u/zimbrabim79

Hello there everyone! My first post here, just testing the waters with something quick I whipped up over the last couple of hours. I hope you enjoy, and I hope this is the first of much to come! I would love to know your thoughts on it, so please don't hesitate to give feedback or constructive criticism.

***

Leigha was dead.

Well, everyone was dead. Dead, or dying, at least. Leigha was the only one who could’ve done something about that; but she was perhaps the most dead of them all.

Ogres weren’t known for being the smartest of creatures, so Brint supposed this one had just been lucky–which was a significant detriment, as Brint had always considered luck to be his greatest tool; so when it was turned against him, he had little to do but panic.

With the very first swing of its massive club, the behemoth had reduced Leigha to a pile of red mush barely identifiable as having once been a tiefling. The party hardly had time to react to the attack. For such a lumbering monster, ogres sure could move fast when they wanted to. That was Brint’s excuse, at least. Even if there would be no one left to tell the tale of Brint the Cowardly, who stood paralyzed with fear while he watched his party fall at the hands of a dumb ogre, he still found some solace in the falsified idea that there was nothing he could’ve done about it.

Brint held the heart-shaped tip of the tiefling woman’s tail in his hand, blood still dripping from the severed end. He felt like he should keep some memento of the healer’s existence, and that was about the only thing left that was distinctly of Leigha, and not some random scrap of flesh that could’ve been skinned from any other demonkin. He ran his thumb over the pink skin. Smooth, and still warm. A horn might’ve been a better choice, had they both not been shattered into tiny shards of bone by the ogre’s follow-up barrage of attacks against the pile of lifeless slop.

By another stroke of stupid luck, Leigha had also been carrying the group’s entire supply of healing potions. Brint supposed some of the red liquid pooling in the ruts of the dirt road could be attributed to them. But it was mostly blood.

Rachen had charged the ogre next, with a furious scream and both daggers drawn. It was a bold move no doubt, but incredibly stupid in hindsight. An assassin like him should’ve stuck to the shadows, waited for an opportune moment to strike the killing blow. Instead, he had let his emotions get the best of him, and made himself the next target.

A well-timed sneeze from the ogre could’ve knocked the lithe halfling man on his arse; but the creature instead snatched Rachen up in one hand, and bit the little man in two.

The assassin had at least managed to score a few frantic shanks into the ogre’s forearm, causing it to spill its own muddy green blood. It had hardly seemed to take notice, aside from a few frustrated grunts, and a galvanized resolve to kill the man as fast as possible. Rachen made a valiant attempt to stab at its mouth and throat as he went inside, too; but one of his daggers was dropped on the ground, and the other only found hard tongue-meat. Then with the sickening crunch of breaking ribs, Rachen was dead.

Brint wasn’t sure what was worse: watching his friend’s innards spill over the ogre’s hand as it tore away the top half of his body and chewed it to paste, or smelling the beast’s nauseating breath as it did. He supposed he tried not to focus on the former; Rachen wouldn’t have wanted to be seen soiling himself in death. It didn’t help the smell, though.

Brint had to wipe it clean of blood and piss, but Rachen’s dropped dagger was still in good condition. A fine token to remember him by. The other was somewhere in the ogre’s stomach, he guessed. He didn’t care to bother retrieving it.

The ogre’s feast was cut short, as Ayrin was next to mount an attack. An arrow was loosed into its mouth, and another quickly followed into one of its eyes. The beast roared in anger, and threw Rachen’s lower half in the direction that the attack had come from. With a little more luck, one of his feet had kicked the ranger square in the face.

She stumbled backwards, spit a couple teeth from her bleeding mouth, and knocked another arrow as the ogre began to stomp in her direction.

“Brint! Draw his focus!” the elf shouted; Brint assumed, at least. He was still too panicked to understand much at that point. “Brint! Brint, help me!” She was normally so collected, it was jarring to hear her voice laden with fear.

Ayrin tried to turn and run when she realized he wasn’t able to move, but she was too late. The ogre swung its club at her, and the sound echoed like thunder through the forest. She must’ve been sent flying thirty feet through the air before stopping when her body finally hit a tree and slumped to the ground.

With no one else left, Brint finally stirred from his paralysis. He drew his longsword and ran at the ogre from behind. It spun and took a backhanded swipe at him, which knocked him back towards the remnants of his other companions; but Brint was the toughest of the group, and accustomed to taking a hit or two. It only took him a moment to reorient himself and stand back up.

In that time, the ogre had stormed over to Brint. It held its club over its head, preparing another great swing of the weapon to finally end the fight. Brint rolled to the side just in time to avoid the blow, which left a small crater in the dirt road.

With the small opening he had, the warrior thrust his sword upwards into the creature’s chest, hoping he’d hit something vital enough to kill it. Thick blood spilled onto him, into his nose and his mouth. It tasted like sewage. Brint spat and shouted his disgust, though he could hardly hear himself over the sound of the ogre’s pained roar. He took that to be a good sign.

The ogre tried to hit him again and again, but Brint kept rolling. Each swing of the club was slower and slower. The creature’s breathing became heavier and heavier, until it was spilling green blood from its mouth with every roar it unleashed. Evasion wasn’t the warrior’s go-to strategy. Brint supposed he was lucky that it kept working.

With one final swing, it collapsed. The ogre was dead.

After taking a moment to vomit–though that still wasn’t enough to get the taste of ogre blood out of his mouth–Brint took a moment to cut its head off for good measure.

He went to what was left of Leigha first, and cut the tip of her tail off. Then he picked up Rachen’s dagger, and stuck it in his belt. Despite it all, Brint only felt numb; like he wasn’t allowed to be sorry for the deaths he could’ve prevented had he not been a coward.

Brint walked to what he assumed was Ayrin’s corpse last, only to find she was still breathing. Shaking, labored breaths, but a sign of life nonetheless. She sat back against the tree, a pool of blood staining the dirt beneath her; mostly intact, save for the side of her skull that was caved in, and her eye that had popped from its socket, now only hanging on by a thin cord of flesh. One of her arms was bent in a way that arms shouldn’t bend, bare bone jutting out from her elbow; and her exposed midriff was painted dark purple–but that hardly seemed bad in comparison.

“Bwind…” she slurred. Somehow she managed to grin, showing off her missing teeth.

“Ayrin?” Brint spoke softly. He wasn’t sure whether he should be glad that the elf was still alive, or horrified by that fact. “Ayrin, I-I don’t know… I don’t know what to do, Ayrin…”

Ayrin giggled–or, gurgled was more like it.

Rachen and Leigha always looked to him for guidance, but Brint was just as lost as them, most of the time. Ayrin was the wisest of the bunch, without a doubt. She was a couple hundred years older than them after all. She always knew what to do.

“Gome hewe, Bwind…” she raised her unbroken arm and extended a quivering hand towards Brint.

The warrior knelt at his companion’s side, and her fingers lightly traced his cheek, paying no mind to the ogre blood that it was slicked with. It was an odd time to admit to himself he’d wanted this kind of gentle touch from her for so long now. He was glad for the ogre blood, so that she might not see how red his face was getting.

“I’m gonna die, Bwind. It huwds… so bad,” she whispered, and though her good eye was beginning to fill with tears, her smile remained on her swollen, busted lips. “Pwease… I wanna feew good. Make me feew good, befowe I die, Bwind.”

Before Brint could ask her if she meant what he hoped she meant, Ayrin’s hand pulled his head closer to hers, until their lips crashed together. She let out a soft moan into his mouth, but it only caused her to cough blood. Brint didn’t mind it. Compared to the ogre’s, Ayrin’s blood was the sweetest wine he could taste. He swallowed it without a second thought.

She meant what he hoped she meant.

Brint pulled away when he felt her hand against his chest. He immediately began unstrapping his lower leather armors, but Ayrin gurgled again. “I don’d have dhad long, Bwind. You can fugg me… when I’m dead. I wand you do…” she coughed again as if to accentuate her point. “Rip my fuggin pands off… ead my pussy… pwease.”

Brint wasn’t one to ignore Ayrin’s advice.

He pulled Rachen’s dagger from his belt, cut through her own leather belt, down her trousers, and just to the right of where her pussy ought to be, judging by the piss-wetted spot in the crotch. He nicked her skin with the blade as he went, but he doubted she cared at that point.

Then, he put the knife back, took hold of either side of the elf’s pants, and tore them farther apart, exposing her womanhood to him. Brint had heard that elves didn’t grow a single hair other than those on their heads, and that rumor apparently held true. Even if he wouldn’t have minded some fuzz, he couldn’t deny the appeal of a smooth vulva.

Like the rest of Ayrin, her pussy was leaking blood–and Brint was reasonably sure it wasn’t because she was menstruating. The fact that her body was one large bruise from her chest down to her thighs likely had something to do with it, from where she was wrapped around the tree.

Brint took one more look up towards Ayrin’s face, into her green eye, searching for one final confirmation that this was what she wanted.

The elf smiled back, nodded slightly, and spread her legs as wide as she could.

He adjusted his position to properly align his face with Ayrin’s cunt, placed a hand on either one of her thighs, and leaned in. Closer now, the warrior could see that the fluid dripping from her hole wasn’t blood alone, but it was mixed with droplets of piss and her clear arousal. Brint was drawn to it like a starving dog. He paid no mind to foreplay or any gradual buildup of sexual tension–Ayrin had no time for that, and he had no desire to wait. He opened his mouth and began lapping at it wildly, drinking in the wonderful ambrosia that his companion offered to him, allowing it to fill his senses.

“Ohhh, fugg yesssss… Bwind… Jusd lige da- agh!” Ayrin was cut off by something like a high-pitched squeak when Brint’s reckless tongue brushed roughly over her clit. She placed her hand on his head, her fingers running through his soaked hair.

Once he’d cleaned most of the delicious mixture from around her snatch and her thighs, Brint focused on the spot that had made her squeal. He pressed his lips around it and hammered at it with his tongue as hard as he could. There was nothing more important than making Ayrin feel one last orgasm before she died.

It didn’t take long before her hips began to work against Brint. They jerked instinctively, grinding herself against his face. She groaned loudly, sounds that could possibly be interpreted as words. Her clit throbbed against his lips. Her thighs threatened to snap shut around his head. He moved his hands and let her trap him there. His hands found the small of her waist, wrapped around it, and pulled her even closer, pressing her harder against him.

Ayrin’s back arched. She screamed. Brint couldn’t tell if it was from pleasure or pain. He didn’t really care.

And then, nothing.

Her body went limp. The last of her fluids drained from her cunt, which Brint didn’t let go to waste.

He pushed himself back up onto his knees and looked the elf over for any sign of life at all. He found none.

Ayrin was dead.

Brint started unbuckling his armor again. He smiled. As usual, he’d turned out to be the lucky one in the end.