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Orin's Tales Pt. 01

By: latinplayer



Original notes: I'm creating a world of medieval adventure, sorcery, and of course, hot, steamy sex. This is the introductory tale, and as such, it has a little more exposition than some of my other stories, as I establish the main character and the setting around him. Future installments should be a little more quicker to the punch, and I am toying with the idea of making the hero a bit bisexual. Any thoughts or comments are greatly appreciated.

Update: Orin's Tales are part of the multi-genre collection Inspired By M.C. 

Part 1. The Demon Of Dunnidale

Let us now draw our attention to the rustic landscape of a world now known as Nuart, which its original settlers knew better as New Earth. This is a world of adventure and enchantment, and thanks to its massive influx of natural magic, it is a world of great sorcery as well. For several hundreds of years, Nuart has thrived in what we would term as the Medieval Age, for that is the age from whence the first inhabitants arrived. But enough about the planet itself, for surely you will understand more about this world as our tale progresses.

Instead, let me direct your gaze toward the vast expanse of untamed woodlands, with a scattering of shrubbery-encrusted rolling hills and the peaks of a great corridor of mountains seen in the far distance. Through this great tangle of trees and cutting though the forest like a jagged tear in the earth, is the single, desolate road that joins the villages of Bathum and Dirk's Gutter. It is on this solitary path that we come across the wary form of Orin the Younger, and he is not on the path itself, but treading stealthily some five yards from the road's edge.

A strapping young man of eighteen years Orin was, handsome in a rugged and manly fashion, yet possessive of charm, wit and a smile that endeared him to ladies both young and old. His hair was hued in a sandy blonde, his eyes were a shade of brown so dark as almost to be termed black, and as his body was still blossoming into adulthood, the prominence of his shoulders had only just begun. He was only a few inches taller than the average man, and if need be he could quickly lose himself in a crowd, and purposefully, his clothes had been cut a bit generously to belie the man's budding musculature and strength.

You see, Orin was the offspring of a mercenary of no small infamy, at least in some parts of that great land. His father was once known as Orenn the Fearless, later as Orenn the Stout, and finally, as Orenn the Dead. During the latter stages of his life, Orenn had contracted with noblemen to train their sons as knights, and with the coarser types to train their sons as mercenaries, or on occasion even as assassins. Much of the man's formidable knowledge and insight had been passed on to his own son.

When the old man passed, there was nothing left to tie Orennsen, or Orenn's Son, as the young man was then known, to the small village his father had retired to. Orin sold the entirety of the property and possessions left to him as an inheritance, save for a scant few. Also he changed his name to what it now presently was, from Orennsen to Orin, both to keep his father's memory alive, and to differentiate the Younger Orenn from the Older one. Finally, Orin set foot on the dirt road that led away from the place of his birth in order to fulfill his own destiny.

On his person, Orin carried a meager lot of items. He wore a tan tunic, tied at the waist by a cord of strong, thin leather, this under a darker brown leather vest. For his lower half, he sported a leaf-green set of leggings and dark brown, ankle high boots.

His weaponry was as would be expected from a man of his day and age. He carried a simple hunting bow over his shoulder, and the quiver slung across his back held all of eight arrows, for he'd lost a few after wounding, but not killing, wild game such as boar or deer. In the sheath at his side, he carried a short sword with a blade the length of two of his feet, at the small of his back and in his left boot were secreted two small and, in the hands of one who knew how to use them, very lethal daggers. The leather cap he'd tied around his belt wasn't as harmless as it looked, either, for hidden in its inner seam was an assassin's garrote made of very fine chain mail.

The young man's knapsack was lightweight, as all that was bundled up within it was a change of clothing which would allow Orin to pass as a courier for a nobleman of modest worth, and a few provisions such as a rapidly diminishing supply of water in a cured goat's bladder.

So hungry was he, that when Orin caught scent of roasting meat, he halted his pace. Further into the woods, and like a shadow he moved, until he discovered three men lazily sitting around a small campfire. Quickly, he gauged them to possibly be a gang of old bandits, and only a day or two from becoming beggars, for Orin saw neither horses nor any sort of sturdy armaments among them.

As an exercise, Orin calculated how long it would take him to dispatch the trio to their doom. A pitifully short time, he decided, unless they became aware of his presence beforehand, and had time to gather both their wits and their bows. After that, it would be a contest between his agility and maneuvering, pitted against their tenacity and marksmanship.

Orin's father, however, had bestowed upon him the matter of the sanctity of life, and the idea that he should not rob a man of his existence unless Orin's own life were in danger, or unless he was being paid to take it. The young man was still deliberating this last part, over whether or not he wished to be employed as an assassin for hire, but that was a matter he could afford to put off for now.

At the moment, Orin only wished for a few mouthfuls of the hare the three older men were roasting on a spit. To this end, he crept up next to a stout tree and whistled out as a bird, then abruptly changed his call to that of another fowl, before finally returning to his original tune. Any man who had spent any amount of time out in the wild would recognize this as an artificial warning, and a second after, all three men were scrambling about for their weapons.

"Who goes there?" One of them challenged the forest.

"Orin, son of Orenn the Fearless."

"We know of no such man! What do you want?"

"I am a simple traveler, and I caught the scent of your fire from the road. I would gladly pay a ha'penny, for a portion of your meal, if you were but willing to spare it."

"How many come with you?"

"I am alone."

"Show yourself!" The man demanded.

"I cannot. You three are armed, and I fear that if I show my face, I will be struck down by your arrows. Are you men of honor, or men of dishonor?"

This last question could be rightly taken as an affront to an honest man, Orin knew, for in those lands, a man's word was worth its weight in gold. Indeed, the man who answered him scoffed at the implication.

"We are men of our word. Come forward, if you will. We will not shoot at you unless we are provoked."

"Are you bandits?" Orin further tested them, because one could not be too careful out in such desolation as what he presently found himself in.

"No, Orin, son of Orenn, we are not." The man replied, and Orin watched him relax, and return to take his former seat on the ground.

A second man soon sat down as well, but the third studiously kept watch. This was the best that Orin hoped to get, and he left his hiding place and took several steps closer to them. Had he been in their shoes, undoubtedly he would be watching a newcomer as closely as this last man was watching him.

"I suppose you'll be wanting to know our names?" The only man who'd thus far spoken asked. "I am Judson, and sitting beside me is my brother Ackerley. The man standing is Bartram. What then is the name of your village?"

"Bilge Barrel." Orin replied.

"Quite a ways from home, are you?" Ackerley scratched his head. "What's a young lad like yourself doing so far away from your mother's bosom?"

"My mother passed some time ago, my father more recently." Orin divulged. "I wish to see more of this earth than what I'd already seen in my own village."

"The wanderlust has you, has it?" Ackerley nodded. "I had that same wanderlust once, and what I saw of the outside world made me come straight back!" He started laughing.

"Sit down, young Orin, sit down." Judson urged.

Orin would comply with the invitation, but he sought out the eyes of the last man standing first. Bartram nodded his consent, before the watchful man finally seated himself beside the other fellows. In order not to be discourteous, Orin followed suit a moment later.

"Would a ha'penny suffice for a few bites to eat?" He repeated his offer.

"What need have we for coin, out here in the woods?" Judson shook his head. "Have you anything edible to trade?"

Orin pulled from his knapsack a small stock of almonds, blueberries, cheese and dark bread. For the next couple of minutes, he negotiated for a share for the hare, as well as for the filling up of his canteen. Alas, the three men had no arrows to spare.

After the deal was shaken hands upon, they all began conversing at length, as men wanting for new company tend to. They spoke of the general state of things in that small pocket of the world, of past conquests and battles, both on the battlefield and on the bed, and of the proximity and highlights of any villages in the vicinity.

"Have you any knowledge of a place where a man such as myself can find adventure?" Orin asked, later.

"No adventure left in these parts." Judson shrugged. "The only things around here are all these trees." He chuckled. "One you get past those, you'll find even more trees!"

Orin glanced at the other men. Ackerley shrugged in much the same way as his brother had, but Bartram, the most mysterious of them all, solemnly met his gaze.

"They say the Devil has taken root in Dunnidale." Bartram revealed. "That's not too far from here, if you're willing to make the journey."

"Oh, don't tell him about Dunnidale!" Judson scolded. "You know well that place has the Devil's curse on it!"

Not one to be easily spooked, Orin insisted on hearing more of the place.

"I cannot rightly say what lies at the bottom of it." Bartram related. "But what I have heard from the mouths of men that have come from there is this. Dunnidale was the same as any other place, up until about a generation or two ago."

"It was a prosperous place, sure enough." Ackerley nodded. "A good place for trade, as I recall it."

"So it was." Bertram went on. "A young couple was murdered there. One was from a wealthy family, the other from a poor one, but I cannot rightly remember which was which. The gist of the tale is that some witchcraft was performed right after their deaths took place, and before their souls could completely leave this earth. The Devil himself is said to have been summoned to go there, and to take possession of those very souls. Both lovers were cursed, it seems, even after their deaths."

"Tell him the rest, now that you've gone and let the cat out of the bag." Judson frowned.

"They say that somehow, the soul of the girl escaped the clutches of the Devil, and fled into a cave at the outskirts of Dunnidale. They say that when the moon is at its brightest, and at the advent of spring, as it was on such an unholy night when her life was taken, that the girl's cries can be heard all over the village. She is looking for her lost lover, they say, for her soul is unaware that the Devil still has him in His black grip. And her cries, they are so enthralling, so sweet to a man's ears, that they seduce the young men of the village into attempting to rescue her from that cave. When these men get near the mouth of that evil place, they say the Devil himself will show his face and drive all these men away. Such a fear does the Devil put into these men, that all of them flee from that cave, and what's more, they flee from their homes in Dunnidale as well."

"And they never, never come back." Ackerley added.

"Tell him about the reward now." Judson said, as he removed the spit from the fire, and began to cut himself one of the paltry portions of meat that was still left. "Go on."

Bartram nodded. "So many mothers of Dunnidale have lost their sons in this manner, that the people there have taken to offering a goodly collection of coin to anyone who can drive the Devil away from that place."

"To this very day, that reward still stands." Ackerley said.

"Many adventurous sorts have tried to claim that reward." Bartram revealed. "Big men, strong men, men who have killed scores in battle. All of them have failed. Some are said to have fled in the dead of night, through the forest and without even returning to the village to breathe a single word of what transpired there. The handful who've hurried back to Dunnidale to claim whatever horse or belongings they'd left at the local tavern have said this; the Devil stood before the foot of the cave, and his face was so hideous that they never stepped near enough to even enter the cave."

"The girl's accursed soul is still there." Judson said, looking up at the darkening sky, and at the moon. "And I'd say she's set to begin her wailing in maybe three or four day's time, if I have my seasons straight. She's said to begin her wailing on the first full moon of spring."

"Aye, the first full moon of spring." His brother confirmed. "That's correct."

"Will I have time to get there, do you think?" Orin asked.

The two brothers laughed up a storm.

"You're not thinking of walking all the way to Dunnidale, are you?" Judson asked.

"Har, har!" Ackerley bellowed. "This poor waif thinks he can upset the Devil! Har, har!"

Orin found his cheeks reddening from humiliation, and he turned to one side.

"Better men than you have tried to rescue that girl's soul." Bartram reminded him. "What do you possess that those men did not?"

"I'd just like to hear this woman's lamentations for myself if I could, to see if this is all true or not." Orin stated. "Have any of you actually been to Dunnidale when all this is taking place? Have any of you heard this lady's cries with your own ears?"

None of them had.

"It could all be lies then, or half-truths, yes?" Orin asked. "If it's all the same, I'd like to know which road I must take to get there."

Shortly after, and hoping to make some progress before the full setting of night, Orin the Younger was on his way to Dunnidale.

Three days later he arrived there, and to a very somber welcome. Very few residents were to be found in the village streets, and those that were present did nothing save to ignore Orin's requests for information, and directly afterward turn their backs on him. Every door was closed, and every window shuttered, as if the plague were running rampant, or as if the crop season were about to bear a very dismal harvest.

Orin kept up his stroll around the village, until he spotted a fat old man desperately attempting to waddle away from him. Hurriedly, the youth went to catch up to him, for the man's pace was languid, and Orin stepped directly in his path.

"A shilling, sir, if you would tell me the truth about the demon of Dunnidale." He offered.

"Out of my way, boy"

Orin allowed the old man to push him aside, but persistently, he stepped before him again.

"Two shillings, sir. All I ask is for more information. That is all."

"If you know that there is a demon in Dunnidale, then that is all there is to know." The old man grimaced. "You've come at the right time, and that isn't by accident, is it? Someone has already told you the legend."

"Well, yes, but I haven't decided whether it is true or not."

"Oh, it is true." The man's grimace softened into a scowl. "Some unlucky youth will be drawn to the Devil's Cave and perish tonight, or else be frightened away from his home and family never to be seen again."

"In which direction does the cave lie?" Orin excitedly asked.

"What are you aiming to do? It's a direct path to the pit of Hell, if you go there tonight."

"I am an adventurer." Orin replied. "And I would try my hand at besting this demon, and at releasing the two souls he has bound with him."

The old man scratched at the stubble of a beard that he had. "I suppose it would be better for you to perish willingly, than for one of our local youths to suffer unwillingly, and their families besides. Very well."

And so, for the price of two shillings, the old man divulged all he knew about the legend, which closely matched what Orin had heard from the three vagabonds. He also gave Orin instructions on how to find the haunted cave.

"Is there still a reward for the demon's banishment?" Orin wondered.

"Alas, boy, there is not." The old man shrugged. "The townsfolk here have given up on ever being rid of this curse, for it has been so long since they've been yoked with it. It has been many years since they've offered a reward."

Orin felt slightly deflated, for what good was an adventure if there was no reward to be gained at the end of it? The best he could hope for was to have the demon's cave named after him, and that the recounting of his deed would be spread by word of mouth, and help him achieve a grand reputation.

"Have you a bard here?" Orin asked. "If I am successful, I would at least have a song written after me, that a bard may sing it to travelers that pass by this place."

"If you were to best the Devil, I would write this song myself." The old man chuckled. "What have you that other men do not have, that makes you think you will succeed where so many others have failed?"

The three vagabonds had put that very question to him, Orin recalled, only three days before. "I have no good answer for you. I can only declare that I will step into that cave as bravely as any other man has before me. If you please, would you tell me the name of the two cursed lovers?"

"Rohanna was name of the poor serving girl, and the merchant's son who fell in love with her was Silas. I would wish you good luck, except you'll need much more than that to survive the night."

Orin dismissed himself and took his leave, undaunted by the grim prospects that faced him, and this was due mostly to his youth and exuberance, and inexperience.

He went directly to the cave, and explored its entrance in the fading afternoon sun.

To him, it looked like any other cave, and he spent the next couple of hours collecting tinder for starting a fire, and the larger branches necessary for maintaining it. After striking his two flint-stones together to produce the necessary spark, he got his little fire going. Once that was burning steadily, he used a dagger to cut the twigs and leaves away from two of the sturdier branches, and rubbed an ample amount of sheep fat on an end of each. Now, on top of a warm fire, he had two torches to guide him into the cave.

As the evening gave way to the night, Orin began to deliberate whether he should be inside the cave as it got dark, or stand just outside of it as a host of men had assuredly done before him. He would wager that very few of them had been in the cave when the wailing first started. In the hopes of throwing the demon off its usual routine, he picked up his two torches and made his way inside.

Hardly had he taken half a dozen steps into its mouth, when he began to feel an ominous foreboding, and he looked about him in all directions. Nothing but crags and crevices met his eyes, along with an occasional old and dusty spider's web, and nothing at all to explain the sinister atmosphere that had begun to haunt that place.

In a rare occasion, the young man felt a lump of fear in his throat, and a powerful instinct to leave that place as soon as possible.

"There is no glory in retreat, only humiliation." He mouthed out loud, using the force of his voice to strengthen him. His father had taught him that saying. It had been one of the first things he'd ever learned from the man.


Orin's Tales Pt. 01



Orin's first impression was that the tactic worked, as the dread he'd been feeling seemed to fade before him.

"I am Orin, son of Orenn the Great!" He bellowed out, becoming emboldened enough to stride into the furthest recesses of the cave. "I have come to prove my manhood against man and dark spirit alike, that my name might be spoken of in reverence and awe, as my father's name was before me!"

The cave, he quickly discovered, was not that large at all. It was hardly thirty feet from its entrance to its back wall, and more like a short tunnel, really. The back end, he saw, had been rounded as if it had served as a place for clandestine meetings, or some sort of dark ritual or other deviltry. A small mound rose up from the center of this circular space, and Orin could well imagine some sort of idol or symbol or something of that nature being placed on top of it and worshipped.

Or buried, he thought. His father had told him that to get to the heart of a matter, he must leave no stone unturned, no matter how innocuous it appeared at first.

Orin carefully plunged his torches into the soft ground, on opposite sides of the artificial cavity, for he'd sharpened their bottom ends earlier for just such a circumstance. They weren't very stable at first, but at least they stood upright, and this is exactly what he wanted. With his short sword, he dug into the dirt and gave each torch a more secure footing.

Next, he turned to the mound. Out of respect for whoever had built it, or whatever god or deity it might represent, he didn't scatter its structure apart like some sort of enraged animal would. Instead, he carefully sifted through it, in the case that he would have to build it up again afterwards.

After he'd dug into it by one foot of depth, he'd found nothing. Once he'd reached nearly two feet in, and was nearing the point of impatience and thinking of what other action he might take, the sharp tip of his sword struck what sounded like brittle wood. With a renewed vigor, he uncovered more of this oddity, and was soon digging around the edges of a small box. Once he had enough of it loosened up, he pulled the box out of the mound and held it up so that the light of the torches might illuminate it further. It was made of a soft wood, as it was cracked and coming apart from the weight of all the dirt that had been piled up on top of it, and it was kept from falling entirely to pieces by two thin strands of wire that had been tied around it; one piece went from the top to the bottom, the second from one side to the next.

Using the tip of a dagger, he carefully worked out the knot where the wires had been tied together, and once done, he set the box back on top of the mound and wondered what sort of treasure might lie within it.

The box was not heavy enough for any sort of coin or other metal objects, he surmised, but possibly, it could hold a few gems or small jewelry or something of the like. Or perhaps, the box merely contained a collection of chicken bones, for he knew some of the eastern shaman used such artifacts in their rituals of magic.

After inhaling a deep, expectant breath, Orin removed the top of the box from the rest, and looked inside of it. There was a bundle of cloth within, black cloth with dashes of a dark red, and he wondered if those crimson stains might have been aged blood. Blood, the youth was wise enough to know, was often used to seal pacts made with the Devil.

Even more carefully than he had been in digging out the mound, Orin slowly unwrapped the edges of the dark cloth, and when he was done, he found inside of that box a most curious little doll. It was in the shape of a person, he noted, and made of straw that had been tied together to form arms and legs, and a body. There was no true head on the doll, just a small bundle of straw ends, and around its tiny body was set a small amount of fabric, as if to clothe the thing.

This was the most unusual detail of the doll, the dressing around it. The left half had on what looked to be a woman's kilt and apron, and sewn onto the right half were a man's thigh-long tunic, a small black strip that served as a belt, and leggings. Who would have thought to sew the attire of a man and a woman on the opposite sides of the same doll? And for what purpose would this be done?

Orin was still studying this curiosity, when he began to feel the spectral presence he'd felt before. It seemed to be observing him, as he stood there and scrutinized the doll, and the young man thought back to what his father had said about invisible spirits.

"A ghost and a demon are two separate entities." The wise Orenn had once explained. "A demon can be dangerous outright, or a devious trickster, and it will always attempt to bring you pain and suffering, even if at first it appears to be benevolent. A ghost, on the other hand, is the remnant of a person. Usually they are sad, or angry, at having been displaced from their bodies, as I've never encountered any that are happy or joyful sorts." The man had paused to think on the matter for a moment. "I have known some ghosts to be mischievous, for they are lonely in whatever dimension they've gotten themselves stuck into, and they will knock a pail of milk over, or hide something of value from you, in order to draw attention to themselves.

"The best way to know if you've come across a ghost or a demon is this: if you suspect that one of these things is nearby, take a deep breath and open up your mind. Think of nothing, and allow the energy of the spirit to make itself known to you. A demon will certainly ebb darkness and evil, for this type of being is always conjured up with corruption and wrongdoing in mind. A ghost is merely a person without a body, and it will send out feelings in the same way that a living, breathing person would: anger, bitterness, sadness, loneliness, and vengeance. That sort of thing. The reason most people fear ghosts is because they assume them to be demons, when they are really not, and upon first encountering them, they get the creeps and the jitters, but this is only because they've never felt the presence of such a being before. A ghost might make the hair on the back of your neck stand up, but that isn't because it intends to do you harm. It is because the ghost is simply standing next to you. As I've said, open your mind to it, and see past this first impression, and then you will know if what stands before you is demon or ghost."

It sounded easy enough when his father had explained it, but now, with Orin getting the shudders from whatever was drawing closer to him, he was having trouble putting the advice into practice. He drew a deep breath, and tried to clear his mind, but it was pointless. The young man could not get himself to relax enough to follow through.

He held the peculiar doll out, in the direction he thought the spirit loomed in. "What is the meaning of this?"

In response, one of his torches fluttered wildly, until it went out.

Orin's first impression was to quickly relight the thing, for the fear of the unknown began coursing through him like a river. This was the initial reaction any other man might have, he realized, and mightily, he fought back against it. He had asked whatever it was that stood before him a direct question, and perhaps, in its unfathomable fashion, this was the only manner a bodiless entity could give a reply.

The second torch went out, leaving him in complete darkness.

Mentally, Orin traced the steps leading back to his campfire, hoping that in a moment of panic, he would not run blindly and crash into the wall of the tunnel. He would force himself to walk, to take one short step at a time until he was sure he'd emerged from the cave, and then he would surely see the flames still burning from his campfire, and go and warm his shivering body before them.

He took the first step away from the mound, when before him the spirit began to materialize. It was vague and translucent, and barely the outline of a person's shape, and it frightened him unlike anything he'd ever encountered in his life.

He heard its sobs then, quiet and longing, and distant, yet seeming to come closer with every passing moment. Soon, the sobs had matured into full-blown wails, halting, heartfelt gasps that emanated from the core of the being, cries so powerful and convincing that Orin felt his own eyes begin to well with emotion.

It was a woman that stood before him, thought Orin, a woman desperately lost and lonely, and as he succumbed to her plight, he felt himself wanting to comfort her, and to embrace her.

"Rohanna." He said, opening his arms to her.

The ghost came to him, and slipped into his arms. Its touch was as cold as winter ice, and Orin questioned how long he could bear it, when a curious thing happened.

In his mind, Orin saw a field flourishing with spring grass and a sea of dandelions in yellow and white. He was running barefoot through this field, his shoes in his hand, and enjoying the feel of the blades of grass as his hurried strides briefly pressed them to the ground.

He was chasing down a young maiden that wore a peasant's kirtle colored in a pleasing shade of walnut brown. The kirtle was worn and patched in places, and in keeping with the dress of a common person, but when the girl turned back to look at him, he discovered that she was a sight as beautiful as any he had ever seen. Her hair was black and flowing, her eyes lively and playful, and her smile seemed to radiate joy and warmth.

"Rohanna!" He called out, in a voice he did not recognize as his own.

After her, he ran, until he'd playfully caught her around the middle and gently prodded the both of them down and onto the grass. He lay down at her side, and she on her back.

Rohanna pretended to be absorbed with a dandelion she had picked, plucking from it one petal at a time, and making one fanciful wish after another, while Orin watched her with great amusement and love.

He was no longer Orin, he discovered, but the girl's lover, Silas. The realization puzzled him, for how could he become two men in the same moment?

"Tell me that you love me." Rohanna requested. "I want to hear you say it."

Orin took in the girl's features. She was robust and motherly, with a pale skin that went rosy around her cheeks, and eyes that were as black as her hair. Her breasts were large and tempting, and the hands that held the dandelion stem were soft and tender.

His heart went out to her, and in the voice of Silas, he said. "Of course I love you. I've always loved you, ever since we were two small children playing in the brook. Well before my father began to amass the wealth he has today, and that has been giving us so much trouble as of late."

Orin's mind reeled at the memories now flooding into his mind. The father of Silas had been a common man, until by chance he'd taken over another man's fields. At the expense of much toil and hardship, the man had an abundance of goods to trade at the market, and so much of it in fact, that he rented wagons to transport the bulk of it to neighboring towns. This is why the village of Dunnidale had gained the reputation as being a good place to do trade with, and the man had become wealthy because of it.

Then came the downfall of Silas and Rohanna. The man's mother and aunt conspired together to sway Silas to marry a baron's daughter, instead of the woman he truly loved. They made much trouble for the couple in their intents to separate the two youths, for such was their desire to be intermarried with nobility. When they recognized that their wishes would never be fulfilled, the two women became bitter and vengeful. There was never any demon in Dunnidale; the curse had been decided upon by Silas' mother and aunt, and cast by a shaman from another town. Everyone involved in the plot was long since dead, but the curse, and the souls of the bound lovers, still remained.

Tenderly, caringly, Rohanna ran a soft hand across his cheek, and looked up into his eyes. "Make love to me, Silas."

Orin nearly refused, for he was not Silas, he was Orin! Even though the two lovers had died ages ago, he still felt the scene to be real enough that he found himself not wanting to be in the middle of them. He could feel the warmth of the sun against his head, and the smell the freshness of the grass around them, and the fragrance of the flowers nearby. Even the gentle breeze around them was real! And when he set his hand upon Rohanna's soft belly, he found her body and her warmth to be as real as that of any other woman's!

"You're hesitating." She said, her eyes seeking to provoke him into action. "If you hesitate too long, I may as well go back to my chores."

Orin felt his body rising up to its knees. His tunic was expensive and showy, he noticed, made of a combination of linen and cotton, colored in a regal blue, and held at the waist by a golden sash. He felt that he, or that Silas, didn't much care for the fancy attire, for he hated how others perceived him when he wore such lavish things, compared to how they viewed him when he had worn simpler clothing before.

He pulled the sash apart and set it to one side, before he pulled the entire tunic over his head and exposed his chest and back to the sun. A moment after, he was on his feet and removing his shoes and clumsy leggings.

"Will I have to undress you, also?" He heard himself asking. "Or will you do that on your own?"

"I won't have enough time." Rohanna answered him. "I must hurry back once we are done, otherwise I'll be missed."

Orin watched, as the woman drew her knees up, and pulled her kirtle up to her waist. She parted her legs, revealing her sex to be in bloom, and glistening with moisture.

She gazed adoringly into his eyes, and once again, Orin felt as an intruder, and about to take another man's lover. Still, he did not stop himself, although he felt he could have, as his nude form stepped over in front of her and dropped to its knees. He hovered over her, one hand secure around his cock, the other bracing his body, as he gently eased himself inside of her.

His father had not prepared him, had not even begun to warn Orin, regarding what happened next. It would seem something impossible, had he not been experiencing it for himself.

Orin was not only Silas, but he was Rohanna as well. When he placed his cock within her, he felt it expanding Rohanna's moist and warm opening from her perspective, felt it filling up her insides, and he reveled in that sensation as a woman would. He was thrusting into her from above, while at the same time, he was being thrust into from below, and along with Rohanna, he felt his hips rising up to meet her lover's as he embedded himself fully into her.

He was both the man and the woman. He was Silas, pausing to grope at her breasts, and to force his lips onto her as a passionate animal, while allowing his cock to relax and to keep it from erupting into an early climax. He was Rohanna, feeling her breasts fondled, opening her mouth to accept her lover's lips and tongue, and urging him to return his cock to its former frenzy.

This, Orin understood, was why all those brave men had fled from Dunnidale. What sane man would dare admit how he had been throttled by another man, while deep in the Devil's Cave? And how many men had this very same thing happened to in the past? Was it any wonder then, why the curse had never been thwarted and taken away?

Silas pushed into him once again, and Orin raked his fingers across the man's bare back, as well as feeling those very same fingers rake across his own back.

Rohanna laughed.

"What is it, my love?" Silas asked.

"I've just had this very strange feeling, as if you and I had traded places, and I was on top of you, while you were lying here in my stead."

Silas smiled back at her. "The strangest things cross through your head, don't they, my dear? This is one of the things about you that draws me the most, your vivid fancies that no other woman can match."

Rohanna stared into her lover's eyes then, as if she could see past Silas, and was looking directly at Orin. In point of fact, Orin was convinced she was looking at him.

"When we are finished here, promise me that you'll take me with you." She said. "Wherever you travel to has to be better than this drudgery of a place known as Dunnidale."

"I promise you, that I will." Silas and Orin answered together.

With an increased fervor, and as if knowing there was no further time to spare, Silas plunged into his lover. Rohanna moaned and gripped at his shoulders, and made as if to kiss her lover frequently, but the attempts were in vain, as the increased movement from her lover demanded her attention.

Orin experienced everything.

He was Silas, thrusting into the woman, feeling his hips drive into her steamy void and his cock rising closer and closer to its peak. As Silas, he felt his outstretched arms quiver and tense, and he was taking a great pleasure in the ecstasy he provoked in his lover's face and voice.

He was Rohanna, feeling her body jostled about by every stroke, and the swells of her breasts hurl about beneath her clothing. It was her lusty, throaty moans that filled the air, saturating it with bliss and emotion.

She squealed, as her climax came into flower first, and she set her hands tight on her lover's chest, as if both to push him away, and to keep him close to her. He intensified his actions, bringing his own body up to its peak, so that they might experience the pleasure together.

Like a breaking dam, Silas burst into her, dropping down onto her and clinging to her shoulders, so that they might share the moment together. And for the very same reason, Rohanna wrapped her arms around his back, and her legs around his thighs. She clasped him as tightly as she could.

Orin, as before, experienced everything.

Finally, when the heat between the two of them, or was it the three of them, began to subside, Silas drew his head away from Rohanna's, that he might take in the beautiful, perspiring face of his lover.

In unison, both Silas and Rohanna said, "Thank you, Orin."

Orin shuddered, finding himself back in the cave, and his two torches once again lit. No longer did he feel an eerie sensation about the place, and in his hand, he still held the little straw doll that seemed to be the key to it all.

They had known he was there, Orin realized. Silas and Rohanna had both known that he was in the middle of their romantic tryst, and not only had they not cared about that, but they had actively encouraged him to go along with it.

The curse that had been set upon those two unfortunates had been meant to punish them forever, he understood, and once they had figured this out, it had been their love that had kept them together. Rohanna's wails were made not because she was looking for her lover's soul, for she already had her lover with her. Instead, it was because they were two lonely people trapped in a scheme not of their doing, that had been banished into that small hole of a cave for too many years. The passing of time must have meant something to them, for they were entirely eager to get out of that place.

All of the brave warriors that had come before Orin had come to battle against a demon, and to make a name for themselves in the same way that Orin had at first. None of them had stayed in the cave long enough to discover that this was not about courage and skill, for they must have run away at the sight of the ghost, or its haunted wailings, or otherwise been scared off when the two lovers had involved them in their passionate and sensual meeting.

It wasn't about fear, or hate, or animosity, Orin comprehended. It was about love, and the legion of men that had entered that cursed cave had only to realize that, and the curse would have been understood and might have been lifted long ago. Within that corrupt and restrictive curse, the love between Silas and Rohanna was as strong as it ever was. Their love had simply refused to die and be forgotten, Orin now knew, and the two lovers had wanted to show everyone they could just how strong that love still was, and would be forevermore.




Orin's Tales Pt. 01



With the light of the torches to guide him, Orin carefully set the straw doll back into its wrap, then back into its box, and he stuffed the box into the front of his tunic. He swore to himself that he would find someone that would be able to remove the curse and set those two ill-fated souls free. The two torches he pulled out from their spots, and with a confident air, the young man strode toward the mouth of the cave.

Once outside, he realized that there was still a good portion of the night to be had, but that bothered him little. He would sleep there, near the mouth of that dreaded cave, and in the morning he would head back into the village.

He would find a bard, he decided, and a new song would be written for him, to tell the tale of how Orin, the son of Orenn the Strong, had chased the Devil out of Dunnidale, and it would be a grand song indeed.



Orin's Tales Pt. 02



Part 2. The Witch At Devil's Crag

After the passage of several days, Orin the Young found himself deep in the woods, and aiming his bow in the direction of a nervous and skittering, but so far unsuspecting large, brown squirrel. His hunting prowess was among the worst of his skills, and already, the young man had lost all but two of his precious arrows. His attention was so focused on his target, and on the constant rumbles from his empty stomach, that he did not become aware he was being watched until it was much, much too late.

Orin frowned, for he'd put himself in a tight spot, as assuredly, the moment he began to swing his bow around to try and pinpoint his watcher, said watcher would have ample opportunity to strike him with the first blow.

He exhaled a long breath. "I know someone is there."

The loudness of his voice caught the attention of the squirrel, which summarily fled across the branch and down the tree it had been foraging on. The morsel was soon lost among the shrubbery.

"Are you a man of honor, or a man of dishonor?" Orin asked.

"Is that the manner in which you always greet others?" He heard the soft chuckling of a man from close by.

Orin turned, at once spotting a familiar face. "Bartram! Why are you here?"

"I have followed you, young Orin." The older man admitted, as he stood with his back against the trunk of a tree, and his arms crossed casually. His bow was leaned against the tree as well, and the man's small pack of provisions rested on the floor next to him. "I imagine I could have pitched a tent and started up a campfire here, and you wouldn't have noticed my arrival until the flames started licking their way up your backside." He laughed again.

"But I haven't eaten ever since I left Dunnidale!" Orin said, in frustration. "My stomach has been churning for a day and half of another day, and I've had no luck in the hunt! These woods must be cursed!"

"It's not the woods that are cursed, young Orin." Bartram grinned. "It's your mastery of the bow that's been twisted up by the Devil."

Orin lowered his bow. "Why would you follow me, anyway? I'm far enough from the main road that I thought I would be able to drop my guard for a spell. You had to go far out of your way to get here."

"Your trail was simple enough to find, as you did not go through any great pains to conceal it." Bartram told him. "I was curious to see what had transpired at Dunnidale, and so I set off to find you a couple of days after you left the brothers and I. I thought I would run into you as you returned from Dunnidale, but I did not. You did not use the same road to depart the village."

"I'd already traveled that road, and seen what little there was to see on it. I decided to go south and see new things instead."

"As the residents of Dunnidale informed me." Bartram nodded. "How is it that a young man such as yourself bested the demon there, when so many before you had not?"

"I cannot say."

"You cannot?"

"I will not." Orin stood defiant. "There was much horror that I witnessed that night, when I vanquished the demon of Dunnidale. I am afraid that were I to give you a full recounting of it, you might find yourself becoming insane. It is for your own safety that I dare not speak about it."

Bartram watched him closely for the next few moments. "The townspeople seem convinced that the demon is truly gone."

"And so it is." Orin confirmed. "I was sleeping by my campfire at the foot of the cave, when the townsfolk came by and found me the next morning. There was wailing through the night, but as I've said, I've driven the demon away, and there will be wailing there no more."

"You seem sure of yourself."

"I am. The demon is gone, you can be certain of it."

"But how did you defeat it?"

"Why did you come so far to find me?"

Bartram smiled. "As I've said; to see what became of you. I was greatly impressed when I came to Dunnidale, and the people there told me of your success. I had to seek you out for myself and see the truth of it, and so I have. You know they've named the cave after you. They're calling it Orin's Wonder now, and the local bard sings a tale of a great horned demon doing battle with you for an entire night. You yourself have said, that it's better to see a matter with your own eyes, instead of relying on the account of another man. So I've come and I've found you, and I only wanted to hear it from your own mouth."

"The demon is gone." Orin remained as elusive as ever. "I know they named the cave after me, and they gave me a good meal before I set off, but there was no coin in it for me. It seems that anyone with a vested interest in seeing the demon gone has long since departed this world."

"And what it is that you seek to do next?"

"Why, travel wherever the wind will take me, in search of more adventure."

"I would travel a spell with you, if you would not mind my company."

"I prefer to go it alone."

"Towns and villages are few and far between, young Orin." Bartram reminded him. "It would do you well to have a seasoned hand to come along with you."

"I can manage my way through the wilderness, as well as any man."

"Can you?" Bertram teased. "Is that why you haven't caught a morsel in a day and a half?"

Orin blew out another long breath. "I am not a good archer."

"But I am." Bertram replied. "And I am a good teacher as well."

Eying the older man's pack of provisions, Orin said. "Give me something to eat, and I will consider it."

Bartram leaned over and scooped his pack off the ground. He threw it near Orin's legs. "You're welcome to take a fair amount of what I have. When strangers meet and make it a deal to travel together, it is customary that they become as brothers until they each go their own way again."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean that if I have a good day at the hunt, I will share my catch with you." Bartram explained. "And if we camp together, you will not steal my belongings while I sleep."

"I will not steal from you." Orin said, feeling as if his integrity were being questioned. "I am a man of honor. I will pay you for whatever food I take from you. I have coin!"

"I don't want your coin." Bartram shook his head. "I only want your word that you are as you say you are, a man of honor."

"And so you have it." Orin approached him, holding out his arm. "Let my handshake serve as a bond between us, and let us travel as you say, as brothers on the road."

Orin was surprised to find Bartram's grip as strong and firm as that of any other reputable man he'd come across. He was not the simple vagrant Orin had initially taken him for.

"You'll find cured venison and cheese in there." Bertram motioned at his pack. "Take enough to ease your hunger, and no more, as we've still a good walk until we reach the next place, and it will do us no good to squander what we have too early. Let me see your bow, if you will."

Reluctantly, Orin glanced at his bow, as if he might be holding it for the last time. It was his most valuable tool.

"I won't steal it from you." Bartram joked. "Go and look over mine, if you wish. See how tight the draw is on it, and gauge it's weight. I've a feeling your bow might need some tweaking of a sort."

"I made this bow with my own hands." Orin revealed, as he handed it over. "It's the only bow I've ever owned."

"Maybe that's the problem, then." Bartram laughed. "If there is one thing you don't want to keep as you get older, it's your first bow."

Orin frowned, but he was hungrier than he was insulted. He dug into Bartram's pack, found what the man had to eat, and he took out only modest portions for himself. Bartram watched him closely, but he seemed satisfied that Orin hadn't taken too much, and at the same time, he was inspecting Orin's bow.

"I'm afraid this bow has outlived its usefulness." The older man admitted. "The limbs have too much give in them, and the string is much too loose, as if meant for a child's pull. It's no wonder that you wound more prey than you kill. You've given some unfortunate animals a long and arduous death because of this bow, young Orin. I can make an adjustment or two on it, if you wish, but my suggestion is that you replace this bow with a better one, as soon as you can afford to."

"Make your adjustments, man." Orin grumbled back.

Once he had wolfed down his light meal, Orin went over to study Bartram's bow. It was definitely heavier than his, more rigid, and the string did require more strength to pull.

"It's made of strong cedar, and made to my requirements." Bartram told him. "If we run into ample game, I may allow you a try at it. It's an archer's bow, as opposed to a simple hunter's bow, and you should become accustomed to handling one like it."

Orin took to grumbling even further, as Bartram unstrung his bow and restrung it, placing upon it more tension than it had before. He did not relish the thought of another man setting his hands on his most prized possession, something that he himself had made and had put his heart into, even if that man was trying to teach him how things were properly done.

The evening grew long around them, and deepened into a cool night. The two travelers made a campfire there, in the thick of the woods and far enough away from the main road that they did not expect any bandits to come prowling after them. Bartram related what he knew of the small towns that lay to the south, but it was little, as his travels in that direction had been few and far between. He did not know if adventure would welcome them there or not, and this, of course, was what the young and daring Orin was hoping to find. Eventually, however, the conversation drifted back to Dunnidale, and the demon that was, but was no longer, and of the precise means Orin had used to dispatch it.

"You ask too many questions, Bartram." Orin said firmly, as he sat and warded the coolness of the night with the fire they'd built. "Perhaps the answers I give you will not be to your liking."

"I have seen a few strange things in my travels, young Orin."

"Don't call me that." Orin made a face. "I am not a young man anymore. I am now a grown man. If you must add words to my name, do as the people of Dunnidale have done, and call me Orin, the Slayer of Demons."

"Did you really slay the demon, then?" Bartram asked. "You can trust me with your secrets, Orin, as then I will be able to trust you with my own. I have seen things with my own eyes, that can make a man's bollocks cringe into his body with fear."

Orin laughed. "Have you?"

"Will you tell me what transpired at Dunnidale, or not?" Bartram demanded.

Orin sat there thoughtfully for a few moments. "Do you promise not to tell another living soul, if I do?"

"I give my word that I will not."

"It would be better, perhaps, if I show you." Orin drew out one of his customary long breaths, as he pulled his own meager pack of provisions to his side. From it, he dug out a small bundle, and as he unwrapped the worn cloth from around it, he revealed to Bartram the box he had found in the demon's cave, and soon after, the straw doll that lay within it.

"A witchery, is it?" Bartram asked, as he stepped over and peered close at the items.

"It is, but I know nothing of it." Orin divulged. "All I know is that after I removed this box and this doll from the cave, the wailing ceased and the demon was vanquished."

"Was it that simple?"

Orin stared hard into the eyes of his newfound friend, before he answered, "No. There is more to this, but you would think me a madman if I told you the truth. You will have to see things for yourself. Promise that you won't harm this doll, and I will lend it to you to sleep with tonight. The spirits that dwell within it will show you the truth of how the Demon of Dunnidale came to be."

"To sleep with, you say? Is it evil?"

"No, not evil. But it is... something rather unexpected."

"Tell me what."

"It is enough to make many an adventurer run away without telling a single soul of what he has seen, and enough to make the young men of Dunnidale run away from their families and to rebuild their lives elsewhere. This I can personally attest to."

"But you look none the worst for wear because of it. You, a young man of so few years, bested this demon when many hard men could not!"

"That is all I will say." Orin shrugged. "Sleep with this doll tonight, if you dare, and all may be revealed to you in the same manner that it was revealed to me. If you cannot, you are not to say another word of it, for you have had your chance to prove your mettle against the curse of Dunnidale. That is all I have to say on the matter."

Begrudgingly, Bartram closely studied the strange doll, with its costume of half of a man, and half of a woman. He could make nothing of it, and in the end, he relented and set the box and doll just beyond his pack, which he was using for a pillow.

The fire was doused to only a half of what it was originally, to ward off any curious animals, before both travelers took sides across from one another, and lay their bodies down for the night.

Despite their gentleman's agreement, it seemed that both men were wary of their companion, for they each kept a close watch on the other until the day's fatigue got the best of them, and at about the same time, they both fell asleep.

It was much later in the night, when Orin was disturbed from his sleep. Across the fire from him, Bartram was tussling about and groaning, and the young man knew that his new partner was having a dream...

Bartram was entirely disconcerted. His back was pressed against a cold, hard surface, and as he shifted his head to see what this was, his eyes came upon a wall of hewn stone, which he knew was an expensive thing to build, for the services of a stonecutter did not come cheap. This wall stretched up to a good height above his head, and was rounded about to form a small chamber with a single door and a few openings that allowed a bright sunlight to stream inside of it. The top of this wall, of this building, was made up of flattened planks.

As he looked about further, Bartram discovered that he was inside of a windmill, for he could see the great beams and wheels of the contraption before him, and the stairs leading up to a door mounted into the ceiling, for the purposes of allowing a wealthy man to climb up their length and to gaze upon the countryside.

What was he doing in this place? Bartram wondered. He stepped closer to the wooden machine that took up nearly the entire inside of the mill, watching the gears slowly rotate, and gauging the wind to be lax in its duties. He saw the bushels of wheat to one side, and the sacks of flour to be filled on the other, and he wondered where the tender to the mill would be found.

He heard a light chuckle, as if someone were watching him, and he again scanned the interior of the mill, and he even poked his head outside of it, but not a soul was to be seen.

His movements weren't as fluid as he'd expected from his light clothing, and he glanced down and nearly went into hysterics when he realized he was wearing a woman's smock and apron.

"What the devil is this?" He asked, as he raised his hands up, and saw, not his own harsh and calloused fingers, but a woman's plump and gentle hands instead.

"What the devil?" He repeated, as he glanced down at his chest, and it started to sink in that he had a bosom, and that his breasts were prominent and heavy.

Bartram shuddered. This was Orin's doing, he thought, Orin and that cursed doll of his. Somehow, he had been spelled into the body of a woman. He felt like screaming.

"Shush." A woman's voice said.

He glanced about him again, and again saw that he was alone.

"I am Rohanna." The disembodied voice said. "And I know one of your most guarded secrets."

"Are you a ghost?"

"I am." The voice replied. "I will tell you the full of it, before I allow you to leave this place. In the meantime, you are to... frolic."

She giggled again.

"I don't understand." Bartram said. "What will happen to me?"

"Hush, dear Bartram." Rohanna said. "My lover comes, and it would not do well to spurn him, for he has taken a great risk by visiting me here. Do be kind to him."

"Your lover?"

"Rohanna?" A man's voice called out. "Are you here?"

"There is no one to be found here but a few ghosts." Rohanna announced, teasingly.

A man's voice darkened the open doorway. "So you're here."

"Where else would I be?" Rohanna flirted.

Bartram wore a woman's body, and this man who had just arrived, he stared in Bartram's direction as if he were a love-struck man. He lusted openly at the twisted creature Bartram had become.

From his headwear to his shoes, this man's attire, for a person of Bartram's simple means, looked exceedingly extravagant. His cap was of black felt and feathered, his jacket a becoming shade of red, belted by a black leather belt and a silver buckle, and his leggings were of a soft blue with stirrups hidden within short leather boots. His name, Bartram somehow knew, was Silas, and he could be considered a handsome man.

"You seem... rather distant today, my love." Silas commented. "Is something the matter?"

The body Bartram found himself encased in turned away, and took a few steps toward the grinding wheel. Apparently, there was nothing he could do to control it, for he felt the woman's body leaning over to pluck a handful of wheat stalks and carelessly toss it under the track of the wheel. Then, the body merely leaned over a wooden rail and watched as the massive stone wheel slowly did its rounds.

"Should I go away?" Silas asked.

The body of Rohanna began to wiggle expectantly, and Bartram could feel its cheeks blushing. And this Silas, Bartram could readily admit, was a rather attractive man.

"I do hate when you ignore me like this." Silas sounded as if he were becoming exasperated. "Tell me, love, should I go away or not?"

"What have you come here for, Silas?" Rohanna asked.

He heard Silas' soft chuckle.

"Tell me truly, or I will indeed send you away."

There was a warm hesitation from Silas. "I came here to make love to you."

"Then speak no more." Rohanna said. "And do to me what you came here to do."

Bartram could feel the man's approach behind him, and as well, he could sense Rohanna's reaction to him. Her breath came in increasingly halting volumes, her breasts tingled with excitement, and her insides yearned for him, moistened for him.

The hands of Silas clasped Rohanna's waist, but only momentarily, as if the young man could harbor his want no longer. Those hands climbed up her sides until they surrounded the expanse of Rohanna's breasts and there they squeezed and drew a trembling mewl from the woman's mouth.

The man's form leaned close to hers, his breaths warming her hair. "Will you let me kiss you, love?"

"We've not the time." Rohanna replied. "Tarry too long, and you will be found out. No more words now, only give me your love quickly, as you came here to do."

Bartram felt his smock being lifted, and his legs, Rohanna's legs, being exposed to the slight draft coursing through the mill. The folds of fabric slid past his knees, past his thighs, and even past his buttocks.

"Hold your garment." Silas said tenderly, as Rohanna directed her hands to it.

The man's hands caressed her buttocks, giving Bartram the idea that they were as plump as the rest of her. There was a brief moment, where Silas could be heard fumbling with his own garments, before he pressed close again. With firm hands, he leaned Rohanna over the rail. His hands slid up and down her vulnerable backside a few times.

"Silas, you are to do things very slowly today." Rohanna was heard to say. "I know how pressed for time you are, but you will pander to me, won't you?"

Bartram jerked slightly, when he felt Silas' hard cock sliding across his buttocks.




Orin's Tales Pt. 02



"I will do as you say." Silas replied, as he groped at those same buttocks, spreading them and releasing them a couple of times.

Bartram felt the fumbling between his legs, as Silas aimed his cock at... at where Bartram's cock should have been. Only there was no cock, only Rohanna's hot and creamy slit. He was in the woman's body, and somehow sharing it with her, and he jerked again as he felt the end of Silas' hot poker prodding between his legs.

He heard Rohanna's soft laughter, which turned into a faltering gasp, as Silas began to enter that slick and anxious passage. Bartram was forced to release the smock, and he grasped at the wooden rail, feeling its coarse fibers under his fingers and palms, as Silas continued to ease into him from behind. Silas did not halt until he was fully planted, and his abdomen pressed hotly against Rohanna's ample cheeks.

The feeling was intense enough to provoke a soft wail from the woman's lips, and Bartram was glad that the voice emitting from her mouth was Rohanna's, and not his.

Then Silas withdrew his cock fully, exploding shivers of pleasure all over the woman's body, and another, more powerful wail.

"You're more excitable than usual, love." Silas commented.

"I've missed you, Silas, and I thought you might not come today. This is why I was so sullen when you came in." She'd raised her head slightly, to speak, but now leaned forward once more. "I've changed my mind now, as I would rather not risk you taking too long here, and be missed elsewhere. Tell me you love me, and do what you came her for, and that will keep me for another day or two."

"Of course I love you! Never think otherwise!"

"Then show me how much, and be gone with you before your mother finds out what we're doing. You know how she doesn't approve of us being together."

"One day, I will have you all to myself, and no man or woman will come between us." Silas vowed. "Until that day comes, you will have memories like this to remind you of the ardor of my love."

Silas pushed into her again, eagerly, wantonly, as if attempting to fill her entire body. He prompted her to mewl out loud, and even more so as he began rocking back and forth behind her. His thrusts were profound and enthralling, and his legs slapped softly against the backs of Rohanna's fleshy thighs, and all the while, Bartram imagined his arse jutting back and being pummeled into by another man.

Fervor climbed within Silas, provoking him to come crashing against Rohanna's backside, sending ripples cascading over her flesh, and granting him the pleasure of hearing her cries of delight. He rotated his hips to catch her at angles, further agitating her, and quickly reaching that high pinnacle of lovemaking that all lovers hope to find.

Rohanna cried out in bursts of love, and along with her, Bartram cried out also, for he was feeling everything that she felt. From the hurried movements of Silas' cock, to the stimulating reaction her insides experienced, he felt all there was to feel, and when she reached her climax, incredibly, so did he.

As the two of them exploded in ecstatic wails, Silas recklessly plunged into Rohanna, until his own howls mated with theirs and created a symphony of expressed bliss and love. He grasped his lover's middle, even as he burst within her and expelled his liquid heat into her, and even after this he continued to push into her. Until the last traces of ardor were spilt from his body, Silas kept his place, and then, ever reluctantly, he slipped away.

Rohanna, still bent over that sturdy rail, barely heard her lover recover his trappings, as her breaths were still loud and harried.

"One day, I will no longer be forced to hide my love for you, Rohanna." Silas said. "I promise you this."

Rohanna straightened up slowly, but by the time she stood upright, Silas was gone. His promise, she knew, would never, ever be fulfilled, for as long as they lived. Perhaps even in death, their love would remain forever tainted.

The body Bartram was hidden in hurriedly straightened out its smock, and rubbed the coarse fabric against its thighs to clean off the last of her lover's expulsion. Afterwards, the eyes roamed over to the stalks of wheat that had yet to be machined, and he could feel the woman's face contort into a grimace.

"I've gotten behind, due to my longing for my Silas." Rohanna sighed. "But it matters not in this place, for I can relive this same day over and over again. I can finish my task early, or I can finish it not at all. Can you understand what this is like for us, Bartram? For Silas and I to relive these same days over and over without end, for the remainder of eternity? The only thing that has kept us from becoming vengeful spirits is the love we still hold for each other, but even this grows stagnant at times. This is why we draw newcomers into our trysts, because although Silas and I truly love one another, we have grown sick of seeing only ourselves in this accursed state, and no one else. Will you aid young Orin in relieving us of our plight?"

As the shock of being jostled about by ghosts began to subside, the feeling of sadness and eternal confinement began to replace it.

"It must be as Hell for the both of you." Bartram realized.

"It is, truly it is."

Bartram gave his accord. "On my word, I will do what I can for you."

"You are a good man, Bartram. I thank you, and Silas thanks you as well. And worry not about your secret, for it is safe with us."

Bartram would have gulped, then.

In the next moment, he felt the dream slipping away from his mind, and he opened his eyes to gaze upon the starry night, obfuscated partly by the trees around them. The entirety of the story of the two young lovers came to him in a flash, and such a revelation it was, that Bartram gasped and immediately sat up.

He saw the lingering flames from the campfire, and past this he saw Orin, sitting up as he was, and watching him closely.

"She's a plump hen, isn't she?" Orin grinned.

Bartram stared at the young man for a long moment. Not knowing what to say in response, he lay back down and gave his back to the fire, and hoped dearly that Orin would not begin to pepper him with questions.

The cursed doll still lay only a few inches above his head, but somehow, Bartram knew he would be plagued by its startling dreams no longer. He left it where it as, and in the span of a few minutes, the man was soon soundly asleep.

Orin noticed that Bartram was unusually quiet the next morning, at least regarding the previous night's happenings. The man was, however, being as instructive as he'd committed to being, and perhaps even overly much. Bartram had given Orin his bow, and every fifty meters or so, he'd halt Orin and direct him to take a bowman's stance.

"Again, Bartram?" Orin balked, the next time his new mentor ordered him to assume that same pose yet again. "We've done this nearly twenty times already!"

"What does one need, in order to become an accomplished bowman?"

"Practice, practice, and more practice."

"It would only work to your advantage to heed my words." Bartram stated. "If you wish, I can stop teaching you now, but if I did, you may as well break up your bow and your remaining arrows, and use them for kindling. You will never become proficient enough to catch any sort of wild game with your current level of mastery. The best you can hope to do is to come across a farm, and even then you would be lucky to down so much as a hen."

"Oh, very well, Bartram." Orin chuckled. "I'll take the stance. Go ahead and remind me again of my many faults."

The young man assumed a bowman's pose, while the older man walked around him in a tight circle and closely scrutinized him.

"Give thanks to me, for your faults are not as numerous as before." Bartram inspected him. "What is your target?"

"That birch tree there, the leafy one at fifteen yards."

Briefly, Bartram considered the tree, and their distance from it, before he commenced his critique. "Your feet are correctly aligned toward your target, good. Your draw hand is up and near your lips, again good. Your left elbow is crooked a tad too far away for now, but this is much better than how close it was earlier. Hold your position, focus your aim, relax your breaths, and the beats of your heart..."

"Otherwise that birch tree will notice me, and go bounding off into the woods."

Ignoring the young man's jest, Bartram halted before Orin's front. "This time, I will examine your release. Shoot when you are ready."

After a few moments, Orin did.

"Once again."

Orin repeated the action.

After a few moments, Bartram asked, "Who is it that taught you how to shoot a bow?"

"I taught myself."

Hearing Bartram's chuckles made Orin's ire burn. What bothered the young man most was not his ineptitude with archery, for he already knew he was deficient at this. Instead, he resented the idea that Bartram would think of Orin's father as an incompetent who had taught his son nothing. Orenn the Fearless had taught him plenty, but not in the Way of the Bow. Orin's proficiency lay in the Way of the Sword, with his strongest foundation being in maneuvers while on the battlefield, or in any other close quarters, and also in movements of stealth involving the penetration of an enemy's lines, for the purposes of scouting, spying, extricating valuables, and assassination. He could not, of course, reveal these things to his new mentor.

"My father had little need for a bow." Orin admitted, in the man's defense. "Had he a purpose for an archer, he would have simply hired one. I learned how to fashion a bow, and how to shoot one, only by watching other men from afar. You may correct me as you will, Bartram, only do not judge my father for what I lack in."

"I will respect that." Bartram nodded. "There were two critical flaws in your release. At the point when you should be letting go of the string, you are giving it one last tug and skewing everything out of true. The correction for this can be troublesome, for you will have to break that bad habit. Instead of one last jerk, you must teach yourself to keep your fingers firm, and to allow the string to roll off on its own. Second, and just as important, is that you're relaxing your stance even as you are releasing the arrow. Again, this affects your entire balance. The correction for this is much simpler. Keep your body in the bowman's stance, until the moment the arrow strikes the target. Can you remember these two things?"

"As well as I can remember the rest of it, I suppose." Orin replied. "Thank you, Bartram. I'm rather glad you came to seek me out."

The older man grinned at the younger, and a few moments later the pair was on the move again.

For the next couple of hours, things went this way, until they happened on an approaching traveler. It was a man most curiously dressed, for his garments were primarily dyed in a deep, rich red wine color, fringed in white, and speckled on the fringes with gold and silver flakes so that he seemed to twinkle as he walked. His hat was relatively tall, droopy and conical like an elf's, with a great white feather extending from one side. He wore a tunic that drew down to the thighs, leggings beneath that, and shoes with an exaggerated and pointed tip, and his stride was both full and bouncy.

"Ho, there!" The man announced, his voice cheerful, and as buoyant as the rest of him.

"Ho there, yourself." Bartram replied. "You have the look of a town crier about you."

"That I am." The man, who looked to be only a year or two older than Orin, bowed lightly. "Welcome to the both of you."

"And the same to you, friend." Bartram grinned. "What sort of news do you bring?"

"Only the most heart-fluttering sort." The crier divulged. "In two days' time, in the town hall of Sleepy Glen, master Derek of the Tollsons will wed the lady Josephine of the Fletchers. It will be a grand time for all, and all are invited to attend. There will be a grand dance held in the town square after the wedding, food, ale and wine will be abundant, and a troupe of entertainers has been commissioned to add to the merriment."

"It sounds as if it will be a splendid event!" Orin immediately perked up.

"Indeed it will be, young laddie." The crier smiled at him. "All that we ask in return, is that any guests be announced in the proper manner, and that their names and places of residence be recorded by a notary. In this way, the variety of the guests will forever be remembered by our town."

It was not an uncommon request, Orin knew, for the names and hometowns of guests to be requested. Many of the smaller towns and villages lay far, far from the beaten paths, where visitors were rather few and far between. The entire purpose of the town crier was to herd as many people away from the road and toward the feast as possible.

"Of course, if it is within one's means to do so, a gift for the bride and groom would be most appreciated." The crier added.

"Oh, we must go there, Bartram!" Orin said, excitedly. "It's been some time since I've been to any sort of festival at all!"

"And do you hope to find any sort of adventure at this wedding, perhaps of the young and female persuasion?" The older man teased, before he addressed the messenger once again. "You mentioned that the bride's surname was Fletcher, yes? Are the arrows this family makes worth acquiring?"

The crier leaned forward like a conspirator. "The Fletchers make fine arrows, but ever since the demand for them has increased at the marketplace by Tooker's Ferry, they have become a tad bit overpriced."

Bartram considered this.

"Ask this man about... the other thing." Orin reminded him.

"Ah, yes." Bartram nodded. "By chance, would you know if there is a capable conjurer or sorcerer in these lands?"

The crier looked alarmed. "Why would you be needing one of those?"

"Uh, it is a rather delicate subject, but I suppose I can trust a man of your calling with it, as you do seem a good sort." Bartram confided. "Young Orin here, ah, prickled his arse the other day, while relieving himself in the brush. We were not able to identify the shrub from which the thorn came, and now a rather unsightly and pus-filled swelling has formed. The last conjurer we came across believed the shrub must have been cursed, and that whatever demon resided there has transferred itself from the shrub and into Orin's arse, where it seems to have made its new home. Orin would be glad to show you this malady, but I fear that upon seeing it, you will deprive yourself of sleep for some time to come."

Looking even more aghast than before, the crier took a quick step back. "I would do very well without such a sight."

Barely harboring his smirk, and the bushel of giggles hiding behind it, Orin gave the men his back.

"There, I've embarrassed him now." Bartram said, grimly. "But you do see how we find ourselves in dire need of a magician, and preferably one adept in the manipulation of spirits."

"There is a witch, who lives not too far from here." The crier revealed. "She is an old and hideous woman, but they say her magic is very potent, and it is not unheard of for her visitors to travel great distances in seeking her. Her name is Sundri, and the place in the hills where she lives is known as the Devil's Crag."

"She sounds wonderful." Orin frowned.

After receiving directions from the man, the two adventurers went on their way. They had only walked a short distance, however, when Orin gave his mentor a punch in the shoulder.

"Of all the people you could have chosen, I can't believe you told that grand lie to a town crier!" The young man snapped. "The Devil's Cave, the Devil's Crag, I suppose that now they'll be calling me the Devil's Arse! Look there, that's the Devil's Arse, and he's come to ask me for a dance. How many women will want to dance with me, Bartram, after that crier spreads that false rumor around the entire village?"

Nervously, Bartram grinned back, but in truth, his shoulder was already throbbing, for Orin's punch, unexpectedly, had been very, very strong.

The Devil's Crag lay at the end of a seldom-used trail that went through an especially thick length of copse. The trees were crowded and menacing, with cracked bark in a muddle of black and gray, and crooked branches that seemed to droop down deliberately to poke and scratch at the pair of visitors. No sooner had they left the trail and the trees behind, than they confronted the rough, craggy face of a barren hill of reddish dirt and broken rock.

In the midst of these looming, bleak portraits, was just enough room for a lean-to. The posts holding this crude dwelling were stripped trees, and three of the walls along with the roofing consisted of nothing sturdier than old, ruddy canvas. The fourth side of the lean-to was wide open, and within its narrow stretch they observed an old cot with straw for bedding, and a single dingy, coarse blanket. Beside this, there were a few old jars and a smattering of old garments and shoes. Sitting on an old, straw-padded stump and watching over a meager fire was none other than the witch they had come to find.

She was an old woman, with a gaunt, weathered face. Her nose was hooked like a claw, her eyes, sharp and leery. Her hair was white and gray, and at spots stained with yellow. Her clothing was once colored a pleasant shade of gray, but now looked moldy and as bedraggled as its wearer. The woman's attention was entirely focused on the two men entering the very small clearing.

"Why have you come?" She demanded.

Squeamishly, Bartram deferred their introduction to his companion.

Orin felt squeamish himself, and was only barely able to suppress his fear when he replied. "We were told that we could find a woman named Sundri here..."

"I am Sundri. What of it?"

"Is it true that you can manipulate spirits?"

"Of course I can. Is one of you possessed?"

"No, not at all."

"Then what do you want? Spit it out, or I'll have you both dragged out of here by my minions."

Anxiously, Orin glanced about, but he saw nothing whatsoever that might be construed as minions, and he was not at all eager to meet any of them, either. As quickly as he could manage, he pulled off his pack and from it he retrieved the cursed box. Not wanting to approach the witch any further, he held it out with both hands.

"Bring it here." Sundri ordered.

After a long exhalation, Orin trudged forward, his nose wrinkling as he took in the reek of stale sweat, urine, and defecation. For the sake of the two cursed lovers, he braved through the stink and presented the box to the witch.

Sundri studied the box from various angles, and even from underneath, before she went on to open it. The doll she studied even longer.

"There is a very old curse here." She said, finally, and with some of the hard edge gone from her voice. "Who did this?"

In short order, Orin revealed the story of the two lovers, and how they had ended up trapped in the cave at Dunnidale. Of more than that, he said nothing.

Once the tale was told, the two travelers were puzzled to see the witch holding the straw doll close to her bosom. What's more, the old woman began to cry softly before them. Orin and Bartram were both too apprehensive to give her any comfort, and stood by uselessly until the tearful episode was done.

"What good is love, if jealous people seek to hew it down the moment they have noticed love taking root?" Sundri asked, as she wiped the last of her grimy tears away. "I will remove this curse and release the two lovers, but this will come at some cost to you."

Orin said, "I haven't much in the way of coin, but all that I carry is yours if you do this."

"Bah!" The witch expelled. "What would I do with coin, out here?" She began to study the two men closely. "I will break this spell, but only on one condition. I wish to be cockled. It has to been many years since I have known the company of a man, and I suddenly find myself desiring one."




Orin's Tales Pt. 02



Orin looked aghast. Bartram looked ready to run. The two men locked eyes.

"Bartram, you have much more experience in these matters than I." Orin decided. "You should to it."

"Me?" The older man balked. "But look at you, Orin. You have your youthful vigor, and your exuberance besides that. In fact, it would do you well to take this opportunity by the horns, if only to give you more seasoning in the handling of a woman."

"I have decided that you will both cockle me." The witch impatiently cut in. "And should you choose to contest this any further, I will turn the both of you into frogs, and I will grind you into powder for use in a potion that causes itchiness of the scalp!"

Bartram gulped.

Orin, on the other hand, was quicker on the return. "We agree to your terms."

"Do you?" Even Sundri was surprised by this sudden shift.

"But not today." Orin finished off quickly. "We are much too weary from our travels, to be presentable to you today. You should find us in much better shape on the morrow. I do ask a favor from you, and that is that you refrain from releasing the two spirits until the morning."

"But why?" Sundri asked.

"Because they'll be commencing a new start together." Orin explained. "What better way to celebrate their newfound freedom, than to release them at the dawn of a brand new morning? Oh, and be sure to keep the doll close to your person, while you sleep tonight."

"And why?" Sundri looked at him suspiciously.

"This way, the lovers will know that you are near, and that very soon they will be released. What better way than that, to give them hope?"

The witch deliberated over the words, until her countenance finally softened. "I suppose you are wise in this. Why loosen the spirits into a waning afternoon, when a waxing morning would be so much more symbolic. Very well, I will do as you say." Right after, her eyes sharpened on the two men. "I forbid the two of you to leave my clearing, until the conditions of our agreement have been satisfied."

Bartram frowned.

"Not a word from you." Orin warned him. "Remember, it was you who insisted we do everything as brothers, and that we share whatever fortune we come across. Well, good fortune or bad, we will be sharing this one together."

Bartram pursed his lips, before he relented and sighed. "I suppose we did agree on that, and I am not a man who goes back on his word." He turned to the old woman. "Is there any source of fresh water nearby? I'm afraid our goat bladders are nearly empty." 

Sundri motioned with her head. "There is a brook just to the other side of this hill. If you intend to go there, I will be joining you. I have my water jug to fill as well."

"Come along, then." Bartram replied, and he went as far as to retrieve said water jar and carry it for her.

Orin suspected the witch was only joining them to make sure they wouldn't try and flee from her. He also noticed that Bartram was giving Sundri a wide berth, for she did smell something fierce. Once she was close enough to get a whiff of, Orin too set more distance between them.

Bartram ambled closer to him, and whispered, "That was good thinking, of putting off our cockle by substituting the doll in our stead. I hope our two friends satiate this witch's lust, otherwise we are both in for it."

Walking beside him, Orin wished for the very same thing.

"You'll be taking her first." Bartram finished off, when his eyes caught something up ahead, and right away, he halted his footsteps. In a scant moment, his bow was off his shoulder and in his grip, and he could be seen pulling an arrow from the quiver at his side.

Orin stopped also, when he saw a young buck drinking from the brook, only a short distance away.

"No need for that." Sundri wafted by. "I will summon our supper shortly."

The deer heard the witch's voice, and quickly skittered away into the trees.

Bartram frowned again, for he hadn't even had the time to nock his arrow. Begrudgingly, he set his equipment away. "Thank you for that."

"It was much too large for only the three of us, anyway." Sundri stated. "And besides, I have no salt to preserve what would have been left over."

"What did you mean, when you said you would summon our supper?" Orin asked.

"You will see for yourself, shortly." The witch replied, enigmatically.

The brook was a narrow stretch of water barely past three yards across. Only the height of one or two fingers, it nevertheless flowed steadily from higher hills to the west, and possibly, from a range of mountains visible beyond that.

After gauging his surroundings, Bartram dropped to one knee before the brook. As he cupped water into his hand and brought it up to his mouth, he observed a pond only a few meters distance to the north.

"A good place for a wash." Bartram commented, aiming his words at the smelly witch.

It was Orin, however, who replied first. "We can bathe ourselves here, before we travel to that feast we've been told about!"

"What feast?" Sundri asked.

"Why, the wedding at Sleepy Valley." Orin exclaimed. "We've been invited!"

And so, Orin began spouting about the gaily dressed town crier they'd come across, and of how grand a celebration it was to be. Even after they'd filled their natural canteens and made their way back to the witch's lair, he was still going on about it. Orin only cut his words short when he discovered two hares waiting near the lean-to.

"Why aren't they running from us?" Orin asked.

"Because I've summoned them, that's why." Sundri revealed. "Now, go and fetch them, that we may make our supper ready."

The two men hurried to scoop the hares up, but found the soft animals both docile and willing. In short time, the hares were bled out and dressed, and a satisfactory meal was eaten by them all.

"You can't summon a man, can you, in the same way you were able to summon these hares?" Bartram asked, later.

Sundri only grinned back wickedly, and this effectively put a damper on the rest of the evening's conversation.

Being by nature early sleepers, Orin and Bartram set up a campfire shortly after sunset. This fire they placed a small distance from the witch's lean-to, mainly to keep from the stink of the place, and despite Sundri's frequent and vocal complaints that they sleep closer to her.

Normally, the two men would sleep lightly, apart from one another and guarded even in their slumber, for that was the customary manner of strangers who camped together and who did not fully trust each other. Having the witch as a common threat, however, forced our two travelers to settle on the side of the fire opposite the lean-to. Their heads lay close enough that they could confer privately, as they watched Sundri dawdle about around the much smaller fire she kept in her dwelling space.

Orin whispered, "Do you believe she'll come to us tonight, and attempt to cockle us while we sleep?"

"I'm certain she will." Bartram whispered back. "Our only hope is that our two spirit lovers will keep that smelly woman distracted, and away from the two of us."

"What of tomorrow?" Orin asked, anxiously. "When we will have to fulfill our end of the deal, and have to cockle her?"

"There's no use fretting about that now." Bartram sighed. "We shall simply have to cross that bridge when we come to it. I do wish the old hag didn't harbor such a stench, though. I'm afraid my prick will refuse to stand up because of it."

"I must reveal something to you, Bartram." Orin said, queasily. "Do you recall when we first met, and how we spoke of the many women we'd conquered in the past? Well, I fabricated all of that. I've never slept with a woman at all, because there were very few young women in my village to be had, and their fathers demanded such a high dowry for them. The time I slept with the cursed doll is the closest I've ever been to bedding a woman."

Bartram took this in silently.

"If this witch does come after me in the night, I may end up throwing her into the fire."

Bartram grinned. "I believe that would make her smell even worse."

This set off such a round of giggles between the two men, that their laughter rippled all the way back to the lean-to.

"What are you two on about?" The witch called out to them.

The men piped down, but still they watched. They observed as Sundri took a seat on her worn cot, and rocked back and forth with the cursed doll in her embrace. She seemed to be talking to it at first, and later singing to it, and every so often she would stroke at it tenderly. After a time, the old woman lay her body down, and she kept the doll pressed close to her bosom.

The woman's stirrings soon ceased, and after, she found sleep, and her two watchers followed suit.

"Orin." Bartram's sharp whisper interrupted the young man's slumber.

As lightning, Orin drove the cobwebs from his head, and set his body on alert.

"Orin." Bartram repeated.

"I'm awake, Bartram. What is it?"

"Listen."

Using his various senses, Orin took in his surroundings. He saw no immediate concerns, but past the crackle of their steady fire, he heard Sundri's voice. The woman was moaning, he realized.

By a short span, Orin lifted his upper half, and he took in the sight of the witch gasping, and squirming amorously on her cot. The sounds were a delight for him to hear, and already he could feel his body becoming aroused because of them.

"I dare say we won't have any trouble from her tonight." Bartram joked. "Have you ever heard such scandal?"

"Truthfully, Bartram, you were much louder."

For a long moment, the other man was still and quiet. Eventually, he said, "Go back to sleep, Orin."

Orin found he could not quickly do so. He listened intently to the rapture of the witch, and only when her sensual emissions faded, was he able to slip back into his dreams.

It was much later, but still under the cloak of night, that Orin's senses roused him up again. Something was wrong, they told him, and before he opened his eyes and gave away the fact that he was awake, he listened. He heard the steady crackle of the fire, as before, but he did not hear the sound of Bartram's slumber, or any other sound coming from the direction of the lean-to.

But there was a presence standing before him, he felt it, and he did not know whether to count it as friend or foe. Pretending he was still asleep, Orin loosely rolled his arm over, intending to grasp the short sword he'd hidden under his body, but whoever was watching him caught the gesture and stepped on his wrist. The pressure was light, he noted, but firm enough that Orin knew his watcher had the advantage over him.

As he finally opened his eyes, he found it unusual that this stranger had stepped on him with a bare foot, and not a foot covered in a boot or shoe of some sort.

"What is it that you want?" Orin asked, hating that he'd allowed himself to be put in such a compromising position. Some great warrior he was turning out to be.

In reply, the stranger moved his foot away from Orin's wrist, and settled it close to the young man's hand. The foot, with its gentle arch and toenails painted in red, looked dainty, and as Orin's gaze traveled upward, and through the glow from the fire, he saw fleshy thighs, a supple belly, and what was unmistakably a woman's sex. This woman was definitely not the witch from Devil's Crag.

Orin sat up quickly, seeing also this woman's large breasts and soft arms, and finally, he was able to see her face. "Rohanna!"

He glanced beside him, but found that Bartram was gone, before he turned back to view the spectacle of her fully nude body.

"Is this some trickery of the witch?" Orin asked, suspiciously.

"It is not." Rohanna's melodic voice replied. "It is I, the true Rohanna, come back from the place of spirits, but only for a short time."

"How did this happen?"

"Through the magic of Sundri, of course." Rohanna explained. "Silas and I entreated with her to make us as real people, and I dare say we are quite the convincing pair." She giggled, and it was a most pleasurable sound to Orin's ears.

"But she was supposed to wait until sunrise." Orin said. "And where is Silas? And what has happened to Bartram?" He shifted to one side, avoiding for a moment the enticing sight of Rohanna's bare legs, and peering toward the lean-to. "At least the witch is still in her place."

"Oh, she will have a restful sleep, we have seen to that." Rohanna laughed. "And as for your friend, well, let us say that Silas and he will stay out of our hair while I, as Sundri would say it, take the time to cockle you."

"Has Silas been made real, as you have? Will he be angry with me?"

Rohanna laughed again. "We could discuss these matters for the rest of the night, or you could simply allow me to give you my gratitude for having released us from our eternal banishment."

Orin got to his feet, standing perhaps the width of one and a half palms higher than the woman, just as he remembered her from the encounters in his dreams. "I've never slept with a real woman before, only with you as a ghost."

"Then I shall be your first real woman, as I was your first ghost." Rohanna resolved, as she grasped both of Orin's hands and set them upon the large mounds of her breasts. She laughed again, as if overjoyed at being made flesh, and at being free from that wicked curse. "I am as real a woman as any, am I not? Keep your hands on me, Orin, and I will see to the rest."

She did as she said, running her own hands up and down Orin's arms and back, slipping them under his clothing to get at his bare chest and stomach, before she pulled him closer to her bosom. As Orin had not moved his hands an inch away from her breasts, Rohanna now took them and moved them to her backside.

Orin gasped, as his fingers felt the lovely expanse of her, and as Rohanna slipped her fingers down his back, past the fabric of his leggings, and onto his own buttocks.

She tightened her fingers on his backside. "Clench me, like this. Then release me, and do it again and again."

He did, even as Rohanna did the same to him, and he felt a heat building up between them that he had never experienced before. She had pulled his leggings down to his thighs, freeing his cock, and now that especially hot and hardened part of him was pressed against Rohanna's lower belly and demanded that Orin reenact what he had gone through in his ghostly visions.

Rohanna squeezed his backside, and laughed. "You have plump buttocks, for a man. I would keep my distance from Bartram, if I were you."

"What do you mean?"

"I only mean, that some men prefer the company of other men, in addition to the company of women." She revealed. "Enough of your friend. He will tell you of his fetish in his own good time. Now finish undressing, as I am getting a tad impatient for you."

He did, and soon stood as nude as she was.

Rohanna directed him to lie down on his blankets, and once he was in this position, her eyes ran over the length of his body. "You have a pleasing form to you, Orin, and this even before you've grown the full shoulders of a man. I'm tempted to linger until you've gained your full stature, and have you then, but my Silas will surely become jealous of you."

Orin only half heard her words, for he wondered about Silas, and Bartram, and what they could be doing together. For certain, he'd heard of men lying with other men, but he never saw the purpose, or the pleasure of such a thing.

Rohanna was not to be deterred, however, as she straddled Orin's waist and brought her voluptuous body down on his. She leaned forward to offer the fullness of her breasts to his mouth. "Suckle them, Orin, and kiss them and lick them, and let your hands touch my body in all of my places. This is how a woman will be satisfied."

For a moment, Orin was torn, for her two breasts were equally tantalizing as they grazed against his cheeks, and he could hardly choose one and neglect the other. To choose he must, however, and his lips reached out and gently rubbed against Rohanna's soft flesh, seeking until they met with her supple skin, and finally, until they encircled the warmth of her nipple.

Rohanna shuddered at his touch, and she mewled as a cat in heat might. The sound was a pure delight to Orin's ears, for he had never before provoked a woman into producing such a welcome noise. When he'd been involved in the ghostly trysts with Rohanna and Silas, he had heard her make such sounds, but that was utter confusion as to who was who, and who was where. This time, it was Orin bringing about the woman's pleasure, and he relished greatly in this thought.

His hands did explore her body, first at her sides, then to bring company to the breast that had so far been neglected, and then further back to the vast curve of Rohanna's rump. Orin squeezed tightly, as he'd been instructed to, and the more he caressed the woman, the more her want seemed to grow for him.

His own want amplified as well, as he felt his cock touching the insides of her thighs, and yearning to enter that warm little cave he'd imagined in his dreams.

Rohanna's voice was lusty, ragged. "Only when a woman has been teased as you have been teasing me, should she be taken. A woman is not to be taken while she is cold, but while she is hot. And you have made me so very hot, Orin."

She reached down between their legs, and grasped his cock in her hand. He felt the shudder of eagerness ripple through her body, and through his own, as she slowly stroked his length.

"A woman must be kissed as well," Rohanna said, as she lowered her mouth onto his.

Their lips met, one as a wild torrent of heat and desire, the other as a cool and hesitant river, but they remained this way for only a short moment. Orin's ardor soon took over him, and he returned Rohanna's passion to her, inflaming them both into amorous frenzy.

"If I could, I would keep your hand on my cock forever." Orin said, as Rohanna took a respite from their kisses, and simply stared into the young man's eyes.

She smiled, and even her smile was intoxicating to him. "My hand, along with the rest of my being, all belong to my Silas. I am sharing myself with you because I am grateful for what you have done for us, and also because I do like you. There can never be more between us, Orin, and as such, I am prohibiting you from falling into love with me."

"It cannot be helped. I would keep you for myself, if I could."

"You flatter me, Orin. There will be other women for you, I am certain of it. You are too handsome to go without a woman's attention for very long. Only remember that I was your first, both in this realm and in the realm of ghosts, and that this time between us will be as special for me, as it is for you."

Rohanna sat up, and began rubbing Orin's cock against the curves of her buttocks. "I can wait no longer, Orin. Instead of you taking me, I will be taking you."

She shifted over him, scooting back until her waist was aligned properly, before she guided Orin's cock into her, and settled her weight on him. A new mewl plundered from her lips, eclipsing the sweetness of her former sounds, as Orin's length slid deeper and deeper into her, until at the end she was fully embedded by him.

"Orin..." She moaned, as she began rocking her body over him. "Hold my breasts, Orin. Please."

He did, reaching up and grasping breasts that were hot and eager for him, and causing Rohanna to gasp from his touch. The more he caressed her, he saw, the more she moaned for him, and this led him to grope not only her breasts, but her sides and her arms as well.

"Oh, Orin." She said, as she kept bucking down on him.

When Orin's roving hands found the vast territory of her rump, however, a new sort of vocalization began to escape from her. It was an urgent noise, part gasp and part moan, and all of it tantalizing to his no longer virgin ears.




Orin's Tales Pt. 02



He felt his cock shiver within her body, and an intense sensation begin to build up inside of him, a sensation that would demand its prompt release. His own voice was uttering halting sounds, and his breaths seemed to catch at his throat, and when that release finally came, he groaned out loud in a way he'd never done so before, and he could feel his seed spilling out of him and into her.

Rohanna cried out, as she felt his climax taking hold within her, and her own climax wanting to coincide with it. She drove her hips down and incited further pleasure from him, until Orin's cries were filling up the campsite and beyond that, into the dark trees of the woods.

When it was all done, she sprawled her body, a body that now glistened with the sweetest sweat, over his and allowed her tattered breaths to return to normal. Orin's hands went to her back, and then to her backside, where he found a much more comfortable perch. He squeezed at her immense and fleshy globes, watching Rohanna's face, and her responses to his squeezes.

"When it is all done, a woman would want to be kissed again." She said, bringing her lips onto his again. They kissed, for a time. "This is a sign of true love, and not of a casual want, for a man who does not truly love a woman would leave after the act is done."

"I do not want to leave you." Orin said.

Rohanna moved her head closer to his mouth. "Tell me what you feel for me, Orin. In a whisper, so that my dear Silas will not hear it."

"I love you, Rohanna." He answered.

She brought her mouth close to his ear next. "Know this, young Orin. For this time that we have been together, I have loved you as well. It is only my love for Silas that prevents me from staying with you, for our love is an eternal one. Give me one last kiss, Orin, and one last squeeze, and savor this moment, for it is the last you will ever have of me."

Orin kissed her, in the slow and passionate way of a lover, and he ran his hands up Rohanna's back, before they returned to their favorite spots on her buttocks. He groped at the broad, soft cheeks, his fingers reluctant to leave them, before he tightened his hands and grasped them a final time.

"Goodbye, Orin." Rohanna whispered, and a moment after, she was gone.

He sat up and looked in all directions, but truly, Rohanna was nowhere to be seen. What he did see was Bartram, and the man looked as if he were admiring Orin's nude body, before he seemed to catch himself and said, "There is one last thing that has to be done, and you should be the one to do it."

"What last thing?" Orin asked, and his nose wrinkled as he became aware of the approach of the witch.

Sundri stepped around the fire, coming toward him slowly, and in her hands she held out the cursed straw doll. She held it out to him. "Take the doll, young Orin, and toss it into the fire. Only then will this whole business be done with."

For a moment, Orin wondered if he should cover himself, for both Bartram and Sundri were studying his form, and perhaps too closely. In the end, he decided against it, for what harm could there be in only looking? He simply got to his feet and took the doll from the witch.

"Into the fire, you say?" He asked.

The witch merely nodded.

Orin approached the fire, glancing at the little doll that had now come to mean so much to him. He could scarcely believe he was about to let it go, and along with it, the ghost of Rohanna. Still, he sighed, the curse must be broken, and even though he wondered if Rohanna might have been the perfect woman for him, he had to accept that she already belonged to another man.

He only hoped that one day, he would be lucky enough to find another woman like her.

Orin tossed the doll into the fire, and watched as the flames quickly devoured the aged straw and fabric it was composed of.

"Goodbye, Rohanna." He said, his voice full of sorrow, as the last of the doll withered away into ashes.

Sundri had already turned, and was ambling her way back to her cot.

"You have done a good thing, Orin." Bartram said, before he too turned toward where his blanket, and his pack lay. "We should try and get some sleep, if we can. I'm sure we'll have an eventful day tomorrow, as we try and fulfill our end of the bargain."

Bartram stepped away, leaving Orin to brood for a few more moments, before he too retired into his blanket. As he settled in, and tried to force his body into slumber, he imagined he felt Rohanna's fingers briefly gliding across his cheek. His imagination was getting the best of him, he decided, and soon after, he succeeded in finding sleep.



Orin's Tales Pt. 03



Part 3. The Trouble At Sleepy Glenn

The next morning found the two men approaching the quiet stillness of the pond. They carried both their weapons and their packs, as men who live on the road are wont to do, and they set these items far enough away from the water that they would not get wet, but close enough that they could reach them quickly if need be.

"What have you been taught of how to go about washing yourself, Orin?" Bartram asked.

The younger man recalled his wise father's words. "In times of trouble, wash only under your arms, around your cock, and up your arse!"

Bartram chuckled, for he'd heard the saying before. It was meant to be both instructive, and a snipe at the listener at the same time. "And in times of peace?"

"Let the water flow, from your head down to your toes, for another chance to wash comes when God only knows."

"A bit fancy, that." Bartram considered. "Unless you happen to be a poet. I've a simpler one: When you smell like the pigpen, water is a good friend. Now since this is not at all a time of trouble..."

Orin watched as the archer tossed his hat onto the rest of his belongings. A moment after, his belt-sash had joined it. Bartram then tugged at the edges of his worn tunic, and lifted the garment up and over his head. His chest and arms boasted of muscle that had once been proud and taut, but that had been rarely exerted and largely neglected as of late. Bartram's belly was more soft than rigid, but it was not the round paunch of a man who sat around all day eating and drinking. Several scars were evident on the archer's arms, and a longer blemish was seen on his ribs.

When Bartram kicked off his boots, and began shucking off his leggings, Orin turned away. He knelt at the edge of the pond, and ran his fingers through its reflective surface.

"The water is cold." He said.

Bartram laughed. "You gauge the pond as a woman would."

Orin turned, witnessing a fully nude Bartram crouched and rummaging through his pack, until he brought out a short bar of lye soap. "And how exactly would a man gauge the pond?"

"Like this." The older man shot forward by a few strides, and jumped into the water.

The splash was both large and unexpected, and caught Orin so much by surprise that he gasped and fell back on his rump. Thankfully, Bartram was still in the water, and had not witnessed his startled reaction.

"Certainly, the water is cold!" The archer called out, once he had emerged from it up to the waist. "But it invigorates a man to feel such a thing. I tell you, it reminds me that I still draw breath, and that the blood still courses through my body."

As the water reached only to his middle, Bartram sought out a more profound depth, and once it was up to his chest he dunked his head in. Heavy streams poured from his face and hair when he drew his head out.

"Besides, the body will quickly acclimate itself." Bartram went on. "And we do have the morning sun to bless us with its warmth. Now, will you join me in a wash, or will you go as you are to the festival in Sleepy Glen?"

Orin found himself reluctant to shed his clothes before the older man, in light of what he'd learned of Bartram's... tendencies. In the end, however, his desire to make the best impression of himself won over, and he soon began undressing.

He did notice that Bartram watched him very closely as he stripped. "My father once told me, if any man were to cast his eye upon me for too long, he is either devising some deviltry, or he wishes to incite strife. Which is it, Bartram? Are we to come to blows?"

The archer considered the young man's words. Orin had thought Bartram a mere vagabond all this time, a drifter, and possibly, a coward, who'd shunted society and had chosen instead to live on its fringe. He found himself surprised that Bartram did not immediately back down from his challenge.

"I am a man of well over thirty years, Orin." He replied wistfully. "Were I even five years younger, I would not hesitate to lift my fists against you, but alas, I have felt from you a strength I cannot hope to match. Stand up straight, so that I can gain a full measure of you."

The archer's words were full of authority, as if he did not expect to be refused. Orin did stand tall before him, fully nude, his jaw hard-set, and his eyes focused.

"I'm afraid I may have misjudged you, Orin." Bartram admitted. "Due to the cut of your clothes, and your youthful mannerisms, I thought you a gangly and immature sort. Now that I see you unclothed, I can tell that you are no mere boy. Answer me truthfully, has your father trained you as a man of war?"

"He has."

"If this is to be your profession, then why have you chosen to conceal it?"

Orin opened his mouth to answer, but he was cut off by a sudden shriek from close behind him.

"There you are, you pair of black-dealing bastards!"

It was the witch, Sundri, who had followed their tracks from the campsite, and was even now trudging toward them.

"I knew you pair of goats would renege on our deal!"

Upon hearing those last few words, Orin dismissed any thoughts of the water being cold, and jumped directly into the pond. The water shocked him at first, but he soon conquered that and aimed to put a good distance between himself and the witch.

"Come back here, you deceiver!" Sundri yelled at him.

Bartram laughed at the commotion.

"You won't find it so amusing once I turn you into a salamander!" Sundri threatened. "Or when I dash your salamander head against a rock!"

Orin trembled, for who knew what corruptions the witch was capable of?

Bartram smugly crossed his arms. "You won't do that."

"And why not?"

"Because I know what you want."

"Well, of course you do! I want the two of you to fulfill your end of our bargain!"

"No, that's not what you truly want." Bartram began wading in her direction. "If all you wanted was a mere cockle, you would have entranced us as you did those two hares we ate last night. But you didn't do that, did you? I saw how you handled the straw doll last night, and I saw how you writhed on your cot while you frolicked with the two spirit lovers as well. What you truly seek, old woman, is affection. Natural affection from a willing man."

"Oh, you know nothing!" The witch spat back, but Orin had caught the flinch of her eyes, as if the archer's words had struck a nerve in her.

Sundri gasped, as Bartram left the water and stepped directly to her. She took in the look and wetness of his body, and the form of his cock.

"What do you hunger for, old woman?" Bartram teased.

He reached her, and Sundri no longer looked as dark and threatening as before, Orin compared. She looked, in a way, vulnerable.

Before Sundri could react against it, Bartram scooped her up in his arms. A moment after, he expelled a heavy grunt, sending Sundri flying through the air. She crashed into the pond as a whale might have done.

"How dare you throw me!" The old woman shrieked, the moment her head cleared the water. "I'll have my minions flay you for this!"

She was flung back into the pond, when Bartram jumped into the water next to her. Of a sudden, the two of them began wrestling, until Bartram's superior strength won over, and he held her tight in his clutches. At that point, it seemed as if Sundri gave up the will to fight, as if she'd much rather remain in his arms.

"Into the drink we go!" Bartram announced, before he dunked the old woman into the pond.

Sundri emerged a few seconds later, sputtering and gasping.

"And again!" Bartram repeated the action.

This time, Sundri was wise enough to shut her mouth, and was not quite so distraught when Bartram brought her out again. Still, the archer kept his hold firm, pinning Sundri's arms against her body. The witch looked almost embarrassed at her capture, and averted her eyes from Orin's.

"What do you mean to do?" She asked the archer, meekly.

"Why, I mean to wash you!" Bartram laughed. "When is the last time you bathed, woman?"

"It... it has been some time."

"Tell me, Sundri, can a woman be washed while wearing a garment?"

Sundri trembled as she shook her head. "No."

"You see that both Orin and I are nude, yes?" Bartram reminded her. "You won't mind then, if I remove your garment? No turning me into any kind of lizard?"

The witch said nothing, as Bartram lifted her single piece of wet clothing up and away from her slender body. She stood there, fully exposed from the waist up, partly defiant and also partly content that she was being paid attention to.

"Orin, would you fetch my lye soap for me?" Bartram requested.

The young man spotted the small bar floating in the water, and once he'd retrieved it, he made as if to toss it over.

"No, don't throw it." Bartram stopped him. "Walk it to us. There are some matters you should be aware of, when it comes to dealing with women. That is, if Sundri here doesn't mind allowing me to point them out."

The witch said nothing, but Orin did notice that her back was pressed against Bartram's chest now, and that her hand had slipped into the space between their bodies. Wondering if the witch might have had her hand on the archer's cock, Orin waded toward the pair.

"Just as yourself, Orin, Sundri is not the person she seems to be at first impression." Bartram started off. "First thing, is that while she may be a recluse who has lived in the woods here for an unknown number of years..."

"Three." She said.

"She has not always lived this way." Bartram went on. "Her mannerisms are much more civilized than they are savage. I noticed something else right away. Open your mouth, Sundri, and show Orin your teeth."

She did, briefly, sarcastically even.

"Sundri may have covered herself in dirt and grime, but her teeth have betrayed the truth of her." Bartram said. "Look at the state they're in. She has kept them up very well, hasn't she? This tells me that despite her outward appearances, Sundri is not wholly committed to abandoning some sort of refinement that she has previously known."

"You speak too much." She said, resignedly.

"What do you truly want, Sundri?"

"You already know."

"I do, but Orin is not well versed in the matters I speak of."

She sighed, and gazed at the youth. "I once knew love, and then it became lost to me, and I believe that one day, I will be able to find love once again. I only came to this place to forget the pain and loss of what I once had, but truly, this has been a most troublesome thing to forget, and even after so long, I am still not done grieving."

Bartram added, "It would be a good habit for you, Orin, to gauge the health of a woman's teeth straightaway, for it is a clue as to how she comports herself in other venues. Give the soap to Sundri, Orin, while I go to my pack to fetch my dagger."

"Why would you be needing that?" The witch spun around to face him.

"Do you see my hair, woman?" Bartram gestured at his head. "I cut my own hair, with my own dagger, and as your hair is all knots and tangles, I mean to get my dagger and cut it. This is the only way that I'd be willing to... to cockle you, as you say, and you'd best accept that now."

Apparently, Sundri had expected more in the way of resistance from him. "You will cockle me?"

"Now that I've seen what you had hidden underneath that misery of a rag you were wearing, of course I will! The only reservation I really harbored were having to lie with a smelly, dirty woman, but that situation can be readied by this pond and that bar of soap! Take that soap from Orin, and wash his body thoroughly, so that when you're finished with him, he might do the same to you." Having said this, Bartram slipped away.

"Give me the soap." Sundri motioned impatiently. "In the last three years, only a single man has slept with me, and that was because he wanted his sight restored, after another witch had cursed him with blindness."

Orin smirked, as Sundri took the small bar from him. In truth, he had been studying the woman's body. She was slender in the waist and hips, with breasts that sagged, but were once the size and shape of apples. Sundri's skin was pale, but not unpleasing to his eyes, and her face was not as horrible to look at now that he saw her as a nude woman, and not as a fierce witch.

Sundri brushed the soap over Orin's chest, arms and back, hardly paying attention to him as she was fully preoccupied with thoughts of being bedded by Bartram.

"Into the water, boy." She directed. "Then come closer to the edge so that I can clean the rest of you."

Orin ducked down to rinse off the lye, although he found himself hesitant to reveal his bottom half to her, and this was not because he was being shy of being nude before her.

"Come, come, come." Sundri pressured.

The young man stepped forward, ascending the soft slope of the bottom of the pond. The water level shifted from his waist, to his thighs, and finally to his knees, and on display to the entire world was his full erection.

Sundri stared at his hard cock as if she'd never before seen one, before she gave a quick laugh. "What lucky woman were you thinking of, boy?"

"I was thinking of none." Orin admitted. "I was simply taking in the sight of you."

The witch was left speechless for a moment, for she'd never considered that a man as young or as handsome as Orin might take any interest in an old hag like her. Finally, she said, "You have a fine form of you, and I see that you will be even more striking once you've finished filling out. You needn't seek out any women at all, Orin, for they will all come to you, in droves even. Mark my words, boy, you will be a good catch."

Orin remembered the sounds the witch had made, and the way she'd squirmed about the previous night, and his lust for her grew. Softly, he said, "At this moment, my interest has been captured entirely by you."

Sundri's mouth quivered, expectantly, anxiously. "But you're just a boy, Orin. You can only ever be my fantasy, for I'm as old as your mother, or your even grandmother. Nothing more than that."

"Tell Orin how old you are." Bartram stepped back into the picture.

She looked away, as if embarrassed. "I am fifty years and three."

"A bit long in the tooth, isn't she?" Bartram teased.

"I don't care." Orin said, before he chuckled. "My cock doesn't seem to care either!"

"Perhaps we should delay your haircut until later, as we all know how impatient young men can be." Bartram said, as he sidled up behind the witch and placed his hands on her shoulders. "Another lesson, Orin, in the art of dealing with women."

"Not now, Bartram."

"Oh, you'll enjoy this one." Bartram insisted. "Sundri, give Orin your most provocative stare."

She did, and Orin took a step forward. He was only a couple of feet away from her now, his cock demanding him to step even closer.

"Take the soap from her, Orin." Bartram instructed.

"To hell with the soap!"

"Orin..."

In irritation, Orin nearly snatched it from the nude woman's hand.

"Come." Bartram said, as he led Sundri into slightly deeper water.

When they were all waist deep in the pond, the archer pulled Sundri's arms behind her back, causing her breasts to jut out.

"Wash her. Her shoulders, her sides, her waist, her breasts."

Orin wet the bar of lye, before he took to the task. Bartram waited until he was done before he began to speak again.

"There are two types of women." Bartram divulged. "One type is the woman who wants her men to have a soft touch with her. These women expect poetry to be read to them, and their hair to be caressed, and for finery and jewelry to be purchased for them as their suitors attempt to woo them. The other type of woman is like Sundri. She expects a little more aggressiveness from her men. She is the type that wants her men to overpower her, and to take her in a way that a softer woman might call rough. She does appreciate a gift now and then, but she knows these are mere trinkets and baubles, and that the real bond she wants with a man is a carnal one. This type of woman doesn't hide behind a man in times of trouble, she stands beside him and weathers the trouble with him."

Even as enthralled as he was, Orin still caught the implications of this. "Are you saying that Sundri is a contrast to Rohanna?"

"I am." Bartram nodded. "I'm not telling you that you should prefer one type over the other, for only you will decide which type of woman you will fancy. What I am trying to impress upon you is that you will be much better off if you know straightaway which type of woman you are dealing with."

Orin took this all in.

Bartram went on. "Now, take a close look at Sundri. See how her body is responding to you, for not every woman will be as easy to read as this. Her eyes beckon you, and her lips await you. Her cheeks are flushed, and her breasts have perked up. All these are signs that she is willing for you to take her. Some women will deceive you into thinking that they are willing, and they may even be able to feign some of these signs. It is these very same women you should be wary of. Be watchful of these signs."

"I see." Orin acknowledged.

"Come closer." Bartram told him. "Set your hands on Sundri's breasts. Feel how they've swollen, and how aroused her nipples are."

Orin fondled the old woman, as he'd fondled Rohanna the night before. Their breasts felt completely different. Rohanna's had been soft, malleable, and too large for his hands to cup. Sundri's were tighter, her nipples darker, condensed and more rigid to his fingers.

"A woman cannot feign what her body has already revealed." Bartram said. "And there is another sign a woman cannot feign. Take your finger, Orin, and slide it into Sundri's cunt."

"Yes, Orin." The witch arched her back, as if Bartram's arms were barely keeping her in place. "Do it, Orin. You've gotten me so hot now."

Orin's hand glided down the supple stretch of Sundri's stomach, and past the wiry thatch of her hair. He found her mound, and his own head began to swoon at the thought that he might be prodding Sundri into expelling those same wonderful noises he'd heard the night before. She mewled at him, as he searched for her void. After finding it, slowly, he inserted his finger inside of her, and felt the heat and moisture smothering it.

"Is she wet for you?" Bartram asked.

"Yes."

"A woman may lie about many things, but her body will betray her words." Bartram concluded. "Sundri's body is ready and eager for you, but other women may pretend this is so, only because they seek to manipulate you into doing their bidding. Be aware of all these things, Orin."

The young man nodded back.

"Good." The archer chuckled. "This is what I want you to do next. Lift Sundri's legs up against your waist, and cockle her. I'll keep her aloft for you."

"What?" Orin asked. "You mean here in the water? And with you watching?"

"She wants the two of us to cockle her." Bartram said. "That was our bargain with her, was it not?"

Sundri was heard to purr. "The two of you at once? I've never slept with two men at once."

"Well, here is your chance then." Bartram told her.

Orin could wait no longer, for his cock twitched eagerly for him to nestle it. Feeling quite emboldened, he did reach down to grasp at Sundri's thighs, and as he raised them toward his waist, he saw Bartram lean back and share the woman's weight with him. He stepped in closer, taking in both the wetness and the warmth of Sundri, yet knowing he was coming closer to Bartram as well, for their faces and eyes were nearly at an even level, and their bodies were less than a meter apart.

It did not matter, he decided, for his want for Sundri's flesh was more compelling. He took in their odd positioning for a moment, seeing how the witch's arms were still held behind her back, and she was nearly horizontal by then in any case. How was he to keep his hold on her, and put his cock into her at the same time?




Orin's Tales Pt. 03



He worked it out. Sundri's legs were scooped up onto his elbows, leaving them widespread, and while he kept her aloft with one arm, he used his free hand to encircle his stiff member. Orin was not gentle, as he prodded at her middle, or as he sunk his length into the old woman's heat. He heard her expel a long, delicious moan, and this provoked him into losing what little calm he had left. His strokes were short and frantic, his own breathing accelerating and his mouth releasing quick grunts of pleasure. He pressed hard against Sundri, her legs shifting about until her calves were up against the side of his head, and still he churned into her, nearly violently, causing their flesh to smack together and to cause small eruptions from the water still coursing between them.

Gritting his teeth, Orin felt his climax work it was through his cock, and through his body, even as Sundri's moans lifted his mind into a higher state of ecstasy. Of a sudden, his cock went rigid, as if attempting to deny him his final delight, before it gave up its secrets and broke into a wave of pleasure that seemed to consume both the young man and the old woman alike.

Sundri was nearly screaming then, after having been kept from a man's passion for so long, and Orin found his own lips releasing manly moans that were nearly as loud as hers. Orin's body continued to thrust until he was fully spent and left void, and even then, he kept his cock in that hot, wonderful place until it had shrunken to an empty mockery of what it had just been, and slipped out of that glorious crevice of flesh on its own.

Orin's hold on the witch loosened enough that her legs slid past his arms, and once she'd found her footing on the pond floor, she drew herself away from Bartram's grip and went to him. Sundri's arms went around Orin's middle, and she grasped him tight, even as her head dug into his shoulder.

"Oh, Orin," She said. "Were I a young woman, I would follow you wherever you might go. You have blessed me, for I have not felt such ardor from a man in too many years. Everything I have to give is yours, young Orin, if you would but have me once again!"

Behind them, the all but forgotten Bartram laughed. "Are you so quick to fall in love, Sundri? I'll admit, youth does bring a certain fervor and immediacy into lovemaking, but I dare say I've learned a few tricks throughout all of my years. Unless, of course, you are too old to handle more than one man at a time."

The witch spun back toward the archer, a wicked gleam in her eyes. "Oh, I can handle more than one, you bastard!" She cried out in unconcealed joy, before she turned worriedly back to Orin. "Be not angry with me, Orin. You have cockled me well and good, but I have been deprived of a man's company for so long, that I cannot so easily ignore Bartram's teasing. Will you come to me, again, dear Orin, even if I bed with your partner?"

Orin was overcome with an intensity of emotions, nearly as much as when he'd slept with Rohanna, and unaccustomed as he was to the amorous ways of men, he did not at first comprehend the matter. He looked to Bartram. "I do not understand."

"Ah, another lesson presents itself, and it is an important one." The archer explained. "I hold that a woman should be free to express her love to any man she wishes. However, too many men will become jealous, and will seek to keep a woman all to themselves, even if the woman is against being kept by them. Let this sink into your head, Orin. When you decide to bed down with a woman, be sure there is no jealous man in her shadow, for many men have killed and died due to their jealousy of a woman. If you are not careful, this could be your downfall as well."

"Do you even know what jealousy is?" Sundri wondered.

"Of course." Orin replied. "I've seen men arguing over who has the best sword, or who is the best fighter, and come to blows because of that. But no women were allowed in my father's..." He almost said school, as in school of fighting, but he caught himself. "What I mean is, there were very few women in my village, and the camaraderie among the men was such that no women were allowed to be present."

"Women can be troublesome as well." Bartram went on. "If they see a man's jealousy for them, they can stir up a hornet's nest of trouble, and even pit one man against his best friend. This is why you should be aware that a woman's want for you is genuine, and why Sundri asks that you not be angry with her, for some men would be violently angry if they saw their woman with another man."

Orin looked to her. "I suppose that when it comes to women, I really do not know what such jealousy is. I would not keep you from Bartram, if you would want to bed with him. In fact, Bartram is turning out to be a very good friend to me, for he has taught me so many things that my father did not."

"Oh, he is a prize, isn't he?" Sundri said. "Well-versed in manners, and capable of a man's reasoning even though he is still so young. Know this, young Orin. Were I possessing a spell that would turn back time, I would make myself young for you again, and even to the ends of the Earth I would follow you. In the entirety of my days, I have said this to a very scant few men. You, Orin, are one that is destined for greatness."

Bartram waded toward the edge of the pond. "Enough of that, Sundri. You'll only give him a fat head, and then we'll never hear the end of it."

The old woman kissed Orin full on the lips, before she went after Bartram.

Once they stood on dry ground, the archer pulled his blanket from its place on his pack, and spread it out. He directed Sundri to sit on its center, and after he'd gotten his dagger, which was well-sharpened thanks to Bartram's diligence with it, and a crude wooden comb, he sat down behind her and began combing through her hair and cutting the longest, or the worst, of it.

"I am not the most skilled of cutters, but I will do my best for you." Bartram told the woman.

Orin removed himself from the pond as well. He spread his own blanket out, and took a seat on it, as the rays of the sun grew in strength and helped to dry him. With fascination, he watched the transformation the old witch was going through, from when they'd first seen her until now.

"You're doing a grand job with her, Bartram." He commented. "Sundri has the look of an entirely different woman now."

"She does, doesn't she? And especially without her clothes on! A pity she has no woman's make-up, or else we might see her in a truly different light."

"I have make-up." Sundri admitted.

"Oh?" Bartram asked. "I didn't see any in your lean-to."

"I've kept it hidden." She sighed. "I no longer wanted to paint myself, for so bitter was I after I came here. I felt so ugly, and I wanted everything around me to be ugly as well. Thanks to both you and Orin, for you've made me feel as if I have some worth again."

"One day you must tell us your story." Bartram suggested. "It seems as if we all have something we are hiding, eh? Well, if you have make-up, then the only other thing we'll need is a nice gown to dress you up with, for when we take you to the wedding at Sleepy Glen."

"I have a few gowns as well, for I took them as payment from a man who wanted to know how his future would fare." Sundri said absently. This was when the fullness of Bartram's words reached her, and she nearly poked herself with the archer's dagger as she swiveled around to face him. "Truly, you would take me to this wedding? You would be seen with me in public?"

"Well, of course." Bartram answered. "Why do you think I'm giving you so much of my time and attention? Just so you can go back to wallowing in your filth the moment Orin and I leave? No, you're coming with us, and if the residents of Sleepy Glen find you agreeable, then perhaps we'll find a place for you there. If not, we'll keep walking until we do find a place for you. You've been here long enough, woman. The Devil's Crag will just have to go on without you."

"Oh, Bartram!" Sundri cried out excitedly, as she turned her body around. "You're doing all this for me?"

A moment later, she had pushed Bartram onto his back, and was showering his face and neck with kisses. As they were both still nude, it was easy enough for Sundri to work herself into a frenzy, and she caressed and groped all that was Bartram until the man's cock was fully rigid.

Orin reached over to snatch the soon forgotten dagger, which had fallen from the archer's grip, as he feared one of them might accidentally become impaled on it. After that, he watched with a rapt attention as the witch mounted his companion, in the same way that Rohanna had mounted him only the night before.

Sundri's movements were so different than Rohanna's, Orin compared. The old woman was feverish with action, as she pummeled her slender hips onto Bartram's waist. Her smaller breasts swung about as loose, bobbing apples, and her face was a tight mask of barely contained pleasure, as if she was defying what her body was feeling. So different was Sundri from Rohanna, who had been sweet and gentle in her movements, and in her expression. He wondered if all women loved differently, as his own cock began to rouse from the amorous noise being issued from his neighbors.

There were Sundri's mewls, as sugary and intoxicating as when Orin had made love to her in the pond, and he found that he could hardly wait for Bartram to be finished, so that he could have the old witch to himself once again.

Bartram did not seem to mind that he was bedding a woman, instead of a man, Orin noticed, and for a moment he wondered if the archer was as comfortable with the one as he was with the other. It was such a strange thing to contemplate, but he did not have long to think upon it. He saw the moment that Bartram clutched at Sundri's arms, even as the woman moaned above him. He heard the archer's voice strain, then break into a loud gasp, and watched as the man's body shuddered and spilt its seed into her.

They kissed, there on the blanket, with Bartram's hands and arms caressing Sundri much as the old woman had been caressing the straw doll the previous night. And Sundri's body lay sprawled over the archer, her back lean, her buttocks rounded and exposed, her legs spread wide.

Orin raised himself to his knees, his cock hard and venting, his desire wanting to push Bartram aside so that he could take the man's place.

And Bartram saw him, saw the hardness of him, and whispered to his recent lover.

Sundri stayed, while the archer slipped away, and when Bartram was gone, she came down on her hands and knees. Orin made his way to her, intending to shove her on her back.

"No, take her this way." Bartram told him. "From behind. Run your hands along the length of her body first."

Like a dog, Orin considered. He moved behind her, taking in and nearly becoming overwhelmed by the sight of her curved rump, and her sex open and exposed to him. He saw Bartram's expulsion seeping from her, but this did not dissuade him. He would still have her.

He tried, oh how he tried, to follow the archer's counsel. His hands slid across Sundri's raised buttocks, and she gasped. His palms crossed the expanse of her lower back to her upper back, and she gasped even more. When his fingers curled around the suppleness of Sundri's hanging breasts, and she cried out, Orin could take no more.

He grasped the old woman by the waist, and pushed into her, feeling the slickness of both her wetness and Bartram's seed, and he wanted more than anything else to add his own into her sweet folds.

As before, his desire took over him, and he shoved into her, pummeled into her, incited even more desire from her as he heard his flesh loudly slapping against hers. Sundri's screams drove him as well, his cock plunging deep into her steamy depths as it sought to bring out even more love from her. They climaxed together, basking their surroundings with gasps of pleasure, bathing the landscape with warmth until even the sun's envious ire was drawn.

Orin kept his cock within her, until the last possible moment when it finally shrank away from her insides, and he tumbled to one side and seemingly collapsed onto the blanket.

"What a pair of bastards you are!" Sundri cried out, her voice still a screech, but her tone one of playfulness and teasing. "You've cockled me silly!"

Bartram settled on the side of Sundri away from Orin. "You have a potion, have you not, that will keep us as virile as a bull?"

"I do, but I fancy I won't be needing it!" Sundri laughed out loud, her laughter further brightening the morning.

She was close enough to reach down to the waists of both men, and to grasp each of their withered, slimy cocks. "Which of these beauties will I be keeping? I had them both, and I can't make up my mind between them!"

Even though he was spent, Orin's cock still relished in the tugs the old woman was giving it. Judging from the dreamy look on Bartram's face, he was enjoying it as well.

Impulsively, the archer slid his thigh over Sundri's leg, and leaned toward her to bathe her in the same hot kisses she'd been giving him earlier.

Orin hovered toward her as well, taking in one of Sundri's old breasts with his mouth, and suckling at it as he'd done to his ghost lover Rohanna. The nipple was still firm, as was the areola around it, and not only did he suckle, but he licked at it and kissed it as well.

"Kiss me, Orin." Sundri insisted, once she'd released her hold on his cock and taken a pause from kissing Bartram. She pushed his head up to gaze into his eyes. "You've yet to kiss me."

"I don't rightly know how." Orin admitted, somewhat sheepishly. "I've only had but one lover before you, and I have no idea if I'd done a good enough job at that or not."

"Then I will teach you, but it will cost you a cockle!" Sundri burst out into laughter again. "And another from Bartram for watching!"

Her mirth was infectious, so that even Orin's reservations were quickly forgotten. They kissed, Sundri gave him her critique, and they kissed again. Once Orin had reached an acceptable level, Sundri ordered him to get as much practice at it as possible, for only then could he truly call himself proficient at the art.

And so they kissed, with frequent interruptions from Bartram.

And they frolicked, not one time, or two, but numerous times.

And the day grew long around them.

"Are you planning on setting down roots in Sleepy Glen?" Bartram asked.

"Of course not!" Orin beamed. "I am on the road to adventure!"

Trailing close behind them, Sundri snickered.

It was the morning of the day of the feast, and in a short duration, they would reach the town. All three were now presentably clean and washed, although the picture displayed by two of them was a grand contrast to how they'd looked the day before.

Bartram wore his usual duds, as this is what he was most comfortable with. They had been washed, however, and even their patches and mends had been tended to.

Orin had packed up his everyday hunting outfit, for he was no longer keeping himself hidden in the woods. Instead, he wore his secondary change of clothes. Unlike his other, looser garments, this attire had been tailored to suit him, and it consisted of an off-white tunic, embroidered in silver accents at the hem, collar and sleeve ends, and over this went a velvety vest of a royal blue, and with the same style of silvery trim. His felt hat was also of a royal blue, as velvety and expensive as his vest, but alas, he had no grand feather to complement it. His leggings were of a soft gray, and finally, his boots were of supple black leather, and lined on their tops by a stretch of fine fur.

In this attire, he could pass for the messenger of a wealthy baron or lord, but not of a duke, certainly, or he could even pretend to be the son of a merchant from a modest town or village, but of nothing more populous than that. There was a certain pride or dignity, Orin thought, in wearing such fancy trappings. He would be seen as a man of means, or a man of success, and people would perceive him as such and accord him the same respect that people had once given his father.

He turned to observe Sundri, who had made the greatest transformation of them all.

Sundri had not disclosed much about her past, only that she had been a conjurer of no small reputation in some faraway land. When she had become a recluse at the Devil's Crag, she was still sought out for her potions and spells, and she was paid handsomely for her knowledge and skills, and even gifted generously once her magic had proven potent. Sundri had coin, jewelry and gold, expensive garments and other finery delivered to her in sturdy wooden trunks, but having had no immediate use for any of these things, she'd simply buried it all into the hill behind her lean-to. With the help of the two men, she'd unearthed her treasure, and before their stunned eyes she had sent most of it into some hidden dimension that she claimed would travel wherever she did. 

Here is what she kept out, and was now wearing: A gown that stretched down to her ankles, made of a very fine silk that she claimed came from provinces of the Far East that most men had never heard of. It was white, but with a remarkable, soft green tinge to it that could only be seen at certain angles, and in the sunlight. Sundri also wore a padded head-roll, with a thin, matching veil on it that covered most of her head, but not her face, and on her feet were white sandals with gold stitching and tiny jewels set into them, of a design neither of the men had ever seen before.

What really set the woman apart, however, was her make-up and jewelry. She'd applied a powder of soft red ocher to her cheeks, and another of greenish malachite to her upper eyelids, and she looked so sensuous and inviting that Orin could not help but stare at her. Besides this, Sundri wore golden bracelets, anklets, rings and earrings, and a golden necklace with a large stone set into its pendant that the woman claimed had fallen from the stars.

"She is a tempting sight, isn't she?" Bartram also looked to her with lust greedy in his eyes.

"Yes, she looks every bit the noblewoman." Orin agreed.

"I've corrupted you both." Sundri said, before she gave them both a very provocative stare.

Both Orin and Bartram halted, erotic thoughts filling their heads.

"You'll miss your feast." Sundri reminded them.

"There is that." Orin frowned, before he vowed, "You will have your come-uppance after the feast, you bedeviling enchantress."

Sundri laughed. "Two come-uppances, even!"

Bartram shook his head. "I've nearly forgotten what I wanted to tell you, Orin. Simply, it is this; that since we will only be in Sleepy Glen for a short duration, you might use this time to study the people there, and particularly the women."

"Why?"

Bartram explained, "Because at your tender age, you seem to me much too susceptible to women, as if you might fall in love with them too quickly."

"I am in accord here." Sundri nodded. "It's best that you are aware of this now, otherwise the next woman you come to may very well bring about your downfall."

The words stung Orin more than he cared to admit. "Well, what am I to do about it?"

"Don't fall in love!" Sundri laughed. "As you did with Rohanna, and as you are doing with me. The signs are written all over your face."

Orin lowered his head and frowned.

"Keep your wits about you, man." Bartram said. "Stand back and observe. See which women flaunt themselves before the men, and how they set snares for them, and how the men blindly step into them. Also, see the other women, who do not make spectacles of themselves, but who move about with tact and finesse..."

"And who set those very same snares." Sundri finished for him. "In a more discreet way."




Orin's Tales Pt. 03



"There is much to be learned about women." Bartram continued. "But much of it you will have to learn on your own. On top of this, you can sulk and become angry or depressed before us, Orin, for we have become your confidants, but you should not do these things in front of strangers."

Bartram poked him on the shoulder, but Orin had become irritated by his own vulnerabilities, and ignored him. Bartram poked him a second time, and a third.

"Stop that." Orin growled.

The archer poked him again, and again, harder each instance.

"If you do that once more, Bartram, I will rip your head off."

"Subdue your anger, but remember the tone in your voice." The archer said. "There is an ebb of authority there, a powerful force behind those words. If you speak in this fashion before the people of Sleepy Glen, they will know you are a man not to be trifled with."

Orin glanced into Bartram's face, seeing that he really meant what he'd said. Next he looked to Sundri.

The witch stepped before him, clasping her arms around his neck and staring deep into his eyes. "If you kiss a woman in Sleepy Glen, that woman should be me. But if you must kiss another woman, be sure and kiss her like this."

Her kiss started off full, yet when Orin parted his mouth to engage hers, he found Sundri's lips fleeting and pulling away.

"Most men would persist with a woman until she relents and parts her legs, like hounds who've caught a scent and won't let go of it." Sundri explained. "A kiss like that one will let them know that you are no such man, and that it is you, and not them, who will decide how far you are willing to go."

"Don't fall in love with any of them." Bartram gave him one last warning, before he motioned ahead of them. "We have arrived at Sleepy Glen."

A well-worn path led them into a cluster of perhaps a dozen dwellings. These were all single level homes, mostly made of wattle and daub, but a few had a tier or two of stone at their foundations. Their roofs were all of thatch, and no people at all were seen.

That is, until a small mob of children ran up to them, all dressed for the feast and carrying sticks with streamers in their hands.

"Have you come for the wedding?" One boy asked.

Bartram replied that they had.

"Then come with us!" The boy announced, and amidst a chorus of small shouts and laughter, the children all hurried off in a single direction.

The trio of travelers followed, watching as the children ran through a small arch set between two of the small homes. The arch was made of wood, decorated with freshly cut vines, and looked to have no other purpose than to direct visitors to a small table that lay just past it.

A rather stout man sat on a stool at this table, and his features warmed up immediately when he saw the three of them coming near.

"A good day to you, fellows and lady." The man stood and bowed. "I am the town recorder, and I would very much like to ask your names and your place of origin, and your current place of residence."

Orin saw a man of about his own age standing beside the table, and he assumed this man would announce the information to the good crowd that socialized before them. He saw that everyone present wore their finest clothes, but none had attire as fancy as his, and he wondered if perhaps he'd overdressed for the occasion. He turned back to the table, watching as Bartram gave the man his details, before the recorder relayed them to the announcer.

"We welcome one master Bartram, who was born on the road, and near no town, and thus his home is the road."

It was an odd introduction, Orin thought, but then again, Bartram was sometimes an odd man. Only a few heads turned at the declaration, but most of these were about to turn back again, until they caught sight of Orin. Their gazes were resting squarely on him, he noticed, and on his fancy attire.

"Your name and your place of residence, young man." The recorder requested.

Orin gave it, and the announcer's next proclamation was, "Next is master Orin, son of Orenn the Fearless, formerly of Bilge Barrel, but now calling the road his home as well."

Many, many heads were turning now, Orin noted, and quick whispers were being passed around from mouths being covered by cupped hands.

"It's him!" One voice called out, and a single man stepped apart from the rest of the crowd. "I tell you, it's him! It's the man with the Devil's Arse!"

Orin recognized the town crier they'd met on the road, and for a moment, he wondered if he should strangle Bartram for getting him into such a predicament.

All at once, the crowd was abuzz with rumors. Everyone was looking directly at him now, even the children.

He heard Sundri quickly speaking to the recorder, and saw the man gape, before he passed it on to the announcer.

The announcer cried out, "And we also welcome the Sorceress Sundri, of the Devil's Crag."

Faster than fire, silence swept through the throng of spectators.

Because Orin and Bartram had been standing in front of her, most of the people had not seen Sundri yet. Boldly, the witch stepped forward, grasping Orin by the arm and dragging him toward the suddenly apprehensive crowd. Many stepped away to give her a wide berth.

"Be not afraid, people of Sleepy Glen, for this young man is the Devil's Arse no more!" Sundri proclaimed. "Come, come, see for yourselves what miracles I have done with my magical and wonderful powers! Give us your back, young Orin."

"What do you mean to do?" Orin asked, now as fearful as the rest of the crowd.

Sundri did not wait. She turned Orin around, lifted his tunic and vest, and lowered his leggings to expose his buttocks.

The witch pointed at the nearest of the women, a heavyset sort with a yellow dress. "You, step nearer. Tell me if you see the Devil peeking out from this man's arse."

"I do not." The woman shook her head.

"Come closer, I say." Sundri demanded. "Set your hands on this boy's arse, and tell me if you feel the Devil's horns trying to poke through these shapely buttocks. And they are shapely, are they not?"

The woman did indeed agree with this last statement, and with some trepidation, but also with some daring, she did step up and place her hand on Orin's flesh.

"Give them a good squeeze." Sundri insisted. "Would you say the Devil resides there?"

"No, I believe the Devil has left his arse in peace."

"You hear it from her own mouth!" Sundri told the rest. "I, the sorceress of Devil's Crag, have driven the Devil from this man's arse! Come nearer, and feel for yourself what powers I have, strong enough even to drive the Devil away! See it, and feel it for yourselves!"

Through it all, Orin tried his utmost to keep a cool demeanor. He really was going to strangle Bartram, he decided, the next time he set his hands on that man.

"Oh, it was a struggle, to be sure!" Sundri related. "The Devil would poke his head out, and I would try to snatch him away, but a few times he was too fast to let himself be caught! Until finally, I did grab a hold of that old horned beast, and I threw him back into the abyss where he belongs!"

Many in the crowd gasped, while others made their invocations to God.

"And now the Devil is gone, and this man is made whole once again." Sundri said. "But there is much more that I can do, other than to drive the wicked spirits from those they choose to afflict. I can also conjure up miracles, such as this!"

The old woman lifted her arms toward the heavens, and a soft rain of red and yellow flower petals began to drop on the heads of the crowd. The adults were awed, while the children cried out in joy and leapt up to grab at the floating petals.

Seeing that he was momentarily forgotten, Orin quickly rolled his leggings back up to his waist, and made his way through the crowd. He soon spotted Bartram at the edge of the mass, and the archer was coming toward him with two mugs in his hand.

"Bartram..." Orin said, fully embarrassed and ready to beat the bowman to a pulp.

"Have an ale." Bartram held a mug out. "It's made with honey, nuts and spice, and the vendor tells me it's been imported from somewhere past the river at Tooker's Ferry."

Evenly, Orin replied, "I care not where the ale comes from, Bartram..."

"Hello, sir." A soft voice spoke out from behind him.

Orin turned, gazing into a pretty set of eyes, belonging to a very pretty girl. "Yes?"

"I... I would see for myself, if the Devil is truly gone from your arse. Perhaps he only hid far enough inside that the witch does not realize he is still there."

"There is no Devil in my arse." Orin told her.

"But one cannot be entirely sure, can they? They say the Devil is as shifty as he is wicked."

"Go on, Orin. Let the girl see your arse." Bartram said in a serious voice, but Orin knew he was teasing him.

"Oh, fine." Orin blew out a breath, before he gave the girl his back and lifted his tunic and vest.

No sooner had he done this, than the girl reached into his leggings on her own, and gave his buttocks a good squeeze. A moment later, she was bounding away and giggling like a loon, back to where another two young women waited for her. Apparently, she had been coerced.

"I find this very humiliating, Bartram." Orin said, as he concealed his buttocks from the public once again.

"Oh, come now." The archer chuckled. "What sort of man doesn't enjoy having a woman's hands roaming his backside? Oh, look, here comes another one."

Orin glanced away, wondering if the three girls were daring each other to come to him, but no, it was the bigger woman in the yellow dress that had felt him the first time.

"I'll like another touch, if I could." She said. "To erase any doubts that I may have been mistaken."

Orin lifted his tunic again, and this time, the woman got a good, long feel of him.

Before she left, she whispered into Orin's ear. "The Devil may be gone from your arse, but I wonder if he's gone into your cock. I would like to take a peek at that, if you're willing."

Once she'd stepped away, Bartram confided, "I tell you, that one is hot for you. Oh, and I believe another pair of old geese are approaching you as well."

In resignation, Orin said, "Give me the ale, Bartram."

Thankfully, a short while later the troupe of entertainers made their way into their midst, and the interest in Orin's buttocks finally waned. Jugglers, walkers on stilts, and acrobats wowed the bystanders, while jesters elicited laughter from the young and old alike.

He found Bartram speaking with another man, and once the man had walked off, he asked, "Have you seen Sundri?"

"She's found another of her ilk from among the locals." Bartram answered. "They're comparing spells or some such. This man I was talking to, I've been trying to get him to show us the bows he's selling, but his asking price is far beyond what I can afford."

"Why would you need a second bow?"

"It's not for me, you dolt. It's for you."

"How can I even consider purchasing a bow? I'm certain to have even less coin than you do."

"Ask Sundri." Bartram suggested. "Promise her a cockle, and I'm sure she'll agree to buy it for you."

"But I like Sundri." Orin frowned. "I wouldn't diminish how I feel about her into some sort of bargain. I would feel as if I'm cheating her somehow."

Bartram shrugged. "Suit yourself. If I were in your boots, I would ask her."

"I'll think on it." Orin sighed.

They heard several of the onlookers clapping and cheering, and made their way to where the action was taking place. A fire-breather had cleared an open space, and was now taking a long swig from a dark bottle. He held a lighted stick out before him, and as he spat out the liquid, a great torrent of flame burst forth. It was an incredible sight, so much that even Orin began to clap with as much enthusiasm as the rest.

Also, they saw a strong man who could sit a child on the palm of his hand, and lift him into the air, and who could lift any adult in the village and hold them over his head. They saw a jester who could make lights twinkle in the air before him, and whom they assumed was a sort of minor magician, and they saw a contortionist, a very thin woman, who could bend her body into a pretzel, or into a knot, and unbend it again with apparently no discomfort whatsoever.

It was all great enjoyment, and it seemed but a moment before the sun was at its zenith, and an announcer proclaimed that the wedding was to begin. The performers drifted away to who knew where, but would return later, as ushers began to arrange the crowd toward one side of the village square.

During that movement, Orin was pushed back by people, or pushed forward, and on several occasions, he felt hands slide across his rump, and once or twice he was even groped. He turned to see who had done this to him, but most often it was difficult to tell, as several people were in movement at once. About the only thing he could discern, was that a woman, either young or old or somewhere in between, had just fondled him.

Bartram sidled his way through the mass, bringing with him two mugs of ale. "Here you are, Orin. Another portion for you."

Orin took the drink, and related what had been happening to him.

"Oh, you've become quite the sensation around here!" Bartram laughed. "As I was waiting for the vendor to fill these mugs, I heard a pair of lasses walk by boasting of having touched the Devil's Arse to one another. I expect this will continue as long as this feast does, but I do hope you aren't put off by it."

"I was embarrassed at first, and hugely embarrassed at that. Now, I don't know what to make of it. I've never had my buttocks given so much attention to in my life!"

"Well, you are a handsome young man, and you have a strong shape about you, and you are a new face in these parts, and you wear clothes that are fancier than even the groom might be wearing." Bartram paused for a drink. "So you see, there are many angles that would make you attractive in the eyes of these women. If I were you, I'd enjoy the attention while it is there for you, but I do advise you to be alert for any rivalries among the ladies, or any jealousies from the other men in the village."

Orin thought this over. "Thank you, Bartram. You have turned out to be a good man indeed. I am glad you are here."

"You would be lost without me?" Bartram chuckled.

"Not exactly lost, but I do appreciate your counsel, and your friendship." Orin grinned back.

"And I yours, Orin." Bartram nodded back. "For certain, I never thought I would bed both a ghost and an old witch, but thanks to being in your company I have done both, and I dare say that I found the encounters so agreeable that I may hope to do them again! I think perhaps I will stand here beside you, in the hopes that my buttocks too will be groped."

They both laughed, before they turned their attention toward the space that had been largely cleared off. A local priest stood there, in a robe of white cotton edged in gold, and he held in his hands a staff of blessings. The announcer called out the name of the groom, master Derek of the Tollson family, and a group of about ten of the man's relatives escorted the man over to where the priest stood. Derek wore a robe similar to the priest's, and came to stand humbly before the priest. The name of the bride was given, lady Josephine of the Fletcher family, and she was similarly chaperoned into the square by her kin, and was dressed in the same sort of robe.

"The robes are kept by the priest and taken out for special occasions like these." Bartram explained. "People in small villages such as this one see no point in purchasing a grand outfit for their wedding, such as is done in the bigger towns and cities. They'll only be using such fancy attire once, after all."

"I have seen some of this before." Orin nodded. In Bilge Barrel, people were married without even having to wear special robes; they only wore the best set of clothing they owned when they stood before the priest.

The priest went on to lend his staff to the announcer, so that his hands would be free for the next part of the ceremony. He took a short stretch of rope, of the usual type, and with it he tied a knot around the wrists of both the bride and the groom, to signify the union they were about to enter together. Then the priest retrieved his staff, and set its head, which was carved into the shape of a cross, over the knot. He said a few words, blessed the two parties, and the ceremony was soon concluded.

A great roar of applause and cheers was heard from the spectators, and as one, the crowd broke loose to surround the newlyweds and to congratulate them.

Again, Orin felt his rump being patted, or slapped lightly, or even being squeezed hard on a few occasions. Now that he was aware of it, he could have put a stop to things, and he could have reached out to snatch at a wrist or two, and to confront some of the women doing this. He decided not to make a scene of it, however, and he caught glimpses of long brown hair or long blonde hair whisking by right after he felt himself touched. Some of these young women would turn and meet his eyes for a moment, once they were a few yards away, and before they lost themselves in the crowd again.

"They are egging one another on now." Bartram noticed. "It has become a sort of game to see which of these girls will attract you to them first. It has less to do with you, than it does with them, and their status with one another."

"Truly, it has less to do with me?"

"I've seen this very sort of game being played out in the halls of the nobles before." Bartram replied. "Women do not boast as men do, but they do gossip and they do have their little rivalries. They know that you were not in this village yesterday, and that you will not be here tomorrow. What they can accomplish today, however, will be remembered and circulated and talked about between them, and it will be talked about long after you are gone. As I said, it is less about you, and more about them."

Orin shook his head. "I suppose I do have a lot to learn when it comes to women. I would much rather have a woman who is straightforward and honest."

"Oh, don't frown upon these ladies too soon." Bartram replied. "This same sort of game has been played as long as there have been women around to play it. Any place you go, there will be a few young ladies who are prettier than the rest, or who are more privileged than the rest, and they will do what they can to secure a better future for themselves. What they are doing today is only practice for when it comes time for them to snare a husband."

"I suppose that makes sense."

Unexpectedly, Orin was bumped from the side, and he whirled about to see a woman off-balance and near to falling. With his quick reflexes, he steadied her and kept her upright.

The woman had her back to him, and as she turned to face him, he saw that her expression was full of apprehension.

"My apologies, master." She said, as she braced a tray of pewter full of cookies within her arms. "It was the children that jolted me as they ran, and they've made me drop some of my batch! Cursed hellions they are, sent by the Devil himself to ruin my day!"

"It is no trouble, woman." Orin said, as he got a good look at her.

She was not very tall, for a woman, perhaps a couple of years younger than him, and with hair as black as the night. Her face was pretty enough, with pronounced cheeks and lips that were full and warm. It was her eyes, however, that held Orin. They were piercing and sharp, as if they could fathom to the very depths of his soul.

For a moment, Orin was at a loss for words.

The woman seemed as transfixed as he was, until she remembered the tray in her hands, and looked at all the cookies that had swayed over to one side of it.

"Cursed, bastard children!" She scolded. "A full quarter of my cookies are gone to waste now, and will serve nothing better than to feed the dogs with!"




Orin's Tales Pt. 03



Orin shook off his silence. "I would sample one, if I could."

She looked him directly in the eyes again. "You can get one at the banquet table, if you wish." With a quick, deliberate turn, she gave him her back and marched away.

"She refused me a cookie!" Orin complained to Bartram. "Can you believe that?"

"That is not what she did." The archer replied.

"Then what did she do?"

"Is there nothing in that head of yours besides a great lump of jelly? Think, man, think."

Orin replayed the events in his thoughts, until realization dawned within him. "The bump she gave me; that was an accident, yes? But after that, she gave me a long look. I noticed that. And then she looked me square in the eyes and told me to get my own cookie at the banquet table."

"Because..." Bartram tried to draw the implication out of him.

"Because she will be at the banquet table."

"Ah!" The archer exclaimed. "There is hope for you yet!"

"Like those fleeting kisses Sundri told me about." Orin compared. "To keep one wanting more. Only this woman did it not with kisses, but with a defiant tone in her voice. How is such a tone supposed to work?"

"Do you want to know more about this woman? Does she intrigue you enough that you will find yourself at the banquet table soon?"

"Yes."

"Then her ploy has worked, has it not?" The archer grinned at him. "This is the way the game is played, Orin. While these other women have been trying to ply you by blatantly squeezing at your rump, this new woman had accomplished even more by using..."

"Tact and finesse." Orin finished for him. "Should I go to her now?"

"Oh, no." Bartram shook his head. "Now is much too soon. Ignore her for a time, have a few more drinks, walk in a perimeter around her, so that she can see you and wonder what you think of her. That is, if you intend to woo her or seduce her. I don't recommend it, as we will be gone by the time this feast is done with. You can do it for the practice, if you like."

Orin considered the words in his head, enough that he found himself no longer thinking of all the women that had been pestering his buttocks.

The banquet consisted of mutton and venison as the main courses, flavored with onions, garlic and herbs and served on trenchers, which were stale, flat pieces of bread, and could also be eaten if one so wished. Sides consisted of beans and peas, while fruits like apples, dates and pears were in abundance, and, Orin noted, even grapes were being served.

Hippocras was being served now, an ancient mixture of wine, honey and herbs, along with the more standard ale, and Orin and Bartram both noticed that more and more people were arriving now that the wedding was over, and the feast was being laid out. Of course, everyone stood as they ate and mingled about, for there were not enough stools available for such a large crowd.

What's more, a group of musicians had taken a small corner of the square. This group consisted of a pair of men playing hornpipes, which were made of both wood and hollowed out bull horns, a pair of drummers, one which played a small drum and carried a much larger drum on his back, which the second man played, a woman who played the harp, and finally, a man who played the hurdy-gurdy, which was a sort of handheld organ strapped around the neck, with a handle that was turned to produce a constant drone of noise, and strings that could be plucked.

Sundri found them just as the desserts were being set out. These were a pudding of almond milk, coffins, which were a mix of meat, herbs, dates, spices and eggs, and of course, cookies sweetened with honey and made of wheat flour.

The witch was picking at a bunch of grapes as she joined them. "How goes it, lovers of mine?"

"Orin hasn't enough coin to purchase a good bow." Bartram replied. "And he sorely needs one, else he'll soon have to resort to eating whatever he can catch with his bare hands."

"Bartram, I will not ask Sundri to buy a bow for me!" Orin snapped.

"Orin, hold out your hand." Sundri said, calmly.

Thinking that she would offer him some of her grapes, he did. A moment later, he found his hand heavy with coins of gold and silver.

"I can't take this." Orin told her, for what he held was no small amount of wealth.

Sundri smiled at him. "You can and you will."

"No, I won't!"

Before he could do anything further, Bartram scooped the currency out of his grasp.

"Now, to find that vendor again." The archer said, as he scurried away.

Orin turned to Sundri. "You didn't have to give me your money."

"Oh, I'll have you compensate me, later." She flirted. "While I'm on my back."

Orin blushed.

"Now, what have you two been up to, while I've been gone?"

"Oh, just enjoying what there is to enjoy here." Orin replied. "The food, the company, the atmosphere, it's all been grand. I would ask you one thing, if I could. Would you be angry if I told you that I like a girl, from here in the village?"

"I harbor no false illusions, my young lover." She said. "I know that one day, perhaps soon, perhaps not, you will turn your attention to a woman closer to your age. I only intend to enjoy your attention as long as you enjoy mine. Which girl is it? That blonde one there, who keeps telling the others to come and touch your buttocks, but who has not done so herself?"

Orin looked over, spotting the blonde, as he'd not yet realized she was the culprit behind much of his 'trouble.' "No, not that one. Look there, at the banquet table, where the pastries have been set out. Do you see that girl there, with the black hair?"

"Miriam?"

"You know her name already?"

"I do. The potion-maker here tells me that Miriam has a knack for certain forms of magic, and has the potential for greater things, if one were to take the time to teach her how to use her natural gifts properly."

"Miriam." Orin repeated, the word as sweet as honey in his mouth.

"Do you like her?"

"Truly, I don't know the answer." Orin admitted. "I would like to speak with her, if I could."

"Then go and speak with her."

"Even if we will be gone from this place tomorrow?"

"I see no harm in speaking." Sundri told him. "Only do not fall in love with her straightaway, for I do not intend to give you up just yet. Go, you can bring me a small bowl of pudding while you're there, and some cookies to dip into it."

"I will." Orin nodded, and he started off.

Miriam's gaze drifted about lazily, until she caught sight of Orin's approach. Then, her eyes were on his. She did not perk up, like another woman might, but she did focus her attention on him. Her gaze became cool, wary, but at the same time he saw the interest there. Had it not been for Bartram and Sundri, he would have otherwise noticed none of this.

"Hello, Miriam." He said, upon reaching the table.

"Hello, Orin." She answered.

He did not ask her how she had found out his name. He simply looked at her, studying her eyes and her form, as she was doing to him.

"You are not like other women, are you?" Orin sensed.

"And you are not like other men."

"No, I suppose I am not." Orin grinned back at her. He was unsure of what he should say further, for she seemed a puzzle to him. He had opened his mouth to speak, when a man's harsh and drunken voice cut him off. It was loud enough to be heard over the music, and several people in the crowd were seen to glance in the direction the voice had originated.

"That man there, he looks a bastard combination between man and turkey. He has a large beak for a nose, a gullet that would be the envy of any roost, and a hefty paunch reminiscent of an overfilled sack of potatoes."

Several voices were heard to guffaw at the insult.

"Give us another one, Henry." One man said.

"Let me see."

Miriam uttered a noise of contempt, and of frustration. "They were told to stay far from the wedding, but here they are, and they will ruin everything."

"Who?" Orin asked.

"The Montefort brothers, and the men that come with them." Miriam revealed. "Their father was a disgraced knight who came to live here, and before the man passed, he taught his sons every wrong thing he knew. All they do is bully us and bring us torment." 

"Here then, see that one." Henry was heard to say. "That one is a mere monkey of a man, who can terrorize children by merely furling and unfurling that large flap of flesh that lies between his nose and his upper lip. His ears are the size, color and texture of a split pumpkin, and even his hair looks to have hair of its own upon it."

Another great round of bellows ensued, and the crowd gave way enough that Orin could see these men for themselves. There were six of them, three of the typical build, two tall and wide in the shoulders, and the last, Henry, was a stout pig of a man.

"Can nothing be done about them?" Orin asked.

Miriam shook her head. "They are too many, and they are too strong, and every man that has tried to stand up to them is pummeled bloody."

Orin studied them further. Had he one or two more men on his side, to counter the size of the two brutes, he might have stepped to them himself. As it was, he stood alone.

"Look at that decrepit old woman, her skin is as tight as a hangman's noose!"

The crowd further shied away from the mob of laughing miscreants.

"And look at this hairless bastard," Henry ridiculed. "He is a womanly sort, whose dainty steps and stride would curl the toes of any real man. His features are as delicate as any found in a family of boars, and therefore, this man could only be entered into a pageant of the utterly absurd. Bring your bride to me, Derek, that I might show her what a real man keeps between his legs."

Orin found his anger rising. He looked back at Miriam, briefly, before he took up a stride that set him between the onlookers and the ruffians, and he saw the nervous form of Derek Tollson, who had apparently come out to pacify them, or to ask them to depart. The man no longer wore the robe of the wedding ceremony, but was dressed as modestly as many of the others were.

"Will you insult a man on his wedding day?" Orin barked at them.

"And why not?" Henry replied. "Step aside, you fluffed up dandy, as I've not yet finished with this mockery of masculinity yet. Bring your new wife to us, Derek, as I have a few choice words for her as well, and perhaps a roll in the hay as well, to remind her of what sleeping with a real man is like. Bead, go and fetch Derek for me."

Derek stepped back fearfully, as one of the bigger men took a stride toward him.

"See the coward!" Henry pointed, and all of his cohorts laughed along at his side, even the man who had been ordered to grab the groom.

There will be times when violence cannot be avoided, Orin's father had once told him, and Orin realized that this was one of those times. There will be times when words are not worth the breath it takes to utter them, and when action, and perhaps cruelty, will be necessary to quell whatever threat has arisen.

"That will be enough from you." Orin said, finally, conclusively. He would speak no more until it was done.

Henry laughed, but it was a hateful sound that escaped his lips. It was the sound of a man accustomed to having others grovel at his knees, and accustomed to humiliating others in order to build himself up.

Sundri now stood at his side, Orin saw.

"What, have you brought your grandmother to do battle with you, you imbecile?" Henry exploded with laughter, and still the others laughed with him.

"You would know me better as the witch from Devil's Crag." Sundri said, loud enough to be heard over the chortles.

This silenced a few, but not Henry. Never Henry.

"So, what of it? You mix potions to sell to lovelorn saps, and you wave your hands in the air and speak gibberish. That might frighten others, but I know that you are only a fraud!"

Sundri smiled at him, most wickedly.

Orin saw the confidence in her eyes, the maliciousness that she was about to unleash some unholy terror upon these haranguers, and it gave him courage to defy the power of six men. He did not need two or three strong men with him, only one sorceress, and that would be enough.

Orin removed his vest, and handed it to Sundri. He pulled his tunic over his head, and gave this to her as well, exposing his toned muscles, and his lean, imposing figure.

"Have some sport with him, Bead." Henry ordered. "The witch will do nothing, because she can do nothing."

This was the biggest of the men, this Bead. He was taller than Orin by a full head, and his arms were as thick as tree trunks. He rushed at Orin, while Orin braced himself for combat. Once this giant was near enough, some would say too near, Orin ducked under his reaching arms. Orin crushed his boot into the man's instep, shattering the delicate bones there, and he used the man's own momentum to send him tumbling into the ground, and away from him.

Bead howled out in pain from his broken foot.

Standing beside Henry, four men drew their swords at once, and came at Orin.

No, it was three, for an arrow sliced through the air and smashed into the chest of the largest of these men, driving him back in a grimacing, tight and mortal groan. That would be Bartram, Orin knew, who'd come back with a fresh bow, and apparently, with fresh arrows as well.

Earlier, Orin and Bartram had trusted Sundri enough to give her their packs and their weapons, and she'd sent them into whatever dimensions she had access to. In this way, the two men no longer had to worry about having the extra burden weighing them down. She'd said that all they had to do was to ask, and their items would be returned to them.

Orin didn't ask. He simply held his arm out, and after but a moment, his short sword was in his grip. He went forward to meet his attackers.

The three swordsmen were clumsy, unused to fighting in close quarters, and still trying to surround him as he met them. He feinted left, causing the man there to jump back, then crouched again and swept out his leg to trip the man in the middle. The man to the right had thrust his sword toward Orin's chest, but Orin was now near the ground. He parried the strike upward, exposing the man's belly, and sliced a sharp blow across it. As blood and the man's innards began to burst out, Orin went toward the man on the left, who was coming in again, and Orin knew he only had a second or two before the man he'd tripped would be on his feet.

That is, until Bartram's arrow plunged in the neck of the man on the left.

This left Orin facing the last man, who was only now straightening up. The odds were now much more balanced, and he waited for the man's next attack. He slashed at an angle, Orin countered. He thrust forward, Orin swiped aside. He grunted and rushed forward, only to have his blade deflected, and in his haste, he ran into Orin's sword.

Orin pulled his sword free, taking a look at the five fallen, noting that no man was squirming or cursing or crying out in pain. They were all dead.

"I sucked the breath away from their bodies." Sundri revealed, as she stepped forward, past the carnage, and toward the only man who still lived. "What of you, you cruel bastard? Should I turn you into a toad and feed you to a crow? Should I cause your eyes and tongue to stretch away from your face until blood spurts from your orifices? Do you realize what it means to taunt a witch such as I?"

Henry cringed back, but he was still largely in shock that his fellows had been dispatched so quickly, and so devastatingly.

"You will be remembered, Henry, and remembered forever." Sundri decided. "I will make you a black seed, and you will grow into a black tree from which no fruit will ever grow. Here in this very square you will thrive as a dead, barren thing, and every man and woman that looks upon the tree you will become will know who you were, and what you have done here to merit this dark fate that you have so richly brought upon yourself."

With a wail, Henry turned to run.

The ground below him opened up and swallowed him whole, and closed up again once he was gone.

"Such a joyful occasion, marred for no good reason." Sundri took in the bodies of the dead, and of the spilt blood that still ebbed from them.

The witch turned toward Orin first, then toward Bartram. "Let us leave this place."

She started away, even as the crowd parted for her, but she paused before Derek and handed him an item. It was a nugget of gold, half as large as his fist. "Here is our present for your wedding, Derek Tollson. Use this wisely. May your marriage be blessed, and may your new wife bear you many children."

She walked away, and after a moment's reflection, Orin and Bartram followed. They did not stop until they had reached the edge of the village, where Orin took his usual clothing back and dressed himself. Bartram presented him with his new bow, which was not the fanciest, nor the cheapest, but it was sturdy and strong, and it would meet Orin's needs.

As they trudged on that same path that had brought them into Sleepy Glen, Sundri asked, "Is this what you envisioned, Orin, when you set out to find adventure?"

"Hardly."

"You do not find glory in the killing of men." Bartram said. "But at least in this place, it was a necessity. You've done a good thing here, Orin."

"No, not just I." Orin corrected. "All of us. We've all done a good thing, even if it doesn't feel as a good thing at the moment."

"Where will you take us next, Orin?" Sundri asked.

He turned to her. "Do you mean you wish to come with us?"

"Well, I doubt I'll be welcome in Sleeply Glen, after what just happened there. And I was tiring of living at the Devil's Crag. A change of scenery would be good for me."

"And you, Bartram?"

"The road has always been my home." The archer said. "And I will admit that things are not boring whenever you're around. Besides, I still have many more lessons to teach you."

"In the art of women?"

"In the art of life, in the art of everything."

"I will be glad to have you along, as a friend and a mentor." Orin decided. "We will go south, and to wherever the road will take us."

"As good a plan as any." Bartram grinned.

"And I expect a prompt repayment for the coin I lent you." Sundri flirted. "In cockles, of course. Bushels of cockles."

Orin smiled at her, as the three turned south, and tread steadily down that rough, oft-traveled road.

Back in Sleepy Glen, a young woman considered her own future, and of what she might expect from it if she were she to stay in that village, or if she were she to try her luck elsewhere. Her name was Miriam, and of her, we have not heard the last.

What can be said with most certainty, is that the adventures of Orin were only at their beginning, and that his exploits were already being immortalized in word and song, and would eventually lead to him being known as the legendary Orin the Great.

*****

Author's note: At the moment, the three parts of Orin's Tales are all I've written so far. They are part of the multi-genre Inspired By M.C. collection. I currently have a clutter of some fifty million projects in front of me, but I hope to expand this storyline into a full length novel in the future.