Down the road a ways (Grail Hillfire)

There were things the bard's stories didn't tell you about - and an entire category of those things could be summed up under the title 'Aches of the Road.' All the tales talked about heroic fights, deep romances, and dastardly villains. They rarely talked about little bits of gravel in boots, hungry mosquitos in late summer, or the down-to-your-bones exhaustion of an entire day of constant hiking.

Grail wriggled awkwardly, sliding her sweaty, clammy body out of her coat of scale mail, swearing to herself again that at the first opportunity she was going to buy a new one that was easier to take off.

"Agh, for fucks sake," she grumbled, letting the heavy coat of metal fall to the grassy patch she'd chosen for her campsite. It was well sheltered in a copse of trees, and the little fire she'd set was diffusing it's smoke in the lush, full branches above. Summer had already turned, but here on the Varisian coast it seemed to be hanging on into the harvest season. That didn't stop the gentle night wind brushing against her sweaty body from stinging with chill. The big trees of the local forests were thick trunked and spread wide from each other, with plenty of low shrubbery between, but they weren’t dense enough to cut the breeze.

"Fucking fuck it," Grail sighed, and tossed another, thicker branch onto the fire. It quickly caught and the warmth spreading across her body was a comfort. Her undershirt was soaked through, and her thick little nipples tightened in complaint against the cold, standing out as she tried to get herself dry. Soon enough she turned so that the warmth of the fire could also spread across her back and dry out those sweat rings as well. Looking away from the fire, she let her eyes quickly adjust to the dark, gazing out into the dark of the small woods.

This region, the hinterlands around Sandpoint, was known as being relatively peaceful. Idyllic, compared to the wilds up north, the marshes to the south and the ever present threat of the Orcs of Belkzen far in the east. Not to mention the fucking giants. Still, even here, there were threats. Bandits, goblins, wild beasts. Supposedly there was even a local monster nicknamed the Sandpoint Devil, though the rumours she’d caught from the local farmers she’d talked to tended towards ridiculous.

Nothing moved out there in the woods, though. Insects chirruped, the fire crackled. All was still and quiet.

Grail rolled her thick neck and groaned, and stretched her arms out wide. Then, all at once, she dove for her heavy crossbow, rolled with it and came up onto one knee, string pulled back and armed as she pointed it at the figure looming out of the shadows. It moved silently, it's impossibly thick frame blending in amid the trees. It shouldn’t have been able to do that, being the size of a fucking bear, except for one key fact.

"What are you tryin' to do, fuckin' fight me or something?" Grail demanded, raising her crossbow and shaking it at the Treant. The big, humanoid-shaped tree man was easily a head taller than a human, which meant it towered over her dwarven stature. It's face was stern, it's head crowned with oak leaves, and it stepped forward further into the light of the fire.

It opened it's mouth and groaned, the sound of it's speech like heavy wind shifting the big redwood trees. It gestured at the fire with a frown, and continued the gesture out to the dark of the woods.

"Oh, calm down. I didn't cut anything down, it's all natural fallings," Grail said.

The Treant puffed itself up a bit, putting it's big, gnarled hands on it's hips, and moaned it's wordless language.

"Let me guess," Grail said, lowering her crossbow and propping it against the rock. "This is your woods, and you don't like me being here."

The Treant nodded it’s head.

"Well, it’s been a long fucking day and I'm here now. Deal with it," she said. "I haven't done nothin' wrong. Not by no laws of the road or of nature."

The craggy face of the Treant frowned deeper at being rebuffed, and it stared at Grail for a long moment. Then, slowly, it's face turned inquisitive.

"Oh, no, I know that look," Grail said, putting her hands up.

The Treant reached down and a smooth, nobby branch began growing out of it's vaguely crotch-like lower torso. It stroked the wooden cock with a lascivious grin.

Grail eyed it, considering her options, then rolled her eyes. "Fine. Fair is fair," she said. She pulled her shirt over her head, revealing her hefty tits and freckled chest. Her nipples were a dark pink, almost as ruddy as her hair, and now that they were completely free she could feel them hardening further.

"Just once, though," she said, unbuckling her belt and starting to unbutton her pants. "And don't try any of that sap stuff, you Treants always think I'll like it and it never goes the way you think it will."

I should have just stopped at one of the farmsteads, Grail thought as she stripped off her boots and pants, revealing the dark red muff that matched her wild, deep red hair. Well, at least I'll know I'm not going to get murdered in the night by some bandit. They'll have to go through Treedick to get to me, first.

“Come on then, closer to the fire. I don’t feel like freezing my tits off,” she said.

The Treant trundled forward, and Grail found she didn’t even need to get down on her knees for it’s pole to be at a comfortable sucking height. It had produced a nine-inch rod, smooth as a well-handled axe haft but lumpy and nobbed on the end in the approximation of a cock head. She wrapped one hand around it, finding it as rigid as a pole of wood was expected to be, and sighed.

“You better enjoy this, Treedick,” she said, then licked the nobby head. It had barely any taste other than slightly earthy. “Now, let’s get you nice a slobbery. I’m not taking this fuckstick anywhere else until I know you’re going to slide in all smooth like. And no sap, got it?”

The Treant groaned, and reached down to paw at her tits as Grail wrapped her lips around it’s rod. There were worse ways to spend your evening than trading favours with a Treant. At least it wasn’t a tribe of leshy’s - those little plantfolk never did pick up on the fact that they were made of weeds that left an itch when theu pricked.

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