Sweltering 1

First post here, and the first adult story I ever wrote. It was written for my friends in World of Warcraft (I'm a nerd, sorry), but nothing more than a few geographic references to really make that an issue.

Comments and constructive criticism is appreciated!

*

She was angry. He could tell. It was the way her footsteps fell just slightly too hard, the rhythm coming too quickly. Of course, she was always angry. No, Gorhasht mused, not angry. Just short. Everything about her said that their wasn't enough time in a day, days in a week, nights in a moon, and moons in a year.

There was a loud thump. The slap of angry feet and something jabbed into his chest.

"Your chair!"

"What about it?"

"It was on my side of the room!"

"Was it really?"

"Yes!" She hissed back at him.

"You know I can't tell."

"That's not my problem. My problem is you leaving your thrice damned bulky furniture where I'm trying to live!"

"Well you seem to have moved it back, so there's no more problem."

"There had better be no more problem."

He reached out to snag her, but the trolless easily dodged out of his grasp. And that was that. Things were simple until she became involved. Even she was simple, really. She just wouldn't let herself be so. He could hear her moving around, shifting her sparse possessions. His ears twitched.

"You're doing it again?"

"Don't."

"You know you shouldn't."

"Do not lecture me, beast."

"Why do you have to?"

"I'd hardly expect a grazer to understand."

"You'd be surprised."

"If you can't even see the plains in front of your face how can you hope to see this?!"

There should have been silence. It would have been right for there to be silence. Instead there was birdsong, muffled by the leather flap in front of the door. There was the susurrus of the grasses blown by the winds. That must have been what an ocean sounded like. And there was her breathing. Rapid without panting. Like she'd dragged a totem across the room instead of his chair.

"It helps me think," she said, breaking the nonsilence.

"I know."

"When I'm stressed."

"I know."

"It's just a reminder."

"I know."

"Then what don't you know!?"

"Why you need it now."

She was inflating. One of those long, deliberate drawings of breath through the nose that meant a storm was coming. He'd seen them enough that it was a bit of a surprise when all she said was "nothing."

He shifted in his chair. Large hands fall into even larger baskets. They crack against one another. Pebbles on a hillside. These ones hiss at him. Sand on a beach. Over here they shush. Hundreds of voices whispering.

After a moment it clatters again. Bare feet slap against earth stamped down enough to be called brick. They pause for a moment as her chest closes. Then more slapping feet. There is a weight on his shoulder. It's slight. Can't be more than a pound or two.

"I haven't moved them. Why would I?"

"You wouldn't."

"Then why bother?"

"I like to know they're here."

"Where would they go?"

"They wouldn't. Not until it's time for me to plant them."

The hand lifts. The feet slap. Ropes creak as they pull tight. "You're very stressed." He says. After a moment, when she didn't respond he pressed harder. "What's bothering you?"

"Nothing." Came the curt reply.

"It can't be nothing." He said.

"It is nothing. It should be nothing."

"Then it's something?"

"No. I'll deal with it."

"Let me know how it goes." He wouldn't offer to help. She wouldn't have accepted anyways. She would have just gotten angry.

She just grunted. And that was that. The day wound on as usual.

That night Gorhasht lay awake. Blindly he stared up at a ceiling that would have been lost in darkness anyways. She wouldn't tell him. That was nothing new, but she was getting worse than usual. She snapped at nothing, cursed him for being there, and quietly raged at the world in general.

After a while he heard feet touch softly down as the wooden supports cracked a little, a burden lifted from them. Gorhasht didn't respond. She was moving now. The soft swish of the fur between her thighs sounding in tandem with a faint padding of feet. A soft sound, leather rubbing on leather and a breeze lifted his fur. She had gone outside. Strange. Usually she was more private about things. The small hut they had was fairly isolated out in the plains of Mulgore, but you still never knew if a would be mystic would be out and about trying to contact the spirits. Usually that meant she kept her nudity inside.

After a while the flap of a door lifted again, and her footsteps came back. They slid across the room for a moment, then were still. He waited for the creek of the rope, the groan of the wood. All there was, was grass sighing to itself from outside, and the song of crickets calling to each other. After a few minutes, an owl hooted. For some reason this seemed to have an effect. Her feet started moving again. The bedding moved slightly, pressed down and tapped. He could hear her breath above him. There was another long pause, and his bed shifted slightly. He felt her then, a warm curve rising out of the darkness to press against his arm. She sighed, softly in the night beside him. Just close enough that he could almost feel the bumps of her spine through their pelts.

Something must have been wrong, despite her protests. She only did this when there was.

Loa be damned! She had been dreading this for quite some time. And now it was nearly here? By all that is, curse this body! She took a deep breath. No. No. Kintala, would be calm about this. Kintala would be strong. Kintala would not let herself be controlled by fickle fates, and life. This wouldn't be the first one she had dealt with, nor would it be the last.

The worst part was the smell. She knew what it was. They would turn and stare at her, the few other Trolls out on Thunder Bluff. They knew, all of them. She would be once again the source of gossip for the women, and the men...

There was one here now, speaking of. She stopped in her tracks to scowl through her mask at the leering face. The bustle of the crowds that she normally cursed would have been a welcome relief to this. Not yet, damnit! Not ready yet! Was he so young he couldn't tell that much? Or did he simply not care?

"Ey dere leetle one. How ya doin?" He sneered, the curve of his grin pulling past his tusks.

"Busy. Move."

"Aww don' act so unkindly now! Gahskol jus' wan' be friendly!"

"I'm in no mood for your friendliness. Leave."

"Pahblic street. Can be here eef I want, choo know." The grin wouldn't even flicker. But it was beginning to fade from his eyes.

"Then move to one side. I'm not here to talk to you, nor do I care to."

His face twitched at that. Her mask did not. Why must he be so difficult? Look at him, standing there. Nothing more than a child, really. Too young. He had no self control, and no respect. Licking his lips he switched into the old tongue. "Come now... for such a well dressed, and good smelling lady you certainly aren't friendly."

She refused to match him, sticking with the language of the orcs. To use the old tongue for something like this was abominable. "No. I'm not. You're wasting your time."

He snarled actively now, stepping closer to her and pulling himself up to stand over her. "Why so unfriendly? And why not take that mask off, no reason to hide your pretty little face."

She stepped back at that, one foot moving behind her to catch her weight. He noticed, and leered at the movement. "What's the matter? Afraid? Afraid you're going to like it? You know what they say about men with big tusks, after all."

She snorted at that. "They say they're only good for beating their faces into walls. Get out of my path!"

"You know, women have only one purpose. I don't know what desperate village you came from that thought otherwise. But I know what is right. It is not your place to speak to me like that!"

He lunged. Clumsy and driven more by anger than reason. Kintala quickly brought around her mace into the side of his knee as she moved to one side. The once learing face spinning into the ground as he footing was knocked from under him. Without hesitation he pulled his arms and legs under himself ready to get back on his feet when his vision exploded. Stars danced before him as his stomach clenched, the pain racing through his body and into his belly.

Vaguely, Gahksol was aware that he was being moved, but was more concerned about the bright lights making his vision swim. But when he finally managed to get his sight back, he wished he hadn't. You never really appreciate how high Thunder Bluff is until those sheer cliffs are spread out beautifully beneath you.

"You've given me plenty reason to drop you today. Give me one not to." She snarled. She watched his body go rigid, felt him tense and his toes quest for purchase in the hard rock behind him. She raised him up by the belt slightly and let her arm go limp, causing him to drop down suddenly. "Well!?"

Apparently it was too much for him. The other Troll blacked out at the sight of that ground rushing, however briefly, up to meet him. She snorted, and set him back on the ground. A brief bit of rope work later and she gave him a kick. Gahksol would not be pleased to find himself hanging by his ankles over the side of the city.

But Loa knew he was right about some things... his face, now that it wasn't twisted by that horrid grin was not exactly a shame to look at. He was fairly fit, lean and limber. Looking back his movements had been lithe, if unrefined. There was a grace about him. Those arms... with a little bit of training he could...

Kintala shook her head. It wasn't right. This creature was beneath her, and to think this way? It would only make him right. No. No, he wouldn't do.

As she walked back towards the lift that would bring her back to the verdant plains around them she thought about him. No. Not him. The other trolls around. They were, for the most part, young, fit, and healthy. They might not all be what you'd call a 'catch' but out here it was what you could find.

Not that she would find! No. No doubt that blind fool Gorhasht would mess something up. He'd push at anyone too hard. They would not be as forgiving as she was. He'd probably get himself killed. Not that it would stop him. He'd probably linger on as one of those silly ancestor ghost things the Tauren went on about. It made no sense. If a cow has all the brains, cunning, and strength to get himself killed he's somehow better than the ones that didn't? Ridiculous.

She could go to Orgrimmar. Plenty of young men there. And she'd be sure to find something a bit better than that leering face. She'd rather have be with one of those rotting humans they saw occasionally. Wouldn't she? Of course! There was no doubt! The very idea... "Women should know their place" ha! Well. He'd gotten a new one, hadn't he? She liked to think she could almost hear his scream when he came to...

No. Not Orgrimmar. If she went there she'd find Gom'zal, no doubt. She'd have to start looking for him if not. And last she'd heard he'd been heading to Thunder Bluff. To Mulgore. So he was here somewhere. Just because no one had heard of him, or seen him didn't prove anything. He knew how to keep himself hidden.

There was no chance she'd go to the Undercity, it was little more than a sewer. Silvermoon was little better, though it was filled with sewage of a different sort.

Well. She'd just have to stay at home for a while. Let it pass. After all, it was nothing but trouble. Poor Niethan... He'd always thought that Khiskiva had wanted him out of the house. After that incident there was no doubt in anyone's mind what the Shaman had thought about him being around her daughter. At least when it came up. And how dare her mother bar her from such a thing anyways? Wasn't that why it happened? Because she was younger did her urges count for less?

By the time she had gotten back to the hut hidden between two hills she was in a foul mood.

The ground was dry, but not terribly so. It crumbled nicely between his fingers. Well, the air felt sticky, the breeze coming in from the south was heavy with a promise of rains to come. Gorhasht breathed it in gently, a calming wind to fill his lungs. He let it out slowly, savoring the simple action. At his belt were a number of pouches, the rustled, they clattered, they thumped quietly against his hips as he shifted his weight.

This would be a fine year for corn; he thought as he stuck a few more kernels into the ground, more would have to be planted. Some wheat as well, not that he cared for wheat. It was harder to tell it apart from the grass, and a hassle to harvest. And when it was all done he'd have to drag it aways to find a miller who could grind it into a flower. Still, the bread it would bake was delicious.

Gorhasht finished poking a few more seeds into his farm, stood and stretched. The wind felt good in his fur, a few errant gusts curled around the individual strands to brush lightly against the smooth skin that hid beneath them. It spoke to him, the wind, not in the secret and hushed language of the spirits, or in the longing clarion of that the druids heard, but in the simple words that all could hear, if they took the time. The feel of the air spoke more of the rain to come, promising to carry it out, heavy and thick. It told of the forests beyond the cliffs that ringed the land. It told his ears of birds singing out to each other, and bees exploring his garden for flowers. It told of a heard of Kodo moving past, their feet going with the unmistakeable pounding that followed them everywhere.

Thump

Thump

Thump

Thump

THUNK

Thump

Thump.

Gorhasht turned, one ear flicking out. It had come from their house, that was certain. Gorhasht let one hand trail against the leather walls as he came to the parting that would allow entrance. He had barely set foot inside when his head was knocked back to one side by a sharp impact against his horns. Shaking his head he brought blind eyes back to the inside of the tent. He knew she was their, cursing and panting to herself.

"It was on my side again!"

"No harm there. Why did you hit it?"

"That damn log? What does it matter! It won't be hurt!"

"It's sturdy."

"It's a chunk of tree! Be glad I need this other hammerhead or I'd get you between the eyes!"

"I still don't see what was wrong with the old one."

"You wouldn't, farmer."

"You say that as though I have something to be ashamed of."

She snorted and was quiet for a long time. He could hear the shifting of the stone head rubbing against the wooden pole while she worked. Gorhasht walked over, hands stretched out to find his chair. He sat down heavily, noting as he did the grinding noise stilling. There was stillness for a long time, as he felt her eyes watching him. Then a soft tinkling sound as her clay mask was set down. The ropes of her bed creaked, and the grinding began again.

She woke again in the middle of the night. Restless. She hadn't been able to go a solid night asleep, but it didn't seem to matter. She itched. Or wanted to. There was lightning in her pelt as she stretched. She could feel it, even if she couldn't see it. No, there was no lightning tonight. Gorhasht was right, there would be a storm tomorrow. Pity. Wouldn't it have been wonderful to wake look down at the stretched skin of her stomach, past the curve of her breasts and see the bolts shoot as she moved? Tiny storm clouds across her body, their wrath leaping from hair to hair in the night. She heaved, her muscles clenching down as they lifted her from the woven net of rope.

And they pulled. Her body weight had held them tightly against her flesh. Now it didn't want to let them go, and pulled them with her. She stifled a gasp as they slowly peeled off of her back, her shoulders, her thighs, and her ass. Sliding her feet to the floor she moved carefully. Eyes always locked on the sleeping form of Gorhasht she stalked out to the soft patch of grass just beyond the door.

Thousands of blades pressed into her legs as she sat. The grass was soft, but still held an edge to it. It clung to her, casting her lower body into shadow while the moonlight cascaded over her top. She sat there for a while, watching the moon. It was rare that she would go out without her mask. It wouldn't do for people to see her face, to see the sharp lines she'd inherited from her father.

There was a small bowl to her left, which she picked up and looked into. The light of the moon casting silver shadows over her features while she inspected herself for the first time in a long while. Her forehead was high, and gently curved, complementing the set of her eyes. They were her mother's eyes, and gave her an exotic look, now without the accustomed pride that shone within. A fierce pride, that made her feel like nothing more then a snarling beast. Her nose pointed a bit more than was necessarily attractive, the very image of Sulajin's. But it was her mouth that got her. Large tusks, ungainly and heavy in her mouth. They said a Trolless with tusks too large would be nothing but trouble. Now hers were awkwardly set, too. They stuck out at an odd angle, almost backward and the flesh around her mouth was lined by scar. Curse that dwarf that did this to her!

Her body, though, was spectacular. The moonlight sent shadows playing under the swoops and curves of flesh, ever out of reach by the silver light that illuminated her frame. The air was cool, but a fine pelt kept out the chill. There was a mist rolling out of the plains, and as it reached her it embraced the trolless in a caress of vapors. Soon her still image was covered in a fine mesh of glittering beads of dew. Droplets hung from her, a pair hovering just beyond dropping off of her erect nipples, catching the reflected light and sending a blue glow to the ground in front of her. Wide hips that accentuated her ample, if not abundant, chest line with a swatch of pubic hair darkened to a rich purple.

A quick tremor passed through her body, sending the dew cascading off of her and breaking the reflection in the water bowl. She looked back to the hut. It would be so easy to wander off, to go out and find a real troll and never deal with the blind fool again. He would hardly know she was gone. He already acted like the hut was entirely his, though she still lived in it. Kintala got to her feet and took a step towards the horizon before pausing. What would become of him if she left? As if she didn't know. He'd probably step in a gofer hole, and twist his ankle again. Without her there to bring in meat and fresh fruit from Thunder Bluff he'd probably starve unable to get to his precious garden. No. She had to stay and watch over him.

Turning on her heel Kintala strode back into the hut, pausing to look over Gorhasht's sleeping form. Well. If he was going to live here with her, hold her down and chain her to this land he was going to earn his keep.

He woke abruptly, snorting as firm hands grabbed him by the horns and shook. She was breathing loudly, as though coming home from a chase. Before he had time to react there were two bony ridges pressing against his mouth, and a softness between them. Warm and insisting, and above all wet. Her tongue pressed between his lips and into his muzzle, the firm hands never letting their grip on his horns fail. Blinking in the darkness, Gorhasht paused, trying to find an appropriate (or at least suitable) reaction to this. When the growling began to rumble low in her throat, he realized that it was not a difficult decision all things considered.

The blind fool was meeting her tongue now. Good. Had he never kissed before? Didn't he know how it was supposed to go? Whatever the reason, he was fast getting the message. Her growling faltered as he reached over and slid one thick finger between her legs. She felt weak. Every urge in her body was screaming at her to fall, to press down hard against the roughness that sent her body tingling. His hand felt warm under her, or maybe it was her own heat that gave him such a temperature.