Before she ran into that oversized black cat, Sora had been on her way to negotiate a deal on behalf of the tribe with their "Lords."
"Et to, who is this Lord person?" I asked, leaning forward on the log bench. "Are they… like landlords or something?"
The chief's face darkened, while the other elves around the fire pit frowned; some clenched their fists, and others looked away with barely concealed anger.
"Indeed," Suwaira said solemnly. "The entirety of the Wasteland has been under the authority of the Black Serpent, Lithänraia."
The chief paused, letting the name settle like a stone in water. And it settled in, alright. I already don't want to ever meet them.
"We, all the intelligent residents of the continent, have to pay them annual tribute. However, we couldn't afford it this year."
I waited for him to continue.
And he continued, with a low voice.
"The payment are our young men. And about ten every year are sent to the Lords. According to the old negotiations, they are supposed to return five years later."
A bitter laugh escaped him, as he carried on.
"But that rarely happens. And when it does… they return as husks. Empty shells of flesh, with their minds broken, and their bodies wasted."
My stomach twisted from the imagery.
And why just men? BL?
"So our spineless young men started fleeing," he said. "Leaving us with only middle-aged and old warriors. But plenty of young women."
Hey, they're not spineless! Even I would run away too… But I guess that explained it:
The tribe was full of beautiful, barely-dressed dark elf women—curves on display, silver hair swaying, and their thighs flashing with every shift on the benches in the hall.
I wondered why the gender ratio felt so lopsided, so this was why?
"Sora was supposed to negotiate," Suwaira finished. "To tell them to accept women this time around… or pardon us for the year."
My gaze fell on Sora.
And she shrugged, her cheeks pink, and suddenly her thighs pressing together under her tiny handkerchief she calls a skirt.
"I'd even be down to being collared and messed up," she said cheerfully. "They don't need the boys, what they need is a chair—me."
Hah. I choked on air.
"Wouldn't that have been dangerous?" I asked. "Going alone like that?"
"Worry not, O guest," suddenly, a soft, feminine voice came from the doorway.
A fair-skinned elf stepped inside; she was extremely cute, and nearly doll-like.
Faint green hair braided in one long, thick rope that reached her ankles, swaying gently with every step.
Soft green eyes framed by long lashes. Her face was very youthful, with big eyes, small nose, and plump pink lips curved in a gentle smile. She looked like a teenager who'd wandered out of a genius's painting.
Her gown was pale and flowing, a thin silk-like material that clung to every curve as she moved.
The neckline plunged low between modest but perfectly shaped breasts, the fabric so sheer in places that it hinted at pale pink nipples beneath.
It cinched tight at her narrow waist with a delicate silver cord, then flared into a long skirt slit high on both thighs—exposing smooth, creamy legs with every graceful stride.
The gown's hem brushed her ankles, but the side slits revealed flashes of hip and the barest curve of ass when she turned.
She wore no jewelry except a thin silver circlet resting on her forehead; the simplicity only made her look more noble, more untouchable.
"The disgusting mongrel can handle it."
Sora yelped at the newcomer's words, gripping her crotch as if struck by a cold fish.
The woman walked straight to Suwaira and sat beside him; with her small hand resting possessively on his massive thigh.
"Despite her immoral and unsightly nature," she continued sweetly, "my swine of a daughter is quite powerful."
Sora whimpered a little again, her thighs squeezing harder from being called a swine.
Wait, does this girl ever stop?
Then the chief cleared his throat and introduced the newcomer. "This is my wife, Vaelora. She's a pure elf, unlike us."
My brain stalled from what he said. And a bit of resentment began to seep in.
"So… the chief of the dark elves is a pedo?" I muttered, looking away. "I hear that happened a lot in medieval days."
"Wha—?! I'm not a pedo!" Suwaira roared, his face flushing dark. "And Vaelora is older than me by a few hundred years!"
"Huh?" I blinked. "Then how old are YOU?"
He looked away, suddenly acting shy; his massive shoulders hunching.
Is he a maiden now?!
"I… prefer not to share my age, but if you insist…" He glanced at me, then away again. "I am only one thousand and thirty years old."
ONLY?!
That's one millennium!
So Vaelora-sama is about twelve hundred or so?
"Goodness, Suwaira! Don't lie like that," Vaelora tapped his forehead gently with one delicate finger. "Do not mind our silly chief, Master Shirogane—"
"Just call me Yanen."
"—he likes to use Sora's age often. He is in fact three thousand five hundred and fifty. I am three thousand eight hundred and forty, by the way."
Ignoring the info that Sora might be one thousand years old, I stared at them, smiling softly.
"And you won't believe it," I said, deciding to join the joke, "but I'm actually twenty thousand."
They all gave me dry smiles; like adults humoring a toddler!
"Ahaha! Master Shirogane, humans don't age so far!" Zora openly mocked me, her silver eyes sparkling with amusement.
Well… she is cute, so I'll let it pass.
As the fire crackled and the smoke curled upward, I looked around the hall again;
Beautiful people everywhere, barely covered, their silver hair catching firelight, thighs and breasts on casual display.
The chief's daughters especially: Milo fidgeting with her tiny skirt, her small breasts rising with nervous breaths; Zora leaning back, her moderate chest thrust forward, and her confident smile never fading; Hera standing rigid, her scarred muscles flexing under her revealing leather halter and shorts; Sora biting her lip, her body still lightly trembling from earlier.
And Vaelora; her pale and ethereal gown clinging to every innocent curve like it was painted on.
If not for my current cute looks, I feel completely out of place here.