Included kinks:
High-Fantasy, Medieval, futanari, mini-gts, size difference, female muscle, strong-fat body type, full-figured women, big penis, exhibitionism, action, seduction, size praise
All characters are entirely fictional and all above the age of 18!
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Lyanne yawned as she stared up to the vivid colours of her tent. So much to not wasting any time with sleeping, but as shown by the book sunken into her lap, healing was indeed a taxing task. She peeled the bandage off, still red and wet with blood and cum, freed of any pain. Her wound was gone without leaving a mark on her muscles, which she flexed with delight and without any discomfort. She never grew old of admiring the old magic, even if that display of wonder always came with some initial pain. Wonder, that is what magic was. A wonder of the old age. One that vanished from the world, besides some shattered fragments living on through futas.
A grin always crept up when she remembered the look on her parent's faces when they were told that their daughter working the field was bestowed at birth with the last remnants of the ancient power that once ruled the world. Which came even more unlikely considering humans were furthest related to those who were once masters and wardens over all sorts of magic. Still, Lyanne had yet to discover the feeling of being as special as the maesters made it out to be ... and being treated as such. To the majority futas were nothing more than over-grown brutes, an anomaly that kept reappearing on the world at random. To the curious they were a relic of the ancient past, capable of some feats that ranged from magical wonders to glorified party tricks, depending on who to ask. And to the daring, certainly Lyanne's favourite kind, they were immaculate lovers capable of pleasure unmatched by anybody else. Lyanne had yet to come across someone who didn't fall into one of those categories. Well, maybe the company of other "magical" anomalies like her will broaden her horizon in that regard. A companionship of implausible uniqueness. For the numbers of futas never exceeded more than a few dozen in the entire world. Maybe a hundred in total, spanning all races. Crossing paths with another futa, let alone two, from different races even, now that was an improbability of chance that some would credit the whim of a god of fortune. But of course, Lyanne would never believe in such a thing.
She put the book aside, one of many Syn lent her in hope of getting closer to understanding the most serene and ancient of all languages -- High Elvish. A day of learning this was never destined to be and neither would it turn into such that night. Darkness had invaded the outside and embraced Lyanne's tent together with the merry, drunken, songs of her comrades. She joined in to one of the many ballads clearly born from wine as she put on the finishing touches in her reflection. Magical? She wouldn't go so far to call the woman frowning back at her that, but deemed it decent enough of a sight to head out. Her dark vest set nice and tight, her raven hair tied together comely and her girthy 7 inches tucked away as best as possible in her bulging pants. She crammed the ever-enticing, lavishly-proportionated woman drawn in black and white back under her bedroll and strolled towards the epicentre of music and intoxicating scent.
Gunjon proved one more he was a master of logistics. In no time he set up not one but two tents big enough to house hundreds of hungry maws and arranged them fed and their thirst quenched. And yet they just barely fit the ranks of visitors that came to drink and sing as much as the ones who invited them.
Lyanne walked into the big, green tent, towering as high as most taverns in the major merchant cities and smirked when she saw the scenes unfolding before her. Men of all three banners sat at the tables, laughing and bragging like they had always been brothers in arms. Their tables were bursting with beers and wine, foods of all corners of the world and were being ravaged by men of all sorts of races and backgrounds. Just one particular half-elf went sorely missing.
"Easy there, boys," Lyanne chuckled when the first gaggle of happily drunk faces almost stumbled into her. One could tell they had gone wild on their homemade schnapps again... and already paid the price.
The towering knight walked past a few fires before spotting Ser Lundor and Karstjan at one of the main tables, surrounded by dozens of empty mugs and clearly captivated by the great company of Brossim and his dwarfs turning drinking into an art form. Upon deciding she wouldn't wish to be the one to disrupt such an unlikely gathering she set her eyes for the main banquet instead, for her stomach kept on grumbling.
The halls of many counts and countesses paled in comparison to the delectable medley of culinary splendor put on display here. The boys certainly appreciated that as well, for the line snaking to the ocean of filled platters was longer than the one assembling before Syn's tent on payday. Which was generous like everything else she provided the boys with.
To nobody's surprise, Gunjon led the line and towered above the plentiful selection, his plate filled to the brim and then some to the dismay of everybody waiting. Truly, as the saying back home went, there was two things truly infinite in the world: The ocean ... and the hunger of an Islander.
Lyanne, knowing Gunjon wouldn't be urged on by any power in the world, passed by, one finger led to her lips and shushing the boys as she snuck up on him and pocketed a juicy looking chicken leg without him taking notice. Neither did he pay the roaring laughs behind him any mind either to be fair, too hypnotised was he by the prospect of further adding to his wide array of appetizers.
Lyanne noticed herself stopping with a silent stare amidst happy bites. Those were the moments that truly mattered. Seeing the boys this enthralled and coming together with friends, new and old made all trouble with Lord Daeron and his kin worthwhile. Well, not everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves as others. She spotted something green creep into the corner of her vision, morphing into an orcish back giving into chunky buttocks its owner didn't mind showing to the world just like the lack of enthusiasm. A part of her should have noticed something was wrong when she wasn't greeted by the biggest member of the band's thunderous laughter.
Fel sat alone at a counter in the corner, next to a huge barrel and looked thoughtfully into the mug in her huge green hand.
"What are you sitting here all alone for?" Lyanne asked and leaned over the bar, startling her comrade greatly before she realised who ripped her out of her deep thoughts.
"Ah... hey...," Fel said softly and looked at Lyanne top to bottom, taking in seemingly every detail that was to her. "Good to see you are back on your feets."
"It's just 'feet'," she corrected and noticed the orc's grey eyes stray away from her with a slow nod. "Aren't you enjoying yourself? C'mon this is the hour for celebration!"
"I am not in the mood," Fel growled and took another sip.
"Do your people not celebrate victory after a battle?" Lyanne asked, still leaning into the counter, yet barely standing taller than Fel sitting down.
"Battle? This was no battle. Had bigger scraps three times per week back home," Fel muttered and took a deep sigh before whispering in an even softer-spoken tone. "And people got hurt because of me."
It was simply impossible to make sense of orcs Lyanne thought. Fel made it a habit to turn everything into a big joke, especially in situations when humour was far from appropriate. Now she was brooding in solitude when everyone else is having the times of their lives. What would have been a welcome change a few hours ago now felt sour... wrong even. No matter how obnoxious and loud Fel could be most times, this glum, borderline dejected version of her made for an unpleasingly depressing sight. One that the raven-haired warrior ought to see corrected.
"What are you saying, Fel? Who?"
"It does not matter. It is done already," Fel said, while continuously looking down the knight's thigh until it all made sense.
"Hold on. Do you ... mean me?"
Fel didn't look up, but nodded after some hesitation.
"Oh, Fel! That was merely a flesh wound. Nothing to feel sorry for," Lyanne chuckled and now fully slid into the counter and back into the orc's vision with a clap of the giant's massive shoulder. "It's fine. For real. Now lighten up a bit. It suits you better."
Fel's tusks came out with her signature wide grin.
"If you say so... boss."
Suddenly, laughter and even greater commotion interrupted a brief moment of unexpected closeness.
"Who did this?! Was it you?!"
Gunjon stood around laughing faces, half seriously, half-jokingly accusing everyone for stealing his food for simply grinning sheepishly enough. His eyes wandered in search of who committed the worst crime imaginable on a constantly starving soul like him. He found his answer when he spotted Lyanne and Fel in the furthest corner, the missing chicken leg lifted into the air when Lyanne couldn't withstand the urge to tease him a little bit. She was possibly the only one to get away with such a sacrilege with just a knowing nod among Islanders.
"About time he noticed," Lyanne chuckled and took another hearty bite, leaving only bare bones behind.
"Heh. Did not want to wait, huh?"
"I think he could spare a bit. Not that he starts getting fat."
"Heh! Thought the same. But he was angrier when I did it before."
