📚 precious - a holstaur's story Part 1 of 2
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SCIENCE FICTION FANTASY

Precious A Holstaurs Story Pt 01

Precious A Holstaurs Story Pt 01

by breedorbebred
19 min read
4.38 (3500 views)
adultfiction

This is part one of a two-part story requested by BrysonThrillher and written by Vanessa Foxe (breedorbebred)

* * * * * * * * * *

There were already at least ten pale corpses scattered around the cavern, twice as many as our party numbered, but still the creatures came.

"I hate morlocks," Wilhelm spat. He spat only figuratively, of course. Wilhelm van de Portio was every bit the noble, and would never lower himself to actually spit like some commoner.

"Less chatter, more killing," the elven assassin chided. She took her sword in two hands and pulled it apart so she was instead wielding two matching blades. Sylphanien Giltvine was an absolute terror with her butterfly swords in hand, although the battle had already worn on long enough that whatever poison she usually applied to her blades was long-since expended. A pair of the awful, pale humanoids lying motionless on the ground had reddened flesh and black veins, telltale marks of Sylph's lethal poison.

I clutched my sickle-staff in a tight fist, my white knuckles the only evidence of how hard I was fighting not to let myself shake as the enemy approached. My weapon was the bastard child of a shepherd's crook and a farmer's sickle, four feet of solid wood topped with a crescent blade.

The next group of morlocks was more cautious than the last two, circling our group of mercenary-adventurers instead of charging immediately. The subterranean creatures were emaciated and short, averaging only around five feet in height, but they were surprisingly strong and fast.

On the road to the narrow opening we had used to enter the morlock's domain, Vee had told us a story about the origins of the morlock race. The little gnome claimed that the monstrous savages had once been humans, but they had offended the gods with their profane rituals and wonton savagery. Abandoned by divinity, the morlocks had fled below the earth where they survived by raiding and stealing from the godly folk who walked the surface.

I didn't much care about where the morlocks had come from, I decided as the bravest of the bunch edged closer to us. All I cared about were their razor-sharp teeth and the crude weapons of sharpened bone they carried.

I stepped backwards until my shoulder bumped against a wall of solid steel. I didn't even need to look to know it was Khagrim Beastbreaker who stood shoulder-to-shoulder with me now-- no one else in our party was as massive as the stoic, black-furred minotaur beside me. I was the closest in size at just a hair over six feet tall, and he still had a full foot on me. And that was before counting his horns!

The knot of fear in my stomach loosened slightly as some deep, primal part of me thrummed with rightness at Khagrim's solid presence by my side. He was a master of martial combat, wielding a shield and axe each the size of a human man. He was normally clad in an unbroken layer of thick steel, but the Beastbreaker had been forced to shed the gardbraces and pauldrons from his shoulders, the cuisses and greaves from his legs, and even the couters off his elbows, just to be able to squeeze through the opening to the morlocks' lair.

Wilhelm had referred to the minotaur's missing elbow armour by its other spelling, "cowter", as a rude joke about Khagrim's bovine appearance.

The joke had affected me just as strongly, since I was cow-like in my own way. Holstaurs were a race of humanoids so rare that most people didn't even know what I was. I could pass for a pink-haired human woman at a quick glance, although I was taller and broader than most. I was much wider around the chest, too, with breasts so large that any top I wore had to be custom made to my size.

On closer inspection, one's eye might be drawn to the black and white pattern to my furry legs, which was reminiscent of a domestic cow's hide, and down to the hooves I had in place of human feet. I had a tail like Khagrim, although mine sported a pattern of black splotches on a white background that matched my legs, whereas his fur was dark from snout to hoof. The horns curving above my bovine ears were much shorter than a minotaur's, extending out a mere four or five inches.

Another benefit of my holstaur heritage was my heightened strength. When most people saw my luscious curves and more-than-ample breasts, they mistakenly assumed I was just a soft and lush woman. The morlock before me made that exact same assumption, marking my unarmoured form as an easy target.

It learned its mistake as I whispered a prayer to Xinea, the Father of Harvests, and pushed a mote of divine energy into my bladed staff.

My deity was the god of fertility, harvests, farming, and husbandry. While Xinea was more inclined towards peace and celebrations than fighting, as a priestess I was able to draw on his divine energy to protect myself.

I shaped that energy into a small rectangle of hard light that lasted just long enough to deflect the morlock's swing. It staggered, off balance, and I swept the bottom of my staff up into its sternum.

The force of my swing pushed the morlock backwards, and it didn't even have time to blink before Khagrim split the creature in half with a negligent backswing of his huge axe.

"Did you see that?" I squealed, unable to contain myself in my excitement.

"A superb strike, of that there can be no doubt, Nesraya," Vee's nasal voice piped from beside me. We all called the little gnomish inventor Vee, because Zar'zevee'beck Gylmebist was just too much of a mouthful.

Vee was too clever for his own good, and quite adept at putting that cleverness to devastating use. As if to prove that fact, he aimed his newest contraption at a pair of morlocks coming in from the left and pulled the trigger. His weapon was sort of like a crossbow, with two outstretched wooden arms and a metal wire pulled taught between them. When he squeezed the release, the arms snapped straight to sling the leather cup attached to the wire, launching the bottle that had been loaded into it.

The vial of alchemist's fire exploded in a bright bloom, engulfing the two monstrous humanoids in a sheet of flame. They screamed loudly as they perished, and the nauseating smell of burnt flesh joined the reek of viscera and blood. Gylmebist's spikes of bright blue hair waved in the rush of air pushed outwards by the explosion, but he looked more bored than anything else. Another day, another successful experimental weapon.

"But perhaps you would benefit from spending less time on self-congratulations, and more time on evisceration?" The little gnome was lucky he was so damned useful, or one of us would have thrown him face-first off a cliff by now.

I gripped my weapon tighter as two more morlocks charged towards me. I split my focus between keeping my distance from the two savage fighters and on continuing the prayer I was chanting to Xinea. My prayers formed the words of a spell that would unleash a burst of light to hopefully these creatures whose eyes were adapted to subterranean darkness.

The sickle-staff in my hand was essentially a combination of two farming tools, both sacred symbols for the church of the bounteous Harvest Father. It glowed now as magic began to spill from me. I took another step back, trying to buy just a few more seconds, then I would be ready to--

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What magic I had been gathering dispersed in an instant as my hoof came down not on rough stone, but instead on something slippery. My foot kicked out as I slid on the puddle of blood I'd inadvertently stepped into, and I pitched sideways. I had gotten too cocky and forgotten to pay attention to my environment. I stumbled over the holy words in my sudden shock, and lost hold of the divine magic I had been channelling.

The morlocks pounced on my sudden vulnerability. They were stupid savages, but they were very good at killing the surprised and vulnerable-- that was why our party had been hired to clear out their den, after all.

I landed on one knee and tried to raise my staff to parry the first creature's blow, but I already knew I was too late.

Everything seemed to move in slow motion, my hand lifting with glacial slowness as the morlock's spear drove down towards my chest. The thick quilted armour I wore over my robes might turn aside cuts from a knife, but that spear would punch right through it--and me--with ease.

Before I could even blink, a dark shape moved in front of me. Khagrim! He lunged sideways, throwing himself between me and the attacking cave-dweller.

Even as I fought to rise, I watched the bone tip of the morlock's spear emerge from the back of Khagrim's shoulder. In his full armour, the minotaur would have been able to deflect the blow without fear, but tonight there were gaps in his protection.

Hot blood flecked on my face. Khagrim's blood!

"Grim!" I screamed, panic turning to righteous fury in my chest. "No!"

The morlock before me staggered as the unexpected weight of the minotaur pulled its weapon sideways, and I slashed the curved blade of my staff across its throat with enough force to nearly decapitate the monster. I kicked its lifeless body, my heavy hoof staving in its chest and launching it at the warrior behind it to tangle the second morlock's legs.

One of Vee's launched phials caught that second one, which fell to the ground with a scream as the gnome's acid began to eat away at its chest. I ignored the nearby combatants as I dropped to my knees at Khagrim's side.

My vision blurred as tears threatened to spill down.

I blinked fast, fighting to keep my vision clear as I knelt beside our fallen defender. In my peripherals, I could dimly make out the blurred outline of Sylphanien as she cut a path towards us to stand guard over me. Behind her, van de Portio bandied with his thin blade and his cutting words. He either hadn't noticed Khagrim's injury, or just didn't care.

The spear had snapped when Khagrim fell, and I grabbed the splintered haft and yanked it out. Khagrim grunted in pain as my rough motion tore his wound further. It said something about the severity of his injury that he would even give that much of an indication of his pain. Usually our stoic minotaur took injuries soundlessly, enduring harm without even flinching.

I laid my palm over the exit wound on his shoulder, staunching the flow of blood with my fingers. I reached deep into my connection to Xinea, tapping into the font of life energy the fertility god readily gave. Divine energy built up in me until my skin nearly glowed with it, and I pushed that power out of my body, through my arm and down into Khagrim's wounds. I didn't have the finesse or mastery of the elder priests of my order, but I had raw magical strength, and I pulled from that now to mend Khagrim's wound.

"Why would you do that?" I asked in a quavering voice as I fought to mend his wounds before he bled out in my arms. "You could have died. You shouldn't... why would you throw yourself into his spear, Grim?"

Khagrim put one hand on my face, inadvertently spreading more of his blood onto my skin as he touched me. "Because you're too precious to lose, Nesraya," he whispered.

Then his eyes fluttered closed.

* * * * * * *

It was just over a year ago that they'd first met. Nesraya and Sylphanien sat at a table across from a man who'd introduced himself as Wilhelm van de Portio. He seemed like nothing more than just another shallow man from some minor noble family, but he had a job and he needed assistance.

"You see? Simple." Wilhelm was leaning over the table to be heard over the din of the bar, and the holstaur and elf exchanged a meaningful look over his head.

They had just lost the third member of their trio, a dwarven blacksmith who had fought beside them for months before declaring her retirement at the culmination of their last job. This Wilhelm fellow intended to join them on this "simple" tomb-raiding mission he had described, and promised that he was deadly with his little duelling blade.

"We're still going to need more muscle," Nesraya argued. She shook her head and knocked back the rest of her pint of ale.

The noble's eyes were locked on the bovine woman as she drank, feasting on the sight of her large breasts as they strained against the fabric of the white robe that marked her as a priestess. He hadn't paid attention to the name of her god when she'd said it, but he had definitely caught the word "fertility" in her description. And oh, did she ever look fertile.

Wilhelm had heard rumours about Holstaur women and their luscious curves, and was not disappointed in his first time meeting one. He'd also heard tell of their fertility, and the nearly-magical milk the breeders among them produced while pregnant. He indulged himself in imagining how it would feel to run his hands over those generous swells, how milk would run from her swollen nipples to fill his mouth...

"I know a guy," Sylphanien Giltvine cut in, disrupting the man's reverie.

She met Wilhelm's eyes and gave him a look to tell him she'd seen him eyeing her companion, and wasn't impressed. Wilhelm had, of course, already made a move on Sylphanien within two minutes of meeting her and her pink-haired friend, but she had shot him down so violently that he'd immediately written her off as a lost cause. The holstaur, on the other hand...

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"His name's Zar'ze-something," the elf continued, "and I invited him to join us tonight."

"Doctor Zar'zevee'beck Gylmebist," a shrill voice announced as if on cue. The gnome in question clambered up onto a stool to sit beside the elven woman. "Alchemist, artificer, and innovator extraordinaire!"

Wilhelm pulled his eyes away from Sylphanien's hard stare to give the gnome a once-over. No one at the table was impressed by Zar'zevee'beck's physique, but having a skilled alchemist around was a massive boon for an adventuring party. Even more promising was the massive male that stood just behind the gnome.

The fifth adventurer was a burly minotaur, with heavy steel armour and a pair of long, curved horns. No one could doubt that this newcomer would be very helpful to have around in a fight.

The five shook hands with those they didn't know as introductions were made. When Nesraya reached out to shake Khagrim's hand, he held her palm tightly in his as he gave her a slow look-over from the tips of her horns and her cherry-blossom pink hair down to her bovine legs and hooves.

"Nesraya, was it?" he asked. His voice was a low rumble that sent a chill down the young holstaur's spine as she leaned in to hear him over the background noise.

"Uh, I," she stuttered in sudden nervousness. Her heart was racing now and the heat of a blush was spreading down from her face to colour her heaving breasts. Warmth bloomed inside of her at just the simplest touch from this male. "Yes, that's right. Nesraya, servant of the great god Xinea."

"Precious," he chuckled, then finally released her hand. He'd seen the obvious signs of her sudden interest, from the flushed face to her stiffening nipples, but he wasn't about to make a move on her. Yet. "You are precious, Nesraya."

The holstaur's attention was finally pulled from the minotaur's fully animalistic face as she felt an arm settle across her shoulders. She turned and was surprised to find that it was the duelist from the de Portio house who'd draped his arm over her.

"Precious, indeed!" The human man smiled brightly at the large-breasted woman as he held her against him. He had an expectant look in his eyes, like he was ready for her to swoon from the sheer force of his smile. This was clearly a man who was used to being able to talk his way into a woman's pants. Not that Ness wore pants, of course, since they were hard to get over her hooves.

"Nesraya here is a faithful attendant of a powerful god," Wilhelm went on, "and surely she will be nothing but a boon to our team. I'm sure we're all going to get along marvellously. We'll kick in the door of the tomb, bash some skeletons and burn a few mummies, and all come out with more riches than a horse could carry. You, Nesraya, will be able to make an amazing offering to your god, and maybe buy yourself some jewellery. Maybe a necklace of gold and sapphire, to bring out the beautiful green of your eyes."

Nesraya wasn't sure what to say. She looked to her companion, and the elven assassin gave her a small nod. If Sylphanien thought the job was good, then Nesraya would trust that.

"We're in," the holstaur said, earning a bright grin of approval from the man holding her. She missed his smile, however, as she turned to stare at the minotaur once more. Khagrim stared right back at her, a smirk pulling up one side of his muzzle.

"I'm sure we'll do wonders together," Wilhelm van de Portio told her. It must have been uncomfortable for him to rest his arm on the shoulders of such a tall woman, as he'd let his hand slip down to wrap around her waist instead. "We'll be absolutely wonderful together."

* * * * * * *

I tapped lightly on the flap at the front of the tent, and entered when I heard a basso voice rumble, "Come in, Ness."

The tent was larger than anyone else's in the group, which made sense considering its occupant. Often, Khagrim wouldn't even bother taking the time to go through the involved process of setting up his extra-large tent, seeing as his dark fur gave him plenty of protection from the elements. The last two nights, however, I'd insisted he be less exposed while he rested.

"Let's see it," I told him. I could have started with asking how he was doing, but there was no point-- even if he was on the verge of death, Khagrim would only say he was "just fine".

Our party's frontline warrior and chief protector turned towards me and the candle I carried, giving me a better view of his naked chest. He was covered in short, coarse fur from top to bottom, all uniformly black... except for the patches of pale fur over his old scars.

I knew for a fact that beneath his dark hide was a wall of hard muscle, and beneath that was a heart bigger than a dragon's. I wasn't sure which of those features I found more appealing.

After a moment, I remembered what I was here for, and pulled my eyes away from his broad chest. My heart was already beating faster, and I hadn't even gotten close to him yet. Silly girl, I chided myself. I tried to slow my breathing as I crouched beside him to inspect the wound on his shoulder.

I inhaled slowly, trying to calm myself, but the close air of the tent was full of Khagrim's masculine scent, and it only served to make my head foggier.

The bandage was still in place on his shoulder, which was good. I had been worried that he might pull it off at the first inconvenience, but he'd been dutifully keeping it on and letting me change it twice a day. I unwound the long strip of white cloth, and sighed in frustration when I found it stained red. My magic had sealed the wound enough to keep Grim from dying on the battlefield, but it was still raw. Blood welled along the ragged edge of the cut even as I watched.

No matter how often I channelled divine energy into his injury, Khagrim just wasn't healing the way he should be.

"It's like the magic just won't... take," I murmured as I traced a finger over the skin to the side of the actual injury. There was swelling, and the skin was hot, which made me worry that the wound was becoming infected.

He grunted and rolled his shoulder experimentally. I almost yanked my hand away when I felt the thick cords of his muscles bunch and tense with the motion, but for some reason decided to leave my palm where it was. Khagrim Beastbreaker had always seemed to run warm, but his skin was positively sweltering under my palm tonight. "It's really stiff."

"Uh," I stammered, looking up at his face as a sudden surge of shock hit me. Shock and... something else. "What?"

"The shoulder's pretty stiff," he repeated.

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