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I worked as an Emerald Emissary. An esteemed, comfortable position. Highly sought after for its considerable comforts. In many ways, it was just correspondence and flowered manners. Boring, in layman's terms. And in a world of disparities, I don't think there's much need to elaborate on why a boring life is one of luxury. And boring what made us just uncareful enough.

The prince of Westchester was consorting a shy, disinterested princess of Zesphir. She responded with another curt, but polite enough as necessitated by her position, letter to the desperate prince Lex. I think it only enkindled his feelings, causing him to launch into writing another longwinded proposition. It was almost painful to watch. But as he insisted on getting it done and sent that very instant, I stood by waiting for his… heartfelt penmanship.

This was the sort of correspondence I was in charge of now, and such a direct order by the Prince Lex of Westchester is not so easily sidestepped. At least he would be done soon and I could ride home by supper.

Galloping on birdback, the full moon gave a beautiful lowlight through the dense tree-topped path. The journey was not long and I opted to make use of the scenic route. There's a river which is one of few natural beauties I am afforded between correspondences and I felt a desire to reward myself.

But the bird jerked to the side. And before any sort of fight or flight instinct could catch up with me, I found my mount cutting to the right without me. I was hardly strapped in to my comfortable saddle, and now I was sailing with my original momentum through the moonlight night for several frozen seconds before colliding hard into the grassy floor.

I was not built for this sort of abuse. And so I cursed the bird and gravity itself as I rolled and assessed the damage. A certain bruise welling up on my arm, beneath my kelly green emissary cloak. A large one on the hip, which took the brunt of the fall damage. I groaned and cursed some more. My tongue was trained in keeping clean most of the time, but when I was not in court, I allowed myself to drop some formality. But soon realized I did in fact have company.

It was after a glimmer of moonlight shone curiously above the ground. My tearstruck vision had yet to fully clear, when I recognized the curved blade pointing at my neck, mere inches from me. That was when my heart started racing. I looked up at the silhouette wielding it, not finding much by way of features. Was he… short? My cowl fell off my head behind me, likely illuminating my face. This seemed funny somehow to the creature looming over me, eliciting a gnarly cackle of some sorts, followed by a gravelly whistle. And just like that, reinforcements floated out from the bushes to join him.

I tried to restrain my reactions. I might have an opportunity to escape, but likely not more than one. Fortunately my career has helped me learn to stifle many a reaction. I kept my head still and glanced about. My bird? Out of sight. Total creatures facing me? About six. They spoke to each other in course syllables. The scimitar wielder turned his head.

Now.

I scrambled to my feet.

A deft whirl caught my leg. I stumbled, and stepped on my ornate cloak and when crashing down again, somehow finding the same bruises to land on. I cursed again through a multitudes. More laughter erupted, and before I knew it, the scimitar had found its place in front of my face once more. This time, it demonstratively pressed against my cheek. They would hurt me, the gesture said. And for the next several minutes, my limbs were tied together in a mess of knots.

Rope looped around rope, binding my wrists and forearms against each other, then secured against my chest. If there was a system to their knotwork, it eluded me. Maybe I could take advantage of that later. But my focus flickered between that and the shadowed faces. But once they stepped into the moonlight, I discerned them. Not dwarvish highwaymen… and not gnomes or halflings… Long ears. Almost elvish in length. But deep green skin shone in the moonlight. Goblins, I realized. I was being taken away… by goblins.

I was tugged by the wrist-knots into the trees. Odd. In a way, they were leading me from the scenic route of my choice towards the mainroads… but that means the Nightwood is where they remain? That means we didn't need to cross the river to the southwest. It also meant that my escape could just mean running far enough in either direction. Now to think, while I'm being tugged along to their place of hiding. My mind raced. Goblins…. Goblins… They don't eat people, do they? To my knowledge… I don't know a damned thing about Goblins. Only that they're known to be, vulgar. And from the coarse laughter and the… none-too-creative gestures I'm seeing, I am correct. Do they live in caves? Or burrow underground? Is there much a safe space in the Nightwood for them to live? They clearly live in packs, so maybe it's like a little cave commune. Meaning they could probably afford to take shifts keeping watch for my escape…

Pondering and pondering, I foolishly forget to try and track our geographic position… not that these trees are unique enough to help. Cursed Trees! I don't like nature! I breathe and try to collect myself. I'm becoming unkempt and realizing the panic is making me feel unclear.

We arrive at a Cave mouth. Of course. It looks terrifying from the outside and a flickering light signals established life within. We enter to find a number of other Goblins in various states of armour and dress. It seems apparent by the local cultures that overdress is uncommon. That undress is casual, and formal-wear likely consists of finding the best battle armour that fits. All in all, it looks like anyone that lives here could pose a threat.

I'm tugged along, irritated by tugging and trying to keep pace when we're met with what must be an area for the elders. A parenthesis of war-painted goblins with fancier headwear stand with arms crossed as I am dragged to their attention. A kick from behind sends my knees and I know better than to struggle at this point. A conference begins.

My captor begins by pointing a sword at the center of the Elders and nearly shouting something incomprehensible. He continues, bringing the blade to my person. I shy away in fear, but he simply makes the point of dragging a dulled side against my person. He goes on, waving the weapon around as if it's more of a conductor's baton than an instrument of bloodshed, before stabbing it down into the dirt floor. I can't help but feel dumbstruck. I am fascinated by how different things are here. If anyone ever had a sword pointed towards the Royalty of Zesphir or Westchester from even a hundred yalms, it was grounds for imprisonment. Here it seemed to mean "Excuse me! Your attention, please!" or the local equivalent. The only other thing I seemed to pick up was the word "Galla," which seemed to refer to me. I am an expert in linguistics you see, but I think anyone would have noticed he used the word anytime he slapped me with the flat side of the blade, so.

An Elder spoke. I listened with piqued curiosity. Now I wanted to learn. Learning could mean survival, so listening was key. A more aged voice resounded from him. It was less violent, but no less commanding, especially with the Shoulder Plate that was definitely made from a skull. He spoke of the "Galla" and how the "Dagas" were to… cooperate on some level? That seemed to be the gist of the word "Cuuno". I relaxed my shoulders slightly, the shadow of death seeming to leave my heart, but my capture still not over.

I could breathe again.

I wondered if another emissary had seen a Goblin's Conference and lived. I tried not to think about how I knew nothing about Goblins, and so how unlikely that was. The chieftain approached. Another incredible dissimilarity apparent. Never would a royalty I know approach a captive. What if I had a knife, tried to slash their elder and make a break for it? I would never make such a risk, but for their sake I was very confused…

But the chieftan approached me directly, flanked by two more arm-crossed brutish types. And the chieftain stood in front of me and said few more words. "Teah Galla un Daga… Cuuno." And with a few clinking sounds, was removing his pants.

Oh.

Cuuno… might not mean to just cooperate.

My heartbeat had waned but it was picking back up again. I scanned the room. Expectant faces and crossed arms. It seemed like I had a few options. One, try to fight the situation and probably die. Two, try to escape, probably die. Three, begin Cuuno with the Chieftain here which… I don't know how I'm considering that. Four, refuse Cuuno and… figure out if they can find another use for me. Frankly, I don't think I could negotiate my situation much worse from here, without knowing their language. However, ti's possible I am being offered to the Chieftain as a token. An offering of sorts.

I feel crestfallen suddenly, at remembering how little I know about the innerworkings of this conference. Do tokens get pitched away when they stop being useful? Would option Four just as equally expedite me to the blade?

Tattered pantwear clattered to the floor in front of me. The Chieftain stepped out of them. I gulped, looking up his skinny green goblin legs up to his package. His cock looked uncut. I was surprised, but quickly realized the ways of circumcision were a more civilized trend which had likely not passed through this particular cave of goblins. I should probably assume that option Three is my safest bet.

I realized I've been gawking at the Chieftain's bourgeoning shaft in front of a silent audience for way longer than any good emissary should look someone in the face. I blush, reactively looking down before trying to meet him in the eye. Confrontational gestures seem to earn points here. The Headwear-clad chieftain is looking at me with a softer expression than the rest. He looks at me as if in total understanding of my personal predicament and his ability and willingness to help me out. It's a remarkably trustworthy face, I realize. One I will need to respect… however that looks here.

"Tevvay tevvay…" He says, gently grabbing his green shaft, and giving it a few flicks in my direction. A gaggle of hoots and hollers wave out from the rest, humiliating me once more. I try to think of my dignity, as an Emerald Emissary. I try hard to justify it all. Maybe, I force myself to think… "Maybe this is what peacekeeping looks like here…"

"It's absurd," I think lowering myself down, from sitting on my ankles to leaning onto my bound forearms. I am feeling a hard blush erupt across my face as I approach the warm maleness with my face. I try to think that I have been more embarrassed by other blunders, but soon my face is right up against this warm green, uncut cock. It's dripping in anticipation. It looks so much softer than I was expecting. I know what I must do, and I lick the shaft. A slow drag up the side of the cock being held out for me to worship. Another slow drag to placate the audience. I can do this. It's simple. Just lick and… don't think about it too much.

But the Chieftain puts a hand on my head and pulls the cockhead forward to meet my lips. It is wet and dripping long stretchy drips of pre. The skin looks clear, and stretches over the head nicely. Oh dear. I don't think I can deny this from my mind like I'd hoped. The mushroom head is placed and squished lightly against my lips. It's not a demand. More of a request, I realize. And with the room going pretty silent again, I realize there are probably fewer things more unnerving than a Goblin that has gone quiet. They are getting impatient with me. I need to pick up the pace. I need to…

I open my mouth to accept the cockhead. The chieftain steps forward, over my bound hands, and places a few inches of goblin cock into my mouth.

Something inside me breaks. My virginity seems to shatter in my mind like plate glass. It's… taken from me. Not with a bang, or a whimper, but… just two or three inches of Goblin cock, placed matter-of-factly into my mouth. I may never live this down. I am a professional correspondent. I deliver messages and treatises betwixt royalty! To be debased like this, to be used and publicly like a plaything…

But then I remember my precarious position. and remember that I still must live this experience out. And that this meat, beginning to gently slide back and forth in my mouth could be my ticket out of here, and is signaling a patience I don't associate with the other goblins here. This man is perhaps my most equal, an emissary, brokering peaceful trade with me. His pace quickens, foreskin dragging back and forth against my tongue smoothly. I determine and set myself. On my honor, on my ability, I will barter. I will broker for my life. My skills will get me out of here, and I-

My thoughts were cut short by a pair of arms cradling my head. They pulled me inward, into a series of more erratic thrusts. The Chieftain was fucking my mouth. The length wasn't terrible for my mouth. He planted it all in my mouth several times completely and I gagged a few times, but it was manageable. This was it, I thought. I might be out of here if I can just bear with it a little longer. The cock was pistoning in and out of my mouth, while the goblin was just about mounting my face. I tried to keep my head still, keep my mouth accessible to him and his maleness. His nuts smacked unceremoniously against my chin. I tried to think about keeping absolutely still until his groans came to a head. He planted his cock hard into my mouth and kept it there for a second, several times, my mouth filling up with seed, to the cheers of many. The forgiving size of his cock and load allowed both to pool in my mouth, giving me a taste of both. The cock hadn't tasted of much but a little sweat, and the cum was… pungent. Not bad, just, strong yet elusive. Having a bizarre quality almost like garlic.

I coughed a bit, struggling to keep it all together. In so doing, I swallowed down a sizeable amount of cum. The taste had a reverberant flavor, as it sank across my pallet. "Oh dear" I thought "That's… unexpected."

The chieftain dismounted and pulled his deflating cock out of my stuffed mouth, with an equally unexpected loud sound. It sounded as if I was intentionally sucking the cock and trying to stop its retreat.

"Cuunoooo!"

"CUUNOOO!" The tribe answered the Chieftain's weak triumphant hand raise.

I did it… I think I did it? I think this will be my ticket out of here, or maybe I'll need to schmooze a little more. The brutes flanking the Chieftain nod approvingly and escort the Chieftain to a chair. I slowly return to sitting on my ankles, making sure it's not unacceptable.

The chieftain relaxes into a fainting position in a large chair makes a few more declarations. After a few words and gestures, I am unbound, around the arms. A number of knots remain around my chest, resembling a hastily assembled harness. Then another few words.

"To-ahh… Tevvay, Gallah… e Dagas a Gal' Cuuno."

The Chieftain definitely said Cuuno again. And with that, it seems like my brokering has perhaps… just begun.

End of Ch1