He grows up strong

1269 AC
Eighth Month

Young Grommash bested many children his age in the latest game of Balltossing, a Human game where children tossed the ball to throw into a goalpost. It involved strenuous running and occassional tackling, which was stopped by referees, but also a good sport for energetic children to exhaust themselves having fun.

It was not an Elven game; too loud and rowdy, too uncouth, yet her son Grommash was playing it.

"Why would you teach them such a game, Oodagh?" Filauria questioned her husband.

"What, this talk again?" Oodagh said tiredly, having had the same talk dozens of times, "I told you already, they're growing up under new management, they have to be able to have fun before they grow up."

"But..."

"Yeah, yeah, this isn't the Elven way, yadda yadda yadda. Suck it up," Oodagh harshly scolded, "Staring at trees and doing nothing? Staring at birds and passing animals? No. That ain't how kids have fun. And besides, given his Orcish heritage, he's gonna start getting into fights and scuffles with other kids. Better to get him used to it while he can."

Filauria wanted to argue, but held her tongue, knowing that she had no power to influence Oodagh's decision.

"He... does look like he's enjoying himself," Filauria admitted.

"That's the thing; kids always are full of energy, and they need an outlet for it," Oodagh reiterated, "You can't teach them to restrain themselves so young; that's for snobbish prudes who always like to see themselves as superior over others. You teach them that attitude, and others will come to dislike you. That's just life."

Life in the mortal world, not life in the Elven world. Yet now the gates were thrown down and the Elven world open to all.

They disdained the mortal world for how quickly it changed. Mortal lives were always so short, and so people were always in a hurry. Elves disdained that hurry, believing that their forests were all they needed, a pinnacle of civilisation that could afford to shut out the world. Mediating peace was but the necessary means to that end, even if other mortals hated them for it.

But this Kelvhan, this Elf who lives and thinks like a mortal, acts with the same hurry they did, he was a heretic who went against everything Elves stood for.

And this Oodagh, this brute who relentlessly **** and bred her like a sow, forcing her to give birth to eight more children after Grommash, how dare he...

'No, don't. Don't ever go there, or you'll never go back.'

Filauria restrained her emotions, just as she always did.

1269 AC
Ninth Month

Kelvhan came through again as he always did every half a year, inspecting the construction progress of his workers as they renovated the infrastructure and defences of Inkalmair. Where before they relied on the dense woods and magical enchantments to fend off intruders, Kelvhan insisted on installing a proper keep and high, thick walls with turrets and towers, each supporting those new cannons the mortals so loved to use.

She could never get used to the way they thundered each time they fired, but their power was unmistakable. Mages were busy enchanting them and a superior form of repeating ballistae, known as the Scorpion, said to find their targets once locked on and carry potent magic in every bolt.

"Yes, just like that. Pour it as close as you can, then put the ****-Stick in to vibrate the concrete. Make sure there's no air bubbles left inside."

Filauria had to admit, Kelvhan was a meticulous and conscientious worker, yet highly flexible in accepting suggestions from young ones.

The new city walls of Inkalmair consisted of blocks of granite stacked high and artful like a brickwall, then a liquid stone was poured into the gaps filled with smaller, softer stones to form one ubiquitous segment. At other times, they were built in separate pieces to be slowly assembled on-site, then magic was applied after curing and hardening to change the nature of the stone, making it stronger and harder than normal and viable for carving.

Even the housing had changed; once they had simple treehouses with standing platforms, elegant and graceful in nature but hardly strong enough to withstand artillery bombardment. Now they were a mix of living wood and stone, with magic and architectural engineering blended together to provide a manor house capable of withstanding a few cannon shots before collapsing. The windows allowed for natural lighting and acted as archer slots; the doors were built of strong steel-bonded wood, and walls enclosed every manor.

Most significant was the underground tunnels they built; supported by arches of stone and branching roots, they illuminated every stretch of dark cave with glowing lights and provided fresh air, and special lamps were used in case of flammable gases. Underground bunkers and trenches stretched for miles, bristling with turrets and fortified positions to negate numerically superior foes.

When Filauriel questioned the necessity behind such fortified tunnels and multi-layered walls and forts, Kelvhan merely had this to say:

"My bosses have had to fight and subjugate hordes that outnumbered them several times over to build their horde. I don't want to imagine such hordes, armed with our magic and technologies, crushing everything we have like wet paper."

Filauriel could not say anything in response.

As she walked along the corridor, she saw an open door and heard familiar noises.

She walked close and gently opened it, revealing her brother Elashor being pinned down on bed while an Orc woman thrust her hips onto his cock. His Elven cock, monstrously engorged by some foul magic, was easily swallowed whole by that Orcess's fleshy depths, thirsting for his semen as if wanting to breed more of his children.

Her dear brother, broken by the repeated rapes and domination, moaned like a bitch in heat each time his wife Ghorza claimed his cock.

"That's right, give me that fakka like you mean it!" Ghorza laughed in that coarse, guttural tongue of hers.

Elashor merely moaned with a silly smile, squealing like a pig as he ejaculated inside Ghorza's hungry womb.

Biting her lip, Filauriel closed the door and walked away, fighting against the urge to shed tears.

1269 AC
Eleventh Month

Elashor was murdered.

They found his corpse in his study, where he often spent time reading his books when not fucking his wife or going over dreary, boring reports. His throat was slit, his mouth and eyes wide open.

Filauriel was devastated, and when they lowered his body to be interred into the earth, she could not stop herself from crying and sobbing.

And then that brutish oaf Oadagh wrapped his large, meaty arms around her in a surprisingly soft hug, saying no words, for none needed to be said. His face was unusually soft and tender, his eyes reflecting understanding.

And in that moment, it was all she needed.

And she would make Elashor's murderer answer for his crimes.