An explanation

“She’s Uthul,” I choked out, stepping between the blundering dwarven barrels and Uthul’s towering green front. “Former chief of the warband. And right now, she’s the only reason Korant and I aren’t still chained to a bloody wooden stake!”

Baelog blinked, his eyes taking another slow, disbelieving trip down Uthul’s gleaming, spunk-smeared curves before snapping back up to her face.

“Former chief? A she-orc with a... a mighty hammer of her own? And ye brought her with ye?!”
“I didn’t ask for an audience, short-stuff,” Uthul grunted, crossing her broad arms beneath her heavy breasts, completely unabashed by her nakedness or her resting length swaying in the firelight. “My warriors mutinied. Your human friends helped me escape. Now, unless ye want me to use your roasting spit as a toothpick, hand over some grog and a damn blanket.”

Korant, meanwhile, was practically vibrating with indignation, his face matching the red of his matted hair. He took a painful, stiff step toward Baelog, trembling as much from raw humiliation as from the night air.

“You abandoned us, Baelog!” Korant spat, his voice cracking dramatically as he tried to cover his sore, sticky lower half with both hands. “You ran! You left us to be taken by her horde! Do you have any idea what they did to us?! Do you know what they did to my... to a knight of Beornia?!”

Baelog flushed deeply behind his thick woven beard, awkwardly motioning for the other dwarves to put away their blunderbusses. He scrambled over to a supply crate, grabbing three heavy wool cloaks and tossing them toward us.

“Alright, alright, lower your tone, lad!” Baelog muttered, refusing to make direct eye contact with Korant’s messily coated thighs. “We thought ye were dragon-bait! When the warband hit our rear guard, it was retreat or die! How were we to know ye’d end up... well... thoroughly acquainted with the chief and her whole bloody encampment?!”
“They used us, Baelog!” Korant wailed softly as he wrapped the wool tightly around his waist, wincing as the rough fabric hit his overworked backside. “For hours! All of them!”

Uthul snatched a cloak, wrapping it loosely around her shoulders while taking a heavy wooden tankard right out of a bewildered dwarven scout’s hand. She took a long, deep gulp, wiping foam (and dried spunk) from her lips with the back of her hand.

“They broke my camp, broke my lead, and spent all night exhausting the three of us,” Uthul said, letting out a satisfied burp that rattled the campfire. “So we’re even. Now give us real clothes, feed us, and let’s get to Astranaar before my former lieutenants realize we’re breaking bread with dwarves.”

Baelog stared at the three of us, his jaw working silently before he finally threw his hands up in defeat. “By the Titans... fetch the spare tunics, boys. And somebody stand bloody guard!”