The Herd
After a series of bad decisions, worse luck, and general poor life choices the remnants of the Bergwald brayherd retreated to a tribal herdstone to make their last stand. Instead they found an unorthodox new beginning.
This is a test upload of an older story I wrote to feel out SF's layout quirks. If you've read this before then that was me on my AO3 account. Hi.
We approached the herdstone to try and regroup. Half our number had either fled or disappeared or fallen to the Not-deer now infesting the forest. As we got closer we all realised that it had changed, but none of us could tell how. There was a cloaked figure at the base of it, hunched over doing Gods know what. Our champion, Khaaz, roared out a challenge and the figure turned. It was a human. Average height, average build, nothing different from the countless peasants and soldiers the herd had slain and devoured over the years. Or so we thought. The 'human' returned the challenge, not with a pathetic shout of mannish defiance but with the booming scream of an enraged ghorgon. The majority of our ungors soiled themselves then and there. A bray clutched its pathetic chest and collapsed to the ground dead. What must have been every bird in the whole forest took flight in a great cloud and the trees shook as massive, faraway beasts fled the area.
Khaaz, to his credit, didn't even flinch. A brief sidelong glance to us bestigors to make sure that we had just heard that noise as well was all he took before readying his man-cleaver and striding towards the interloper. There was a stunned silence for a moment before the bray-shaman and the four of us rushed to catch up. The rest of the herd followed uncertainly, the past few months fighting an unknown, freakish enemy having blunted their appetite for headlong slaughter for once.
The 'human' moved out to meet us. Khaaz drew in a breath to make a second war cry but another wall of primal fury drove the breath from our chests and almost burst our ears and eyes. The ungors and even a few gors moved to run whilst their superiors were incapacitated. I saw very little, on the ground as I was, but I heard it all.
“No." The command rolled out across the hillside and reverberated off the cliffs. The thudding of hooves stopped. Immediately. “Sit" Through watery eyes I saw each and every beastman present plop down on the ground like a pack of trained lapdogs. I didn't blame them. Were the Great Beast of Chaos Undivided ever to take form and emerge from the Realms of Chaos it would've sounded just like that figure, human, thing.
For what seemed like forever there was naught but the sound of the wind and ringing ears. Eventually Khaaz managed to push himself to his hooves, snot and phlegm dripping from his mouth and nose and eyes, his lungs having been squeezed out like a wineskin. He wiped the majority with the back of his hand and unsteadily stood before the human-creature. Fortunately for us all the thing's third challenge was not a supernatural howl, but a low and measured demand in flawless Dark Tongue. It wanted the herd and was willing to fight for it in the traditional manner against any who fancied themselves a challenger. Khaaz accepted. The Creature-Thing may have gifts and abilities beyond mortal ken, but it wore a human face and had no horns. A headbutting contest should have been an easy win. Should have been.
Khaaz and two of my brothers-in-arms, Borz and Thal, stepped into the loose ring formed by an unnaturally subdued crowd of beastmen as the bray-shaman tied the human's arms behind its back. Such a fight is traditionally a free-for-all, but in this case the unspoken plan was to mob it before the human could get its bearings. It was a good plan, but not to be. The cry to start went up and Khaaz was punted backwards by a two-footed kick to the sternum. Such was the force that while Khaaz was sent flying every last louse, speck of dirt and strand of loose fur was left behind in a cloud of filth that hung in the air for a moment before flumping down behind the human. The others tried to get the human before he could rise, only for their horns to clash against something in a shower of green sparks.
The human effortlessly flipped itself back onto its feet and rolled its head to reveal a magnificent nest of ethereal green horns. It was at this point my fellows knew they had fucked up. Thal was easily battered aside into the crowd and Borz, who decided to actually try to hold his ground for Raven knows what reason, was driven into the dirt like a nail by a flurry of repeated strikes.
With every blow dirt and loose fur rained off my unfortunate brethren like a beaten rug. Thal managed to extract himself from the crowd, having lost several dreadlocks and a chunk of horn in the process, and charged headlong at the thing-creature. There was a crash and grind of locked horns, both bestigor and monster trying to overwhelm the other. The man-beast tried to pull back a little to no avail, sensing weakness my brother pushed harder into the lock and played right into the thing's hands. It ducked down and threw Thal off balance, using his forward momentum to get under him and scoop him into the air. Thal hung there for an impossible second before the creature fell backwards, slamming him into the dirt and shaking loose enough filth and fur to sculpt an entirely new beastman.
Thal lay there in a stunned stupor staring at the sky, the only sign of life being the thin whine he let out as his lungs tried to refill themselves. The thing-man's horns were hopelessly interlocked with Thal's at that point and under normal circumstances would have been an invitation for another participant to finish them both off. But everyone involved was on the ground in one way or another and no-one else dared to interfere. A second or two to catch its breath was all the challenger needed. Its horn wreath faded into smoky intangibility for the moments needed for it to disengage and coalesced back to emerald hardness when the thing was clear and on it's feet. Thal tried to sit up shortly after only for the thing to nudge him back down with a shake of it's head and a surprisingly gentle toe.
It grinned and laughed at its victory. Two mighty bestigors and a champion in his prime beaten into the dirt by something that wore the flesh of a human. The bray-shaman was close to histrionics. Should any of this get out, even with proper context, he would forever be known as the bray-shaman whose herd leadership was beaten by a human. He ordered myself and Kraz forward into the ring. We looked at each other for a second and I am not ashamed to say we refused. Under the man-thing's scowl we bared our throats, raised our palms, and backed away in submission. Its face softened and gave a sharp nod of approval.
The Bray-Shaman looked downright queasy as he pulled himself together enough to call the bout for the creature. A weak, breathless shout drew everyone's attention to the opposite side of the ring. Khaaz unsteadily emerged from the crowd, breathing heavily to fill his emptied out lungs and as clean and scentless as the moment he was whelped. For the first time in the bout the creature spoke.
“Stay down." It rumbled “All you will get from this fight is humiliation."
“Still upright. Still awake." Khaaz gasped “I fight."
“Your choice" The thing rolled its eyes, an insult that sent Khaaz blindly charging towards it.
A basic sidestep-and-trip sent our champion crashing into the dirt. The creature-man-thing snapped its bindings like they were nothing and grabbed Khaaz by the scruff, dragging him outside the circle to a nearby flattish rock jutting from the ground. There it bent Khaaz over, placed a hand on the back of his neck, gripped the collar of his hauberk and ripped the entire thing off in a single smooth motion. The sound of tearing chainmail sent a shock through the herd as everyone present realised what was about to happen. Khaaz started squirming. A gentle pressure was enough to keep him pinned while the creature extracted a smallish bottle of clear-blue liquid. The popping cork may as well have been a gunshot in the stunned silence. Khaaz squirmed harder.
The creature grinned and increased the pressure on Khaaz's scruff a little more. Its other hand brushed his tail up and out of the way of his desperately clenched rear. The thing's grin faded a little. “Relax, small one. You are beaten. You are mine. Why damage what is mine? Relax and enjoy yourself. This will not be like last time." The creature's voice was like molten honey now but the shock of it's knowledge sent chills down us bestigors' spines. No one but us knew the old beastlord's pet name for Khaaz. None of us would dare mention it out loud, even in private. Even less would we tell of how the beastlord would take his pleasure with Khaaz, rutting him into the dirt over and over. Yes, we would boast of how one day Khaaz emerged from the beastlord's tent with a knife in one hand and the old goat's head in the other but we would never say what he was doing in there in the first place.
The four of us bestigors moved closer, why I'm not exactly sure. I was supporting Thal and Kraz was practically carrying Borz. Even if we could have done anything we were in no state to try. Khaaz was twisting and turning to look for us and in his eyes he was Khaaz the yearling again. Whatever he saw in us being there we couldn't tell and wouldn't ask. Khaaz steadied himself with a few deep breaths and relaxed. The creature cooed and murmured to him like he was frightened livestock as it nudged his hooves further apart and brought the potion bottle to the base of his now slightly flagged tail.
It bent over and whispered something none of us could hear before upending the bottle into the crevice of Khaaz's muscled rump. He jumped at the sensation but the creature effortlessly held him in place as it stowed the empty bottle back in its cloak. Now with a free hand the creature began to massage the fluid between Khaaz's cheeks, sliding effortlessly as it groped and fondled his hindquarters; reaching down to feel the heat and weight of his balls and sheath. Khaaz groaned loudly, to the creature's pleasure. It shifted so that its upper body was pinning Khaaz across the waist, freeing its other hand and affording the four of us a better view.
The creature spread Khaaz's cheeks apart and paused for a moment to admire the thick ring of his anus before scraping up some excess potion onto its fingertips and slowly, gently easing a single digit into his arse. Khaaz clenched reflexively but it did nothing to stop the progress of the creature's finger. Whatever potion it was had left him slicker than a minotaur-fucked milkmaid. Finally, when the thing's finger could go no further it slowly eased it back out until it was just barely touching. Then added a second finger. This time there was a firmness to the thrust that made Khaaz moan in pleasure. A second thrust, a second moan. The creature's face now a mask of concentration as it delved deeper into Khaaz's bowels in search of… something. Not that Khaaz cared all that much. We'd never heard him make the noises he was making before. The herd females? Sure. The doe? Certainly. Captives? Eh, occasionally. But not an eight foot tall, hulking male. He moaned, he gasped, he cried out. He begged and pleaded for harder, and faster, and more more _ more _.
The creature all but ignored him save for when Khaaz started to thrust back against his hand, and even then only to hold him more securely. By now Khaaz's cock was fully unsheathed. Eleven inches of thick, tapered beast-flesh left to flop uselessly in the sun as the remainder of the herd closed in in dribs and drabs. After what seemed an eternity the creature found whatever it was searching for. Its fingers burrowed into Khaaz down to the last knuckle and pressed a little more. Whatever it had touched in there Khaaz screamed his orgasm instantly, bucking and writhing as best he could whilst rich, backed up cum glurged down the granite.
Silence reigned. Most of the herd that had them were peeking out of their sheaths. A few females ground their thighs together and the doe threw caution to the wind as she openly masturbated to the scene. It should have started a herd orgy, but no one made a move. Slowly, the human removed its hand. Khaaz gave a few breathless gasps and groans along the way, hissing in pleasure when the creature traced its still-slick hand down to inspect and fondle his twitching member. It swiped a glob of Khaaz's cum and inspected it, feeling the texture between its fingers, seeing how it stretched viscously as it pulled them apart.
The creature rose and finally allowed Khaaz freedom to move. Still dazed, he shifted a little but didn't rise from the puddle of drool he now lay in.
“Up." The command shattered the silence and Khaaz shakily sat upright.
“Kneel." The creature pointed at the dirt with its free hand. Khaaz slid off the stone and onto his knees with a dazed, adoring expression.
“Clean me" It moved its soiled hand under Khaaz's nose, then pulled away sharply as he leaned forwards. “Do NOT bite."
“Yes, master."
“Good boy" The creature smiled encouragingly as Khaaz began to clean his own mingled fluids with his mouth and tongue.
Khaaz's acquiescence was the last straw for our bray shaman. He screamed for someone, anyone, to strike the creature down and charged a bolt of dark magic in a desperate attempt to salvage his reputation. Only three beings in the entire herd were stupid enough to listen. Unfortunately, they were the strongest ones too. Our two minotaurs, Bouef and Stek had quickly appointed themselves the bray shaman's bodyguards ever since the fight with the Not-Deer started going south and obeyed his every word. They burst from the treeline where we'd left them and charged towards the creature. From the other side Frut Boilayer haphazardly charged from the other side, the centigor having wandered off in an annihilated stupor before the herdstone was even in sight.
The creature sighed in mild frustration and extracted its hand from Khaaz's fellations. A wild ax swing from Frut was contemptuously dodged as it dried its hand on its cloak. The inertia of which sent Frut tumbling head over paws down the slope, narrowly avoiding the charging minotaur brothers.
For their part, they managed to get halfway to the creature before they hit some sort of barrier. Both looked like they had just burst through a wall, stumbling to a stop as the creature passed between them. Bouef writhed on the ground clutching his head while Stek fell to his knees and stared at his hands like he was seeing them for the first time. Both had a light in their eyes that none of us had ever seen before.
The creature reached where Frut lay and kicked him in the side. Filth and fur flew once more and the centigor was cleaner than he ever had been. Frut started to writhe and grimace. Whatever the creature had done had instantly sobered him up and the cumulative hangover was merrily trying to kill him. The creature stared down the bray shaman while fishing another bottle from its cloak. Without breaking eye contact it dropped the thick red potion bottle where Frut could reach it and moved over towards his hindquarters. For his part, Frut snatched the bottle and sucked the contents down like it was his dam's teat.
The bray shaman, meanwhile, had started throwing bolt after bolt of black energy as he advanced on the creature, screaming curses all the way. Not a single bolt got even close. They missed, dissipated or deflected even as the shaman got to point blank range. The creature seemingly ignored the hail of spite and magic and kneeled down behind Frut's rear. Frut stared in baffled wonder from behind the still somehow-full bottle as the creature squeezed and coaxed his cock from its sheath, the member flopping like a dead snake into the creature's hand. His wonder was short lived.
Frut snorted potion and foamed red when the creature rammed its other hand up his backside. The bottle spilled its tomato-y contents and went flying as Frut arched and spasmed in shock, pain and brutal pleasure. The stimulation was enough to breathe a little life into his member and the creature pointed it at the bray shaman like a fleshy hosepipe. The creature ploughed its arm in up to the elbow as fast as Frut's desperate resistance would allow, and that was very fast indeed. Whatever it had found within Khaaz's guts it had obviously found in Frut. Clear, musky fluid flowed from Frut's rapidly flaring tip and when the bray shaman saw the creature's dark, cruel smile of malicious intent he knew just how bad he had fucked up.
Because, you see, the only thing that makes centigors possibly worth fucking is the whiskey dick. Sure, they'll brag and boast about their length or girth or how they can drown a toddler three times over before they tire but when those three 'rounds' are over and done with in as many minutes, it really isn't worth it. Their charms may work on yearlings who have no idea what's really about to happen or does who can barely think beyond the next helping of cock, but any female with half a brain knows that the year or so of fending off pushy centigors who can smell the 'milk' on your fur isn't something you want to go through. Realms, it isn't something you'll necessarily survive, whether it's a wasted reject sticking a blade in your back or a band of them grabbing you and taking turns until you break.
That's why our old bray shaman looked down that half-chubbed one-eyed sheath serpent like it was the barrel of a cannon. Whatever the creature had its hand on, it tweaked it. A pulse of jizz spattered the bray shaman's robes. They looked down in stunned shock as years of trophies were ruined. The creature squeezed. The shaman looked up in time to be hit square in the face with a thick gout. He gasped and sputtered from the shock and a lack of air. The tar-like fluid blocked his nose and took a good chunk of nose hair with it when he desperately it pulled away. With a mighty twist, the thing scrunched what I now know to be Frut's prostate like a rotten fruit. The resulting torrent hit the shaman right in his open mouth and almost immediately congealed into a chunky, rancid curd.
As the shaman vomited and crawled the gors began to snicker and joke at his flailings, now that it was obvious our new leader could and would wipe the floor with him one-handed. Our master dropped Frut Jr and wrenched his arm out of the centigor's bowels, leaving him groaning and gaping on the grassy slope. He rose and as he turned the strangely clean-smelling residue on his left arm began to seemingly burn away. Which was kind of comforting, since no one wanted to be told to clean that mess up with their tongues. By the time it had gone he'd reached the dry-retching shaman, dodged and shattered the weakly swung staff, and hauled the wretched specimen into the air.
“You would defy the will of the gods to salve your own pathetic shame? You would defy my will, as if I have not just broken the finest of this herd without effort?" Our new master spat with disgust written on his face “You are beneath my attentions in every way. Worthless. Pathetic. I could almost take you for some snivelling merchant-noble, prideful in all things, but without the strength or skill to back it up"
The bray-shaman choked out spluttered curses and feebly clawed at our master's grip. A wild kick was deflected easily by an invisible wall a good few inches from his side, cracking open the offending hoof in the process. The shaman screamed in pain. It was more than the pain of the smashed hoof and exposed foot though. An infected hoof meant lameness and at any rank a lame beastman is a dead beastman, either by infection or a rival or simply the inability to outrun the next deep-forest monster attack.
Ignoring the fact that he'd already handed down a death sentence our master ran his finger around the base of the bray shaman's left horn. It fell neatly into his hand, as if his nail was a mill saw. We all stared in silent shock.
“Be grateful that I only need the one drinking horn. And that I shall not deny the Gods their sport. I have no use for disloyal or surly servants. If any among you would rather take your slim chances, follow this nameless thing. Otherwise, follow me."
Without another word the creature-man dropped the bray-shaman to the ground. As he bounced down the stony hillside a curious trickling sensation filled our heads. By the time the bray-shaman had reached the bottom in a bruised heap not a one of us could remember his name and from the infuriated wailing neither could he. The height difference only highlighted the choice to be made. To stay with what was known and risk the daemon you knew, or throw in your lot with an unknown power and risk damnation for a chance at true glory.
It was no contest. Khaaz, myself and the other bestigors stood beside our new lord and master. The rest of the gors followed but the tirade of threats, insults and oaths emitting from the bray-shaman managed to pull the weaker members of the herd down the hill. It was no great loss. Ten ungors that visibly seethed that a 'mere human' was in command, the surviving bray, and a handful of mutants in exchange for nearly forty gors and five bestigors including Khaaz. Possibly the best trade in the history of bartering.
The only ones left to decide were our allies. Frut, now sober for the first time since he could pick up a bottle, looked between the two leaders and the centigor fled like all the hounds of Kharnath were after him. I suppose he didn't appreciate being used as a living cannon. But then again he'd been pickling himself for years, who knew what was going through his head? Magically enforced sobriety isn't pretty to see or go through. Perhaps reality wasn't something he wanted to deal with.
Bouef and Stek were the last two undecided and probably the most important. There was a chance that if the minotaur brothers sided with the bray-shaman he would turn them on us then and there. Even though our master was obviously overwhelmingly powerful two minotaurs take some killing and we would definitely take losses regardless of any victory. We needn't have worried though. The pair of them shared a look and joined us without another second of hesitation.
The look on the bray-shaman's face was pricelessly pathetic. The tired, crippled sorcerer turned back towards the forest with his ragged entourage to a chorus of jeers and mocking insults. Their chances in the woods were next to nothing and few of us felt any sort of loss at their departure. If the ungors couldn't tell a good thing when they saw it then fuck 'em, let the Not-Deer eat the lot of them.
We watched them until they hit the treeline, truth be told it was fairly disappointing when they weren't immediately torn apart, then turned to regard our new leader. Who, mind you, we knew sod all about other than his monstrous power and magic. He surveyed us all in return, then turned and… Oh, my drink is empty. Well I suppose I've told you enough, it's getting late after all. Though, if you wanted me to finish…
HA! Good man, make it two and I'll tell you the rest.
-The Interview of Narox Silverpelt, first chapter.
--From Words of the Fantastic by Erich and Johan Von Platzhalterstadt
---Work proscribed 2530 IC, retrieved by the Temple of Verena 2532 IC
This is a test upload of an older story I wrote to feel out SF's layout quirks. If you've read this before then that was me on my AO3 account. Hi. I had a few more ideas in the Schwarzererberg setting and still have some WIPs rattling around my hard drive. If there is interest I might finish them but for the moment I'll be focusing on Generica and my non-furry works. On the other hand I am very engagement motivated, so who knows.