Brains and Clerics

It didn’t take Vurog long to test the limits of this strange new feeling simmering behind his eyes.

As he and Lae’zel pressed through the next corridor, the carnage of their last battle still sticky on their hands, he found his mind circling that uncanny moment in the fight - a vision, a resonance, that seemed to unlock the very core of the tall goblin bitch’s mind. Her warning echoed in his ears: the parasite would twist him, transform him, make him into something else. The thought curdled his gut with disgust. But even as he bristled at the prospect of losing himself, some stubborn, hungry part of him insisted the real damage was already done. He was changed. The line had been crossed.

Well, if the choice was between surrendering to a slow, slavish **** and turning this curse into power, there was **** at all. Vurog had spent too many years learning from witches who spoke in riddles, from shamans who cackled as they handed him charms and bone-carved fetishes, always with a warning and a dare. Compared to them, Lae’zel, with her iron jaw and soldier’s arrogance, was as much a meathead as Grashnag back home, more brawn than brains. She spoke with certainty, but that didn’t mean she understood the true workings of magic. If this parasite had given him new tools, he would damn well use them before they used him.

Vurog stole a glance at Lae’zel’s sharp, disciplined stride and the deadly promise in every step. He let his mind drift, almost probing with his will for that sensation he’d felt in the heat of battle, chasing the flicker of impossible vision that hinted he could see and maybe even touch. He was no fool: whatever power was lurking inside his skull, he would master it, or die trying.

Mindful of his first forays into magic, hours spent sweating over clumsy gestures, the patient, brutal repetition of simple cantrips, the way even the smallest spells had fought him tooth and nail. Vurog expected resistance. In his tribe, nothing worth having came easy. Power had to be torn from the world’s grip, earned with sweat and blood and stubbornness. So when he hesitantly reached out, hunting that shimmer of power he’d felt in the fight, he braced for a struggle.

Instead, Lae'zel's pace began to waver. The steady, purposeful rhythm of her boots on the ground faltered, each step just a fraction slower than the last. The swing of her hips dulled, the roll of her shoulders losing its martial precision. Her sword arm, once a taut line of readiness, hung looser at her side. She took another sluggish pace, then half of one, until she was simply standing there, the back of her head tilted ever so slightly as if listening to something only she could hear.

For a heartbeat, Vurog thought she'd caught wind of danger-but then, impossibly, her head began to dissolve. The braids and tight bun unraveled into nothing, the back of her skull fading away until there was only a glistening, pulsing brain suspended above her unmoving body, throbbing with its own eerie rhythm.

Vurog stared, awed by the ease of it. All he had to do was reach for power, and the world seemed to bend to meet his hand. Whatever magic the parasite had woven into him, it was deeper and stranger than anything he’d dared dream.

He tried to take a step forward, but the world resisted him. His boot pressed down into the fleshy floor as though through syrup, every motion dragged and heavy. His breath came slow, drawn out, as if the air itself had thickened into honey. A fire smoldered far down one corridor, its flames stretching and curling in strange, slow undulations, each flicker lasting too long. Some dark ichor gathered and fell from the ceiling with impossible slowness. The only thing that moved with ease was the hovering brain before him, pulsing in perfect rhythm with his heartbeat.

It drifted toward him and as it did, the shape began to change. Folds of wet grey matter stretched, split, and unspooled into lines of fire. The illusion unraveled into Orcish writing, letters carved in flame and shadow, hovering in midair like a scroll without end.

The text slid past his eyes at the speed of thought. He did not read so much as know. With each breath, the words shifted, rising and falling in invisible columns. He willed them to stop and they stopped.

It was Lae’zel. All of her. Her life set down in raw detail. Beliefs, habits, loyalties. All laid bare like a warrior’s wounds, open to his inspection. He thought of a question, and the scroll bent itself to answer. Some lines burned bright with her pride: Serve Vlaakith. Kill ghaik. Strength is all. Weakness dies. Others whispered softer truths, private scars hidden beneath her barked commands: shame at being unproven, the secret fear of the parasite inside her skull, the doubt she’d never admit even to herself.

The half-orc felt his gut tighten, not with pity but with the same thrum he felt in battle when an opponent dropped their guard. Power, naked and ****, offered to his hand.

And still the scroll unfurled. Vurog blinked hard. He wasn’t looking at some diviner’s rune, nor at the hides and charms he’d scrawled magic into back home. This was not the world as he knew it. It was too clean, too ordered, like a spellbook written by the gods themselves and handed to him for free. His tribal instincts bristled against it. Learning was meant to cost blood, pain, scars. But here it was, a map of a warrior’s soul, his enemy and ally, open legs, open wounds, all for him to read.

An ominous thrum stirred beneath Vurog’s feet, faint but steady, like a drumbeat buried in the flesh of the ship itself. It reverberated up through his legs, reminding him that the world around him had not stopped. It was only moving slower, as if waiting for him to decide. Whatever this sorcery was, it wasn’t safety. The nautiloid still lived, still fought against some unseen doom, and he was no fool to lose himself in visions while **** prowled near.

With a grunt and a flex of will, he pushed the scroll away. The endless script shivered, then dissolved into sparks. Lae’zel’s skull was whole once more. She stood before him, posture tight, sword still in hand, golden eyes flicking warily around as if nothing had happened.

For a moment, she simply breathed, then resumed her stride with that sharp, soldier’s precision. To her, perhaps, not a heartbeat had passed.

Vurog tightened his grip on his blade and followed, his mind still heavy with the taste of what he’d seen. The parasite’s gift had bared her very soul to him, as if she were a page in his own spellbook.

The thrum underfoot drove them on, a steady pulse in the living deck. Veins along the walls tightened, then loosened, like a great creature swallowing. Lae’zel moved at the tip of the spear as they fought monstrous brains on legs and stumbling thralls: full plate, greatsword, all forward pressure and clean kills. Vurog took his place a step behind, where he belonged: not the hammer-blow of his more traditional orcish kin, but the hand that turns a strike into an opening.

Nude and unarmored only exaggerated it. She broke lines; he slipped through the gap. Shield coiled behind his eyes, Absorb Elements banked like embers in his palms. He watched the half-breath after her cut. The stumble, the exposed flank… and used it, blade quick, wards thrown wide when needed to thicken their defense and shove hostile magic off course. The strange weight of what he’d seen he kept tucked behind his eyes, where it would not slow his hands.

“Hear that?” His head turned toward the sound of a muffled yelling, ****, echoing from across this rounded chamber.

Lae’zel’s eyes narrowed, though her stride barely faltered. “Another wretch in a pod. They will die. Wasted effort.”

“Or fight, if they’re given a chance.” Vurog angled toward the sound without waiting for her approval, his tusks bared in a grin. Lae’zel hissed annoyance, but followed.

Against the wall there was another still active pod. Inside, a woman twisted in panic. She was slender, pale, her features marked with both elven sharpness and human softness. Black hair framing her face with long bangs and a pony tail of segmented lengths bound with silver, streamed down her bare chest.

Her green-gold eyes snapped open as she saw them. For an instant she recoiled, then crossed her arms and legs in a futile attempt at modesty. Even so, there was no plea in her stare, only fear lashed tight to dignity

Vurog’s eyes devoured her. Perky tits capped with dark nipples stiff from the cold, a neat black strip above a tight little pussy, long thighs smooth and strong, the curve of her hips begging for hands. His cock surged up, swelling and swinging with blood, jutting out like a second weapon. He didn’t fight it; why would he? For an orc, bred to crave and conquer, she read like a prize, one the world would expect him to mount. He’d bedded plenty in his time, orc, goblin, hag, even centaur but never an elf, half or otherwise. His cock throbbed, bobbing of its own mind, while the rest of him kept an eye on the asshole-like entrances to this space.

Her voice carried through the barrier, strained but commanding. “Help me. Quickly!”

Lae’zel sneered. “Pathetic. If she cannot escape, she deserves the fate of cattle.”

Vurog ignored her. He pressed a palm to the pod’s surface. The flesh quivered, warm and slick. Inside, the woman mirrored him, chin lifting, eyes locking to his with stubborn will.

At the console below, glyphs pulsed like the ship’s heartbeat. The parasite in his skull thrummed, feeding meaning into alien symbols. He moved on instinct, one rune, then another.

A surge of lightning shot through his skull. Their minds brushed. He glimpsed flashes: discipline forged in darkness, the iron weight of devotion, a scar seared by betrayal. A single word resounded like a tolling bell: Shar.

The pod hissed, seals bursting. Warm fluid spilled, carrying the woman to the deck in a tumble of hair and limbs. She coughed, braced herself, then pushed upright. Despite her nakedness and trembling breath, her spine was straight, her eyes level.

“I thought that thing would be the end of me,” she said. Her tone was clipped, controlled. More soldier than victim.

His cock twitched again, swinging thick and heavy, daring her to look.

And she did. Eyes darted down, caught the sight of him stiff and proud, and snapped back up just as quick. A blush flared and was gone, her mask snapping shut like armor. “You freed me. I don’t say thank you lightly. Consider it said.”

Lae’zel stabbed her sword toward a fleshy niche. “Your chest,” she said, with the deep patience of someone **** to announce the obvious to idiots. A hinged shell like compartment. “Armor. Weapon. Clothes.” And then to Vurog, a pointed glare that said: see, fool?

The woman moved without fuss. She plucked garments free and dressed fast, the speed of long practice: padding, buckles, greaves finding shins, bracers kissing forearms. A dark cuirass settled against her frame with the soft thud of oiled leather. She threaded a chain at her throat and let a silver symbol rest there, ship-light catching on its edges. When she turned back, only a faint flush lingered high on her cheeks; the rest was composure and a clear line of intent. The prize in his hindbrain slotted cleanly into a different shape: fellow fighter.

“You’re remarkably comfortable,” she said dryly, “waving that cock around like it’s just another sword.”

“It is,” Vurog rumbled. “Biggest one I’ve got. Missed my own chest when I got out.”

A breath left her nose, almost a laugh. “Fair enough. Just point it at the enemy, not at me. My name’s Shadowheart. A cleric. I’ve spells of healing. If you bleed, keep your feet and keep within reach.”

“And you wanted to leave her behind! Wasted effort you said!” crowed Vurog. His war-math was simple: kill the healer first; a warband with a shaman fights twice as long. By that same math, Shadowheart was worth more than any plated meathead: keep her breathing and his blade and wards would carry farther. Magic was not softness; it was leverage, and he was the bastard who knew how to swing both.

Lae’zel pinched face snapped: “We move. Now.” And she strode off.

He exchanged looks with Shadowheart and she said, “Dangerous company. Githyanki cut throats between breaths and call it discipline.”

"Dangerous company is what you need in a fight.”

“Fair point.” she conceded and they both moved after Lae’zel.

They fell into a unit: Lae’zel a spearpoint, Vurog’s cock and sword swinging side by side, Shadowheart bringing up the flank. She threw a ward across him without looking. “If you insist on staying bare,” she said, “let me shield something vital.”

His tusks showed. “Plenty to shield.”

Her mouth twitched, the closest thing to a smile. “How fortunate for you.”