Rennia stood in front of the Ebongild Tavern, much to her annoyance. Dontellin hadn't left yet. He was "busy" chewing on a piece of reed, boots level with a cart, legs crossed and lounging lazily as he stared at the ruinous tavern in front of him.
Rennia stepped toward him, arms on her hips, annoyed at his consistent presence. Bothered that he was still here. She did pay him already—what did he want?
"Why are you still here? Are you that eager to chase after me? I thought I made my position clear."
He snorted at ease. "Miss Perillion, I've simply taken interest in the establishment you and the demanding boss lady of yours have in your possession. I see myself coming to this tavern to spend my hard-earned coin, one day. Can't a man admire a burned-down tavern, famed for once running traffic on these roads?"
If admiring was staring at a woman making herself at home, then he was guilty.
Traffic? Was Ishmere's tavern that famous, or good? Is that why the basement was full of kegs? Speaking of which, she was slowly putting two and two together—Ishmere didn't like talking about the fire. But this "fire duchess" was all the more relevant now.
Dontellin's eyes shifted to the two carpenters at work. They were replacing hollowed-out planks with something sturdier. Hopefully, by tonight at least, it wouldn't be as cold inside the walls. Goddess knew she was sick of sleeping in the cold, and Ishmere didn't offer much warmth as a bed partner. No, she was a "bedding" partner, and Rennia was getting annoyed by how much Ishmere's cock had found its way to her face.
"Besides, I've got much to do, and the city is as hollow as can be. You and Miss Ishmere are a fresh breath of air."
Tolerate. That was the only thought she was clinging to. She tolerated his presence. It was the only form of restraint she could manage. She really didn't want to be around so many people, much less men. But there was something off about him—his accent was well-used. It screamed "person of the upper echelon of society" more than it did "nobody who drives cargo around with a smelly horse."
A topic for another day.
Rennia turned away, but he stopped her before she could leave. He gave her a slight glance, then whispered, "So, you're a Tinnie then? Talk about scraping the bottom of the barrel. The guild takes anyone these days."
"Tin rank. And what of it!" She pointed at herself and then him. "Would you believe me if I told you that I was once a Bronze rank adventurer? Not to mention, you drive cargo for a living. Why are we talking about scraping the bottom of the barrel? Maybe my blade will find its way between your groin, cart driver."
"Ooh, easy now. I didn't mean to offend you, my lady." His tone certainly didn't sell his de-escalation. He had an attitude and she had a problem with that.
Rennia crossed her arms. Dontellin's eyes flicked lower, toward her lower stomach, fixated on something. Clearly curious, Rennia turned away quickly, spinning around. Panic. Did he notice? Did he see? Did he already know? Did Ishmere already tell him?
Dontellin broke off in a spatter of laughter, muttering, "Oh, please calm down. I was merely staring at your... breastplate armor. Yes, it does quite suit someone of your caliber."
Could be free flattery, could be the truth. "Shouldn't you be going somewhere?"
"I got permission to stick around. Lady Ishmere stated that she didn't mind more bodies around."
Rennia channeled her anger into her fists, but let it go. He was turning out to be more of an annoyance than when she first met him. Oh well. Still, would he be the kind to care? If she was desperate for touching, for attention, would she turn to him? She couldn't determine his real motive, and her sexual composure was slowly slipping away. That was part of the curse she was carrying—best to leave him to his lounging.
She needed to get a grip on her emotions and feelings really fast. Otherwise, it was going to become a real hassle if she got a stiff sword every time she thought romantic thoughts.
Though, whether or not he was pushing or testing boundaries, he was clearly hiding it under the pretense of his jokes and sarcasm. That should be enough to keep him at bay. Best not to cross the line with this one.
Rennia stepped toward the Ebongild tavern. Formerly a burned-out husk, then briefly a shelter, and now her home. The old carpenter was there, hammering and beating nails. He turned to her with annoyance.
"Told me to build a fortress, she did, and then gave me just enough money to scrape together some cheap failing materials, old wood, and weak glue. This place would be better off being torn down, but she's the boss. Do as Ishmere says, none shall cross the witch."
Rennia tuned him out. What was that loony on about? Instead, something else caught her attention.
His right hand, a young man maybe a bit younger than her, caught her attention. He was tall, fresh-faced, maybe eighteen. A bit younger than her—a treat if she wanted to scoop him up. She caught him staring once, and every time she looked at him, he stumbled, fumbled, or blushed.
She smirked, kept her voice low and close. She found it cute how he struggled to compose himself around her. Of course, romance was out of the question, permanently. Not with Ishmere, not with Dontellin, and certainly not this carpenter boy.
"Careful there, don't keep staring at me like that. I might have to educate you." She teased.
Talk about out-of-character, Rennia. Since when have you been a flirt?
He flushed, cheeks deep crimson, dropping a beam to the ground. The carpenter screamed, shouting at him, "Eyes up here, boy! What am I paying you for? Don't ogle at these witches. Focus on getting paid."
That's right. He should focus on getting his job done, not on her.
He was cute, but knowing what she'd been through, what had happened, she'd be ruining him. And these days, she was trying not to ruin anything. These days, ruin tended to find her. Just what was this class turning her into?
The young man stammered and walked off into the distance, grabbing some things, some building materials. The carpenter gave her half a stare, his one eye bigger than the other.
"Well then, missy, I'd tell you to make yourself scarce, but this is your home. I do find it strange though, as I haven't seen your master since coming here. A bit odd, don't you think?"
Oh no.
Ishmere.
The goblin problem.
She would have resolved this immediately. They could both wait.
Rennia ran into the building and then eagerly searched the room for Ishmere. The nymph was nowhere to be found—not under the bed, not in the decrepit basement that she kept. She needed to do an independent investigation at some point, but Ishmere wouldn't allow her in until Ishmere was ready, clearly hiding something.
She took her blade. Goblins were a mixed bunch. The tribes typically kept to themselves, but stragglers, raiders, and bandits more often than not had a habit of terrorizing humans, and that couldn't stand. She took her blade, just in case. Yes, Ishmere was likely friendly with these goblins, but she couldn't risk it. The chance that something wrong may have happened, and in Ishmere's weakened state, even someone as small as a goblin could overpower her.
When she ran outside, she had no means of direction but goblins liked the forest, which meant bushes. She had no clues, but her ears picked up sounds. Off the clearing, there was rustling in the bushes—most likely an animal, but if not, she'd pursue until she found something.
She pushed through the brush, searching desperately.
Nothing.
No one.
A bit north maybe?
She did, however, notice something strange. On one of the trees, a white cloth was hung from the branches, just sitting there. A bird was pecking at it. She didn't recall putting that there. She doubted Ishmere would either.
Then she stopped, silent, listening. She heard an inkling of noise to the north. She walked slowly, and then she gawked at the sight before her.
She found her.
Ishmere. Naked. Her back flexed and her hips grinding deep forward onto a goblin bitch on all fours. The goblinette's green skin glistened with sweaty fluids, and her fat ass kept bouncing, and her mouth was endlessly moaning. She was being ridden by the immortal and she loved it.
But they weren't alone.
There was a ring of goblins around the pair. Mostly female. Mostly unclothed. Some knelt down, fingers buried between their legs. Others watched with anticipation, massaging their breasts, and cheering with arousal. Ishmere was participating in more "rituals," it seemed.
Rennia felt disgusted slightly. Goblins—they were savages. That was what she was taught. Interacting with them in this manner, it was—
Fear. Rage. Something hotter, crawling up her spine. Her hand found her sword hilt. She didn't draw. Just held it, grounding herself.
Ishmere turned her head, grinning as wide as she could. Sweat trailed down her supple breasts. And she thrust again, slowly, until her cock was halfway free, then she shoved it back inside, and smacked the goblin's cheeks. The goblin whimpered, thighs trembling, dominated.
"Rennia, I was wondering when you'd get here!"
Rennia stammered and walked slightly backward. "What? What are you doing? What's going on here?"
Rhetorical, but necessary. Ishmere was a weirdo, and her influence was rubbing off.
"Ah, remember I told you about the encounter I had with goblins? Well, it appears they may have pledged their loyalty to me. And they need a little healing and a little love. So I thought, why not help both?"
Surreal, that was her thought. It was one thing to have relations with someone of another race, such as an elf or a dwarf. They had culture, clothes, written language. But societal norms taught Rennia from a young age that goblins were nothing but dumb beasts. And yet before her, they sat—alien, nonviolent, although very sexual, all entranced by the scene in front of them.
Nothing prepared her for this. The goblins weren't attacking. No biting or snarling. They just sat and masturbated. Touching themselves to the scene in front of her, probably waiting for their turn. Dozens, entranced by the rhythm of Ishmere's penetrations.
Ishmere pulled the goblin's hair tight, forcing her head back, exposing her throat. The goblin moaned shamelessly, her body submissive, back arched to take more.
A goblin with long brown hair and blue eyes approached Rennia. Rennia backed away instinctively, then it sniffed at her, directly at her crotch. Her bulge. Instinct took over. She felt revulsion and panic. Her palm flew out and smacked the goblin across the face before she could think.
The creature yelped and flew back, tumbling into the moss. The crowd didn't scatter. Daggers glinted. And they started watching her, judging her with intent.
Ishmere pulled free from the spent goblin beneath her with a wet sound, her cock still slick and hard. She stood between them, between Rennia and the ring of bodies and daggers raised.
"Rennia, no! Stop, don't!" She held up her hand, standing in the middle between the crowd and Rennia. Eyes locked with Rennia's. Then she whispered, "Please don't. I have an agreement with these folk. I understand that you might not be comfortable with that, but they're not bad people."
People. Strange word choice. It was sharp and it ruptured something in her.
Rennia sighed. The goblin she struck was crawling backward, holding her cheek, wide-eyed and sniffling. No rage. Just confusion. Hurt.
Rennia shook her head. She was being calculated, assessed like a threat. She needed to be wary—they were organized, and a cohesive number of them were creeping closer.
It was a reaction—could you blame her for that? A goblin of all things sniffed at her.
Rennia stared at Ishmere. "You're fucking goblins," Rennia snapped. "That's a bit much."
"I am," she said plain as day. "So what? They're alive. They're people, they feel. They deserve pleasure. I deserve pleasure. I like them. They can be loyal."
"But... but they do bad things."
"Bad things? What bad things? So do we. And we call it war and taxes. You were clearly raised to hate goblins, Rennia. Look again."
Two males were still poised nearby—on edge, protective. Another goblin was grooming the one who got slapped, whispering softly, combing dirt from her hair. There was no outrage. Just quiet tension.
Rennia didn't understand any of it. Not their culture. Not this... open sexuality. Not the acceptance. It was chaotic. Unsettling.
Ishmere had made her join some spirit-ritual when she was half-dead. She'd followed then, disoriented and numb. But this? This was something else.
The point was, she was pulling Rennia into weird situations.
Maybe disgust was a strong word. She did feel an ounce of pity for them. Maybe. But she didn't trust goblins. She saw them differently than Ishmere. And intercourse with them was totally off base. And something shifted in her. Quietly.
Rennia turned away, letting her sword slide back into its sheath. "Okay, you do what you need to. Do what you want. I can't... deal with this."
As she walked back, a thick branch whipped her face, and she fell backward onto her ass. She swore she heard one of them, call her a weirdo as it happened. All the goblins had erupted into laughter. One stood in the tree, laughing at her from above. A prank. A nasty prank. Jovial humor at her expense.
She took a rock and threw it at him. He tumbled and fell down. The goblins kept laughing, but—they were all picking up rocks now, aiming them at her.
Ishmere stood there, arms crossed, smiling at her, concerned not one bit. Giggling.
Rennia walked on, and all she felt was a bit of shame. And as she walked away from the clearing, she could hear the noises resume again. They went on as if nothing had happened. Ishmere stayed with them.
And some small part of her was curious. She stopped briefly, staring from afar. Looking at Ishmere having intercourse with goblins. And something twitched in her.
She walked back to the tavern.
The young carpenter looked at her, wild-eyed and slightly startled. He asked her, "Are you okay? What happened?"
She shook her head. "No. And don't ask."
She looked at the mess of bricks, beams, and scaffolding that was in progress. She turned to the old carpenter. "Can I be useful here?"
He gave her a weary look. "Well, two of my crew didn't show up. Grab a shovel, Lady Perillion."
She did so. The carpenter was yelling something aloud, but it didn't stop her. He pointed at the ground—a jutting section near the corner of the building. He told her, "Dig."
And so she dug, hoping that, at the end of the day, Ishmere's chaos wouldn't swallow her whole.
And yet, something twitched. Some part of her thought about that small goblin with its large breasts huddled on the ground, vulnerable like prey. She could join them. Or she could work on her skills. Get stronger. Prepare herself for tomorrow. Prepare herself for the dungeon.
What was she on about—what skills? Sex, of course.