A silly, cheesy sort-of-companion-piece to Worn Leather and Dulled Steel, set far into the future, after Pandaria's discovery and possibly in a different timeline. I wouldn't say it's super necessary to have read WLDS for this one, but… the ending will make more sense. (Maybe?)
It was supposed to be similar to the steamy romance novels in game, funny and corny and over the top. What it is now… well, it's not that. I'm not sure what it is at all.
The wounded troll slunk through the thick jungle, his one good eye squinting fruitlessly through the mists that always seemed to conceal something. Every so often he would start, whipping toward a figure cloaked in the fog and leveling his bow- only to see that it had been a trick of the light, or the shadow, or a curiously shaped palm frond.
He sighed.
Makara was a seasoned fighter, a good soldier and a great shot… even if he wasn't quite as respected in the Horde's army these days. But even so, he and his small search party had been woefully unprepared to encounter the enemies that the Jade Forest had to offer. As far as the troll knew, he was the only survivor of the vicious assault by the two dozen or so hozen that had ventured upon them.
He held a large, two-fingered hand to his side and groaned as warmth seeped against his hand. Tacky blood clung to his palm afterward, though he did not realize it until sometime later when he stopped to lean against a young tree's trunk and saw the faint pattern of a troll's hand left upon it.
He snarled and tried futilely to wipe the offending print from the bark, wondering dismally at just how clear of a trail he'd left. He knew that if it were not for his kind's exceptional self-regeneration, he would be much worse off at the moment. As it stood, if he could survive out here another night or so, his wounds might be able to recover on their own.
Well, his other wounds, at least. He gently touched the wad of bandages he had secured over his bloodied eye socket- no amount of trollish regeneration could repair that.
He continued to wander through the humid forest, hopelessly lost. If any maps had been drawn of the previously unheard of continent already, he was far too low on the totem pole to have one himself. The high canopy of leaves masked the position of the sun quite well, though Makara knew that even if he could orient himself, it would do him little good.
A soft growl escaped the troll's lips as the mists thinned and he found himself silently padding through one of the mossy ruins that dotted the forest, the clamor of birdsong suddenly dropping to a whisper.
His gaze shifted uneasily. The statues of the mogu- great brutes with eight-foot stone weapons in hand- always seemed to move at the periphery of his vision, to blur slightly, as though settling back into stance. Whenever the wary hunter would swivel his head to catch one in the act, they merely stared back at him with that same sneering frown, their stony forms as solid and immobile as ever.
It set him on edge. He was alone, at the moment, in a strange land full of strange magics. Word had already spread of the fate that befell those unfortunate enough to run into the Jade Witch of the forest, and Makara had to wonder what other peculiar dangers this place hid.
He spotted a dark cavern flanked by two imposing stone mogu. Better not, he decided as he skirted the yawning opening.
The hunter sighed again, the ache in his side growing sharper with every step. He really didn't want to think about what had been on the filthy hozen's hands when it tore into him like that. The gashes below his ribs burned and itched, and he was certain that the dirty, blood-stained strips of cloth around his middle were doing little good.
A dark scowl twisted his lips around his thickset tusks as his oversized ears picked up the noise of a distant clamor. He swore and changed his course, doubling the speed of his uneven lope. It would not be long before the sun set, and if this accursed jungle was difficult to navigate now, it would be a nightmare when shrouded in darkness. Makara hoped to find shelter before then, if not some Horde encampment. A village of the natives' would be much appreciated as well.
He crested a tall hill dotted by mossy boulders, crouching warily as he spotted movement in the low-lying, bamboo-thick area below.
A druid. A night elf, by the length of those ears and the pale markings on its shoulders and flanks. Vermillion eyes followed the battered-looking elf's path as it struggled to escape the half-dozen hozen that hounded it, screeching like the mindless beasts they were.
Makara sneered. He had no real love for the Alliance, elves least of all (after gnomes, actually, but that was a given), but the stinging pain in his side and the violent removal of his right eye had come courtesy of the hozen, and he would repay them for it a hundred times over.
As the desperate druid momentarily abandoned his feline shape to cast healing spells upon himself, Makara nocked his first arrow. He took careful aim, one finger pulling the string taut as he watched the druid shift back into the form of a great cat mid-stride, alternating between sprinting to escape the pack and whirling on the wretched monkeys that leapt upon his back before they could drive their spears through his spine.
The troll let loose the first arrow, the grinning with a feral savagery as it hit the hozen upon the druid's back square in the chest and sent it flying backward.
Makara quickly pulled another arrow from his quiver, licking his lips as he saw another hozen leap upon the besieged elf. His aim was not as true this time. The troll hissed as he saw the druid feline's back arch with pain as the shaft lodged in his thigh; it only made his blood boil hotter, his desire to personally gut each of the monkeys and string them up by their entrails intensifying.
His aim had been flawless when he'd had both eyes.
The troll took longer to fire this time, but when he did he felt a surge of satisfaction as a sudden fount of blood erupted from the hozen's pierced neck.
He nocked another arrow and prepared to kill a third hozen- when he noticed the druid had frozen, his injured leg cocked as he carried his weight on the other three, intelligent golden eyes trained on the hunter.
A slow grin split Makara's lips as he let the arrow fly, knowing that the elf was watching. He hit one of the damned monkeys right in his gaping, screeching mouth, the arrow erupting from the back of its neck.
The remaining hozen hollered and pounded their chests, shrieking wildly, but the sight of their dead and injured seemed to discourage them from pursuing their feline quarry. They bared their sizeable fangs at the druid and the hunter in turn, then bounded back into the densest part of the forest.
The druid changed seamlessly back into the upright shape of a night elf, albeit one with tattered, shredded clothing and a thick-shafted arrow lodged in his thigh. With little hesitation, the elf wrapped his hand around the red-painted shaft and ripped it from his flesh; almost as quickly, he passed his hand over the puncture and let the emerald haze of healing magic knit the open wound shut.
The elf approached him warily- as he should, the troll thought with a satisfied little smirk- edging closer and closer up the boulder-strewn hill, looking equal parts the panther and the fawn. He was curious, Makara realized. He chuckled and loosened his grip on his bow, but only slightly.
The druid was more pleasing to the eye (the one eye he still had) than most night elves he had seen, his smooth, supple skin a deep lavender that reminded the troll of Ashenvale's violet-leafed trees. Radiant gold eyes regarded him curiously before dipping out of sight as the elf bowed before him.
Makara grew to like the elf more by the second.
When he straightened back up, he bit his lip and stared pointedly at the sluggishly bleeding wound on the troll's side.
The hunter grunted as he recognized that look. A healer's look. And now that he had a chance to study the druid, he saw that he had a softness to him, the kind that really only thrived in the ones that made a living solely from the healing arts.
Makara saw other things as well- the deep color of the elf's lips and cheeks, the expanses of smooth skin that lay over compact muscle, rippling like silk over stone. The pronounced curve of his chest, broad where it swelled with muscle before his form tapered to a narrow waist, drew the troll's eye. He made a soft sound of appreciation, then glanced up to find that he was on the receiving end of a similar stare.
That he had not expected. The night elves… well, he had always assumed they would be cold, at least to non-kal'dorei. The look in the druid's golden eyes was slightly tentative, slightly cautious… but underneath there was interest, and it was not unwelcome.
"I dun speak no Common," the troll rumbled in Orcish.
"Orcish is not my favoured tongue," the druid replied with a small smile, his words fluidly accented.
Excitement stirred inside him, and in that moment, Makara wanted to know the elf- he wanted to know any creature with a tongue talented enough to make even Orcish sound so smooth. "I'm Makara," he said, lifting his chin at the night elf and flaunting his sizeable tusks.
"Saranis," the druid replied, taking a step closer. His gaze flitted from the troll to the darkening sky overhead.
"Ya lost, too?" Makara asked, shouldering his bow and slowly loping closer to the pretty elf. If Makara held himself better, stood stiffly and rose to his full height, he might have had about half a foot on Saranis. As it was, their eyes met evenly.
The night elf nodded. "Mogu dragged me away. I escaped their nets, but they were not the only danger I faced," he said, drawing nearer, a slow smirk curving his lips. "A storm comes," he added in soft tones, his smile giving way to a worried frown as he looked up at the clouds that amassed as the sun sank.
Makara frowned. "I know a place we kin go."
The mogu cavern turned out to be a tomb. At least, that was the impression Makara got. At the very back stood three long stone sarcophagi, which they didn't even chance to approach, while six mogu effigies stood at attention along each side of the narrow cave.
The troll didn't like the looks of them. It felt like those blank, stone eyes followed them as they entered, lingered on them as the hunter used his feebly burning torch to light the sconces that lined the roughly hewn walls.
Soft rain began to patter by the entrance, faint flares of distant lightning occasionally punctuating the vast darkness outside; Makara felt grateful that they had this shelter at all, even if they did have to share it with the hulking statues that nearly seemed to breathe.
By the warm, flickering glow of the few lit sconces, Saranis seemed even softer, even more inviting. The troll was also grateful that he had such pleasing company for the night. The Horde and the Alliance might have been at war, and any other day they might have been at odds… but for now, they were both unfettered from their respective factions, set adrift in an unfamiliar land with none to see their forbidden meeting but for the grimacing mogu statues.
"Kin ya heal me?" he asked as he leaned back against a slab of stone, a soft groan passing between his lips. He pulled his hand away from the wound in his side and glanced at the handsome druid hopefully.
The elf hesitated. A slow smile curved his full lips. "I can heal you," he assured the hunter.
Was it just Makara's own longing, or did the elf's voice sound as though it was husky with lust?
The troll gasped as the green-hued glow that enveloped the druid's long-fingered hands arced against his skin, soothing his torn flesh and skin as it mended them. It was not the healing he was used to, doled out in battle or hastily administered in a triage tent.
This was… sensual. It was intimate. The elf's hands hovered just a hair above his skin, but Makara felt the heat of them as though they slid wantonly against his bared flesh. The druid was thorough in his healing, the troll noted with a sly grin, leaving no nick or scrape untouched as he trailed that emerald glow across every inch of flushed blue skin.
Makara was torn when the druid's hands passed over his breeches, fingers questioning as they skimmed over the faint outline of his manhood. On the one hand, any excuse to put the talented healer's hands to him was welcome. But on the other… "Ain' nuttin' wrong down there," the troll said defensively, shooing the elf's healing magic away from his groin.
Saranis laughed softly as he instead turned to the hunter's shoulder, ripped and mangled by dirty hozen claws.
Makara let his head loll back slightly, sighing as the elf kneaded at the tight muscle after he knitted it back together. It was bliss, right up until Saranis cupped his strong chin and tilted his head forward to meet his golden-eyed gaze.
"I don' tink ya kin save dis," the troll said with a hoarse laugh, pointing to his makeshift eyepatch.
The druid frowned, his violet lips looking even fuller from the action. "No, I think not," he murmured, tenderly touching blood that had dried on his cheek. "Does it still hurt?"
"Little bit," Makara admitted. The dull ache in his socket throbbed with every heartbeat, but it was not so much the pain that maddened him as the diminished sense of sight. He had been a flawless shot before…
"Sometimes," Saranis said in a lusty whisper, letting his gaze drop to the scarred, blue-skinned body bared before him, "as a healer, the most you can do is… distract from the pain," he purred.
Makara grinned around his tusks and met the elf's yearning stare, any pain forgotten. Saranis really was a healer of a different class entirely, a paragon of his kind, if the troll had anything to say about it. His loins stirred as the elf licked his lips, that pale, twisting tongue leaving them slick and utterly ravageable.
And ravage them he would.
Makara leaned forward and took the druid by the ragged remains of his clothing, pulling him forward until he straddled the troll's lap. Mindful of his tusks, he angled himself until he could force his mouth against Saranis', groaning against him as the elf gently bit and teased at blue-skinned lips.
The hunter plundered the night elf's mouth, one hand tangled in the druid's mossy-green waves as he slid his tongue against the kal'dorei's gleaming teeth and pointed canines. He tasted him, stroked the elf's nimble tongue with his own, swallowed the sounds of his moans.
Saranis was eager- so eager that the troll wasn't certain which of them desired this more- and already writhed atop him lasciviously. Makara cupped his face and ran his thumbs over the thick sideburns that reached down to the elf's jaw- he smelled of rain and grass recently crushed underfoot, of dried blood and the blossoms that the boughs hung heavy with here.
Makara leaned forward again, growling possessively as he rubbed his tusks along the sides of the elf's face and neck; his wicked smile grew and he assured himself that come dawn, his scent would cling to the druid like morning dew-drops on a spider's web.
Saranis was panting as he trailed his lips over the troll's ear and asked, "Your tusks, are they… indicative of…?"
The hunter purred as he felt the elf's hand rest against his hardening length, toying with the ties of his breeches. "Aye," he murmured throatily, dipping his head to nip at the druid's throat. "Tink ya kin handle me?"
The night elf smiled secretively as his long fingers deftly untied the knots and freed Makara from the confines of his pants, those skilled fingers immediately applying themselves to his swollen length.
"What a long shaft you have," Saranis murmured, his breath shallow with excitement and anticipation. "Nearly as long as one of your arrows," he whispered, flattering the troll with his exaggeration- Makara knew that he was a satisfying twelve inches, and with a comfortable girth besides, while his arrows were nearly three feet long with thick shafts that made them more akin to a crossbow's bolts.
"An' I always strike true with dis shaft," he promised the elf, smiling as he felt Saranis' chuckle through his lips, which were pressed against the lavender throat that was bared for him.
Saranis hummed teasingly, clearly recalling the arrow that had pierced his thigh earlier. "Are you the survival sort of hunter? I hear they can be quite… explosive," he murmured, eyes lidded with hazy pleasure as he continued stroking the troll's engorged manhood, his other hand rubbing at his own arousal through his pants. "Or are you one of the bestial ones, as ferocious and savage as the creatures they command?"
Makara's deep chuckle made the elf shudder as he whispered, "Both."
The hunter was torn when the druid bowed his head to better pleasure him, both missing the feel of Saranis' lips on his and exulting in the sensation of them wrapped around his aching cock. Pointed canines trailed tenderly over sensitive skin, while that soft tongue plied against him and traced over every bulge and vein. Makara grunted in rapture, one hand managing to find the elf's full rump and give it a fond squeeze.
The druid gave the slick, swollen length one last kiss before sitting back up to meet the hunter's gaze, a mischievous glint in his golden eyes. "I take it that with your experience you will be able to handle me? At times, I can be quite… feral," he whispered as he climbed back onto the troll's lap, his own shredded breeches already pushed down to his thighs.
"I've tamed chimeras an' corehounds," Makara chuckled against his cheek, his large hand wrapping around the druid's stiff length. "Claw me all ya like, druid. Few more scars ain' gonna bother me none."
Saranis' smile was feral, as savage as the untamed woods he hailed from. He pressed himself against the troll's slick tip, sighing as he leisurely slid down the thick shaft, impaling himself on the hunter's burning length.
Makara grunted and gripped the elf's hips hard enough to bruise, his breath coming in fluttering gasps as he succumbed to the tight heat of the druid around his manhood.
Saranis was a force of nature, the troll quickly realized, and perhaps more than he'd been prepared for. His pace was the frantic one of rutting beasts, shameless in its desperation. His wild, undulating tresses clung to their sweat-slicked skin as he rode Makara through his ecstasy, matching each of the troll's powerful thrusts and moaning lustily all the while. Loudly, too. Makara almost thought he saw one of the mogu effigies turn its head in their direction…
The druid slammed himself down on the troll's cock, letting out a savage growl and digging his hard nails into blue skin to draw Makara's attention back to him. He purred contentedly as the hunter pulled him closer and ran his tongue along the underside of the elf's smooth jaw, his three-fingered hands tugging at the druid's slim hips in an attempt to slow him just a little, to angle him just enough-
Saranis arched against him as the troll's aim indeed proved true, one long-fingered hand wrapping fiercely around his tusk as he shuddered uncontrollably, his mouth parted in a silent gasp. The hunter grunted triumphantly, pleased to have brought the wild druid under his control for even just a moment.
The elf roughly took hold of both of his tusks as he redoubled his efforts, grinding desperately against the hunter's throbbing length, golden eyes slipping shut in rapturous pleasure.
Makara thrust deeper into the euphoric elf, his hips shuddering as he-
"Arastel!" Gurok bellowed, still staring dumbfounded at the parchment in his hands. "What- what is this?"
The rogue's head appeared from around the corner. His eyes were alight with a gleeful pride as he spotted the few pages in the orc's grip. "How far did you get?"
"How much longer does it go on?!" the warrior asked, slack-jawed.
"Thirty-eight chapters. They've gotten to the Temple of the White Tiger, Xuen, who is making some rather… strenuous demands of them before they can enter the Vale to 'conquer' the mogu with the 'aid' of their new 'allies'-"
"Why are all of those words in air quotes?"
"So, how far did you get?" Arastel asked again, a grin plastered on his face as he cupped his mug of tea in both hands to warm them up.
Gurok grunted softly and peered back down at the paper, at a loss for anything to do but try to follow the rogue's path through whatever new madness he had found. It seemed to be the pattern woven through their relationship. "'His hips shuddering as he felt the druid's love forge tighten around his burning passion, his hot steel striking the elf's hidden anvil until- ancestors, Arastel," the ex-Kor'kron guard sighed, burying his face in his hand.
"You don't like it," the elf noted with a frown, padding over and settling into the kitchen chair beside his lover. His brow furrowed. "It's because that part sounds too Dwarfy, isn't it?" he asked with a wrinkled nose. "Needs more arrow references. I knew it."
"Can I ask why you have penned a hundred and eighty-six pages of smut?" The warrior cocked his head at his curious little elf, who always seemed to find something new to surprise him with. This was, however, one of the most surprising surprises yet.
"It's business, Gurok," the rogue said with a shrug, pausing to take a gulp from his mug. "Do you know what the best-selling book is at the moment?"
"That new one all about Pandaria," the orc answered, his chin in his hand.
"Stonehoof and Dawnblood's Pandaria: the Land of Mist Demystified?" the blood elf supplied for him.
"That's the one," he said with a nod, recognizing the title that he'd seen being pushed in the market. Pandaria fever was running high on the continents; you couldn't go four feet through any bazaar without seeing some sort of cheap, goblin-made junk with the curious script of the Pandaren plastered across it.
"No." Arastel shook his head and sighed. "It is, in fact, Hot and Misty, a steamy romance novel featuring the paladin Marcus and his sexual exploits while in Pandaria," he explained over the sounds of Gurok's scoffing and groans of disbelief. "And I thumbed through that tawdry piece of garbage-"
"Did you now?" the warrior asked dryly, somehow very unsurprised.
"I did, and I noticed that while very popular, Hot and Misty's… flavor is somewhat lacking in appeal for adventurers with different tastes. I'm just filling a void, Gurok. You can thank me when we're swimming in gold thanks to Makara and Saranis and their adventures regarding the Seven Boners of Shaohao-"
"Arastel."
"You still don't like it," the elf said with a dejected sigh, his shoulders slumping.
Gurok frowned, his lips pressing together as he saw the disappointment in the rogue's eyes. "Have you… considered a good penname yet?" he asked, his heart lifting when he saw the exuberant smile return to the elf's lips. "Because I'm not letting you put your actual name on this… novel. I owe the Sunsworns that much."
Arastel laughed, a sigh of relief immediately following. "So, you're okay with me doing this?"
The orc chuckled and took his hand, drawing him from his chair and pulling him onto his lap. He brushed a look lock of pale golden hair from the elf's eyes to better look into them. "If it makes you happy. And if it means I could retire, all the better," he whispered as he pressed a kiss against the elf's jaw.
The assassin-turned-author turned and caught the orc's lips with his own, his tongue running teasingly over green skin. He met Gurok's wide-eyed stare with a sensual look. "So… did it get you riled up?"
"Perhaps a little," the orc admitted, shifting under the rogue's bottom even though there was no hiding the physical evidence of how the bawdy story had made him feel, however indecent he found it.
"That's good! That's what'll make it sell," the elf whispered enthusiastically. He quickly schooled his expression into something more intimate, his green eyes smoldering. "Would you mind moving the laundry off the bed?" he asked in a low purr, taking care to brush his lips against the tender area just below the warrior's ear.
Gurok acquiesced with a pleased grunt, lifting the elf so that he could rise and then briskly making his way to the bedroom, looking back over his shoulder to exchange excited grins with him.
And Arastel let out another relieved sigh as he hurriedly fished through the manuscript, anxiously peering back over his shoulder every few seconds, on edge as he listened intently for footsteps.
It seemed that the first run would have to omit chapter twenty-eight- The Arrival of the Cock'kron- lest Gurok discover that he shared more than a passing similarity to the forceful yet easily seduced orcish commander, Korug.
The second edition, Arastel promised himself as he tucked the forbidden chapter into a rarely used drawer of his desk.
I'm sorry.
It started as a joke while talking with a friend after my rogue kept looting Steamy Romance Novels off of Alliance npcs in the Jade Forest- but my attempt to write something as amazingly corny didn't… quite work. Newfound respect for whoever actually writes the stuff for those...