Vengeance is a dish best served cold and then red hot

You try to pull Lover from the goblin corpses. You need to put an armored boot to the back of the first green monster you drove your greatsword through to get the leverage to push its skewered skull off. With Lover free and dripping blood from its shining blade you kiss its pommel in gratitude for its good service. Mixed memories of the delicious taste of aphrodisiac berries and the cruder taste of your own cunt on the metal of the pommel come vivid to your mind, and unexpected arousal pulses through you. For a moment you imagine this is Lover’s way of kissing you back. A ridiculous fancy!

You shake your head and consider what to do next. You reason that though the sentries will eventually be missed for now you have time to observe. You climb one of the trees beside you, the task made easier by the thick ivy wrapping its trunk. Nevertheless it is hard work in partial plate, and you give thanks to your determination to train everyday and at every task with it on. But your fiery red-hair, shining armor, and white and gold cape mean you are hardly dressed for stealth. You take care to keep well-back in the tree’s thick foliage. And to make sure the sun’s angle will not cause your armor to reflect and reveal you to any goblins that look your way.

Your keen elven eyes, deep green and sparkling with excitement, have no difficultly in picking out the details of the goblin settlement despite your shrouded vantage.

The goblin village is made up of about a dozen huts in a glade by a small hill with a crude palisade for protection. Improbably the hill seems to be capped by a large pool of clean water that shimmers in the sunlight. The pool is the source of a stream which cascades through a series of small waterfalls before flowing passed the village and on into the forest. You wrinkle your soft, pretty nose in disgust as you see that the goblins have not only been sullying that pure stream with their waste but drinking from downstream of their own leavings. They truly are disgusting stupid creatures.

You watch long enough to count about a dozen goblin warriors in the village. There are no goblin children and you see only three goblins with fat bellies that might be with child. You have heard that goblins rut constantly and, like many of the monstrous races, can plant their seed in the womb of any species large enough to bear their birth. Their own females can give birth to as many or five or six goblins at a time. Perhaps the lack of children and paltry number of pregnant female goblins means this is a fresh colony?

The goblins seem to be concentrated at the largest hut at the centre of the camp. Goblins enter and leave it regularly, chattering excitedly to one another before they go in and emerging satisfied and a little lethargic. You can not see within due to a heavy hide acting as a tent flat. You are unsure if it is a temple to their dark gods or their equivalent of a tavern. Beside the large hut is a crudely made sledge, confirming your theory. The sledge has surprisingly stout looking ropes attached, though you can’t guess what cargo needs to be bound so tightly to something so rickety.

Your patient observation pays off as a squat goblin bearing a barrel on its broad shoulders barges to the head of the queue at the central hut. A goblin emerging from the hut collides with it as it tries to enter and the two small creatures bounce apart and the barrel falls. The watching goblins evidently find this hilarious as they double over in laughter at the slapstick antics. You find yourself salivating as delicious aphrodisiac berries spill from the dropped barrel. Each tiny fruit is a guaranteed orgasm and maybe more. Your naughty hopes are confirmed!

As the goblins scramble to recover the scattered berries, holding the hide hanging open, you see what is within the hut. Your worst fears are confirmed. In the hut is a human or elf woman. She is bent over with her knees on the ground, her hands are bound behind her back with rope and her legs are **** open by a spreader bar. There are goblins at her head and rear, thrusting away.

These monstrous green vermin are committing an unholy sin against Lucretia in front of you and you will deliver to them the holy justice of your Lover and your goddess for their transgressions.

You leap from the tree burning with righteous fury. You land with elven grace and a clatter of armor. You take a moment to tear the cloth muting the joints of your armor away to restore its full range of motion. Even as you do so you mutter a holy enchantment, a spell called Shield of Faith. Your body beings to glow in a pale yellow light. Then you begin to run towards the goblin village with growing speed and even more terrible momentum.

Your red-hair flows behind you, your white and gold cape flies proud at your back, and from you radiates a pure holy light that makes your polished armor shine like the sun. A mere dozen paces from the village, with the first cries of surprised alarm rising from within, you finally draw your greatsword Lover. It is twice as long as any of the foe are high. It shines even brighter that your armor. It is glorious and terrible, and it sings to you alone.