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J. Wall

5-19-01

The sun had fully set over Serou and the lighthouses in the bay were fired up, casting beams of pale light through the ice-cold air. Baruik had heard the joke "It's always winter in the Union," but he was just now getting it. It was only early fall, and it was freezing. Ice collected in the alleyways and what had been puddles of rainwater weeks before were now patches of frost. Of all the places in the Ring he could have traveled, he was sent to the worst (next to the Night Kingdom, of course). He thought sardonically that the Night Kingdom was probably warmer, considering the lakes of fire he had heard about. The main roadways were remarkably free of ice thanks to the steam ventilation system under the thick stone streets. It didn't keep dirty, soot-tainted slush from accumulating at the curbs though.

The entire city was as oppressive as it was filthy. Nearly every building was a towering stone cathedral with lead pipes, radiator vents, and public lighting torches jutting out of them at unflattering angles. The torches themselves, fueled by natural gas, gave the city a smell that nauseated Baruik. As much as he had to complain about in Kisan, he now longed to return to his native land of green hills, dark skies, muddy plank roads, and oppressive government. Even the ocean here, which he normally enjoyed the sight of, was tainted by industry.

Serou was the Union's most industrial city, as it sat atop a huge oil field. Granted, most of the Ring had little use for the stuff, but that was changing. Even his own Kisan was importing more of it to fuel its forced industrialization. The Union its self consumed a good bit powering it's trains, city heating systems, and it's agricultural tugs. The biggest consumer though was some place called Kersh-Khan. Baruik didn't know much about the place. He knew it made high-end machinery for Kisan as of late, and sold weapons around the Ring. He also heard the place was a fucking pit full of pollution with a government that was little more than mob rule. Everything could be bought there...so he had heard. Kersh-Khan's thirst for oil had them invest millions in gold right into Serou to have them extract it. Obul knows what they used it all for. Regardless, Baruik had no desire ever to see the place. After this little journey, he doubted he'd ever travel again.

He smacked himself mentally to get his mind off bitching and back on the job at hand. He had a package to deliver. He reached into his shoulder bag and took another look at the thing that had caused him so much trouble. It was a small wooden box in the shape of a flat rectangle with a brass plaque set into the top. On it was inscribed something in what looked like Impiric, but he couldn't read it. He barely knew how to read his own Kisani. He didn't care. He wanted to get rid of this thing before people who wanted it attacked him again. He could just chunk it in the water or in an alley--but then he wouldn't get paid and would have come to this shit pile for no reason other than to get stabbed and have to submit to a healing administered by an alien and heretical lizard.

Baruik kicked a pile of slush and headed towards the docks to look for his contact. He hadn't been there the night before. He hoped he wasn't dead--he'd never get paid then. He considered opening the box to see if what was inside could fetch a good price from the casual observer. He had no idea how to sell magical things. If it had Impiric on it, it was probably magical. Baruik hated magic. He shoved the box back into his bag in disgust.

The docks were nearly deserted, save for the city guards that occasionally made rounds by the waterfront. Baruik was normally very wary of authority figures; especially ones carrying large weapons and operating in groups. One thing he had a hard time complaining about here though was the way the guards acted. He had been stopped a few times before. They were friendly and kept smiles on their faces the entire time they talked to him. When he made it clear he didn't understand a word of Calo-Draconic, they continued to smile at him as they fetched someone with a translator. Aside from questions like "Where are you from, what's your business, where are you going, etc.," they didn't detain him or harass him. Fuck. He hated them anyway.

As he approached the area he was supposed to meet his contact at, he heard movement from one of the alleys. Not the gambling type, he put his back to the wall of a building enclosing the alley and put his hand on his sword. He stood still for a minute until he heard the noise again. A mumble or a grunt. The water splashing on the concrete pier and the wind made it hard to tell. He also heard the rustle of clothing and a rhythmic, metallic clinking. He inched his way along the building wall and took a peek around the corner into the alley. He nearly yelped with surprise.

Next to a stack of crates were two figures barely visible in the near total darkness. All he could make out at first were two bodies silhouetted against the wall by the light of the moon. Every few seconds though, a ray of gray-white light from a lighthouse in the bay would illuminate the entire alley.

Both were men. One was a human. An older gentleman with a shoulder-length white ponytail and a well-trimmed white moustache bent over a crate. Behind him stood a giant wearing a tight black facemask. The skin that was visible on the giant was a dark olive green, so he had to be orcish. A good seven feet tall. Both individuals were fully clothed; save both had their pants around their ankles. The orc was fucking the guy up the ass, and the guy matched the description of Baruik's contact. He didn't know whether to shout, fight, run, or what. He just stared.

The movement was slow and paced. The orcs cock was quite thick from what Baruik could see, and at the very least eight inches long. He couldn't tell for sure, as he never withdrew it completely. The orcs legs were large, thick, and muscular while at the same time athletic and lean. Baruik's contact also had a healthy package for a human. It was seven inches and rock hard.

Both men were nearly silent, save for the occasional huff and grunt and the rustling of clothing. The human had his eyes closed tightly, his face a mask of pain and pleasure. The orc was like a golem with his face hidden and movements nearly mechanical. The orc had his huge hands wrapped around the bare thighs of the human. Slowly and methodically the orc slid his huge, glistening meat into the impossibly tight hole between two smooth, pale cheeks. This continued for several minutes. Baruik was trying to convince himself he was repulsed, but found himself getting hard. He started rubbing his crotch through his thick pants.

A foghorn sounded in the bay. Just then, the orc began speeding up his thrusts. The human arched his back in pain at the sudden increase of force, but the orc placed his hand in the middle of his back and slammed him down hard on the crate. The human began to scream out, and the orc shoved the end of his unbuckled belt into his mouth, reducing his screams of pain to a barely audible gurgle. Even then, the gurgle was drowned out by the sound of the orcs large balls slapping the mans ass. Faster and faster still the orc pumped, several times withdrawing completely with a loud, slurping "pop" but always hitting the mark on re-entry. No steam in the cold air was coming from the mask to indicate the orc was breathing. Baruik was enthralled and was nearly close to ejaculation himself. Suddenly, the orc stopped his intense pounding of meat and a huge cloud of steam escaped from the mask. Had he been holding his breath for the entire moment leading to orgasm? The orc withdrew and shoved the man to the alley floor, who then doubled over and began sobbing. He was no longer erect.

The orc pulled up his pants and buckled his thick black-riding chaps casually, as if he had just finished urinating behind a tavern. The man had rolled over onto his stomach and was beginning to rise, but was forced to the filthy alley floor when the orc stepped on his back with a huge, steel-shod leather boot.

"Was it everything you hoped for?" The orc spoke perfect Kisani! His voice was deep, smooth, and brassy.

The man didn't reply at all. Leaving a huge muddy boot print on the man's back, the orc exited the alley at the opposite end, turning his back as if the man were a pile of dung.

Baruik stood against the wall, a small wet spot on his crotch. He was leaking precum and didn't understand why. The sight he just beheld was awful. The orc didn't have sex with the man--it was as if he wiped his ass with him and threw him away.

What a fucked up city.

The next several minutes were confusing ones for Baruik. His contact propped himself up with his back against the alley wall and just sat there for a while. Baruik stood out in the street until he heard him rise and dust himself off. It didn't help, as he was more wet than dirty. When he had been standing for several minutes and not leaving the alley, Baruik stepped around the corner and put on his poker face. His contact looked a bit unsettled and rightfully so. His attempt to act casual when Baruik appeared was impressive, but not impeccable.

"Do you have my money?" Baruik asked the question flatly.

"Do you have my box?"

"Yeah, but you won't see it without my payment." As to not look like he was trying to be casual, Baruik asked what any normal person would ask had he not just seen the man raped and beaten. "What happened to you? You look like shit."

"Brigands. Give me the box."

"Brigands, huh? Like me? Anyhow, I want to see the gold before I fork anything over."

"Very well." The buyer reached under his dark cloak in a motion that was familiar to Baruik. He was going for a weapon. Before he brought it to bear, however, Baruik has his thick broadsword out and took a step back from the man. This didn't halt the buyer. He pulled out something short and blunt, but in the near darkness, Baruik couldn't see exactly what it was.

"Stay where you are, filth. Give me the box and you may live." The guy had a hint of insanity and panic in his voice.

"Really. And if I don't?"

"I'll kill you. Simple as that."

"Not as simple as you think--" With that, Baruik flew at the man, but a bright and loud explosion followed by hot metal ripping through his chain mail shirt and burying its self in his gut somewhat slowed his advance. In fact, he was knocked back ten feet and slid to a halt at the mouth of the alley, the slush curling into a pile at his head. He was stunned, blind, deafened, and wracked with pain. The metal in his gut was hot, burning and searing his innards audibly.

Through his now clearing vision, he saw the buyer-turned-killer advancing on him, a thin blade drawn. "So sad to see you die like this. I just wanted the box." The man held the blade to Baruik's throat and began searching him for the box with the free hand.

"Fu.. k." Baruik tried to curse the man, but the pain and the blood welling in the back of his throat all but silenced him

"Yes, yes, curses. Fuck me. You're dead and..." The man then found the box in Baruik's shoulder bag, "and I have what I came for."

Baruik couldn't do anything but gag and try to swallow the blood that was threatening to drown him. The man just got up and walked away. Baruik turned onto his side and spat up the blood that had collected in his mouth and was able to begin dragging himself out into the street. Once out of the alley, he pulled himself to the base of a lamppost and looked down at his belly. The chain mail shirt was shredded and blood was oozing out of the holes and clotting between the links. The slush had a wide crimson trail leading from where he had been blasted. He began to laugh. His laughter was low at first, as if responding to some small, barely amusing quip heard in a bar. It grew louder though, and louder still, until he was nearly screaming at the top of his lungs. What a fucking awful way to die--wet in the filthy slush next to an alley in a land he despised. How awful, but how funny. His laughter was causing his abs to tense, making him lose more blood. His laughter stopped when he lost consciousness moments later.

Nham had seen the man staring at him from around the corner, but unless he took some sort of threatening action, he was content to continue plowing the hole so graciously offered by the man he had met in the tavern up the street. He could tell the guy in the street was getting a kick out of watching, so Nham decided to give him a show. He hadn't intended for this little trick to turn violent (as it often did when he was with women), but hey--how often did he get such a captive audience?

After finishing his little show, Nham made his was slowly out of the opposite end of the alley. When he noticed the voyeur wasn't leaving, Nham decided to stick around for a minute or two to see what he was up to--and maybe get a better look at him, as he was difficult to spot cloaked in darkness with the only source of good light at his back. Having decided that, Nham climbed up a pipe to the top of one of the buildings to the side of the alley. He was deceptively agile despite his large build and made it to the roof quickly. He quietly walked over to the edge and crouched down behind the small wall that served as a guard for the edge. Then, he just watched.

The voyeur waited a few minutes before entering the alley. He played it cool and did a good job of acting like he hadn't seen anything. The two exchanged a few words, but Nham couldn't hear exactly what was said. He saw the hole reach for something under his cloak and saw the voyeur bring a sword to bear with practiced speed and rush the hole. What happened then made Nham glad he stayed.

From the end of the thing the hole wielded a bright ball of fire was emitted in the direction of the voyeur, but it didn't actually hit him. Nevertheless, the voyeur was thrown back to the mouth of the alley and left bloodied and twitching. The hole then drew a rapier and walked over to him, took something from his bag, and left the alley in the direction Nham went.

Nham took a moment to ponder the scene he had just witnessed. He assumed what the hole used was something he had heard of called a "gun." He had seen them in different parts of the world, each having a different make and design. He had also been to a place that had an entire army equipped with them. He had not, however, seen one used. He made the decision then that he hated guns as much as he hated magic. Both were the tools of weaklings and cowards.

Nham was shaken from his musings a moment later when he heard movement in the alley again. The voyeur was still alive, and actually managing to drag himself into the street. He sat himself upright against a lamppost and started laughing like a madman until he passed out. Nham could see steam coming from his nostrils and filtering through the lamplight, so he knew he was still alive. What an amazing man, to have survived a wound like that. Amazing, or maybe guns weren't as powerful as Nham had been lead to believe. He decided to get a closer look at the voyeur.

Nham went back to the rear of the building and slid down a pipe. He followed the wide blood trail that was already beginning to freeze to where his voyeur sat slumped over. The man looked unimpressive enough. He was wearing a dark green hooded cloak covered in mud (and now blood).