To Auberdine

Without stopping to gather clothes, the three of us slipped out through a tear in the back of the canvas, melting into the cool night air. Covered in dirt, sweat, and drying spunk, we set a grueling pace south through the shadowed treeline of Ashenvale, heading toward the refuge of Auberdine with the hope that we may rejoin our Dwarven companions.

The trek was a bizarre, miserable march. Uthul led the way, her broad green shoulders hunched and her usual booming confidence quieted into a grim silence. Behind her came Korant, shuffling awkwardly with a stiff, pained stride, his hands frantically trying to cover his front while his face burned a furious red at every snapping twig. I brought up the rear, every step a stinging reminder of the orc camp’s relentless ordeal.

Hours bled together under the dense, glowing canopy of the forest. The night air bit at our bare skin, but no one dared complain as the threat of an orcish hunting party kept our feet moving.

Just a few hours before sunrise, as the distant, luminescent spires of Auberdine were almost within reach, a sudden scent of roasting meat and woodsmoke drifted through the trees. We rounded a mossy embankment and stumbled directly into the warm firelight of a makeshift camp - and right into the middle of Baelog and the rest of the dwarves!

The dwarves froze mid-cheer, tankards of ale halfway to their bearded mouths. Sitting right by the fire, Baelog dropped his roasted boar leg in absolute shock. These were the very same dwarves who had cut and run just days ago, abandoning Korant and I to be captured by the warband!

In an instant, half the dwarves scrambled to their feet, hand axes and blunderbusses instantly leveling straight at Uthul’s chest.

“An orc!” one of them yelled, his voice echoing through the clearing. “Draw steel! It’s a trick!”
“Hold your fire, you fools!” Korant rasped, stepping forward frantically, though his knees buckled slightly as he tried in vain to cover his sticky thighs. “Baelog… you… you coward! Lower your weapons!”

Jaw after jaw dropped as the dwarves finally registered the rest of the scene before them. The initial defensive panic dissolved into utter bewildering shock as they took in the spectacle of three stark-naked, thoroughly exhausted figures standing in the firelight, liberally plastered from head to toe in thick, shiny coats of dried orcish spunk.

What made Baelog’s eyes nearly pop out of his skull, however, was Uthul. Standing tall and unbothered in all her bare green glory, her voluptuous, heavy curves were on full display right alongside her impressively thick, resting length hanging front and center.

Silence fell over the clearing, save for the crackle of the campfire.

Baelog slowly lowered his tankard, his eyes darting frantically between Korant’s sore stance, Uthul’s massive... frame, and the sheer amount of dried spunk glinting off my chest.

“By… by the beard of Magni…” Baelog stammered, wiping his brow with a trembling hand as he signaled his men to hold their fire. “We thought you lads were dead! We didn’t expect… wait, why is there a naked green brute with you?! And by the Titans, what did those grunts do to you?!”