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Chapter 3

Gradbal snored loudly. The orc's hot breath wafted over Booker Corbin's cheek with rhythmic certainty, its humidity condensing into gouts of steam in the cool air of the room they shared at the Vagabond's Rest. His arms were strong and bristly, wrapped tightly around the smaller body of Booker Corbin. It was the early hours of the morning, and the half-orc wondered momentarily what it was that had roused him to wakefulness. A firm flex and a heavy grind from the sleeping Gradbal answered that question almost instantly. Booker gasped and ground back into his companion, causing the orcish berserker's dry, meaty glans to probe between his thighs. Booker was rock hard himself in an instant, his clitoris throbbing and a smear of wetness marking the blunt, bare helmet of the orc's penis. This was a common experience for the unlikely pair. Gradbal had been Booker's companion--and his protector--for years, even as many others had come and gone from their company. It gave Booker a huge amount of confidence that Gradbal, who was open in his attraction for males, saw him as precisely that.

Gradbal's breaths deepened. Gentle grunts rumbled from his chest against Booker's back, and the orc's hips gyrated roughly against Booker's. Gradbal had already been to the Skin Sunderer before his arrival in Sperlingtwatt. He was patchy with details when asked, but Booker had discerned that it had something to do with his homosexuality. In Orcish society, it was less normalised than elsewhere--although nowhere was it more reviled than in Sperlingtwatt itself. But, like most things which were outlawed, its prohibition only drove its members underground, into tight-knit clusters protected by the unwritten speakeasy rules of places like the Vagabond's Rest.

The orc's thrusts were irregular and intermittent, coming in a sudden flurry followed by minutes of silence. Gradbal slept deeply. Booker reached down, and angled the berserker's stiff, pulsing rod forward between his thighs, trapping it in soft warmth. His dry, exposed glans was silky smooth to the touch, and Booker surrounded it with both his palms. Gradbal flexed, and hammered his hips forward into Booker's touch. The half-orc moaned quietly in arousal at the sensation of Gradbal's hot, hard flesh grating along the swollen lips of his vulva. This kind of thing could go on for hours, as he well knew. He thought of waking Gradbal to finish him off, but the thought of making the giant orc climax in his sleep was significantly more alluring to Booker.

When it eventually did happen, Booker was just barely awake. The slow, rhythmic grinding and occasional rough thrust had persisted for some time, with Gradbal's thick penis remaining rock hard throughout. And as was often the case with nocturnal emissions, when it happened, it came from seemingly nowhere.

Abruptly, Gradbal sucked in a sharp breath and held it. Booker's eyes flew open, and he felt the orc's penis trembling in his hands, a rhythmic throb starting between his thighs. Booker squeezed his legs around it, grinding his buttocks heavily back into Gradbal's groin. The orc growled in his sleep, and then the breath left him in a guttural shudder. Hot seed exploded from his pulsing member to coat Booker's hands and the blanket, and the half-orc smeared his companion's emissions lustfully over his pulsing rod. Gradbal sighed in relief and, moments later, began once again to snore.

Booker groaned. He ached with arousal. Carefully, making sure that none of the orc's emissions could make their way inside him--they were biologically compatible, after all--Booker began to masturbate. His clitoris, enhanced and enlarged by several years of black-market potions he took to accentuate his masculinity, pulsed rigidly. It protruded a couple inches beyond his lips--long enough, at last, for Booker to grip and masturbate as though it were a natural penis. He used his own fluids to lubricate it, smearing wet fingertips over his glans and then gripping his foreskin. The hot tingle of frictive pleasure began instantly, and Booker trembled. Behind him, Gradbal stirred. His hands moved to Booker's chest, and the massive orc left a trail of kisses down Booker's neck. Unbound, the half-orc's breasts were heavy, and Gradbal knew well how much pleasure Booker derived from his nipples. The half-orc moaned heatedly and tugged on his cock rapidly until, with a shudder and a snarl, he climaxed.

"Shoulda woken me, I'd've sucked your dick," Gradbal murmured, sleepily.

"You still could've."

"Sleepy. Comfy. Warm."

"Good excuses. You got cum on the blanket again."

"You could've woken me, and sucked _my _dick."

"Sleepy. Comfy. Warm. And I like it when you hump me in your sleep."

"Very good excuses," Gradbal chuckled.

"Are you hard again?"

"Of course."

"Want me to suck it?"

"No," Gradbal shook his head, and tightened his arms around Booker's torso. "Cuddles nicer. Sleepy. Always hard when sleepy."

"You said it, you oaf."

Gradbal ground heavily against Booker's backside, and the half-orc nestled back into his partner's embrace.

*

Uzgal slept fitfully. His dreams were filled with spicy kobolds, sinuous tails writhing around his body, inviting him to use them for his depraved pleasure. The gnolls of his own clan no longer featured in even his lewdest imaginings. It was as though his clan were a distant memory; something so firmly rooted in a lived reality he was no longer a part of that he could not even fantasise about their sexual exploits over many years. That saddened Uzgal, sometimes, but his mind (or his eyes) were always quick to find a kobold, once again.

The sun woke the gnoll, and he rolled onto his back on the bare wooden floor of the cheapest room in the Vagabond's Rest. Half a dozen others shared the room with him. He glared down at the iron-hard flesh jutting from his groin. There was no chance he'd be able to ejaculate in such a full room without being noticed, especially with a rod as degraded as his own. The jagged, angry scar that encircled his penis was over halfway down its length, and the pink skin ahead of it, once tender and bright, was dull, dry and deeply striated. His glans was barely distinguishable, a rough, spongy blob that over many years had lost all of its sensitivity. It did not even have a distinct coronal ridge any more; it was little more than a slight bulge, knobbly and raw, atop the battered remnants of what he had once prized so highly. What was more, after so many years of brutal abuse, his penis had taken on a patchy appearance as the repeated, bruising treatment he gave it resulted in vitiligo. The tip of his glans was mid-brown, but from there almost all the way to his base, his penis was blotchy, what had once been rich, dark brown skin turned pale and milky.

Yet, his erections remained as forceful as ever. Uzgal shoved his penis down between his thighs, and raked it back and forth along his coarse fur. He kneaded his glans ferociously with his callused, leathery paw pads, and elicited the tiniest spark of pleasure from deep within his ruined flesh. It throbbed dully a couple of times, causing Uzgal to cackle in delight. Someone else in the room shifted, roused by his noises, and Uzgal pinned his ears back to his skull. He didn't want to be found out. So many years of being punished or derided for his natural urges had taken their toll on the gnoll. So he awkwardly rose to his paws, and shook the dust out of his mane. His penis bobbed rigidly in front of him. It did not matter, Uzgal thought. He was aroused enough that he was willing to risk being seen with such an achingly hard erection, even if being caught trying to pleasure it was a bridge too far. He padded through the Vagabond's Rest and emerged at its rear to empty his bladder.

Even with that done, his erection remained. Uzgal watched it throb for a moment, and began searching the tavern for something to cover himself with, to replace his loincloth. It was, after his run-in with Gnarrnag the minotaur, finally beyond repair--although Uzgal opted to keep it. It was, after all, the only thing he knew with absolute certainty that could bring forth an orgasm from him, anymore.

*

Uzgal had little to do with his time for the remainder of that day. He had little coin, and precious few belongings. It seemed, however, that Gradbal and Booker _did _have appointments to keep. They were nowhere to be found. So Uzgal was patient. He had managed to procure a tattered, stinking old tunic from the weaver's shop. In fact, the weaver had almost demanded that he take it, to cover his nudity. That done, he made his way to the city gate to wait.

He rose to his paws with a relieved cackle when, at long last, he saw the familiar figures of Gradbal and Booker approaching the city gate. With them, they had brought a cart loaded with supplies, drawn by a cantankerous old donkey. But their approach was guarded. Booker's face was hidden within a deep hood, and Gradbal appeared on edge. His hand never strayed far from the handle of his battleaxe. Uzgal processed the scene, and subtly cast his eye over their surroundings. The area around the city gate was crowded. Was there an aspect to Booker and Gradbal's activities that was cause for alarm, beyond the Sperlingtwattians' disapproval of their relationship? Uzgal was just grateful to have found potential allies--it hadn't occurred to the gnoll that anything might be amiss, nor that they themselves might be wanted by the city authorities.

They passed right by him without even a flicker of obvious recognition, although he caught Booker mutter something that might have been 'follow us.' Uzgal clicked his teeth in confusion and was about to call to them, but something made him pause.

_"Halt! _You with the cart! Orc!"

The bellowing voice cut through the hubbub of the city gate, dripping with condescension. Gradbal snarled, and Booker nudged him to urge him to keep moving. If the city guard wanted a fight, it was one they could not hope to win.

_"Halt!" _the voice repeated. "Stand and deliver!"

Gradbal and Booker found themselves surrounded by guards. Uzgal shrank into the background, keeping his distance. He was unarmed.

"What do you want, Captain?" Gradbal rumbled. It was obvious they were known to each other.

"Gradbal the Berserk," sneered the captain of the guard.

He stepped forward through his foot soldiers with arrogant slowness, condescension etched deep into his gaunt features. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword.

"What," Gradbal repeated, gratingly, "do you want?"

The captain did not respond at first. He walked a slow circle around Gradbal, Booker and the cart, pausing to flip up the canvas tarpaulin covering its contents with the tip of his sword.

"You are to free your hostage and relinquish your goods, orc, by order of the City Magistrate. Yes, he pretends to tolerate your company, I can see that, but he is native to this city and, by extension, under its protection. _You, _creature, are not."

Booker drew back his hood to confront the Captain.

"While I respect your fervour, Captain, let me assure you that I am ind..."

"Silence, half-caste! You will speak when spoken to. Protected by the city you may be, but only just barely. You, yourself, are wanted by the Magistrate on suspicion of trafficking goods to the barbarians beyond the city. Men! Search the cart and apprehend these vagabonds."

Over Booker's head, Gradbal made eye contact with Uzgal. Every moment seemed to last a lifetime. The tension was palpable. Abruptly, from an unseen vantage point, the twang of a bowstring sounded. The Captain crumbled to the cobblestones, an arrow jutting from his throat.

Chaos erupted.

A dozen guardsmen drew their swords. Gradbal hefted his axe. Booker, from inside his cloak, drew a small but vicious-looking mace. Another arrow flew, although it missed its mark and skittered along the cobblestones of the square. The donkey squealed and bolted, cart in tow. For lack of anything more useful to do, Uzgal scrambled to apprehend it, and held the frightened creature steady away from the imminent melee. He was unsure if the donkey was more afraid of the fighting, or of him.

Gradbal the Berserk charged. An otherworldly howl erupted from him, which descended into bone-chilling, gurgling laughter. Manic laughter. His axe swung. A guardsman went flying, launched through the air by the force of Gradbal's blow. But no blood was spilt. The orc, even in his berserker rage, was pulling his blows. The flat of his blade slapped against chain mail. He was not aiming to kill, nor to maim--simply to break through the wall. Step by step, Gradbal advanced. Step, brace, swing. Step, brace, swing. Booker moved backwards behind Gradbal's inexorable advance, protecting his back. It was a brutal, but impressive scene. If Gradbal had been intending to kill, Uzgal could think of no way the guards could stand against him.

Gradbal knew what he was doing. The death of the Captain would surely summon forth the Knights of the Invincible Dragon, and against them none could stand. Six, seven guards had fallen, and while the Captain remained the only casualty, those guards who remained saw death glinting in the eyes of the monster who defied them. Abruptly, one by one, they dropped their weapons and fell back, retreating from the terrifying visage of the berserker orc, their humiliation rammed home by his blood-curdling laugh.

And suddenly, the way forward to the gate was open.

Booker nudged Gradbal in the ribs, and the orc turned. "Time to go," Booker urged him.

Advancing rapidly on their position was a second contingent of city guards. Booker scanned the crowd for Uzgal. The gnoll raised his arm, and Booker hurried over to take the donkey's lead rope from him.

"Well done, gnoll. Thank you. Come, quickly--we must flee the city. I fear we may not be able to return, this time."

Uzgal tilted his head quizzically. Should he follow? What of his clan?

No, there was no going back. The Cackling Defilers had excommunicated him. He lacked the skills or the standing in Sperlingtwatt to survive alone for much longer. Booker gave him a pleading look, and motioned to the gate.

"Come _on, _Uzgal! Now or never, there isn't time to ruminate!"

Uzgal decided. He followed Booker and Gradbal, even as his mind overflowed with questions and uncertainties. The gate itself was unguarded; those whose job that was lay in crumpled heaps in Gradbal's wake, bruised but none badly hurt. The gnoll, the orc and the transgender half-orc hurried out of the city and into the dense woodland that surrounded it. Behind them, Uzgal could hear the second contingent of guards bellowing at them to halt.

"Will they not follow us?" he asked, loping along beside Booker.

Gradbal snorted. His berserker rage was subsiding, and he appeared drawn and exhausted. "No. Their jurisdiction ends at the gates. Beyond, it is the job of the Invincible Dragons to apprehend fugitives."

"Why are you fugitives?"

"That question has a long and complicated answer, my friend," Booker said. "I will tell you soon, but for now all you need to know is that the Knights will not pursue us for the fight at the gate--no one died by our hands there. But we need to be well clear of the city before... certain other things come to their attention."

"Like what?"

"You are far from the first to long for freedom from Sperlingtwatt's repressive customs, Uzgal," Booker said. "Those who find themselves alone in the wilderness need help to survive, and to hide from the Magickers in the city. We, among others, help them to do so."

"There is a place," Gradbal rumbled, "where those who have fled the scrutiny of those rancid Magickers fools gather. A place of safety, at least from the prying eyes of the Conclave of Redemption."

"I have never heard of such a place," Uzgal grunted.

"Of course you haven't," Booker said. "It wouldn't be a secret if everyone knew about it."

Uzgal supposed that to be true. His mind was filled with curiosity. Perhaps he could convince his clan to join them in this sanctuary. Perhaps life could return to normal in some measure, and Uzgal could eventually call himself a Cackling Defiler once again. A surge of optimism drew a cackle from the gnoll, and he raised his head higher to keep pace with his new companions. Drawing level with Gradbal, he offered to take the donkey's lead rope from the exhausted orc.

Gradbal shared a glance with Booker, and fell back to his partner's side.

"Do not build his hopes, Booker. He may not be accepted. We owe him nothing."

"After what happened today, I do not believe we will ever return to the planar city. It may be that _we _need to seek acceptance to Brokenspear's Defiance, this time."

*

Hebaka Silverhoof surveyed the aftermath of the scuffle at the city gate with a scowl on his face. That was nothing unusual--the scowl, that is, not the scuffle. It seemed barely a day passed without Hebaka being called upon to deal with some simian antagonism or other. The centaur paused over the body of the Captain.

"This fool was the only casualty?"

"Yes, Wielder," replied the Captain's second in command, carefully keeping his voice reverent in the presence of one as powerful as Silverhoof.

The centaur snorted at the simpering fool's use of his formal title. 'Wielder,' ironically, was an unwieldy thing to be known as. 'Sir' would have sufficed, but it was beneath Hebaka's notice to correct a lowly guardsman's etiquette.

"Fetch me the arrow."

The guardsman knelt beside the corpse of his commander and wrenched free the missile that had downed him. He held it up to Hebaka, and the centaur took it thanklessly. He would never admit it to anyone, but his eyes weren't as good as they once were. He studied the arrow up close, turning it in his hands and examining its fletching. It was a simple and cheaply made missile, tipped with the barest minimum of bronze and fletched with duck feathers. The nock was little more than a groove cut into the shaft of the arrow itself. It was deliberately constructed of generic materials, Hebaka thought, to avoid identifying its source. But it had one key limitation. To be deadly, such an arrow would need to be fired from very close range. Twenty feet at most. The centaur turned and surveyed the buildings that crowded in around the city gate like gawkers at a sideshow. A dozen windows opened onto the square, at least. Half could be eliminated immediately. Hebaka's eye fell upon the shop of Belg, the spice merchant. The wily little goblin was known for hiring gnolls and other assimilated barbarians--because they worked cheap, not to mention that they tended to survive journeys beyond the limits of the planar city. That brought him into close contact with Sperlingtwatt's burgeoning underground--and it was there that Hebaka's focus lay, these days.

He made a mental note to have the goblin tortured. Whether or not he was involved in the death of the Captain, directly or indirectly, the threat of losing his one remaining ball would surely make him squeal about _someone _Hebaka could leverage proper information out of. Punishing the Captain's killer was secondary. What Hebaka really wanted was an informant. A double agent he could insert into the underground networks of trade and trafficking, to find out where in the Nine Hells the steady outflow of assimilated Ixians were returning to, beyond the city.

*

In the confusion that followed the brief altercation at the city gate, Tangent was able to slip out of the city unnoticed. A lone kobold in a dark cloak would ordinarily be grounds for a search by the guards, and he sent a prayer of thanks for the distraction that allowed him safe passage with his loot. His mood was high as he scurried from tree to tree, keeping out of sight of the city gates until he was well clear.

The tavern wench had, indeed, been unable to refuse the offer he made her the previous night. The way her eyes lit up when he pressed a heavy gold coin into her hand would remain with him for some time. It was both adorable and humorous, to Tangent. She hadn't even been concerned that he'd effectively solicited her as a prostitute; for such a valuable shiny, she said, she'd have allowed him to do whatever he wanted. That, in any other circumstance, might have made Tangent feel bad. But the tingle between his thighs was too painful for him to bear a moment longer. He needed relief.

When he'd opened his cloak and presented her with his tender, newly-scarred manhood protruding from the drawstrings of his trews, she'd momentarily paused. She'd never seen one like it before, without the skin on the end. He explained why he was so desperate, and she'd looked up at him with empathy. It had been the best sex Tangent had ever had. She was slow and gentle with him, seeming to understand how to balance pleasure against the barely-healed scar behind his exposed, glowingly shiny glans. Such was Tangent's evident pleasure at the feeling of her mouth on him that she had offered something even Tangent had not anticipated--he had nearly climaxed just from the sight of her smooth, arousal-swollen vulva. She had laid back and lifted her legs, inviting him in, and Tangent was smitten. She had even allowed him to ejaculate inside her soft, slippery pussy--not that she'd had much option; Tangent was so pent-up that he'd orgasmed almost the instant her slick heat had enveloped him. It was the first time Tangent had climaxed since he was dragged before the Skin Sunderer, and he was not disappointed. Nor was the tavern wench, who had hissed and yapped in delight as he'd returned the favour while he recovered, lapping his seed from her and licking her to orgasm after orgasm until he was erect and ready to go again.

Tangent paused, leaning against a tree with his hips perked backward. He was rock hard at the fresh memory, and the gentle abrasion of his soft trews on his glans was growing irritating. On a whim, with newfound confidence, he simply untied them and let his stiff little member jut lewdly from his clothing. A thrill of excitement chased up his tail at his wanton exhibitionism, and he sang a happy tune as he walked. The sun was bright and warm, he'd emptied his balls half a dozen times into a pretty kobold lady, and thanks to the Sperlingtwattian garrison treasury, he was probably the richest kobold on the face of Ix.

But he knew he needed allies; even a thief as cunning as Tangent was out of his element in the open wilderness. And with gold weighing heavily inside his cloak, he was an easy target. His best option, it seemed, was to follow and catch up to the trio who'd been involved in the fight with the city guards. If they, like him, were fleeing persecution in the planar city, they probably had enough common ground between them to justify sticking together.

The tracks of a donkey, a cart, an orc, a gnoll and a half-orc were incredibly easy to find. They'd followed the road at some speed for a few miles, and then moved off into the woods. Tangent chuckled, and continued whistling his merry tune. Before long, he'd be the richest kobold on the face of Ix, protected by at least a couple of extremely fierce-looking warriors. The beginnings of his very own mercenary army! Maybe he'd start a thieves' guild...

Life was looking good, for Tangent.

*

The world had sunk into darkness before Booker finally called a halt to their hasty flight from Sperlingtwatt. The woods were deep and extensive, but the half-orc seemed to know precisely where they were going. Uzgal was glad for that. He had never been to this part of Ix before, save in the captivity of the Knights of the Invincible Dragon.

They stopped at the base of a rocky outcrop. It was high ground, and with the sheer cliff at their backs it was easily defensible. Uzgal lit a fire while Gradbal scouted the surrounding area. Little more had been said between the three new companions, even though Uzgal was bubbling over with curiosity about the secret destination Booker had mentioned. _Brokenspear's Defiance, _he'd gleaned. It sounded like a clan. Or an army. Uzgal did not want to strain his welcome, so he did not push for answers. But he was itching to know, and Booker saw that in the way the gnoll kept casting glances at him and swivelling his dish-like ears to catch the odd word shared between himself and Gradbal.

Once the small fire was set and a pot of water placed over it to boil, Booker relented. Gradbal returned with a fistful of wild onions and root vegetables he'd foraged, and sat in brooding silence with his back to the fire to preserve his night vision.

"I am sure you know by now, Uzgal, that Gradbal and I are... close. I owe him my life, several times over. But we are romantically entwined as well. It is that, at least in part, that has contributed to us no longer being welcome in the planar city," Booker said.

Uzgal ate with as much decorum as a gnoll could muster--not much--and grunted his acknowledgement.

"Our relationship teeters on the very edge of what Sperlingtwattian law will allow. I am biologically female, and Gradbal is... emphatically male..."

Gradbal chortled, a rumbling snort of a noise.

"But because I am also male in my presentation and identity; and because Gradbal was brought to the city by the Knights as part of Prince Eadmund's crusade, our union is frowned upon. No one quite knows how to deal with it. So I was cast out from my position in the city."

"That was years ago," Gradbal added. "My clan was one of the first to enter the city when it arrived here. I was already disliked by many because of my... tastes... but within the city it just got worse and worse. The Skin Sunderer can only take off your skin once, and he took mine when I was barely an adult. But it doesn't change who you're attracted to or your libido, does it, gnoll?"

Uzgal yipped. Squeak-Clank the kobold armourer burst into his mind. The wiggle of his tail. The eagerness in his eyes as he exposed himself. The lust he exhibited for the gnoll's flesh... Uzgal squirmed, and nodded to Gradbal.

"So... long story short, Gradbal and I ended up buried to the hilt in the underbelly of Sperlingtwatt," Booker shrugged. "It's a buyer's world, where loyalty and silence are gold and silver."

"And I ended up buried to the hilt in you, twice a night..."

"Shut up, you vile oaf!"

Gradbal chortled.

Booker took a moment to regain his composure. "He's right though. We were drawn to each other from the very beginning. Knowing that there were so many clans and tribes and warrens and communities still out here across Ix, many of whom chose to fight rather than be assimilated into the city, we started running supplies out to them. Weapons, food, healing supplies - that sort of thing. Over years, a number of decimated clans and isolated escapees from Sperlingtwatt began to congregate, to share resources. That has turned into what is now our destination."

"Brokenspear's Defiance," Uzgal grunted.

"Aye. You heard that much. I needn't stress to you how secret this place is, I am sure. If it were to be discovered by the Conclave, they would send Invincible Dragon knights to destroy it."

"That is why the guards tried to stop you? For information?" Uzgal queried.

"Aye, I suspect so. Although they'll take any opportunity they can get to harass you. Once you're known to them, that's it."

"Who shot the Captain?"

Booker gave a half-smile, and ladled another helping of dinner into his bowl. "We have been supplying various clans within Brokenspear's Defiance for years, Uzgal. Most of them have at least a few informants inside the city. There are complex networks of alliances, mutually beneficial relationships and trade amongst them, both inside and outside the city. Almost everywhere we go inside the city, we are protected. I don't know any more than you do about precisely who shot the Captain. But I have some ideas."

Uzgal snorted. "Complicated. Gnolls are simple. We fight, we fuck, we eat."

"Yes, your kind are exceedingly good at all three," Booker chuckled. "Although you seem to have been caught. What led to your... punishment, if I may be so bold?"

Uzgal grunted at the change of subject. "Kobolds. Uzgal like kobolds. Small. Slippery. Stretchy."

As he spoke, his arousal rising, his speech became less coherent. Booker frowned. The gem in Uzgal's forehead glowed, struggling to suppress the gnoll's more primal instincts.

"Uzgal hump kobold. Nasty orc cut Uzgal." He snarled, baring his fangs.

Booker watched as the gnoll surged to erection. Just the memory of the kobold he'd been caught defiling was enough to bring him to such a level of arousal that he was all but drooling. Gradbal swivelled around, appearing to be on guard. Booker's eye was drawn to the dry, striated ruin of Uzgal's manhood, which the gnoll was doing nothing to cover.

"Gradbal was punished by the Skin Sunderer as well, Uzgal, many years ago. But yours is... much, much worse. I have never seen one so degraded. Why?" Booker asked.

Uzgal glared balefully at his penis, and gradually, the fog of arousal cleared from his mind.

"Clan do not allow anyone punished to remain. Uzgal wanted stay with clan. Covered up, hide scar, many many moons. Rub rub rub with loincloth. Rough. Dry."

Gradbal stood, stretching his back with a grunt. The massive orc was erect as well. His thick, green-tinged member stood proudly out beneath his tunic. Uzgal stared. It was right at his eye level. Gradbal's glans, while dry, looked smooth and tender compared to his own. Booker laughed.

"Gradbal, you pervert."

"Can't help it. You know I love you, Booker. But when a gay orc sees a hard cock..."

"I know, I know."

Uzgal trembled with arousal. His balls ached. It had been so long since he emptied them, and here at the end of their first day together, his new companions were this open around him? The gnoll clicked his teeth and muttered under his breath.

*

Tangent's eyes widened. The orc was _huge! _He'd never seen one so big. But, it seemed to Tangent, that all of them had been to the Skin Sunderer. Another thing they seemed to have in common. Although there was something strange about the half-orc, that he couldn't yet place. He considered bursting forth and announcing his presence there and then, but he was enjoying the voyeurism of them not knowing he was there. Tomorrow, he would approach openly, in the light of day when he was less likely to be beheaded by the orc.

The gnoll liked kobolds.

Tangent grinned to himself in the underbrush, and licked his hand wetly to masturbate over the sight of the gnoll's ruined cock. Why he found that so arousing, he was unsure--but he knew he wanted to see it up close.

*