Run for the clearing!

Breathlessly you spill from the forest and into a clearing, running for the other side. There are a few fallen trees and fat blades of grass that are still damp with morning dew. They lick at your legs as you run.

But there is no escape. The goblins on their black dire wolves come out from all sides. You fall to your knees, crying, wishing for the gods to take you in that moment.

The gods do not. Yarko, leader of the hunt pack, is a gnarled, gray goblin of immense size. He reminds you a little of Glaw, but he is ugly, one eyes and vicious. The dire wolves surround you, snarling and snapping their jaws, and Yarko hops from the furry back of his wolf.

He draws out his toothed sword.

"We take your head, hu-man," he says. "It worth fifty gold. We take alive. It worth hundred gold."

He grabs you roughly by your hair and pulls your head back, exposing your throat. He presses the jagged blade of the sword to your soft neck. The goblins cheer with bloodlust. You wait for the bite of agony that will end your life, but it does not come.

The weight of the sword at your throat lifts and Yarko shoves you forward into the grass. Your face falls against the wet blades and the sides of the stalks cut at your hanging breasts. Yarko lifts your ass up and tears away the last scraps of your loincloth. Exposing the quivering meat of your pale ass raises lecherous hoots from the goblins. Some edge forward, but Yarko shouts at them in a goblin word you recognize means, "forbidden."

"Zakrog has told us we are not to touch your cunt or arse this time," he says and you feel some relief. At least you won't suffer that indignity before you are executed.

"But," says Yarko in goblin, "the king said nothing of our sorgs."

Sorgs. The goblin name for their dire wolves. The huge, magical wolves are smarter than a normal animal, some say smart as goblins, but they are still beasts in flesh.

"No!" you cry as new horror surges in your heart.

You try to stand, but Yarko quickly kneels upon your shoulders and presses both of his hands on your head to keep your face in the grass. He whistles loudly and out of the corner of your vision you see a riderless sorg stepping forward. Its long, pink tongue pants from its mouth as it slowly approaches your raised ass.

"Please," you cry through tears, "Don't do this!"