Kara rides her pony — hardly a horse fit for a warlord, but tragically the healthiest steed in Meadowbrook — up the north road, Jaika following behind on a majestic goblin warhound — the sort of thing Kara should be riding, if only it could bear her weight. She is unaware that to the north, in the capital, a revolution has deposed Lord Eagleclaw and left a mysterious woman named Diana in charge. What she is aware of, though, is something she has difficulty interpreting.
“Do you think they will have moved, today?” Jaika asks.
“They have to, surely. Otherwise they’re just going through their reserves for nothing.”
It was the level-up map that revealed Blackburrow to her, half a day’s ride from Meadowbrook. For the past two days, the town’s levies have been drawn up, camping outside its palisade in ramshackle, unorganised formations, ready to march (there are three towns within the recently beheaded Lord Eagleclaw’s domain, ruled over by three nobles; each of whom believe they’re the one to crush the revolution and adopt Lord Eagleclaw’s title. The marching orders are delayed while the contenders argue).
It’s the type of thing Kara would love to sweep up with a lightning strike — the host is about the size of her goblin army, but with the element of surprise she’s confident in a win. But it would mean taking so many goblins out of Meadowbrook that the town would surely rebel against her.
She’s set her goblins to finding as many wolves as they can, breaking them in with their strange goblin animal bond, because a smaller mounted force could sweep up the camp before they can armour for battle — but she just hasn’t had the numbers yet, and she’s certain the opportunity will slip from her fingers.
But as Kara and Jaika crest the hill again, and Kara holds the spyglass (purchased from a very progressive traveling merchant, who didn’t care about Kara’s unlawful acquisition of the town and all its wealth) to her eye, she sees the camp remains just where it is. She does not know this is because Duke Acaster of Blackburrow and the other aristocrats are in heated negotiations over who will be granted Thornton in the aftermath of their beautiful victory.
In short, that host isn’t going anywhere for a while — but Kara, not attuned to these things, is filled with anxiety and urgency. “There must be something we’re not seeing.”
“A trick?”
“It must be. If they joined with the others, they could take Meadowbrook by storm — no need for a siege. They might be rallying here, but… the roads seem quiet.”
Jaika is not so concerned about the armies, in truth. If Lord Eagleclaw sweeps down, they can easily retreat to the caves, and her blessed Prophet will be beyond his reach. If the village is lost, so what? The host will leave eventually, and the goblins can retake it then. “Are we to stay here longer, Prophet? Gobs get restless without chieftain.” Such is Jaika’s embrace of her role that responsibility forces her to raise this point, even though these nights with Kara all to herself are utter bliss, the greatest nights of her life.
“Chancellor Lily and Marshal Maynier have things well in hand. Come, let us return to the cave — we’ll check on the levies again tonight — perhaps slip into their camp.”
The idea of spending the entire evening alone with her idol has Jaika shivering with pleasure. With her uncanny way of sniffing out exactly what Kara needs, the goblin found the small cave some time ago, an unassuming crack in the side of a cliff which opens up into a brilliant blue geode. Today, Kara barely has time to appreciate the sparkling beauty; she has Jaika on her back in seconds.
Eager to be helpful to her messiah in any way possible, Jaika rolls over, sticks her ass in the air just in time for Kara to pull her loincloth aside and plunge inside her. Filled with nervous energy, the tri-coloured cat girl digs her claws into Jaika’s hips and thrusts and thrusts and thrusts.
“Hit Jaika,” says the goblin, which is enough to make Kara hesitate, stutter in her vicious movement.
“Did I hear you right, sweetling?” she asks, half smiling, voice husky and utterly divine to the chieftain.
“You are angry, no? Passion, for Goddess. Hit Jaika.”
How did I get so lucky? Sometimes Jaika’s her favourite — certainly this scouting expedition has her close to Kara’s heart, since she’s always coming in with fresh meat that she roasts up just right. It’s enough that, if she weren’t already, given goblins and Beast-kin are incompatible, she’d start spilling her cum in Jaika.
Kara spanks Jaika’s ass with her firm hand, the loud smack echoing about the geode. Again, she brings her hand down. Again. Jaika hisses with pain, but moans louder, and throws her hips back against Kara’s length.
“Master,” she cries. “Master!”
“Good girl,” grunts Kara, channeling her frustration and anxiety into another rough, backhanded slap. Jaika, growing accustomed to the pain, moans into it. “Good fucking girl.” Enjoying this more than she had even expected, Jaika tips over into her orgasm, clenching around Kara’s length.
Having granted her follower yet another moment of bliss, out here in their private sanctum, Kara pulls out roughly, earning a pitiful whine from the otherwise mighty goblin chieftain. (The more Jaika grows, the more she seems every bit the grand goblin warlord that village children fear, the more Kara enjoys her submission.) She yanks Jaika back by the hair and wrenches her face around, slaps her with her hard cock, trailing wetness on her cheek. “Master!” Jaika squeaks, before Kara silences her with her cock down her throat.
The primal, base sound of Kara using Jaika’s throat echoes about the geode, enough to bring Kara where she needs to be. “That’s my good little cumdump,” she hisses, much to Jaika’s delight, as she cums down her throat and leaves her devoted follower coughing and gasping.
Back in Meadowbrook, the goblins dance.
It is Chancellor Lily’s first grand attempt at bridging the stark divide between the town’s two peoples, and so far the humans are clearly still unconvinced, but they are warming up as the goblins flawlessly execute yet another dance. They have had to swap linking arms for holding hands, due to the height difference, but it is no bother when they’re so swift on their feet, so adept at keeping time (to the goblins, the band is just a nicer sounding war drum).
Meadow, a pretty peasant girl raised by a father who didn’t want to stop drinking long enough to think of a name, twirls round Sizzle, the pretty green goblin long considered the tribe’s most beautiful. Meadow blushes and giggles when Sizzle breaks off the twirl and bows deeply.
They gather in the chapel (now a temple to Sayla, to the displeasure of the townsfolk, but that’s a problem for another time) which has been cleared of wooden benches to create the perfect dance hall for the evening’s festivities. Lily has been running herself ragged making introductions, hoping to spark the beginnings of friendship between the two groups.
The jaunty tune ends, and it is the goblins turn again to teach the townsfolk a dance. Like most goblin dances, the moves are repetitive but technically complex, and there’s lots of laughing and tripping over feet before the performance can begin proper.
From across the room, Maynier watches Lily. To the orc, Lily’s skilled peacemaking merely looks like socialising. She’s only the favourite because Kara found her first, thinks Maynier. If I’d been in the dung-filled paddock instead of Lily, it would be me. It should be me.
Beside her, Elsa, permitted to come only so she can witness the humiliation of a temple to temperance turned to a rowdy drinking hall, hums softly. “I see why your heathen prophet loves her so much. She is rather pretty.”
Maynier seethes. She can’t just strike the woman, not here, not before all the townsfolk. But she’s so frustrated, and she’d love to break Elsa, just to have something to focus it all on.
Sizzle saunters up to both, two mugs in hand. “You drink?” she asks.
“No, a priestess of Thala does not drink.”
“More for pretty orc,” Sizzle says, blowing Maynier a kiss and passing her a mug of frothy ale. Elsa notes with great displeasure that she’s about the only human here who has resisted the goblin’s insistent offers of more to drink. The rest are becoming just as inebriated as their tiny green conquerors, despite all her sermons about the evil of ale.
“Come with me,” Maynier says to her, suddenly, and Elsa’s heart soars. Yes, she thinks, she wants my counsel. I can influence her…
Instead, the moment they’re in Kara’s fine room, Maynier slams Elsa against the wall and puts the mug to her lips. “Drink.”
“No, I-”
“I am sick of your bleating. Drink.”
Elsa keeps her lips closed, but the drink keeps coming and coming and, as it spills down her tunic, she wonders how many of the townspeople will believe her version of events — and how many will, already drunk, assume the priestess is making excuses for getting a little sloppy with her first time. She acquiesces, shocked that she’s needed to hammer home again and again the dangers of a drink that tastes so fucking foul.
“There,” she says, when the mug is drained, “now, what do you intend to do about-”
But Maynier yanks her head back and presses a wineskin to her lips, the much nicer drink filling Elsa’s mouth, staining her tongue and cheeks, leaving her no choice but to swallow.
Maynier forces Elsa to drink mostly because it’s fun, but she also suspects a drunk priestess will be more creative. “You will help me,” she says, less subtle than even Kara. “I will bear the Prophet’s child. You cannot hide your true nature from me, schemer. Put that mind to use. Help me win her seed.”