Help the Smilodon.

Chapter 6: ****!!

"Vermin!" you hear your voice echo amidst the murk, "****!!"

You are barreling towards the Smilodon, your silver blade flashing like lightning in the darkness of the deep forest. Myr's holy moonstone blazes red with every bounding step as you come upon the suddenly fear-stricken goblins. One loses its head and half of its upraised sword-arm. Another turns to flee and stumbles upon a gnarled, twisted root of the moonlit forest, then feels for a single, piercing second the blissful sting of a silver sword through its pitiful spine. Yet another leaps boldly at the wounded Smilodon, and your heart rages for the singular moment before the great beast turns with one last surge of strength and gores the godless heathen on its tusks in a snake-like display of **** dexterity. Then the beast wails wetly, raggedly, and falls limply to its side.

The last goblin cackles triumphantly as it springs from its haunches to spear the Smilodon's heart, but you are fully enraged, focused, and already surging with the adrenaline of battle. This will not stand. These cretin have haunted this kingdom long enough! They all. Die. This. DAY!!

"No!" you snarl, leaping and grabbing the pouncing goblin from the air by the throat. The makeshift spear clatters uselessly to the forest floor as your fingers tightly encircle the creature's neck. Its **** cough disappears beneath the sound of your own snarling breath. "****," you declare into the suddenly sniveling, cowardly face of the wretched vermin. Its eyes are falsely repentant in its utter cowardice. The clatter of its weapon upon the hard-packed earth is lost beneath the overpowering fury within your wrist, your forearm, your bicep. They surge together at once, your fist closing around the goblin's pathetic throat until only a wet gurgle sounds as the fingers of your dominant hand close back into a full, bloodied fist of goblin viscera.

The blood moon in your mind's eye flashes white: clear, glowing, pure...

Your heartbeat skips, then lunges for three more spurious seconds. You see your fist full of goblin blood, splintered bone, and ragged flesh. Your breaths come shallow and fierce, the edges of your vision swirling into a sparkling, metallic black. It feels as if you're about to be sick, but then you hear the orc woman's thundering howl behind you, and your sudden nausea is replaced by... fear? No... Dread... Concern?

Wildly she emerges by your side, both hands wreathed in blood, gore, and torn goblin flesh: just like your own right hand. In her wake lies the limbless, twitching corpse of the last goblin who dared to challenge her. Of course. Weapon or no, an orc is never truly defenseless. Still, her nearest shoulder is wreathed in her own blood, dripping even down to her fingers where it mingled with those of your attackers. A jagged wound mars the flesh of her upper back. Regardless, she seems like she will recover. Honestly, you're not sure she even notices...

"Ahh," she gasps, dropping to her knees beside the Smilodon. She holds its head up with her uninjured hand, the other absently, bloodily scouring its chest as if feeling the strength of its heartbeat or probing for broken ribs. A brusque, growling sound escapes the noble beast's throat. It's definitely bleeding; you can see that much and more. So is she, though. So are you, you imagine, though you've not bothered to check yourself for injuries just yet. You're still wrapped warmly in Myr's fortifying retribution...

The Smilodon is clearly in utter pain, but it purrs throatily, reassuringly(?) at its seeming mistress. That singular sound seems to signal to the orc that it is still strong. It will live. She smiles. That's good enough for you.

"Myr-be-praised," you whisper, your own breaths suddenly coming sharp and ragged, as if in relief.

"Hahh, K'ron..." sighs the orc, murmuring some soothing sounds or words to her Smilodon. She looks to the arrows piercing its hide with a sudden, rageful scowl, her pretty lips twisting sharply, then she looks to you, and her features soften again. Her smile becomes something warm, perhaps grateful, then shifts into a familiar, mischievous smirk as her eyes roam over your body.

You are both naked, streaked with goblin gore, but in the bloodlust and the mayhem you have both nearly forgotten those simple, frivolous moments shared beneath (or nearly beneath) the falls of the bathing pool. Yet... they seem to come back to both of you in a rush, then rescind like the waves of a strong tide, only to splash back at your memories like a fickle, misty spray. She smiles again. You join her. She really is... stunning. Her massive tits heave as you regard each other bodily; she notices your lowering gaze and her smirk only sharpens.

You bring yourself to your knees beside her as she carefully strokes the Smilodon's hide. With a delicate motion you bring one hand to the wounded beast's side, whispering to Myr. Only a slight warning growl sounds from the beast's throat before the orc soothes it with her own touch.

"By Myr's light, by Myr's grace," you utter. In your vision, Myr's moonlight is brilliant, unblemished, pure. You pour a good, lasting measure of that light into the injured Smilodon. It won't close the wounds, and it won't necessarily give the beast strength, but it should lessen the pain until proper healing skills - or time - can be applied. You sigh as your vision of Myr's full moon dissolves into your fingertips. Overhead, a dozen or more crimson meteorites empty themselves into a spray of ragged sparks.

The Smilodon huffs gently, easily, and rests its head upon its mistress's thigh, comforted.

The orc laughs softly. It sounds sad or weary, at first, then grows into a hearty, defiant, victorious peal. She buries her face into the neck of her companion for a moment, but when she finally falls silent and lifts herself off of the beast her eyes decidedly fall upon you. A strong, bloodied hand wraps itself around the back of your head and pulls you into a surprisingly delicate headbutt. She holds your heads together. You feel her heavy breathing, each exhale laced with some heady, warming scent. Perhaps it was the brew in her forgotten gourd, but... to you, now, it feels like pure joy, like utter relief.

The long, slow scrape of her hot tongue suddenly drags its way up your chin and briefly across your lips. A feminine, orcish hand is already encircling the base of your cock, and two wet, golden eyes are staring into your own. The mix of drying blood and her surprisingly delicate caress on your skin is... dizzying.

As if by providence your own off-hand is already clasped to her inner thigh, and her sudden gesture inspires you to instinctively slide your unbloodied fingers up towards her slippery, **** sex. You feel the pliant swell of her vulva as the tip of one finger begins to penetrate, but you spread them instead, spreading her... She chuckles; it sounds grateful, relieved, patient... lustful... You both let go, though she brushes the tip of her nose against yours in passing.

"S'ah."

Though you hoped it might go further than that, it doesn't. Nor should it, perhaps, in this moment. The orc dutifully sets upon the gnarled hafts of the goblin arrows piercing her Smilodon's hide.

"Hmm," she mutters, both hands moving in quick, practiced motions.

You lean back on your heels, your mind pulsing with lust and purpose. Myr's blade rests purposefully, tip-first into the soil, its length streaked once again with the raw, heathen gore of the Holm's enemy. The moonstone itself, you notice, is inert: no sparkles, no glowing, no pulses. You smile to yourself and reach a hand out to the to the orc's wounded shoulder. Whatever help Myr might lend, she's earned-

"Ah!" the orc gasps, swatting your hand away by the wrist... perhaps in pain? Her eyes soften at your confusion, and a discouraging smirk spreads across her lips. For a moment she looks up into the thick, dark, rustling foliage of the woods, then nods silently to herself. One finger dips itself into the blood of her own shoulder wound, and she drags it slowly, purposefully, along the long, silvery scar that connects her clavicle to her bare right nipple.

"S'ah?" she seems to ask. You think you understand, acknowledging that an orc might wish to flaunt her battle scars. You don't know how to tell her that Myr's holy light won't prevent the wound from scarring, but... maybe the pain itself is a trophy to an orc? Either way, you're not keen on denying her.

"S'ah," you sigh gently, trying out the word. It makes her smile, then chuckle. The orc brings her forehead to yours again, but this time she only flicks her tongue across the corner of your mouth.

"Thane?" she seems to ask, pressing her bloodied hand to your chest. The visceral, tacky smears it leaves on your heaving chest are irrelevant.

"Aye," you answer, enveloping her hand and pulling it deeper into your skin. "Thane."

"Ak'horra," she answers, bringing all of your hands firmly together against her own bare chest. As she does she drags her tongue against your lips again, playfully flicking the tip against your nose as she ascends, then she settles back on her haunches with a wry, flirtatious smirk.

"Ak'horra," you repeat. For some reason the name - or maybe her orcish kiss - makes your cock twitch...

"K'ron," she adds softly, maybe wearily, pulling your hands to the side of her wounded, drowsing beast.

"K'ron," you repeat respectfully. "Ak'horra. So long as I breathe, Myr's blessing is upon you. Both of you."

You press your forehead against hers, your noses pressing gently together. She doesn't disengage.

"Myr," she whispers.

"What?"

"Myr," she repeats, pointing back in the direction from which you both came. From here the tumultuous sounds of His pool are but a gentle rustle that could easily be mistaken for the tossing leaves overhead. Her dominant hand rises, her fingertips fluttering quickly up and down like rainfall... like His cleansing falls. As if to hammer home the point, she smears her bloodied palm against your cheek with a wolfish grin. "Myr."

"S'ah?" you question, mimicking her movement against your own bloodied skin. A quick, melodic chuckle erupts from her pretty lips.

"S'ah, s'ah," she seems to reassure. The orc looks down to her now-sleeping - drowsing - Smilodon. "S'ah..."

The last word is a promise, and her eyes smolder brighter than the midday sun as they flick quickly back to yours. You feel... maybe... just maybe... she might be waiting for you when you finish...