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"Where are we going? Master?" asked the timid voice of the one who had sought to best him.

Munraknir, Slave, pet... Oh, and now broodbearer. A devious little drake of golden scales and green eyes, whose love for power and approbation led it there. To fly across the Sea of Ghosts toward Solstheim.

A land covered with volcanic dust and death, smelling like sulfur in the south while its north remained arid and cold. Nothing like the rich continental lands. However, ever since the Orc on Slave's back had found that journal, he had been pressing the Dragon to fly faster toward that place. Terrible place. Though it was no wonder to learn the Dragonborn had dispatched Miraak the betrayer, too, and, in the end, felled another great foe.

"We're there soon," callously answered the Orc on his Slave's back. He had fitted the Beast with a saddle, one large craft of leather strapping the Dragon's belly and its broad wings to accommodate his body. And through it, he had taken the opportunity to travel while sitting and studying. Not the voice, as to not provoke any further damage to his submissive Dragon, the first of its kind. And to not lose the precious documents. It was them he studied, books filling the attached satchels with. Most of them retracing a story. His.

Despite everyone's belief, the Dragonborn wasn't perfect. His premises had not been glorious nor honorable. Woken up naked, exposed, and shameful, it was through luck he had managed to deal with a group of bandits and not end up on a spike... Or worse. But his memory always failed him, like a cord tugging at his mind, a nagging feeling.

He had been something before, someone different. His body sometimes revealed forgotten memories like his ease of climbing the mountains. They were grasps, wisps echoing his most recent adventures.

It had already happened before, was a sentence he had told himself so many times. Was he truly amnesiac or losing his mind, prone to have those fantasies overtake him? Yet... As he glanced at the journal he had in his hand, it stood as proof.

That journal talked about an adventurer who had ventured into Solsteim's deepest caverns solely never to reappear. And though the document seemed a bit unclear on the nature of the exploration, it was a path unlike any other. The pages talked about their exchanges, how he and the high elf adventurer had joined their effort to explore what could be a path to a dwemer ruin or one of their subterranean mines. However, as their exploration went on within the depths of a glacier, the red-haired Orc had slipped and fell.

As for the High Elf, he had continued his trek in vain then returned to the continent; his days ended stupidly on the road, from an ambush. Perhaps it was fate that drove the Dragonborn close by because if the Bandits had taken that document, he would never have given it a read... And he would never have seen that face ever again: of that grizzled adventurer with dragon scales tatted over his forehead and temple...

In truth, it all made sense. And more than that, it would be a way for him to know what... Well. What happened to his malehood above all else. There was no way he could recover it, not without having a private talk with the mages of Winterhold. But the matter, it was a mystery he had to elucidate. And for that, he had the perfect help in the form of that Dragon as they approached the western glacier of Solstheim. One that bordered the sea and opened to it with many caverns and openings that led to dead-ends, traps, or rewards.

They were so numerous, finding the right one from luck alone bordered on insanity. However, he had his pet hovering by, flapping its dastardly broad wings to keep them close as he examined each opening. There was no reason for him to do so, but something called who he had been. And so the Dragonborn checked those holes, glanced at them before going to the next.

This one was about to collapse. That one was so large even his pet could squeeze inside. The hole over there was sure to end in a dead-end due to the path quickly closed off. The next was wide enough for him, but...

"Hmm, go back. I want to inspect that one," he said while pointing to the cavern that was to be a dead-end. Perhaps it was a call, a memory, or something more primal, but he was almost certain he had to go there. Therefore, his golden dragon flew closer to the entrance and extended his neck. One step at a time, the Orc walked on his pet's neck, head, muzzle before jumping and touching down on that steady and frigid ice. The air wasn't frigid, however, and his stance remained steady before he turned to his Slave.

The Dragon looked at him expectantly, those green eyes gleaming with a need... And so, the Orc tapped the muzzle. The Beast's breath answered to it, warm and steamy.

"Go have some fun with a beast... A bear, anything."

"If... You will, Master," replied the Dragon to the order, lowering its head before it took off in the midday sky like a golden star reflecting all the light over its scales.

The sound from the flapping wings abated, reduced to a mere flutter before it, too, disappeared. Leaving the Orc with the howling wind rushing against the caverns like an instrument and that cavern he was called by. The walls were of ice, impure so that after a few centimeters past the sheen covering the surface, it was impossible to peer through. Beyond, only reflections of reflections managed to reach the Orc's gaze, delimiting the shades of grand creatures stuck in the ice... Or stones.

Stones that sometimes stuck out from those walls, like rocks lost in a sea, their presence more eye-catching by the ore visible at their surface. Gold, Iron, Malachite. Their presence, here and there, was odd but more was the sight of... yes. Dents.

Someone or something had dented the surface of one rock until it revealed its inside and the unequaled golden luster. But it had been coarse, someone's rubbish work that had taken a bloc off the rock the size of a fist. Nothing more.

It was curious. And stepping back toward the entrance, the Orc noted no sign of climb. The ice was clean, without dents... And perhaps. Shaved? Nearing the edge, he found a slight declination that was too even and smooth to be natural. A detail he added to his investigation.

He returned to the depths and no longer waylayed it. His wandering eyes had stopped him way too long... And so, he continued while noting on the ice walls closing on him. Centimeters by centimeters, they closed but also undulated. And the deeper he went, the more the Orc noticed the walls had been shaved off, too.

It was not some natural structure but more like a path carved in the ice but shaved and sprayed until it wouldn't look too obvious. As the path took a turn to the left, he found that it had narrowed to such a tight space he had to present himself by the side.

Luckily, all of his packages had been left to Slave. He didn't have to worry about the added weight... But still, such a crawlspace was not the kind of exploration he had hoped to experience.

... But he squeezed himself through. Hands on ice, his hot breath against the wall, his body almost crushed as he passed... One step, a second, a third. The walls were getting closer, but he started to feel warm air rush to his face. This was strange, peculiar. And so he approached, another step, and he sensed how he had to drag his body with his arms...

Learning some flame spells would have been useful. But...

"What... The?"

In a comical way, the passageway suddenly expanded, and he found no grip forward except by contorting his arm... And touching some stone.

He frowned but dug his fingers and pulled his body out of the crack with all the might he had... Only to plop and suddenly fall on... Yes. Stone.

More stone, but also air that was not as cold as Solstheim's usual temperatures.

In fact, the place could even be described as warm by the island's standard and...

And the more the Orc blinked, the more he saw. From behind him came the reflected light, echoed by many similar but sporadic openings in the ice wall. A large mural that had been carved like the entrance but without shaving or spraying leaving the dents visible and obvious. But as his eyes wandered further, it was to see the ice wall give way, on its border, to real stone walls that were either dug or not. From the exempted parts, the Orc inferred there had been a natural cavern under the glacier.

The ceiling was of ice and stone, supported by natural pillars here and there. When it was not a rustic and makeshift scaffolding on the furthest edge of the cavern from the Dragonborn.

At the highest point of that ceiling, an opening had been formed from which dripped water while steam and... smoke escaped from it.

And so, the Orc's gaze lowered to finally see he was on a cliff, a few meters away from a steep descent that led to a sort of cirque. And the more he observed, the more he noted that place was massive.

Near the center, a pond steamed and bubbled, akin to a natural source. It surely was what permitted the temperature to be more clement... But also allowed mushrooms and plants to grow off those volcanic walls, like a forest hidden beneath the chilled isles. And among it, in that place that looked almost like a sanctuary... There were tents.

Something unlike Nords, Imperial, or any usual type of tent. He had seen similar structures on Solstheim, Riekling tents. But their sizes, here, were enormous and more adapted to someone as tall as a human. And around them were fire, torches, that all produced the smoke he had noticed.

... The realization of what he had discovered settled in, and the Dragonborn sighed. He had found such a wonder, but it seemed it wouldn't help him locate what he had been seeking. That place was enormous, comparable to Blackreach. But even then, he had no memories of it. Whether from the walls, from the strange village-like organization... Nothing as he dusted himself off and stepped toward the crevasse from which he had entered.

On another occasion, he would have explored that place through and through, answering to that wanderlust. But he didn't feel like indulging those thoughts... Not to give heed to his fickle needs. If he had done so earlier, he would have stayed in High Wrothgar and-

"Pee FA: "

The high-pitched and nasal sound caught the Orc off-guard, one foot through the crevice. Only for him to turn his gaze above his shoulder to see something in his back.

A Riekling.

Supposed to be the far offspring of the Snow Elves, much like the Falmer, those small blue-skinned creatures weren't to be trifled with. What they lacked with their small size, they compensated with a beleaguer attitude and a sort of cunning that could catch adventurers by surprise. As for this one, he looked like a Scout.

Most of his body had been covered with leather, even was his loincloth, with skulls attached to his shoulders. His head was covered by a cap with a half-broken deer skull attached. Through unknown means, the creature was not swinging from the added weight and seemed rather firm in his stance.

Especially as he was holding one spear and pointed it at the Orc.

"Fuwaaa! Wooore!" the Riekling shouted, thrusting the spear forward in the empty, as if to threaten the Orc who took a step away from the crevice. Only to be met with a grin from the Scout.

"Fuwaa he!" continued the tiny individual, beckoning the intruder with his hand while darting up and down those orange eyes to gauge the Dragonborn.

The Orc was large, big... He was, no doubt, stronger in the Riekling and probably faster, able to punch it. He possessed a reinforced leather armor, no blades, but his wits. However, those blue eyes observed the creature's mischievous grin, those purled lips, that mustache above his mouth. The Dragonborn watched those serrated teeth while his steps made him approach the Scout.

He crouched and instantly inhaled the scent of beer and alcohol emanating from the reductive male.

And led by that same calling that brought him, that same tingling feeling in the back of his head, the Orc pressed his mouth forward. Tusks meet with the skin, lips against lips, tongue stroked teeth, then tongue. Familiarly, he allowed the Riekling to use his mouth and invade it. The Scout's appendage proved to be long, broad, and mouth-filling as it pushed toward the end of the Orc's throat. And beyond while a nasal groan emanated from the Scout.

Or perhaps those sounds were motivated by the Orc's ungloved and darting fingers pushing under the Riekling's loincloth. His fingertips were a bit rigid but managed to touch and stroke the potent manhood that stood beneath: two fluffy testicles simmering in the sweat and heat from the cavern... And a cock whose contact reminded the Orc of old leather. And a forgotten memory while he traced his index against that malehood.

The orbs, warm and fuzzy, the base wrinkly and sticky, the length pulsating and tempting. The tip warm and humid. Without further words exchanged, the Orc pushed the loincloth aside and glanced down as their mouths separated, only joined by a thin line of saliva.

"Guuuu," commented the Riekling in his language, only for him to add another laugh when the Orc glanced at the creature's malehood.... Blue skin, blue genitals, covered with white hair and possessing a scent akin to some mushroom he had collected once, but also a tinge of alcohol. A strange mix he smelled and inhaled while he stroked the Riekling's 9-inch shaft with his whole right hand. The other was down massaging and squeezing those backed-up testicles.

And again, their lips joined. The Scout's breath was unmistakably charged with wine, no... A brandy. A brandy whose peculiar touches of saltrice and ginseng indicated it was a dunmer preparation. Had he been drinking dark elves beverages?

The Orc pondered on it one second, then closed his mind to that line of thought. It didn't matter if they were drinking dunmer alcohol... No, what mattered was that stud with his massive dick begging for attention and him being there to help. And so... he did, closing his fists on the testicles. The Riekling groaned, of course, but his genitals were more resilient. And a firm squeeze was a good way to please them.

As much as giving their erect cocks firm strokes that tugged on their foreskin. They had a lot of it, more than most humanoids. So pulling on it was perfect, as it especially uncovered the glistening glans coated with musky precum. Even in the cavern's heated atmosphere, steam emanated from the warm organ and... Yes. The more he stroked, the more steam came from it as blood accumulated in the fully erect shaft, making it throb and bob even if he didn't touch it.

But... He had to touch it. He had to please that stud. And so, he stroked further and with more strength. And in doing so, he egged the Riekling to invade his mouth.

The tiny male followed, eager to explore and taste that Orc's mouth, to prod and tempt what he saw as a Slut. By pushing with his tongue, he scoured the palate, the tongue, the floor, and beyond. Of course, the uvula was to be accounted for, or rather ignored, while their conjoined mouth exchanged saliva and moans, breaths and whispers.

"Fuuu!" exclaimed the Riekling through one of the short moments they used to catch their breaths.

"Fuuu," answered back the Orc, his mind accepting the word as a praise. Something meant to be positive, though he had no idea of its translation.

The Dragonborn entirely accepted it. Much like he accepted his feelings towards the Riekling. He had no explanation for it, for this folly. Yet, his digits moved at such a pace he began to feel his wrist heat up and burn. He was masturbating such a small and disgusting creature that would, no doubt in another situation, thrust the spear through his guts. But no, he was stroking that chubby cock. He enjoyed the blood pumping inside. He experienced the touch of the glans' corona being squeezed and compressed between his fingers. He inhaled the precum that spurted from that blue cock onto his fingers until they were sticky and each joined by a webbing of fluids.

And the Orc breathed the Scout's charged breath even more when that tiny male passed an arm over his neck and forced their embrace.

Most of the Riekling body hung around the Orc's shoulders. But it didn't mean it was the end of the stud's acts. No, the Scout threw his spear away, making the carved wood clang against the ice wall while it began to thrust. Through an effort from his core muscles, the tiny male humped the Orc's hand in its entirety: the palm, the knuckles, the tip. He squeezed the erect organ in between, and the Dragonborn allowed it. The Orc halted the hand and solely used the other to give the testicles a squeeze at a crescendo of strength and intensity. Faster, tenser, more intense: the tension between them was palpable, breathable even when they were not tongue-deep into one another.

And at the end...

"Uh! Faaa!" exhaled the Riekling, between a cry and a whisper. His breath caressed the Orc's face... Surprised and abash, especially with his cheeks turning into a delicious shade of brown.

Instead of returning more words, the Dragonborn gave a peck onto his "surprising" lover's cheeks, rubbing his sideburns against his skin for an instant. The Riekling returned the favor with grunts, more kisses, until those tiny hands were giving out signs of weakness.

The Scout dropped, falling onto the stone, slipping, then sitting on it while the Orc stepped back. Most of the Dragonborn's hand had been coated with cum, reeked of it. The liquid dripped from his fingers, between them, and his palms. It slid beneath his clothes. And it dripped onto the ground even when the Riekling passed a hand on his loincloth to cover his malehood.

For a moment of awkwardness, Riekling and Orc watched one another, their eyes locked together before the Riekling ousted the Orc in a handwave. The tiny male smiled, exposed his white teeth, and passed a tongue over the lips. His presence intrigued the Orc... And frightened the Adventurer, enough for him to pass through the crack once more and disappear.

What had he done?

Why did he fall so low?

Even now, after rubbing the liquid off his hand onto his pants, he still felt its presence and stickiness. Even now, that he was riding on Slave's back, letting the beast fly around the island.

"Krosis, Master. I feel your turmoil. May you share with me what you have found?" asked the Dragon, trying to be tactful... Such a far cry from its boastful beginning, acting mighty and strong. That Dragon Breaking shout was a boon, and it gave the Dragonborn such a steadfast servant. But...

"No."

That solicitude was undesired, unwarranted. The Orc couldn't comprehend what he had done nor why. Usually, even if he bottomed, it was of his own volition and accord... But he just went along with the moments. Even then, he couldn't tell why...

It bothered him.

It kept bothering him as he ordered his mount to leave him at the edge of Raven Rock. All so he could march in peace for a moment before he had to enter the Retching Netch to take a chamber for a few weeks. And it was a feat with the arriving inhabitants that flocked the streets and the inn's main room. The city had reawakened and bustled with life: incoming Nords, Orcs, and even a few Khajiits. With the mine reopened, they all came with dreams in their eyes; dreams promised by the enormous vein of Ebony sitting far beneath the earth. Closely followed by families, builders, merchants... And amidst the nascent chaos, it was hard to notice anyone he used to talk with a few years ago.

Well, except for a few like Teldryn Sero with his armor and mazte. Or Mogrul, the loan shark who seemed to thrive now and had found a second youth.

Though from what the Dragonborn remembered of their fling together, the old male didn't need any "encouragement".

A thought that made him chuckle as he emptied his tankard... And returned to Geldis, the Inn's owner and de facto purveyor of information.

"Hey! Another service for our favorite adventurer?" asked the now jovial innkeeper, prompt to fill the Orc's from a nearby keg without seeing any septim... After all, most in town were eager to please him since the providential Dragonborn was, in their opinion, a sign of good luck.

But even the offered drink didn't ease the Orc's mood, and he grunted.

"Hey... Do you still serve Sujamma around?"

"What? Are my ears ringing, or are you asking for my home-brewed Sujamma? After years of telling you I provide the best, made with the freshest ingredients, you're asking for a taste?"

"No," replied the Orc to Geldis's inquiry, observing the Dunmer's sudden drop of interest. But he continued: "Sorry. It's that I'm curious. Have you lost shipments of Sujamma, or has a client complained about their loss? Or is there anyone ordering Sujamma in bulk? Perhaps a new resident?"

Through the question, Geldis remained at the counter with a perplexed expression. Then nodded.

"Well, it's not a good sign for a brewer to hand the names of their clients. But it's worse when the Dragonborn is asking around. I'll tell you... I don't have any losses. And I have not heard anything from my clients. Each week, I send shipments: One for Neloth at Tel Mithryn, it's not for him but for his intendant. And Thirsk."

"Thirsk?" asked the Orc, surprised. He had heard of the name but never gone there. He had heard of some issues and how they had been ousted from their Hall. But they had the reputations of fighters able to endure any shitstorm... Even the one that had been keeping him at bay.

"Yes, Thirsk. I thought they were dead and gone after they got pushed by the Rieklings there. Or they went low? But they returned not so long after, and it seems they got the place in order. And now, they're ordering Sujamma. I don't know why, but those Nords like it! Finally, some men with a palatable taste!"

The Orc cocked an eyebrow at that remark. No proper Nord would drink Sujamma if they had mead. And an even proper Nord would have a friend or acquaintance able to brew mead... Sujamma wasn't at the top of the list, more like at its bottom.

Though, it seemed his surprise was visible because Geldis lifted his hands: "Don't ask me. I'm saying they're ordering kegs each month, and they always pay right. If you have someone to bother, it should be them. Now, if you let me. I have customers who need me."

And gone was the Innkeeper. Geldis wasn't the shady type... Even his reaction was normal since a bunch of drunkards had been hollering for him. But it left the Orc in a conundrum: perhaps he could continue his search, or try Thirsk... Or even ask the Skall if they knew some caverns up in the glacier. Each situation seemed unpleasant to him.

However, his train of thought was quickly interrupted by a hand groping his backside, making him jolt and almost punch the guy who dared. And stop when he was greeted by a grinning Orc: Mogrul.

The old Loan Shark had one hand busy by a tankard, but the other was free and clenching around the air. More than that, and for once, there was no sign of his bodyguard around. Not that the Dragonborn cared when the elderly Orc approached and kissed him... And therefore, he had to answer in kind with another kiss.

"I missed you," grumbled the shady man. Almost as if nothing had happened between them before: none of the fights, the insults, the distance, the separation.

Perhaps... it was better to imagine it was the case as he tasted the piss-poor beer Geldis had been serving here in his fellow's breath. It was terrible, but the buzz and the lust would keep him away from worrying about what he had done.

Even if it meant to rekindle an old flame.

He had a room in the inn, the place was ready and warm, and there was nothing wrong in one nightstand.

Or a few more.

"Who's- Who's your daddy?!"

"You are! Hrmphh! You are!"

The two Orcs grunted and growled, their lips clasped together. As expected, Mogrul had been on top while the Dragonborn held on his knees to keep them spread and his ass exposed. The orifice was firmly coated, much like his naked body: from his fat pecs to his beergut belly... And then his genitals, his limp cock, his empty scrotum... And those pubes, red as fire, coated with Mogrul's cum.

They had been fucking all night, and the night before. But like every pleasing thing, it had to end: in a grunt, in a growl, in an ejaculation. And a sigh as their bodies fell on the dirty mattress, one by one another.

It was enjoyable, tempting... However, even the afterglow was to pass.

"You reek." spat the Elderly Orc that time as they stayed by the bed, him slowly getting clothed while the Dragonborn lay on his back, still naked. And yes... He reeked despite the bath after each morning since each night would leave him thoroughly coated in cum and sweat. The loan shark's second youth was breaking his waist. And he laughed, still sticky.

"I reek? You say that after you fucked and cum on me?"

"Yeah... But not from me. You're like those Skaals coming for the deliveries," stated the elderly, buttoning his newly bought shirt, directly shipped from the Imperial City, as he shook his head. "It's getting worse. You're not passing all of your days with them, are you?"

Right away, the Dragonborn reneged. Then, stretched on the furs covering the bed.

"No. Even if I have good contact with the Skaals, I've been keeping my distance since... Eh. You know. The Stones, Miraak, all that. They like me, but I guess some see me as the source of that issue."

Mogrul grunted back, shaking his head at the remark. However, he approached the dirty Dragonborn, his eyes glimmering at the sight of the Eunuch and that limp cocklet dripping after a good fucking.

Gosh, it was a wonder Geldis hadn't thrown them out after each night by now...

"I've heard strange things about them. They come get Sujamma and then disappear into the mountains. It's impossible to track them from what the locals tell me. Not a good sign."

"I don't know for whom it is a bad sign... But it is strange."

"Sorry. But I trust my guts. Keep away from them," stated Mogrul, kissing the Dragonborn, plunging his tongue within those tusked lips for a few minutes. A moment during which the sticky hands kept to themselves, and the elderly tried not to stain himself further before their mouth separated.

"I mean it," the Loan shark added, frowning.

"I know. You're always true to your word... But I've not been with them," replied the Dragonborn, stretching his arms and legs.

"Good. Same thing tonight. If you take a bath with soap."

"If I'm not busy exploring, of course."

That was how it worked for both of them. If he were in town, they would fuck. If he were out, they would be sleeping apart. Nonetheless, Mogrul scoffed at those words, then stepped outside. Since for the last week, the Dragonborn had diligently returned to town, torn apart by the same routine.

A routine he was still called onto as he stood up and ignored the fluids sticking to his skin and hair. He grabbed a pair of underclothes to use for the day since... Well, there was no bathtub in the inn, and the sole way to clean himself was a bucket of cold water or the sea.

He chose neither when he exited his room, weathering Geldis' glare, and scurried to the Inn's entrance before someone would waylay him and have a whiff of his current scent.

Though... The truth was. Mogrul had been right. He reeked, but not of what people expected.

Even now, he felt the call of that settled routine: the need to shout his Slave's name when he walked toward the inner lands, passing from ash to soil, then snow.

It would be so easy to call his pet and have him up to the glacier, to have him stand around the cliff before he returned to the cavern and was to be graced by that Riekling.

Once more wouldn't hurt? He thought about it, pondered, weighed the idea.

The second time he went there, the Scout had been waiting for him in the same spot, though unharmed. Again had their mouth joined, similar to his hand on the Scout's genitals. They parted... And again they met the day after, and so on... So forth.

Last time, he had stripped for the tiny Scout and one of his friends, only to be spit-roasted with their dicks filling his ass and mouth before they saw him off. And... Strangely, for a long time, the Orc felt a tinge of fear at the idea of confronting those tiny fighters.

More than that, he had killed Rieklings for months before, had thrown blades, arrows, and pets at them. Why was it different? Why was he afraid? And... he walked.

Above, he saw the shadow of his Slave flying up in the air but far enough not to disturb him. He trudged through the increasing snow and slopes. He had to think for himself... And also clean himself. Which, in the end, he did inside a nearby river, taking water slowly as he attempted not to focus on his libido.

"Have a grip of yourself," he commented out loud, his hoarse voice silenced by the running water when he dipped into it with his clean clothes prepped nearby.

Between his legs, the cold rush sent shivers through his skin as he immersed himself entirely, exposed to the cold temperature. For an instant, when he closed his eyes, the Orc ousted the thoughts of perversion and degradation he had whenever he was reminded of those Rieklings.

And opened them, only to see his pet crawling closer with its golden muzzle pointed at him.

"Master," stated the Pet, looking for praise for its diligent attitude and warm breath against the Orc's hairy but naked chest.

"I told you to stay away," growled the Dragonborn, already raising a hand and trying to remember one of those summoning spells so not to torment his throat further. But instead, he lowered his palm before the cowering Beast.

And sighed: "You can stay, for the moment."

If a Dragon could smile, the beast did with its lips lifting a bit to show its teeth before it nodded, and he grumbled.

His mind empty, the Orc rubbed his skin, then stopped.

"Pet. Have you seen Thirsk's hall?" he asked, stepping out of the water. The second he stepped away, steam began to emanate from his skin. He was clean... But still reeked, the scent of the Rieklings was all over him, if not made stronger.

"Thirsk? Krosis, Master. Is this some important place?" answered the Dragon, crawling closer, with its head now passing over the river.

"It's... Hmm," began the Orc. Only to shrug and then shake his head. "It's supposed to be a building, but I know not of that place either."

Most of what he had heard were tales of the famed warriors and how they decided to build their hall somewhere they could defend it. Though, most of the geographical information related to being south of the Skaal village.

And then, he turned to his pet, smiling. Much to the Beast's apparent dismay.

"No, you won't be punished. Let's have another ride, shall we?" he asked, though both knew it was an order.

An order fulfilled by the Dragon roaming the sky above the temple dedicated to Miraak, a construction of stone erected a few years ago and already overridden by beasts, snow, and creeping plants. A monstrosity that would disappear one day and the bad memories with it.

And, beyond, was the Skaal village.

Nowadays, the Skaal were still led by Fanari Strong-voice, a Nord who participated in rekindling the relationship with Raven Rock. However, there was a sort of link between the city, Thirsk, and the village. A little investigation, and a potential adventure, would perhaps be enough to drag the Dragonborn's mind away from the crevice? He doubted.

He doubted as he felt the need in his backside rising while they flew south once they reached the village grounds. There was no need to bother Frea or Fanari... And he preferred not to bother them. So, they flew, covering acres of forest at a low altitude.

"Master, what are we seeking?" asked the said Dragon, its wings fending through the sky while the Orc bestrode it, glancing around for signs... Tracks. Something.

"I don't know, just keep flying," answered the Dragonborn. There were no trails around, or delimited ones. There were little paths, but they seemed to be for foraging. But... Finally, he saw something.

One... No, two recent tracks in the snow, going further than the usual grounds, with broken branches along the way. However, they were evidently avoiding any clearing and open land. A curious way to travel that would permit someone to stay discreet. If not for a flying Dragon above.

The Dragonborn didn't peel his eyes away for one minute or two, checking if there was any divergence or decoy. None... And so, he pointed at a spot near the cliffs, where the woods receded to give way for the stones, and then the sea.

"Land there, I'll continue on foot," he ordered. And his beast followed. Despite its protestations: "Master, are you certain?"

"Yes, I am," replied the Orc, feeling something pumping through his body? Blood, energy?

"But, I could prote-"

"Protect me? You're a whelp, don't consider yourself so important!"

"B-... yes. Of course, Master. You are right," conceded the golden Dragon while its wings led it to land on the cold stone...

The Orc jumped off his Beast, patting its wing before he trudged to the woods where he had abandoned the path. However, he did address a word to his pet: "Watch for any travelers going from the west. Anything that's on two legs."

A simple order to get the nervous beast going as he ran without waiting for any confirmation.

And for once during that week, he was feeling... Yes. Energetic.

With the end of Alduin, Miraak, or any otherwordly threat, the Dragonborn had felt himself grow... Stiff. Skyrim had become a tame land under the Empire's rule. Most bandits and creatures avoided him like a plague. And finally, the dragons followed Paarthurnax's leadership in a way that would be profitable to all.

He was useless. He wasn't needed, he could retire. So... The thrill, the stress, the fear, he had missed it all. Investigating Thirsk, the presence of Sujamma around the island, even the cavern... It excited him, frightened him.

He could go there again, pass beyond the Scout. But did he want to? Yes. No. He couldn't tell. He preferred not to answer or ponder the question in its entirety. And perhaps, if Thirsk would reveal the truth to him... It would be enough, and he'd abandon it all. He was happy with the Greybeards.

But then, as he walked. He saw them: the two persons leading the trail.

They were humans, covered in furs and leathers. Like two sore brown spots in the pristine snow, resting on an outcropping rock. One kept watch, the other was recovering and out of breath... As the Dragonborn approached, he saw that none sported weapons except knives. Their clothes were not made for combat but to keep warmth.

They weren't hunters or bandits, just... Two skaals.

Two men he knew full well. Well enough for their startled expression at his approach to relax.

Baldor Iron-Shaper was the one recovering: his balding head and horseshoe mustache recognizable, as well as his large stature despite the loose clothes, a proud blacksmith as his name implied. As for the second, it was none other than Wulf Wild-Blood: the Hunter was a bit of an odd case ever since he had lost his brother. And his sole working eye was on the approaching Orc while a smile had been plastered onto that face.

"Why, Hello, Dragonborn! What are you doing here?" he asked, a slight tremor in his voice. He still approached and lifted both arms.

In return, the Orc rushed to embrace him, wrapped both arms around the spindly man, and patted his back.

"It's good to see you too, same as you, Baldor!" he stated with a grin, chuckling. "A personal issue called me on Solstheim. And I landed here. I didn't know, but I was following your tracks!"

In their embrace, both men sniffed, and the Orc caught a whiff of the man's pungent musk. But he then left to approach Baldor, who raised a hand to halt the steps.

It could have been seen as rude, but familiarity depended on the case. Therefore, the Dragonborn returned to Wulf and his question: "Following our tracks? There is nothing to track in the region, there are no bandits anymore. You made sure of it."

"Flattery won't do any good!" exclaimed the Orc, passing a hand over his sideburns. "But no. I am on a case involving Sujamma. Had to go south of the village, and I ended on your steps," he stated bluntly.

Which made Wulf frown, turn to Baldor a moment, then back to the Orc.

"Sujamma? That elf-piss? Who uses that here? It tastes like cow piss!"

"I know, right?" answered the Dragonborn with a laugh.

Before him, there were two tense men: their hands clenched, their legs trembled, and beyond Baldor being out of breath, the Nord's breath seemed... Shallow.

"Honestly? I'm looking for Thirsk. That's why I was heading south from the village; I've been told to follow that direction. And that's how I found you," he admitted with a shrug. "Say, Baldor, what are you doing here? Are you two looking for a new Stalhrim spot?"

The Skaal Blacksmith was, for all the Dragonborn knew, the only one able to handle the precious metal in its raw state. But even the remark didn't ease off the man's attitude.

Moreover, it was Wulf who answered.

"We are... Inspecting along the coast. But Thirsk is further south, but there is nothing of interest. I mean, the men inside Thirsk are reclused. But we can walk together there," commented the Hunter... Before turning to Baldor. "Once he's on his feet."

A remark the Blacksmith answered with a scowl before jumping on his feet. Instantly for him to grimace, grown, and for Wulf to reach toward him. The Hunter quickly pressed a hand against his friend, helping him keep his footing.

"Hey, slowly. I was joking, there's no need to press yourself," said the Hunter.

"Non-Sense. Let's go."

Obviously, the Orc had watched all that scene unfold but hadn't moved to help. There was no need to invade their intimacy further unless asked. But, he did offer a hand to Baldor and a few kind words: "Do not hurt yourself for me, I'm in no rush."

And to it, Baldor huffed: "Fine. But don't rant about my sore feet."

"Of course not, it would be silly of me. So... how's been the life in the village? I haven't seen it in months. Couldn't force myself to see Frea. Everyone is alright?" he prompted, passing a hand behind the Nord to help him, seeing how hard it was for the Blacksmith to walk.

He continued his prodding as they walked, but once he talked about the village and not Thirsk nor their presence south, the two men were more open. Although it was Baldor who did the talking: Fanari remained the leader, Frea honored her father each day with a prayer. Tharstan was still around and exploring tombs whenever he got the occasion, eliciting a poke from the Dragonborn on that old goat endangering himself. As for the rest, they had little to no issues ever since Solstheim had been cleaned off its Miraak problem.

As they asked about his endeavors in return, the Dragonborn shared what happened on the mainland: The end of the Stormcloaks, the peace in Skyrim, the rebuilding of the cities burnt during the conflict, and the expansion of Winterhold. All good things he was happy to talk about as they trudged...

And finally landed where Thirsk mead hall was: a massive wooden lodge planted in the middle of nowhere. But tracks leading from all directions converged here, and its front decorated by rows of spears. Strangely, he had never encountered the place despite being so large and out in the open. But it was through stupid luck. And he laughed: "So, that's Thirsk? I expected something bigger!"

In a way, from what he had been told, that place was to be akin to a village. And yet, it was a large wooden lodge with a decrepit forge on the side and spears... And snow around. And nothing to see.

So, he observed, trying to make head or tail of that whole place. He then noticed the two small creatures standing at the entrance: two Rieklings on faction, with their spears in hand and bored out of their minds, yawning and reclining on a cask each.

An odd sight. Followed by Baldor and Wulf's attitude as the Orc turned to them. He watched them fidget around, eye him... And wait.

"This is what you desired to see. There's no need to go in there, right? It's probably full of Rieklings, and I wouldn't want to bother them. There should be no Sujamma there," stated Wulf, lying through the teeth. More than that, the Nord's only working eye went from left to right as if to gauge the Dragonborn's attitude.

And so, the Orc exhaled. He rubbed his neck, stretched... Then exhaled again, turning to Baldor.

The old Blacksmith was entirely onto Thirsk, adverting the eyes.

"Baldor," he called. Once.

"Hey, Baldor, look at me," he added. The man's mouth began to tug, his expression hardened.

"Baldor. You can hear me, so does Wulf. I know you're both lying to me. What's happening there, and why were you walking there?" continued the Orc, stepping closer to reach for Baldor's collarbone. He grasped the clothes and pulled on them, only to notice they were... Thinner than expected. And the man heavier.

All stopped with Wulf's hand on his arm: both men looked ashamed, abashed even. But Baldor's forced the grip away and scooted further.

"Dragonborn-" began the Hunter.

"Don't call me that and lie to my face. What's happening here? Why are Rieklings there? You're not here for the coast but to be here. Tell me!" asked the Orc, turning a moment to see the said Rieklings were still in faction but unaware of their presence... Or uncaring?

He returned to Wulf holding both hands raised.

"Okay. Let's calm down. There's an explanation why we are her-"

"We are leaving the village," stated Baldor. His frowning remained present as he fought against gravity, only for Wulf to turn to him: "What?"

"Yes, Wulf and I are leaving the village, never to return," confirmed the bald Nord

"Why are you telling him this?"

"Because he deserves the truth," blurted the Blacksmith again, taking a step toward the Orc, they were face to face, their mouths so close. And Baldor's breath was... Intense. Strong. Unmistakable. Riekling. "And because he knows more, but he won't admit to us," continued Baldor, shaking his head.

"I-" contested the Orc, cut off.

"Let me speak. We can't stay in the village, we can't hide what happened anymore," mouthed Baldor, shaking his head.

"You don't have to tell him, we can go there and-" began Wulf, cut off too.

"If he doesn't know, he'll search for us. We all have to come clean." the Nord sighed, then resumed: "A few months ago, Tharstan and Fanari had a screaming fit for some reason. But at the end of the day, Tharstan was at my house asking to lodge him for the night. I wasn't one to refuse the hospitality to a friend, but I had noticed Tharstan's peculiar state. He reeked, he was out all day, and returned with a bad back. He seemed afraid of unclothing himself in front of me despite living together for more than a week. And then, one day... He asked me to follow him. He had sent all of his books to the mainland, left a message to Fanari, and told me he would pay if I escorted him to Thirsk," explained the old Blacksmith, retelling how the old archaeologist was there? And not in the village?

The Orc shook his head but listened. But Wulf butted in.

"Is this necessary?"

"Yes. Because I don't want anyone to suffer. So... That day, I asked Wulf to join us, and we all went here... And saw that Tharstan was not only able to walk to the Rieklings but was welcomed by them. For us, Thirsk was to be a tomb overtaken by bloodthirsty Rieklings. But we were wrong, so wrong. I should have refused Tharstan's offer nor look after him. Now, I must come here each day unless they come to the village, this is so exhausting," grumbled the Nord, shaking his head and pinching his nose.

"It's alright, Baldor. I'm coming with you," reassured the Hunter with a pat on the shoulder, clearly looking after the Blacksmith. But why were they lea-... Before he could finish this thought, a frigid sensation scoured the Orc's spine.

"You... Want to live with the Rieklings there."

"Yes. It is shameful to say it. But we know why Tharstan went there, and we can't... It's impossible to refuse that desire," sighed Baldor, turning to Thirsk. "And I think you know what's happening down there. I smelled it in your breath, Dragonborn."

Now, it was the Orc who stood abash. And was met with curious gazes from the two men. Especially Wulf, who looked positively baffled.

"What? Do you think he's one of us?" asked Wulf, his unique eye on the Orc, gauging him in his furs and well-tailored clothes.

"I don't know what you're talking about, you two. I'm following a track leading to Sujamma being brought from Raven Rock to this place," contested the Orc.

To this, Baldor returned with a glance at the Dragonborn... Then shook his head, walking toward Thirsk: "He's one of us, Wulf, entirely. But he hasn't admitted it yet. Dragonborn, step away and forget about us."

"Hey, Wait! I'm sorry, Dragonborn!" Wulf completed. But then, he ran after Baldor.

They left the Dragonborn all the more puzzled, but also... Curious. There was something there linked to the glacier. And the Nord's attitude. That place he had explored in the ice, it had something to do with Thirsk...

And he turned to the mead hall to see the two Nords walking up to the entrance. And, as stated before, the Rieklings weren't raising their spears at them but looked welcoming.

And.

The Dragonborn ran after them, following Wulf and Baldor's course. He trod in their steps and closed the distance. But not enough to stop the bald Blacksmith and bearded Hunter from bowing, bending, and lifting the creatures... To kiss them.

It was not a short kiss or something done with disgust on their face. They were both relishing the moments, all four so enthralled in the moment they ignored the Orc's approach. Even as he was at the doorstep. For a few more seconds, they were all stuck together in a parody of a greeting until it was Wulf who broke the kiss first. The Riekling associated with him saw the Orc first and reacted by lifting his spear at the intruder.

"Beli Burah!" cried the reductive creature, stopped instantly by Wulf's hand.

"He's with us. He wants to get in, too! Right?"

"Right," nodded the Orc.

To this interruption, the two Rieklings colluded and mumbled together in their language while Baldor turned to the Dragonborn, hands on hips: "You are one of us."

"I don't know what it means. But sure, if that lets me in and see what has been happening," he replied... And silence fell as they waited a bit more, not more than a minute.

Until both guards had reached a consensus. The one on the left, who had been busy with Wulf, pointed that tiny wooden spear at the Orc: "MuFA: Gujaa ha!"

An expletive that made no sense until, again, Wulf butted in.

"He wants you to give them all your weapons before you enter, you are not allowed to carry one."

"It's ab... Fine."

The Orc relented half a second but gave in, undoing the attaches to his belt. He handed the little bags he had been keeping along with his dagger, his sword, and the satchels containing the scrolls. All of his precious equipment was dangerous and fatal in wrong hands.

"Hey, be careful with that stuff," he commented to the Rieklings. They were already digging in the bags and pulling one scroll, but they seemed unable to open it as one of them tried to stick his index between the edges of the roller paper.

"They won't do anything, they can't read. Those scrolls are worthless to them," commented Baldor after he had walked past the guards towards the door.

And like to exemplify the Blacksmith's words, the Riekling that had taken the scroll had started to rip it by passing two fingers inside the rolled paper and pulling on two opposite sides.

Alas, it was a sufficient distraction to get the Dragonborn inside Thirsk, both guards happy with their new shiny toys. Baldor entered first, followed by Wulf. And at last, the Orc. All three were greeted by a waft of warm, musty, musky air carrying the perfume of Sujamma and other Dunmers alcohol.

"You've lied," the Orc growled, then to be shushed by the Hunter.

Inside the building, the outer walls had been turned into bleachers made of stacked kegs onto which drank, slept, and played Riekling.

Massive boars slept on the ground near the central fireplace used to roast the venison planted on spikes. In a way, that place reminded the Dragonborn of an inn... If not for all the skulls, the dirt, the trinkets hanging from the ceilings.

However, despite entering their place, the Rieklings paid them no heed as they walked through the hall.

"You understand them?" asked the Orc, watching as one of those small creatures unceremoniously peed on one of his passed-out fellows.

"More or less, it's a matter of intention. And they asked me the same the first time I entered," pointed Wulf. It made sense why both only had little knives. They weren't seen as a threat.

While he, the Dragonborn, was an oddity. But again, nobody cared about him once inside. So, they passed by the fireplace toward a makeshift throne on which seated a sleeping Riekling clad in an armor made of bones. And passed by it to approach... A hole.

Inside the Hall, a large hole had been dug up and formed a sore spot in the clean bricks. And inside of it, there was a downward slope leading deep underground.

"What is this?" asked the Orc, watching how Baldor was the first to descend. The Nord took his time while Wulf remained close to hold him and halt any potential fall.

"Where they want us to go. Are you following?" asked the lead, glancing before the Orc took a step down and indeed followed.

Once inside and their footing secured, Baldor resumed his tales though:

"One day, we went to the door and asked to see Tharstan since Fanari had been worried. They allowed us to enter after I gave them my dagger and Wulf his weapons. We went down this cavern," added the Nord before pointing to a spot of smooth rock. "Beware, it can get slippery."

The tunnel was dimly lit but walkable, with torches placed at regular intervals. But one detail struck the Orc: the air there was getting hotter and more humid, with a scent of sulfur.

"As long as we abide by their rules, they let us in. But to truly become one of them, you have to sacrifice something," continued Baldor.

"And... You're a part of them?" asked the Orc, only to be met with a nod.

"Yes. We are, Tharstan, Wulf, me, and more. It is better for everyone if we remain here."

The Orc wanted to ask more... But he kept to himself and expected Baldor to provide more explanation. But the Blacksmith didn't, instead focusing on their march. The tunnel was pushing further than anything the Orc had expected. The walls and floor could be slippery, sometimes made of carved bricks. Some moments, he noticed glowing mushrooms growing on the walls and wondered how far they would push would go. And when he asked himself this, the tunnel widened with the torches being bigger and decorated with more skulls.

Soon, his vision opened on a cavern. Right above them were scaffoldings holding the tunnel and the stone ceiling stable. On the opposite side of the cavern was an ice wall punctured by many man-sized holes, with a cliff at its base. A slope could, however, lead to that wall to... Where the Orc was: a village of tents, surrounded by torches with a pool of steaming water in the middle.

No, it was a hot source and the reason why the temperature was so clement. Next to the tents were little gardens made of mushrooms and other hardy plants able to thrive in such conditions.

Although, before he could investigate further, the Orc had to follow his guide acting as if everything here was normal.

It was not. Not with the Rieklings walking around with their armors removed and lecherously ogling them before heading in whatever direction they fancied. Nor with the faint noises coming from the tents... But something arose in the Orc's mind as they approached, all three, one of the biggest tents, and passed inside. The structure was evidently made to account for the size of larger men. The walls were of fur decorated with tapestries from all origins, hanging from the bones used in the structure.

But here, they were... Alone. Not a soul.

Dusty pieces of equipment and armor were lying around, bags, books even though all in a poor state. In a push for curiosity, the Orc approached one of the notebooks from a stack, opened it, and saw its least-scratched title, "Treaty on the Skaals by Tharstan".

He closed the notebook and put it back. Then, he turned to the two Nord who had accompanied him and undone the straps of their clothes along with their belt. Slowly, they peeled off boots and gloves.

"Are we supposed to strip?" asked the Orc, a question that made both men freeze. Especially Baldor, who had a hard time bending to reach his boots. And even had to ask Wulf to help him.

"If you want to know, yes. But you don't have to. You can return by the tunnel we've followed. Forget about that place," stated Wulf before throwing his boots off. But now, both glanced at the Dragonborn expectantly.

"I am already there. What else is expected of me?"

The Orc shrugged before the cringing nords, undoing his belt first, lighter of a few bags, and threw it on the ground. But he made a point not to throw it on an existing pile.

"The truth is...I have already been to this place before. But not from Thirsk." he said, undoing his vest. Both looked at him, frozen.

"You were here? Before? When?" asked Baldor, his face red. "Did you know about this when you came for Miraak?"

For a moment, the Orc scratched his chin, removing his boots with his feet, then shook his head. "It's complicated... But a week ago, I was called here for a reason and... Well, I entered by the glacier. But I didn't know what was happening here," he concluded by removing his shirt and uncovering his scars-ridden chest. "Nor that I know now what's here since you never told me the gist of it."

Now, Wulf and Baldor glanced at one another. But it was Baldor who stepped closer. And put both hands on the Dragonborn's shoulders.

"You never knew about that place before? Or those Rieklings?" he asked, frowning.

"I don't know for certain. I told you I forgot about my past long ago. But I was trying to find it, and came here." answered the Orc, now snarling from... He didn't know why he was snarling exactly.

"If you had known, you would have warned us and Tharstan, right?" continued the Nord.

"Yes! I don't know shit about what's happening here. But if I knew what's happening with all of you men and those horny Rieklings, I'd tell you!"

The Orc's answer seemed vehement enough to satisfy the Blacksmith stepping away. He undid the little broach, holding the leather harness tightly around his chest, while speaking.

"Dragonborn... With what you are about to see, please don't judge us." commented the bald man.

And the clothes finally fell, revealing Baldor's body... Why the leather seemed so tense, and why he was heavier.

It wasn't far-fetched to say Baldor was a squat man with his form: muscular with a bit of fat but overall strong. However, before the Orc's eyes, was divulged the form of a broken man. His arms and legs were strong, but fat had accumulated on them, giving them a comely shape...

All befitting a man possessed child-rearing hips, generous bosoms with a wide areola, and long nipples pierced with tiny tusks.

Those "tits" could have been ones of a wet nurse and were supported by a large belly, astonishingly large and taut. Its skin sported obvious stretch marks on the side as well as a popped-out navel around which swirled blue paint in a representation of a womb.

Such a sight... Never the Orc had seen it except in strongholds filled with devious cults dedicated to all sorts of Daedras. And even then, it was on prime women who didn't look as gravid as Baldor nor as primed. And below that belly, by glancing at it... The Orc couldn't see a low-hanging scrotum.

The Dragonborn's blue eyes widened. And from his relatively calm expression came sheer astonishment, surprise. He marched closer, one step at a time, while Baldor stood red in the face and seemingly holding his emotions with clenched jaw and fists.

"I don't need your pity, Dragonborn. But don't look at me like this," growled the Blacksmith, trembling.

The squat man watched the Orc's approach, the abashed expression, the widened eyes. For a moment, it seemed like the old Nord was a trophy or a prize.

"Knock it off!" he even shouted, about to burst.

But then, he felt the Orc's lips latch onto his chest and one of those swollen nipples. The green lips swathed the tiny and sensitive nub, licked it... Nibbled it. All the while, the adventurer's calloused hand reached for below that belly to stroke that skin, lower, lower until he got to those pubes.

Time came to a stop for both as one went to suckle on the swollen teat, and the other felt the release. Milk dribbled from the nipples, cloyingly sweet and dense, then swallowed by the Orc. He slurped and swallowed it loudly, his fingers reaching for Baldor's genitals.

And it was so alike: the Nord's cock flopped around, half-chub and dripping, but the scrotum had been emptied. The Orc still pinched it, but there was no response from the blissful Blacksmith. He tugged at it.

His excursion continued for another few seconds, then the Orc stepped away from the pregnant Nord. He reached for his lips to wipe them... And then watched his hands.

"I-... I am sorry, I don't know what came through me," he blurted as he observed the milky stain. But when he rose his eyes to Baldor's face, it was to be meet with a smile.

"I- I don't know why, Dragonborn. But thank you. I feel so much better. For days, my chest has been hurting," began the Blacksmith, raising a hand to meet his tits that looked the same in size, but the teat was less red and swollen. And it continued to dribble. "I have been backed up with milk despite Tharstan's help."

The Orc's expression remained thoughtful, and observing the Nord... Before a cough occurred, and the two turned to Wulf.

Who had stripped too and exposed a hairy but degraded body. His breasts and belly weren't as big nor as decorated as Baldor's. However, he was also an eunuch: his cock stood half-erect, but his scrotum was just as empty. And... It all clicked.

"I wonder, Baldor. Were you saying the truth about our friend, after all?" declared the Hunter, sassy enough to sway his widened hips and fattened ass.

A sassiness erased when the Orc stripped and divulged his state: The Dragonborn's body was pudgy but nothing like the two Skaals. And his manhood had been stripped of two jewels, their situation similar.

"Hmph, you were right, Baldor. He's one of us," commented Wulf, approaching to fondle the Orc's genitals. And the green-skinned eunuch allowed it. "But it is not recent, more than a week, am I wrong?" asked the same man, pulling on the empty skin.

A question to which the Orc answered by shaking his head and sighing, surrounded by the two looking at him. He raised his shoulders, his hands. And dropped them.

"I... I don't know exactly. One day, I woke up near Raven Rock with nothing on my skin. I was already like this, the scar healed, and with no memories of what had happened. This is what led me to the continent and then... Well. You have heard the tales," said the Orc. However, it didn't end as he inhaled then expired. "I guess I was like you. Or I ended here because it reminded me something, but never would I have known this. Or I would have warned you two... And Tharstan."

"And the men of Thirsk," added Baldor.

The remark surprised the Orc. He lifted an eyebrow at the Blacksmith, who had regained composure and crossed his arms.

"Yes? I suppose. Even if I don't know them," blurted the Orc. He returned to the pile of armor and trinkets. For a moment, no one said anything. Their breaths filled the tent until Wulf spoke and passed a hand over the Orc's shoulder.

"It's fine. But if you fled that place before, you still have a chance to leave. Us? We can't." commented the Hunter. And perhaps now did the Dragonborn notice how they reeked Riekling's semen and how excited they seemed to be. They were reluctant and yet eager.

But more than that, how excited he felt, too. Had he been breathing that quickly? His body froze, his mouth dried, his throat clenched.

"I... You can't?"

"We can't," confirmed Baldor, reaching to stroke his belly. "They would never allow us... And I can finally have a family here, even if it's with a Riekling husband."

That testimony left the Orc aghast, but Wulf shook his shoulder.

"It's alright. You can step away," said the Hunter before releasing. He then reached for Baldor's elbow and led him outside until... They were gone.

In a flap from the curtain. They were gone and left the Orc alone in that room.

The Dragonborn could still reach for his clothes and attire. Even his magic and shouts would be enough to call on his Slave if the little Rieklings didn't allow him to go. He clenched his fists, feeling his pull and the summons he could now drag from Apocrypha.

But then, the curtain flapped, and he was met with a familiar sight.

A Riekling.

Small, blue skin, with a white mustache, and holding a spear. And if the Orc didn't recognize the diminutive Scout at first, those orange eyes did. He grinned and ran to grab the Orc's hand.

Who blinked... Who sighed... Who almost lost his balance. Nonetheless, he followed the reductive man as the hand tugged and drove him to march outside. He could have refused, he should have. But didn't.

They headed left, toward another of the large tents. Although that one had its entrance decorated with masks, skulls, bones, and herbs. And right as he entered it, he was met with a sickly perfume of incense mixed with fluids: cum, milk, sweat, blood, piss.

It caught him up by the nose and made him gag. But he nonetheless stepped on the clean mat as they advanced toward the center of the dimly lit tent.

In a corner, he saw two Nords: a bearded man sporting a red mohawk, and someone whose features were more blunt and who had disheveled hair. They were similar to Baldor, both sporting that heavily gravid body, if not more than the Blacksmith. And they were lying on their backsides, each extremity used by a grinning Riekling. They grinned, looked so happy. And when their mouths were free, it was to speak in the same tongue as their captors, the tone haunting. They... They were broken.

And something vile roused within the Orc at that sight. Could he become happy like them?

He didn't know their faces, but before he could inspect them further, he was interrupted.

"Burghaaa! Wooore!" shouted the Scout and guide, the tiny male pointing at a shaman... Another elderly Riekling sporting a skull-faced helmet adorned with paint and feathers, his yellow eyes glimmering with malice. His face was rough, his mouth adorned by a mustache like the Scout. But he wore nothing to cover his round belly, fat and undecorated, or his genitals, dwarfing those of the Scout.

But behind him was a tapestry.

"Fuck me..." stated the Orc in astonishment, his jaw dropping.

The Tapestry could have been anything, from rough or fine sewing. But the Rieklings had covered with so much paint its identity had been lost. Now, only remained the defaced part and its story.

But even with their crude art, he could make out the depicted Orc, sideways with its ass directed at a Riekling whose oversized cock was firmly anchored within the Orc. Like a story, from left to right, it depicted the vision of that Orc being fucked, impregnated, birthing more Rieklings, before it... Disappeared in a chasm?

For a moment, the Orc blinked, then stroked his face while the Riekling at his side laughed: "Woore!"

The Scout shouted in his language, grinning as if chuffed. But it... Clicked.

Never would he have left this place willingly. He saw the Shaman's smile, reminiscent of someone he knew, something he had experienced. He exhaled, a shiver going through his body, through his spine, through his brain.

He stepped closer to the Shaman's seat, one step at a time. He faced the Shaman, saw those eyes glimmer. And leaned to kiss him, to taste the Sujamma in that breath. The male answered by stroking his cheeks but then guided him. And so, the Orc went on all fours. His blue eyes were fixated on the Riekling backed-up and hairy testicles, hanging loose in the scrotum. The skin was cleaned, but the scent could never disappear.

He inhaled the perfume, swallowed the aroma, felt the shiver course through once more, like giving in to a forlorn addiction.

"Fuuu wa!" exclaimed the Shaman above, his yellow teeth and eyes glimmering in the torchlight.

And the Orc leaned further, depositing a kiss on the male's nuts. Against his lips, they churned and almost burned, yearned for more. And yet they hadn't been released in a long time. He could sense their weight without reaching for them.

And so, the Dragonborn gave another kiss to those testicles in a breath: "Fuu wa."

His words were almost silent but seemed to have made the Shaman perk up. His body shifted a bit, but his cock sprung to life: the foreskin peeled off as blood pumped inside. The shaft straightened, becoming a half-chub with throbbing veins beneath the rough skin. And it didn't stop as both observed the blood pumping and erecting the organ, pushing back the skin until the cocktip, blue with a hint of gray, glimmered in the torchlight. And throbbed before it fell back. But that time against the Orc's lips as if prehensile.

The Dragonborn exhaled, then inhaled the aroma emanating from that shaft. Just the close contact made his tongue spark with foretasting promises. And he shivered again, his eyes rolled in their sockets until he closed his eyelids and breathed again. Again... And Again. Precum poured from his limp cock while the perfume... It invaded his nostrils, filled them, descended into his lungs, poisoned them with that lust.

And he gave in to it, his lips opening wide to allow his tongue to reach out and stroke the organ's underside. Much like the perfume, the taste was intense and mind-numbing. His tastebuds sizzled to the touch, set his thoughts ablaze.

Until they stopped. Until he stopped to care.

The Orc reached for his backside, still stroking the elder's shaft with his tongue while his gaze was above his shoulder, toward the Scout. There, he used his fingers to squeeze his left asscheek and pry it apart until the youngling could see the abused and winking hole. Just enough to let him peer that glazed orifice, sweaty and surrounded by clean red hair. An invitation the tiny male understood right away since his cock sprung to life and wrestled against the loincloth until its release.

The message passed, and the Orc was able to return to his primary focus. His contortion stopped, his eyes focused on the shaft. He opened his mouth wide, ushering the Shaman's manhood between his dark-green lips. His mind, what remained of it, focused on easing his muscles and breath. It wasn't the biggest shaft he had taken in; even most Greybeards were bigger. But this one challenged him differently: lust.

He watched his teeth, cared for, and guided the shaft against his mouth's ceiling while it grazed his eager tongue.... And felt the mushroom-shaped tip stroke his uvula. Stroke... Caress... Tease... Tempt...

For a last time before a moment, the Orc attempted to swallow his saliva but failed... Instead, he sighed, letting his warm breath caress the shaft and saliva drip from his lips. He was under the Shaman's scrutiny, who hadn't moved one bit. And he bobbed his head forth.

He didn't move the cock inside, used his tongue...

No.

His eyes rolled, closing and opening due to the flickering lids, and he swabbed his throat onto that erect shaft. He felt the organ pass through his uvula, eliciting a tingle, a remembrance. Before it disappeared beyond and bulged through his throat. The Dragonborn contracted it, tried to squeeze it, to massage it. But above, the Shaman didn't seem to care. That little male merely smiled back at him with that same perverted attitude.

Until the eyes shifted and looked at something behind the Orc.

"Hmphh?!" vocalized the eunuch the best he could from the surprise.

The surprise of having the Riekling's oversized nose rubbing and titillating his backside as well as that tongue. Behind, the Scout had started to lick his sweaty crack, drooling over the hair and damp skin in a circle that drew closer to the center. To the hole that winked and quivered whenever the tongue dared to approach.

But that honey pot wasn't ignored either. For fingers went to caress the taint below the anus, pulled on the skin with enough dexterity it began to drag along the Orc's tenderized asshole. Just enough to force the rim open. And to pluck the honey pot with a tempting tongue that slithered in, pushed through.

The youngling was an eager one, his tongue lashing up and down inside whenever it was possible... And talented was that tongue fighting against the warm inner walls. Even if the Dragonborn had been rimmed by a Dragon in the past, there was something rather touching with the Riekling's attempt to tease him with his mouth.

Touching and pleasing, eliciting a groan from his swabbed throat. Everything pushed the Orc to use his mouth and enwrap the Shaman's cock in delight. For half a second... The Elder showed signs of satisfaction beyond that grin: he had squinted for half a second.

And he squinted more, then sighed, then breathed. Down, between the Shaman's legs, the Dragonborn picked up the pace. Swallowing the shaft might have been the beginning; but not the end.

In a grunt, the Orc had moved his head back, pulling back the shaft from his throat. But then, as the tip neared the uvula, he bobbed his head forth. He clenched his jaw the best he could, like he had learned from the Greybeards. He contracted, tensed his body. His mouth gripped the dick, his lips shut and air-tight until nothing escaped. Not even the saliva that was backing up in his mouth and engulfing everything in its wake; turning the weak grunts into disgusting gurgles. The same gurgles grew in pace and intensity as he pushed himself further. His lips stretched forward despite the tusks hindering them. His whole body arched and tightened, plied. Shivers ran through him, following the bob and thrusts, from the front and the rear. But he focused on that shaft, slobbered on it, exposed but a part of it to the lukewarm air before urging it inside.

Back, back into the bulging throat, back into the Orc's tender mouth, back onto the tongue that swirled and attempted to coil with no avail. Until the muscle tender shifts elicited grunts from the Elder above, satisfied and admiring.

Himself, his Slut. And his spawn, who had become tired of eating that honey pot, and pulled away.

"Gru! Nuuu! Burghaa!" exclaimed the Scout

"Garwga!" answered the Elder, although none of it made sense to the Orc.

The Scout's hand had now peeled away from the taint to grab the plump green cheeks. He spread them apart until it revealed the saliva-slathered and gaped hole. Air rushed against it, stroked it, and the winking orifice clenched.

But eased when something warm was pressed on it, a cocktip in the likeness of the one on the front: greasy, heavy, long, mushroom-tipped. It pushed inside without resistance from the Eunuch.

In one instant, the whole Riekling's cock thrust inside until the youngling's nuts slapped against the Orc's empty scrotum. The cheeks clenched, the orifice closed, and the Scout cooed from being massaged. Even his little legs quivered at the moment, just a little. Just a little before he wrestled against his sensations, moved his feet, and leaned to breed that cunt like it was always done here. That Orc was another broodmother.

The tiny male thrust and pulled. His position adjusted as he lay on the green backside, one knee raised to press against the plump ass. And he rutted. He plowed that massive and moist cunt wint nothing to hold off his brutality than his tiny hands and that eager hole.

He almost bounced off those cheeks while his ridiculously swollen nuts battered the Dragonborn's ass and taint, perhaps the scrotum, and painted them in different shades and different fluids. Saliva and Precum, mixed by the battering dick, sloshed inside and dribbled outward whenever the stud pulled back, smearing the nuts until they glimmered in their beating and breeding.

That was rough, intense, brutal.

Not only by the Scout's feat, bull-rushing his insides and using his cocktip like a battering ram. But also the front, as the Dragonborn bobbed back and forth, swallowed the fluids pouring into his throat. He gargled, he gurgled, he gagged a bit before recovering his composure. Judged by the tiny man, the Orc felt himself returning to his base and errors. He wasn't the prime adventurer who could take a dragon.

He was back... As an Orc who found himself at the wrong place, at the wrong moment. A sensation sickening and arousing him.

But then, he felt a stroke. The Shaman had moved, uncrossing his arms. His spindly fingers reached the Orc's face. With the thumb, he rubbed his cheekbones, pressed against them, slowly etching that care and love into the Dragonborn's frightened and lust-addled mind.

Behind, the rutting didn't stop nor slowed... It rocked the Orc's body like ceaseless waves.

However, by caressing and pushing against the face, the Shaman pulled his dick from the eager mouth. He liberated, there and then, that slick and glistening blue dick.

And the Riekling stroked it, pulling on the extensive foreskin. His movements formed ripples and folds onto and into which saliva and precum accumulated while his darker glans stood exposed and throbbing.

"Hhh... Wh- What?" asked the Orc, one eye half-closed and his mouth open as he heaved.

The Riekling didn't answer. He kept stroking his shaft, from a low and steady pace to a frenzy, with droplets of fluids landing on the Orc's exposed and stilled face.

The tiny male grunted and moaned, gritted his teeth, shivered. There were words, but nothing the Dragonborn could make out, ven when the chant grew stronger, the paint over the Shaman's body glowed. Even when the tiny male lowered the pulsing shaft toward the Orc's mouth.

"Aru!"

The fluids poured into the Orc's mouth, sticky and dense, with a taste different from anything he had savored. It was like a soft paste he swallowed, mouthful after mouthful. Some of it splattered over his face and sideburns, other droplets landed on his brows. One even got onto his left eyelid.

But he kept gorging himself even as the satiety struck him, he swallowed until the flow slowed down. Droplets by droplets, the Shaman's orgasm subsided and left the large dick hanging onto his testicles.

Only then did the Orc notice two things: the warmth encompassing his guts and further. And the one filling his stilled backside.

With a glance, he observed the spent Scout entirely lying on his backside while his cock remained plugged inside, holding back the cum threatening to pour out. So much cum it would be an avalanche, so much it formed a nice rotundity inside the Orc's belly.

He directed his gaze onto the Shaman again. The little man had returned to his previous position, lazily sprawled on the chair with his legs spread to account for his genitals. The little male looked whacked and done for the day. But the warmth inside the Orc desired more.

He desired more.

SLEN! ZUN! FUS!

Even kept down to a whisper, that shout echoed within the tent and surprised both Rieklings. Through that shout, even if he had tried to keep it low, he surprised both Rieklings. Primarily, the Shaman whose yellow eyes widened in fear while his tiny arm grasped the armchairs. But fear receded when the Shaman sensed the shout's effects, his cock sprung to life, renewed.

And the Orc's lips were right onto it.

This moment was to last longer, and it could... It would.

For how long it lasted?

The Orc had no notion of hours and days in the tent. But his stamina abandoned him at one moment when both Shaman and Scout rutted his ass together. They had used his mouth, his ass, playing with his nipples, even with his nostrils to cumshot inside. And once they learned about the shout, they gave him no breaks between sessions unless it was for all three to drink more of that distasteful Sujamma. But the Rieklings seemed to appreciate its taste.

And when they returned... Hah, they had that spunk.

Spunk rewarded by sore muscles and limbs when the Orc woke up on a bedroll made of fur, surrounded by more Rieklings than the two he had fucked... More than that, he noticed he was now standing where had been the two Riekling lovers the day before... Or perhaps that was the day ante-before?

Nonetheless, he was now looking like an animal prime to be bred. As for his two partners, the Shaman snored on his chair, and the Scout was gone.

---

Awake and able to wiggle away from the Rieklings, the Orc stood up in a wobbly stance. Those tiny males weren't gentle lovers, but he was used to worse. Sore step after sore step, the Orc left the tent to see a different world: the light from the Glacier had gone, leaving only the torches and luminescent plants to illuminate the caverns. Torches and lamps had been lit, adding their shades of red and yellow. But there were no patrols or surveys. Even the Rieklings from yesterday seemed to have gone, though a choir of snores came from the village. They were not afraid of being jumped.

And the Orc marched, observing the silence in that place... It was eerie and familiar.

"Ah, Dragonborn, that's you. I almost didn't recognize you," prompt a voice. Tharstan's.

Another balding Nord whose face was more open than Baldor's, smiling and welcoming. Much like his body that was as comely as a plump whore or a wet nurse, especially with those sagging breasts and round belly. Akin to the Blacksmith, the historian sported blue spiraling symbols over his belly and no trace of his manhood. However, he had the particularity to wear jewelry and multiple golden collars over his neck. The Rieklings spared no expanse by using a golden necklace with rubies... as a chain between Tharstan's pierced nipples. And more rings had been used to decorate that ruined body: from the limp manhood to the popped-out navel and that septum.

It was easy to recognize Tharstan, it was more difficult to explain why he was decorated like a concubine as he stood by the hot basin at the center of the village.

"I almost didn't believe Baldor when he told me you were with us. But I see the Shaman graced you again?" he added, pointing at the Orc.

Well, the Orc didn't expect for his wandering legs to land him there.

Nor to be red in the face when he looked down where the historian pointed and noticed the same swirls on his belly. He placed a hand over his taut skin... It was warm.

"Yes. He- He has," muttered the Orc as he took water too, bent, and cupped some water to pass it over the spots covered with cum...

"You will be an excellent mother, I am certain," stated Tharstan, passing a hand over his hairy chest and rubbing the sore spots around his swollen nipples. To which the Orc reacted by stepping closer to the Nord and reaching for both nipples he began to pinch and rub, until milk poured from them even if it was a dribble.

"Hmm... We are blessed," muttered the old Nord, chuckling with his hands still circling. "I should have sent an invitation for you to come before I left the Skaals. But it would have never reached you."

"I had issues on the mainland. And a duty to the Greybeards," mumbled the Orc back, ashamed by... What? He couldn't even tell. But he kept tugging on the nips.

"It wouldn't do good to regret it. Especially when we're so blessed. Our village is lovely, and our little men so eager to fill their wives."

The Elder wasn't ashamed of his position and seemed even to relish the situation... There was something strange here, indeed. But more than that.

"So. Are you glad to have returned among your family?" prodded Tharstan, making the Orc almost jump while he released his hands on the nipples.

"Wha-... What do you know?" retorted the Dragonborn while turning his back to the Historian.

"I am not a shrew man, but even I could see the tapestry. And my little discussions with the Shaman told me much. This is not your first time here, am I wrong?"

The question hung in the air... The Dragonborn kept his hand down. Then, he lifted them... And lowered them to stroke his belly.

"It happened before I met you, I thought myself to have been captured and tortured by bandits. But I know better now," admitted the Orc, glancing at Tharstan. Then, at the rows of tents. "Are you happy there?"

"I am. Most of the Skaals are. Some are... Not there anymore, those from Thirsk. But yes, we are happy here. Our lives are better and devoid of fear. It may not be perfect, but anyone can leave. Are you afraid?"

And to this, the Orc merely smiled.

"No, not at all. I wondered if more could join us."