Drink. On this night, be merry.

Chapter 8: Mirth, Merriment, and Myth

You take the bottle eagerly, angling the opening back to her in a warm, grateful toast before bringing the bottle's mouth to your lips. Long before the gourd itself touches your skin your nose starts to sting, but you are not afraid. You've eaten; you are somewhat fortified even if you don't have an orc's acclimation to drink.

Then you feel the liquid as it passes your lips; it burns your tongue like a thick, scalding syrup, but you swallow successfully. The vapor rises back to scour your nasal cavity and your throat weakly wills a cough, but you stifle it all and ponder the flavor. It is... interesting. There are notes of something like whiskey, and an herbal aftertaste that's almost medicinal in its stringent, verdant bite. The flavor is persistent, at least.

Outwardly, to Ak'horra, you merely hiss hotly towards the fire. You feared worse, honestly. The slightest of deep, feminine chuckles reverberates beside you, and Ak'horra's hand covers her mouth as if trying to hide something. Hot skin brushes against your arm as she leans heavily into you, her weighty breasts pressing softly against your side as she twists to reclaim the gourd for herself. You don't protest. Honestly, you are only now adjusting to the sharper version of the world around you.

Ak'horra raises the bottle to her own thirsty lips and takes several long pulls. It relieves you somewhat to discover that her own subsequent, gasping breath matches your own. She laughs. You smirk, watching her intently as her eyes sparkle and gleam beneath the moonlight. Your fingers replace hers upon the gourd's polished neck, and she relinquishes it back to you as you take another firm pull. With a wet smack of your lips you gaspingly laugh, then gesture vaguely to the shadows of the hungry woods.

"K'ron?" you whisperingly tease, offering the gourd back to the shadows.

Ak'horra's laugh is bright, unmitigated, and drenched in pure, firelit delight, but she grabs the gourd back from you in such a fierce fashion that it unintentionally hurts your wrist. She tsks playfully. You forgive her. That, you understand, was your own fault.

As she takes another joyous drink you can't help but let your gaze wander down her jaw to the firm form of her swallowing throat, then to the muscular shoulders and heavy, swollen chest of this wild beauty. Her injured shoulder is opposite you, so you can't see how it might truly be healing, or how thoroughly she may have tended the wound... but your eyes are already traveling down her stomach, across the tight leather straps at her waist that bend acutely down to the triangle of her crotch and the long, thickly muscled and white-painted leg. Your head tilts into the gentle spiral...

When finally you regain your composure enough to stop gawking, her eyes are already waiting, glistening back at yours. Her thick, pretty lips are drawn into a tight smirk against her nearest tusk as a sharp fingernail traces a line down from your leathers to your knee. With her other hand, she offers the gourd. At least now you know what to expect (not that it helps, particularly). It still burns, but you take an extra swallow when you feel the side of the orc's head bump gently against your shoulder. Fuck. What a night!

"Thane," she utters softly, catching you off-guard. You can't stifle a brief gasp against the **** fumes rising up to your throat, but you successfully suppress the cough. "Myr?"

"Myr?" you repeat, curious. You set the gourd down between your warming bodies for later. The warrior's arm stretches out above you both, one finger pointing beyond the break in the leaves and the rising smoke of your fire to the full body of the moon, just barely visible at the edge of the forest clearing. At your angle it takes only a moment to realize the obvious.

"Thane," she repeats patiently, one hand slowly gliding back up the length of your inner thigh as the other descends to find purchase upon your shoulder. "Myr?" she asks again.

"Myr," you begin, still somewhat uncertain as to what she's asking, "is my patron god."

"Mm," she acknowledges.(?)

"I am a paladin," you begin, and you start to tell her something of your story.

For her part, she seems truly interested, though every confused tilt of her pretty orcish head suggests she may not fully understand what you're saying. Once you've started, however, you find you cannot easily stop telling her about your world, about your god, about your battles... After a few adventurous stories and dramatic re-enactments with your sword, you finally look back into the nearly vacant, but eager, eyes of your companion. The sword is sheathed and gently placed back amongst your gear, but your eyes can't leave hers.

What was it? An hour? More? It felt far less than that, but you aren't certain.

"Gods above," you mutter at last, gazing briefly up to the full moon amidst the still-rising smoke of your crackling campfire. "You are exquisite."

Despite any lack of understanding she might have in regards to your words, every sentiment seems to take perfect root within her mind, her body... What you originally took for vacancy slowly morphs into what can only be described as a patient, warm, longing. Taking advantage of the breathy pause, your companion reaches back behind her, fiddling with something unseen. But you've been here before. You're already prepared for the sight as her massive breasts come free and her top is loosened, pulled off, and dropped unceremoniously upon the ground beside her thick blanket of fur. You may have been prepared for it, but that doesn't mean you aren't once again appreciative...

Each warm, firm swell of her chest is dappled by the roiling orange light of the dense, crackling fire beside you. Her dark nipples are firm, taut, and defiant against the suddenly-warming air of the night. Every subtle shift of her shoulders seems to present her tits in a new, encouraging light .

"S'ah?" you mutter absently, your mind utterly blank for one blistering moment. Obviously, your true mind already knows the answer.

Ak'horra doesn't respond, she just stretches her legs over the length of her furs. Her bare feet are long and stretched, each toe glistening briefly in the wavy firelight. Each calf muscle, each chiseled, arc of her thick thighs presents itself to your roaming gaze. Her leather-clad crotch is perfectly tight, triangular, bulging in its lowermost reaches, and tempting. Her bounding hips, her muscled abdomen, her narrowed waist, all sprawl out before you. Each naked breast heaves with her quickening, excited breaths. Your cock twitches and begins to take a firmer shape.

S'ah, you think silently between your real, heavy sighs. Why the show? Why the pantomime?