A twisted old Goblin comes upon the scene of an epic battle between the forces of good and evil. There's only one survivor.
This fantasy adventure story started out as a Halloween submission but evolved as I wrote it. It's a long story, so strap yourself in and read on. I hope you enjoy the ride.
All characters engaging in sexual activity are 18 years old or older.
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Chapter 1
An Epic Battle
Stump trudged through the dense woods, cursing every step of the way. His gnarled scaly green hands held a short bow with an arrow knocked and ready.
"I hate hunting," he muttered. "I like killing but I hate hunting."
He repeated it like a mantra, over and over again, just under his breath. He didn't really hate hunting it was just something he said while he hunted.
His hunched lumpy form traveled quietly through the dense forest, avoiding dry branches. The throbbing strains of age made his joints and muscles ache, making him limp stiff legged and slow until his old body warmed up.
His dark brown eyes scanned the forest from side to side, missing nothing.
Noting a game trail, he stopped at its edge and crouched down to inspect the ground then took off at a muscle-warming trot, as silent as the stag he now hunted.
Stump was a Goblin born of the Harga clan. He'd been born to the clan, but hours after his birth the tribe shaman had carried him far from it and left him in a hollow stump next to a rutted dirt road more than 20 miles from the village.
The tribe didn't accept weak or deformed offspring. Custom dictated he be killed outright or left to fend for himself. If the gods wanted him to live, then he'd live.
Stump was born small, with a twisted spine and unnaturally large hands, feet and genitalia. His wide-set brown eyes were large and bulging over a thick overhanging brow and his scaly-looking, heavily-wrinkled skin was a mottled green-gray. His upturned nose was wide and flat with round, wide, up-angled nostrils. His head was large, misshapen and covered with short spiky green hair shot through with gray. His teeth were sharp and pointed, his mouth was large and nearly lipless and his tongue was long and thick. He'd been a hideously ugly deformed infant born of a race already ugly to begin with.
An hour after the shaman left him in the hollow stump, just as a pair of hungry wolves sniffed out the crying Goblin child, a rumbling wagon caravan rounded a bend on the road, scaring the hunting carnivores away.
The misshapen infant cried so loud his wail cut through the rumbling wooden wheels and screeching ungreased wagon axles.
The white-haired old man driving the lead wagon hollered out a command and the long line of wagons came to a slow grinding halt.
The old man jumped off the wagon and strode to the tree stump to find the ugly Goblin infant wailing, squirming in a puddle of its own watery waste.
He reached in gingerly, careful not to get its filth on his hands and motioned to one of the mounted caravan guards patrolling ahead and around the caravan. He waited until the young man got close.
"Nikol, go get Marati," he said, pulling out the squirming squalling Goblin infant and holding it gingerly in both hands.
He stared at the child for several minutes, scrunching his face in disgust. Its back was twisted, its skin was a strange shade of mottled green and gray, its large bulging eyes were scrunched closed, its ears were large, long and pointed, and its wide mouth was a gaping nearly lipless hole as it cried. Its thin neck was not yet able to hold its bulbous oversized head upright.
"Gods, that's one UGLY creature," he said out loud.
Eventually, the guard returned with an ugly gray-haired middle aged woman in tow.
"Looky here, Marati," the old man said holding the squirming infant in her direction. "Looks like the gods finally answered your prayers. You have a son now."
"And his name is Stump."
Marati looked at the child and her angry, bitter cold heart thawed just a bit.
She'd tried to entice a man to put a baby in her belly for years now, but no one wanted anything to do with her. She was nearly as ugly and deformed as the Goblin child the white-haired old man held out to her and with a sour personality to match.
And so Marati the Twisted raised him as her own. She was cruel and bitter but she cared for him, providing him a squalid painful childhood full of starvation, beatings and malice.
She took out her misery on the twisted little outcast, beating him mercilessly for the slightest imagined transgression. She seemed to enjoy his pain and misery.
Marati abandoned him in a small town eight year later when she finally convinced a man as ugly as she to marry her. The man insisted she get rid of the "horrid little monster" so she discarded him as one does a piece of useless garbage, and he grew up in the streets of Briarscrest.
From the day his adoptive mother abandoned him, Stump was on his own. He learned to survive by stealing and scrounging. Like a rat, he could squeeze through holes smaller than himself and learned to pick pockets, lie, cheat and steal like the other starving homeless children living on the streets.
His deformities never prevented him from doing anything. His back was twisted, but he could still run, dodge and squirm his way out of pretty much anything. As for his enormous genitals, he kept them squeezed into a loin clout, well hidden under a pair of baggy trousers.
Everything changed when he went through puberty. Though he was barely over four feet tall, his massive genitals outgrew his skinny malformed body. But his biggest problem was his almost constant erection. One glance at a woman and he was instantly up. He was in a state of constant arousal, causing the baggy pants he normally wore to tent out obscenely. His friends avoided him once this started to happen on a regular basis.
Stump's limp penis was almost eight inches long. When stimulated, it was longer than his upper leg and as thick, gnarled, knotted and lumpy as an old tree stump and his balls were nearly as big around as his clenched fists. They would bloat and swell when he became aroused and shrink down and empty when he came.
He had no way to control his body's reactions and eventually learned to tuck his lumpy boner into the waist of his baggy pants, under the frayed rope he used as a belt. The only thing that helped was masturbation. The more he masturbated, the more control he had, the more he was able to function to some small degree in the town's underground society.
Goblins are generally a small race so he never grew taller than four feet eight inches. His thick knobby cock finally stopped growing when he turned 18, but he could only control his erections by masturbating... meaning he masturbated all the time.
From then on, he'd spent his life fucking all the women he could; thieving, adventuring, murdering, betraying, and spying until he grew old and tired of it all. Then he built himself a comfortable cabin with a rather small portion of the mountains of loot he'd acquired from a long life of adventure, and resigned himself to live away from the people who judged and reviled him, attacked and bullied him.
Stump glided through the dense underbrush like a ghost, leaving not a rustle in his wake. As he trotted along, he suddenly heard the metallic clang of blade against blade and felt the telltale signs of magic in the air. This was something unique to him, he'd always been able to tell when magic was around, either wielded by a mage or imbued in a person, place or thing.
He stopped dead in his tracks and crouched, his large pointed ears twitching to catch every sound muffled by the dense woods. His pointed teeth were clenched in a grimace of fear and anger. This was his forest!
He heard branches snap and leaves rustle from the game trail up ahead and, with just enough time to draw and release, shot an arrow unerringly at the ten point buck that suddenly appeared barely ten yards in front of him.
The animal took two bounding steps, crashed against a thick tree and fell to the ground with Stump's arrow lodged in its heaving chest, the wound pumping out its heart's blood onto the damp loamy forest floor. Its rear legs kicked wildly in its death throes.
He checked on the animal, marked the area with broken branches dragged in the buck's blood, and continued down the trail, nervous but eager to see a battle.
Crouched low but running fast, he sped down the trail, aches and pains forgotten, every sense engrossed on the world around him.
He stopped when the forest ended suddenly at the edge of a large grass-covered glade.
Crouching behind a clump of dense bushes, he carefully parted their branches and peered out.
Three people fought on a grass-covered hill. Patches of the hill smoldered and burned, the result of fire spells launched by an obviously powerful mage.
Bodies lay in postures of death near the top of the round hill, some of them still smoldering or aflame, obvious recipients of the mage's vicious fire magic. Other bodies lay tangled together in attitudes of death, their armored bodies slashed, cloven or smashed by sword, axe and mace.
It was less than ten minutes since Stump heard the first clash of battle yet bodies lay strewn across the hill in bright splashes of blood, red licking flames and dark smoking ash.
