You have an evil idea...

You sneak to the door in bare feet and glance at the chaos unfolding outside. A group of five heroes are fighting the camp of goblins, and seem to be doing well. A human barbarian woman is fighting the chief, her big tits swinging in her fur bikini with every thrust and sweep of her greatsword. By her side stood a dwarf in shiny full-plate defending against the chief's axe with a tower shield as big as himself. An elven female druid cast spells and directed her pet frogbear to attack as she stood alongside a gnome priestess in blue robes, casting blessings and healing spells. Finally, a damned halfling rogue ducked in and out of the fighting stabbing and stunning with his blades, grinning like an idiot under his black hood.

On the other side, the female wolf riders ran back and forth, stabbing with spears and snapping with jaws. You can't see Wylde among their numbers, curiously. The chief's guards fight with their spears, but they're only meant to be annoyances in this fight. The heroes must have brought the chief down to half hitpoints as they triggered the entrance of Vile One-Eye from her tent, the crazed old, ugly shaman. She darts about throwing poison bombs, emitting auras that increase effectiveness of poisons and poisoning anyone getting too close.

If you go out now everyone would try to kill you, and you wouldn't last a minute with your current level. After all, you'd almost died from getting hit by a CHAIR. If you wanted to escape, you'd need a distraction. There was nothing worthwhile in the hut, so it pretty much had to be your potions.

You briefly considered throwing your two remaining fire potions. However, you are such a low level compared to everyone outside this wouldn't achieve much more than bringing attention to yourself. The sleep potion would be good, and may even be bolstered by the ugly shaman's aura, but you think you'd need two to cover a large enough area of the village. That left...

You grin.

You palm your two lust potions, set to gaseous form, and prepare, watching the fight patiently. When everyone seems close together (and the rogue was close to the shaman - that was important) you let fly with your lust bombs. They arced through the air almost in slow motion, beautiful in the sunlight. Crashing onto the ground and shattering the fragile glass, large pink clouds billowed up and out, larger than normal, probably due to the shaman's aura.

Everyone froze after breathing in the pink vapors in mid-battle, stopped motionless still gripping their weapons while staring at each other. Then all of a sudden they threw down everything in their hands and came together in violent passion, kissing and tearing at each others' armor. The barbarian tackled the chief to the ground, tearing off his loincloth and her bikini bottoms to impale herself fully on his short but thick cock with a triumphant war-cry. Next to her the dwarf was knocked over by two goblin riders who used their spears to pry off his codpiece and helmet before each taking a seat on the now exposed (and both very hairy) sections.

The druid and priestess came together, quickly forming a 69 position, licking and fingering each other with robes pulled up over each of their waists. They paused occasionally as the pleasure hit a peak and they'd cry or moan before burying they faces into each others' pussies once more.

The halfing rogue had a look of horror on his face as he was unable to stop his body from burying his tiny pecker in the old wrinkly, stinking shaman's ass, pumping away as he retched from the stink of the old crone.

Everywhere there was rutting, even the druid's frogbear getting in on the action with some of the wolves.

The air filled with the smell of sex, the sight of heaving asses shoving back and forth and the sound of moans and delighted screams as orgasms began to spread.

You take the opportunity to run across the camp, grabbing a couple of tanned leather hides on the way, and jump into the forest, holding your breath the whole way to avoid succumbing to the pink gas.

No one even looks up as you run past, too busy with the joys of plunging into or onto their partner or partners.