	It was just past spring's dawn when the caravan pulled over the horizon. Heavy beasts tugged cart after cart, each laden with trinkets and goods, the travellers themselves similarly laden with story and song. They told the sleepy little hamlet that they had come from across the mountains, from a vast plain of tall grass that stretched as far as the eye could see. They told them that, where they lived, vicious beasts stalked the lonely and the weak, forcing them to huddle together and travel in large packs, 'herds', they called them.
	The villagers were enthralled. A simple farming people, most of them had lived in in this quaint settlement for all their lives, never seeing so much as a hint of the 'vicious beasts' the travellers described, and they were thankful for it. They were a frail people, most of them weavers, jewlers, artists or scholars. 
	The travellers were similarly mystified. An entire race without hunters, trappers or blacksmiths! It was a wonder they managed to survive at all with so little protection, and even more of a wonder how they managed to maintain a population when there was seemingly not a single female among them.
	The two races even looked different. The village-dwelling bungas were short, only up to the traveller's chests on average, and possessed a pair of large ears that seemed to stand erect on the younger folk, but flopped down on most of the adults. They had flat, friendly faces with large, inviting eyes and thick tails that hung just above the cobbled ground. The travellers were equines, although unlike the four-legged horses that the bungas were accustomed to seeing, the travellers coats were dyed in an almost dizzying pattern of black and white stripes. They said it helped them blend in in their homeland, but here it seemed to do the exact opposite, making them visible from half a village away.
	Trade was quickly established between the two races. The equines gave the villagers metals and ores, exotic herbs and spices, and thick leather made from the hides of creatures the bungas had never even heard of. In return, the travellers received bolts of finely-spun cloth, sparkling jewelry and a large supply of seeds with hopes that they would settle down close by and begin to farm, like the villagers had.
	The equines were persuaded to stay, at least for a time, and the line between the two began to blur. Equines began to bunk with their bunga counterparts, and every once in a while, a bunga would arrive back at first light, sleepy-eyed, messy-haired, grinning sheepishly. It was through such close 'trade' that the equines finally discovered the secret of the bunga females – they were present, however, both the bunga males and females looked and sounded virtually identical to the point where unless you were peeking between their legs, it was impossible to tell them apart! They all referred to each other as male as well, which didn't help the visitor's confusion.
	The equines stayed for an entire season, departing before the harvest as so not to strain the bunga's food stores. They had already traded skills, wares and stories of all sorts, but still the Bungas would not let the equines leave empty-handed. They insisted that two cubs accompany them as apprentices – Bastion and Roland, six and eight summers of age, respectively. 
	Bastion was over the moon at the chance to see the world, Roland was less so.
	“We won't get to see our families again,” Roland reminded on the way to the equine caravan,
	“Sure we will!” the younger bunga countered, still bright-eyed and chipper as ever, “An' we'll have all sorts of stuff to teach 'em, like how to make SWORDS an' catch fish an' fight monsters an'-”
	“I get it,” Roland shot back, “But even then we might not see them for a really long time!”
	“Exactly!” Bastion replied, jumping up like the hyperactive child he was, “No more being told when to go to bed, or being told what to-”
	“Actually,” a large equine interrupted, “You'll still be told when to go to bed. And what to do. And even what to wear!”
	Bastion threw up his arms in defeat. “Aw, man!”
	The figure chuckled, extending a hand. “I'm Varrin,” he announced, “The blacksmith. You must be Roland and . . .”
	“Bastion!”
	“Right! Come with me, in the caravan you go before it gets dark!” He turned to leave quickly, his flimsy tail swishing behind him. The cubs were in awe at the equine's size. He was twice as tall as Bastion at least, and looked strong enough to pull the entire convoy himself! He wore hard studded leather over his torso, and what looked like a studded leather apron on his front. His backside was rather bare, showing off his rippling muscles, and between flicks of his black tail, the two bungas got a rather blatent view of his OTHER set of tools, swinging in front of him.
	“D'ya think we'll be that strong if we become blacksmiths?” Bastion asked quietly. Roland said nothing, and tried to hide his ears from turning pink. He quickly followed Varrin into the circle of caravans. 
	It was quite the sight. The caravan had been taken apart, the boards and canvas re-purposed to make a credible dwelling, complete with a metal anvil and a small trough of cooled embers. Bastion, of course, immediately gravitated towards the blacksmith's tools, as well as his recent creations. He held up a medium-sized object that looked like a small helmet, trying it on. It was much too small for him, and it felt like it was meant to sit on something flat as opposed to something round. It had a rather conical shape to it, and the tip was uncomfortably sharp. Varrin saw the cub playing with his craft and put a thick hand over his mouth to stifle a fit of whinny-giggles. Bastion was confused, and even Roland was slightly interested what the massive equine was laughing at.
	“It's my latest creation,” Varrin announced, gently plucking it from the cub's hands, “I was going to wait until later to show you, but you seem so eager to see exactly how it works . . .” He took off his leather apron, the immense stallion now covered only by a studded breastplate and a pitiful-looking loincloth that didn't properly cover his loins. Both cubs stared, Roland quickly shaking himself out and giving Bastion a harsh nudge to snap him out of his trance.
	Varrin grinned. “You like what you see?” he asked, unbuckling his loincloth and letting it fall to the dirt. His striped fur faded to black at his crotch, and his dark, hairless member was positively enormous. Bastion's jaw dropped. “I was gonna save this piece for later,” he explains as he took the 'helmet' and fit it around the flared tip of his cock, spike facing outwards, “But since you two are so eager to see it in action . . .”
	Only now was Roland starting to feel truly frightened. His shaft was already large enough, but that piece of equipment turned it into an outright weapon! He stepped forward, putting a hand between Varrin and Bastion. “We'll pass,” he said defiantly, “We need to go,” he ordered the younger cub, reaching for his shoulder, “now.”
	With a lightning-quick move, Varrin reached behind him for something shiny, and threw it towards the pair. It was Bastion who screamed first, watching the metal object sing through the air, straight through the older cub's palm and into the wooden wall behind. It was a small dagger, upon closer inspection, and it was pinning Roland to the wall, a dark stain dribbling down and discolouring his pristine white fur. Only then did he scream, shutting his eyes and grabbing his wrist as pain shot down his arm.
	Bastion turned to run, but another knife zipped past his head, nicking one of his large ears. “I won't miss again,” Varrin warned, twiddling a third blade between his fingers. Roland was reduced to whimpering, trying in vain to pull his hand away. He was stuck.
	Varrin nodded to the smaller bunga. His already-intimidating phallus was throbbing, growing before his eyes. “Off with those pretty little clothes,” he commanded, and Bastion nodded nervously, pulling off his shirt and letting his trousers fall to the floor. “I thought they were sending me boys,” the equine chuckled upon seeing the cub's bits, or lack thereof. 
	“We are!” The cub protested, furrowing his brow.
	Varrin nodded, rolling his eyes. “uh-huh,” he chuckled, “Sure. Your cunt says otherwise. Now get over here, 'boy' . . .”
	Sure enough, Bastion's boyish figure ended at his waist. Nestled between his chubby thighs was a delicate little teardrop-shaped sex, a peek of pink between his white-furred legs. He walked forward nervously, glancing at Roland who was still busy trying to pull the knife out of his hand.
	“You're about to see exactly what this precious little tool does,” he warned, grabbing the six-year-old cub and bending him roughly over the anvil, his little feet dangling above the ground as he protested. 
	Bastion shrieked as he felt the sharp, cold spike worm it way between his legs. He grit his teeth and stiffened as it began to spread his lower lips, intruding into his virgin depths. His little cherry didn't even slow it down, indeed, the bunga hardly felt it break. The cold metal seemed to be numbing the pain it caused, making the experience slightly more tolerable. But then it kept pushing in, piercing soft flesh as the vicious tool intruded places that no toy was meant to go. He cried out in protest, but the equine only responded with a laugh. The frigid spike retreated momentarily, and was roughly shoved back in, accompanied by a grunt from the sadistic rapist. 
	The little bunga screamed again, his eyes beginning to dampen with tears. The wicked spike tore through his tender skin like a knife through butter, and the could feel hot blood beginning to flow from between his legs, dripping to the ground. He could hear it more than he could feel it, which was strange to him. He couldn't even feel his legs, really, and the thought terrified him. Roland was right, he wouldn't ever see his parents again . . .
	Another thrust of the metal spike rudely jostled the cub from his fearful wallowing. He felt the spike rip through his insides, tearing through his guts, and pushing his organs aside. He could feel something slightly warm behind the cold metal, which likely meant that Varrin had jammed the tool so far up his snatch that he was actually able to start fitting the rest of his cock inside. He tried to scream again, but his lungs simply gave up about halfway, and the bleeding cub ended up emitting something resembling a forced gurgling noise. Blood flowed from his mouth and nose, forced up from the violent intrusion. He watched it pool on the anvil, and his eyelids began to flutter. The pain was beginning to subside even as Varrin redoubled his thrusting, and the last thing Bastion felt was an odd, nauseating fullness.
	The blacksmith recovered quickly, doubled over from the powerful orgasm that ended the littlest cub's life. There was blood on the anvil, on the floor, on him . . .and it was all his doing. He grinned wickedly, caressing the dead cub's ear. 'He' was still warm.
	Varrin pulled out slowly, followed by a veritable river of blood and cum. Quite a workout, he thought, and he wasn't done yet. He turned to the older of the cubs, and Roland froze, even stopping his fiddling with the knife embedded in his palm for a moment. He took one look at the malevolent equine and gasped, returning to the blade and trying twice as hard to get free, giving up again with a pained grunt. He couldn't do it, at least not without tearing his hand open. The blacksmith walked calmly over to the other knife embedded in the wall, the one he threw at Bastion, and removed it with a single, forceful tug, flipping it in the air and catching it nimbly. He made a motion like he was about to whip it at the pinned cub, and Roland winced. Varrin laughed. 
	“That'd be too easy,” he nickered, sauntering over, his cock dangling freely. He brandished the knife and tugged open the older cub's pants, cutting them away effortlessly. 
	“Would you look at that,” he whispered, admiring the cubs  private parts. Another 'female', apparently. “Too cute,” he grinned, “too cute not to ruin.” And with that, he jabbed the blade right between Roland's legs, right between his tender little lips. 
	Roland made an atavistic grunt as the blade sank in, feeling too ill to scream. He was shaking now, not only from the cold of being naked below the waist, but also from the unsettling feeling of the knife settling in his loins. He dropped to his knees, his left hand still held up by the other blade. He wanted to vomit. He groaned in pain, watching the blood trickle between his legs. Varrin let him stew in the nauseating pain for a moment, savouring his discomfort. He could let him die right here, he thought, a wound like that would have him bleeding out in a matter of minutes. But there was no fun in that . . .
	The blacksmith took the handle of the blade and sawed upwards, and that really got the cub screaming. He swatted feebly at the equine's hand as the blade was pulled further up into his gut, his skin peeling back and his entrails slowly slipping out. He took one look and shut his eyes tightly, not exactly thrilled to see his guts sliding onto the dirt. Unlike his younger cohort, he didn't have time to be afraid, everything was happening so fast . . .his hand didn't even hurt anymore, come to think of it.
	Varrin jabbed the knife in Roland's guts several times, watching how he flinched each time. He still wouldn't open his eyes. Even now, he was so adamant about refusing his fate. Maybe he thought that if he wasn't looking at his intestines all over the ground, he'd find them all back in their proper place. How adorable!
	Varrin chuckled to himself, morbidly fascinated with the cub's tenacity. He withdrew the blade, now up to Roland's chest, and lifted his chin up with the tip of the blade. He was a wreck: shuddering, sobbing, whimpering, utterly pathetic to watch. Varrin grinned, and pushed the blade against his tender neck, sawing the blade quickly to one side, drawing an angry red line across the side of his throat. Blood squirted from the wound, and Roland struggled to pinch it shut as the equine watched, a smug smirk plastered on his dark muzzle.
	“You never would have made it as a blacksmith anyway.”
