Inquisitor Sally Whitemane stood defiantly before the altar of the cathedral of the Scarlet Monastery, staring down the encroaching undead. They were many, this time. Her soldiers had formed a semi-circle between her and the enemy, the lord commander Mograine among them. The blond-haired man held his large mace aloft, his burnished red armor glinting with the pride of the Scarlet Crusade.
"Look at this scourge, this blight upon our lands. Their mindless bodies are rotting upon their shuffling bones! They stand no chance against the might of the scarlet warriors." Her voice echoed through the great hall, reverberating in the soldiers who straightened proudly. The Scarlet Crusade was the true path, and they would not diverge from it; this new Horde was just another heresy of savages. "These abominations cannot hide from the Light," she continued, "it is a shame that their sorry state makes them immune to the craftmanship of the inquisitor. Alas, even they shall feel fear when our holy cause is made clear. None will remain of these unholy husks."
"For the light," Mograine bellowed, inciting a rioting roar from the soldiers. Some of the galvanized men looked to struggle not rush ahead. "Forward!"
As one, the red-clad warriors descended on the Forsaken. Swords and axes clashed with ringing steel and flying sparks. The vibrations of taut bowstrings released were followed by the thuds of impacting arrows. Blades cleft the animated corpses as they shuffled toward them, their decaying forms littering the floor. Above the din of battle, Mograine's war cry broke through, and so did his mace. The great weapon was swung down again and again, making dust of the invaders. He was a remarkable man. But Whitemane was powerful too. With holy light, she smote the dead. Smoke trailed from scattered pieces of burnt flesh as the spell ripped apart one walking cadaver after another.
"Mograine," she shouted. The man turned to meet her gaze. Her smile was broad and genuine. "They don't stand a chance!" He smiled back. But he was distracted. Three ghouls had squeezed through to him and with giant claws raked him. He stumbled toward her, bleeding from the throat and face, and collapsed. By the light, she thought. Raising her staff, it shone brightly with the divine energy of resurrection magic.
That's when she caught movement from the corner of her eye. She had been unfocused and hadn't seen the group of undead coming from behind. Not the mindless ghouls that were fighting her men, but armored ones with purposeful expressions painted on their disgusting faces. She was about to yell out to warn the others, the resurrection ritual far from completion, but it was too late. She felt a sharp pain at the back of her head, and everything went black.
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The inquisitor's lily-white paleness was a sharp contrast to the dark stone walls of the Undercity dungeon, Halthor thought. As a Forsaken and denizen of the Apothecarium, he had little love for this magic-wielding, light-worshipping human chained before him. He looked toward the furnace on the left wall of the dank cell where her broken staff and robes were crackling in the intense flames; she would not be a threat with those out of the way. Not that she had looked all that threatening when the raiding party had returned with her from the monastery.
He regarded her nude figure. Her slim waist, thick thighs, tits the size of large cantaloupe melons, and smooth white hair tugged at distant memories of the flesh. He guessed he did feel some attraction to her, but if those feelings were real or just dulled, fractured shards of what he had felt as a human, he did not know. There was something pleasing about her feminine form though, he had to admit. The heavy, black make-up she had put around her eyes and the red, painted lines running from her eyes and down each cheek were no doubt meant to give her a menacing appearance, but unconscious, naked, and bound as she was, it hardly had that effect.
Her current predicament was of his making. His and Neesa's. Neesa was a female goblin, barely three feet tall, and with her raven hair put up in two protruding ponytails. Her face was cute and playful, lacking the ginormous, beak-like nose of her male counterparts. They were both alchemists made questioners, and he enjoyed the scientific curiosity and thirst for innovation with which she undertook every novel task.
Their new subject, none other than Inquisitor Sally Whitemane, hung before them. Still out of it, her head hung low. The contraption holding her was simple enough. The woman sat on an iron chair bolted to the wall so that her toes dangled four feet above the stone floor. The chair had no seat, however, only the iron frame, giving the alchemists full view of the captured inquisitor's curvaceous undercarriage. Her shapely bottom and huge thighs filled the inside of the frame where the seat should have been and spilled out on the sides as well. Iron bands were strapped around her upper thighs to keep them firmly together. Another band ran across her midriff and one around her neck, bolting her back and head firmly to the wall. Shackles around ankles and wrists made sure her ability to move was effectively gone. The perfect wallflower, Halthor thought.
A bucket of ice water hit the fastened woman, and she awoke with a jerk. Eyes wide and searching, she looked about the room, her expression of dread growing by the second.
"Welcome, inquisitor," Halthor said apathetically. His interest was there, sure enough, but he seldom wore his inner processes on his sleeve.
"What happened? Where am I?" A tinge of hysteria entered Whitemane's voice.
"The Undercity, of course," replied Neesa, making no effort to disguise her enthusiasm, "your order fell and you're our prisoner. Your order destroyed a Dreadlord by the name of Beltheris long ago. To our knowledge, he possessed the legendary sword known as Felheart. Where is it?"
"Felheart? What are you talking about? Release me, critter. Where is Mograine? The stench of undeath makes my stomach turn. Your pathetic kin are one thing, goblin, but him…" Her eyes were as glowing embers as they were fixed on Halthor. "He is offensive to the senses, an abomination." She tried to twist out of her position, and it was at that moment she noticed her ordeal in full. "Why am I…" She blushed. The hysteria was now apparent on her face.
"Naked?" Neesa asked. "Oh, you'll know soon enough, unless you answer our question. Felheart?"
"I do not know, you pathetic leech," she sneered. "Crawl back into your hole."
"Fine," Neesa sighed, "shut her up."
Halthor nodded and went over to the ladder propped against the wall next to the helpless Whitemane. He climbed up until they were face to face. Next to her head was an iron hook in the wall with a thick rope attached to it. This short rope had a fat knot halfway down its length, which in turn was wrapped in cloth. The furious woman spat him straight in the face as he was bringing the rope across her mouth. Her mouth opened, likely to growl some profane curse at him, but he stuffed the cloth-covered knot in her maw before she could get a sound out. The other end he attached to a hook on the other side of her head. The rope looked to dig uncomfortably into woman's cheeks. Fierce mumbles came muted through the gag, while she shot daggers at him.
"An improvement," he murmured as he descended the ladder. Neesa giggled at that. She often seemed to find his dry comments funny in situations like these.
Meanwhile, Neesa placed a few two-inch-high boxes under Sally's bare feet. Donning leather gloves, the goblin went over to the furnace a retrieved a long, deep metal tray full of glowing coals. The prisoner's moans went from furious to desperate as the tray was placed right underneath the soles of her feet; they weren't touching the smoldering coals, but the heat would be torturous. It didn't take long until muffled screams of agony traveled through the gag. She squirmed in the limited space allowed by her restraints and her feet danced, wiggled, and flexed in a futile attempt to get away from the blistering heat. Sweat poured from her face and body, streaming between her massive tits and down her legs to drip from her twisting toes into the sizzling tray. In seconds, she was coated in her own perspiration, glittering beautifully in the torchlight of the chamber. Her eyes looked like they were about to roll out of her head. The chains and shackles rattled and clattered violently. It was only a moment before Neesa removed the tray.
"Now do you remember where you hid that blade?" The goblin's inquiry was expressed in a way that sounded light and friendly yet determined.
"Gnnnn mgnn," answered Whitemane, shaking her head. Tears were streaming down her face to add to the wet glaze. The dark make-up around her eyes had dissolved and left black streaks running down her cheeks to blend in with the red lines. It had always been funny to Halthor how black eye make-up worked; it was applied to look sensual or dominating, he theorized as he meandered over to the tools hanging on the wall, but the moment a tear was introduced, it heightened the visuals of their meltdown. Halthor preferred to hide his outward expressions, not amplify them.
"No? Go ahead, Halthor," said the goblin.
The crack of the whip was thunder in the little room. Its tail struck across the bound woman's belly, leaving a distinct red mark. She gave a howl of surprise and pain, having been focused on the goblin and her tray, and not him. He recoiled the whip and readied it for another swipe.
"Pwes, gnnng," Sally begged.
SMACK! The whip cracked the air again. Another wail fled the cloth gag as a brutal red mark appeared across those mountainous tits. SMACK, SMACK, SMACK! The patterns now crossed each other in cruel streaks. With an underhand sweep, he brought the whip up to snap at her thighs underneath the chair. That made her jump, a coughing sob coming through the cloth gag.
"Do you think she wants another?" Neesa wondered.
"Likely," the undead man nodded.
"Naw, naw, naw," came the dampened pleas of the inquisitor.
"No? Nothing you haven't inflicted onto others, I am sure. Alright, no more whips then," Neesa smiled.
"Fank yuw," mumbled their subject. She was weeping hard now, body shaking with audible sobs. Then, Neesa brought the tray of coals under her feet again. Halthor had heard banshee and bats make less noise. The desperate dance of her slow-roasting feet resumed. The two alchemist just stepped back and watched it for a moment.
"Let's see what she has to say," he suggested. The goblin nodded agreement, removing the coals. As she took hold of the tray, she looked up at their subject. "You better have something to say." In an intimidating gesture, she raised the tray closer to the woman's exposed booty. Her shackles twitched as she panicked in an effort to lift herself up, only to be cruelly kept in place by the iron bands. "I might just find some taller boxes to place this on." With that, she removed the tray, leaving the prisoner to draw labored breaths.
Halthor climbed the ladder once more, unhooking the gag.
"Please! No more, I'll do anything, an-y-thing," mighty inquisitor Whitemane sobbed. "The anguish is excruciating."
"Where is the sword?" Halthor re-stated. The woman met his dead eyes. Hers were dark, wet orbs shimmering with fear; however, underneath that fear, he thought he saw a streak of defiance. Her answer did not surprise him.
"I don't know. I swear. I swe-he-he-ear," she cried. He did not buy it. There was no way this holy woman was broken already.
"Bring out the big guns? We need to test what she can take anyway," Neesa proposed as she shrugged her shoulders.
"Wh-what is that? What are you doing?" Whitemane asked as Halthor produced a bottle with a green liquid inside. She attempted to lean away from him as he removed the cork stopper to let the fumes float into the human's nose. As expected, it did not take long before she drifted from consciousness once more.
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When Sally Whitemane came to, she felt that panic set in again right away. They burnt me! They whipped me! Oh Light, let it be over. Lock me away or end me, just stop this torment. For the first time in her life, she suffered sympathy for the people she had put to the question. They had been deserving, of course, but must have felt the same pain. The scorched soles of her feet still ached with a searing pain, and her chest, ass, and belly stung from the aftermath of her whipping. One day, the Scarlet Crusade will exterminate this nest of rodents, she swore to herself.
Her monologue of inner defiance was quickly interrupted, however, as when the sluggishness left her mind and the blur left her vision, she found herself in bondage still. Only, this time, she was tethered to a wooden horse. Her legs were straight and reached the floor, where her ankles were shackled to great iron rings. She was bent over at the hips, her torso lying flat against the wooden horse's back, squeezing her massive tits into the wood, which made them leak out on either side. A leather belt around her waist held her in place, and another set of shackles kept her hands fastened at either side of the wooden contraption.
"What is happening?" She shouted, embarrassed about the lack of control over that quiver in her voice. Tears threatened at the corners of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She had regained some of her strength and knew she was going to have to be tough to survive this.
"We're getting answers, one way or another," came the goblin's voice. That was about how far Whitemane's regained strength got her.
"W-what do you mean? I don't know where your sword is, I swear. Mograine! Mograine would know." Her frantic negotiations were interrupted by a large door swinging open. She was staring straight at it. In came the bastard undead who had whipped her, his bones disgustingly stick out of his rotten flesh. Behind him followed a large, black horse, hooves making hollow clacks against the stone floor. Stunned, she watched the undead man lead the living, breathing horse behind her. Her eyes caught the massive horse cock of the black stallion as he sauntered by.
"W-wait, you cannot possibly mean…"
The horse neighed as it reared up, landing its great forelegs on a scaffolding build above her. Chains and wood creaked terrifyingly as the great beast settled its upper body into the frame. All other sources of agony fled her mind as she felt the hanging, hairy belly of the horse touch her lower back.
"N-no, this is sick, even for your kind. You cannot possibly mean this." Whitemane was shouting now. Her voice breaking and trembling. "I will give you anything, tell you anything. Please. The sword! The sword is in the altar of the cathedral. I swear. I swear. Dear Light, save me. Save me." Appeals and prayers crumbled into another fit of unconstrained sobs.
"We found nothing in that altar, priest," Halthor growled.
"B-but, Light, I don't know where it is! I. Don't. Know. This will break me, ruin me, I am untouched – a woman of the Light." Frantically, she pulled at the infernal restraints, swung side to side to tip the wooden horse over, but to no avail.
"We have healers and potions," explained the Forsaken.
Sally roared as the flat head of the gigantic horse cock was pushed up against her tight cunt, lying broadly across her clamped gash. The scaffolding creaked as the horse applied pressure, thrusting its hips to enter its new breeding mare. The force was unbelievable, and she got pressed into the wooden horse. Baring down on her nether region, her slit was blessedly too tight. The beast exerted more pressure, squeezing her softness with its rough surface. Her back arced as she was pushed forward with nowhere to go. The flat head slid off of her cunt and shot down to hang uselessly between her legs. She could feel it dangle almost to her knees.
"It won't fit. Make it stop," sniveled the inquisitor. "This is inhumane. I'll serve, I'll do anything! I'll help you look for the sword. Mograine! I know his weaknesses. Please, don't ruin me."
Neither the goblin nor undead gave her an answer. Instead, she saw the Forsaken approach with another vial. He poured the slimy liquid on the horse's limb, letting it drip down onto her ass and run down her privates. The horse repositioned itself, neighing with impatient annoyance.
"M-mercy," whispered Sally.
The stallion's thunder ram penetrated her virgin fuck hole with extraordinary force. The rippled rim of the meat rod's flat head flung her tight lips wide open and sunk into her untouched tunnel, stretching her walls on its journey. The impossible member threatened to pulverize her womb as it blasted forward. Inquisitor Whitemane gave a shrill cry as blinding pain shot through her body and shattered her mind. Unable to form words, she bellowed incoherent babble alongside her animalistic wails. Her holy sanctum had been desecrated. Her pit plunged. Every inch of the horse's girth pressured her tunnel. She felt it pulse and quiver inside her, while simultaneously her own twat spasmed and contracted violently around the horse flesh. As the meat log hit the bottom, she was pushed forward together with the wooden horse until the chains were taut. A fat, black ball sack swung in moments later to slap heavily against her reverberating thighs. She stood on her toes in hope of leaning away – a pointless endeavor.
The horse was not satisfied with one plunge, however. As fast as it had sunk in, it pulled out. Or at least it tried to. The head was so broad it would not exit. Unable to withdraw completely, the horse thrusted inward again. What followed was a pummeling so brutal, even Neesa looked away. The black stallion drove its bitch breaker into the brutalized muff of its victim with vicious virility. Choked screams of "mercy" came between the grunts, shrieks, and sobs of the shuddering and broken woman. Her femininity in ruin, her power drained, she could only take the black beast's colossal pole. The proud stallion invader impaled his mare with certainty and force. Its sack hit her thighs like a paddle for each thrust, enhancing her anguish and providing a clapping beat to its barbaric rhythm.
A loud neigh echoed a warning through the room as the horse's rhythm changed from fast ramming to pulsating thrusts. The giant black ball sack repeatedly rose and fell, contracted and released, as the mega cock pumped its breeding batter deep into the innermost sanctum of the priest's hallow cavern. Inordinate amounts of white-gray sludge flooded every nook and cranny of her once-tight passage. It felt as if her belly would burst with the influx of horse goo. Having deposited its seed within its new cum dump, the horse's softening member slid out like a snake slithering away from danger, accompanied by the sound of bubbling air. He left her abused cunt gushing thick slush down her thighs. She could only shiver and moan in broken agony. Her words came as unintelligible jabber. The soles of her feet stung still, but worse was the ring of her hole, which was a raging fire.
"Guess we can't ask her about the sword, now," Neesa's voice came as a distant whisper to her hazy mind.
Without warning, the goblin shoved the branding iron she had retrieved from the furnace during the breeding session hard unto the inquisitor's left ass cheek. The hot metal hissed when it made contact with the pale skin. Whitemane's unintelligent jabber was replaced by a heart-wrenching scream, her foggy mind illuminated once more by a distinct and sharp agony. The Horde symbol had been seared into her voluptuous booty. Neesa chuckled, "It almost looks like a horseshoe. I never noticed that before."
"I'll get the healer," she heard Halthor mutter. "The warchief's new technique will keep her alive until they can find the time."
Before Sally drifted from consciousness yet again, she was vaguely aware of Halthor producing a healing potion from his belt pouch. He disappeared behind her, out of view. She grunted as what had to be the cold glass neck of the bottle was shoved deep inside her rectum. As the healing enema took effect, she passed out.
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Neesa stood within the courtyard of the ruins of Lordearan. Henceforth, visitors would be met by a new piece of art as they entered through the city gates. A life-sized statue of a brazen bull stood facing the entrance. At its flank was a hatch, currently opened to allow one to look inside the statue. For the last half hour or so, the goblin had watched with barely contained amusement as the Undercity guards had fought and struggled to lock the great inquisitor Whitemane within this new contraption. The human bitch stood on all fours inside the belly of the beast, arms and legs shackled to the 'floor', while chains ran from the 'ceiling' inside the bull to tether Whitemane's collar and belt. She had some wiggle room in there for sure, but not enough space to turn around. The chains would keep her from lying directly on the bull's belly – at least for the most part.
"Please, lady goblin, not this. I can't do it. I can't. Take me as your servant. Take me as the horse's servant," the white-haired woman pleaded.
"Naw, you want to be my human whore, bitch?"
"Yes, I'll be your whore, I'll be your bitch. Whatever you want."
"I always preferred brunettes," the goblin smirked.
Shivering in fear so hard her chains and shackles rattled audibly, the human shot her a tearful, panicked look. Her lip quivered as if she was a little girl. In a weak, pathetic voice, she whispered a final, "please, I beg of y…", as the hatch smacked shut. She must have started shouting already, for a series of toots escaped from the bull's throat as if her complaints had travelled through a deep brass instrument. There were no discernable words, however. Neesa's invention seemed to be working.
"There is a hatch in the back," the goblin explained to the guards, "either for travelers' enjoyment or to muck out the device. You can also open a hatch above her head for feeding and water. These humans can hardly go a day without it, particularly under these conditions. Remember to switch out the healing potion stuffed into her dark star toward the end of the day, so she is ready for each morrow."
As she wandered toward the Undercity to get herself a cool beverage, the city guards lit the brazier beneath the brazen beast's belly. The low moos and calf-like bawls of the metallic oxen followed her through the ruins of Lordaeron. The sound was menacing, and would no doubt attract attention from the new Horde; this marble of indignant ingenuity would surely solidify Orc and Forsaken relations, and hopefully earn the goblins some well-deserved respect too. The only thing that worried her was whether or not the high-pitched, too-human screeches that sometimes snuck in as an undertone to the noises of cattle might distract the felbats flying in and out of the city. They just had to wait and see, she supposed. Perhaps she would have to make improvements. It was all about the science of it.