On the Road

The night’s fires had guttered to ash. Pale dawn crept into the hollow, long shadows stretching across sagging hides and smoke-scorched poles. Nott sat on a flat stone, her gourd limp in her hand, the liquor inside shallow. For once, she hadn’t tipped it to her lips.

Her head was clear. Painfully clear. Every cough of pups, every scrape of a pot, every muttered breath of half-asleep goblins was sharp as a blade. And into that clarity came a name she hadn’t spoken in weeks.

Luc.

She hadn’t planned to leave. Truth be told, she hadn’t planned anything in months. Maybe a year. Life in the hollow had become a cycle of meat, drink, and cunt, one rutting blur after another. It was only when she woke one morning; sticky, aching, surrounded by two women curled against her with their battered green pussies dripping her cum - that the thought pierced her: she had forgotten Luc’s face.

At first it was just a flicker. His laugh, his little curls, the smell of him when she tucked him in at night. They slipped away like smoke. Then, little by little, she caught herself replacing him. She would close her eyes and think of her son, and instead see the sharp-nosed features of a green child tugging at her leg by the cookfire, a boy or girl with her eyes or her laugh. She would smile at them, her children, without realizing she hadn’t thought of Luc at all.

That was when she started to drink harder. The guilt bubbled up, but it never stopped her cock from rising, never stopped her from spilling again and again into greedy holes. She told herself it was just survival. But after a while, it wasn’t survival. It was comfort.

The tribe thought of her as one of their own. More than that: she was theirs, beloved, relied on. She never went hungry. She never went cold. She had a bed in every tent, a drink in every gourd, a cunt in every corner. A brood of children already stirred in bellies across the camp, sharp-eared, bright-eyed little things who would grow up proud to call her theirs.

So she had to go. She was Nott the Brave, but she had to do this.

Maybe she could be Veth again. Mother to Luc. Wife to Yeza. No. She would be. She promised.

She rose, legs trembling, the obscene weight between them swinging heavily with the motion. Women shifted on their pallets to watch her, hands resting unconsciously on swollen stomachs, eyes full of warmth, of want, of a lov-no, -a sick obsession so fierce it nearly dragged her back down into the furs. One reached toward her as if to hold her hand, another smiled, lips parting around her name.

Nott pulled her hood low and **** herself not to meet their eyes. She couldn’t. If she let herself, she’d never leave.

No.

There was nothing keeping her here. She knew how to fight now. She had her crossbow, a sword. She could live in the wilds if she had to. She wasn’t that terrified halfling housewife anymore. The world had cut that out of her.

But she was still a goblin. Alone. Her own people would attack her on sight. Farmers would strike her down like a rabid dog.

She gathered her ragged cloak and pulled it tight around her shoulders. And then it came, soft and low, the voice she only ever heard drunk, sliding in even now, when she was sober.

You have sown well, little mother. They will not wither. Now you must walk. Find new soil. The tallfolk’s wombs are empty. Fill them. Bind them to you. Bind them to us.

Her breath caught. Gods, the words pricked at her like a hand between her legs. She’d spent too many nights rutting, too many days lost in the stink of sweat and seed, letting every rotten fantasy spill through her skull. Human girls bent over in the grass, elf maidens with their bellies round, all of them moaning her name.

She shook her head, muttering, “No, it’s not real. Just, just my thoughts. Just drink left over in my skull.”

The tone curved, warm, almost tender.

Home is every cradle that rocks your blood. Go. Plant. Bloom.

Her throat worked as she swallowed, shame burning the back of her tongue. She didn’t deserve warmth. She didn’t deserve comfort. But the voice wrapped around her ribs like a blanket all the same.

She pulled her hood low, hiding the yellow gleam of her eyes, the jut of her ears. “I’m going home,” she whispered. “To Yeza. To Luc.”

And as she stepped into the thinning dark, she clenched her teeth around the thought like it was iron: never again. No more wasting herself into strangers’ holes, no more spilling her guts into bellies that weren’t hers to claim. She would cork that vile hunger, hold it fast, starve it if she had to. She would be Veth again. She would be a mother, a wife.

She swore it.

Two days later on an isolated farmstead east of the Eisfus River....

After this. After this time she'd do it...

“You’re so soft! I can’t- I can’t stop, you’re swallowing me whole, ohh Yeza forgive meeeeeiee!”

Nott was hunched beside a bale of hay with her cloak in the dirt and her ass in the air, pumping furiously into a round, jiggling halfling backside twice the size of her own wiry waist. Her skinny green legs were spread wide to give her dangling balls room to swing and smack the backs of the farmer's daughter's thighs, every slap of flesh carrying across the field, the girl’s squeals muffled in her arms while Nott’s long ears flopped like pennants.