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Chapter 2

Tangent was hiding. Dressed in an inky black cloak over dark trews and soft-soled leather shoes, the young kobold held his breath in the deep shadows between two barrels, as a patrol of Invincible Dragon acolytes marched past. His eyes glinted within his deep hood, refracting the dull glow of the ember-orange gem in his forehead. Tangent was, as usual, up to no good. He'd entered Sperlingtwatt with his tribe a little more than a year hence, and the amber gem set into his forehead had opened his eyes to a whole new world of possibilities.

Kobolds were, by the standards of Ixians, regarded as being relatively intelligent already - even if their intelligence was generally used to trick and connive their way out of situations of responsibility, or to trick and connive the gold out of the purses of travelling merchants. All, of course, in service to the great mythical dragons the kobolds worshipped.

Tangent's specialty had always been 'acquisition.' A thief through and through, he was small and light-fingered. Even the amber gem had not dampened his desire for Shinies. He'd been able to control it with his newfound capacity for reason and wisdom, right up until the moment he'd fallen foul of a dusty, reedy old human Magicker, who seemed to have a special grudge against kobolds. Tangent had only been looking! The fact that he'd been _looking _at a particularly valuable amulet, that he'd _found _within a locked glass cabinet in Goldsmith's Lane was besides the point. He hadn't actually _stolen _it.

The old Magicker hadn't bothered to even listen to him, and before he knew it, Tangent found himself in a particularly uninviting dungeon. A few days in there, and a nasty talking-to, and he'd been released without charge.

There, _Tangent had thought. _I didn't steal anything, and that proves it!

Three nights later, he'd been arrested for public indecency, hunched around himself masturbating in an alleyway. The fact that he'd been, moments before, looking _at the valuables of a pair of nobles while they fucked noisily with their bedchamber window open, seemed to be a secondary charge. But a kobold has _needs. Tangent was young, the urges of his body hard to ignore. The sight of the nobles locked in a sweaty, gyrating embrace had been too tempting a show to walk away from. So, Tangent found himself engaging in one of his more risky fantasies, becoming not only a burglar, but a voyeur as well. It had, ironically enough, been the wet squish of his foreskin that had given away his presence. But at least he'd managed to leave a few messy streaks on the cobbles beneath the window before he'd been apprehended.

As if he hadn't already been growing jaded with the strictures of Sperlingtwattian prudishness, Tangent had found himself in the presence of a particularly nasty, especially smelly old orc - who introduced himself as Boldog the Skin Sunderer.

*

The patrol of Invincible Dragon acolytes passed, and Tangent emerged from his shadowy hiding spot. He adjusted his soft, dark trews uncomfortably, and clambered back up on top of the barrel. His lockpicks protruded accusingly from the small, barred window, behind which Tangent knew he would find chests overflowing with gold coins. The Sperlingtwatt garrison treasury was a lofty target, and Tangent knew it. But the kobold had to do _something _to get back at those prudish bastards. His groin ached. It had only been a couple of weeks since the Skin Sunderer had 'punished' his indiscretion in the alleyway, and although he'd tried, he'd been unable to masturbate to orgasm yet. The scar was too fresh. But every step he took, every movement, caused the kobold's newly-exposed glans to brush the inside of his trews. In spite of the pain, the stimulation meant he was half-erect everywhere he went. It was driving him mad.

With a click, the lock gave way, and Tangent hissed in delight. A few drops of oil applied to the hinges of the barred grille silenced its movement, and the kobold propped it open with a black-painted wooden rod. The simple glass window within opened easily, and Tangent paused. It was dark within. He couldn't see much, but as he moved his head, he could see _something _glinting in the darkness, reflecting the dull glow of the amber gem in his forehead. It had to be coins. It couldn't be anything else. Silently, he slipped into the treasury room, and fumbled inside his cloak for a collection of small, velvet pouches he carried for just this purpose. He even removed the one he'd tied around his cock, to try and minimise the friction. One by one, and a single coin at a time, the kobold filled his bags from the piles of coins that, once his night-vision properly started working, he could see piled in great drifts against the walls.

"Who put treasure room on outside of building? With _window? _Silly," Tangent murmured, clicking his tongue and tying off yet another velvet pouch.

Each held a dozen or so coins, wrapped tight enough that they wouldn't jingle as he made his escape. Fully loaded, Tangent wriggled his way back out through the window, and carefully shut it behind him. He even re-locked the barred window. He'd taken more wealth than most citizens of the planar city would ever see in a lifetime, but he doubted the bureaucrats would even notice the difference. The problem with thievery, of course, laid with the extremely limited opportunities to spend one's ill-gotten gains. Tangent knew that. A suddenly suspiciously wealthy kobold paying for his lodgings, food and ale in freshly-minted gold would raise eyebrows almost immediately. He needed to either exchange his wealth for less conspicuous forms of currency - or take his gold and flee the planar city.

Tangent did not know how many of his tribe remained in their warren. The thought crossed his mind of returning home laden with gold, tribute for the dragon-god the likes of which no kobold had ever produced. It would raise Tangent to the very pinnacle of kobold society - he would be little short of a king. But it would also mean he would never be able to use his thieving skills again. The prospect of ruling over a shattered clan of kobolds whose intelligence was such that they considered fire to be a form of magic held little appeal for Tangent. He would become bored awfully fast.

So it was, then, that as the planar city of Sperlingtwatt slept, Tangent the kobold made his way stealthily to the Vagabond's Rest. There, he reasoned, he would be able to discern his future, whatever it may bring.

*

Gradbal the Berserk was not, as his name may have suggested, a mindless brute. Not any longer. It was his overwhelming size and ferocity on the battlefield that had earned the orcish warrior his moniker. In a way, Gradbal resented the intellect he had been afforded by the reedy-voiced old Magickers of the Conclave of Redemption. With thick, callused fingers, Gradbal gingerly turned another delicate page in the tome of healing techniques he perused. It belonged to his companion, but Gradbal had taken such an interest in deciphering the bizarre squiggles following his arrival in Sperlingtwatt that the aptly named Booker Corbin had agreed to teach him to read.

The looks he now garnered from the colourful crowd at the Vagabond's Rest irritated Gradbal. Few expected to see a scarred giant such as he with his face in a book. A scowl and a glare usually sent the rubberneckers on their way. But Gradbal the Berserk felt out of place in Sperlingtwatt, even as he realised that a return to his old life - one of violence, pillage and battle - was not an option.

"Here, have another ale, old friend."

Booker Corbin returned from the bar with two foaming tankards and sat backwards on his seat opposite Gradbal. A half-orc himself, Booker was a Sperlingtwattian native - or half of one, at least. Ix was not the first world in the Dragon's Nest to have been visited by the wandering city. He existed on the periphery of the planar city's rigid society, neither a part of it nor truly apart from it. It was that, Gradbal supposed, that drew the half-orc to this particular place, filled to overflowing with the castoffs of Prince Eadmund's and the Conclave's mission.

Gradbal set down the book, and raised the tankard.

"You are trying to get me drunk," the orc growled.

"Do you blame me? Your inhibitions disappear by the time you have a half-barrel in you," Booker replied without pause.

Gradbal snorted, sending an explosion of foam erupting forth from his tankard to splatter the table they shared. Gradbal's and Booker's relationship was one that the Sperlingtwattians would turn inside out over if ever they were to be discovered and outed. That was another reason, Gradbal thought, that Booker insisted they stay at the Vagabond's Rest. There, very few of the patrons or longer-term residents would stand to gain by drawing attention to someone else's transgressions against Sperlingtwattian prudence. It was an uneasy sort of comfort, one derived from mutually assured destruction. But, for the time being, it worked. What would happen when Sperlingtwatt moved on from Ix was another thing entirely. But the planar city had occupied this world for nearly half of Booker's life, and the higher-ups showed little appetite for another costly relocation. Not while there were still gnolls to be civilised, and resources to be extracted from this largely virgin world.

Virgin, of course, being a selective terminology.

A commotion erupted somewhere across the Vagabond's Rest. Voices were raised. Snarls and yips and the sound of rending cloth followed. With leisurely practice, Gradbal quaffed his entire tankard of ale in one mighty swallow and rose to his feet to break up the argument. Booker was unsure whether it was the frightening resonance of his mighty belch, or the sight of a truly gargantuan orc approaching with battleaxe in hand, but the commotion died as suddenly as it had erupted.

Either way, the effect Gradbal had on the scuffling patrons was instant, and brought a smile to Booker's face.

*

Uzgal cowered in the corner of the tavern, alongside the stout wooden table that had been overturned in the scuffle. It wasn't _his _fault! How was he to know that making eye contact with a Minotaur was considered a provocation to fight? He'd never even seen a Minotaur before! But if Uzgal had thought the bovine-headed creature had been menacing, the axe-wielding orc who loomed over him next was even more so.

So when the hulking warrior holstered his axe and extended a giant hand to him, he was taken aback.

"Hah!" crowed the Minotaur. "Stupid animal. Just as I always thought. Doesn't matter what those Magickers do to gnolls, they'll never fit in with civilised society."

"Shut your mouth, Gnarrnag," snarled the orc, rounding on the Minotaur. "None of those present here _fit in _with the society this place extols. That is, after all, why we are here."

He turned back to Uzgal, and the gnoll, his ears swivelling as he processed what was being said, rose shakily to his paws. His first action, Gradbal noticed, was to cover himself with the tattered, stain-encrusted remnants of his loincloth. He needn't have bothered; most everyone present had seen the dry, scarred ruin of his cock hanging between his thighs, which was most likely his reason for being in the Vagabond's Rest. It was well known that the civilised gnoll clans did not tolerate the presence of their compatriots who were sent to the Skin Sunderer. Uzgal's loincloth, which had been torn in the scuffle, did even less than it usually did to cover him.

"You are new here, gnoll."

Uzgal flattened back his ears submissively and nodded to the orc.

"And yet _that," _the orc pointed to Uzgal's groin with a fingertip, "did not happen yesterday. Come, sit with us and tell your story. You are in need of friends. I am Gradbal, and my companion is known as Booker."

Uzgal instinctively tried to flinch away at any mention of his gnollhood. To his surprise though, the orc did not seem derisive of his disfigurement. Uzgal felt a spark of hope. He remembered that the Vagabond's Rest was precisely the sort of place where misfits, outcasts and the dregs of society mingled - it seemed unlikely that he would be reviled from this place, even if he was not quite aware of all the social customs yet.

So he followed Gradbal back to a table where a half-orc sat, a quizzical smile on their largely humanoid face. The orc sat heavily, and bellowed to a barmaid to bring more ale.

"Hello, friend," Booker said. "Booker Corbin. Please, sit."

The half-orc's voice was, in isolation, deep and resonant. But next to the hulking Gradbal, they looked and sounded petite and almost effeminate. An amulet around their neck identified them as a cleric. They were clearly not an outcast in quite the same way as many others in the tavern--but something about their mannerism piqued Uzgal's curiosity. Where Uzgal himself, Gradbal, the Minotaur, and countless others bore the glowing gems of the Conclave set into their foreheads, Booker was a cleanskin. But Booker was also a half-caste. Uzgal's mind, powered to higher reason and deductive logic by his gem, had already begun to speculate as to Booker's past. It took the gnoll some time to realise that he could not immediately identify Booker's gender, nor their probable biology.

The tavern wench interrupted Uzgal's silent contemplation when she arrived with ale, and stood with her hand outstretched until Booker paid her. She was a petite, thick-hipped little kobold, and Uzgal could not prevent his eye from wandering. Even if he tended to prefer males, a kobold fired his lust no matter their biology or gender - and she, it seemed, was intrigued by his near-nudity. Her eye kept wandering into his groin, and it caused Uzgal to swell. It had been weeks since he had had managed to empty his balls - these days, he needed to be so rough with himself to get anywhere near orgasm that it took some time for his cock to heal afterwards. So the merest glimpse of the kobold's smooth skin, her sinuous tail, sent blood surging into his groin. It was some time before he noticed Gradbal and Booker staring at him, waiting for an answer to their introductions. Uzgal shook his head to clear it.

"Uhh. Uh. Me Uzgal. Uzgal Sludgespear. Cackling De... no, not any longer," he frowned. As the brief fog of lust cleared from his mind, Uzgal's speech became more eloquent. "No longer. I was excommunicated from my clan three years ago. My crime would have caused the whole clan to lose status if it were to become known."

"Same crime that caused that?" Gradbal observed, nodding downward.

Uzgal growled. His penis was erect, straining upward beneath his ripped loincloth. There was no hiding it. He nodded.

"Looks like the Sunderer did quite a vicious job on you. We tend not to utter his name in here - almost everyone here of male biology has been to him for one crime or another. These days, even non-sexual crimes are being punished in that way," said Booker, keeping their voice low. "Some of those punished as such wear it as a kind of badge of honour."

"We need something to bind us together," Gradbal shrugged. "Something that isn't just that we all fucking hate those prudish fops in the Tucker's castle, and the Magic they wield."

"Quite," Booker said with a frown.

"So, Uzgal Sludgespear," Gradbal continued. "What is your quest? Do you have one? What brings you to this reeking cesspit?"

Uzgal's ears perked forward, and he straightened on his bench. "Aye. I wish to return to my homeland. If any of my clan remain, they will recognise me and welcome me back."

"So you seek allies to travel with, beyond the planar city?" Booker asked.

Uzgal nodded eagerly.

"Well! Good luck," Gradbal chortled.

Uzgal's heart sank. Gradbal drained his tankard and let loose another of his concussive belches. Booker glared at him. Gradbal stood. "Need a piss," he grunted.

"Ignore him, Uzgal. He only wishes to remain here because the ale flows freely, the beds are soft and he occasionally gets to break someone's head. I... we... often travel beyond the city, either for our own ends or to help others on their quests. Gradbal is a warrior of no small means, and I a healer. You ought to join with us; we may not be able to take you all the way to your homeland, but we will at least get you started. Where I go, Gradbal follows."

"I would be grateful," Uzgal said, genuinely humbled.

"Good! Meet us near the city gates with your gear tomorrow evening. We'll make camp outside the city and plan from there." Booker paused, and the corners of their lips quirked upwards in a smile. "You are wondering, I suspect, what precisely I am. Go ahead, ask. I shan't be offended."

Uzgal's ears flattened to his skull, and he dipped his head in embarrassment. "Sometimes gnolls are neither obviously male nor female, but something else," he mumbled. "I did not know others could be the same."

"I was born biologically female, yes, you are correct," Booker replied. "But in thought, in deed, and in all things aside from my lack of one of _those," _they pointedly glanced into Uzgal's crotch, "I am as much a male as you or Gradbal. That is why I am here, I suppose. I do not fit in to Sperlingtwatt, where those who make the laws cannot even decide whether my attractions warrant a breach of decency or not."

Uzgal processed that, frowned, and nodded. "Tis my pleasure to meet you then, Mister Booker."

Booker chortled, and patted Uzgal's thigh.

*

Tangent watched from the shadows. The tavern was busy, making individual conversations difficult to discern over the general hubbub. But there was something intriguing about the trio he saw sitting around a table, deep in conversation. Where most of the other patrons were drinking, laughing, playing games, fighting - those three seemed to be plotting. Even if their furtive glances weren't obvious enough, it wasn't every day that an orc, a gnoll, and a Sperlingtwattian half-orc could be seen together. Tangent's eye had been drawn to them only when the gnoll arrived. Just to intrigue him all the more, it was painfully obvious to the kobold thief that the gnoll was powerfully attracted to his kind - and that he'd already been punished for it, too.

"...city gates... tomorrow... plan from there."

That was all the information Tangent needed. He was nothing if not a crafty creature of opportunity, and so he threw caution to the wind and made his decision; he would seek to join this intriguing party. Or at least, to shadow it until he knew more of its members' intentions.

His decision made, Tangent's eye fell to the pretty tavern wench, where his focus had been before the scuffle erupted. With his cloak wrapped tight around him, his fingers deftly untied the leather strings that held his trews shut, and slipped within to surround his still-delicate, but urgently rigid penis. His scar stung from being stretched by his erection. Oh, what he wouldn't give to feel her tongue around his mutilated flesh! He blinked. His cloak was heavy with gold coins. With a triumphant hiss, Tangent emerged from the shadows, and waddled awkwardly towards the barmaid with an erection so hard it hurt and, he hoped, an offer she would not refuse.

*