Anger in Ashenvale

Thank you Fawnheart for commenting! Yes, I do agree, my main toon is a cocky, arrogant, self serving bastard of a man who needs a beating. But then again I admit also that I'm tired of just Orcs raping Night Elves.

And a special thanks to a DN buddy for telling me a secret to emulation; I needed that inspiration to really just let myself type! I do however admit I need feed back...

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'Chapter 2' - Because Dir is Lazy and can't make a chapter title.
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That same tone had rung through the air for a good ten seconds; the anger of the woman's face made a grim smile twitch to the lips of her would be slayer. Indeed, it was a pleasure and a passion that many a man would be frightened to indulge in. Her stands was defiant, angry, and bitter against the beast man's ravaging of her forces. Although, this only serves to spur the warrior into another peel of laughter, hollow and uncaring as the decision remains in the air. Of course those other women are around, growls, snarling faces evidence to their willingness to die for their leader.So, they'd finally found spine thanks to this harlot? Good, this might prove interesting should he need to dispatch the whore before them.

"Well?"

The question is heavy, heated almost as the green skinned forhead begins to sweat; that grin growing into a sneer as a shift in his form causes a flinch in the other. The entire camp seemed to jump back a foot or so as the Warlock before the warrior mulled over the options in her head. She could die, honorably, like all of her race wished to; or she could maybe live and find what this man wanted... it's a hard choice but she's chosen."Warrior, what... do... you feel you deserve of me? More than my bounty...", the halting effort in her words makes a gasp arise from the gathered crowd; and a surprised, if muffled snort of disbelief from this creature who'd slain her women like sheep.

"You're... sure?", his turn to be surprised at the brashness of what had seemed mere moments of deliberation. Shell shocked would be the right word for the warrior's thought process, she'd thrown him off the entire speech he'd been concocting in his head about having her any way while she begged for death, but, she... "Damnit woman, you messed up the most perfect speech I could've made to be intimidating; you know that right?" Of course she chuckles when he states this, the light in that woman's eyes are mischievous and impish as her arms come up, a directive to the rogues to vanish or leave, although, the body of the man was gone as well; not to mention his head... where ever it was.

"Well conqueror, you've won, you've caught me.", she doesn't seem plussed now that she'd known she injured the warrior's fragile male pride, and it's obvious to that effect because he's a little more than slumped. Well, a coarse growl and a low, dusky purr are all that really answer, well, before the warrior takes her chin into a plated fist.

"You know what I want whore... I care little for games and foolishness. Be it you've injured my pride I'd think you should be silent and lead me to where your tent is.", his thumb was pressed over lush lips, the cool kiss of metal over hot, dark green, flesh. Eyes quirk to the warriors requests, she'd not expected it, and in the eyes of the warrior he knew that she'd been caught off guard, at least, a little. His strength, his power, his very air were attractive agents to most women, even now this man-beast of an elf knows it's working further in his favor... albeit she an unwilling, if still wanting, accomplice to his lusts.

A sharp turn, that lovely arse just begging for a good grope; which is done without a second thought, the body stiffening as muscles flex under fatty flesh, a sign of foreboding as that dull toned voice urges in a fashion all to itself, "March... and be quick about it; I do enjoy my company to move when I tell them to.", it's wordless as the woman begins to move forward, wordless again as he begins to massage and caress the most notable of her 'best side's' features. Thick, gloved, fingers tease and pull thick flesh against them; the rasping of the cold metal in areas of the dress that were particularly thin cause a gasp here and there, not to mention a glare as dark as the very man's lusts are.

This man is cocky, arrogant, almost supernaturally powerful, and now he's taken an interest in her body, the odd hourglass effect of her form being something of interest to any man. But to such a bastard as this, it'd serve as a receptical of seed; a dumpster of his lusts if you will. His uncaring attitude isn't there now, it's a humiliating thing he knows, to be upholstered by the enemy, to be felt and groped... and further more, he can feel, even through chain and plate, that she warms under his harsh, commanding, touch.

They'd taken some time walking, due to the position of his hand and he forcing her gait to be slower, but, as they near the most... ornate of the tents, the warrior's hand flexes, and the sound of tearing is heard throughout the clearing. He'd just ripped a line right along the back of the Warlock's robes and there is nothing she can do to stop the garment from falling like limp rags to the ground, the open back of the robe not to mention the straplessness of it were functional, but now it won't save her the embarrassment of his gaze against her bared back and lower body. And he isn't one to spare the niceties either, again cold metal against warm skin, this time almost cutting into green rump flesh, a protest is heard, although, he quiets that with the most frightening sentence combination one would ever hear as a woman.

"You should always ask what I want, and that's you. You're mine now slut... and there is -nothing- you can do about it.", the reaction however was, a little less than flattering as she scoffs back at him, a roll of her hips to dislodge his hand, "Many men have told me this elf-beast. Many men have tried and failed.", the grin back at the massive warrior is one of almost a sniggering jest toward his masculinity; "Although none were as pretty as you were..."

Those large eyebrows quirk; slowly moving into an odd arch and he's, well, stumped! "... Alright, I do apologize but being as big, bad, and ultimately rape intent as I am, I'm 'pretty'?", the disbeliefe and almost boyish arrogance in the man's voice are, endearing if you would. It'd been a long, long, long times since the woman had likely even et a man like this warrior, and longer still would she remember, but, indulging his arrogance and curiosity are, well, kinda kinky in a way but for he most part she giggles, which throws the warrior for another loop because he's about to rape this woman and she's... flirting with him... great, just great, come to send a message and you end up sending a friggen dating service call to the lumbercamp whore. Fantastic Dir, fan-fuckin-tastic.

"Yes my lovely beast-man, you're very pretty; many of our men wou-", this is ended by a hand; not a slap no, for this warrior did like her pretty face, but, instead the hand had forced her dress, and much of her lower protective cloth wear into the creavasse of her cunny; the force is violent enough to garner an earsplitting scream of pain, and, if it weren't for the protective mail he might've felt the staining of blood upon his fingers as that low, dull growl; one born of rage, endless, unaccountable, rage, "Funny, because that's why I'm here lovely; ya see, I'm sending a message here eh?", the deadly seriousness of the tone is one of almost frighteningly powerful intensity, "I'm tired of being known, species wise at least, as being a rapee, and want to truely show what I can do...", he'd never been known to faulter, to stammer, to stutter. He'd always done what he said, always pulled through his end of a deal, always paid his debts, and now he's exacting a price of painful reprieve.

The nerves of the woman's groin would be on fire, this much was certain, he know, he hoped that she'd be silent, as the tears of her pain ease out of view, the warrior, now impressed, chuckles mildly. It's easy to see this she-bitch would be hard to break, hard to hurt, well, as hard to hurt as many a cloth wearing caster is concerned. The tent, now within their view, his fingers, for more than two had forced their way in, pull back, the glare given him is nothing short of hatefilled, his raction to her haugty talk was a painful one, albeit something she would've expected... from one of her own. It was arousingly painful in a way, and even the Kal'dorei could see her cheeks were on fire, even if she wouldn't admit to enjoying his 'menstrations'.