In the Name of Peace

Hello again, friends.

Sorry for the delay since last time around. Started some other stories in the weeks since. I'll do my best to juggle the present two consistently, and be more up to date on either one.

For now, enjoy this turning point in the narrative.

It's about to get messy...

---

The first day of the Hunter's Moon drew to a close. With it came a roaring bonfire lit at the apex of the Horned Keep. The first of three, to mark each holy night.

In the feasting hall sat Kierra and Azral, joined once again by their guard and Lady Selaras. After one stiff formal apology, the queen and warlord returned to their pressing business. Negotiation on trade routes, navigating the difference in currency between Arcadian and orcish currency, the building of religious sanctuaries, and more.

While Azral poured over a map of the known continent, and all lands yet charted by her people, Kierra stole a look at the floor beyond their stacked dinner table. Up above the throng of assembled orcs, goblinoids and drow was an elaborate performance. A 'dramatic recreation', as Azral had put it, of Kierra's battle with the fire giant Ghidon.

A grotesque puppet loomed over the revelers, levitated by magic. Some simple enchantments, courtesy of a bardic troupe who sang and danced with the utmost fervor, lit up the dark construct with a fiery mane of hair that framed his scowling face like the mockery of a halo. It wasn't a perfect recreation, but Kierra was impressed all the same. Whether it be the scale of the thing, or how well it captured the giant's violent downfall.

The illusion of Ghidon swung his fiery sword with wild abandon before an elven performer, dressed in Kierra's likeness, fired a ballistae into his heart. With a loud roar, Ghidon fell, and the fire coursing through his body was extinguished.

"

With will of iron and soul of flame,

A legend the young queen became!

"

The leader of the bards, a young grey tiefling with red fiery eyes, concluded his rowdy performance with a bow. He donned a dashing smile, looking to the head table and winking at the women in attendance.

"

Bless our lord, and his lady fair.

Your courage and beauty are all too rare.

Mark this holy night with a prayer on your lips...

"

The raucous crowd raised their cups and joined in for the last bawdy verse.

"

...And with a bold, wild THRUST of the hips!

"

Laughter, cheers and the slamming of mugs on every wooden table rang in Kierra's ears.

She courteously clapped along, doing her best to ignore several of the more inebriated partygoers already feeling one another up. If nothing else, she thought, Azral's people would sleep well tonight.

But would she?

Azral, meanwhile, stood from his chair and clapped loud enough to pierce the din around them.

"Bravo," he shouted. "Bravo."

He plucked a small pouch of gold from his belt and tossed it to the tiefling, who caught it with effortless grace.

"You honor us both. Come, another song!"

The tiefling bowed lower than before, his tail swishing back and forth in excitement.

"We live to please, Dragonbane."

The tiefling tapped his foot and started up a new tune. A jaunty, cheerful jig which soon had the crowd stamping their feet and moving in circles.

"He's good," Kierra heard from off to the side. It was Lieutenant Astrid, looking remarkably chipper even by her standards. Kierra had noticed as much the whole of the afternoon.

After a brief absence following her spat with Milius, the elven knight returned with Shevra and Torin in tow. They had been, as Astrid put it, 'trading lessons' in swordplay.

Kierra hadn't thought much of it at the time. But as she watched, Astrid's posture the whole of the evening grew steadily more casual, at ease. And every now and then, her lavender eyes would drift to the other side of the table towards the two Swords.

Unease began to creep up on Kierra. It only occurred to her now just how much time had passed between Astrid's departure, and her return.

What in Pelor's name could have happened in all that time?

Kierra spent a good while tracking her knight's wandering gaze, looking for any giveaway.

But had she allowed herself to mind her surroundings, she would have seen others in Shevra's ranks eyeing the head table.

A group of five orcish women, all dressed near identical to her. Each bore similar streaks of red dye in their hair, and a collection of scars.

The five Red Widows stared at their Arcadian guests, leaning over to whisper at one another now and then.

It was Milius who'd caught their attention. Sulking alone, he swirled a glass of wine thoughtlessly and paid no mind to the celebration around him. His pride had taken a hit today.

One of the Widows narrowed her eyes at Milius.

Then she bared her teeth in a feral smile and licked her lips at the thought of everything they were about to do to him.

Queen Kierra's knights were working in shifts. Neither Milius, nor the precious Astrid, were going to be anywhere near their dear queen tonight.

Just as planned.

---

Milius wandered aimlessly across the castle wall. Returning to where he and Astrid had conversed at sunrise, he stewed in his thoughts and tried to reconcile the embarrassment today had brought.

He couldn't understand it. For the life of him, Milius couldn't comprehend what Queen Kierra hoped to gain playing nice with the Overlord. Perhaps this treaty would last a generation or so, as she hoped. Perhaps Arcadia could enjoy some measure of comfort, of peace for now.

But it was just as likely things would fall apart in a matter of months. These orcs may very well have been more intelligent, more refined than the greenskins who were the stuff of nightmares across the known world. But an orc was an orc.

Milius's people had bled at their hands. However long ago it was, he couldn't allow himself to forget that. He was a man of means and history, and it was his duty to defend that history and hold steadfast against any concession the Grey Ones would ask of him.

But being that he was the only one here who seemed to know that, it was best he took his leave as the night wore on. The Queen and Overlord could play their games, speak their pleasantries, make their promises. He would have no part in any of that.

Particularly after downing one too many glasses of wine.

A shuffling of footsteps from across the wall finally pulled Milius out of his troubled thoughts. He turned about, seeing a pair of tall and finely dressed women slouching against the parapet.

"Who..." Milius almost hiccupped. Shaking his head, he mustered what sobriety he had left and stood tall before whoever was stalking him.

"Who goes there? Name yourself."

Milius was greeted with a low, throaty chuckling. "So

serious

. You ever take a moment, just one moment, to pull that stick out of your ass and try to have a good time?"

Milius tried not to groan in exasperation as his visitors stepped into the light. The first was one of Captain Torin's soldiers. The one they'd called Zhora. She was carrying a bottle of wine in one hand, while the other rested on her hip as she leered at Milius. The second was a taller, statuesque woman who bore the markings of the Red Widows.

Judging by their gait, and their laughter, the two of them were fairly deep in their cups already.

"Evening," Zhora chirped.

Milius fidgeted awkwardly at their presence.

"Good evening." His voice was flat, disinterested. Milius had little interest in trading any more barbs. Not that it would accomplish much save for another scolding.

The two women weren't so easily blown off, however. Zhora's fellow orc crept out from behind her, holding something of her own. It was hard to tell exactly what, as the moon was currently obscured by a heavy bank of clouds.

"Are you lost?" she asked in a surprisingly light, melodious voice.

Milius scoffed. "Hardly. I've had two days to map out this fortress. Give me one more, I'll know it as well as the queen's castle back home."

The she-orc raised an eyebrow. "Oh, really? For a newcomer, you sound so sure of yourself."

"I am of the Dawn's Hammer," Milius retorted, bristling at her teasing. "It's expected of me... No,

demanded

of me to maintain the utmost awareness and authority wherever I roam."

As her compatriot nodded along teasingly, Zhora stole a look at the realm beyond. The volcanic lake. The illuminated houses, temples and watchtowers. In the dim reddish light, both orcs' intense eyes and their fangs gave them a vaguely menacing look.

"Please excuse Evor," she sighed. "She's a little too forward for her own good. Lights up like a pack of fireworks when we have visitors."

Milius watched Zhora's head turn slowly in his direction, drinking in the sight of her homeland until both she and the giggling Evor were regarding their human guest once more.

"I've heard some interesting things about you, Captain. From your subordinate, and your esteemed leader."

Again, Milius turned prickly. Loyal Astrid, or the steadfast Kiera, exchanging gossip with these harridans?

It was a ruse. Zhora was bluffing, trying to get a rise out of him just as her master had.

"Of course," he snarked. "Of course. Pray tell, what did Her Majesty or the lieutenant tell you?"

Zhora eyed Evor. On cue, she held aloft the instrument in her hand.

A longbow.

Shit. They're not bluffing.

"Sweet Astrid says you're quite the archer," Zhora remarked with a smile.

"Evor here is no slouch herself. In fact, I'd go so far as to say she's the best among us. So when we heard the two of you have that in common, well, we had to find out for ourselves.

We also overheard from the queen that you're a betting man."

Milius, eyes already set on the bow, couldn't help but listen as she went on.

"You've been on edge since you showed up. Understandable. So why don't we have ourselves a little game, a wager, to break all the tension?

Milius couldn't pretend the idea didn't intrigue him. These damned orcs had been showing him up in one way or another all day. First their wives' tales boasting of these painted wenches' accomplishments at warriors. Then, that insufferable Azral and his self-proclaimed diplomatic privilege.

Now this.

It was true, Milius had long prized his talent for archery. It was a skill passed down by his father, and his father before.

"Show me," he said curtly, and beckoned Evor closer.

The orc acquiesced, holding out her weapon. Up close its quality became apparent very quickly. It was shaped from dark, almost blackened wood. Ornamental markings and script were inscribed along its length. On the spot Evor's hand would clutch the weapon, Milius saw what looked like her family crest.

When it was clear he had permission, Milius examined the bow. He would be hard pressed to deny its quality, were the bow of human make. And he was too inebriated to try anyway.

"It's well done," he admitted begrudgingly.

Evor cocked a smug half-grin back at him.

"I'd like to see you use it," she asked in her almost musical tone. "Let's pit your skill against mine, see if you can back up all that bluster from this morning."

"Look at those arms," Zhora murmured.

Milius almost jumped. He hadn't realized Zhora was close behind him now.

"I'm sure a strapping knight like you isn't going to back down from two tipsy wenches?"

Milius put on his best attempt at bravado, ignoring their suggestive words and the manner in which they were looking at him now.

"So nice of you to notice. And no, I'm not afraid. If you're eager to challenge me, then no. I

won't

back down.

But every wager has stakes. What are yours?"

Zhora shrugged nonchalantly. "It's simple. You both take up that bow, and fire on a target of my choosing. If you win, we back off and leave both you and your fellow knight alone for the remainder of your stay. Evor's legend, her sisters-in-arms' legend, takes a slight nick courtesy of your great skill."

Milius liked the sound of that. But he wasn't drunk enough to ignore the alternative.

"And if

you

win?" he asked Evor.

The orcish women exchanged a furtive, worrying leer.

"If I win," she snickered, "you come with us to the Wolves' Den."

Milius blinked in confusion. "I'm sorry, the what?"

"The Wolves' Den!" Zhora jerked her head in the direction of what looked like a large set of stables, jutting off the southern side of the Horned Keep.

The orc knight cocked her head mockingly. "I thought you knew our fortress already?"

His ears burning, Milius growled, "Alright... I suppose I missed a spot. Pray tell me, oh kind and courageous swordswoman to whom I owe tremendous thanks for your hospitality, what

is

the Wolves' Den?"

Zhora, utterly unphased by his cheek, clapped him on the shoulder and led both him and Evor to the stairs.

"The Den is where we keep our trained direwolves."

Milius must have looked as alarmed as he felt, because both Evor and Zhora looked ready to bark in laughter at him.

"Two generations back, the Overlord of these mountains tamed a pack of the fine beasts. We've reared and trained them in that old slab of stone ever since.

And tonight there's work to be done there. If you're not as good as Astrid says you are, I'm afraid the girls will need your help."

Milius forced back an annoyed grunt. He knew this was just another way for the orcs to humble him. His better judgment told him to say no and be on his way. Or to wait until morning.

But as she noted Evor's swaying, uneven gait once again, a part of Milius told him to keep going.

Prove your point. Let these savages know what a proper knight is capable of.

His fists, which had tightened into balls of iron, finally gave out.

"So be it," he answered, raising his head high and adopting the look of superiority he'd practiced for years.

"I accept. Fetch more wine, orcs. You'll need it, when I'm through with you."

---

One Hour Later

Milius stared at the half-empty bottle in his hand.

Then at the wooden post fifty yards away. A post that at the moment was chock full of arrows, half of which were his.

A crimson ring had been haphazardly painted on the post, and for what felt like an eternity he and Evor had taken their turns firing. Six shots each, with a swig of the potent, heavy wine for every time they hit their target.

Both struck true. But when it was done, only one of them had hit dead center.

And it wasn't Milius.

He couldn't believe it. Here he was, one of Arcadia's finest, renowned for his keen eye and peerless aim. And he'd just gotten shown up by a smirking, lascivious savage from the mountains.

Evor swaggered towards him. The alcohol was doing its work already, judging by the occasional wobble in her step. The orc sat next to Milius and took the bottle away, her expression sympathetic.

"For what it's worth," she remarked, "it's been a long time since any man or woman's matched me arrow for arrow. You came close, human. Be proud of that, if nothing else."

Milius tried to hide how little comfort her words gave him. "My father always told me 'close isn't good enough'. If I'd been out there, on the battlefield against those black dragons and their cultists years ago, one poorly placed shot would mean life or death."

"Well you're

not

on the battlefield, are you?"

Milius heard Zhora coming back around, and with a sudden jolt the tall woman hoisted him up to his feet with surprising ease.

She continued. "You're in the company of two lovely ladies looking for a good time. This was fun, but the night's still young and there's plenty more for you to meet."

Zhora and Evor steered Milius in the direction of their wolves' quarters. All three took their time, as Zhora had stolen a few sips herself when the others weren't looking.

Before they reached the gated of the imposing stone structure, Milius hesitated. Only just picking up on something suspicious.

"Wait."

The orcs peered at him curiously.

"

More to meet

, you said. What on earth does that mean?"

Evor and Zhora's eyes met, and suddenly Milius felt a hint of trepidation at what was on the other side of gate.

Taking him by the hand Zhora answered, "Why, more of us lovely ladies, silly. Remember the payment you agreed to?"

Milius blinked, then with a nervous laugh he remembered. "Yes. Of course. Our wager. Help your Red Widows clean the wolves' pens or whatnot, and go home just a little humbled."

With a grumbled he added, "You'll be happy to know the latter has already been accomplished, orc. Congratulations."

"Oh, Milius..." Zhora's voice rumbled in a way that sent chills up his back.

"We said the girls need your help. We never told you what kind."

The reinforced gate to the Wolves' Den cracked open, and Milius was pulled inside. And what greeted the human caused all color to drain from his face.

Waiting inside were five more of the Grey Ones, all women. They were stripped of all clothing, their chiseled bodies on full display. Some had their hair tied back or braided, others wore theirs loose. All five of them were marked by bloody-red paint, telling Milius all he needed to know.

They leered at Milius, twirling their hair in the mockery of some coquettish Arcadian maiden or posing in a manner that showed off every muscle, every curve. They were making their intentions more than clear.

"Oh Pelor, no..."

"

Yes...

" The woman at the head of the group watched him brazenly, her hands on her hips. It was that damned Shevra.

"The girls and I always make the most of these three sacred nights, human. This year, I think we'll start with you..."

Shevra looked over her shoulder.

"...And your friend."

Friend?

Milius looked behind Shevra and his eyes bugged.

Tied to a post, naked, her ass sticking out wantonly like some strumpet at the bordello, was Astrid. She was covered in sweat, marked with welts as if she'd been whipped. And her inner thighs were positively drenched.

"Mistress..." she moaned pitifully. "Please come back..."

The drow turned around, a dizzy smile on her face. For a moment Milius hoped he was imagining things. But as she spotted him, and her face brightened in recognition, he knew it was her.

Astrid laughed breathlessly, and called out, "Captain! You made it."

"What the fuck is this?" Milius bellowed.

"What have you done to her, you jackals?!"

He thought to make some move towards her. He only needed to undo her bonds and then run.

But as the she-orcs closed in around him, Milius saw Astrid wiggle her hips at Shevra.

Reality sank in, and Milius groaned. Astrid wasn't a captive here. She'd just given these orcs' ringleader an invitation, he'd heard her.

No wonder you leapt to their defense. You poor fool.

"We've done exactly as she wished," the Red Widow boasted. "And now we're about to do the same to you."

On either side, Milius heard the rustle and clinking of Zhora and Evor dropped their armored gowns. As he stared ahead and watched Shevra turn on her heel and walk back towards Astrid, swaying her hips all the while, he felt two pairs of hands begin to explore his uniform.

It didn't take long for them to begin removing it piece by piece, fondling or caressing his muscles in the meantime. And though every conscious thought told Milius to leave, and deny these base heathens' advances, he couldn't deny how good their touch felt.

He berated himself for his damned good form, holding himself to bargains struck in the heat of the moment.

But such thoughts evaporated when Zhora's lips found his neck, and her strong fingers found the growing bulge in his pants.

"You smug, self-satisfied prick.

Us Widows have met hundreds like you. You carry on like you're the gods' gift to the world, looking down on women like us."