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?"
Rolling her eyes yet giggling, unable to deny the truth of Uli's allusive words, the elf attempted to resumed her gracious stillness, failing. Uli's beard-hidden lips curled up in a knowing grin. Despite her faraway look and the way she held her back straight and hugged her knees to her chest as she sat by the fire, the dwarf could see the alabaster skin of Laentharyel's cheeks getting rosier by the second.
No matter how hard she tried to maintain her elven composure, the huntress couldn't seem to stop wriggling in place and shaking her head nervously, making her long blonde tresses ripple across her delicate shoulders. Her squirming fits were clearly becoming more intense and more frequent by the moment, and Laeny simply couldn't help but rub her thighs together to give her itchy pussy and overcharged clit some much needed reprieve.
Of course, Uli knew, soon she would do way more than squirm and try to placate the tide of passion rising inside her, and he couldn't wait for her to succumb to yet another bout of alchemically induced lust.
The dwarf's flinty gray eyes were fixated on Laeny with such intensity that he could almost see through her light top and her tight-fitting trousers. Picturing in his mind the elf's pointy perky breasts and long supple legs along with the rest of her perfect lithe body, Uli nodded his head and chuckled, already savoring the imminent transformation that would turn the graceful huntress into a cock-starved whore. Feeling his thick pole start to stiffen under his kilt, the warrior tried to focus on his story again, to let the minutes pass faster.
"Anyway," Uli resumed after downing another healthy mouthful from the Horn of Karkaduss, "our legends tell that all the types of ale and beer we have nowadays are variants of the five primordial brews born of the joining between Zipfnir, the Alefather, with his five divine consorts, the revered Beermothers. To this day, each Beermother is associated with one of the five traditional dwarven brews: the Pale One, the Golden One, the Amber One, the Fiery One and the Dark One. Now, there's still some discussion about the Beermothers, ye see, what with the old texts being incomplete and, well, sort of sketchy here and there. Most monks of Zipfnir and brewmasters today think that the Beermothers were just the Alefather's wives, but a few think that they were his daughters instead. If ye ask me personally, I'd say that..."
A deep sigh from across the campfire, followed by a snort of annoyance, interrupted the dwarf's theological dissertation. "For the love of the Gods, Uli," Shayla snapped, "enough already!"
The wizardess's jet black hair shone in the orange radiance of the fire and her deep blue eyes were vivid with their characteristic feisty glint as she leaned forward to throw another stick into the flames. Her sudden movement almost made her huge boobs spill out of her plunging neckline, and, as she sat back, her ample jugs still swayed and wobbled enticingly within the confines of her figure-hugging azure tunic.
"We've heard the story of your drunken, raunchy beer god humping his even drunker and raunchier wives a thousand times, Uli," Shayla went on, eying the dwarf with undisguised boredom. "It's just a creation myth, and not a particularly interesting or original one at that..."
"Oi! Careful there, lass!" Uli bristled, the intended sternness of his reproach getting somewhat dampened by the distracting effect that the wizardess's luscious, nicely exposed cleavage had on him, magnetizing his gaze even as he tried to look Shayla in the eye and stare her down. "Watch yer mouth when ye talk about the Alefather, lass! It's my religion, ye know, and Laeny here never heard this tale before!"
"It's not such an uninteresting legend, actually," Jadrik interjected with a snicker, sitting closer to the wizardess. "I, for one, am quite a fan of the Alefather's chronicles."
