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It had been a long time since Yorri Zimmergeir, apprentice wizard, had last seen another human, and longer still since he had last seen another living human. Just how long that was, he was no longer certain. There were no seasons, in the cursed jungles of Lustria. Every day was one of oppressive heat, soaking rains, and a miasma of water and air so thick, that it was a wonder that he had ever learned to breathe in it. Had his spellbook survived, he might have managed to mark the days through journal entries. However, he no doubt would have run out of pages quickly, every scrap of vellum filled to the margins with the notes he needed to try and understand the vagaries of his captives:

The dreaded Lizardmen.

Of course, the names they had for themselves were far more grand than those that had been passed down by Yorri's master (or, rather, former master). The language of these beasts was one of the first things he had dedicated himself to mastering. It was a titanic effort, as he struggled to ascertain whether any of the harsh, guttural barks he heard pointed in his direction were an order to finally destroy him.

At first, he could not understand why he, alone, was the only poor soul to have survived the ambush. Not even Byrnhild, powerful woman that she was, had managed to escape from these monsters with her life. Though she had apparently managed to take three of the smaller lizards down with her, screaming oaths to Myrmidia the entire time. In time, he had managed to piece together a dim understanding of the events of that fateful evening, an explanation as to why the Lizardmen thought him worth sparing, even as twenty-six other people were left to feed the already overgrown forest.

That reason would be one of the first of many humiliations that would mark his legend, from here on out.

As was mentioned previously, evening had fallen on the camp. After a long and arduous march, attempting to cut a path through ever more hostile swathes of flora, Grand Astromancer Helmut Nasst had told Yorri, in no uncertain terms, that they were close. The object of the old madman's lifelong obsession, the magical city of Itza, lay just beyond the next ridge, just as it had lied just beyond the next ridge for the past three years. Yorri had been eager to go on this trip, to learn about a mythical land that even the most learned people in the Empire only knew fragmented whispers about. The glory of discovery soured, however, after the fourth time a hapless fool had wandered into a carnivorous plant.

At that late stage of the expedition, Yorri had taken to spending his evenings alone. He would tell his master he was attempting to divine the stars or contemplating the Winds of Magic. In reality he was honestly up to whatever he could think to take his mind out of the jungle. It was a difficult prospect, when the skies above were covered in canopy and the ground below him was treacherous. But there was always one thing a man at the height of his youth could do whose pleasures were not dimmed by being far from home.

If there was one thing that Lustria had that put the cramped streets of Altdorf to shame, it was the ability to enjoy some much needed privacy. Here, the air was so warm that one could strip off every stitch of clothing and feel no difference between their skin and the outside air. Here there were countless trees and shrubs and other things, forming a barrier between him and perhaps the only other humans for miles. In time, Yorri grew to find the feeling of being exposed to the elements to be an especially exhilarating experience. The thought excited him so greatly, he almost did not need to imagine any of the myriad things that he had left behind in the Empire. Almost.

And so it was that, when the first hints of calamity reached his ears, Yorri was laying on the ground, back against a tree, visions of Altdorf women dancing through his head as he gripped his meaty club. At first, he had thought to ignore the shouting coming from behind him, to write it off as Byrnhild going off on one of her usual tears. Perhaps in a minute or so, when he was not sitting at the precipice, he would pick himself up and figure out what the shouting was about. And the screaming. And... was that roaring, he heard? The clash of metal?

When he heard the tell-tale report of a firearm, Yorri's heart seized. Scrambling to his feet, he ran to where he had left his robes, desperate to throw them on and rush back to camp. However, he had only gotten about halfway before a bit of the vegetation beneath his feet gave way, and he was sent careening into the mud. Something sailed past his shoulder on the way down, cutting a furrow into his skin before embedding itself in the ground. Looking up, he was horrified to see a crude but wicked javelin, pierced through his discarded robes.

The next thing he was aware of was a rapidly approaching hissing sound. He only had time to turn on his back, only had time to see the shadow that flew through the air towards him, before it landed on his body. A scaly, three digit hand closed around his throat. A lizard-like snout twitched down at him. Yorri found himself paralyzed with horror, as he took in his first ever sight of one of the Cold Ones. This one was one of the shorter and lither varieties, a mass of green scales and claws roughly bent into the shape of a man. In their other hand they held a cruel and jagged knife, formed from the improbably hard stone that the scholars back home knew as Obsinite. Not that knowing what it was made of blunted the knowledge that it was moments away from embedding itself in Yorri's chest.

He struggled, hands clasped around the beast's wrist, squirming underneath it as he tried to summon what little strength he had. The creature reared back, but just before it could bring the dagger down, there was a long, low, croaking noise from behind it.

“Stay your hand, brother!" cried one of the Skink's comrades. “You must not destroy this one!"

“Must I not?" the Skink croaked back, with a gurgle of mirth. “The War-Chief has ordered the warmbloods destroyed, and here I see a warmblood before me."

The second Skink crawled closer, on all fours, before rising to its feet. “You do not see what I see, brother. Look! Look upon the warmblood's thigh!"

Yorri grunted, only just managing to wrench a little room to breathe between the lizard's fingers. The Skink atop him let Yorri up, just a bit, though it knew it could force him back down at any time. It hissed back. “I cannot look at this vermin's thigh, at the moment. Perhaps you could enlighten your spawn-brother, since your eyes seem to see all."

“He has the Sign!"

The first Skink's eyes widened, head shaking in agitation. Slowly, it craned its neck to look back at its comrade. “Have my ears failed me, as well as my eyes? Surely, I did not hear you say that this warmblood has the Sign."

“I have spoken true," the second Skink insisted. “It is clear as sunlight. I can see it now, just next to the warmblood's genitals."

Seeing an opportunity, Yorri pulled a hand back and threw a punch on the Skink's arm. While he was never the strongest brawler, it seemed like the creature's guard was dropped just enough for him to manage it. Scrambling away, he tried to get over to where his robe was. If he could just grab the spear, he might be able to defend himself. However, he had barely gotten anywhere before there were two hands on his heels, holding him in place.

The first Skink turned Yorri over, holding one leg up. “By the will of the Old Ones!" it exclaimed, staring down at the spiraled birthmark on the human's inner thigh. “It is precise. Exactly as the priests have carved it!"

“This is a glorious find," the second replied, holding Yorri's other leg to one side. “Perhaps now the War Chief will finally have enough to let us go back to the Pools, again."

Yorri could not understand the half-animal language that the two creatures were throwing at each other. All he knew was that two beast-men were holding him in place, and their eyes were pointed square at his crotch. Suddenly, he was once again keenly aware of the fact that, on top of everything else happening, it was happening while he was completely naked. Unthinkingly, he threw his hands over himself. “H-hey!" he shouted. “What are you doing? Unhand me at once, you beastmen!"

The two Skinks exchanged glances. Then, the first one asked “Have you brought your bolas with you?"

The second Skink hiss-chuckled, reaching for a mass of cord and stone on the rough leather belt of his loincloth.

* * *

War Chief Korak was in the sort of foul mood that victory failed to sweeten. Not that the Saurus had considered this battle to be much of a victory. There were few warriors among the warmbloods, and almost none who could stand against the giant crocodilian brute in any way that aroused their warrior instincts. Instead, as they stomped through the smoldering remains of the human camp, aimlessly knocking over tents and making sure no warmblood was going to rise again, the things they muttered to themself was of the same stuff that they had been muttering for the past few seasons.

“Rats yesterday," they growled, slamming their war-club down on a battered wooden chest. “Man-sons today." They curled their lip at the crumpled pile of robes and blood, that had once been Grand Astromancer Helmut Nasst. “Rats tomorrow. Always vermin. Always a hunt."

“A successful hunt, O mighty War Chief," replied Korak's second in command, a Skink priest dressed in the leathers of Lustria's most deadly beasts. “A few of our kin have served the Great Plan, but our assault was otherwise flawless."

Hearing their strategies praised did little to improve Korak's mood. “Any stragglers?"

“A couple, War Chief. Our Skinks are afield as we speak, searching for any who might have escaped the trap."

Korak snorted. “_These _warmbloods are few. They don't run like rats do."

“No, they don't. The Skaven are cowards."

“Persistent cowards." Korak shouldered their club and turned to face the Lizardmen still in the camp. “We march again! Leave what remains!" Stomping past the priest, Korak once again returned to muttering. “At least the beasts might have a meal from this rabble."

Quetchino'ko allowed themselves a moment to twitch their tail in agitation, as they stared at the back of their War Chief. Korak was as good a Saurus as they came, strident in their devotion to the Great Plan and zealous in their prosecution of anyone who would stand in the way of the Old Ones' will. As the seasons had passed, however, the priest had been forced to contend with an ever-worsening impatience and ill temper on the part of their War Chief. The warband had been on the march for longer, now, than they had initially planned. Korak refused to countenance a return to Itza, or even a chance to rest in friendly territory. There was only so much Quetchino'ko could do, to point the Saurus in the right direction, and their patience was starting to run as thin as their commander's.

The warband had gotten a ways away, far enough that all that remained of the camp was a faint smell of smoke, when the chattering on the edges of the host made its way to Korak and Quetchino'ko. The scouts were back, and one of them had found something. Korak almost turned around and kept walking, but an almost-severe look from their priest convinced them, begrudgingly, to turn and go where the crowds were gathering. Standing nearly half-again as tall as the Skinks, and with only a smattering of Sauruses in their host, Korak had just about an unobstructed line of sight to the two Skinks, and the naked human they carried between them.

An excited chatter had risen from the people nearest the human, especially among the ever-chatty Skinks. When Korak opened their mouth and began to roar, however, the jungle grew deathly still. “Explain!" they shouted. “Why does this thing live?"

Yorri stared up at the massive creature before him, a fresh sense of inextricable horror washing over him. He was now bound, surrounded by a horde of these strange beastmen, and in his panicked state he counted at least six lizards who were just as monstrous as the one who stared down at him with naked, baleful hatred.

“Mighty War Chief," the second Skink, who had been holding Yorri's bound arms, set the apprentice wizard down and prostrated themselves before the Saurus. “We have found something on this warmblood. We think it may be what Great Lord Krarqanotli has been searching for."

Karok did not understand and, as was often the case with the Saurus, responded to such confusion with hostility. “Do you mock me? The man-sons have nothing for us!"

“Forgive my impertinence, O Mighty War Chief," the Skink replied, with greater and more enthusiastic grovelling. “If you would only let us show you what we've found, I think you will understand why we felt the need to delay acting upon your mandate." They pulled their head up to look at the first Skink. “Brother, please show War Chief Karok what we've brought."

“M-mercy..." Yorri looked around at the group of monsters, all shouting and croaking over his body. “Please, I don't know if you can understand me, but please just let me go. I don't want to die. Please, I don't want...!" Suddenly, the first Skink grabbed Yorri, by the cords binding his ankles together, and lifted straight up.

And so, as was promised at the beginning of this tale, apprentice wizard Yorri experienced the first of many humiliations.

With his feet lifted high into the air, his rear end was exposed to the entirety of the Lizardman war host. From here, the War Chief, the Skink priest, and close to three score other creatures had a clear and unobstructed view of his birthmark. He did not know, then (and would not know for some time), that what caused all those eyes to fall on him was his birthmark. He did not know that the shape on his thigh, long ignored by him as being an ordinary part of his body, could hold some sort of significance. All he saw was dozens of pairs of eyes, all pointed at the gentle swell of his ass, the sensitive hole beneath, the underside of his most private of parts. All he heard a strange murmur across the whole of them that was intense and almost reverent in its tones. He thought, for one grim moment, that the shame alone might have been able to kill him, then and there.

Excitement rippled through the warhost, at the sight of the Sign. Every Lizardman in attendance knew it well. When Lord Krarqanotli had pulled himself from his great slumber, it was only to pass along the knowledge of this symbol. Its meaning was strange, matching no sign known to even the most learned of the Skink priests in attendance. Of course, with the Slaan slipping back into their meditative torpor immediately afterwards, there was nothing else to be done; copies of the Sign were made and passed down to every warband who could chance upon it.

“Incredible," Quetchino'ko warbled. “I was certain that if anyone was to find the Sign, it would be one of the bands that had struck out to the north."

Karok was not impressed, and they were far from happy. “Impossible." They stomped forward, throwing a clawed hand at the air. “Stand aside! Now!"

Yorri watched on, helplessly, as the bindings on his ankles were handed over to the giant. And it was giant: while the Skinks stood about as tall as a man, the creature that loomed over him dwarfed most of the gathered crowd. The hand that clamped down on his right knee, pulling his leg aside for a clearer view, was large enough to wrap entirely around his leg. With seemingly no effort at all, he was hoisted up, dangling upside down. The lizards gathered around looking up expectantly as their War Chief inspected him.

That was when he felt hot, moist air on his crotch. Karok's face got so close to the human's birthmark, that Yorri felt every exhale, every growl, every sigh of frustration. As strong as Yorri's terror was, as convinced as he was that this was how he was going to die, the sensation of wind tickling at his most tender areas was having an effect. Bewildered, he looked up at himself. Somehow, in a place and time like this, he was as erect as he had been, just before the calamity had struck.

Karok's eyes fell on Yorri's erection. It was difficult not to, as close as their face was. However, it was not until a minute or so had passed that Karok realized they were no longer attempting to examine the birthmark. They snarled, casting their eyes down once again. There was no denying it; the mark on the warmblood's leg was a perfect match. Reluctantly, they turned to face their warband. “Cold Ones!" They thrust Yorri's dangling body forward, like a trophy. “The Great Plan advances!"

A riotous cheer rang out among the crowds. Yorri could only stare, wide-eyed at the mountain of scaly flesh that held him out to the onlookers. Upside down, he could only hope to turn his head down enough to see the sky-blue of Karok's belly, the underside of their muscular pecs. Then, suddenly, he felt himself being lifted up, draped over a broad shoulder. Karok's body was leathery, and impossibly warm.

“No more distractions!" Karok barked. “We march!"

The horde began to move, a cacophony of pattering feet and chattering tongues. Yorri, laying face down, pinned against a brawny arm, tried to crane his head to see where he was being taken. His captor was engaged in conversation with the Skink that crooned beside them.

“Glorious. Simply glorious." Quetchino'ko could hardly contain his glee. “To think that we could find something this momentous, in such an unimportant stretch of the jungle. This is an auspicious day, War Chief. The Old Ones smile upon us!"

Korak adjusted their grip on the human, fingers curling around the man's hip. They snarled. “Do they smile, Beast-Priest?" he asked. “Or do they laugh?"

* * *

What followed was a long and arduous few hours. With the sun setting (somewhere beyond the canopy) and bent over a Saurus as he was, Yorri was helpless to try and figure out where he was going or even what direction they were traveling. All he knew was that the Lizardmen on the march were faster and more efficient than the expedition he had been plucked from, by far. They did not need to hack their way through the undergrowth, seemed largely unconcerned with the threats of the jungle, and in general seemed to instinctively know the ways and paths that Nasst would only discover once in a blue moon.

Because of that, there was no way of telling how far he had been carried, when the time came for the Lizardmen to stop and set up camp. He was dumped onto a set of furs with all the ceremony of a burlap sack, and was made to watch as a contingent of Skinks built a large tent around him. Behind him, the War Chief sat on a rock, dark promises in their eyes if the human moved even an inch from where they had put him. One of the Skinks came around, dropping the meat of some unknown creature next to Yorri. Hesitant as he was to do something that might anger his captors, he nonetheless took it as a positive sign that they were willing to feed him. He was also too hungry to question the offer too deeply.

As he tore into the hunk of meat, he watched as that leather-clad Skink from before approached, taking a seat on the ground next to the War Chief.

“Mighty War Chief, your brothers are curious to know where we will be going, from here."

Korak exhaled through their nose, eyes never leaving their captor. “We must return to Itza. Lord Krarqanotli must be shown our find at once."

Quetchino'ko bowed their head, hissing in pleasure. “An excellent assessment, War Chief, and one that I wholeheartedly agree with. If you are considering routes, perhaps I could suggest we take the path that runs through Talecoco."

Korak snorted. “Is this a request from the Skinks?"

“It is a request from me." Quetchino'ko's expression soured, as they realized that he would not get far with honeyed words. “Our brothers have been away from their homes for many seasons. They are overdue for a rest, and with this find they have more than earned it."

“You mean they have been away from the Pools."

“Yes, and they are anxious to return. Any Cold One would be anxious, after so long." Rising to his feet, Quetchino'ko put a hand on Korak's knee. “You have denied yourself the Pools for longer than anyone, Korak. You cannot ignore your needs, like this. If left to fester, your ability to lead may..."

Korak's large hand slammed down on Quetchino'ko's, a glare of sheer baleful anger in their eye. “You have heard the words of the Slaan," they growled, “and for that, I stay my hand. Had it been any other of your kind who questioned my ability to lead, they would have left this tent without their throat!"

Quetchino'ko was not intimidated, even though the animalistic noises that came from Korak's mouth was enough to make Yorri tremble, on the other side of the almost finished tent. Staring up at Korak with grim determination, they spoke. “You suffer, Korak. You endure, but you suffer. The Great Plan requires more than just your ability to fight. Promise me that you will divert the troops to Talecoco."

They did not wait, either for a rebuke or a confrontation. Instead, pulling their hand out from under Korak's and exiting through the flap in the tent. A half-dozen Skinks made a surreptitious exit, slinking out and around Yorri and Korak, taking great pains to pretend like they heard nothing of substance, from the conversation their two commanders had just finished. Suddenly, the tent was silent. Yorri was left alone with the Saurus. Korak turned their large head to look at the human. Yorri responded by curling in on himself, trying to regain modesty as well as he could with bound hands and feet.

Korak rose to their feet. With a sharp gesture, they pointed to the ground where Yorri stood. Then, they pointed to the exit. Finally, they drew two fingers across their large throat, in a manner Yorri understood all too well. Then, with the threat finally communicated, Korak fell onto a second, larger pile of furs, stretching themselves out in preparation for sleep.

Yorri curled up on his side, in darkness, listening to the chatter of strange creatures and feeling the leather cords as they pressed against his skin. He was not sure how sleep overtook him, in a place like that.

All he knew was that he would eventually wake up to the second of many humiliations.

* * *

It was late in the night, and Korak found themselves, once again, unable to sleep. In the dark, and the silence, without the cacophony of battle or the distracting hum of an army around them, their thoughts turned to the same place they always did. The warm, effervescent rush of primordial waters. The glare of the moon. A sea of heaving, powerful flesh before, behind... within...

“Mrrrgh..." Slowly, Karok rolled over onto their stomach. “Traitorous Quetchino'ko. I could have forgotten my 'needs,' had they not..." Karok's throat rumbled with a grumpy and desperate growl. “I am unyielding. Unyielding. Un... yiel..."

Yorri was pulled from a surprisingly deep sleep by the sound of a Saurus muttering to themselves. Slowly, his eyes opened, momentarily forgetting where he was and thinking that he was going to look over and see a monster. He did see a monster, but what that monster was doing was something that made his sleep-addled mind quickly roar back to life.

Despite their best efforts, Karok felt a large hand underneath their stomach, trailing down between their legs. They knew it was their hand, and they hated it. Even as their lips continued their chant of “unyielding," their fingers were pulling aside their loincloth and getting closer to their slit. Even in the dim light, cast by torches on the other side of leather tent walls, Yorri could clearly see that something between the Saurus's legs was sodden. His view only got more explicit, when Karok's thick tail lifted up, and their fingers descended.

“No..." they protested, pulling away as soon as they felt the first brush of scales against their sex. “Do... not. Touching does not help. Fingers are..." Despite this, their hand descended again. Something close to a swear in the Lizardman tongue crossed Karok's lips, garbled by a strangled noise of something that Yorri would later come to recognize as pleasure.

“Confound the Plan!" Once they started, Karok could not stop. Soon, their fingers were sliding up and down, teasing out yet more fluid that shined in the guttering torchlight. “Reducing me to such a state, when all I want is to wage war. Do the Old Ones watch? Does this please them?"

For Yorri, the sight was utterly arresting. This creature, male in every respect he might have imagined, was playing with themselves with the same youthful vigor of an Altdorf barmaid in her private chambers. Soon, the Suarus was gyrating their hips, tail thrashing to and fro as they tried in vain to fuck their hand. Two of those cruel digits sunk inward, drawing another sound from them that was murderous in intent. Yorri did not know how to respond to what he was seeing. The rising mass between his legs, however, seemed to have no illusions on what to feel.

Karok snarled. “Not enough. Fingers are never enough." Frenzied, delirious, their beady eyes smiled as their thoughts grew ever more sordid. “Oh, to feel a muscle split me open. Any muscle. To feel a Kroxigor push my head down into the water as they claim me. To dash a Skink upon the rocks with my hips." With every image, Karok drove their fingers harder and harder, searching for a peak that was still so infuriatingly far away. “Even the malformed member of the warmblood would be a balm to m..."

Suddenly, Karok froze. Their eyes widened in what would be the closest a Saurus could come to mortal terror. Slowly, they turned their head back. They leapt onto all fours the moment they made eye contact with a now fully-awake human. Yorri leapt backwards, nearly falling off his furs. The two stared at each other, for what felt like an eternity. Karok had an expression on their face that Yorri could only describe as being similar to what a dog would make, if they were caught in the family dried meat stores.

Not that Yorri was in much of a better state. Only now, he realized that his hands had found themselves down between his legs. He stared down at them, with a profound sense of betrayal. Then, he looked up again. “Um... I was... this..."

Karok's eyes trailed down, slowly. Oh, so terribly slowly. They went down, down, until they were once again level with... it. Karok had always hated the things of the man-sons. The Saurus hated how they did not tuck away, how they hung out as free and shameless as the beasts of the wood. The Saurus hated how they stuck out straight and proud, as unyielding and blunt as a wooden club.

And above all else, Karok hated how absolutely beautiful the thing between Yorri's legs looked, right about now.

With a speed that bordered on preternatural, Karok crawled from their bed, scooping up the human by the knots that bound his hands. Dragging him, almost tossing him onto the bed, the Saurus climbed in after them, growling darkly as they went.

“Mercy," Yorri whimpered. “Please forgive me. I did not mean to look. I did not..." A giant hand slammed down next to his head. He stared at it dumbly, the color draining from his face. “Oh, dear Shallya deliver me."

“Silence," Karok hissed, their voice more muted than it had been, moments before. “I desire. You will provide." It was clear that the warmblood did not understand the glorious Lizardmen tongue, if their continued panicked babbling was any indication. No matter. Ignoring the almost Skaven-like apologies floating up to them, Karok lowered their snout to finally get a clear look at... it.

“How do you man-sons walk with this between your legs?" Karok's expression tightened. Was that... admiration in their voice? They chided themselves, determined to regain some semblance of discipline and dignity. It was true that Yorri was big... for a Skink. In fact, while the human clearly lacked the battle-hardened physique of the Saurus's smaller cousins, there was something of the Skink in Yorri's thin body. Perhaps, Karok thought, this would be a workable arrangement, after all.

Yorri, of course, understood none of this. All he knew was that he was bound, stretched out on a bed, naked as the day he was born. A giant reptilian monster was looking his body over with unrestrained, animal hunger. Hot breath blasted on his skin, punctuated by the drop of equally hot drool from the open, panting maw that hovered over him. This was it, he thought. This was how he died. Eaten alive by some variety of horrid Beastman as punishment for watching them masturbate. He quivered underneath his captor, desperately trying to make his peace with as many gods as his terror stricken mind would allow.

Karok noticed this, but only inasmuch as fear seemed to finally be making the human go soft. Unacceptable! Snarling down at it, they immediately lowered their snout and let their tongue fall out of their mouth.

Yorri winced, screwing their eyes shut to try and hide from their grisly fate for one moment longer. Then, suddenly, he felt something hot and wet slide across the underside of his member. Then it happened again, a long slurping motion from base to head. Some time around the middle of the fourth lashing, the thought occurred to him that perhaps he wasn't being torn apart by monstrous fangs. Uneasily, he opened a single eye.

Karok was breathless. The man-son's tool was disgusting, in all the ways the Saurus's body positively needed. Hot, slick, musky from an age spent out in the jungle. It was nothing, compared to the familiar comforts of Karok's people, but there was something intoxicating about it. It was alien, strange in shape, but... once Karok got that first taste of tangy seed, they knew that it was exactly the same in all the ways that mattered.

The human could hardly believe what he was seeing. And feeling. Mostly feeling. He could not help but feel like this was a trick, or a tasting, or something else. He could not trust the glint of those fangs, as they hovered dangerously over his most sensitive places. And yet... a part of him thought he would be happy, if he could only feel the drag of that tongue forever. In spite of himself, and his circumstances, his fearful panting started to give way to panting of a somewhat huskier nature. His legs squirmed, wanting to spread themselves out, in spite of the ropes that held them together. He stretched back against the furs, groaning to the ceiling. All those needs he had been so close to meeting, before the attack, suddenly came back to the fore.

Karok made a warbling noise, the closest their kind could manage to a chuckle. They withdrew their hand from their slit, digits positively dripping with their juices. “My patience grows thin," they announced. Then, without any more preamble, they rose up, looming over Yorri. With one hand, they held their loincloth to one side, powerful legs spread, showing the human up close what a Saurus looked like in their full majesty.

Yorri, despite the alien arrangement of the beast before him (and despite the heretical implications of his feelings) felt an overpowering sense of awe, at the sight of the creature above him.

Then, Karok descended. It might, perhaps, be more accurate to say that Karok plunged. The first kiss of flesh on flesh was a prize that they had denied themselves for far too long, and they would be denied no longer. The Saurus's mighty hips landed on Yorri's with a wet slap. Karok threw their head to the sky, tongue lolling obscenely out of their rapturously gaping mouth. They stayed there for what felt like an eternity, squatted down on that deceptively thick muscle and reveling in how it stretched them open. Yorri struggled to draw breath, as one of the Saurus's large hands pressed down on his chest. However, that crisis seemed to pale in comparison to the one that was clenching and twitching around him.

When movement returned to their limbs, Karok was a creature possessed. They lifted up, and then drove down. Up, and then down. Once they had anything resembling a proper angle, the tent was full of the meaty, hammer-on-anvil slaps of their hips on Yorri's. The human's body, small as it was, disappeared from Karok's sight as soon as they stretched themselves out for better leverage. Karok did not care. The only part of the human that mattered, the only thing in the world that mattered, was not going anywhere. The hungry grip of their sex would see to that.

Yorri was helpless. Utterly helpless. The world was dark and hot and rough and musky. He was pinned down by a boulder that would not stop falling. The sky above him was nothing but a set of chiseled, scaly abs and thick pecs. Noises came down to him, the horrid slavering of a beast out of nightmares. His body was alive with pain, his heart pumping almost to the point of escaping his chest.

He had never been so hard, in all his life.

Karok, by that same token, was almost out of their mind. In between animalistic growls and half-roars of pleasure was a dozen oaths of varying degrees of blasphemy. “Oh, little Skink. Little... pathetic... Skink!" They panted to the wall, eyes screwed shut. “Yield your treasures to me! Yield them, damn you! I..." They roared their defiance to the skies. “I will break you, if you don't. The Old Ones be damned! I. Will. Break you!"

Yorri did not understand a word of that, but it did not matter. In the face of such a dizzying assault, there was only so much he could do. He had an oath to some god or other on his lips, as he finally let loose. He could not remember who. All he could remember was that agonizing eternity. Desperately struggling to push his hips up, even as the Saurus above him pinned him down in place. An absolute geyser poured from him, straight up into the hungry abyss that awaited it. His hands slammed on the furs behind his head, the only part of him that could move even as the rest of his body was mid-tantrum.

The Saurus shivered. Their attack stopped, abruptly, and in its place was victory. Their lower body fluttered and clenched, trying to milk more out of a tool that was already filling them to overflowing. Mingled fluids coated the furs beneath the two creatures. All that came out of Karok's mouth, for what felt like an eternity, was the honking pants of a beast at the height of passion.

Then, slowly, the rest of the Saurus fell upon Yorri's battered body. He was barely able to turn his head, to find the one pocket of air in the mountain of flesh that closed against him. Powerful arms dug in under his back, and his body was turned. His entire body shook and compressed with the deep breaths and deeper sighs of the War Chief. Somewhere beyond his vision, he felt his member deflate, popping out of the sodden tunnel it had been trapped in to dribble against a scaly... was that a leg, or a tail?

Oblivion was too close for him to care. It was the same for Karok. With their bodies spent, their torment exorcised, the only thing they were able to do was slip into darkness against each other.

* * *

Quetchino'ko rose from their slumber with a vague sense of foreboding. They had heard the noises from the War Chief's tent. The whole warband heard the noises in the War Chief's tent, just about. The priest emphatically did not want to go talk to Karok, with that knowledge sitting in the back of their mind. At the same time, however, they felt they had to. What would the band do if, just as Karok had clearly threatened, the Saurus had managed to break their prophesied Sign-bearer?

And so, with a bracing exhale from their nose, Quetchino'ko opened the flap and stepped inside Karok's tent. There, they saw their War Chief, in just about the state the priest had expected. Curled up on the furs, clutching the warmblood in their arms, furs matted with the dried fluids that still clung to the Saurus's crotch and thighs and tail.

The sunlight on their face caused Karok to stir. Slowly, their head lumbered up. Then, realizing that they were staring directly into the eyes of the Skink priest, Karok tensed. They looked from Quetchino'ko to the human in their arms, back and forth, horror sinking in as they slowly began to realize that the previous night had been more than just a vivid dream.

Quetchino'ko's expression was level. They would not let it be anything else. Pointing to Yorri, they asked. “Does the Signbearer still breathe?"

“Ah..." Karok looked down, examining the human. Then, looking up, they said. “It does."

“That is good." A faint smile began to dance in Quetchino'ko's eyes, as they looked their War Chief over, and they remarked “You look better rested than before."

Karok could not, for the life of them, find the words to say to that. Instead, after a moment, they cleared their throat and said “I have made a decision, priest."

“Oh?"

“We will divert the troops to Talecoco."

Quetchino'ko bowed, with appropriate deference. “Our War Chief's wisdom is vast. I shall relay the instructions to the others with all haste."

“Good." For a moment, that seemed to be all the words Karok could manage. Then, with one last look at the human in their arms, they met the priest in the eyes. “Quetchino'ko..."

Quetchino'ko held up a hand and waved it in front of them. “All is well, mighty War Chief. The Great Plan is vast and multifaceted. Not even the Slaan could divine the purpose of all its pieces."

Karok's tension deflated, in that way that can only come from dodging a charge of blasphemy. “Your wisdom is vaster than mine, brother."

Quetchino'ko trilled, in good humor. “I shall go and fetch a basin of water for you to cleanse yourself. Stay in bed until you are ready to lead your troops."

With that, Karok was left alone with Yorri. Looking down, they found that the human was still in the middle of a deep, untroubled sleep. Chuckling to themselves, Karok shook their head.

“We shall have to get these bindings undone," they remarked to themselves, poking a claw into the leather cords around Yorri's wrists. “It matters not. With or without them, you will not be leaving my side."

Yorri dreamed of the Empire, of warm fires on cold snowy winter days, of perfectly normal humans with their perfectly normal naked bodies. Soon, he would awake. Soon, he would be made to confront the reality of what had happened to him, where he was, how far away his clothes were.

For now, however, in the honeyed world of dreams, Yorri was happy.