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Chapter 1

Uzgal Sludgespear, formerly of the Cackling Defilers clan, shook and trembled in lust, casting furtive glances up and down the dark, stinking alleyway to ensure he wasn't about to be caught. He desperately needed to drain his swollen nuts. But that wasn't as easy as it used to be. The faintest tingle, a mere spark of pleasure, emanated from within the gnoll's clenched fist. Within it was the rough, scratchy linen of his loincloth, itself wrapped tightly around the iron-hard organ that jutted from the dense fur of his groin. The dry, rasping friction of the gnoll's frantic masturbation mingled with his hoarse, snarling breaths and cackles of frustration, echoing from the damp stone wall he leant against. Uzgal was nearly there, although he could barely feel it. His aching, swollen balls bounced and clenched between his thighs, and his short tail flagged behind him. There was no hiding the state he was in, even if he was unlucky enough to be caught again.

*

The planar city of Sperlingtwatt had squeezed its righteous arse through the Rift a dozen years hence to the 'free' realm of Ix. With it had come Magic - and those who wielded it. Ix had long been a lawless place, a backwater world within the Dragon's Nest, populated largely by those whom the stuffed robes of the Nine Duchies considered to be 'barbarous.' Orc villages dotted the wilderness, interspersed with kobold warrens, troll mounds, Minotaur and gnoll clans. Lots of gnoll clans. And so Sperlingtwatt - at the behest of the Conclave of Redemption, a council of especially prudish Magickers - had imposed itself upon Ix with the lofty ambition of 'civilising' the barbarians, bringing knowledge and righteousness to the scattered population. With magically-enhanced intelligence, the Conclave had insisted, would come economic benefit as the barbarians left behind their bloodthirsty ways in favour of craftsmanship, commerce and stability. The foppish, watery Prince Eadmund, the Tucker of Sperlingtwatt, had ridden in atop the planar city. Figuratively, at least. And it had been his Knights - the Most Noble Order of the Invincible Dragon - who had spearheaded the campaign to conquer all of Ix. They roamed far and wide, flags fluttering from the golden tips of their lances, gleaming plate-armored knights astride prancing destriers, bringing the people of Ix two choices. Death, or civilisation.

*

Uzgal tightened his grip on his loincloth, abrading his dry, numb flesh with the rough fabric, twisting it around himself roughly. His balls tightened and rose, and at long last the gnoll felt hot fluid rising along his brutally stiff malehood. He hunched around himself to watch it issue forth. _Just a moment longer. _The enchanted gem embedded in his forehead glowed, and by its dim light he could see the head of his organ, its tip dampened by a tiny drop of his own fluid, emerging and retreating rapidly within his tight grip. He hastened his furtive stroking yet further to push himself over the edge, the brutal dry friction of his loincloth finally eliciting a growing swell of pleasure from within his tortured flesh.

*

The orcs had been the first to fall after the arrival of the planar city. Already the closest to a form of stable, governed civilisation themselves, they had been assimilated by the Sperlingtwattian campaign by negotiation, more than battle. Still, it had not happened fast, and had not been without bloodshed. Nothing ever was, on Ix. But within a year, orcs populated the planar city alongside its native inhabitants, themselves mostly human, and the remnants of other previously-conquered barbarians from other worlds in the Dragon's Nest. As is often the case in such situations, though, the cultural assimilation went both ways. Certain Orcish customs made their way into Sperlingtwatt along with their practitioners. Mostly, those customs were punitive, and readily adopted by the prudish planar invaders to further control Ixian populations for whom Magic alone was insufficient.

*

Uzgal grit his teeth, his upper lip curling into a snarl. Drool strung from his maw to the cobblestones beneath his paws, and a hoarse, raspy _yip! _escaped his throat when finally, the gnoll's penis lit up with fiery pulses of pleasure, lustful thrusts of his hips driving his bare, dry glans through the dry, grating fabric of his loincloth to blast ropes of sticky seed against the wall. _Finally, _Uzgal thought, once his orgasm subsided. He'd been masturbating for nearly half an hour. It was a miracle he hadn't been caught. Again. Eventually, he released his softening penis, letting it droop between his trembling thighs. It was reddened and rubbed raw. The dry friction of his loincloth abrading his once-sensitive flesh was the only way the gnoll could reliably bring himself to climax, these days. It was his own fault, he supposed. It was he, after all, who'd given in to his primal urges all those years ago, and it was he who had spent the four years since his punishment seemingly determined to grind what remained of his penis to dust.

*

Thousands of Ixians were, in time, brought before the Conclave of Redemption in Sperlingtwatt, in chains and at swordpoint, of all races. All except the trolls, that was. Nobody particularly wanted trolls wandering the streets of Sperlingtwatt. Nor the Minotaur, who largely elected to fight to the death rather than be assimilated. But the rest - mindless brutes, bloodthirsty monsters and lawless barbarians were Turned in an instant, into self-aware, (relatively) intelligent, and above all _controllable _individuals. And all with the application of a simple spell, which embedded enchanted gems into the foreheads of the Ixians. Warlike orcs became craftspeople and merchants. Kobolds became artisans and miners. The gnoll clans, however, proved harder to civilise. It was well known across Ix already that as well as their reputation as mindless killers and bloodthirsty warriors, gnolls had irrepressible sexual urges, which would often drive entire clans into a frenzy of fitful fucking lasting many days.

That was a problem, particularly for the Tucker of Sperlingtwatt, Prince Eadmund himself. It had been an Orcish shaman who whispered a solution into the Tucker's ear. An Orcish shaman called Boldog, the Skin Sunderer. And so, it was because of the gnolls that Sperlingtwatt implemented the Orcish custom of punishing sexual indiscretions by slicing away the most sensitive parts of the males' organs. It was supposed to bring the hyaenic peoples further under their control. Results were mixed.

*

The Sperlingtwattians were spectacularly prudish, regarding even the mildest acts of sexual gratification as indecent. Uzgal had found that out the difficult way once they'd been rounded up and driven at lance-point back to the planar city from their far-flung homes. As a young adult gnoll at the time, Uzgal Sludgespear had been one of the most hormonally-driven of his clan. Every opportunity he had, the young gnoll was to be found desperately cranking his granite-hard rod, the rhythmic wet squelch of his thick foreskin sliding over his plump, sensitive glans drawing pleasured cackles from him within moments. Even when he was not actively pursuing the cascade of endorphins that came with climax, it was common for him to fondle himself, simply to feel the familiar tingle of pleasure to be gained from playing with his fleshy overhang. And he wasn't alone. Among the Cackling Defilers as much as any other clan, if one of their number expressed their arousal, it was never long before most of the clan got involved - even their leader, Gnuzz Slimefist. So even while the Defilers were being herded in chains back to Sperlingtwatt, they left a veritable river of cum behind them, a sticky trail across the wilderness of Ix; countless orgasms, wrenched forth from rigid flesh into matted fur. It was a nightly fury of rampant humping and grinding that even their bound wrists didn't slow.

Once the Cackling Defilers arrived in Sperlingtwatt, the Conclave of Redemption cast upon them the spells that embedded their enchanted gems into their foreheads. The gnolls' minds cleared, their eyes widened in wonder. But unlike so many Ixians that had come before them, the Defilers did nothing to cover their semi-nudity. Uzgal remembered well the look of horror and disgust on the faces of the Conclave when, as soon as the enchanted gems granted the Defilers enhanced intellect, their first act was one of exhibitionism. They seemed to have no shame, and if anything, their newfound intelligence only gave them new opportunities for exploring their rampant sexual urges, amongst themselves and out in the wider populace. That had been almost six years ago.

The Cackling Defilers clan struggled, over the following months, to control their lustful desires. Even with their new, magically enhanced intelligence, the urges of their virile bodies were often too much to bear; the promise of pleasure too tempting to ignore. At the very least, they mostly managed to confine themselves to pleasuring only each other, and engaging in routine, rampant group activities, grinding their seemingly perpetually erect, universally uncircumcised penises together in a slippery symphony of lust--always with one eye open to watch for any who might discover them. The Defilers made their new home outside of the planar city, in the woods, for that very reason. And Uzgal struggled the most, of all his clanspeople. He was the youngest among those who'd been brought to Sperlingtwatt, and could barely control his desires - or his erections - even with the magical gem embedded in his forehead all but glowing with the exertion of keeping his primal instincts under control.

It had been that damned armorer who'd cost him the most dearly, Uzgal recalled.

That damned spicy little kobold.

*

Squeak-Clank chattered happily to himself, nimble fingers threading together endless iron rings into chain-mail finer than any the clumsy Orcs could hope to make, with their tree-stump fingers and notorious tempers. The gem in the kobold's forehead thrummed softly, rewarding his productive efforts with a rush of satisfaction, a pleasure not unlike adrenaline fluttering through his veins. Squeak-Clank had always been an armorer, even in his warren, before the Knights had come. Before Magic had arrived on Ix. Before, however, he'd made armour from tree bark, bones, rocks - found objects. And looking back upon it, the kobold was struck by how primitive it was. Made by a primitive mind. Now, he made ornate pieces, crafted for their individual wearers from advanced materials - and often enchanted, as well.

So when a young gnoll beat on the door of his workshop, Squeak-Clank was intrigued. He'd made only a few suits of armour for gnolls. Mostly, they already had their own from Before, and were determined to hang onto their heritage where they could. Largely, the enchantments cast upon the gnolls were such that their violent instincts were completely suppressed, leaving them placid and peaceful. But for a culture - indeed, a whole race - steeped in war, blood and violence, their equipment remained an important source of identity for the gnoll clans. Their wanton sexual urges, though, were another matter entirely.

Squeak-Clank glanced between the gnoll's thighs. He was wearing only a tattered linen loincloth, as many of his ilk did. Their dense fur was more than enough to keep them warm, and most clothing caused more problems than it was worth. The tiny scrap of fabric barely kept him decent. Squeak-Clank could clearly see the thick meat sausage swinging between the gnoll's legs with each step he took. And when he noticed the kobold's gaze, it swelled visibly, lifting the loincloth.

"I... may I help you, my friend?" Squeak-Clank said, after a long moment.

"You may. My name is Uzgal Sludgespear of the Cackling Defilers clan. I require armour. Mine was left behind when the Knights came - I was naked at the time, and such I have remained until now. I wish to have a new breastplate, at least."

Squeak-Clank's eye fell again onto the gnoll's crotch. His loincloth had slipped aside, revealing his dark, thickly foreskinned meat. It throbbed steadily upward even as Squeak-Clank stared, filling out with blood and rising to stare the kobold in the face. Its thick, dark fleshy hood, long enough to completely encase the gnoll when flaccid, drew back just enough once he was erect to reveal a glimpse of the gnoll's glistening pink glans. The kobold's mouth watered, and he felt his own arousal straining at the inside of his leather trews. Uzgal gave a predatory grin.

"Perhaps a codpiece, as well? To um... contain your... sword?" the kobold suggested.

"Mm, that may be wise. One with quick access, though, for when I feel the urge to ram my sword into someone's guts," Uzgal cackled.

Squeak-Clank trembled. He was fully erect now, a little ridge forming in the crotch of his trews, and Uzgal noticed.

"You know, certain members of other clans have come to know _me _as something of a codpiece, myself," Squeak-Clank said, advancing on the gnoll. "Discreetly, of course."

The kobold was eye-level with the gnoll's bellybutton, eight inches of musky, foreskinned gnollcock staring him right in the face. Uzgal let his loincloth fall to his clawed feet, and placed his enormous paw on Squeak-Clank's horned head, guiding him in.

"Mm, indeed?" Uzgal cackled. "I hope you shall measure me well, friend. I would not want my armour to chafe."

Three minutes later, Squeak-Clank found himself bent over his own workbench. His trews were discarded, his tail hiked, and he had those very same eight inches of rigid gnollcock buried to the hilt inside him. Uzgal pounded him relentlessly, and with wild abandon. The kobold's own seed, milked forth by Uzgal's heavy, deep thrusts, streaked the workshop floor beneath him, and his eyes rolled back in his skull in a flood of pleasure. Uzgal's first load erupted forth within minutes, and Squeak-Clank's clawed toes curled at the flood of warmth pulsing forth into him. Uzgal paused after dumping his first load into the little kobold, and Squeak-Clank thought he was about to withdraw. The kobold braced himself for that, breathing slowly and deeply. But Uzgal remained inside him, and rolled his hips. The gnoll wasn't done. He continued at a much slower pace once the razor-edge of his lust had been dulled, but Squeak-Clank knew he wasn't going to get much done that afternoon.

Uzgal's third plentiful ejaculation was oozing back out of Squeak-Clank, splattering noisily to the ground, when the workshop door opened.

*

Hebaka Silverhoof was aloof, even by Centaur standards. A Magicker of no small repute, he was deeply enmeshed within the hierarchy of Sperlingtwatt, and often found himself in the presence of not only the Conclave, but Prince Eadmund himself. The prince was a fool, Hebaka knew - little more than a boy whose balls had been removed too early - a strange custom, but one which had become a tradition for rulers of Sperlingtwatt. It levelled their decision-making, supposedly. Eadmund had become a weak and cruel ruler, but one whose orders Hebaka was nonetheless bound to obey.

So when he walked into Squeak-Clank's armoury to have his sword sharpened - figuratively as well as literally; the kobold was well-known for his off-the-books 'services' - and found a _gnoll _of all things hammering a load into Squeak-Clank, he was duty-bound to act.

Uzgal was in the midst of his third ejaculation when he was hauled off his feet by a burly Orcish guard, the pleasant sight of Squeak-Clank's upturned posterior replaced by the snarling tusks of a scar-faced old brute. The gnoll cackled and shook, held aloft by the scruff of his neck, even as the last of his seed sputtered out onto the orc's boiled leather breastplate.

"Who are you, foul creature?" the Centaur demanded from behind the orc.

"H-hah...ha! Uzgal! Me Uzgal, Cackling Defilers!" in the dying moments of his orgasm, even the enchanted gem was powerless to keep the gnoll's intelligence up.

"Uzgal," spat Hebaka. "Typical gnoll. You know what you've done, beast?"

Comprehension very slowly began to dawn on Uzgal, and his cock shrivelled.

"Yes, that's right," the Centaur continued. "Varthug?"

"Yes, Master?" the orc grunted.

"Take this wretch to the Skin Sunderer."

"Yes, Master."

Valthug dragged Uzgal out of the armoury, and Hebaka turned his attention to Squeak-Clank. The kobold swallowed heavily, standing a little awkwardly after his protracted encounter with the gnoll. Hebaka drew his sword, and laid it with a metallic clang onto the kobold's workbench. And then the Centaur turned side-on, exposing his other sword.

"You know why I'm here," he said. "Unless you wish to join the gnoll, you'll ensure that I leave satisfied. I require my blade sharpened, and my hammer polished. It is up to you which you do first."

Squeak-Clank shivered. Hebaka's equine 'hammer' was the size of the kobold's tail, swinging heavily beneath the Centaur. He was going to be cleaning up for a few days, it seemed...

*

Boldog the Skin Sunderer's name was well-deserved. An ancient Orcish shaman, he emanated menace and the kind of old, natural magic which, prior to Sperlingtwatt's arrival on Ix, had been the only sort available to him. One of his tusks had been broken off many years ago in a fight, and the remaining one was plated with gold. His narrow, beady eyes were buried deep within a warty mass of wrinkled greenish-grey skin, in such a way that made an observer wonder if he could see at all, so obscured did his vision seem.

But see, he most definitely could. To Uzgal's horror.

Boldog wore an intricate suit of boiled leather armour over his expansive body, made entirely from the tanned foreskins of his victims - hundreds of them, Orcish and otherwise. Punitive circumcision was a common punishment in Orcish society for most sexually-driven crimes - for male orcs, at least.

"Ahh, another cackler," Boldog rasped. The green gem in his forehead glowed with malice, and his lips parted in a gap-toothed grin as Uzgal was hauled into his presence by Varthug the guard. "I have taken many gnoll skins these past years. Your kind are even less civilised than I had thought, ramming your cocks into anything that looks at you the right way. These Sperlingtwattian fops were meant to turn even you into upstanding citizens, and yet - look at you. Dozens of you have been across my table just this year. Perhaps the furthest-flung of your stinking clans are the hardest to civilise. Perhaps we should rip off all of their skins when first they arrive." The orc sneered, and turned to Varthug. "What was his crime?"

"He was fucking Squeak-Clank the armourer, Skin Sunderer," Varthug said.

"What, the little kobold?"

"Aye."

"Your depravity astounds me," Boldog chuckled. "Most of your kind who I've seen were, at the very least, fucking their own clanspeople in the streets. Varthug, hold him down. I shall make a thimble from your flesh, beast. I have large thumbs, I shall need to take a lot of skin."

The last thing Uzgal remembered was his arms and legs being pinned, Boldog the Skin Sunderer leering over him, the glint of a blade, and, at the last moment, Varthug's fist thundering into his temple to silence his protests.

*

In the months after his encounter with the Skin Sunderer, Uzgal's troubles seemed only just to be starting. Aside from anything else, it took him a full month to heal to a point where he could so much as walk comfortably, let alone relieve himself - but even then, the constant friction of his permanently exposed glans and tender, fresh scar tissue against his fur and loincloth made the gnoll walk bow-legged and gingerly.

The hardest part for Uzgal in those first weeks was hearing his clan immersed in their usual sexual exploits every day and night, secure in their camp outside the city walls, while he couldn't so much as allow himself to become erect. Even once he was healed, they would of course know instantly what had occurred.

Uzgal's situation was made even worse by the fact that it was so _obvious _he'd been sliced by the Skin Sunderer. The Defilers typically had shafts and foreskins varying from deep chocolate brown to the darkest ebony, with inner flesh and heads of much lighter tones. Uzgal had been no exception. And now, his bright pink glans and the inverted remnant of his foreskin stood out in stark contrast with the dark skin of his shaft. He couldn't risk exposing his cock to his clan. They'd treat it as a betrayal - Uzgal's inability to control himself would reflect poorly on the whole clan, and they'd expel him. And so it was that Uzgal took to joining in with his clan in their routine masturbation sessions by wrapping his loincloth around himself, pumping his drum-tight cock and trembling with the intensity of the friction to his bare glans. Some of the Defilers found his new behaviour strange, but he was one of them, and remained involved in their regular bonding activities.

The Cackling Defilers knew, of course, that something was wrong with Uzgal. The young gnoll at first laughed it off, claiming he'd been bitten on the cock by an insect. Or that he'd burnt himself while cooking. He strenuously denied that he'd been to the Skin Sunderer, and even bragged about pumping his load into the kobold armourer, a feat which drew cackles of laughter and applause.

It took almost a year, but the truth eventually came out.

Gnuzz Slimefist was the most senior of the Defilers, the clan leader, and it was he who found out first. He'd been watching Uzgal closely for some time, and followed the young gnoll when he took his leave to find a tree to piss on.

Uzgal waddled awkwardly away from the Defilers' camp. He spent a long moment gazing down at his butchered cock, his loincloth twisted to hang at his hip. Unsurprisingly, given any attention whatsoever, it hardened. Uzgal's skin pulled taut. His glans, which shortly after his punishment had been a tender bulb atop his distinctly two-toned erection, seemed to be growing duller and rougher by the day. It looked just the same as his inner foreskin, these days, and was far less sensitive than it used to be.

Uzgal glanced around. He was alone.

The gnoll drooled wetly into his paw and encircled his rigid length with it. He didn't get the chance to masturbate with his cock uncovered often, these days. Leaning up against the tree, he began to pump, spreading his thick, slimy saliva over his length and working himself in a rhythmic, wet slap.

He frowned.

Why couldn't he feel anything? The last time he'd used his wet paw, it had brought him to quivering orgasm in minutes. Now, it gave him almost nothing.

He tightened his grip, and began to firmly milk his cock, focusing on his glans. His pawpads were rough and leathery, but even that was not enough. The faintest tingle from deep within it was all he got, and only then when he rosy palmed himself so hard he feared he would snap it off. Uzgal snarled in frustration. He reached for his loincloth, which was by that time crusty and matted with his emissions, and wrapped the abrasive fabric around his penis.

Ahh, there...

His hips shook, and he trembled at the sudden onslaught of pleasure brought about by the rough, merciless friction. His loincloth rasped along his penis, a light but rapid rhythm that generated heat with its passing, such was the resistance. Uzgal snarled and yapped, and bucked his hips violently through his loincloth, until after several minutes, he brought himself to his peak, and splattered the tree trunk before him with ropes of his seed.

Panting in the afterglow, Uzgal waited until his cock had softened, and flexed his tail to loosen his bladder. His stream was loose and slow, messily washing his own cum from the tree trunk down into the dirt between his paws.

It was at that moment that Gnuzz Slimefist appeared beside him, the much older gnoll stroking his wet, foreskinned cock openly. He stopped when his eye fell on Uzgal's equipment.

The younger gnoll shrank down beside his clan leader, moving to cover his shame with his paw.

Gnuzz snarled, and wrenched Uzgal's paw away, to stare at the scarred, abraded ruin he was trying to conceal.

"When?" Gnuzz snarled.

"Nearly a dozen moons," Uzgal replied, miserably.

"Looks sore."

"Not any more. Can't feel much at all, now."

Gnuzz reached over, and lifted Uzgal's limp penis in his fingers, which were slick with his own plentiful precum. Uzgal could smell his leader's musk, and leaned into the older gnoll. He reached to surround his intact cock with his own paw, pulling back Gnuzz's foreskin to expose his tender, wet glans. Uzgal found himself with his muzzle pressed into Gnuzz's chest, and tilted his head down to lodge his sensitive nose into the elder gnoll's armpit. His cock surged upright again at the familiar musk.

"Jealous," Uzgal muttered, fondling Gnuzz's soft, leathery foreskin.

"Your own fault, Uzgal," Gnuzz reminded him, surrounding the young gnoll's numb glans in his wet palm and milking it wetly. Uzgal barely felt anything. "What did you do to deserve the Skin Sunderer?"

"Fucked Squeak-Clank, the armourer. Got _caught, _fucking Squeak-Clank," Uzgal corrected himself.

Gnuzz slapped him on the back and gave a deep, throaty cackle. _"That _was when it happened?! You've been regaling us with that story for months, Uzgal! Why, even I have spilt seed over your tellings."

Uzgal's paw was still on the older gnoll's cock, pumping him steadily, and Gnuzz abruptly shoved Uzgal over, bending him at the hips and ramming himself up against the younger gnoll's backside. Precum drooled over Uzgal's lower back, and he trembled, bracing himself and grinding back onto his leader's wet, intact cock.

"You were unlucky. All of us who have visited Squeak-Clank left with our seed running down his thighs. Tell me about it once more. The last time you used your flesh in its entirety," Gnuzz demanded.

The clan leader ground his wet glans around Uzgal's hole, smearing it with his precum, and supplementing it with a thick string of drool aimed down from his maw.

"Nnnh. Kobold. Small and tight. Wanted it bad, he did. He was," Uzgal grunted, and saw stars as Gnuzz rammed himself in, "...had his mouth on me, his tongue inside my skin before I could ever have had the chance to force myself on him. Came in him three times. He was so eager. So tight."

"As you are, Sludgespear," Gnuzz grunted, pounding roughly away at Uzgal's upturned rear, gripping his short tail like a saddle horn.

"Ahh. No, you're just... thick!" Uzgal grinned over his shoulder. He braced his paws against his knees and bucked back onto Gnuzz's shaft.

The older gnoll pounding his prostate sent Uzgal into realms of pleasure he couldn't remember feeling since before he'd been sent to the Skin Sunderer. His cock swung erect beneath him, and Gnuzz's heavy balls slapped wetly against his own. The clan leader's breathing was hoarse and quick, and without warning he rammed himself _hard _into Uzgal. The younger gnoll could feel the rhythmic throb of his leader's seed flooding his guts, and was more than a little surprised when his own orgasm flooded the dirt between his paws.

That had never happened before.

Gnuzz pulled out with a slurp, and pulled Uzgal upright. "You are to leave, tonight."

His heart sank. But he knew it had been coming. It was only a matter of when he was found out. "No exceptions?"

"No, Uzgal. You were a good warrior. A good clansman. And a good fuck, that's for sure. But the clan comes first. The Defilers are no longer the mindless beasts you have shown yourself still to be. We can control ourselves around others for the common good. The Skin Sunderer wears your shame on his arm..."

"He made it into a thimble," Uzgal interrupted, bitterly.

Gnuzz's heavy brow rose, and the older gnoll barely saved himself from bursting into laughter. "A thimble?! By the gods, how big are his thumbs?! In any case. Uzgal, I am truly sorry, but you cannot remain with the clan. Go, tonight, before any of the others awaken. If I see you here in the morning, I shall have to reveal to the whole clan what you have done. If you leave quietly, your honour remains intact."

Uzgal nodded slowly. His leader was giving him a chance for redemption, at least in the eyes of his clan. Sadly, the young gnoll rearranged his loincloth to - barely - cover his flaccid penis, and followed Gnuzz back to the camp, to where a dozen or more naked, uncircumcised gnolls lazed around the fire, sleeping. Sleep was out of the question for Uzgal, of course, and he gathered his meagre belongings in silence.

Damn that spicy little kobold!

*

For several years after his excommunication from the Cackling Defilers, Uzgal hung around inside the planar city of Sperlingtwatt. But for a lone gnoll, life was not easy. All he had ever been good at was fucking and killing, until the damned Knights had come. He was illiterate, in spite of his best efforts. And, as it turned out, he had an unfortunate affinity for kobolds.

He couldn't explain why. He loved his own people, of course, but there was something special, something forbidden and taboo and simply _exquisite _about the small, smooth, stretchy little bodies of the chattering kobolds. And often they seemed very willing to accommodate him, even already 'punished' as he was. But as time passed, Uzgal needed to go longer, and harder, than even the resilient kobolds could withstand just to feel a spark of pleasure from his conquered penis. In time, the only thing that ever worked was dry, rough fabric like his loincloth. And as the years passed, Uzgal's penis grew ever more abraded, ever rougher and more severely keratinised, until his glans was barely distinguishable from the dull pink inner-skin behind it. The only obvious feature on his cock became his scar, a jagged and vicious bifurcation halfway back his shaft. Pink in front, brown behind. If only his clan wouldn't have excommunicated him immediately when they saw it, Uzgal might've been able to preserve some of his cock's sensitivity.

But that wasn't the point. Boldog the Skin Sunderer's craft was punishment, not for any other reason. Uzgal should be thankful, he supposed, that the Orcish shaman wasn't known as Boldog the Ball Buster, or Boldog the Cock Collector.

Uzgal filled his days performing menial labour - carrying coal, pumping the bellows of the city's various forges and armouries, digging trenches - he even did a brief stint as a bodyguard for some low-ranking nobleman. But as usual, his libido precluded him from polite company. The city of Sperlingtwatt was large, but it was merely a city. Full of prying eyes, and _kobolds. _For his own safety and self-preservation, Uzgal decided eventually to leave, to return perhaps to the Defilers' homeland. Not all of the clan had been captured. The damned Knights had no idea how many of them there were. Uzgal had wanted Gnuzz to lead them all back home, but the older gnoll had seen more benefit in staying near to the planar city and had made his priorities clear on the odd occasion when he and Uzgal had met, far beyond the limits of the gnoll encampment. Why he chose to stay, Uzgal hadn't ever quite understood. But one thing was clear, he was never going to get back to his homeland without help. He needed allies.

There was a well-known tavern in Sperlingtwatt, where roving adventurers would gather. And so it was there, to the Vagabond's Rest, that Uzgal ventured. And it was there that he met Booker Corbin, and Gradbal the Berserk.

*