The Drayean Project

Orlin twirled the old-fashion palk in his palm. It was sunset, and the dense, russet canopy of the Drayean Forest cast myriad ghosts on the underbrush. There was no sound save for the wind brushing through and around the trees and shadows. Early autumn brought the sweet, damp scent of new-fallen leaves, and yesterday's rain made a comfortable mulch of the forest bed.

Orlin sat, soaking in the pleasant moisture, amid tall berry bushes that huddled around an ancient alder. The palk he toyed with was a hooked blade without a handle, only a smoothened pommel. It was short, sharp, and vicious. An old assassin's weapon.

He was waiting for a very specific group of people to be passing by soon. There would be five or six of them, all armed, all looking very much like soldiers on patrol. They would not use the roads. Orlin's association had had to squeeze a few important people very hard to extract a good estimate as to the route they would be taking.

"Through the Drayean Forest, east-northeast of the capitol, south of Wulfen's Tower, north of the main road. Their course will curve away from the capitol at first, then correct when they make the edge of the woods. They will be on horseback, and when they break the forest, they will make haste for the city."

He had to intercept them before that happened. He had no mount, and no real chance of fighting in the open field anyway. All but one of them would be soldiers. The one, his mark, should be taken alive. Orlin had no other information on this person, save that he was critical to the survival of the Drayean Dukedom. This was something his association was working hard to prevent; Draya must fall.

Orlin had been chosen for this mission because of his ears, which were the best among his people. His age was questionable. Already he had served the association for thirty years, and for the past three he had been relegated to an advisory position, but now...he would concentrate.

He closed his eyes. Concentration. Scarce could a butterfly pass without his hearing the beating of wings. For half and hour he focused, listening, and then--

Hooves.

He sprang up. They were a good distance away yet, but in minutes they would be passing...there. Orlin sprinted to a tree two hundred yard away and scaled it. He sat perched, listening as the hooves drew nearer. Soon he saw them, five men in maille and helm, all with swords. They were making right for him. He wrapped his cloak tight around him; it's auburn hues hid him amid the dying leaves. Minutes more and they were right under him.

With practiced deftness he drew a small crossbow and fired. The bolt broke a soldier's maille armor easily, piercing him through his neck under the helmet and sending him over the front of his horse. In almost the same motion Orlin leaped from his perch and landed on another man, the pommel of the palk in his fist, the blade protruding between his clenched fingers. He drove it into the man's neck as they fell of the horse to the bed of wet leaves, not spattered with blood.

One of the men shouted "Run, Ilisa!" as he and another drew their swords. The mark wheeled his horse about, but Orlin had his own sword out and drove it deep into the animal's flank. It buckled, and the mark was thrown. The rest was a swift torrent of ducking and slicing, and in some seconds the other two men were sent to meet their companions.

Orlin's mark was running on foot, but his maille was heavy and his pace slow. Orlin caught up and tackled him to the ground, drawing his sword from it's sheath and tossing it away. He rolled the man over and--she was a woman.

"Please," she gasped. "Please don't kill me. I don't know why you're doing this. Please, I can give you anything!"

Of course she was a woman. It made sense to Orlin now. The Duke of Draya was trying to establish ties with other dukedoms so that, through alliance, he could restore his land and people to their former strength. This maiden--"Ilisa" the guard had called her--was likely to be the Duke's bride. She was a fair sort, to be sure, much slighter than the hardy northern women in these parts, with full red lips and dark green eyes. Her skin was an almost olive color, but not tanned, so she was clearly of noble blood.

"I'm not here to kill you. I'm taking you with me. You'll be my prisoner for now, until the Drayean Project is complete."

"The...the D-Drayean Project?" she stammered.

"Yes. I know who you are, and I am stopping you from doing what you came to do. Nothing more need be said. Come with me." He hauled her to her feet and brushed dirt and leaves off her maille. "We will be traveling far and fast. You are my prisoner, and as such I will protect your life, but any rebellion on your part will result in swift and painful punishment."

She kept looking past Orlin to her dead guards, and made no movement as he bound her hands and tied a rope to her waist and around his own.

* * *

"Another pint!" Jeg shouted, his mug lifted high. It was late, very late, and the Humping Hog patrons who remained were there for a very specific reason. In the darker district of the capitol, when the nights grew bitter and cold, it was always best to not go to bed alone.

A busty serving girl came to Jeg's table with a pitcher and filled, rather sloppily, his mug to the brim. It was clear that the tavern girls weren't afraid to indulge in the mead themselves when the hours dragged on. Jeg laughed when she spilled a little on his lap and gave her ample tit a tweak.

"You gonna clean that up, lass?" He grinned wolfishly.

"Why, of course, milord," she slurred, and grabbed a grungy towel. She bent down, her faded blue dress hanging away from her bosom, allowing Jeg a fine view as she took her time drying his trousers. More than once she moved a little high and stroked the towel over his hardening cock.

"Is milord enjoying the service at the Hog tonight?" She looked up at him, smiling. She was a typical woman of Draya: strong jaw, light yellow hair, pale blue eyes. Long winters had hardened her features, and age was just beginning to crease around her lips and eyes. Jeg had been to many dukedoms, seen many beautiful, fair, and fragile women, but somehow he was always drawn back to the surly, big-breasted lasses of his homeland.

"Why, of course! Never disappointed by the Hog. In fact," he stood up suddenly, "I declare a toast! To the Humping Hog, and these here maids, the finest women in all of Draya!" The men in the tavern, of which there were few, and the tavern maids all founds mugs and raised them high with a "Prost!" As Jeg downed his mead, he was feeling the room start to glow with a special warmth that places like this always seemed to bring. Jeg regarded his serving girl again. She was perhaps in her twenties, past the age when girls should marry, so she was likely committed to the tavern. When she cheered and drank, her eyes glistened like the Drayean snow, and a little mead trickled down her chin and neck, pooling and changing course at her clavicle, running down between her breasts.

"Oh my," Jeg said drunkenly as she finished drinking. "You seem to have spilled some. Please, allow me to clean it up this time." He put an arm around her waist and pulled her to him, eliciting an "Oh!" and a giggle from her as he lowered his face to her bosom and began to lick the mead trail, his tongue tracing the path up from her breast, her neck, her jaw, to her lips. She leaned back as he kissed her, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him against her. Jeg loved this about Drayean tavern women, the ease, the carefree "love and let love" attitude that kept people sane in a land where every day was a battle against cold and starvation.

A few of the men in the tavern noticed Jeg's victory, and cheered for him. More mead was going around, and Jeg and his lady broke their kiss to drink another mug.

"What's your name, lass?" Jeg said as he seated himself, and she sat in his lap.

"Helda." She took another swig. "Not a mighty pretty name, isn't it?"

"Ah," Jeg's voice went low, "but it's nay the name that makes the lass pretty, is it? Helda may be what you're called, but it's a fair maid that I see." One of the benefits of tavern hopping across the Dukedoms was that Jeg was used to wooing drunk girls. Helda giggled again and kissed Jeg, hard, her left hand traveling down to his swollen cock, stroking it lightly with her fingers, teasing. Jeg's own hand wandered to her calf, feeling her hair soft and fine, and ran his fingers up, pushing her dress, to her thigh. He felt her shapeliness, her curved flesh, and was delighted to be in the Humping Hog rather than a bar in Talea or Brosk, where the women were thin and bony. His hand made its way to the crease of her thigh and buttock, and she giggled in his mouth. She left off massaging his penis and instead ran her hand up under his shirt, feeling his hair and muscles, toying with his nipple. Jeg decided that, in about two seconds, he was going to throw this fine girl on the table and have her right then and there.

Two seconds later, a man burst in from the back room, fastening his trousers. As though by calling, he looked immediately at Jeg and Helda, caressing in a corner of the tavern. He fumed.

"What are ye doing wif my lass, ye filthy shit stick?" the man shouted across the room. The place became quiet very fast.

Jeg broke the kiss and rolled his head to see the offender. "Yer lass, boy?" His old accent was coming out, as it always did when he sensed aggression. "Funny that, as I don' recall her mentionin' a thin' about ye."

"Helda!" the man roared, "What do ye think ye're doin'?"

Helda rolled her eyes. Apparently she was familiar with this situation. "I think I'm 'avin' meself a good time, Geffet. I don' unnerstand why you think me yer lass. And anyway, I seen ye comin' from that room. Ain't any man go back there 'cept to have himself a good time, too. Who was it this time, Geffet? Lea? Nyne? Are we all yer lasses now?"

"You filthy whore!" Geffet came balling up to their table. He was burly brawler man, square jaw and bald head. Jeg was familiar with the type. He picked Helda up, stood up, and set her down in the chair. She leaned on the table, her chin in her hands, a bored and somewhat disappointed expression on her face.

"Careful," she warned, "Geffet's a member of the Rutvorn Guild."

"Rutvorn," Jeg mused as Geffet stomped up to him and stood, almost nose to nose, in front of Jeg.

"Tha's right, boy," Geffet snarled. "An' I suggest you get yer hide outta here, if ye cherish the life yer livin'."

"Listen, ye cunt nugget." Jeg was steeled now. "I think this here's a fine gal, and I'm going to treat her right tonight. It's clear she don' want a thin' ta do with ye. Now back down, or I'll give you the benefit of a rough lesson."

That was that. Geffet fired a right hook to Jeg's jaw, which he deflected easily. In the same movement, he kicked the inside of Geffet's knee, and brought his elbow into the man's nose. To his credit, Geffet didn't go straight down. As his leg buckled, he tried to tackle Jeg. Unfortunately for him, Jeg had already spun out of his reach, and was behind him, forcing him head-first into the table. Helda jumped away in time to avoid collision. Jeg waited for Geffet to get back up, and when he did, he came throwin a flurry of punches. Jeg slapped each away before finding a good opportunity move in, maneuvering Geffet's arms and locking them down, kneeing him in the crotch, and bringing his elbow hard into Geffet's jaw.

That did the trick. Geffet went down and held his hand up in surrender. Men cheered. Helda leaped at Jeg and kissed him again, thusting her tongue into his mouth. She pulled back for a second amid the ruckus to ask "Where did ye learn ta fight like that?"

"Oh, I've been around. You pick things up when you travel." Jeg smiled and picked Helda up. She wrapped her legs around him, and Jeg almost took her outside to the alley behind the tavern. But he stopped. This victory had to be completed. Geffet was still sulking in a corner, glaring at the pair, so Jeg threw Helda on the table and began kissing her neck while unfastening his trousers. She laughed heartily, and the patrons of the tavern cheered again, more than a few grabbing bar maids of their own. Geffet swore and limped out into the street.

When Jeg's cock was finally free, he pushed Helda's dress up and pulled her to the edge of the table. She laughed again--how he loved that free, deep laugh--and spread her legs. Between them was a tuft of fine pale hair, and the sweet, glistening prize. Jeg arched himself over her, and she reached down to position him, smiling, pulling him closer, rubbing the head of his cock against her slick warmth, teasing.

But to Jeg, foreplay was over. This was for the win. He thrusted through her grip and inside her, forcing a gasp from her lips. He rocked and pounded into her, and she tried to kiss him between "Oh!'s" and "Ah!'s" She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him in deeper. His left hand went to her full, supple breasts. The nipples were erect. He squeezed and massaged them, timing little pinches with his thrusts. Helda moaned and bit his lip, raking his back with her fingernails, cleching her legs tighter around him.

Men were shouting encouragements. The public scenario was invigorating Jeg, and he felt himself growing to his peak, moving quicker and quicker. Helda was holding onto him desperately, her vocals becoming uncontrollable. She bucked her hips against him with every thrust he made, and he swore he would bore so deep into her that it would tear her apart. He bit her neck lightly, squeezed her nipple, and slipped his right arm under her arched back to pull her closer to him. Sweat was beginning to shine on their bodies, and Helda was clenching the walls of her pussy around his cock. The sliding, the warm wetness, the pressure and friction, all of a sudden Jeg felt it. He thrust as deep and hard into her as he could, taking the breath from her, and exploded as she squeezed and milked him. His release was enormous, and she was gasping for air, still clinging to him.

When they finally caught their breath, Jeg pulled out of her, and a drizzle of come followed. Helda smiled a lovely, exhausted smile, and reached down to massage his come into her clit.

"Oh God," she said as she felt his hot release. "That was...wow."

"Prost to the victor!" someone at the other end of the tavern shouted. There was a loud cheer, and another round of mead made its way through the room. Helda laughed her wonderful laugh and stood up off the table, her bunched dress falling back down. This disappointed Jeg. He had had so little time to admire her lovely form. In fact, he realized, he hadn't even the opportunity to see her completely naked.

Helda grabbed two mugs from another serving girl and handed one to Jeg. Then she pressed herself to him in a hug, stood on her toes, and whispered in his ear, "God, I can feel it running down my leg." Then she nibbled his ear.

A squat man sitting on the bar barked out, "Alright, Helda, time to get back to work."
Helda rolled her eyes. "Will do." Then, to Jeg, "Stick around. I'm hear all night. Enjoy yerself, on the house."

Jeg smiled and nodded, lifting his mug to hers. They clinked and drank, and then Helda sauntered back to the bar. Jeg admired her from behind. He would definitely stick around.