I trust my mentor’s wisdom. Let’s trek through the Roymar woods.

Segora had promised to meet you in Hajelzore two weeks from now; travelling through the woodlands, you estimated you’d arrive just in time. These two weeks would be the longest time you'd ever spent away from your mentor.

And it’s only the beginning. I’m on my own now.

Though this freedom galvanized you, it revealed a new hollowness inside you. Your mind found solace in your recent discovery of the joys and promises of anal sex. You trekked over rocks and roots for the better part of the morning, lost in thought. By the late afternoon, you were contemplating how easy your journey had been so far when a series of echoing, wheezing screeches bounced off the trees around you. You crouched and listened. The shrieks resonated again, somewhere beyond your sight, and you recognized them for what they were.

Imps.

The distinctly serrated laughter of the fiends was hard to mistake for anything else. Instinctively, you drew your hunting knife from your belt and gathered the most potent memories at your disposal: Segora and you hunting last week; your spell hitting her in your last sparring session; the pink jewel shining between the cheeks of her offered ass; her moanings through the night… As you stalked in the direction of the unnatural shrieks, you weaved the memories into a shield over your mind’s eye, ready to parry the psychic attacks you knew the imps would fling at you.

The smell of sulphur and burning wood hit your nostrils as you approached what looked like a charred battlefield in the middle of the woods. Burnt marks stained the trees ahead, smoke still rose from a blasted tree trunk, and blood smeared the ground. Your back to a large oak, you spied the source of the devilish laughters: in the middle of a field of slain soldiers, a charcoal-skinned atrophied figure, no bigger than a human infant, two horns on its bald shiny head, hovered a few feet off the ground on leathery bat-like wings, masturbating joyously. The imp spurred his two compatriots as they fucked a bloodied and battered soldier of the Royal Guard of Ohemers from both ends; she was the last survivor of an onslaught—and their prize.

Her golden helmet had been thrown to the ground. One of the imps held her dishevelled brown hair tightly as he shoved his turgid, veiny cock repeatedly in her mouth; the wet sound of her glucks mixed with that of their hurrays. The other little devil clenched the remains of her crimson cloak, which had been burnt half way up her back, as he fucked her from behind. Her crimson skirt flew up with each thrust, and you could see a thin red line on her thigh, where one of them must have stung her.

Sick little bastards…

The stinger at the end of an imp’s tail could incapacitate a bull: the poor soldier couldn’t move or defend herself. On her knees, face down to the imp’s throat-clogging cock, ass up to the other one who had propped himself on a stone to fuck her, her limp arms shook with every one of their thrusts. The worst of it was, the murderous, hyper-libidinous creatures loved to burn their victims from the inside in a cruel and vicious ecstasy—imps ejaculated acid at orgasm... And from the looks of it, their deadly climax would trigger any time now.