Yes, christening and tracking

But even as you take the first steps towards Barrowden your hand goes to fix your fiery hair and brushes the hilt of the greatsword slung on your back. Instantly your mind goes back to last night. The fruity flavor of the berries igniting warmth in your mouth and throat and belly, but wilder fire in your big pale breasts and the cleft of your quivering quim. The pommel of your sword pressed against your deep slit, the wildness of your wanton desire as you accepted it into your wet needy love tunnel, the smoothness of the metal and the rougher texture of the leather-wrapped hilt as you thrust it in and out of your molten depths. The taste of those berries so delicious and juicy in your mouth. Cumming, screaming, squirting from your undefiled cunt. The berries. Your orgasms.

You bite your lush pouting lower lip softly.

You shake your head, your long-flowing ginger locks like a second sunrise in the dawn's light. You should not think of such things. You are on a holy mission and there are good souls in need of aid and wicked ones in need of punishment ahead. You **** yourself to break the arousing spell of your memories, to recall instead more unpleasant matters. The goblins who ambushed you, and their disgusting thick green cocks ready to skewer you. You shiver as you think of those cocks and the taste of the berries. It is not only disgust.

You bite your lower lip less gently.

Two of the little monsters are dead near where you slept. One is separated from its head, the other almost split in twain by the blow that pierced its back. And as you glance at their corpses, you realize that you can easily see the panicked path of their two green comrades who escaped alive. You are no ranger, but that is a trail you could follow with ease. The goddess Lucretia hates ****, and it is your duty to punish those who would commit it as harshly as murderers.

Those two vile little monsters might attempt the same trick on a woman less capable of finding the holy strength to resist or with the sword skill to succeed at it. You should track them and slay them for their sins and the protection of Lucretia’s daughters. It would be a holy deed, worthy of your pilgrimage. And… Perhaps they have more berries?

"Come on, lover," you tell your sword, "it is time for us to do Lucretia's holy work!"

There's no-one to see your mild embarrassment, the gentle red on your pale freckled half-elven cheeks like a blush on a white rose, as you realize you're little more than a night and a day on the road and already talking to yourself. An embarrassment that hues a deeper red as you realise the revealing implications of your joking term of endearment for your weapon.

But then you remember a conversation with one of your tutors at River's Edge, a gnarled old woman who was once a veteran of Lucretia's militant orders and had helped found the young monastery. You had asked her why warriors sometimes named their weapons. She had told you that when the time came you would know if your own sword should have a name. Lucretia would plant certainty in your heart and head as she planted babe in womb.

You pull your huge greatsword from its scabbard at your back with a flourish, holding it high and proud in the dappled green and gold light of the forest. It almost sings as cleaves the air, its broad blade a shining beacon of purity. You think of squirting your juices over this pommel, of your liquid love dripping down this goblin-blooded blade, of how you slept the night with your legs wrapped around this sword as it nestled inside you.

You have baptised this blade in pussy-juice and green blood.

“Lover.”

You meant it as a quiet question to yourself, but it erupts from you as a proud declaration. Lucretia has moved your heart and your lungs. This sword was not merely christened last night, it has been baptised and blessed by the goddess of fertility through your pure pussy. You know it. You lower the sword and kiss the pommel, the grip, the cross-guard, and the gap below where the fuller opens to a circular hole in the blade. Impromptu ceremony complete, you sheathe Lover once more.

You head into the forest, following the trail of the goblins towards justice. And maybe the sweet nectar of those berries as just reward.