A fire crackled happily within a large granite fireplace. Pieces of firewood were mixed with heaps of quickly-burning weeds; those emanated a weak earthy aroma, familiar from childhood to any Orc. Ogedru, they call it. It keeps dark spirits at bay.
Three of them sat in a semicircle in front of this fireplace. Three Orcs, three brothers, so unalike in all but their faces and voices. They were talking plans and politics, although none of them would call it that. To them, it’s the Conquest. The beating heart of the fledgling orcish state. The process that would bring an Orcish order to this land. They must conquer, they must prevail, so that they can build a tower out of the bodies of their enemies, and walk a staircase made of heads. Ascend. Such was the Word at the first Council of the Clans, where prophecies were recounted and destinies were decided.
But, of course, all of this had always been up to some interpretation, and Orcs love to debate about the details. The more powerful the empire grew, the more diverse were the challenges it had to stand to. In the past, they used to just fight over those details, but that custom has since been phased out. It was one of the things that held them back. The three brothers knew: there’s nothing more valuable than a fellow Orc, so you’ve got to convince him instead of bashing his head in when he’s wrong. They refrained from violence towards each other.
But not from violence towards their slaves, and that night all three of them had some of those on blatant display.
From right to left, the first of the orcs was Kadara, the shaman. He was a bit thinner and smaller than his brothers, and he was wearing a silken robe and a lot of jewelry; gold, for the most part. On his right index finger, there was a thick, bluish ring with smudges of black. Two elven women about an inch tall. They were exact copies of each other; twins, that is. They were bound together head-to-feet; their bent backs were on the inner side of the ring, their breasts on the outer. These were elves of the moon, Lune and Selma, priestesses of Celendine the Merciful, although that name meant very little now. Aside from the women’s bodies, thin metal lacework can be seen: it holds them in place, giving the extravagant ring its shape.
In the center sat Gorkhal, the champion. He occupied the largest armchair he could find in this place, yet it was still too small for him. He was a massive man, pushing eight feet, arms and legs like young trees. Everything about him appeared deceiving: his simple clothing, slow, deliberately relaxed movements. By his side stood a side table with a large plate full of greasy meat and potatoes fried to a crisp. Next to the plate a pale elfwoman knelt; she was no taller than three inches. Large, round green eyes devoid of thought stood out on her dirty, reddened face. She was Mikaela of Sallachea, a high elven princess, and she was looking, transfixed, at Gorkhal’s chewing motions, strangely clutching her hands together.
The third orc, known as Adrach, was the warlord who’d taken the castle; a bit shorter than the hulking Gorkhal, he was still a formidable, intimidating warrior. His attire was equally simplistic, consisting of rough pants and a jacket worn over bare skin. Something about him made him appear just a touch more sophisticated, though: perhaps the braided hair, perhaps the polished earring in his ear, perhaps the inquisitive, thoughtful expression his face carried. Like his brothers, he was barefoot, his legs crossed in ankles, feet stretched towards the fire. Nearby, there was a pair of thick, well-worn leather sandals. A tiny woman with sharp ears, dark-gray complexion and snow white hair was on all fours in the right sandal, rubbing at the leather with a piece of cloth. Her eyes shot daggers, but she didn’t dare raise her head.
“I have the library to work through”, Kadara the Shaman said, thoughtfully rubbing his temples. To Lune and Selma, the motion was too fast, too jerky; they would scream, but their mouths were sealed shut with the same elaborate metal lacing that locked the sisters into a ring shape. They were in constant pain; flexible as the elves are, their spines were under unrelenting strain.
The orc wanted it that way. Kadara had chosen these two for a reason; they maintained their link to the divine, and he could dip into it, steal the forces that Lune and Selma attracted.
“There’s not a lot”, Kadara continued. “Some scrolls I want to change up.”
“Write history, brother,” Adrach said. “For all to know.”
“For all to know”, Kadara agreed. “Our time, our words. What of you, Adrach? How long are you going to lounge in these halls?”
These halls referred to the Ithlenhaur Tower of Sorcery, a magic academy which used to belong to Kaesme Kollodea, a powerful sorceress and a talented summoner; but she had lost all control over it. She was the dark elf diligently scrubbing Adrach’s sweat-stained sandals, the dark spots seemingly invincible to her feeble efforts. Kaesme hated every second of the last few days; ever since Adrach took her tower, he and his brothers have been stealing her possessions, settling in, letting more orcs in, making the place theirs. Her students were all enslaved, if not outright killed — the orcs didn’t want to keep the males around. She, herself, became Adrach’s khojer, which was a deliberately humiliating term meaning something along the lines of toejam-girl. It was driving her mad with helpless hate.
“Yes. We’ll pin a defensive line here”, Adrach replied in a slightly bored tone. “Lot to build, lot to forge, lot to change. I will become city master, Kadara. Elfblood bricks are being burned by the thousands.”
Biting her tongue, Kaesme continued scrubbing. She did not want to have her blood drained and added to a brick. She’d live to fight another day…
She realized Adrach’s eyes were now focused on her and doubled her efforts, but he already let out a disgruntled noise and reached down.
Kaesme didn’t even have time to yelp as his fingers found her little snowy head and pushed it down, firmly, right into the leathery insole.
“Worthless”, she heard from above. “Use your mouth if you can’t scrub, khojer.”
She squirmed. The weight on her head disappeared, and she relaxed for a second, which was a mistake, because Adrach replaced his hand with his foot. He rested it on top of the sandal she was on, splaying the toes over her body, pushing her down. Crying, Kaesme opened her mouth and licked the gritty surface of the insole, as the orc’s bulbous toes idly forced her down. His other leg was still stretched out; his other foot happily tapped down the fur of her carpet. “Despicable”, she thought. “Disgusting”. The taste of stale sweat was making her ill.
“You’re growing soft, brothers”, Gorkhal announced, throwing another gristly piece of goat into his mouth. He lowered his hand next to the plate, and the noble princess of Sallachea immediately leaned in and began loudly slurping the fat off his fingers, cleaning them for him. Gorkhal chewed, then continued. “I am leaving in two days. We’ll bash the lizards at Burkhaber, push them into river Burk, and then I’ll go and feast with Lokgor in Stonepeak. Three days’ feast, if lizards don’t wake up earlier than that.”
He brought two fingers around the girl’s head and squeezed lightly, messing up her hair.
“You full, lady Mikaela?” he asked, the polite formality a strange contrast with how he was — a hulking, immense mountain of a beastly man. He let her reply.
“Yes, master Gorkhal, I…”
“Good. You know, we can swing by that place you used to live at. Highfalls.”
He laughed as he changed his grip on her, now squeezing her belly. She groaned. The ork lifted her up, brought her closer to his face, studying her. He licked his lips, let his hot breath wash over her, watched her tremble. He clicked his tongue before leaning forward and dropping the girl on the floor, at his own towering soles.
The Princess of Sallachea was an interesting — and shameful, if you’re an elf — case. Enamored with the tales of Orcish conquests, she considered them a superior species long before they actually arrived at her gates. She met with Gorkhal when she was still normal-sized, and made a farcical agreement with him, surrendering without a fight. A significant part of her through process were these broad, expansive, rough Orcish soles; at that fateful meeting, he swung his legs right onto her tea table, humiliating her by forcing her to look at the bottoms of his feet. Something in Mikaela just broke that very moment, and the orc knew that. She signed her realm away by kissing his feet and letting him use her mouth; that same night, he shrunk her, and now she was his most loyal follower.
Her duty called. She scampered to her feet and ran towards Gorkhal’s divine soles, throwing her body at them, kissing, licking, worshipping. Deep within, the princess of Sallachea harbored a hope that one day Gorkhal would be the lord and master of all of Qolkihar, and that would mean something for her, too. Indeed, after throwing her life under his feet, she fanatically wanted him to succeed, to prevail and dominate, because that would forever put her sense of guilt to sleep. If no one can stop him, how could she? Didn’t she make the best choice? Didn’t he deserve her praise and submission? Perhaps, one day, the Princess That Sold Her Realm to Lick Orcish Soles and Worship Cock would be a thing to be proud of. And he was benevolent towards her, was he not?..
Gorkhal’s foot suddenly pushed forward, closer to the fire. She yelped, carried with it. She could feel the heat so close now; the wood was crackling right behind her back. She pressed her body into Gorkhal’s magnificent sole, bringing her lips to his rough flesh again, planting a kiss after a kiss. “This is where I belong”, she thought. “Please, please, let me stay with him, let him never grow tired of me…”
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