Author's note: This is a work of fiction. All characters are eighteen years or older. This story features anal sex and group sex, so be warned in case you're not into that sort of stuff. Consider this just a silly, smutty parody of a few fantasy cliches. Don't expect epic tones or anything even vaguely resembling seriousness and you won't be disappointed when you don't find them! Enjoy!
This chapter picks up exactly where the previous one ended, so it's best to read that first.
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Understandably, the following day Aldarius was in no mood to discuss religion with Jadrik, but the warlock didn't mind.
His head was full of happy memories revolving around cackling imps and floppy troll penises and stupid paladins screaming like frightened little girls. Grinning from ear to ear all day long, evilly yet truly happy, Jadrik felt no need to molest poor sulking Al any further. For the time being, at least.
Only in the late afternoon did the warlock snap out of his personal bubble of dark twisted joy, when, after cresting yet another wooded hill, they sighted the craggy vale that led to the Chapel of Red Spires, the ultimate goal of their quest. Looking like an incongruous, misplaced scar made of orange stone in the middle of the otherwise lush and verdant woods, the barren canyon-like valley that the companions were bound to travel stood right before their eyes, signifying the approximation of their journey's end.
"Uh, fancy that," Jadrik mused, scanning the bare rock-strewn valley from within the shadows of his hood, "we're almost there..."
Overruling Aldarius's fanatical suggestion to rush ahead there and then, the companions chose to head back into the woods and set up camp for the night instead, preferring to rest and then scout the terrain the following morning after some planning and preparation.
Once the rabbits that Laeny had caught earlier that afternoon were cooked into a fine stew, and after Jadrik spiked Aldarius's portion with a generous dose of knockout serum, the companions gathered around the campfire to chat and relax. Feeling in the mood for some quality beer and fine storytelling, Uli produced his treasured self-refilling drinking horn from his backpack and began telling one of his favorite tales: the legend of Zipfnir, the Alefather.
Addressing Laeny yet staring dreamily into the crackling fire, stroking the long twin braids of his red beard with one hand while taking large swigs from the horn he held in the other ham-sized fist, Uli began speaking.
"Ye see, lassie, the Alefather that I always call upon is Zipfnir, the dwarven God of Inebriation. He is the mythical ancestor that gave my people beer and ale, and infused us with a strong and serious passion for alcohol. As ye can imagine, we venerate him any time we can by partaking of his gifts!"
To stress his point, the dwarf raised his drinking horn in a silent toast and then guzzled down a few avid gulps, drenching his beard in frothy foam. Smiling under his beer-soaked mustache as he appreciatively smacked his lips, Uli took a moment to lovingly admire the horn.
Despite its plain and ordinary appearance, what the warrior held in his beefy hand was the fabled Horn of Karkaduss, an ancient relic hallowed among dwarfdom. According to legend, it had been crafted from the very horn of the Alefather's own riding ram. Beside its major religious and cultural significance, the horn was especially coveted by dwarves because of its unique magical ability to refill itself automatically at the imbiber's will with a beer of his or her choosing.
Uli had found the Horn of Karkaduss by mere chance inside a nondescript coffer full of ancient and mostly worthless trinkets while he was raiding yet another undead-infested dungeon with Jadrik, hunting for necromantic books. Such an unexpected and impossibly lucky find caused Uli unspeakable joy at first, soon followed by a deep and stubborn paranoia revolving around the possibility of being deprived of that priceless treasure.
Obsessively attached to the self-refilling artifact, Uli developed a nagging fear that some other dwarf might find out that he owned the legendary Horn of Karkaduss. To prevent such news from spreading, careful to avoid any risk of having to face thieves and rogues and scoundrels of all sorts who might attempt to steal the horn from him, Uli never used the relic in any public place, ever, no matter how much he ached to have a drink of its delicious brews.
Such determined and unbending cautiousness forced the burly warrior to make do with low quality beer in cheap inns and taverns most of the time, but he considered it a price worth paying for the ownership of the precious, irreplaceable artifact. Still, his paranoia notwithstanding, Uli had to admit that a campfire deep into the woods in the middle of nowhere was a safe enough environment to enjoy a few gallons of tasty, god-touched ale for a change.
After quaffing a dozen more long noisy swallows, Uli was ready to resume his tale. Licking the suds off his mustache, already about to evoke the glorious deeds of Zipfnir, the dwarf suddenly turned to the slim huntress and handed her the enchanted horn, rumbling out something between an invitation and an apology.
"I'm sorry, lassie, I didn't even offer ye a sip yet! Here, have at it: it's a deep red bubbly triple malt, thick and strong like a dwarf maiden's thighs!"
"Eww, no! Dwarven beer and thighs too?! That's so gross!" Laeny squealed, her breathtakingly beautiful, perfectly sculpted face remaining gorgeous even as it expressed disgust. "And please don't call me 'lassie' all the time," the elf added in her singsong voice, training her slanted green eyes on Uli. "I mean, it feels weird... 'Lassie' is way too dwarfish."
The warrior chuckled at that. "Aye, ye're right, it is. But I like calling ye 'lassie', that's affectionate," he said elbowing Laeny complicitly, "and ye do like my affectionate moments, don't ye?"
