going to be like before, only this time there were more of them and they had all the leisure time in the world to torture him and Goddess, Goddess, Goddess, he didn’t want to die like that—when he’d escaped it so narrowly the first time—and he thought just maybe, he didn’t want to die at all—and why, why, why, hadn’t he just done what Bloodraven wanted and thrown away the tattered remains of his pride when he’d had the choice, instead of having it stripped from him in the form of one bloody section of flesh at a time?
Bloodraven laid a hand on Kragnor Deathclaw’s arm and the crowd of delighted ogres froze. Went silent and watchful even as Deathclaw slowly turned his narrowed eyes downward to look at an ogre almost two heads shorter than him.
Bloodraven spoke, baring just a bit of fang as he did. His face, narrow and elegant in comparison to Kragnor Deathclaw’s, displayed not one bit of emotion other than that. He didn’t remove his hand from Deathclaw’s arm. Deathclaw didn’t lower Yhalen.
Bloodraven spoke again and with a low snarl, Deathclaw flung Yhalen to the ground, rounding on the smaller ogre with one hand on the hilt of the dagger at his belt. Bloodraven was unarmed. He’d stalked out here, in his fit of irritation, without a weapon other than the strength of his body, which, against a full-sized ogre, seemed lacking.
But even with Deathclaw’s obvious threat, even with the hand on the weapon, Bloodraven stood unmoved. His eyes never wavered from the larger ogre’s face. His body betrayed nothing. And very much like a big dog backed down by a smaller, more stubborn and intelligent one, Deathclaw flexed his fingers and took a reflexive step backwards. It was enough.
Bloodraven broke his stare and moved past the larger ogre as if he’d ceased to exist, bending to snatch up the end of Yhalen’s lead and pulling him up and after him. Yhalen made every effort to keep up, staying close enough to Bloodraven’s heels that he had to take up the slack in the chain to keep from tripping over it.
Back to the tent then, with the camp again separated by a thin veneer of canvas. Bloodraven paused to drive the spike back into the earth, before going to his armor rack, and sitting on the stool before it, taking a piece of metal-studded leather down and proceeding to buff it free of dirt.
Yhalen stood with his back to the center pole of the tent, limbs still shaking from reaction, staring at Bloodraven as if he were a demon from the lower reaches of the abyss. But not The Demon. Not the evil of all evils. He was, Yhalen had discovered, the least of the evils offered.
After a while, Bloodraven tired of buffing his armor, and for a moment sat on his stood, one hand clutching the oiling rag, the other on his knee. Finally he tilted his head, staring at Yhalen from under a fall of shining black hair. He crooked a finger and Yhalen flinched, but hesitated not in moving forward, trailing his chain to stand before the ogre. Bloodraven opened his knees, not saying a thing. Yhalen took a breath, stomach fluttering in turmoil, and lowered himself carefully to his knees between the ogre’s legs, shaking hands reaching out and fumbling with the lacings of Bloodraven’s trousers.
It was a test of course. One to be expected. To see if he’d learned the lesson of proper obedience.
Vorjd had told him terrible things would happen if he were not a good slave. Yhalen hadn’t believed him. He’d barely missed finding out for himself those terrible things.
His fingers found Bloodraven’s flaccid member, warm and soft to the touch, but beginning to stiffen.
Didn’t look up and meet his eyes, because that would be his undoing. Concentrated on the thickening flesh in his hands, imagined it was his own, only larger and an odd color—or Yherji’s. He ran his fingers down to the root, fingertips tracking the big vein, feeling the throbbing beat of blood. So thick now, that he couldn’t circle it with the fingers
Bloodraven laid a hand on Kragnor Deathclaw’s arm and the crowd of delighted ogres froze. Went silent and watchful even as Deathclaw slowly turned his narrowed eyes downward to look at an ogre almost two heads shorter than him.
Bloodraven spoke, baring just a bit of fang as he did. His face, narrow and elegant in comparison to Kragnor Deathclaw’s, displayed not one bit of emotion other than that. He didn’t remove his hand from Deathclaw’s arm. Deathclaw didn’t lower Yhalen.
Bloodraven spoke again and with a low snarl, Deathclaw flung Yhalen to the ground, rounding on the smaller ogre with one hand on the hilt of the dagger at his belt. Bloodraven was unarmed. He’d stalked out here, in his fit of irritation, without a weapon other than the strength of his body, which, against a full-sized ogre, seemed lacking.
But even with Deathclaw’s obvious threat, even with the hand on the weapon, Bloodraven stood unmoved. His eyes never wavered from the larger ogre’s face. His body betrayed nothing. And very much like a big dog backed down by a smaller, more stubborn and intelligent one, Deathclaw flexed his fingers and took a reflexive step backwards. It was enough.
Bloodraven broke his stare and moved past the larger ogre as if he’d ceased to exist, bending to snatch up the end of Yhalen’s lead and pulling him up and after him. Yhalen made every effort to keep up, staying close enough to Bloodraven’s heels that he had to take up the slack in the chain to keep from tripping over it.
Back to the tent then, with the camp again separated by a thin veneer of canvas. Bloodraven paused to drive the spike back into the earth, before going to his armor rack, and sitting on the stool before it, taking a piece of metal-studded leather down and proceeding to buff it free of dirt.
Yhalen stood with his back to the center pole of the tent, limbs still shaking from reaction, staring at Bloodraven as if he were a demon from the lower reaches of the abyss. But not The Demon. Not the evil of all evils. He was, Yhalen had discovered, the least of the evils offered.
After a while, Bloodraven tired of buffing his armor, and for a moment sat on his stood, one hand clutching the oiling rag, the other on his knee. Finally he tilted his head, staring at Yhalen from under a fall of shining black hair. He crooked a finger and Yhalen flinched, but hesitated not in moving forward, trailing his chain to stand before the ogre. Bloodraven opened his knees, not saying a thing. Yhalen took a breath, stomach fluttering in turmoil, and lowered himself carefully to his knees between the ogre’s legs, shaking hands reaching out and fumbling with the lacings of Bloodraven’s trousers.
It was a test of course. One to be expected. To see if he’d learned the lesson of proper obedience.
Vorjd had told him terrible things would happen if he were not a good slave. Yhalen hadn’t believed him. He’d barely missed finding out for himself those terrible things.
His fingers found Bloodraven’s flaccid member, warm and soft to the touch, but beginning to stiffen.
Didn’t look up and meet his eyes, because that would be his undoing. Concentrated on the thickening flesh in his hands, imagined it was his own, only larger and an odd color—or Yherji’s. He ran his fingers down to the root, fingertips tracking the big vein, feeling the throbbing beat of blood. So thick now, that he couldn’t circle it with the fingers
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