Note: First, thanks to everyone for the good reviews on Bounty of the Hunt! It's very encouraging! Here's another tale of misconceptions and lust in Azeroth for you all, hopefully as enjoyable as the last. As a side note, if you'd like to see a particular combination of races in a story, let me know and I'll see what I can work up; this stuff is pretty darn fun!
Sex of Warcraft: New Partners
Tharg heaved his mug into the air, downing his third pint of the evening. Orgrimmar was even busier then usual – which wasn't surprising, given that the blood elves had only recently been received into the Horde. There were still "festivities" going on – although most of the serious orcs knew full well that it was an unofficial attempt to get the elf hatred out of their veins.
But Tharg also knew that orcs weren't animals, and that they wouldn't hate the elves just because they were elves. No, orcs were conscious beings – and, perhaps more importantly in this case, they had damned fine ale. He found that helped with a lot of the oddities of his life as a soldier for the Horde.
He decided to go check on the proceedings; after all, there always seemed to be something new. Yesterday, it had been one of the blood elves' paladins trying to show off his skill to a crowd of spectators. It had all gone well, but then Tharg's brother Karkon, a hulking, 7-and-a-half-foot mountain of flesh, came and smacked him around something nasty, and that put a slight cool on interracial relations for the day.
Tonight, it was a magic show. The elves were set up near Warchief Thrall's hold, and were displaying their prowess with arcane energies. They were conjuring various trinkets, making colourful displays of light, and setting things on fire – blue fire, mind you. In all, it was an impressive show; Tharg cheered with his compatriots at each major show, delighted. The ale only made the stars he saw brighter.
"Woo-hoo!"
Tharg was startled by the shrill cry. He looked over at the source of the sound. It was a somewhat short, perhaps 6 foot, elf with a golden diadem in her black hair, and elegant, crimson silk robes clinging to her body. She was a little red in the cheeks – he heard elves fancied wine a great deal – and was hooting and cheering her fellows in the center of the crowd.
Seeming to sense his staring, she turned to him, and her expression cooled significantly.
"I'll bet you haven't seen that before, have you?" she asked, her voice full of contempt.
He sneered, cursing the arrogance of the elves. "Remember that holy warrior of yours yesterday? My brother was the one who crashed in his shield."
She seemed taken aback, but was quick to mask her hurt pride. "Not surprising he'd be proficient at it – all you orcs know is brute force."
He snickered. Magic was fickle and unpredictable. Brute force, however, always managed to drive an axe into your enemy's skull. He didn't bother to share this with the elf, though – she was obviously confident that her ways were quite superior to his own, and therefore wasn't the kind of person he would enjoy interacting with.
Instead, he watched the displays for a little longer, and then decided to retire. There were other things to do; he had been ordered to be at the front in the Plaguelands a week from now, and he needed to prepare for the journey. He passed by the inn one last time, to refill his mug, and left, only staggering a little.
He rounded a corner, and was immediately assaulted by the smell of rotting flesh. He blinked stupidly for a few seconds, and then recognised it; of course, it was the smell of Forsaken. He peered around for the source; they didn't deign to visit arid Orgrimmar much, preferring to stay in their damp, dark crypts in the Old World. He wondered what sort of person this could be.
He heard some grunting, as though someone were trying to lift a heavy object. Vaguely thinking he might help, he peered around the corner – and stood dumb as an undead couple obliviously went at it behind a stack of crates. Tharg, in drunken perplexity, found himself surprised that the Forsaken could actually get it on.
A little dazed, he turned around and jogged away, suddenly feeling jealous. He hadn't had a fun night for months now; he hadn't yet taken a life mate, but he'd been fooling around with a troll girl a couple of moons ago. They'd eventually been discovered, however, and her family had been outraged. Since then, he'd been spending some very lonely nights.
He kept walking through the huge city, and the signs of the festivities were everywhere. There were masses of ornaments and shreds of fancy clothes all over the ground, Orgrimmar not being the best place for the blood elves to exhibit their extravagance. There was the sweet smell of ale, wine, and magic in the air; the city glowed oddly in the light of the elves' powers, and all around one could hear the sounds of cheering crowds, explosions, and music. He was a little sad to be leaving it all – he found it a nice place to stay. But at the same time, he hadn't had combat in two weeks, and at this point he was ready to swing his fists at just about anything that smelled – except a mug of ale. That would be a waste.
*****
"Lathro'van, you are drunk."
The elf male smiled back at her, his face as red as her gown. "Nonsense, I've not over-indulged. Besides, this is the perfect opportunity to –"
"And you're a fool," Retha cut him short. "I've got better things to do then mess around with you – damn it, who the hell nominated me for this "diplomacy trip", anyway?"
"Why, my dear lady, that would be our mutual benefactor, Master Thas'Sho. He believed your calm temper would be useful on such an occasion."
Calm tempter – yeah, that was her, all right; except, of course, when she was stuck in the year-round World Barbarian Convention. This place stank of kodo dung and sweat, and she was intensely displeased to fine that the now tattered edges of her gown, in constant contact with the ground, had become sullied.
"Milady –"
"Oh, cut it out, Lathro. You just haven't had a good lay in weeks, and we know that when you're not sucking the life essence out of poor, hapless animals, you're screwing around with some chambermaid or courier," she hissed. "I'm
not
your call girl."
That put a stop in his speech, albeit a temporary one. After what looked like some inadequate thinking, he started up again.
"Well, it seems the wine as certainly loosened your tongue," he said mischievously. "Perhaps you would consent to loosen that pretty mouth for yours for something else as well?"
Dirty bastard
, she thought,
not
a care in the world for anything but himself
. She turned to walk away, but he seized her by the arm and spun her around again.
"Surely, a short tryst would do you no harm?"
She tried to pull away, silently vowing that if he got that tryst, she'd bite down hard on the first thing that came at her. She wasn't in the mood – these nearly animal "allies" they had made were disappointing, to say the least, and now this former classmate of hers was trying to have his way with her? She wouldn't stand for it.
Retha had, of course, decided to go take a walk in "the Drag". It was a dark, dank section of the city, full of purple lighting and dregs; bad idea. Lathro'van had found her in a dark alley, and now she was trapped. He moved towards her, his strong arms quickly overpowering her. He pulled her close, tugging hard at her gown, and moved to kiss her.
"Let go of me, you bastard!" she yelled, trying to slap him. He chuckled, and grabbed both her wrists forcefully.
She took one small comfort; he wasn't as good as she was in the ways of magic. She could probably set his dick on fire – or suck the life out of it, and not in the pleasant sense. As he tried to move her further into the alley, she toyed with the idea – which would be more pleasing? She opted for fire – the pain was sharper that way.
She half-closed her eyes as he moved in towards her face with his tongue, going over the words in her mind. As she thought, she felt him tear the top of her dress open.
That does it
, she thought. She was ready to release the spell –
BAM. She was thrown onto the ground, her ears ringing. Lathro, for his part, staggered and gasped. She looked up, hoping to see a patch of blackened robes in between his legs – but she saw nothing.
"Ah, you're a tricky one, aren't you?" he snickered. Her face fell with shock; what had happened? He couldn't have blocked the spell!
"You see," he calmly say, strolling back over towards her, "I took the liberty of placing a protecting enchantment on my masculinity – one of the so-called "chambermaids" in Silvermoon once thought as you did, and I only narrowly escaped serious damage."
She cursed. Now that he was onto her, he had probably erected a barrier around himself – she wouldn't be able to get at him, no matter where she aimed. As he knelt over, she struggled, but his arms took her up easily as he made to carry her to some secret little corner behind the houses. She silently swore – she couldn't count on surprise attacks anymore.
At least, not coming from her; at that very moment, a big green fist came out of seemingly nowhere and bashed Lothra'van on the shoulder, sending both elves to the ground. Retha looked up, and was surprised – it was the same orc who had claimed that his brother had defeated the Paladin Kas'them. Now, though, he looked a little drunker, and proceeded to kick her aggressor into a corner; he swung his foot at the hapless mage, bashing him across the face, and the elf fell to the ground in a heap.
Retha was scandalised. Rising up, she slated the orc. "You brute! You murdered him! You killed an elf, you dirty, low-lying dog!"
