Just as the sun dipped below the willows, Savok found them. Adventurers making camp near the forest trail. Three in total.
The first was lean; golden brown, with licorice curls as thick as a thumb. He called her 'Knife' on account of the throwing blades sheathed at her hip. The second -- 'Sword', he decided -- was pale and tall, with a bulkier, muscular build and short wheat-gold hair. She came with armor and a shield, with her namesake never far from her hand. Savok figured her for the leader.
The last was the shortest -- with a curvaceous, padded figure softened from time spent in study. Her hair was a lush carpet of whorled copper that hid the tips of her pointed ears. She kept to herself, her nose buried in a grimoire near the crackling fire. He settled on 'Book'.
A low rumble filled Savok's heavy muscular gut. The urog had not been spotted; this was owing in part to the campfire that dulled their view of the shadows. But he knew better than to push his luck. He was hard to miss -- four hundred pounds of muscle and fat, looming several feet above even Sword, with two chipped tusks jutting from his bottom jaw. His greenish-brown skin provided camouflage among the trees, but his eyes still smoldered like molten gold.
Savok had been tracking game when he was drawn by the scent of fat sizzling over a fire. They were roasting a spiced venison haunch. He wiped saliva from his mouth with the back of his hand.
They're here to hunt me,
he realized.
They each ate their share, with Sword consuming the most. Soon, Book and Knife were swapping stories, their laughter rolling out into the surrounding woods. Sword sharpened her blade.
Savok waited. The group discussed who would take first watch -- they settled on Knife. The other two curled up into their bedrolls while Knife paced, pausing occasionally to throw one of her daggers at a nearby tree.
She knows enough to not face the fire,
Savok thought.
Still...
His eyes traced their way down the supple curve of her back -- how the toned muscle of her shoulders flowed down atop the pliant dollop of her buttocks. She was clad in leather, with just enough space between her top and trousers to expose a sliver of brown skin. He admired the way her hips swayed; admired the plump tangles of sable hair that swirled from side to side as she strutted about. Savok could smell traces of her perfume. A long-forgotten urge stirred in the pit of his stomach.
He forced himself to be patient. It was a risk, he knew. Savok was a remarkable fighter -- he could likely take any one of them alone. Perhaps even two. But all three...? He wasn't sure.
His eyes continued to follow Knife's body. The curve of her high, perky breasts. The strong, coltish thighs -- the way they twitched with each step she took.
Stay focused.
He dropped his hand down and under the leather flap at his crotch. Slowly, he stroked -- calming his nerves. His shaft swelled to fill his palm.
...schlk... schlk...
Stars were visible. Knife was slowing down; her stride had lost some swagger.
...schlk...
Savok slipped his other hand into the pouch at his side. He retrieved the dart, rolling his thumb over its surface. Feeling that tiny needle at its tip.
Right after she threw the dagger -- that was the moment to strike. The thud of impact would mask his throw -- and she'd be down a blade.
She took aim. Savok reeled back.
She threw.
...thwmp.
Fuck. The dart hit the ground a dozen feet past its mark. She paused; Savok held his breath.
Knife ambled forward, and -- with no visible sign of recognition -- retrieved her dagger. She walked back to where she started.
Savok permitted himself to breathe. He retrieved another dart. And when she threw again --
...thwk!
