A Beastly Reality: The Elf vs The Half Orc (Presently closed for The_J0k3R)

[SapioDreams]

(Anwen https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/09/cb/d9/09cbd9fc3cf0b89a6802f2298119f5e5.jpg )


Nestled amidst the forest hid a sprawling wonder; it was as if nature itself reached up from the soil to twist the tree roots and wind the vines that created bridges between sections of the elven settlement. It was early summer, the creatures all around sought their nests and burrows for the evening as others in turn made their way out into the shadows. Fireflies danced about the land and seemed to linger wherever the elves did roam, lighting their way; what a privileged life.

Anwen bathed in the crystalline lagoon behind her father’s abode, as the forest came to life around her, the twinkling of fireflies circled about the edge of the water. Long and lean was she with the gentle swell of womanly hips and backside just resting atop the water’s surface; flaxen hair cascaded down her straight spine and somehow never seemed to tangle, when she turned in the water she remained silent and simply walked from the crisp depths as graceful legs carried her to the edge. Pert twin moons trembled with every movement upon her lengthy torso were accented by the orange and pink rays of the dying sun, their peaks stiff and raised as was the fine covering of goosebumps across her skin.

When pale toes curled in the grass she reached down, casting her fair gaze to the face of the servant briefly; should he steal a look she was well within her rights to blind him, had he the brazen lack of control to touch he faced the loss of a hand. Such things had been made abundantly clear early in the slaves training amidst the elves, and no one was to soil one such as she. Anwen’s father had carefully plucked the most steadfast of flesh to watch over and serve his beloved daughter in the past and this one was no different.

Tapered fingers snatched the gossamer robe from the man’s grasp without a single graze of that creamy, baby-soft flesh and swiftly twirled it about her shoulders to conceal her nudity; what good it did do was compromised by the sheen of water upon her skin that caused the fabric to cling and become sheer. “When settled in my room, I would have you bring me flower tea.” It was a simple demand, her voice fit her appearance, breathy, smooth and now in her prime held an almost alluring lilt. Anwen made her way up the winding, mossy stairs and across the ornate and flowering vine bridge to her home; with her father meeting with the King and Queen she was left to her own devices and so she curled her lanky figure upon a cushioned chair like some manner of feline and awaited her tea.

Anwen had always done her best to remain emotionally distant from those that served them, however it proved to be a vexing effort with ones such as her latest guard of the past three years. A full lower lip was pursued while the elf dragged the mass of slick, wet locks over her shoulder to comb; the water stained her robe and made sheer the material that covered her lap, drip...drip...drip… the spot grew larger, creeping towards the apex of her thighs.

The very idea of her guard performing the menial and delicate task of properly making tea brought a wicked little curl to the corners of her mouth; truth be told it tickled her pink. Her toes curled over the edge of her chair as she momentarily brought her knees up to hide a positively wicked snicker behind them; the thought of him bumbling around in the pantry, with the delicate glass pot and cups with his large hands. Truth be told Anwen had no siblings, her lack thereof offered her the rare opportunity to have all of her parents attention bestowed upon her and when her mother had passed on her father doted upon her beyond reason. This did put the young elf at somewhat of a disadvantage socially, and her servants at one when trying to avoid the headache of her occasional pranks and the rare fits of temper.

She would be lying to herself if she said that she took absolutely no joy in setting her guard straight over the last year, for now all of his behavior was her responsibility and with one such as he one must be firm. 'Do not give him an inch.' her father had once instructed her, being the dutiful child that she was she of course obeyed. She had summoned up the strength to take the lash to his broad back more than a few times, though she did everything she might to avoid carving out his eyes or sawing off his hand. Such an act was vile even in her mind. Her legs were dropped and once again curled beneath her, her robe parting to reveal her inner thighs, just barely veiling the golden thatch of curls that surely lay beneath.

 

[The_J0k3R]

He kept his head held low, because the sun still burned his eyes.

He maintained his composure, despite his emasculated state, because he knew a day of vengeance would come.

He served her, because to do otherwise would be death.

The elves, for all their grace and poise, were just as barbaric as orcs when it came to controlling their subjects. They were just more subtle about it. Except with him, of course.

He was no one. His heritage granted him no clan, no honors. Half human, half orc. Welcome nowhere. Disowned by all, the product of war and rape and death and suffering.

And now he stood next to a peaceful lake, awaiting his lady, staring at his feet as he had so many times before that he had lost count. If he could count. Another legacy of the elves that kept his wild blood in check. The pendant that hung around his neck, it radiated magic through him, sedating him. He had tried to tear it off, but he didn't have the strength. Or perhaps, the magic convinced him he didn't have the strength. The chain burned his grey skin when he grasped it.

Still, he had snarled at first. And he had the scars to remember them by. They had come quick, and he had learned what the elves were capable of. He knew not to take their threats idly.

He would not let them break him. He would bide his time.

Now, if he could only remember who he was...

https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/cc/b5/22/ccb522cd0e135afab28afb593c5f3e99.jpg

Preparing the tea did not come easy, but he had learned, over time, how his lady liked it. In spite of his massive, gnarled, scarred hands, he had figured out how to manipulate the delicate dishes and utensils. And so he brought her the tea. He set it before her on the table, and as he stood upright, a breeze came lightly through the open window. He sniffed, and the hairs on the back of his neck rose.

Why was that scent so damn familiar...

 

[SapioDreams]

The finery was settled carefully upon the small carved table beside her, those bright eyes rising up and up to take in the stoic visage of her ever vigilant wall of muscle; her lips suddenly pursed while staring at the drink. He had preformed the task and well, damnit, even this brute could learn simple tasks she had to admit to herself; still, it left nothing to chide him over, no interaction and she was quite bored.

The way he stood there like a sentinel high atop a tower, she found herself wondering at his past, but only for a moment till she leaned an arm over the back of her chair, twisting her spine and gazing out the window as the cooling night air washed over her face. "Pour the tea, mool." it was what she called him, 'servant' and nothing more, save the occasions she might add a colorful expletive to the title.

Reaching up an arm, a slender digit flicked the enchanted silver about his neck, he could not break it; this much she had witnessed and it brought her some small solace. On rare occasions, very rare, she had touched the bauble, rolled it betwixt her fingertips and then listlessly dropped it to the dip in his strong clavicle. "You are discontent again?" slowly the lithe figure uncoiled and rose, brushing past his figure, the feathery touch of her robes brushing across his belly in her wake. "You needn't dream of a life elsewhere...you're quite useful here. You've food, you've shelter...what more might one of your ilk dream of?" she turned to rest her backside against the windowsill, her head tilting in genuine query.

 

[The_J0k3R]

He nodded at her command, deftly picking up the teapot and pouring some of the steaming liquid into her dainty cup. His gaze had returned to the window. What was out there? The breeze brought that smell back to his nostrils, and for a tiny moment, they flared. For a moment, a scene played out before his eyes, a battle, blood and guts and glory, but then there was that pain behind his eyes, deep, stabbing into his mind, and the vision disappeared. Was it a memory, he wondered, even as he forgot it. It couldn't be. He served his Mistress her tea. Who was he to imagine himself a warrior?

Danger. He smelled danger. But he couldn't place it. Why?

Her words were ringing in his head. He had never studied or understood the elvish tongue, but the bauble about his neck that constrained him also allowed him to understand his captor's words.

The smell from outside was overwhelmed by the floral aroma of his Mistress Anwen. She brushed past him, and he let his eyes linger on her graceful, lithe form while her back was turned to him. Strangely, he felt little desire towards her, even though he felt as if he should.

She was asking what he wanted. If he was discontent. He sniffed at the air again; she was sitting in the window now. Her scent was overwhelming the smell he was searching for. He snorted, his face darkened.

"Something is not right..." he said, gazing past her into the evening, overlooking the forest below.

 

[SapioDreams]

Brilliant blue eyes locked onto those of her servant, they watched him, gazed within him and finally frowned; the expression was a blight upon her porcelain features but only remained for a split second. The breeze tossed stray hairs about her shoulders and tickled her flesh with that impossibly fine fabric, perhaps she was testing the male; perhaps she worked within him through that glorious 'collar' about his thick neck and tugged his senses towards her own scent.

As the tea was poured the refined elf pressed herself from the window and strode past him yet again, with a simple flick of her wrist Anwen allowed the sleeve of her robe to flutter down, a sheer and impossibly thin barrier when she reached out blindly to use her mool as a veritable piece of furniture to balance herself on the way down to recline in her chair.


"You've need of further training...My ears do not burn, the guards have said nothing, the woodland has whispered nothing. Still your tongue mool lest I be forced to still it for you." the look of neutrality upon her face when speaking such words was unmatched, the woman had a knack for the most impartial expressions one might ever come across in this world. "Kneel, you loom like a drooling barbarian." she spoke just above a whisper as she began to sip her tea, her toes splaying out upon the woven rug where she expected him to kneel.

When the man knelt his view would be one none had such a close seat for, slowly the elf dragged that mile long right leg up and over that of her left; her slender foot now dangling in the air as the underside of her soft thighs were glimpsed with the occasional movement to retrieve and replace her tea cup. Despite her actions Anwen took great comfort in the subduing power that encircled her servant's neck, she had never the worry of his eyes wandering, never the fear of reprisal...or so she thought. "Lower." she stated. She would allow him to keenly feel his role and while she did nothing to touch him she would see him grovel before her. He was her toy in essence, when able the young elf allowed her gaze to travel over his broad back to trace the scarring upon his back, he wore it well. Damn him.

After some time she turned away from him, she saw no grace in the beast, she saw no great intellect nor passion for life; it was as if he were a mobile statue amidst her decorations. She could neither contest to what lay deep within, as it was her father who had worked the magic around the slave's neck, nor did she know if he was truly a warm blooded creature. Any touch that had been spared over the time they had been together was so brief that any warmth within his skin or her own had escaped the senses; Anwen had smoothly yet poignantly made clear her distaste for the inferior species that was forever at her side.

Despite it all she found herself wishing the giant fool would speak, she felt alone, often the sting of isolation even amidst her community was inescapable. Though she loved her father dearly and knew he loved her the same, somehow he had grown a bit more than overprotective; even among her own she was advised against anything other than sheer necessitated touch outside of her home. The lack of physical interaction had left its mark on Anwen, had began to harden her heart and her mool had experienced the height of her internal frustration. She could no longer stand to look at him and so the elf gazed out into the starry night sky.

 

[The_J0k3R]

"Yes, Mistress," the mool said, as she berated his warning. His gaze remained steady out the window for the moment, searching and confused as to just what it was he had sensed out there. But there was no sign of danger in the peaceful vale.

He grit his teeth at her command, but knew better than to level his glare upon her or to disobey. The searing pain behind his eyes welled up as he lowered himself to the floor. It wasn't often she commanded him to kneel in such a manner. And he would never reveal how it never failed to get a rise out of him, a swelling of anger that was always accompanied by the amulet's scorching mental blast.

He did not even know why, anymore, it angered him so much. He had no memories of his life before his enslavement to the elves. But he knew he did not like to kneel before anyone.

When she bid him "lower" he sneered, and snorted in defiance, but promptly did as she commanded, his eyes shutting tight against the piercing agony in his mind as he lay prostrate before her. He wanted to roar, to fight. Each thought elicited another shock to his system.

And all he could do was lay there and take it. Silent, constant torture. His nature rebelled against all of this.

 

[SapioDreams]

The elf had caught sight and sound of his inner turmoil through the twitching muscles in his face, the stiffness of his frame and most assuredly the talisman around his neck. Resting her elbow upon the arm of the chair she sat chin to the palm and murmured "You aught not fight it so, it will only burn you."

Lifting the cup and drinking for a moment that cool collected voice came again, "If you continue to struggle, I shall be forced to return you to my father's hands for remodeling. I find the idea of having another slave learn my routine." she frowned, the corners of her plump lips falling downward before she settled her empty cup and saucer atop the table and hopped free of her chair.

Bare feet hit the rug with a dulled pat-pat to the right of his head, her silks brushing over his shoulder blade when she moved back to the window. Grasping the windowsill her fingers idly caressed the woven vines, a tiny white flower bud appearing beneath her fingertip.

The emotion fell from her face as she gazed below, one of the noblemen passed below and she watched him intently; if one could see her eyes the fondness that lived within for that brief moment in time would have been moving. Lifting her hand and turning it over to stare at her palm, 'no touching, never touch' she reminded herself inwardly. She was at the proper age to find a companion however she was reduced to this life.

Her face twisted suddenly and she spun from the window, she wore a mask of misery and anger; before she could stop herself she had lifted the teapot and slung it at the back of the kneeling male to shatter it into a million pieces. Her head cocked gently to the side, her breast was heaving and she struggled to replace that veil of calm, poised beauty. "You disgust me!" she hissed.

Her arms dangled limp at her sides as the shoulder of her gown slid free to haphazardly bare her silken shoulder. "You've not even a personality, you gargantuan beast!" Fingers clenched, "You likely were not difficult to break, one such as you who crawls upon the ground so swiftly. So irrevocably pitiful, it is no great wonder how you found your way into my father's hands."

She folded her arms beneath her breasts, hiking them high and hiding the gentle quiver in her hands, "For one of your stature it never ceases to amaze me just how low to the dirt you are capable of crawling." she spoke the last line as calmly as one might discuss the flowers. Inside her heart raced, her blood boiled and with the whisper of a simple whim, a wall of magic clapped over the windows and muted her outcries to just her mool, her poor defenseless mool. He would feel the weight of something pulling him down, nailing him to the smooth wooden floor to await the elf's fit. Two words were whispered so softly even an elf's ear could not pick up their sound and with them, all of the slave's memories came crashing down upon his mind like a title-wave.

Snatching a whip from the wall she allowed it to unfurl, "Speak not one word." she whispered to the hulking brute, she knew he'd take it. He always took it. A small part of her was thankful that he took what she could show no one else, and another still, couldn't forgive the man for allowing his pride to be stripped, his very being to be dissolved into what he was now. 'This is why they are our lessers.' she told herself as the glisten of silver slithered along the floor with the smooth arc of her arm and with a flick of the wrist the serpentine body glided through the air, no cracker on it's tip nor leather the wicked creation was designed to cut, to fell it's target and do so with incredible accuracy in talented hands.

The sickening slicing of skin rang in her ears, again and again she would stripe his back with the glorious implement of torture. Flesh splay open, crimson trickled and trailed and finally pooled upon the floor beneath him and all of a sudden the torment stopped. Anwen spun, when shield dropped it was palpable, it also seemed to release the hold it had upon the mool's pendant though her father's spell remained strong and nestled the male beneath the comforting veil of amnesia. The alarms sounded, cries rang out, slicing the still of the night. They were under attack.

"Father!" the young elf whispered with dread. The moment had been forgotten, a smattering of blood dotted her cheeks and the front of her gown but Anwen paid no heed. "You must take me to my father, now!"

 

[The_J0k3R]

He lay prostrate, fighting the pain in his mind. Her words only served to infuriate him more, which only caused the pain to increase in severity. The momentary brush of silk against his rough skin brought little relief.

His breaths were ragged as he fought to soothe his mind against that cursed amulet's control. Deep breaths. For a moment, he calmed his heart. And then came the sharp pain against his back as the teapot was shattered upon him. But no gasp or growl escaped his throat as he lay there. "You disgust me!" she hissed. But he already knew that.

The demeaning words that followed were nothing new. He lay there in silence, knowing what would come next. His Mistress was angry. He did not bother to contemplate the source of her ire. He existed to serve her, and if this was what she needed now, so be it.

He felt the elven magic swirl around him, and bind his ankles and wrists to the floor. "No..." he muttered. He yanked against his invisible bonds, to no avail, and the struggle itself initiated a new round of sharp pains in his mind. He tried to blink it away. He knew the worst was yet to come.

And then the pain was gone.

And he knew who he was once again.

Bastard son of Thraximundar, Orc Chieftain of Mount Dramdar. The Prince Under the Mountain. Prophesied to Unite the Clans.

His very existence had ignited a civil war amongst the orcs that had laid waste to all the Northern Reaches a decade ago. A civil war that saw his father betrayed. He had been hunted like a dog for years, even as he had built his own army. Only to be betrayed by those closest to him.

He was Thraxos the Half-Blood King.

And he was bound to the floor in some elvish whench's chambers, about to suffer the bitch's tempestuous wrath.

She told him to be silent. "I will speak what I want, bitch!" he growled in common, and the first of what would be many lashes rained down upon his exposed back.

"You will suffer all that I have and more!" he vowed.

"I will violate you."

"I will plant my seed in you."

"I will make you a whore!"

"You will be chained to the floor, as you have chained me. And raped again and again!"

He did not relent, in spite of the increasing pain as his flesh was torn. He revelled in the blood as it poured from him and pooled on her rug, staining it, ruining it.

The alarms rang. Thraxos roared a blood-curdling cry. And then a fog filled his mind. He roared again, his mind grasping at his memories, his existence, all of it slipping through his fingers before there was nothing left but pain and blood and subservience. He groaned and looked up. The alarms were blaring.

There was fire outside.

The sounds of battle.

An orcish war-horn was blown, and filled the air with its anger. It was a war-horn he had heard before... but the mool could not place it.

His Mistress was pulling him to his feet. "You must take me to my father, now!" she insisted. He knew the way. He struggled to find his feet. The pain in his back was too great, and even as he stood up, he fell back down to a knee and grunted, before looking up at his Mistress Anwen.

"I told you..." he grunted.

 

[SapioDreams]

In a panic Anwen rushed for the fallen man, “Nngh..On your feet!” she urged him, the desperation of urgency beginning to seep into her words and replace her annoyance. She should begged some manner of healing ointment from the healers, now she was faced with a useless hulking brute. The stench of his blood filled her senses and while she used what muscles she owned to hold him up she found herself staring at the blood that had overtaken her carpet. The threats that her mool had uttered while curled there held no sway with her at a time such as this, she had allowed him to purge his own ires.

Her heart gave one solid thump against her ribcage as the energy from within her began to change, it was subtle but made the hairs on the back of one's neck stand tall. “Be still.” she whispered and once the man was on his feet she slid round his backside to examine the crisscross of rent flesh that now was his back. Her mind stilled and her focus grew more intent, and she was able to push past the physical revulsion of going against her own morals to touch the slave. IF she did not mend him then she would be at the disadvantage should one of the attackers break through the defenses.

A deep violet hue seeped into her eyes, washing away the lovely blue pools and taking hold while her mouth fell open wide, a slick pink muscle inched past her lips; the elf took hold of the mool’s sides to hold him steady, her nails pricking in to relay the message for him to remain still. Slowly, almost like a lovers caress the invasion began, at first it was the tip of her tongue that wormed it’s way over then dipped into the deep and garish wound at the base of his right shoulder blade. It would be painful, it would feel like the perverse invasion that it was to most, but with each inch she laved her tongue across, through, the flesh wound begins to swiftly stitch itself together. The scars left behind were minimal but quite present, after all magic comes at a cost they never said to whom or in what form. It’s not always pretty.

It was a mere three minutes as the lithe creature made her way across the savage’s back, the wet sounds of her progression were lewd, the mewling the accompanied the final suckling of blood was barely audible but it was there. A deep and unspoken relish. It shook Anwen to the core and she fell back, wiping her face clean with her robes while her energies and eyes returned to that innocent cornflower blue.

The pain in his back would have been eased, but was not entirely gone, the look on Anwen’s face was nothing short of appalled with a tinge of nauseated as she fled. Not a word was spoken of what she had done, nor would there if she had any say in the matter. If she said one word she might wretch where she stood. Staggering to the door without sparing the man a single look she held a hand to her mouth as if choking back bile and all but fell back through the door to her room and spilled into the hallway.

 

[The_J0k3R]

The mool stood there, steadied by his Mistress’ fingernails digging into his sides. The sudden, slight pain brought him to attention, even as his back throbbed and bled. He stood there, and he felt the strange wetness ease over one of the wounds She had inflicted upon him.

And it was like being sliced open again. He grit his teeth against the pain, re-living each and every lash. The pain was almost unbearable, but it was accompanied, at the end, with a curious sensation of life. And then the pain was gone, until her tongue found the next lash.

And yet he stood there and took it all again. His mind burned with anger and rage and the amulet flared as it delivered excruciating pain unto his mind at his violent fantasies of reaping vengeance upon his Mistress. Of violating her. Using her. Whoring her.

Suddenly, it was done, and she was leading him down the hallway. He was following, ever obedient. The shrill sounds of battle grew louder and louder outside. The orcs were driving through the elven defenses. Time was growing short.

They came to her father’s chambers. There were guards stationed outside the door. The mool growled. Something was not right. There was a clang of steel from beyond the shut door. A duel? No. Too many blades.

The mool snorted his disapproval.

 

[SapioDreams]

The smack of her bare feet upon the floors was the only sound she made as they raced against time.
The guards did an admirable job at holding back the horde as was only to be expected, however it was about the time the two had reached the hallway to her father’s chambers that matters got out of control.

Anwen was a disheveled mess, her hair was out of place, she was smattered with blood from mouth to belly and her robe was askew to say the least; steady hands clutched at the robe to put herself together as even in such a moment she managed to cling to that elvish grace by the last strands. Two guards lined the ten feet of hallway that lead to the chamber doors, upon the woman’s approach they closed ranks and blocked the mismatched couple from entering. “What is the meaning of this? My father, I need to see that my father is s-"

The sounds of strife rang out from inside the chamber and Anwen went stiff, "Move aside!" she just marched forward, head held high and would have walked right through them had the male on the left wrap a strong hand about her wrist and held it back so that she would be forced to stop in her tracks. The woman was flabbergasted, "How DARE you? Release me!"

It was then that the fight beyond their sight grew louder, someone or something slammed heavily against the doors, rocking them on their hinges. Frantic, Anwen's attention was refocused. The door, they had to get into that door!

 

[The_J0k3R]

The mool’s hackles raised when the guard put his hand on Anwen. This was unusual. How many times had he walked with her this very path, and the guards at the door always let her in?

Her admonishment of the guard did little to ease his grasp, and that’s when the mool sprang into action to defend his Mistress, grasping the elven guard by his brightsteel bracer, and his elbow, and snapping the elf’s bone as if it were a twig.

The other guard lunged at him, sword pointed at him. It was instinct, reflex, that guided his muscles, crouching just enough that the blade’s point went wide, and springing forward, fists out. His meathook slammed into the elf’s face, bloodying his graceful features, the mighty strength behind the fist crumpling the bones.

A moment later, the mool was atop the elf, finishing the job by slamming his helmeted head to the floor with a sickening thud. He turned and saw Anwen pulling at the door. It did not budge. He moved to her quickly, grasping the handle, and bore down with all his might.

He yanked the thick wooden door right off it’s hinges. The force of his pulling and the sudden release would be enough to knock them both to the cold stone floor.

Before them, in the doorway, stood Anwen’s father. As they watched, the elder elf was pierced through from behind by what could only be elvish steel…

The mool grunted his anger, and watched as the elf’s body slumped to the floor, red blood staining his robes as it poured out of his chest. An elf stood behind him. The Prince had done the deed.

The Prince’s eyes grew wide for a moment, as the mool and his Mistress had been spotted.

“Seize them!”

 

[SapioDreams]

The moment the tower of muscle 'disengaged' the guard's hand from her arm, Anwen lurched for the door; Grabbing the handles the elf heaved, but it did not give way. Behind her the mool subdued the other guard once and for all with a sickening clatter to the floor. She did not look back, these were her people, but something was wrong and she was beginning to lose track of which way was up.

Straining at the door she cursed, when she felt a warm presence behind her, all around her she flinched and looked up; those large hands closed about the door handles and her mool put to use his hard-earned muscles. She too helped and finally they spilled back to the hallway floor when the great doors released.

Anwen had fallen atop her servant and the momen she saw the doors creek open she scrambled forward, off of him and rushed into her father's chambers. She stopped dead in her tracks, locking eyes with her father's cool blue hues, the briefest of smiles graced her lips, he was well! She took one step forward to aid him but stopped dead in her tracks. Steel erupted from his chest, his eyes grew wide and then slowly, excruciatingly slowly they began to dull; it took a moment to register what had happened and as time went on without her Anwen stood still.

A perfect statue, she could not will her body to move no matter how hard she tried; the voice of her Prince was muffled, distant and inconsequential as she stared down at her father. Someone rushed towards her and the proud woman crumpled, upon her hands and knees she crawled towards him; slipping and falling in a trail of blood she struggled back to her knees and half crawled and half dragged herself towards the elder as tears burned down her cheeks; her mouth just fell slack as the most piteous sound that had ever escaped the regal elf was but a whispered question.

"Father..?"

She felt an arm hook about her slender waist and it begin hoisting her into the air, it was crushing the wind from her and pulling her away; she couldn't leave now. She wouldn't leave his side. She had to get to him!

 

[The_J0k3R]

The mool’s only course of action was to protect his Mistress. As soon as he saw what was happening, the murder of her father at the hands of the Prince, he knew they were both in grave danger. The mool could see that the Prince had his entourage in the room with him, small but well armed.

Escape was the only option here. He leapt to his Mistress’ side, his arm curling around her belly, pulling her away. She was struggling against him as he made to leave. They would not last long if he was carrying her.

“Mistress, if you value your life, we must run!” the mool said, rapidly growing frustrated with her. The mool could hear the elves approaching behind him, gaining on them. He ducked around a corner just as an arrow zipped past right behind them.

What was going on? Why had the Prince killed Anwen’s father? The mool was not well suited to figuring out such puzzles. More guards appeared in front of them. The mool snorted, his grip on his Mistress’ wrist tightening as he pulled her along.

Around another corner. Down a stairwell. The mool didn’t like it. They were being trapped. Cornered. Why were these guards chasing them, when an invading force of Orcs was burning the walls of the city?

“We have to get out of the castle, Mistress.”

The sound of battle outside the walls was growing louder. Another arrow zipped past the mool’s head. The elves didn’t care if he lived or died. He didn’t know what they would do to Anwen if they caught her. The thought of it raised his hackles, caused another jolt of pain to burst through his head. His feet tripped, he stumbled to the floor…

 

[SapioDreams]

Anwen couldn’t make out what was being growled near her ear at first, she strained against the hold on her beginning to grow in her panic; she hadn’t been able to reach her fallen Father and he grew further and further away. He was being taken from her, the fact that his lifeforce had already snaked it’s way from his limp body escaped the desperate elf for the time being; the weighty veil of denial began to descend over her eyes and she turned to beat against her servant “Release me you filthy mool! RELEASE ME!” she emphasized with the back of her hand to no avail.

Reasoning and thought process had gone out the window, all the elven woman cared for was to hold her father’s hand and escape the horror beating down their doors. The tears had dried as her efforts were refocused on her escape from that ironlike grasp, as an arrow whizzed by she paid it no heed, the jostling race down the hallway was met with more guards and still she was quite focused upon her own plight, the only one she presently perceived.

The acrid stench of smoke had begun to filter into the hallways in thin ribbons, it stung her eyes and singed her lungs; the flames were taking over what the orcs had yet to reach. Suddenly the mool pitched forward, Anwen met the ground with bone-jarring force as her head toppled to the side and smacked the floor.

The elven guards were swift to take advantage of the situation, two leapt forward to grab Anwen while prying free the powerful arm about her waist. Two more sought to subdue the mool, their shock weapons at the ready as one brought the bulbous tip down towards the back of his head as the finer end of the shock staff was brought downward like a blade towards his abdomen.

A fist full of hair and that swan-like neck was strained into an arch, a fist full of cloth and the crisp sound of her robes being torn from her left shoulder as they bunched up in a sturdy fist between her shoulders. An arm on either side of her hooked beneath Anwen’s arms, the jerking motion of her removal startled her to her senses; she blinked, dragged in a deep breath and began to actually see what was happening around her.

The choked sound that squeezed from her throat as she was violently ripped away was accompanied by a desperate clawing, unable to see she pawed and clutched after the mool with bulging eyes. Her fingers caught hold of something and instinctively clenched; her mere touch was enough to break the bond and with a tiny spark, the mool’s very essence was released from it’s invisible bonds yet again. As the two guardsmen dragged the struggling female off towards her father’s chambers she realized that these men seemed to want her there more than she had wished to return to her father’s side. It was an unsettling realization.

 

[The_J0k3R]

The first jolt from the guard’s magical elemental subdual weapon wracked the mool’s body from head to toe, throwing him back to the floor as he tried to get up. The shock made the controlling pain from the amulet seem like child’s play. His whole body tightened up in protest, and then the bastard delivered another shock for good measure.

The other guard used the pointed end of the weapon, stabbing the mool in the gut, again and again; they were going to kill him. The pain coursed through him. He felt the electrical heat burn him again, his whole body jolting from the blast of current. He could feel his blood pouring out from his gut.

And then, in a delirious moment of terrible pain, there was a snap at his neck. And everything came back. All his memories. All his skills. All his rage.

Once again, he knew who he was.

Thraxos the Half-Blood King.

He roared. He grasped at the shaft of the spear that was piercing him, and looked up at the elf holding it. His grip tightened and he pulled it out of his gut as he sat up. The look of fear on the elf’s face was quite satisfying. He tried to push back, to stab Thraxos again, but with a deft move the half-orc raised the tip over his shoulder, and used the elf’s momentum to ensure he ran the other guard through.

Thraxos sprang to his feet, his body running on instinct and adrenaline and years of pent up hate. Every bit of torture the elves had inflicted on him was remembered and would be paid back. There were no shackles restraining him now. He grasped the magical spear from the dying elf’s hand, and with a spin the bladed end sliced through the other elf’s throat, spraying red blood across Thraxos and the hallway.

Even as the elf fell, he was wheeling back with the spear, his keen eyes spotting the guards dragging the elf maiden, his terrible Mistress, away. He was tempted for a moment to let them. But then he recalled in one vivid moment all the things he had promised to do to her, once he was free. She would be a valuable captive, regardless.

And he knew also of her healing touch. As he felt the blood pour down his leg, he knew he needed her to save him, as much as she might need him to save her.

He launched the spear, piercing one of the elf guards that was dragging her away. Blood burst forth from his chest, as well as the point of the spear, and he spat up more thick red blood as he fell uselessly to his knees beside the elven lady.

Thraxos yanked the other weapon from the dead elf’s chest beside him, and stood at his full height, brandishing the weapon in a display of challenge to the remaining elven guard.

 

[SapioDreams]

The breaking of the spell was palpable and now that she held the remnants of the talisman Anwen shuddered, she could do little more than stare as she realized the twisted joke of having unintentionally given her servant his freedom just as her own was about to be stolen from her.

Anwen gritted her teeth as she was dragged down the hall, she kicked, she twisted and in an undignified manner she began screaming for her release; the guards couldn’t have been bothered less as they trudged down the hallway at a pace that made very clear they had faith in their compatriots to deal with the muscle-bound annoyance. When the anguished cry of rage filled her ears the female elf stilled, it shook her core and left her with a feeling of dread.

Crystaline blue hues took in glimpses of the murderous scene she left behind, for a few breathes she didn’t struggle at all, the fact that she was escaping the unpent rage of an orc with wounded pride was beginning to seem appealing. In that moment she saw clearly his more vicious breeding, akin to what lay outside their doors it seemed almost laughable as if one had placed a collar around a bear’s neck.

Blood seeped into the hallway, draining from the bodies of her fallen kin; suddenly, the one she had called servant, hurled the elven staff through the air like a javelin and as it pierced the torso of yet another fair-skinned male Anwen cringed. Her arm was nearly pulled from it’s socket when the man went down, she was now being dragged by her right arm that is until the remaining guardsman turned to level his gaze upon the orc.

The poor maiden was quite effectively backhanded with a fine steel gauntlet and sent hurtling to the wall; with a sick crack her skull bounced off and she collapsed to the floor in a sprawling daze. Violence all around, death at every turn and as the life around her burned to the ground she began to realize there was nothing left. She had unleashed something within her servant that had driven him to madness, her father was beyond her grasp; Anwen’s vision started to narrow, blackness creeping in about the edges while she struggled to push herself up the wall.

The guard stood tall, proud, his light brown hair trailing down his back in a fine and sensible braid, now frayed from his efforts to retain the wriggling female. The challenge was noted, the man knew that should he not subdue the beast he would be unable to turn his back and so he sprang into action. A curse dripped from his lips, his brows dipping low as his green eyes narrowed with pure irritation. Long digits coiled about the handle of his blade and smoothly pulled it from the scabbard at his hip, he rushed forward and all at once darted to the left of Thraxos; one foot planted to the wall, a powerful leg kicked off and his lithe body spun as he was launched at the towering brute intent on slicing the blade down his bare chest.

 

[The_J0k3R]

The magical spear in Thraxos’ hands was made of the same enchanted steel as the elven warrior’s blade. Thraxos tracked the elf as he launched, wheeling off the wall, and as the blade sliced towards his chest he brought the haft of the spear horizontal in front of him.

The blade met it with a crystalline clang, almost the ringing of a bell, and the elf found his feet and danced around the brutish half-orc. Thraxos promptly swung back, attacking with both the electrically charged blunt end of his weapon, and the razor sharp blade, forcing the elf to parry on either side.

Only once did the elven blade graze across Thraxos’s bare skin, opening a bloody gash across his chest. It had been a desperate strike, and Thraxos, in his focused battle rage, responded to the opening left behind, slamming the blunt head of the staff into the elf’s chest with such force that the guard went flying down the hallway only to crash beside Anwen’s limp form. He shuddered and spasmed on the floor as the electricity roiled through him.

Thraxos approached. Bleeding but proud, standing tall above them, every bit the warrior-king he was born to be, he raised his bare foot above them and slammed it down atop the warrior’s head, crushing the elf’s skull with a sickening crunch.

The orcish warhorns sounded again outside. He recognized them now. “Clan Garrusk,” he hissed. They had led the uprising against his father. They had grown in strength considerably since then. He snorted his derision, and then looked back down to the floor, seeing the elf wench he had once called Mistress. He remembered, in crystal-clear clarity, all the humiliations she had heaped upon him, the pain she had forced him to endure for her own amusement. Even just this evening. He remembered the whip very well. And he remembered the promises he had made to her.

He sniffed. More elves were coming from one direction. And from another… orcs. The pain in his belly amplified, as his guts threatened to fall out of his torso. He clasped a bloody hand over the wound.

“We don’t have much time,” he growled at Anwen.

 

[SapioDreams]

Another elf downed, tossed into the distance like so much raw meat and metal; Anwen's sight had begun to clear just as dead weight slammed into her side, toppling her. A small cry fell from her lips and she dragged herself on her hip away from the body, her eyes growing immense as a massive foot came down to crush it. First there was a terrible cracking sound, the cheeks mashed forward, the head caved in a bit and the eyes bulged from their sockets in a sickening display that sent the gooey orbs popping out past useless eyelids to dangle listlessly along the bridge of the guard’s noce.

She could not look away, she was frozen in abject horror as that foot finally crushed the entire skull inward and spray sickly warm fluids against her bared thigh; Anwen’s mouth gaped, her eyes were transfixed upon the gooey mess beside her, the pool of blood and brain matter that seeped across the floor towards her. Scrambling away she began to pant, the whites of her eyes were far too visible now and her ears were drooping towards her shoulders.

As if slapped, the young elf jerked back against the wall; the timber of her former servant’s voice ripped her back to the reality of the situation. HE had done this. At that moment he was the immediate danger, the force beyond her control, the wolf at her door. She began shaking her head side to side in refusal, her breath was coming in panicked little gasps, her lips trembled as she slid in the gore and rolled onto hand and knee to begin crawling from him.

“FATHER!” came the desperate and ear splitting shriek as she put as much distance between herself and the one she had called ‘mool’ as she possibly could manage; her dignity was of little concern at the time. That softly curved frame was now smeared with gore, her robes tattered and dangling from her chest as the skirting was stuck high upon her hip with the glue of her people’s blood; the vision of her pert behind trembling with her pitiful attempts beneath the ruined silk would have been comical in any other situation.

 

[The_J0k3R]

Thraxos grunted in response to her cry for her father, and he fell to one knee for a moment as the lifeblood seeped out of him. He had seen her anguish before, in so many bloody raids. Long ago, he had lived to hear such lamentations.

Now, however, he needed her mind clear. “Stupid girl,” he grunted, raising himself up through sheer willpower and trudging towards her crawling frame. His eyes fell upon her tender, exposed ass. In a past life, he would have taken her as a prize then and there. He even could feel his cock rise with lust at the sight.

The pain in his gut was too much. He stumbled again before reaching her, taking a knee beside her and grasping her by her long blonde curls. He wrenched her head around, forcing the elf maiden to look at him.

“Your father is dead,” he growled. “Your kin are coming to kill you. My kin are coming for the both of us.” He grunted again. The footsteps grew closer, from both sides.

“Heal me… Mistress,” he said to her, as much as it pained him to utter that word again. Even as he did, he drew her face towards his wounded abdomen. “Heal me and I will protect you.”

 

[SapioDreams]

Those regal ears perked and swiveled to the horrifying sound of the half-orc approaching, the view before her was wobbly, fogged with tears she could not seem to stop; his insult was only so much background noise.

Still in denial Anwen shook her head, falling to her hip and elbow upon the floor while her view was eclipsed with a watery version of the half-orc; the sound of footsteps rang through the hallway yet again and she felt his large hand entwine in her loose curls. A tiny squeak was his reward, her mouth opened and between breaths and near hysterical tears she was dragged towards his belly.

A hand slapped to his gut, weak, soft and warm, sticky with blood now while she pushed in a pitiful attempt to free herself from his grasp. Alas, it was all futile as her lips were mashed to the corner of the gaping wound, she heaved, wrenched her head and curled her legs up beneath her in a last ditch effort to gain leverage but his grip was like iron.

As his lifeblood painted her lips and dribbled onto her tongue a shudder ran down her spine and her sniveling was calmed when there was a gentle twitch behind her eyelids, her eyes were not visible through her lashes but it was not long before she lost herself. Like a babe to milk she pressed to him, her fingers splaying, kneading tenderly while her body curled against his legs; the slow but eager path of her tongue was dotted with the warmth of her lips, the wet sound of her suckling and the, in any other circumstance, heartwarming and barely audible sigh of contentment.

The slick warmth of her tongue dragged over the very last inch of his wound, flesh wove itself together in a sickening whisper of a sound; as if drunk Anwen then lolled in his grasp, still clinging to him with her fingers while the light in her eyes died, the violet seemed to fade inward and relinquish its hold upon her. There she remained, the horror of the evening and the strain of what had just taken hold of her from within left the elf drained, the option of allowing numbness to settle in was tempting beyond belief.

 

[The_J0k3R]

For a healing touch, the pain was almost unbearable. Thraxos grunted as he held her to him and she worked her magic. It almost seemed to be instinctual for her, the way she grasped him at the taste of his blood. Her lithe form curled to him sensually, and in spite of the pain, in spite of the attackers coming for them, he found himself growing rapidly aroused.

He was acutely aware of her firm breasts pushing against his thigh. His arousal became obvious, quickly, raising his loincloth until it fell away and his bare member was pressed against the soiled thin fabric of Anwen’s robe.

One of his wounds, the deepest one, was whole again, just as the elves came around the corner. There were shouts, and suddenly guttural voices joined from the other direction. The orcs had pierced the castle’s defenses!

Thraxos took a deep breath, looking down at Anwen for a moment as elves rushed from one side, and orcs from the other. There was a window above them in the hallway, looking out upon the castle’s courtyard. His strong arms curled Anwen into his grasp, cuddling her against his chest. His legs pushed them upwards suddenly, Thraxos’ shoulder taking the brunt of the glass as they shattered through the window and hurtled towards the ground below!

 

[SapioDreams]

The world was closing in around her, thunder was rumbling nearby, no not thunder...footsteps. The horde had pushed into the castle and was taking it over, the elves brandished their steel like an extension of themselves as they took one look at the orcs and then set their sights upon the odd couple. Orders were cried out to seize Anwen shortly followed by the raging boom of the guttural language that demanded the half-orc.

Anwen had no more in her, she dug deep and the well was all but dry; tears sprang from her eyes and trailed in fine rivulets down her temples to vanish into her hairline. In a split second her world had been turned upside down, awash with blood and speckled with unanswered questions. All at once both groups advanced, her head lolling in the grasp of the half orc; When she was gathered up she did not protest, she curled tightly against her mool, the only familiar thing left to her now and he had somehow still called her by her title. She would allow him to serve his purpose.

The shrill cry of breaking glass filled her ears, a few small shards imbedding in her forearm as she hid her face and clung to his strong neck and as the ground rose up to meet them her head swam. They landed with a jarring impact, rolling to soften the blow before she was scraped up off the grass and forced to find her own footing. Three nearby orcs took notice of the new presences, the elder of the three lifting his nose to the night air and turning upon them; with a cry the other two joined him, yet another male with lengthy matted locks and a broken tusk, the other a female with a garishly scarred face and a pair of serrated bone knives, she was smaller and looked swift by her figure and choice in weapons.

With a grunt from the elder of the three the she-orc leapt into action and rushed Thraxos, Anwen staggered behind the half-orc and wobbled there. As hell raged all around them she had no other choice but to realize that chaos reigned; without realising what she was doing her feet began to move, bare and sticky with blood they padded across the forest floor before turning her round to face the treeline. She bolted.

The elder orc scrubbed at his lacerated eye and snarled to the male with the broken tusk before descending upon Thraxos with a look of triumph upon his face, did he know of the half-blooded king?

The bulk of the young orc easily skirted the scourmish and carved a path through the underbrush like a rhino; his prize was within his sight, her lily white backside bouncing along like a beacon in the night. The stars shone brightly and so his path was not that difficult to traverse, those powerful murky green legs took the distance quickly but he let her get about a quarter of a mile beyond the treeline. What orc didn’t enjoy a good hunt? When he decided they were far enough away from the action a hand shot out, meaty and rough as the sand it tangled in that golden mane before he lifted the elf clear into the air and slammed her down to a patch of dirt with enough force to stun her. Heaving his bulk over her the orc dropped down to his knees, the hand that held her hair was now mashed atop it into the dirt, pinning her there while his grimy fingers trailed up over her thighs to jerk the material of her robe up around her waist. The smell of blood and the natural perfume of that thatch of curled blonde hair between her ripe thighs earned a grunt of anticipation.

Anwen lay in the dirt unable to breathe, her heart slammed against her ribcage and her mouth gaped like a fish out of water but she could not seem to gather a full breath; her vision was blurry and when she tried to sit up a distinct pain in her scalp prevented movement. Heavy breathing dragged her eyes upwards, she managed to bring into focus the drooling maw of a young and very much full blooded orc. His face was a mask of scars, his beard riddled with small baubles and bones as his hair passed over her belly like filthy, scratchy tentacle. The smell was unbearable to her fine elven nose. What was left of her robe was ripped up about her waist with so much force her ass was lifted off of and dropped back to the ground.

Her knees pinched together and she began to rake her nails down the orc’s forearm, it was all for naught and in her panic she tried to scream but all that rose from her lungs was the hoarse and clipped squeaks of ragged breathing. She was finally rewarded with that hand lifting only to have it slap back down around her throat, a few fingers crushed between her lips and forced her jaw into an unnatural angle of open; she gurgled and twisted on the ground as sheer terror took hold of her.

The orc could smell the adrenaline on her skin, it was almost as sweet as the scent of her sex to him and his attempt to cease her squealing was an easy success, her head was shoved to the side as he mashed her cheek into the dirt and peeled aside his loincloth. Thick knees shuffled amidst the dirt while he pried her kicking legs apart, a shriek was muffled against his finger and he could feel the sting of her teeth; his response was to jerk her left leg to the side hard enough to pull a muscle. The pitiful sound that he elicited from her brought a savage grin to his maw, grasping his root the orc dropped the thick length of meat to her inner thigh with a nauseating and sweaty smack.

He didn’t care if it would tear her, he only had to present a semi-functional slave to his chieftain. With a low grunt he began rutting over her, forcing that thickness up over her mound, crushing her pubic hair and weighing heavy upon her lower abdomen. He would continue his task, fascinated by the contrast of her silken skin; wanting more, the orc took hold of her gown’s top and shreded it.

Anwen wept openly, nearly choking herself as her nostrils flared, her mouth gaping to drag in any available air; the nauseating sensation of his sex upon her thigh caused her stomach to lurch and the bile rise up the back of her throat. She kicked, her back arched high above the ground and the muffled squeals that slipped past his repugnant digits were barely audible even at that distance, above the din of the battle. Such a thing could never happen to one such as her, such a thing should never happen to one such as her and yet it was. Her eyes clamped shut so tightly she saw stars and while her head reeled she kicked wildly despite the searing pain of her newest injury. Blood trickled down her temple from where her head had hit the wall, her cheekbone was now red and raised where the gauntlet had met it, the composed beauty that had once sat alone in her room sipping tea was quickly fading.

Her body was jerked to the side, her breast bared to the forest as it trembled helplessly before being crushed by the slovenly, fat lips of her attacker. Anwen’s eyes bulged, her brows knit and she tried to scream as the thing began suckling on her, greedy and wet, the sounds were made worse by the moisture that soon trailed down her thigh as the monstrosity adjusted his body between her legs. In a fit of desperation the elf clawed her way down to his face and blindly attempted to shove her thumbs into his eye-sockets.

A deafening roar broke the orc’s concentration as he reeled back to cover his eyes, he had managed to move before she had done any real damage; looking down in a rage, he felt her move. Snarling, a meaty paw grabbed her arm and savagely jerked it to the side, flipping the elf to her belly and leaning forward to dig his finger into her hip bruising the fine flesh while he jerked her back into place and began to angle his fat cock towards her puffy slit. The sounds of her shrill and frantic shrieks were only broken by the simpering moans of anguish at the reality of her grave situation.

 

[The_J0k3R]

Thraxos growled as he saw the three orcs approaching. He called out after Anwen to stay behind him, but she was already scurrying away; one of the orcs chased after her, but he was more immediately concerned with the knife-wielding female bearing down on his position.

He crouched, his grip on the magical elf spear loose, his focus zeroing in on his assailant even as the sounds of battle raged around them. He leapt towards her, the spear spinning round him, the blunt end blasting across the orc’s scarred face with a white-hot flash of electricity, knocking her backwards and down. As the orc shuddered and spasmed from the electricity coursing through her body, Thraxos drove the bladed end down into her chest, piercing her through completely, and then yanked it out with a downwards swipe, spilling the orc’s guts out in the once-pristine courtyard grass.

He turned his attention to the Chieftain, his eyes narrowed. He snorted. He did not recognize this warrior, but it had been many years. The Chieftain pulled out a greatsword and roared at Thraxos before advancing on the half-orc.

Thraxos knelt quickly, his hand closing around one of the fallen bone knives at his feet. He rose and spun, launching the knife spinning through the air. His aim, though long-neglected, held true. The blade embedded itself deep in the Chieftain’s skull, right between the eyes, and the monster fell to the earth with a thud. Thraxos quickly scanned the ground and located the other knife, and took it for himself.

He sniffed. In spite of the blood and death and smoke and fire, there was no mistaking the scent of Anwen, and he launched himself after her and her assailant, running past grim displays of orcish brutality. Elvish women were wailing, the men dying, children screaming. He knew the orcs would take no prisoners, save for their breeding cunts.

The sounds of devastation were soon behind him. His ears picked up Anwen’s whimpers easily enough. His bare feet tread lightly on the forest floor, and he was able to sneak up behind the orc. He arrived just as the brute was slapping Anwen down and then flipping her over, raising her pert, porcelain ass up to be violated.

Thraxos recalled in perfect detail the many times she had humiliated him. The terrible things she had done to him, the tortures he had endured under the spell of that cursed amulet. If he didn’t think he needed her, he had half a mind to let the brute take her.

He sneered. No. He could not let that happen. If anyone was going to have their way with Anwen, his Mistress… it would be Thraxos, the Half-Blood King.

Three lunging steps was all it took to bridge the gap between Thraxos and the hulking orc. The razor sharp knife in Thraxos’ hand found it’s mark as he came up behind him, slicing through the orc’s throat from ear to ear. Thick black blood gushed out as the orc grasped at his throat in shock. He choked and spat blood out onto Anwen’s back, and then lurched forward as the life left his body. The beast crashed down towards Anwen, more blood spilling out upon her, and Thraxos grasped his shoulder and pulled back hard, rolling the orc off to the side as he fell, to keep it from crushing Anwen beneath its lifeless body.

He quickly knelt down next to her nearly naked form; what remained of her robe did precious little to conceal her body at this point. He rolled her over, onto her back.

“Look at me,” he growled. “Look at me, you bitch!”

 

[SapioDreams]

Anwen was exhausted, terrified and in pain; the trauma of the evening was finally coming to a head when the impending goring she had believed was to be her immediate future, ceased; a terrible gurgle filled the air and something hot and thick sprayed her spine. A piteous sound escaped her and the elf finally fell back to the ground, that vice like grip now loose and the elf lay there shaking; her mouth agape, eyes red rimmed which only served to highlight her bruise forming on her cheekbone.

A squeal was ripped from her throat when another hand grabbed her and shoved her onto her back; her eyes were wide, bloodshot and glossy with her panic, her breath erratic and clipped with tiny sobs as she curled her arms around her head and her knees up to her belly, she was most certainly not getting enough air into her lungs. If she had in fact seen who was now looming over her it was clear she intended to hide from him too.

Slowly her hands trembled to gather up lengths of tattered robe, hiking one split length of soiled fabric up over her breast and smoothed it painstakingly over her bare shoulder; the next was shoved down from her waist, over the gentle swell of her hip and down her dirt and blood streaked thigh. Her mind was running on autopilot, cover herself, clean, get up off the ground. Slowly but surely she managed to wobble to her feet, she was entirely ignoring her servant, her head was shaking like a bowl upon a stick, that slender line of her neck jumping with hitched breaths and smeared with dirt.

Her hair was clumped up in an unkempt mass, her eyes were hazy, forward facing and didn’t quite seem to pick up on the urgency of the situation; as the disheveled elf clutched the fabric to her breast her legs suddenly gave out, her eyes rolling back as Anwen collapsed to the ground in an unceremonious heap, dead to the world.