Vurog, Half-orc Wizard Fighter Multiclass

Vurog’s mind clawed back to consciousness, fighting through the syrupy darkness. Opening his eyes, he saw a blurry red and dark space through unyielding glass. With a snarl, he kicked and pushed but it didn’t move. He flexed, grunted, and shoved. Finally, the clear surface lurched and then gave way, and he tumbled out.

Hot, humid air hit his skin, beads of sweat already forming as he sprawled naked. He pressed a palm to the ground: it flexed and pulsed beneath him, slick and almost spongy, as if he’d landed in the belly of something alive. Every breath he drew tasted of copper and musk.

He rolled to his knees, blinking, orienting. All around, the walls arched overhead in bloody ridges and meaty folds, shining with moisture, the shapes weirdly alive, like the inside of a giant ribcage. More pods ringed from the perimeter, some open, others still shut.

The place reeked of heat, flesh, and something almost obscene. The way the floor shifted under his hands and knees. It was hot and wet and soft, sending a jolt through his nerves, giving the feeling of thrusting into a cunt. He huffed out a breath, half-cursing, half-aroused despite himself.

A scream echoed somewhere distant, shrill and inhuman. The walls seemed to shudder in response. He listened for a heartbeat, then got to his feet, every inch of him bare but unbothered. No clothes needed, not here, not with this heat prickling his skin and his cock hanging heavy between his legs.

The only thing that mattered was finding out what the fuck was happening and getting a weapon, fast. He moved, toes sinking slightly into the warm, fleshy floor, senses sharp.

Vurog stalked to the nearest still shape. A corpse slumped beneath a ruptured pod, a sword gleaming in its stiff grip. He yanked it free, tested the weight, and exhaled slowly, feeling the hot air swirl around his body.

How had he gotten here? His last memory was a cold hunt on the slopes in the Spine of the World, stalking a dragonborn hermit-wizard for knowledge and new magic. Then: pain, blinding light, and now… this. ****, maybe. ****. Taken by magic.

Vurog gripped the sword he’d scavenged and let his breath settle, tuning himself to the faint crackle of the Weave. Even stripped of gear, he was never truly unarmed; strength was strength, and magic was the sharpest edge of all. The fools in his tribe could sneer, but power earned in blood and study was power that could never be stolen.

He cast Sending, feeling the cool weight of the magic gather and he spoke, counting the words, “Veronsha, I’m alive. Was knocked out. Captured but free now. Last I remember: hunting that dragonborn wizard. Woke somewhere weird and… fleshy. Where am I?”

The spell fizzled, the arcane thread slipping from his grasp before it could fly. He frowned, lips pressing into a flat line. The hag who’d first shown him this magic had warned: “Sending won’t cross every wall, boy. If you’re not even on the same world-”

His jaw worked. Was this a different Plane? The place certainly felt like it. Not that he’d ever been on any Plane but his own. But it certainly felt wrong. The floor still pulsed underfoot.

Well, no doubt his sister was looking for him with her own divine magics. He sent a prayer Ilneval’s way but wasn’t too concerned about getting a response. The Orcish god of Strategy and War expected his captains to fight their own way out of any trap and return with scars…and with new secrets worth the pain.

He ran through the spells he’d prepared by habit before sleep. Absorb Elements. Shield. Not much, but enough for a fight.

No book, but he didn’t fret. He’d started from nothing once, he could do it again. All he’d need to replace a spellbook was some dried skin, blood, and an evening’s rest. A luxury for later.

For now, sword in hand and magic coiled in the back of his mind, Vurog pressed onward, senses sharp and ready for whatever this flesh-place would throw at him.

Lae’zel had stalked through corridors of writhing flesh and bone, half-plate armor cinched tight to her wiry frame. She moved with ruthless efficiency, blade wet with the blood of thralls and twisted monsters alike. The stench of mind flayer clung to every surface; it spurred her rage, keeping her steps sharp and her mind clear. She had awoken alone, carved her way from the parasite’s birthing pod, and reclaimed her gear with cold satisfaction. Survival was proof. She was no victim, but a blade in Vlaakith’s hand, cutting through the abomination of this hellish ship.

The nautiloid’s corridors bent and twisted, arching open to a dizzying hell-lit expanse, an adult red dragon flying past. Her eyes scanned for threat, for prey, for any sign of the helm, for escape, and her chance at purification.

Lae'zel paused, perched silently on a fleshy outcropping, blade poised, golden eyes narrowed to slits. Below, a male figure stalked cautiously through the open to air passage, naked and wary, gripping a crude sword. Primitive, a savage, surely, but not yet drooling or babbling like the other infested thralls. Still, she could not risk mercy.

She assessed him with a seasoned soldier’s eye: skin the color of fresh blood, rangy and lean, muscle corded tight beneath a latticework of scars and rough, tribal markings. His hair was a black, matted tangle, falling wild around a brow that was smooth for one so bestial, lacking the proud, angular ridges of her own people. Yet his jaw was brutally broad, jutting with pronounced tusks, mouth wide and suited for rending. The face, while odd and alien, betrayed no weakness; his gaze was sharp and suspicious, brown eyes never resting for long.

He carried himself with a tension that promised **** at any provocation. Most unsettling, her attention could not help but flick down, was his sheer, bestial exposure: a grotesquely large phallus hanging between his thighs, thick and veined in its sheath, moving obscenely with each silent, cautious step.
Lae’zel’s lip curled with contempt, yet a flicker of **** interest passed through her. Whatever he was, he would be tested—by blade, by strength, and by survival.

She leapt without hesitation, body arcing gracefully through the hot air, landing directly behind him, blade flashing down.

He spun, eyes wide, meeting her stroke with the edge of his scimitar. Metal screamed on metal. She bared her teeth. “Istik! This is your end!”

“End? You want my end, you’ll have to **** on it, you bat-nosed whore!”

They exchanged a flurry of blows: her technique crisp, his wild and full of brute ****.

Sparks flare as metal bites metal. He fights like a savage, no form, but raw and relentless. She grins. At least he does not cower.

She feinted left, then swept low. A killing blow. But as her sword would bite his side, magic flared with a shimmer of ****, a flash of strange words. Her blade rebounded off a transparent shell an inch from his skin.

She snarled. “Wizard tricks! child’s play!”

He barked a savage laugh, baring his tusks as he pressed the attack:

“If it works, bitch. Who gives a shit when you're dead! Now quit dancing and tell me- where am I, and why’d you freaks drag me here?”

Suddenly, a blinding spike of pain surged through her skull. She staggered backward, gripping her head, and saw him clutch his own skull as well.

"My head! What is this?" she crooned, a white-hot spike burning behind her eyes.

The parasite, writhing, awakening. In that instant, their minds touched. Flashes of memory: cold mountains, tribal rituals, a sister’s urgent face, the taste of fear and wonder. She sensed his utter confusion, his rage at being uprooted, the alienness of everything around him. She saw her own face through his eyes.

He reeled, blade half-raised. Lae’zel staggered back, her own memories leaking into the void: the Crèche, the pain of infection, oaths to Vlaakith, hatred for the mind flayers.

The bewildering pain, sensations, and memories passed soon enough and she rallied.

Lae'zel steadied herself, realization dawning. “You are no thrall. Vlaakith blesses me this day.” she sheathed her sword upon her back, "Together we might survive."

He straightened, breathing heavily, confusion etched upon his blunt features, “What the fuck was that?!”

Her lip curled disdainfully as she met his ignorant stare. "We carry mind flayer parasites. Unless we escape, unless we are cleansed, our bodies and minds will be tainted. Twisted." She stepped forward, voice lowering fiercely, her eyes blazing. "Within days we will be ghaik. Mind flayers."

His brow furrowed, clearly overwhelmed. This savage knew nothing, of course. He was primitive, barely more than an animal. But he held himself upright, clearly understanding enough to grasp their shared peril.

He tilted his head suspiciously. "Who are you?"

She raised her chin proudly. "Who am I? Your only chance of survival."

Her eyes dropped to his fully exposed body. She scowled with disgust, yet found herself drawn to the sight of his firm, battle-scarred muscles, impressive despite their savage origins. Then, unbidden, her gaze moved downward, lingering briefly on the grotesque yet lewdly fascinating sight of his oversized cock swinging obscenely against his thighs, a thick, leathery sac behind it. Disgusting, certainly—but appealing to the eye oddly enough.

She shook her head sharply to dispel the traitorous thought. "Why are you naked? Is your kind so backwards you have yet to discover clothing and armor?"

"I woke up this way. No clothes."

Lae'zel hissed sharply in annoyance. "Fool! Did you not see the equipment chest right next to your pod?"

He looked blankly back down the way he had come, then shook his head. "No. I didn't notice… my spellbook-"

"It is far too late now," she snapped, cutting him off. "We will not waste precious moments returning for scraps. If your kind’s equipment is as primitive as your wits, you left behind nothing but loincloth and club anyway."

He scowled briefly at her simple observation, taking insult, jaw tightening, but he wisely held his tongue. Good. A primitive capable of obedience, at least.

“You’re the first person I’ve seen here who’s not drooling or screaming. If you’re cutting a way out, we can do it together.”

She nodded and turned toward the pulsing corridor ahead, the ship shuddering violently beneath her boots. Time was short. The vessel might tear apart any instant.

"Stay close.”, she commanded. With the edge of her sword, she gestured through an archway ahead, toward the Astral Infusion Bay swarming with shrieking devils, “First we exterminate the imps. Then we seize the helm and take control."

She set off at a swift, disciplined pace, not bothering to see if he followed. The sound of the slap of flesh on flesh told her he did, though whether it was the rhythm of his bare feet on living deck or the obscene smack of his cock against his thighs was a mystery.

A savage, yes, but one who could swing a blade. Until the parasite was purged, he would make an adequate meat shield.