Yes, am sure.

"I do not know the rune bones as well as some," your cunning brother admits as he guides you deeper into the mystic caves, "but from what I do know, I believe that reading bodes well for you, if you have courage to equal your, uh, baser instincts." As you navigate dim passages, he gathers up various supplies from alcoves and shelves along the way.

"I am brave enough for anything, brother, if it means I can finally mate. My own hand just isn't enough anymore..." you reply, offering an admission of your own in return.

"Well, Elf-blood on top of Orc-blood, and of the breeding-caste, of course it isn't. And I believe I can promise an experience you will be powerless to resist," he says with a side-long grin. "Now strip, and get rid of that filthy rag, and wash yourself in the sacred spring. All over, mind. Think of your mate." He steers you to the steaming waters that glow with their own dim light. "I'll prepare your new things for you," he adds, nodding at the bundle under his arm.

You strip, briefly huffing your own scent from your skimpy leather loincloth, then lower yourself into the waters that are only just not too hot to bear. You immerse yourself, rinsing your short-cropped hair, shaved above your ear on one side where you wear your caste-mark tattoo proudly. The hot water is soothing, and as you wash, you find your tension fades, and even the insistence of your mating drive is less urgent. You give thanks to your ancestors for this relief, and for a smarter brother so willing to assist you. Soon enough, you have washed yourself all over.

You step out onto clean linen, in the spot your brother indicates, where a draft of hot, dry, faintly sulphurous air vents from some unfathomably deeper rift to dry you swiftly, and are presented with clean garments. You blush a bit a the thin, filmy silk - something more suited to the Elf-whores of the pleasure-warrens than for an Orcish male. But the skimpy, sheer waist wrap cups your privates like a male garment should, and the slippery thong in back slides snug along your cleft, tickling your sensitive pucker as it is fastened in place.

At least the scented oil your brother approaches you with next doesn't smell girly. Rather masculine, musky and deep, worthy of your first rut. He daubs your brow, your throat, both of your nipples, tugs at the waist-cord of your skimpy silken skivvies to drizzle the oil onto your damp pubes, then steps around to pour another trickle down along the thong that hugs your cleft, all the way to your shivering ring. The idea that your mate might wish to play with your butthole at least promises an experienced partner, and you don't think you mind, as long as you get to drain your weighty, seething balls.

Finally, he offers a piece of... jewelry? A wedding ornament? In any case, a collar of iron, marked with deep cut runes in-set in silver. Of iron and silver as well is the sturdy chain that hangs from its ring, ending at another ring that would hang about the height of your groin. You are trying to gauge whether it is meant to fit around your cock alone, or also you balls, when your smarter sibling speaks, reclaiming your attention.

"Brother, do you agree to go to this mating, of your own will, at the behest of your Elders, to honor the pacts made on behalf of our tribe?" Really, a formality, surely. Of course you agree to your mating, and you eagerly say so.

"I do agree." Your brother's sly smile is as pleased as ever as he swings the collar on its hinge to snap closed around your throat.

"So be it," he affirms. "Carry this, in your left hand, and follow me now if you are ready to meet your mate." He offers the ring on the end of the chain, and you take it with your left hand as instructed.

Oiled silk caresses your quivering bud like a greasy finger with every step, increasing your anticipation as you follow your brother back to where the Elders, and your mate, await you.