Perhaps we can help each other...

Your more cunning brother strokes his weedy beard, eyeing your sleek, eager frame appraisingly. "As it happens, I may have an idea and, better, you could be a help to us Shamans as well." You stir a bit nervously. Your older brother is a decent sort, a healer, but some of your clan's cunning-folk are more than a little spooky. Still, your mating-urge has clouded your ability to think and plan even more than your usual modest limitations, and your brother is much smarter, so you decide to hear him out.

"Um, okay. What's the deal?" you ask, half-suspiciously, fidgeting and rubbing your semi-stiffie nervously through your skimpy, stained leather loin-clout.

"They wanted me for it, actually, on account of our mother's bloodlines. But come to think, an orc born to the breeding caste will suit even better. You do want to help our clan, surely? To become wiser, stronger, with more powerful alliances?" You nod, still uncertain where this is going, but not having any disagreement so far.

"We have a... well, call it a treaty, with certain out-clan interests we hope can be useful," he explains. "Our... arrangement with them requires a sort of... ambassador, as a sign of good faith on our part. Their very specific request was a male Orc, of half-Elvish breed, and so initially those concerned had planned to send me."

You nod again, still fidgeting absently with your dong as your heavy sack seethes restlessly with unspent, potent Orc-seed urgent for release. Foreigners don't worry you - even weak, pink-skinned humans - though you hadn't considered mating one. As bad as this was getting to you, however, at this point you wouldn't greatly mind.

Your brother notes your agitation, and smiles to himself, coming to slip a companionable arm around your shoulder. "See, I have my work here, and really can't be spared. But you have no duties, other than serving your base, insatiable appetites, and I believe our... allies are prepared to appreciate that. And, in return, I believe I can promise you a mating that you will never forget."

You realize, dimly, that he's steering you out of the healers' tent, and down the stony path that leads to the caverns of the conjurors. The air dims and thickens with the fumes of strange ****, musk, and brimstone as you follow along.

He pauses, hand on the curtain of bones and beads and fell amulets that screens the warrens of your clans most cunning sorcerers. You hesitate, but he smiles reassuringly and asks, "What do you say? Do we have a deal?"