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Ivar’s End

The Horde has set its eyes on a new toy for the Warchief

The forest's scents were familiar. Oh-so-familiar.

The crushed pine under his feet, the mint and fennel that bent under his steps, the markings from his kin, and yet the beasts that thrived in the forest.

His nose picked up the many scents, the flavor, the aroma of the land. One that was still… Soiled, broken, soured by the acrid and artificial scent of chemicals brought by the invaders. Their sweat, like pigs, got as much distaste as appetite from him. For the unliving? He snarled, frowned, and hit a nearby tree.

“Pack leader?” asked one from his pack. Donnie in a former life; Bloodletter in the new one.

He raised one hand, stilling his breath. His body stood upright, the knees and articulations fighting against his weight that made him as big as an Orc, if not more. His blue eyes scanned his surroundings, peering through the penumbra.

The pine trees were alive, and the underbrush dense enough to hide their presence. The wind itself blew toward them, hiding their scent and bringing the faint flavor from the Horde camp. They were still on their territory. But the question remained; the tension was as intense as it had been before.

No words, but one unanswered question.

“What do we do?”

If they desired, they could leave the clearing and head south. Though the Forsaken had invested most of what had been Lordaeron and Gilneas’ ruins, they had little control over the forests and the wilds surrounding their camps.

The Orcs, working near the mills and other outposts, constantly lived in fear of being murdered, whether by the Bloodfang Pack, his pack, or the alliance scouts that pushed north.

The scent of soiled pants and acrid sweat from fear brought him a thrill… A salivation he controlled with a frown as the pack approached, their noses up.

They were at least a dozen, enough to storm a small woodcutting camp.

Beyond that number, and it was an effort for the troop to stay fed and not to crave, not to bend under the weight of hunger. Yet, their tongues ran to their chops, their claws tensed, their feet dug into the soft soil in anticipation.

One order, one single order, and they would go on a rampage. They would feed on the Horde’s blood, feast on their guts, and turn to ruin what was another insult to their Gilnean blood.

He smiled, feeling his own claws dancing and clicking as he took one step towards one of his scouts. Foulbreath. Sure, that one had a foul breath, but besides his scent up close, it was difficult to notice someone as sneaky… Especially someone whose body had been improved by the curse.

“How many are they?”

“I think,” answered Foulbreath, his claws going to his chin. “Five.”

“Only five?”

There was little doubt that the camp ought to have over five Orcs or Forsaken. It was a broadly stretched camp, nestled around a river with a mill on the outskirts. The lumber was to be cut hastily and carried out along a dirt road, then to go in either direction, north or south.

However, there were tents and even one flophouse, so it was impossible that the camp housed only such a small contingent. The Horde was not afraid to spend troops on small projects such as those. Those Peons were meat, expendable to a fault, and then thrown away if they failed their purpose.

But only five?

Five would barely get that mill going, so they needed to be more.

“When did they leave?”

“I don’t know.”

“You sniffed the surroundings.”

“Even the road, I could find no smell. Only five.”

He frowned even more, sensing something was amiss. Something was foul.

He dropped on all fours, his fingers running along the soil, trying to get a feel. Humid, but not enough to turn into mud unless you had carriages.

If they had carriages, Foulbreath would have found them.

“What scents did you pick?”

“Valerian and blood.”

“Curse. Sulfur?”

Foulbreath tilted his head.

“I am unsure.”

Ivan frowned even more, clawing the ground and then extending it toward Foulbreath.

“What do you smell?”

“It smells like… … … I can’t smell it. I smell Valerian and blood.”

“Curses,” he confirmed, throwing the fresh soil down. “Your nose can’t help us. You have been found. Move back.”

Sure, Foulbreath nodded, his ears dropping.

That Worgen wasn’t a bad one, merely that he trusted his senses more than his wits or intuition. He could not have noticed magic, but it would not be the first time Warlocks had been dispatched to deter the Bloodfang pack.

No… Not at all.

Months ago, when the Gilnean Wall stood firm, Warlocks had been deployed to destroy it. Yet, as much as he hated Genn for isolating his kind and condemning everyone outside to death or worse… That wall had to be protected.

Warlocks had been killed, slaughtered, but their curses were always so obvious: Valerian and blood. Always the two. Perhaps it was linked to the curse, but everyone had been affected the same.

And everyone had to rely on the other senses. Ears. Eyes. Touch.

His fur bristled when he moved, the pack following him with careful movements. They watched him, curious and afraid of what his reaction would be. He could… Explode in rage. He could howl. He could rush. No.

He raised his hand, pointing to the trees, before he pounced on them and clawed his way up.

The bark resisted little to his claws as he climbed. The branches bent under his weight when he stepped on them, going higher… Higher. Higher until his eyes could see the veiled sky above, the moon peering from between the clouds. And… The fog below them had an eerie blue tint. He frowned, then looked at one of his pack mates, who had the same curious expression.

They had not perceived the fog before, and now that they were above it, they could see it swirl and twist. At the center of the fog was the Horde camp. He snarled, watched, and then pointed at another Worgen. Runt. The smallest, with one droopy ear. But Runt was the second-best scout. He did not have a foul breath. No. He had the wits necessary for the mission.

“Go from tree to tree. Get closer. And when you’re done, you return. Do not step in the fog.”

“Yes,” nodded Runt, even saluting with his right hand before he hastily planted it into the bark so he wouldn’t fall.

Then, he bounced to another tree, hitting it square before jumping to another.

“Can he be trusted?”

“Foulbreath has been marked, so we can’t have him near us. I am sure… Shh”

He stopped and shushed his Lieutenant before he could react. Below, voices and people were going around.

A contingent of porcine voices, soldiers clad in dark-steel armor, looked around and moved forward while maintaining formation. Around, Forsaken Darkstalkers moved with precise movements, their venom-coated blades at the ready.

A dozen, just like the pack. A little more, counting for the Forsakens.

“Where are they?!” shouted one Orc, his armor completed by a red tabard. Surely the commander-in-chief here.

Murmurs followed from the Horde cohort. Then, a moment after, a Forsaken approached, her face swathed with clothes. She pointed ahead, though her voice was a whisper. But she pointed toward where Foulbreath went while holding a purple orb.

Curse.

He smiled.

All his suppositions were true. He kept himself from laughing. They’d been quick enough to climb the trees, and nobody noticed their presence. Perhaps the fog acted on everyone inside?

Even when an Orc raised his eyes, he could not see the dozen Worgens currently atop the trees. So it was almost perfect for an ambush.

He turned to his Lieutenant, signaling him. Soon, the Lieutenant signaled another Worgen, and that signaling echoed until everyone was at the ready.

Chops were licked, the anticipation growing while the Orc cohort approached where he was.

The pack’s eyes were on him as his fingers closed. Five. Four. Three. Two… One.

He dropped like a weight, with no fear or restraint. He smiled, his claws outstretched, when, under him, there was the Orc commander.

With a CRUNCH, the Orc collapsed under the weight of an Alpha Worgen. The metal bent; the steel dug into the shoulders. But with one paw aiming at the Orc’s neck, it only took one fall to kill that bastard in one movement.

“Wh- THEY’RE ABOVE!” shouted one Orc on his right, more quick-witted than his kin.

A shout that was repeated. Orcish. But simple to understand.

But the Worgens dropped. Their weight crushed those under them… And for the few that were alive, a claw was a mercy for the definitely crippled.

One by one, the Orcs dropped, reduced from a dozen to a mere two.

Two who were back to back, holding onto their spears and maintaining the distance with the Worgens while they walked toward the camp, trying to approach while hollering.

However, they were but the end of a meal.

He licked his chops, his mind abuzz with the excitement and the pleasure of hunting prey. His instincts were honing in, focusing on what remained ahead. Darkstalkers.

Their green-coated blades did not shimmer under the erratic moonlight. But the reflections of their reinforced armor and buckles were enough. Just a glint as he jumped ahead, his claws extended to rip away one decaying leg.

The Forsaken avoided it with a spring that was surprising for an unliving. Nor for a puppet.

Still, he could sense his heartbeat hastening and his tongue slipping past his lips to lick his chops. Anticipation.

Around, his pack howled and pounced. They outnumbered the Darkstalkers, putting the scouts and assassins at a disadvantage. Alas, that was the idea… Until those Forsaken pulled bombs from their belts, bombs they threw down, breaking the soft container, and unleashed smoke.

“Come to me!” he shouted amidst the Orcs still crying while they were dying of a thousand cuts.

He heard the footsteps approaching. He heard them sink deeper into the soft soil.

He smiled and turned, punching forward.

Bones and decaying flesh were easy to break once his fist passed through the boiled mesh. The Forsaken retched and gargled much like a living, but it was a black and coalesced liquid that oozed from those lips.

That smile died, hiding away those yellow teeth while the coated blade dropped.

The same sound echoed around. Other Worgens were taking out the Forsakens who’d tried to join their formation. Too bad for them, their ears were as acute as their bristling fur.

Steadily, the wind chased the smoke away, revealing the agonizing Orcs dropping on their knees, holding onto their spilled guts, and swearing one last curse in Orcish.

“How many?” he asked, looking at his pack. Two had been hit badly, their chests bleeding, and they were already agonizing, it seemed.

“We are all here. But two poisoned,” answered his Lieutenant, holding out one of the Darkstalkers’ blades. The poison, as he sniffed, had hints of wolfsbane but not only. Typical.

He frowned, and his Lieutenant set the blade aside, looking around for the heap of corpses. A massacre.

“What should we do?” he asked, his saliva visible.

“Eat the pigs and burn the corpses,” he answered, trying to yank the corpse away from his hand and arms, something in which he needed help. “Then… We slaughter them.”

-

Ivar nursed a wound.

He had not noticed it, but the Darkstalker had nicked his skin under the fur. A mere nick would not be bad, since Worgens healed faster.

But the poison on it was a perilous mix of Wolfsbane and Felgrass, the kind of poison that could be deadly if untreated. Luckily enough, it was easy once you knew the right mix of Bruiseweed, Liferoot, and Black Lotus. They had an alchemist for that.

Still, that poison was bad enough to keep him put and watching over his wounded pack. Two wounded. They were forced to sleep due to their severe wounds, while his Lieutenant had been sent to help another part of the Bloodfang.

Ivar was not with them. They might be caught with a similar trick.

So, Ivar waited in their hideyhole, a broken-down cabin near the Lordamere Lake. Outside, the sounds of beasts coming to sniff and drink were loud. Such as the constant splash of water or the drizzle gracing them.

His mind was at ease as he stood up, watched over by Irongut, their alchemist. The Worgen had insisted that Ivar stay put.

But Ivar had to step outside, still under the porch, and watch.

On the other side of the waters, the Fenrir Isle awaited them, their stronghold. But for the moment, they were on land… They were exposed and hunting the Horde.

“Are you hurting?” asked Irongut, leaning against the doorjamb, his broken teeth a troubling vision, a gift from the Horde.

“No. I am watching.”

Irongut remained still, then shrugged, heading back inside as soon as a Worgen whimpered. If everything went well, the Pack would be united.

If not… Ivar sighed, closing his eyes, thinking… If Genn Greymane had supported his people, or if the ‘Alliance’ had sent them more people to join their ranks, they would not be spread so thin. But they were. The Horde might lose its footing, often. But it would establish itself somewhere else.

The Orcs and Forsakens’ eyes turned to Fenris, steadily choking the escape paths.

He observed the little quay ahead, dingy and on the verge of collapse. But it was secure ground; it ought to be.

“Irongut?”

Silence.

Ivar frowned and turned, stepping inside to see Irongut kneeling by a Worgen, shaking his head. And passing the coat over his face. Ivar gritted his teeth.

“It reached its heart before I could administer the antidote,” explained Irongut, somberly.

“It’s them,” replied Ivar. “No justifications.”

Irongut nodded, then pointed his muzzle at the other Worgen, curled up.

“He will live. But it will take days.”

“Watch over him. I need to move.”

“You need to rest.”

“No.”

No, he didn’t need to rest. That nervous energy ran through his legs as he turned, stepped out, and the drizzle welcomed him. He raised his muzzle, picking up the hints coming from the South. Stronger. They were coming.

The two groups as one. Their scents mingled as he stepped, advanced, and rushed toward them. He stomped on the grass. He ran between the pine trees. All, even if his wound seared and burned under his fur. He clenched his jaw, ran… And finally, he saw them. Stomping slowly.

His Lieutenant was good, but another Worgen, gray-furred with ochre spots, leaned against him. A large gash across her face, though she offered a toothy smile.

More Worgens from the second group were in a terrible state. They were leaning, hobbling, or worse, being carried.

“Is Irongut busy?” asked the Female, practically an Alpha. Leana, in her former life; Blood-drinker, in her new one. His protégé.

He approached, passed a hand around her shoulder, and she did the same, her weight heavy.

“He takes care of Glint.”

“Good, good,” answered Blood-drinker, closing her eyes and sighing. “We got caught.”

“The fog?”

“The fog,” she nodded. “Our scouts were caught. They must be dead.”

“Surely,” he confirmed.

“We didn’t notice the Darkstalkers. They gutted Greyleg first.”

“The bastards. He was our oldest.”

“That’s why they targeted him. Then they jumped on us. They had smoke bombs, but we took them out. But then, the Orcs joined in. They wanted us weakened for the assault.”

“They must have used a Warlock for this.”

“Worse, shamans,” said Blood-drinker, producing a small totem from her leg pouch on her right thigh. “We found this on one of them.”

Ivar snarled but nodded.

It was the first time they had Shamans help in an ambush. It was the first time he’d ever seen Shamans send their ways. So far, Forsakens and Orcs had been enough. But the Shamans? What else? Mages? Ivar shook his head.

“Ivar. They will notice what happened and change tactics.”

He nodded.

“We need to prepare. Ask Genn or the Alliance.”

“They won’t,” answered Ivar, growling. “They would rather lie down than accept that the Forsaken stole our land. We need to take it back.”

“We can’t do that alone.”

“We will. There is no other choice,” answered Ivar, clenching his teeth while hearing Blood-drinker’s breathing at rest. “We will take them out.”

-

Ivar’s ears still whistled. His eyes were half-closed, but he could sense the swelling above his right eye. Opening it seemed out of the question, at least for now. So, he opened the other while the scent of fire surrounded him.

Fire and burnt flesh, burnt fur, too.

The entire Horde outpost was a brasero, with flames licking everything and nothing, burning the pines around. The precious pines they’d been using as lumber.

Yet, it was clear the Blood Elf mage who had been dispatched had no care for the fire she produced. Her robes were half-burnt, too. So was her flesh, where she’d cauterized the wounds she’d received during her fight.

He did not know her name, but she was good. Pretty good. Enough that when he tried to stand up, he felt a tremor shaking his body. But no fear. Only dull pain could result after the aftershock of an explosion had hit someone.

His bones were rattled, his ribs bruised. He would not die from it, but fighting would be hard.

“Come on, Mutt. You can do better than that!” A voice in common.

“Better than that? Look at you, barely up on your feet! Where are your flasks?”

“Curse you.”

Blood-drinker jumped away just in time to avoid another of the bombastic blasts the Blood Elf sent forward. The projectile, cruising through the air, hit what remained of the lumber mill and finished what had not been destroyed.

“Your aim is crap!” continued Blood-drinker, jumping and bouncing behind any cover: a burnt tree, a metal wall, or anything that could break the line of sight.

“Run! Go on! Mutt! Run! I’ll sear you and send your body to the commander. I’ll get a medal for getting rid of the Bloodfangs!”

“Getting rid of us? You’d have a hard time getting rid of me!”

Well, that was a lie.

After one of those explosions, the Bloodpack looked like shit.

Sure, it had been presumptuous for them to attack a garrison near the royal road. But to have such a bombastic and dangerous mage inside, no. They could not have expected it.

That one was downright crazy, and she’d done more damage to the garrison than any other Worgens. On the other hand, it would be hard to find a Worgen who didn’t get a second or third-degree burn.

Ivar, too, had a burnt arm, and so, he slunk in the shadows behind the mage.

“Missed again!” shouted Blood-drinker, avoiding another explosive wave.

“Stay… PUT!” shouted the Mage, her hands outstretched toward Blood-drinker as she jumped away. However, instead of a typical fire, a freezing gale hit Blood-drinker.

The blood and mud on her legs hardened, just like the puddle she stepped on. Mere ice would have been easy to pull, but the spell kept the ice strong enough to endure the pummeling Blood-drinker delivered on it.

The Worgen cried and hit, bent over, while the fire mage approached with slow steps, her hands ablaze.

“You do not know how I love to burn mutts.”

“Same when I kill pretty girls like you!” spat Blood-drinker in defiance, still smashing the ice on her right leg, above the knee.

“I love it when you howl and beg for mercy. Or the smell when your fur burns.”

Ivar stepped closer, listening to the mage listing the way she loved to hurt Worgens. Whoever had hurt her badly, she was taking it out on the pack. As she approached Blood-drinker, her voice took on a gleeful intonation.

“I’ll finally have enough gold to retire, thanks to you. I think I’ll settle here, just in case.”

“You should watch your back before you plan to retire,” said Blood-drinker, smashing the ice covering her right thigh.

Despite being less than an arm's length away from Blood-drinker, the Blood Elf turned her head, looking behind her.

Her eyes, green like the Fel, locked on Ivar, on him as he’d been sneaking closer to take her out.

The Blood Elf snarled, showing her teeth as she swore: “Fuck!”

She cried, the spells in her hands twisting. The fire coalesced between her fingers, twirling like yarn until it formed a ball whose heat radiated in all directions.

Yet, the ball disappeared.

So did the Blood Elf’s snarl and her attitude when a dagger’s blade protruded from where her right eye would be. Gore and the eyeball were all at the tip, while her composure crumbled, much like her limbs before Blood-drinker pulled the dagger out and wiped it against her leg pouch that had been released from the ice.

“What a nasty bitch,” said Blood-drinker, wiping the snot off her nose before she used the handle of her dagger to break the ice.

“She is,” nodded Ivar, approaching with slow steps. His paw pads were burned, but he could walk… Though he had many cuts.

“She laughed while she threw fireballs at us. What a psychopath,” continued Blood-drinker, breaking the ice while, around, the Worgens stirred. Burnt, wounded, and much worse. They looked like an undead army rising from the ground, though their eyes were feral and their attitude was one of utter devotion to the pack.

“I heard,” nodded Ivar, before joining his hands in a hammerblow. He broke the ice holding Blood-drinker’s left leg. “Now. Move.”

“Move?”

Blood-drinker sighed, looking around. The fire had spread to the trees, and it would soon engulf a good chunk of the region. That was terrible. But worse, they were almost at the center of the Horde's territory. A few paths were available, but more must have been destroyed. And a very few that must have opened.

However, Ivar had little doubt as he looked around, looking at his pack, which was severely burned. So, he huffed and howled. An order. Retreat

“Retreat? Ivar?” asked Blood-drinker, surprised and sniffing ahead.

But no, Ivar frowned, looking away from his protegee. Already, he smelled the Horde soldiers approaching, their sweat like pigs. They were more than the Worgens. Way more. And he huffed.

“You take them to the Isle. Our stronghold must not fall.”

“It- What about you?”

“An alpha’s duty is to his pack. I will hold them off!”

“Don’t be stupid! We need you! You can’t hold them off. I will!”

“You were right.”

Ivar growled, looking at his protegee. She was puzzled.

“Go back home. And contact Greymane or the Alliance. Anyone. Even that coward knows if we fail, the South will fall.”

“I… You should do this.”

“Stop discussing this. You help them,” barked Ivar, pointing at the Worgens. “You contact the coward! And…”

“And?”

“Tell him he should have done more for Crowley.”

“… Yes,” answered Blood-drinker, closing her fists before she turned to the pack. And she, too, howled. She howled at the moon, almost an echo of his call. Retreat.

A howl the pack members echoed, the few alive and capable of moving. The crippled would be carried or abandoned behind.

As for Ivar, he closed his eyes and took one step away from Blood-drinker. She left, ran, and with her, all the protection he had.

The heat was searing, and the corpses were as badly burned as Ivar’s arms. However, he did not show his weakness. No, Ivar squared his shoulder, raised his chin, and stomped onward. He watched clouds form above the fire and unleash a thunderous rain.

Shamans, they were much more than the few they’d taken out. That was bad.

Even then, Ivar stepped out of the cover a burned-down smithy offered. He faced the contingent of Orcs, Forsakens, and Taurens.

The latter were mainly the Shamans who held onto their horned totems while waving their hands to direct the rain toward the fire.

In contrast, the Forsakens had already drawn their weapons.

The Orcs? They did the same except for their Commander, an Orc in dark steel armor. His tabard was of the Horde, his reddish skin told Ivar he was one of Garrosh’s pawns. Not the Lady’s.

On his Worg, the Orc acted calm. Yet, he jumped off and approached, fearless and unarmed.

“So it is a last stand, Worgen? You never told me they were this stupid,” spoke the Orc in a clean common, eyeing one of the Forsaken behind, whose barely-holding-together jaw tensed. “What’s your name?”

Ivar clenched his fists, then relaxed them, his upper body bending forward.

“What’s your name, Mutt?”

He bent his knees, ready to jump despite his burned feet.

“You’re their leader, are you? Too bad they’ll die on their way to the Isle.”

Ivar stopped, his ears dropping, even the left one that also had its tip burned.

“What? You thought we didn’t know about your escape routes or your stronghold?” asked the Orc, laughing and turning to the same Forsaken. “He thought we didn’t know.”

“Right,” confirmed the Forsaken, in Gutterspeak. Plain as day.

“Ah… Those guys. For what… Months, you’ve been a pain in their back. Ivar Bloodfang?”

Ivar growled, squinting at the Orc who acted so calm and mighty. So much so that he didn’t even have a helmet; his throat was exposed. His porcine face was begging to be devoured.

“I know your name and what you are. I was sent here to handle this mess. Your mess,” said the Orc, turning to the Forsaken as an insult.

No answer from Ivar, as he allowed the Orc to perorate and betray himself.

“I will not beat around the bush. Give up, Worgen.”

“I will not abandon my fight,” said Ivar, his right arm trembling.

“You’re wounded and burned,” said the Orc, rolling his eyes. “Give up, and I’ll tell my troops to let your pack through.”

“You can’t do that! The Dark Lady!”

The Orc spat to his left, practically aiming for the Forsaken’s feet.

“Sylvanas should do what the Warchief says!” grunted the Orc, now turning to Ivar. “I was sent here to clean up their mess, you. Ivar Bloodfang. But I don’t want to handle that crap.” The Orc, even waved his hand as if he was bothered. “So give up, and I'll leave that place.”

Ivar frowned, then looked to his right. The Orcs were forming a tight contingent. More than that, a few were wearing robes. Same as the mage Blood-drinker had killed. And a few had cowls. As for the Taurens Shamans, they’d already doused the fire around.

“Are they your people?”

“Who? Them?” asked the Orc, pointing at the Forsaken whose blades were visibly itching.

“No. The mages and the warlocks. You sent them here?”

“What can I do? They’re better at handling pests than soldiers,” shrugged the Orc, earning a few side eyes from the Taurens and mages. “But yes… if I leave, they leave too.”

Ivar’s chops lifted, almost a snarl.

There was something worse than failing: giving up. But that Orc held a sway over the forces at play. He’d heard about them, Kor’kron. They had a strong enmity toward the Forsakens.

If it meant his people surviving, and the Forsakens were weakened.

“You’ll leave with your people and let my people survive? You swear.”

The Orc snorted and then spat on the ground.

“I swear I’ll leave, and your pack will be let through. If you submit.”

“You can’t! It’s the moment we can get rid of them!”

In the distance, a howl. A cry that was echoed, his pack was under attack.

“What will you do? Ivar?” asked the Kor’kron, his voice insultingly arrogant.

“I’ll report that to the Dark Lady!”

“Report to her. I wasn’t sent here to wipe your butts. I was given an order: get rid of Ivar Bloodfang. I’m getting rid of him. You wipe yourself.”

“I… Fine. I accept!” said Ivar, his shoulders dropping. He wanted to fall. Yet, before he did, something landed in front of him, sinking into the mud. A vial, filled with a yellowish liquid.

He eyed it, then the Kor’kron who threw it.

“Essence of Wolfsbane. Not enough to kill you. But it’ll make you sleep tight and good.”

“Poison. I knew you’d use it, too,” snarled Ivar, picking up the vials.

“Consider this a security. Or a trust. I swore I’ll keep them alive. But you swore nothing.”

More howling, with more cries behind the raging fires.

“What are you waiting for? Drink it. Or they’ll die,” pushed on the Kor’kron, impatient now.

Of course, Ivar was pressed for time. The worse the situation was, the more he was pressed on.

So, he uncorked the vial with a thumb, instantly wrinkling his nose at the beverage’s smell. It was so strong on his nose, so terrible… But he took one swig of it.

“Drink it all,” said the Orc.

Another swig. And another. Each time, Ivar wanted to retch and cough up that oily liquid.

But… At the end, as the vial was empty and it dropped from his shaky fingers, he heard a trumpet call.

Another. Three.

Retreat orders.

The howls stopped, the cries, too. And Ivar dropped to their knees; they were failing him. Much like his arms that dropped limp against his chest.

“Get him healed and prepared.”

“We need to kill it.”

“Why would I kill him?” scoffed the Orc, his voice distant. “The Kor’krons need new pets. I’ve got one.”

“He’s a slaughterer, you saw that!”

“A ferocious pet. But handling them, we know how. Get him stripped.”

“N-No!”

Ivar mumbled and groaned, raising his arm.

Alas, strong, calloused hands gripped his arms. Green hands. Orcs’ hands. Orcs, who forced him to lift his arms and to bend his head forward.

They pulled a knife, the glint visible due to the distant fires. And…

Riiiiiip

The dark steel dug into the boiled leather, cutting through as if it were paper. Nothing more than paper as the fabric was cut along his spine, descending to his belt. But not only. His sleeves were cut, too, reduced to ribbons until they fell down his body.

But the Orcs were far from done.

They manhandled him, pulled on his limbs until he was forced back on his feet. Until his head dangled down. Until his arms were a wreck and a pain. Until saliva dribbled from his mouth. His lips were numb, as was his throat. The pain from his burn? From the punctures through his skin? From the cuts he’d endured? That, too, was fading. But not in a good way.

He gargled and spat… The saliva dropped from his lips as his features relaxed, slipping from his control.

“What will you do then? You’re giving it up? If you have their Alpha, they’ll push to have him back. They’ll hound our lines like never before.”

“Why would they do that?”

The voices were ringing in Ivar’s ears, distant and hauntingly so. Midst the chuckles and the brief comments from the grunts, the Forsaken and the Kor’kron were talking. They idly chatted while Ivar’s belt was ripped off.

Then his pants, or what remained of them.

He didn’t have boots, so it took little time for Ivar’s underwear to be stripped away and his modesty exposed.

Modesty, or pride. Pride, as with the Worgen curse, he was… Much bigger than he’d been in his previous life. His body had improved in many ways: acuity, stamina, and strength.

And as an Alpha… Well, he could say it had improved in virility, too.

His testicles, fuzzy black, dangled heavily between his legs. They rolled in the pouch, like two swollen orbs, with the left one slightly higher than the right one. Above that, his cock was bestial, animal, feral even. It was not a human uncut cock. It was a sheath with a red, elongated tip peeking from the ring-like fold.

A tip, the Orcs were fishing out, inserting their disgusting and raw fingers while pulling on the sheath, much to Ivar’s disgust.

He growled… And that was it. He could growl and salivate, but his hands were numb. His arms limp. He needed the Orcs’ support to stay afoot. And so, dangling from his limbs, he offered no resistance.

He might have looked like a puppet whose strings had been cut, except where the Orcs held him. His breathing, too, was calm as he tried to fend off the wave of drowsiness coming from the tincture he’d drunk.

“I told you I was here to handle this problem. I let you clean it up.”

“But you swore.”

“I swore… You did?”

Ivar’s ears perked up, if for a second, before they dropped.

Something was important; he was missing a detail. He was missing something. His nose filled with snot while something was forcefully fitted around his arms. He could feel that as much, or at least sense the pressure on his wrists.

Another was around his neck, making his calm breath even arduous to bear. His ankles. His waist. The Orcs kept manhandling him, and his head dropped forward while his arms were behind him… And suddenly steady, controlled. No. Bound.

His hands had been cuffed, he guessed, though the mere idea, the mere focus, became impossible. His mind was steadily drowning in that potion, in that drug. His jaw dropped, the saliva flowing, and his tongue lolling out.

“I… I understand. I will hunt them.”

“Good Forsaken. I’ll tell the Warchief you understand once we explain everything to you,” chuckled the Kor’kron. Close. So damn close.

A gauntleted hand reached for Ivar’s chin, lifting it. His tongue, still out, was bitten by the teeth as they were forced to close. And for a moment, the Worgen could sample the blood in his mouth while his eyes, unfocused and barely open, saw that porcine face, that perverse grin.

“What do you think? He’s quick-witted or not?”

Ivar’s eyes closed, and his face went slack; his jaw, his head, and even his torso dropped while saliva continued to dribble down. No Forsaken. But cries. Howls.

Orders. Shouts. All distant and yet more intense as the fire’s roar was extinguished.

Cries? Important. Retreat? Or fight? Or last stance? Ivar’s eyelids closed if he focused on something else, but he heard the Kor’kron’s porcine laugh.

“Silly little Forsaken. They are useful. Almost expendable… … Are you done?”

“No, sir,” commented one grunt, slipping something around the Worgen’s groin. What was it? Ivar could not tell, not at all.

His mind drifted while he tried to glance in the Grunt’s direction, tilting his head. The sole result was his body tilted in the same direction before the Orcs’ holding him yanked him back. But something was happening; was definitely happening. And it burned.

Burned beyond the numbness that had been his entire self.

He growled pathetically.

“Don’t growl at your new master, Pet.”

The howls died down in the distance. Not in a good way. The last sound had been tinted with despair, with rage, with outrage.

Then stomps, boots, similar to crushing the soft soil. The smell of acid. And Wolfsbane mixed with Felgrass.

Ivar snarled, lifting his chops.

“It is in order.”

“You can wipe yourself, good. Let’s move. The Warchief will have my throat if I’m late.”

-

“Come on, doggy. Come on. Don’t be mean. I bring you meat. Good meat.”

It was not good meat; it did not feel like it. Good meat was the one you hunt yourself. It was the drippy flesh that had been soaking in blood and fear and pain. It was the just reward of a hunter after he’d sunk his teeth into the soft guts.

This?

That was a slab of meat that had a foul smell, that had been slightly seared, and whose salty flavor was overwhelming the Worgen’s nose. No… It was not good meat; it was an insult, and Ivar snarled more.

The Orc wasn’t getting the memo. The Peon continued to wave the meat with his bare fingers. No gloves, no protection. Was he so stupid?

Finally, Ivar lunged. The chains weighed him down. The cuffs pulled him back, legs and arms. The collar was loose, however. Enough that when he lunged, when his legs were pulled back, so were his arms; he could dislocate his limbs. A trick he’d learned.

The pain soared through his body, but he craned his neck and closed his mouth. Flesh. Blood. Cries.

The Peon roared, pulling out in a reflex.

But that was too late. Bones were crushed, flesh ripped, and the whole inertia of the movements finished in ripping to shreds what the flesh had endured.

The result was gnarly with blood spewing from where the fingers had been while Ivar bit further, crushing the bones under his teeth… Before spitting everything out. He wouldn’t eat those fingers, but by crushing the bones, the nerves, the blood vessels, he made them irrecoverable even with magic.

He offered a toothy smile, bloody, too, to the Peon.

The commotion and the Peon’s cries were not lost, with most of the cohort crowding around Ivar’s cage to see what was happening. The Peon was still holding his bloody hand, crying for murder, while a Shaman was already at his side, holding out a totem and trying to use their magic to soothe the pain.

It mattered little as Ivar licked his chops and then crawled, wiggling due to his dislocated limbs, to yank the steak.

It had started to rot, but not that the Worgen would refuse his hunger. Not now that he had the delight of wounding another enemy and making a farce of the Orcs.

“What's happening?”

The Kor’kron.

His voice imposed authority and silence, though Ivar continued to chew on the steak while shaking his body, forcing the natural healing to pull on his articulations and to snap them back. It hurt. It damned hurt, but it was little compared to the pain of losing his pack.

So he smiled in satisfaction.

“That damn beast! It bit my fingers off!” shouted the Orc in Orcish, but his words were easy to understand.

“So what? You were not careful,” said the Kor’kron, huffing and acting haughty, though he gave Ivar a side glance. “Can you heal it?”

The Shaman shook his head, then pointed at the gnarly flesh Ivar had purposefully deposited at the cage’s entrance, right where the door had been open.

It was akin to an invitation to the Wolf’s den, though the den was but a wooden cage with metal bars except for the opposite wall. A wagon that had been carried from the Silverpine Forest to a port nearby.

The Kor’kron eyed the bloody mess, then shrugged.

“He should have been more careful. My Pet is more dangerous than one would think.”

‘My Pet’.

Ivar snarled at the idea, feeling the snap from his right leg coming back. Sudden pain. But bearable, at least for a moment.

Not the humiliation. Still, Ivar licked the remnants of steak flesh off his teeth and smiled.

“Come now, Kor’kron. Feed me. You don’t need your fingers.”

“Feisty one.”

The Kor’kron even laughed, snapping his fingers and beckoning another peon. Right then, another steak was offered to the Orc, who waved it… And then threw it at Ivar, who snatched it in the air with a growl.

Not as rotten. With hints of blood. Ivar’s instinct invited him to chew it down, but he spat it out.

“My Pet is difficult. You’d better learn how to behave around it. He’s not like the others.”

“Bastard,” huffed Ivar. “You swore.”

The Kor’kron stopped but grinned, stepping around to get on Ivar’s right. The commotion was slowly dying down, with people shouting orders while the crates and other miscellaneous items were loaded onto a ship in the distance.

“I swore I would let them go. The Forsakens captured them.”

“Liar. You twist the words.”

The Orc snorted, his shoulders lifting.

“Now. Now. Don’t be difficult. Or I could do worse to them. So. Be a good pet, eat… And then, you’ll follow the orders.”

Ivar snarled, looking to his right. Then at the door. Bolting out was impossible, not with the bindings. But it was terrible to have his freedom so close, yet so far. So… He gripped the steak and chewed.

“Good boy,” cooed the Orc, patting the cage, then moving away… Leaving Ivar to his rumination.

To his observation.

Contrary to what he’d expected, the cage he’d been in was ‘comfortable’. A cot, a pot that could be changed. The issue had not been the cage itself; it had been the way he’d been handled. No, worse… The way he’d been exposed while the Kor’kron paraded him from fort to fort.

The Horde had claimed too many lands, pushing the pack further and further… And the pack? Well, it would be condemned now.

Ivar swallowed the chewed meat and licked his claws while watching around.

The Orcs were numerous, the Forsakens less so. The Taurens, only a small number? Trolls, Blood Elves, and Goblins formed a complement to the contingent.

But remained… Well. The Worgens.

Sitting, Ivar watched as other Worgens, some not part of the Bloodpack, were led to the boat. Whipped, pulled by chains or ropes. They looked terrible. No… Worse, they looked like they had been abused as their furs were mangy and they walked with a strange gait, sometimes jumping as if something had hit them in the back.

The reason why was obvious, as Ivar had seen it: a Worgen howling while a toy, practically as thick as his arm, had been inserted in him. The poor Worgen had howled, cried, and pathetically growled. But that toy had been inserted.

Ivar closed his eyes, listening to the orders and trying to translate them. The cargo was loaded, and the Taurens’ heavy steps were distant. Same with the Worgs that were left behind. Then… It was the growl from the Worgens, being forced to follow. Cohort.

Ivar snarled, knowing a few from his pack had survived. He could smell them, partially. Four, at most. Blood-drinker wasn’t among them, and he couldn’t be sure if she’d fled.

Of course, no smell from the Alliance, no traces of the bastards, Genn among them, coming to help him.

He snarled.

He snarled more when he opened his eyes on a warlock, raising his hand. The chains behind Ivar snapped, and he watched the chain fly toward the aging Orc. The same chains that glowed green before shrinking. Then, the chains were yanked.

Ivar stood up, even if he had to bend forward not to hit his head, while the chains pulled him closer to the Orc.

Closer… Much closer. So close, he could rip that old Orc’s throat.

But… A burn.

Ivar’s ears dropped. It wasn’t his burned arm, or the thin coat on it, that burned. Nor was it the many spots where his burn had been healed. No, it was down. Down his stomach, down to the green and glowing rune that had been etched in it… Runes that twisted, coiled, within the Orc’s brutish language. And then… To the swirls and tendrils pointing to his silvery cage.

The same glow followed it, tracing the way to the metal that was inserted in his sheath, squeezing his genitals and cock.

“You’d better not act out,” said the Warlock, having that cocky grin of someone coming out on top. He didn’t; someone else did. That Orc was but a bottom feeder.

Ivar closed his eyes and followed, yanked by the chain. Then, he stepped outside, with the iodine overwhelming his nose. Strong, but familiar for a man who’d been close to the sea once.

He frowned, then looked at the Warlock, who held the chain and waved. He grinned from ear to ear.

“Come. We need you on the boat,” huffed the Orc. And roared the Orc when Ivar glared at him, while the sound of something splashing came forth.

Though the cage had only one hole, it was enough. Through contracting his bladder… Ivar marked the Warlock’s robe, splashing the purple fabric.

“You- You little!” roared the Warlock, his eyes growing in an eerie and dangerous green. “I’ll murder you!”

“Are you fucking things up, Warlock?”

A Soldier, Ivar eyed up and down, trying to gauge that one’s skill. A good fighter, old. A brown Orc who had a visible distaste for the Warlock.

Warlock, whose attitude shifted as his shoulders dropped, was trying to make himself look smaller than before.

“No… I-“

“Then get that beast on the ship. And clean yourself, you reek.”

The Soldier huffed, though he had a thin smile. One he shared with Ivar, who smiled back at him, before looking at the Warlock, whose attitude was a complete snarl. But he acted demure when pulling on the chain.

“Come.”

“And get that robe cleaned!” added the Soldier, shouting behind them.

“You don’t know what’ll come your way, cunt,” grumbled the Warlock in Orcish, though Ivar wasn’t sure of whom he was talking about.

Either way, Ivar was satisfied and yet… Had to endure the humiliation of the walk to the ship, chained and bound like a mere pet. On the way, sailors and soldiers whistled at him, even leering at his body. Even snarling or snapping his teeth at them did not deter them, and… More than that, he could feel some were even eyeing his posterior when he was on deck.

The ship had been thoroughly swabbed.

It was big enough to house at least two hundred soldiers, a monster of steel and wood. But as Ivar eyed up and saw the Kor’kron looking back at him, grinning and acting satisfied… There was a certainty: the journey wouldn’t be fine and dandy.

Not at all when the Warlock was exchanged for a Tauren, one of those hoofed and heavy creatures, who pulled the Worgen below deck.

“Fucking pest. Why does it have to be me?” grumbled the Tauren.

“Serves you well, grunt,” grumbled Ivar.

“Grunt?” scoffed the Tauren, looking at Ivar. But as the Worgen’s eyes remained fixed, the Tauren rolled his eyes and yanked on the chain, egging Ivar to go down… Down.

The stairs were many, but as they descended, the smell was getting worse. Hints of fear. Of illness. Hunger. Death. Someone had died, no… Many had died on that ship, and Ivar felt like it would happen when they were at the lowest level, without a ray of sunshine to bring light.

A lamp dangled from the ceiling, bringing a reddish light to the many Worgens who’d been bound. They were half-seated, half-leaning against the hull.

Their hands were shackled to the walls, just as their feet were shackled to the floor, forcing them to hold their hands up, and their heads raised.

More than that, their mouths were covered with muzzles, hiding their faces. A few even had blindfolds, but their noses sniffed the air, smelling him. An alpha. A male.

They pushed, they grumbled, they pulled on their bindings.

But the result came as they whimpered, the silver in their manacles biting back and burning their fur and flesh. Typical of the Horde, expected even from them, as Ivar was forced to advance between the rows, led by the Tauren. Many spots were empty, but the Tauren wasn’t leading him to one. He pushed him… And then threw him against a wooden pillar at the center of the room.

It was massive, and had to be necessary for the ship’s integrity. Yet, silvery manacles dangled from it. But nothing to bind Ivar’s feet. Were they planning for him to have his feet and legs free? What a bad idea.

That cow-

“A grunt. I don’t know what I did to get enrolled in that expedition,” grumbled the Tauren, his fur black like soot.

But he pulled something out of his pocket. A totem.

Ivar’s eyes widened, and instantly, the Worgen stood up on his feet and pounced onward. But… The chains held him: the chains and water.

The Shaman’s eyes glimmered blue while his hands lifted, and the water he wielded ran along the chains, pulling on them and pulling Ivar, who had to straighten up.

Worse, one chain coiled around his neck, threatening to choke him.

“Come on, cow. Kill me. You want it,” said Ivar, snarling. His sacrifice had been in vain; he could be killed, and it mattered little to him. So little, he even smiled at the cow.

But no, the Tauren shook his head.

“The chief will have my head. Stay put.”

“Basta-Grglg!”

The chain dug into Ivar’s throat, stifling his breath while the water and chains, meddled together, worked as limbs. His arms were yanked, and so were his hands, which were fitted with the manacles before those manacles closed on his wrists.

The burn from silver started instantly, and… yet, that was but the beginning.

Ivar gargled and huffed, feeling as the chains wrapped around his knees, yanking them apart while he was forced to lean on the pillar… And lower himself. Further, further… Up until he was balancing on his back and toes.

The Tauren? He looked pleasantly bored as he did so, as he forced Ivar to do a split. And not only.

The same water ran along the Worgen’s thighs, rushing along his legs before it coalesced… And swallowed his genitals, rushing into the chastity cage’s only hole and around his testicles. The water was not gentle; it was like a current rushing against his skin and fur, scraping the latter… Almost.

Ivar gargled, still trying to force down his saliva through a crushed pipe.

His eyes focused on the Tauren, his brows dropping while his anger, his ire, burned.

That Tauren… he wielded the elements, he wielded life itself. And yet, it was for that water to squeeze and pull on Ivar’s nuts, to squeeze his genitals while pulling, lifting, and rubbing the scrotum. His fur, one he’d been proud of, even had some strands yanked.

Yanked, pulled, and removed with such strength, Ivar had a tear in the corner of his eye.

“S-stop!” he huffed, his hands closing on nothing.

“Yes. They all say that. But I must keep you clean. Shaman to dog-cleaner. For An’she’s sake,” swore the Tauren, pinching the bridge of his nose as he lifted his hand.

The same water that had been rushing against Ivar’s testicles suddenly changed. It became warmer, and then… it rushed… Not around his cock, not to his cage. But right between the muscular thighs, the massive glutes the Worgen had.

Instantly, Ivar yelped, feeling his asshole spread and his insides stretched by the strong flow that coursed through his guts… That pushed against them, that… Pushed against his insides.

The tear he had in the corner of his eye? It ran down his cheeks as he experienced the sensation of being bloated from inside, and not in a pleasant way. No, more like an abuse as his guts were punched from inside and yet, he was violated by the water that was going in, turning, twisting, forming currents that swept across his inside and hurt them… Yet, there was something else, another sensation beyond the hit. A sensation Ivar experienced as he huffed and growled, eyeing the Tauren, who looked positively displeased.

More so when, after lowering his hand, he grabbed his totem and placed it… Underneath Ivar.

No… underneath Ivar’s posterior, right behind the low-hanging testicles, rightfully aligned with the Worgen’s posterior.

A humiliating presence, more so when the top of the totem seemed to have been carved to be smooth and… Relatively phallic-shaped.

A presence, Ivar watched before the chain around his throat dropped. No. Even the manacles he had before, while in the cage, dropped, leaving the Worgen free… if not for the silver cuffs tying him to the wood pillar.

His balance was precarious, his legs stretched. Yet… As he tried to press with his toes, to lift his posterior and stand up… Water. That damn water suddenly grabbed his knees and locked them.

“T-That’s it?” cried Ivar, spitting saliva on the ground ahead, right at the Tauren’s feet.

Tauren, who did not act bothered or angry, simply… Distant as he waved at Ivar and left, ready to take another Worgen inside the room.

However, none would receive the treatment he had. All of those dragged inside had their muzzles, were drugged, and would be attached before they could shake the Wolfsbane effects off.

Leaving Ivar in the middle, to be seen by all in front of him as he was forced to keep his legs spread above a Tauren totem that controlled a ball of water, currently dishing abuse inside his asshole.

“Fucking… Shamans.”

-

“Not so tough anymore, are you?”

The Kor’kron’s hand smacked Ivar’s face. Soft at first, then with enough strength to hurt, to burn, to wake Ivar up. Or at least, to yank him from the foggy exhaustion.

The Kor’kron… It was the same. Brown skin. Cocky grin. But naked. No armor. Nothing to cover that strapping physique. Nothing to cover the bone piercings through his pectoral skin, through his nipples, through… Well, his whole body. Bone everywhere. It had to mean something to that savage.

“Fuck… You,” gargled Ivar, his mouth feeling sore and heavy. Closing it was hard. Felt hard… Everything felt that way as he was still bound.

He was sure his arms would dislocate themselves alone. And his legs? They no longer twitched, but they felt numb.

Numb as he could sense the totem currently brushing his rim. No, his insides.

“… Genn… fuck,” slurred Ivar, trying to shake his body, to yank the totem away.

But not only the Totem remained stuck, immovable. But the movement was punished by a water lash, or something like that, hitting Ivar’s guts.

The Worgen yelped, his eyes opening wide while the rush of pain woke him up completely entirely, in fact. He blinked, looking around.

The smell… Fear was there. Disgust. Horror. Of fluids, too. But more than that, porcine. Orcs. Not one, many orcs.

There were many Orcs around, the majority having the same brown skin as the Kor’kron who patted Ivar’s face, again.

This time, Ivar snapped his teeth at him, trying to close on the fingers, but the Kor’kron was too fast.

“Not yet, Pet… So. How do you like your little kennel?”

Ivar grumbled. Yet, as he turned his gaze left, trying to avoid the Kor’kron’s gaze, his exhaustion hit him. His balance followed, and his head dropped left, tilting under its own weight. All until the Kor’kron grabbed him by the chin, forcing Ivar to look at him.

“Tired?”

Tired? Oh… Ivar was more than tired.

His body felt like it was on the verge of collapse. How long since had he been stuck in that posture? Maybe one day? Maybe more? Maybe less? His stamina was pushed to its limit, and for a reason. If he tried to pull himself away, the totem would punish and hit him.

If… By any chance, if he sat on the totem and impaled his posterior on it, the enchantment would lash out.

The Kor’kron had woken him up at the edge. A bit more, and the Worgen would have woken up, yelping and crying as another ‘orgasm’ would have been milked out of him… As shown by the many white trails ahead of him, behind where the Kor’kron stood.

The Kor’kron who still held his jaw.

“R… release me. Bastard,” slurred Ivar, his tongue almost lolling out again. Before he forcefully swallowed his saliva.

“Not yet… Not yet,” said the Kor’kron, patting Ivar’s face again. “My men and I are here to have fun.”

“Fu… Fun? Allow me… To- To laugh,” slurred Ivar. His head was pounding, and so was his heartbeat.

What those pig-like fuckers had in mind?

He looked around at the Kor’kron, who smiled. And then left, watching one Orc rub his uncut and human-like penis. Why did they have human-like penises? Why were their cocks so similar? It should be like pigs or something. Why were they stroking themselves?

Ivar spat a mix of snot and saliva onto the floor, gargling.

“You are… Fucks.”

Ivar’s head tilted forward before his reflex was to correct the angle and to have his muzzle up. Lifted, right to meet the Kor’kron’s eyes.

“We are having fun… But we can leave. If we do, we let you have your fun with the totem. Or we can remove it. What do you think?”

Ivar’s head dropped again, though this time the Orc held his chin, forcing him to meet eye to eye.

“You want this, Worgen?”

“I… Don’t… Play with… You.”

Slurring or speaking was hard. Ivar’s eyelids closed, but porcine fingers pulled on his eyelids, forcing his eyes to open.

“But you will. We need pets. Worgs are nothing like you.”

“Worgs… Beast… Fucker.”

Saliva dripped from Ivar’s mouth, but he did not have the energy to chug it down. So the saliva dropped, adding to the puddle at the Worgen’s feet.

“Tsh”, said the Kor’kron, clicking his tongue. “It would have been funnier if you had accepted. But… I’m fine as it is.”

Ivar’s chin was let go, his head dropping. But the Orcs were not moving away. No… The sound of clapping or clasped flesh continued, the same as the faint clap of the liquid being stuck between those fleshy surfaces. A clammy sound, disgusting.

“You… Are still there?” asked Ivar, raising an eye toward them.

But his questions died in a growl when something wet, warm, and sticky hit his face.

His reflex was to reach for it. But the burn from the silver manacles stopped him from reaching for his face. That and the totem holding his legs and unleashing another smack on a needy spot.

In return, his cock, still crushed under the silvery cylinder wedged in his sheath, tried to push. And so, the tip burned. His ass hurt and burned, his cock ached and burned… His arms stung and burned.

He was in pain, drowsy, and exhausted. Yet another sticky shot landed on him.

This time, Ivar saw it coming from an Orc’s cock. White, sticky, steamy. A cumshot, and it was right on his face.

The Worgen snarled, but another came and landed on his nose and a bit inside his mouth. His reaction? Retching and spitting, trying to get that alkaline taste out as he gargled.

“What? The puppy doesn’t like cumshots?” laughed the Kor’kron while another cumshot hit, covering Ivar’s dark fur with a white streak.

The Orcs formed a semi-circle around him, and even if one had ejaculated, they kept stroking themselves while aiming their cocks at Ivar’s face. The Kor’kron’s strokes were slower and less intense.

Ivar snarled… only to almost choke and loudly snort when another cumshot landed in his nostril… Or to tilt his head when it was his ear holes that were aimed at.

“Stop! Stop!” he roared, his fury evident.

Alas, it only elicited a fit of laughter while the Orcs continued to pump and shoot, to cover the Worgen’s fur and to mark his face with that pig-like scent.

“I’ll devour you! I’ll kill you!”

“That’s more like my pet!” chuckled the Kor’kron, pumping his cock some more before he, too, growled… And came, his shot landing right between Ivar’s eyes.

Ivar’s eyes unfocused for a moment, then they were on that white dot, that sullying presence dripping over his nose. He looked, focused, gargled while the liquid descended to his nostrils, then along his chops, to his upper lip… And dropped, landed on the floor.

“Ba-Stard!” shouted Ivar, yet… The Orc laughed and continued to stroke themselves, their cocks pumped and aimed at Ivar’s face, shooting more and more.

Shooting between his eyes, over his ears… And yes, by the end, his dark fur looked practically white.

Worse, his scent was disgusting. He smelled like an Orc’s bitch, with that semen dropping all over his shoulders and worse. He snarled, his nostrils dilating only to close when the cum slipped further inside.

A reaction followed by Ivar retching, bending forward while the Orcs laughed around, smacking their bellies or thighs.

“That’s a fun pet, boss!”

“And you haven’t seen the best?”

“What’s the best?”

“You’ve got a surprise?”

The Kor’kron didn’t answer, but then, he pointed at something.

Muffled whines followed, cries. As well as the scent of fear and disgust. Even of pee for some.

“We have many more to break once back home. Garrosh wants a new division for our pets,” laughed the Kor’kron, holding his sides. “We’ll upgrade from Worgs to Worgens!”

The laugh echoed within the room, though Ivar wasn’t so satisfied or happy to hear it. No, he was positively irate, much from the voice, from the disgusting fluids… or the throbbing pain in his head.

“Well. That was fun. Let’s head out. I heard we have messengers,” said the Kor’kron, snapping his fingers and inviting his peons and grunts to follow.

A gaggle who followed eagerly, commenting on how they had always wanted a Worgen bitch or how Worgs were not trendy anymore.

Stupid Orcs.

Yet, as those Orcs left, an awful silence remained. The other Worgens’ eyes, for those who had not fallen asleep, were on him. They eyed him. They sniffed the air through their muzzles. And their pathetic whines told everything: they pitied him.

Oh, they could pity.

But that pity did not help the irate Worgen as he grumbled and steadily adjusted his posture, pressing his nape against the wooden pillar. It helped with his neck pain and reduced some of the tension in his back. However, that tension was… On his legs.

Legs who, out of a sudden, were back and awake and crying for respite.

Crying for peace as he was held and forced to endure that position, while feeling that cum dropping over his muzzle and fur… Over his entire body, maculating the fur and replacing the oil covering the strands with that disgusting and oily semen.

Ivar snarled at this, looking at the ceiling above, listening to the Horde soldiers stomping and walking around, laughing and having that silly chatter while they were bound.

“I… I will not break for them. My Pack. Rest… And watch me,” said Ivar, clenching his teeth and fist so much that blood started to drip from his hands.

Pain… But a pain that kept his mind sharp. And steady. Ready.

Ready to endure as the Tauren Shaman came with another totem and sprayed Ivar as well as the Worgens as you’d do with a dirty dog. That bastard even commented on how Canines were disgusting and should be kept away from the cities, though it seemed more from boredom. Still, Ivar did not pity a Horde soldier, and he bit a chunk off the Tauren’s robes.

The Shaman did not seem to mind, and sure enough, the Tauren left again.

One Orc walked around, feeding them one by one, but he, too, would leave them in the dark… Except for the lamp.

Finally, the Kor’kron and the Orcs returned. By then, Ivar looked more famished and dirty. His fur was not mangy, but it was thinner than before. In return, they showed the muscles that were already thinning out, too…. And the effect of the Worgen’s curse.

Sure, it granted the Worgens greater stamina. However, in return, it gave them a hunger that could rarely be satisfied.

Not by the steaks that were handed out. Those, they could barely cover a Worgen’s needs for a quarter of a working day… More than that, it would be impossible for a Worgen to survive on that.

It affected the other Worgens as well, though some had already reverted to their human shapes to endure the Hunger more easily. Not Ivar, not his Bloodpack. Taking his human shape was an insult; he had refused the Moonwell’s touch. He would not have given in and pushed back against his instincts.

Even though he had to endure not only the hunger… But the constant effort, it drained him.

“What a bad boy,” said the Kor’kron, entering the room. Not naked, this time. But he had his grunts coming around, carrying crates of meat that reeked of rot. Yet, for the Worgens still in their feral shapes, saliva dripped from their mouths. Even Ivar had to swallow his saliva so as not to swallow his pride.

And he eyed the Orc, growled and snarled at him while he walked around, being the one to hand the steaks to the famished Worgens once their muzzles had been removed.

“How does it feel?”

“Fuck…” said Ivar, only for his jaw to drop.

Exhaustion, hunger. All were weighing on him while he looked at the Orc. Even Ivar’s gaze was not as intense when he looked at the Kor’kron who waved at him a steak with a dark green spot. Rotten inside and out.

“Aren’t you hungry?”

“Take… That out of… My face,” grumbled Ivar, watching the steak, watching how the thing was dry… No blood. No pleasure in biting it. Yet, the smell. The scent. Just a hint of flesh was enough to tease the Worgen’s appetite.

“Ah… That’s true. You’re an Alpha, you deserve something much better.”

Ivar’s brow would have lifted. But no, his brows remained down while he observed the Orc throw the steak on his left, smashing it against a Worgen’s face who fought against it, shaking his head while biting the flesh and trying to hold it. It was pathetic. And much more pathetic was the whine when that steak dropped onto the dirty floor, between the Worgen’s legs.

“Better?” Scoffed Ivar, shaking his head, again for it to drop. His balance was getting worse, much worse.

His legs were trembling constantly, his mind… His mind was drifting between the brief naps he was allowed before he slipped too far, and the totem punished him.

Yet, through the hallucinations, he smelled something. Fresh, different. His eyes widened, his body hitting a second wind when he smelled something… Fresh.

Blood. Meat that hadn’t rotted. Meat that had been recently killed. Meat that deserved to be devoured, even for a hunter.

The Orc held it.

A steak, hastily cut and dripping with blood. A steak he waved in front of Ivar. And then… threw down, on the floor.

“Tasty, isn’t it?”

Oh, it looked tasty. Ivar’s eyes were focused on it, watching and admiring how the blood still dripped and was absorbed by the wood. It would leave a darker spot there, but the Worgen salivated. He salivated as he had never done before, his mouth practically a cascade. Before he heard the trousers dropping. And the reeking smell. Orc…

“What do you prefer? Your pride? Or your hunger?” said the Kor’kron.

Kor’kron, who wasn’t satisfied to let Ivar be tortured, sleep-deprived, ejaculated on, and forced to impale himself on a dildo. No, he had to pull out his cock and… stroke it.

He stroked the disgusting flesh, pulled on the uncut foreskin until it formed folds under the fingers.

The precum was sticking to it, glimmering under the lamplight. It looked greasy… And the smell, it was like before, but worse. Everything, every scent, was getting worse once on the sea. But in the Orc’s case, it made Ivar’s nose wrinkle and his attitude shift.

No, the Worgen even recoiled, though his mind craved the bloody slab of meat on the floor.

The same slab of meat the Kor’kron aimed at with his cock before he groaned and… Shot.

Shot. Ejaculated. Came onto. His cock erupted in a white jet, one that flew across the air and landed on the steak, practically a bullseye.

The second shot was the same, hitting and splashing on the meat, blood and cum mixing together.

The third? It barely touched it but landed right in the small puddle, adding more to the mix.

As for the fourth, it hit nothing.

Nevertheless, the Kor’kron offered a toothy grin at Ivar before he whistled, and one of his Grunts grabbed the steak.

He, too, looked disgusted at the cum. The Grunt snarled and grimaced, but he lifted the steak and waved it in front of Ivar, practically… offering his finger to the Worgen.

“Come on… Bite.”

Ivar looked at the Kor’kron, looked at his defiant attitude.

Ivar himself was still leaning against the wooden pillar. He was bound, but it took time for the Totem’s enchantment to restrain him. And the manacles had some leeway.

But he waited, waited until the steak was rubbed closer. Until that dirty and soiled meat was practically rubbed against his face.

At that instant, Ivar’s reflexes kicked in. He craned his neck, extended his back, pushed with his feet, and bit… the air.

No blood, no fingers. The Grunt had pulled the steak and his fingers away fast enough.

“Haha. You don’t bite the hand that feeds you,” said the Kor’kron, chuckling.

“You… let me do… that. Orc,” spat Ivar.

“That was a green. A corrupted. No interest in keeping that one safe,” said the Kor’kron, shrugging and whistling.

Again, his grunt rubbed the steak against Ivar’s face, an invitation. So close, the stench was disgusting. So close, his hunger was running wild while his stomach and guts contracted. It hurt. Much like everything hurt.

And… Ivar’s jaw dropped again, without control. To the point, the Orc even slipped the steak inside his open mouth and…

The taste of blood, that ferrous flavor. Instincts kicked, and he closed his mouth and bit the flesh.

Around, whimpers of disgust came, even a gargle from a Worgen who’d returned to his human shape. But Ivar had bitten. And now, he chewed.

It was horrible. Humiliating. Everything.

A lesser man would have cried and sobbed. Ivar cried, yes, but he glared at the Kor’kron while chewing the steak that had been covered in cum. And chewed some more, turning the flesh into a thin mush, he swallowed down while glaring at the Orc.

“Good boy. We should do that again.”