Yes, you are... now, as I am not fond the the taste... lets send your first load straight to my belly." She took his cock deeply into her mouth and down her throat. Grabbing his hands, she guided them to her hair. 

The two of them swiftly established a rhythm, him guiding the pace with his hands in her hair. The muscles in her throat flexed and massaged his entire length. "How does she breathe?," he wondered, and then he surrendered himself to the hedonistic pleasure of a skilled fellatrix.