Yes, listen to Lover

You focus on your holy greatsword, goblin blood once again dripping from its carefully honed edge, the sacred symbol of Lucretia emblazoned on it still miraculously clean. You focus on your Lover, your heart beating fast in your ears but your body singing with holy fury, devotion to your goddess, and even unexpected arousal. You clear your mind and listen.

“Blessed Lady! Holy blade,” you say in awed prayer as insight flashes like lightning into your mind.

You cannot rely solely on Lucretia’s blessings and your strength of arms. You must use the weakness of your foes against them. So your Lover counsels. And sparing this wounded goblin is the first step on the path your insight opens for you.

Even as you make your whisper thanks to Lucretia and the blade she has blessed, the cowardly goblins are done appraising the situation. There is only one of you and three of them. The odds are in their favor. You see foulest lust light in their eyes, and know that any that survive will be the first to claim your throat and your pure paladin pussy for their monstrous cocks.

The goblins cry in triumph as they watch you quickly sheathe Lover and misinterpret the move as one of surrender. Unarmed you begin to charge again, but your target is not the approaching goblins. Their triumph turns to surprise as you set your shoulder and crash into one of the camp’s crude huts. Your armored-form smashes through its thin wall of mud and earth, and then still pushing your graceful half-elven legs hard, straight through the other wall. You spit dirt from the broken walls and suppress the sudden urge to vomit at your momentary exposure to the fetid stench within the hut.

You have watched this camp. You know its layout and you know where the goblins were when you began your reckless attack. There can be no new defenders close to where you emerge and the three behind are delayed by their long unwieldy spears and the ruins of the hut. But the archer has a clear shot through the holes you have smashed in the hut’s walls and lets fly. The arrow is aimed true and, as you turn toward your next target, from the corner of your eye you see it sail over your pauldron to strike your neck.

It is a killing shot.

There is a flash of golden light and the barbed iron tip of the arrow falls away from your pale unbroken skin. Your faith in Lucretia, the shield of her blessing that you cast as you ran at the gate, has saved you. You have lost no more than a few red hairs caught in its barbs as it fell. The goblin archer curses loudly behind you in his guttural tongue.

Without pause you continue running forwards, crying out the most fervent prayer of gratitude to Lucretia of your life but unable to give thanks on your knees as you ought. You are still fighting for your life, and that of the prisoner suffering **** at the heart of this unclean place. Ahead is the camp’s cooking fire, and with both hands you pull free large burning brands.

“In Lucretia’s name, attack!” you cry as with all your strength you toss a burning brand to your left. You hope some of the goblins understand the common tongue.

“Kill the rapists,” you command with authority, trying to make your voice sound deeper and gruffer as with both hands you toss the other burning brand to your right. Make them believe that there is more than one of you.

As if on cue the near-amputated goblin at the gate begins to scream as if dying. It probably is. But even when it was crying out in warning as you barrelled towards it, it screamed only one word over and over. You do not speak the tongue of goblins, but you know it could be giving its comrades no sense of how many were attacking. Cries of alarm come from unseen goblins to your right, and the first smells of smoke. A lucky throw!

You smash through another small hut and draw Lover once again. The sound of the steel being drawn sounds like anticipation and approval and pure affection. You are two-thirds of the way through the fortified camp, beyond the large central hut. You should be…

Ahead two naked goblin women wail in terror from within a hut as they see you running toward them. Their bellies are round with child, but impossibly distended making them look both comically and painfully spherical. You doubt they can walk, but must crawl if they want to move. Green cum leaks from the mouth of one, and both are covered in a dry crust of spumes of it. The goblin male in the hut, sullied loincloth nowhere in sight and oversized green cock drooling at half-mast, takes one look at you and abandons the pregnant goblin women to their fate.

You stab the fleeing goblin in the back, cutting it down as it runs. You feel no shame in killing it as it retreats. The monster is nothing more than vermin. Its abandonment of mothers is more evidence of the infamy of its horrid species. Briefly the thought of killing the mothers of monsters flashes through your mind. And then shame burns hard and bright afterwards. They and their unborn brood have committed no sin to warrant that. Your oath to Lucretia is their sword and shield as much as the prisoner’s.

You gesture fiercely at the goblin females and they crawl away on their bulging bellies with unexpected speed. They are still crying out in noisy terror. The camp is full of the sound of confused and scared goblins calling out or screaming.

And suddenly the confusion coalesces into clarity. With great wailing shrieks of fear you hear first one and then more and more goblins in the camp turn and run. Some even throw down their weapons so they will outpace their fellows. Convinced they are under attack from multiple directions, afraid of being trapped in a burning camp with their attackers inside the palisade, the goblins flee in a mad rout.

Much of your armor is covered with dirt from broken goblin walls, but patches still shine like a polished mirror in the clear morning light. Glowing embers are flecks in the smoke that flows past you, your long flowing ginger locks bright as the tiny flames.

Warily you advance towards the central hut. You have killed only two more goblins, but you have won for now.