6.
That afternoon, he decided that he should get some exercise. He'd noticed a dead tree on the edge of the woods near the beach, so he went and began to chop it down. Doing something strenuous simply for its own sake felt very good to him, versus the running in fear he'd been doing up to this point.
He also needed to work out some frustration. While his people taught that there was no shame in running when your life is at stake, he felt embarrassed and ashamed about it. On a deep level, he knew for certain that if he'd fought, he'd have died, but on a surface level, he was hounded by the thought that he should at least have tried.
Then again, when a youth went out on the Naming Vision Quest, they would wear only utilitarian leather clothing. No armor, just clothes. How could he be expected to survive a fight without armor?
They also couldn't talk, until they'd had their great vision. The vision wasn't always a vision, really, but it was different for everyone. Or so they were told. No one ever discussed what the big 'happening' of their vision quest was with younglings.
So Pingowingo wore the customary fetishes, hanging from his jowl braids, to inform one and all that he was on his Naming Quest. Thus no one would expect him to speak, and he would be safe among members of the Horde.
The sad fact of the matter was, though, his Naming Quest had already been longer than anyone else's that he knew of. His ears drooped. Perhaps, despite what his mentor had told him, he'd missed The Big Event that was supposed to occur during the Naming.
'You'll know it when it happens, it will be unmistakable. When it comes, you'll know that you're a Bull now. Something deep within you will alter, and you'll never be the same again.'
Well, he didn't feel altered. Unless being more scared than he'd ever been in his life, and more confused, was what his mentor meant by 'altered forever.' He could only hope not. Then again, what did he really know about it?
He was done with his work now, and lifted the chunk of tree trunk that he'd sectioned and carried it to their camp. With a mighty heave, he half dropped, half shoved the pointed bottom into the ground. Then he returned with the other, smaller section, and did the same again.
Then, satisfied with his work, he plopped down on the ground, leaning back against the bigger trunk. Now comfortable thanks to his makeshift chair, he picked up the brush she'd left out for him, pulled his breeches off to leave only his undercloth, and went to work on the matted hair on his right leg.
He looked up as she walked into the camp in her cat form. She was a lithe, sinuous creature, so sleekly black that she shone with deep blue hues. She had a crescent and a circle in pale white on her shoulder, glowing ethereally against the blue-black fur. He wasn't sure how he knew for sure it was her and not another druid of her kind, but he did.
Perhaps it was the look in her pale, glowing golden eyes. Perhaps the way she sauntered towards him in a slow, casual stroll. He wasn't sure, but he knew as surely as he knew any member of his tribe, that this was she.
She sprawled on the ground beside him; her leonine form powerful and dense with muscle. Really, as big cats went, she was a magnificent specimen. Her eyes shone with an unnatural intelligence, far above and beyond that which any wild creature might have; or any domesticated, yet simple creature, either.
No, this was no animal, despite the body she was morphed into. She was sentient, and she was studying him with the same direct regard he was giving her. Embarrassed suddenly, he went back to brushing out the mats of hair on his leg.
What was he thinking, staring at her like that? Was being in cat form an excuse? Was…
The thought left him as she began to groom his other leg, a roaring purr filling the air as she did so, much as her humming ordinarily would. He stared at her in surprise, as her coarse, bright pink tongue began to run up his fur in smooth, rhythmic strokes.
He blinked at her in consternation. It felt good. It felt shockingly good. It wasn't the same as being groomed with a brush, there was something far different about this. It felt like a caress through his fur, since there were no bristles to glide roughly against his skin. He felt the slight burrs of her cat's tongue, but they were so mild that they were simply invigorating.
The pink of her tongue against his own deeply black fur was startling in its contrast, and he tried not to be mesmerized by the stroking of it along his leg. The glow of her eyes was hooded as she closed them partway, a look that would have been sensual in the extreme on her humanoid face.
Where he had no matted or missing hair, it was almost impossible to see where her fur ended, and his began, except that hers was more blue than his. This strange melding seemed oddly symbolic to him, but he tried to shake the feeling off. It was too absurd to even consider.
He tried hard to distract himself from her, brushing harder than he had intended on his other leg. But it wasn't long before he had finished, partly because he was so rough.
Now, there was only the stroke, stroke, stroke of her tongue on his fur, and the song of her purring. He leaned back against the log and smothered a groan. Why was he letting this go on?
Somehow, in some way, it had to be shameful. Somehow, he knew that he shouldn't be thinking that her tongue, as it came closer and closer to the sheath that protected his penis, was in any way sexual.
She was an animal. Wasn't she? Or was she? An animal couldn't consent to sexual activity. But she could. In fact, she could even instigate it if she chose to. Perhaps…
He let the thought go, clenching his fist against the ground to drive it away. He was going mad.
Or perhaps it was just her tongue driving him mad. She had dropped her paw over his knee to pull his leg outwards slightly, and now she was licking… licking… licking… ever closer.
Then she did something fully unexpected. She nibbled to get a particularly stubborn mat of hair off of him. As she did so, her head bumped against his penis, still sheathed—but only barely—under his undercloth.
Oh, how sweet that nibble felt! And the vibration of her purr as her head nudged him was simply more than he could take. He leaped up and turned away from her as his penis finally pushed free of the sheath that protected it, sliding through the draped fabric of his undercloth to display prominently.
He didn't look at her, but just stepped around her, trying to keep his back to her so that she wouldn't think that he found animals arousing, and walked into the balmy water of the sea.
It didn't really help, but did give him some sense of privacy, until she paddled up behind him, purring madly still. Apparently this was one cat that didn't mind water.
She licked him again, though this time all she could reach without shoving her head underwater was his mane or his face. She got a mouthful of mane.
She started trying to clear the hair out of her mouth, without moving away from him. Her efforts, however, simply contrived to make her look more and more ridiculous as she tried to push the offending hair out with her tongue, her jaws working absurdly as she yawned and pushed, yawned and pushed.
The next thing he knew, he was laughing. His slow, deep 'heh heh heh' rolled out of him, echoing up from deep within his chest. He couldn't help it, the harder he laughed, the harder she tried to free herself, and that just made him laugh harder.
Soon, she seemed to give up the idea of loosing it while in cat from, and transformed. In so doing, the hair simply fell away. He still thought it was funny, though. Especially when she put her lovely hands on her lovely hips in a very obvious display of pique.
'Heh heh heh,' rolled out of him yet again as she scowled almost convincingly at him, before her mouth quirked upwards. Soon, though, she was laughing just as hard as he was.
Pingowingo did his best not to stare at her, yet again. She was incredibly beautiful when she laughed. Especially when she was standing naked in the ocean, laughing. Her teeth were white, her lips a deep rose, nestled in her lilac skin like berries on ice in a finely crafted bowl.
…Naked? Pingowingo's hand went up to the bridge of his muzzle. Oh dear. Yes, she was most definitely naked as the day she was born, not a stitch of clothes or even a hair ribbon in sight.
And he'd finally managed to get his raging erection under control.
Well, he had, anyway… until he saw naked breasts and lilac… um, legs.
He wasn't laughing anymore, and neither was she. His ears had turned forwards now, directly towards her. He blinked slowly, trying to think of something else—anything else. Finally, when he couldn't, he pushed past her and up to their campsite.
Keeping his back to her, he managed to get dressed. By that time, his body was back under control. He was relieved to turn around and find her in cat form again. This time, it was he who did the grooming, brushing her fur with the brush in rhythmic strokes.
And tried not to think about rhythmic stroking.
7.
They traveled for two more days. Two days of laughter, mutual grooming, and the simple pleasures of travel. It was enough to make a young Tauren warrior wish the world were a very different place. Enough to make him wish that the Kal'Dorei and the humans hadn't rejected the Taurens' suit to join the Alliance.
Enough to make him wish that the world were peaceful, or to make him wish that he could wake every morning of his life to the beautiful sight of golden eyes, lilac skin, and that small, private smile.
Over all, it was a pleasant way to live. The two of them carried their own private place of peace with them. Along the shore of Ashenvale, they walked, not near enough to the water to tempt the Naga that lived there, but not so far away that they couldn't visit it, should they find a safe spot to do so.
In the evenings, they groomed each other in the light of the fire, with its heat and its crackling wood to keep them company. The balmy air, the jungle's unique form of 'quiet,' and the fact that they were undisturbed made it all feel like a moment out of time for Pingowingo. He was even picking up bits and pieces of her language, given that she chattered constantly and that he'd always had an unusual knack for languages.
It all came to an abrupt halt on the third morning, though, in a way that Pingowingo would never have expected.
They arrived at a Horde outpost. Just like that, she waved him towards it, remaining still out of range to be seen by them. He stood blinking at her in surprise.
She was dumping him off. His heart sank, and he felt strangely bereft, as if he had been betrayed in some way. Didn't she want to spend more time with him? Did she not feel the sweetness of their dawning friendship?
She smiled encouragingly at him, and made sweeping, shooing motions at him, as if to say, "Go on, now, get!"
He shook his head mulishly, and crossed his arms. Then he pointed to his fetishes. He was on his Naming; he couldn't go into the Horde compound even if he had wanted to. And perversely, he didn't.
She cocked her head at him, seeming to ponder what he meant. He tapped the fetish again, then pointed at the outpost, then shook his head adamantly.
She then stood looking at him, a worried frown on her face. He scowled at her. He couldn't help it; she didn't need to look so mad that he wasn't running off at the earliest opportunity.
He knew she was far more powerful than he, but somehow, it was still immensely insulting. She didn't have to act like he was a child that she'd gotten stuck with and now couldn't be rid of. He could make it by himself, and he would.
He turned his back on her, picked his backpack back up, and walked away.
It wasn't long before he noticed that she was trotting along beside him, silent, but there. He ignored her, angry that she was now following him after trying so hard to be rid of him.
He wandered back up the beach, being devoid of direction. He didn't know where he was, and he couldn't go into the outpost and ask. Not only couldn't he talk, but going into any form of permanent village, habitation, outpost, etc. was strictly forbidden during Naming.
Most people went off, completed their naming, and came back. They didn't go so far that they became lost, wander into enemy territory, and run out of food and supplies. No, just him.
He sighed heavily. He was weary of this business, and just wanted to be on his way home. Wherever it was from here. For the moment, though, he felt like banging his head against a tree. It couldn't be this hard, could it?
They walked in silence for a while, and then she began chattering again. Here and there, he could make out a word, but mostly, it was nonsense. 'Tree' came through, as she pointed them out again. 'Beach,' and 'rest,' and 'camp.'
So she wanted to set up a camp near the trees, did she? Well, she could do it herself. He stomped off towards the water.
She grabbed his arm, and he stopped, glaring at her. She motioned towards the trees, and very clearly pleaded with him. Then she made a production of batting her eyes at him, and he fought the urge to grin.
Oh, fine, have it your way, he thought to himself, and nodded at her. With a smile, she led him towards the trees.
There, they set up a camp again, though it was now early afternoon. Pingowingo sat down and stared up at the sky. What was he going to do now?
"Sunoree," she said to him suddenly. He blinked, looking away from a cloud that had shaped itself into the form of a fluffy white cat.
"Sunoree," she repeated, patting herself on the chest. Then she patted him on the chest, "Sec Cree," she told him. "Sunoree, Sec Cree," she repeated, pointing to herself, and then to him.
He nodded, he understood. She was Sunoree, and she was going to call him Sec Cree. He rather liked the sound of both names. Then, she gestured towards the woods, and then back to him. She was leaving, but would be back. He nodded.
The cloud had become a stylized caricature of a totem pole with a bird at the top of it. He watched it float along, until it reshaped itself again, this time looking like a bird with its wings spread in full flight.
Then he heard it, the "caw, caw, caw!" of the albino crow. It hopped across the sand towards him, screaming urgently again, "caw, caw, caw!" It flapped, hopping at him, and then flew towards the trees. Slowly, he got up to follow. Too slowly, apparently, as it began to dive at him, until he began to run, driven towards the trees at full speed.
Crashing into a low hanging branch, he lay stunned on the ground for a moment, several feet into the woods. Then he heard voices, and rolled over.
The voices were coming from his camp. Several elves were arguing, including Sunoree. Pingowingo fought the urge to rush to her aid. They were all far more powerful than he, he sensed it in the way that they moved, and stood, and the easy familiarity they seemed to have with the weapons they carried.
So he waited. After some time, the argument ceased, and they all sat down around the fire. They ate, and then the strangers pulled out small stones. Rubbing them in their palms, they muttered activation incantations, and one by one, disappeared in puffs of magical green smoke.
Unexpectedly, Sunoree shifted into cat form, and seemed to vanish as magic shadows gathered about her. Pingowingo sat in silence. What should he do now? Go into the camp, or wait?
Moments passed, and the albino crow, nor Sunoree were anywhere to be seen. Finally, he made a decision. He was going to go to find another camp spot. While those elves had left, he had no knowledge of whether there were more nearby.
Perhaps it was time for him to go home and admit defeat, anyway. He'd been gone for weeks; he didn't even know how long anymore. It seemed obvious that he wasn't going to find a name. He would be Pingowingo the child forever.
Maybe that's what happened when you were scared all the time. Maybe that's what happened when you ran away, instead of fighting. Perhaps it was punishment for not being brighter, braver, better.
His shoulders drooped, his ears following their dejected line. He would figure out how to get home somehow, and then he would have to humiliate himself by honestly admitting that he didn't know his Name.
He wandered onwards, feeling very alone, very afraid, and deeply humiliated. Twilight began to settle on the land, and he decided to make camp. He'd found a perfect spot, a small clearing without any animal markings that he could tell.
He was so busy preparing his camp that, when she appeared in front of him quite suddenly, he bellowed in surprise and fell backwards, his hands windmilling. She started to giggle, and he glowered at her, his ears turning backwards in anger.
He almost forgot and yelled at her, he was so angry. Then he almost gave up and yelled at her because he felt his Naming was a big fat failure anyway.
But he lost the thought as she continued to giggle, and reached out to help him up. Taking her hand in his, he started to rise, only to slip on a patch of moss. He fell backwards again, but soon forgot the pain of landing so roughly on his backside not once, but twice. She fell on top of him, sprawling across his body and barely missing smacking him on the nose.
They stared at each other for a moment, each captivated by the other. They lay that way for a moment as Pingowingo held his breath. He almost felt as if even breathing would break the spell that seemed to have fallen over them, and she would dart away like a sparrow.
The moment was broken then, though, when the air was split by a loud, raucous, "caw, caw, caw!"
Scrambling up, they both stared at the bird. It looked at them inquisitively, as if expecting something. They looked at each other and shrugged. She pointed at the bird then, "Sec Cree," she told Pingowingo. He understood it then, "White Crow." She pointed at him, "White Crow," and laughed.
He grinned, and waved hello to the bird. It hopped from one foot to the other, then jumped down a branch closer. "Caw, caw, caw!" it squawked.
Pingowingo hopped from one foot to the other, "caw, caw, caw!" he imitated. Soon, he and Sunoree were laughing so hard they collapsed on the ground. With a last admonishment, the albino flapped away into the darkness.
When they recovered, the pair prepared their new camp. Pingowingo couldn't help but notice that Sunoree seemed subdued, despite the fact that she kept up a continuous chatter as she usually did.
After the camp was set, he laid down on his bedroll. In the night, while he slept, Sunoree altered into her cat form, and crawled into his arms. When they tightened around her, her feline face curved into a definite smile. Then she laid her head down on his arm and went to sleep.
8.
The PresentWhitecrow stepped down from the kodo, feeling a strange sense of urgent pressure, coupled with an uncanny desire to put off the impending disappointment. He was going to get there, and wait for another three days, for nothing.
It was the same every year. But every year, he did it again anyway. It was simply the way of things. He went, she didn't come, he left.
Stretching, he stared up at the sky, as if he could find solace, or maybe hope, there. The sky was blue, clear, and not surprisingly—silent. He patted the kodo, and started leading it along the road. He wanted a break from riding.
Or he wanted to delay, perhaps. He wasn't sure which, but he wasn't ready or able to face what was to come.
He looked up in surprise, then, when hoof beats sounded behind him. "Malovici!" he greeted the undead man who rode up to stop beside him. "What're you doing here?"
"I'm going with you," Malovici told him.
Stopping, Whitecrow's arms crossed, and he glared at his friend. "I do this alone," he told the undead rogue. "I've always done it alone, and this time will be no different."
"You're wrong," the Forsaken told him sternly, "I'm going with you. You just as well accept it, or I'll just sneak along behind you."
"I be comin', too," a voice came from behind Whitecrow.
"What makes you two think that I'm going to allow you to come with me?" Whitecrow asked, belligerence visible in the backwards set of his ears and the way he stood slightly forward, arms crossed.
"Is da bloody bird," Nantu said. "Bitch followed me ev'rywhere, til I wents and got Malo and tole him ta come wit me. We's going wit ya, an' you ain't stoppin' us."
Up the path came yet another, he being dive-bombed by said bird. The three standing in the road waiting watched with open-mouthed amazement as Ferruk rode towards them, cursing and swearing and batting at the white crow, with its beady red eyes.
"What the fuck is going on?" Ferruk snarled when he arrived. His normally tidy hair was in utter disarray, his clothes even torn in some spots. "Bloody fucking bird wouldn't leave me alo—"
He was interrupted by a rising cacophony from a low-lying bit of scrub beside the road. There sat three albino crows, all looking quite proud of themselves, but each seeming to try to outdo the others in shouting at the harried group.
"Well, I'll be—" Malovici started to say.
"What the hell?" Ferruk snapped.
"Da spirits is wantin' us ta come wit' ya, W.C.," Nantu said, "An' even you cain't tell dem no."
Whitecrow mounted his kodo. "I suppose you're right," he said. Then, in a quietly pensive tone of voice, "I thought there was only one of them."
"Mayhap there was, once," Nantu told him.
The group turned towards Ashenvale, Whitecrow somehow deeply bolstered by the presence of his friends. Come what may, he had friends nearby.
"How'd you get Nerissa to stay behind?" Malovici asked Ferruk.
"Didn't have to," he responded, "bird wouldn't let her go. I'm surprised the world's not down to two, though, at the rate she carried on about it." None of the group laughed. It was probably altogether far too true for comfort.
But they all also knew that it was hard for her to stay behind, even if Shantille might need her nearby for the birthing. The decision of which need for her was greater had probably been a difficult one for her, solved only by the crow. No one doubted that otherwise, the world really would be down one albino crow.
9.
Back in the PastPingowingo woke to find an unexpected weight across his arm. Blinking, he looked down to find Sunoree's feline body snuggled up against him. Forgoing his usual stretch, he began to pet her. Her fur was luxurious and soft, thick but delicate.
He watched as his own black fingers curled into the darkness of her fur, and felt a strange sense of inevitability about it all. She was muscular, yet the fur that overlaid the muscles made her soft. Her fur was longer and thicker than his short fur, making her plush to the touch.
The bit of sun that touched her blue-black fur warmed it, and gleamed off of it. She was beautiful in this form, not only in her elven form. She was a delight to touch, to look at, and to be near.
He looked up and saw her eyes open, turned towards him. As their eyes met, she began to purr. Not the loud purr he was used to, but a soft, whispering purr. Deep, gentle, subtle, it thrummed through him, igniting his senses.
He reached up to her head, cupping its slightness in his hand, curling his fingers around her ears, to rub there. Her purring intensified, her eyes dropping to near-closed. The golden glow poured out of the slits of her eyes as he rubbed her ears, she feeling so small, delicate, and soft to him.
His hand ran down her sleek body, rubbing gently across her ribs, and she rolled over, purr now intensifying again, up to the familiar, loud purr he'd come to know so well. He rubbed her belly, and looked up to see her gazing at him with supernatural intelligence.
Her paws fell backwards, and she arched over his arm, kneading the air in an unconscious gesture of inexpressible pleasure. He rubbed across her belly fur, so soft and silken, even more so than the rest. He was amazed at her beauty and her softness as the song of her purr filled the air around them.
Then, she gazed at him again, and he found himself suddenly staring into a lilac face. A smiling, beautiful, contented lilac face wreathed in blue hair so pale it was nearly white. His hand continued to caress her belly, now soft skin instead of fur.
Her eyes half closed again, languid with pleasure. Her hand ran up his arm, her touch light and soft. He didn't even notice that her first touch was against the growth pattern of his hair. But then as she stroked downwards again, he felt it like a sensual and sweet glow that spread out across his body from the point of contact.
Then she reached up and began to run her hand down his face, along his heavy, massive jaw, and up to the sensitive, soft skin of his nose. He held back a gasp, running his own hand across her belly and down the side of her hip, to pull her more snuggly against him.
She smiled, and then kissed him, so lightly, on the same spot her fingers had touched a moment ago. The feel of her lips on his nose was exquisite, nearly as sensual as if she had kissed him far lower.
A groan rumbled up from him, startling him with the intensity of his attraction for her. He drew back, fighting with himself for control. He couldn't let go of the sense that this was wrong somehow. That she didn't—couldn't—really know what she was doing, that she really didn't understand that he and she weren't physically compatible.
He had to control himself, or he would tear her apart inside. He couldn't take what she surely didn't mean to offer, even as she gave every appearance of offering it.
He pushed her away and surged to his feet. He shook his head mutely, and stumbled into the forest, forgetting for the moment to be embarrassed by his penis being in full rut.
"White Crow," she called to him. "Tiss an dunnik." 'Please don't go.' He stopped, his heart aching at the call. His shoulders, his ears, his spirits drooped. He would hurt her if he left, he would hurt her if he stayed.
Which pain would be worse? Which pain would likely be permanent? He knew, and so he walked away.
10.
He didn't get far, though. The albino was there again. It screamed at him, and he stopped. He scowled, hands on his hips. It dove at him; he chose to ignore it. He walked further into the woods, just wanting to be alone.
It tried to drive him back. He slapped at it, now furiously angry. Interfering little bastard, he thought. It dove again, he swiped again, managing to bump into its leg well enough that it lost its flight equilibrium, and smacked into a tree.
When its limp little body hit the ground, he gasped in horror. What had he done? He rolled it over carefully, and ran back into the camp. She was sitting on her own bedroll now, her eyes suspiciously bright.
He looked away, showing her the albino, cradled in his arms. She gasped, and pushed him into a sitting position on the ground, rearranging Tauren and bird until she could look the creature over.
She tsk, tsked at them both as she worked, soon shaking her head as if to say, 'I can find nothing wrong.' She patted it on the back, and they both sat down to wait. Pingowingo felt the flutter of its heart against his arm, so he knew it yet lived.
His eyes met hers, and his ears drooped. He looked away, ashamed and regretful. He'd hurt her, he'd hurt his spirit animal… what kind of man was he? No wonder he would get no name.
Misery settled into him again, and he sighed. Suddenly, the albino began to flap in his arms, and he released it. It jumped down and turned to stare at him. Then, with a single "caw," it pecked him straight on the nose, and flapped away.
"ARG!" Pingowingo bellowed, grabbing his agonized nose. All he could think was how much that had bloody well hurt. Pain caused his vision to shimmer like the Barrens on a summer day, tears wavering on the edges of it like roaring seas.
Sunoree patted him gently, softly. Finally, he allowed her to peel his hand away from its protective position over his nose, and she began to gently work some sort of cream into the skin. The pain began to rapidly recede then, and Pingowingo found he could breathe again without gasping.
He looked up to find Sunoree's eyes filled with compassion and tenderness. He blinked and looked away immediately. How could she be so sweet after he'd just hurt her? Tears tried to push through again, as he felt despair surround him.
He couldn't do anything right. He wasn't going to be a bull, because he couldn't control himself. He shouldn't be here. He should be at home. He was never going to be a real warrior; he would be inexperienced and stupid forever.
A weight landed on his leg, and he looked down to find her once more in cat form. Her purr filled the air, and this time, he forgot for a moment that she wasn't what she seemed to be in that instant.
He buried his face in her fur and cried. He pulled her close, hoping that he didn't hurt her, and he let the sorrow and hurt he felt flow out in tears. He even cried for the guilt and shame he felt because he was crying.
After a few minutes, the tears subsided, and he sat patting her mindlessly. When he stopped, she nudged his hand with her head. He chuckled and began to pet her again. Then, he pulled the brush he'd made out of his own pack, and began to brush her. Purring, she laid across his legs and rested her head on her front paws.
It was all he had to offer in the way of an apology. It seemed as if it were accepted.
11.
The next day, feeling as if he needed to do his part, Pingowingo began to hunt. He brought down several wolves, and one rather nastily belligerent bear who was nearly the death of him.
He ate well that evening, though, and shared with her. She chuckled, but ate what he offered, chattering away at him the whole time. He began to realize that her chatter wasn't directionless. She was telling him things, helping him learn. She was telling him what she was doing, that it was meat she was eating, that she was chewing her food, that she was lying on the ground rather than sitting.
It wasn't taking him long to gather up an understanding of her language, basic though it might be. He still couldn't understand much of it, but he was getting better and better. And of course, there was the added benefit of the fact that her voice was beautiful.
He sat down and watched the sun go down, petting her feline head absently as she watched from beside him. He was surprised at how much he enjoyed it.
Every evening, for the next week, they watched the sun go down together, after he had spent the day hunting. He didn't know what she did during the day, and couldn't ask. But she was always there in the evening, though not always when he arrived.
On the eighth day after he'd run off and knocked the albino down, Pingowingo got up and decided not to hunt that day. He started the day off with his usual grooming—he'd stopped letting her do it—and then made them some breakfast.
Sunoree had slept in this time, and it was the first time he'd really seen her asleep. She was even lovelier—if such a thing were possible—when she slept. Her lilac face looked divinely childlike, yet femininely mature at the same time.
The light blanket she was sleeping under rose and fell, curved over the mounds of her breasts in soft folds. Her slender form narrowed at the waist, only to curve outwards again at her lush hips.
She was, as his granfer used to say, 'a heifer built for breeding.' Her hips were full and her breasts high and full as well. Pingowingo's ears pointed downwards and he looked away, lest he be caught staring.
Deciding that she could take care of herself, he headed off to swim in the sea for a while. It wasn't the best bath ever, but it was better than nothing. Usually, she came with him, but today he found the solitude to be enjoyable.
It gave him time to think, and to pleasure himself amongst the waves, else she catch him with penis in hand. He'd been aching for days now, and it took mere moments for him to find his release, however unsatisfying it was, being so short, quick, and alone.
Then he played in the water, splashing and running and generally just enjoying it. When that was done, he went back to hunting.
That evening, though, he found himself returning with great eagerness to their camp. But as he neared it, he heard the sounds of a great struggle. Something was terribly wrong. He drew his sword, and rushed towards camp.
He drew to a sudden halt, though, as he neared the camp. It was swarming with humans. They were dirty and unkept, as if they had traveled far. They had the brutal, harsh look of rebels and outlaws.
And they had Sunoree. Oh, the might possibly not have known she wasn't what she seemed to be, but he wasn't sure. Either way, if they were outlaws, they could probably sell her and make thousands, if not tens of thousands, of gold off of her.
The problem was, there were many of them. He couldn't count them all; they kept milling around, drinking and laughing.
But then one of them poked at Sunoree with a stick, laughing as she howled with pain. She swiped at the sharp stick he had stabbed her with, and he stabbed her with it again, leaving behind a trickle of blood welling out of her fur.
Pingowingo lost control of his boiling rage. He roared into the camp, catching the men by surprise. He headed for her cage where she was now screaming with her own rage. It was as if seeing him had redoubled her efforts, and she managed to snag one man with a ferocious claw.
Dragging him to her, she closed her massive, powerful jaw over his head, and dropped his corpse, blood and gore dripping from her fangs. Screaming, the men nearest the cage surged backwards, onto Pingowingo's waiting sword.
For his part, he slashed at them, his old sword drawing blood immediately on his first foe. He opened the man's belly and ignored it as his viscera poured out and onto the ground. The dirty human stood holding part of his intestines, looking around him in mute appeal.
Even as he toppled forward, Pingowingo's sword drank the next man's blood, ripping into his throat with surprising force, so much so that it dragged parts of skin and bone with it.
Fury rose in Pingowingo as Sunoree's enraged howls reached him. He pushed harder to reach her, taking a bone-jarring blow to the shoulder that nearly caused him to drop his weapon.
He was vulnerable in only his daily leathers. But it was part of the Naming, that one wear only daily clothes, not armor. So all that stood between Sunoree's freedom—her very life—and these men, was Pingowingo and Pingowingo's sword.
He feared it wouldn't be enough. But if he could free her, he thought, perhaps she could save herself.
He stumbled as he realized that he was, in effect, giving up his life for hers. Then he surged against the two men who were fighting to keep him from his goal. He got it all in that moment. He realized everything that had brought him here.
He was here for her. He wasn't here to find his Name. He wasn't going to go on to save the world as every young Tauren dreamed of doing. He was going to save her. That was it, that was all.
It was more than enough.
He slashed back as one of the humans opened his ribs with a well-placed slash of his axe. His sword bit into the man, slicing his face open from chin to forehead. Pingowingo ignored him, pushing past the falling man before he even reached the ground.
The humans weren't very strong, weren't very organized, and weren't very intelligent. But there were a lot of them, and Pingowingo's wounds were mounting up. A slight trepidation began to rise in him. Would he make it to the cage in time?
He would, he determined, or he would die trying.
He did make it. Staggering the last few steps, he slashed at the cage, once, twice, and again. Finally, Sunoree threw her bulk against the door. The rope strained… held. She did it again as Pingowingo clashed against two humans.
The rope strained… held… SNAPPED!
With a mighty roar, she was free. She joined the melee like a shadow dervish, spinning and roaring and killing. Humans screamed and ran before her, and she killed any who weren't fast enough—which were many.
Within moments, a stunned hush fell over the clearing where they'd had their camp. Sunoree turned towards Pingowingo. He was alive, but near collapse. He knelt on the ground, leaning forward on one arm while he slowly tried to bandage his gaping ribs with the other.
When Sunoree reached Pingowingo, she immediately resumed her elven form. She couldn't use her own bandages, nor magic, to aid him, but she did try to help him with his own bandages.
Finally, he was done. But he was a mess. Blood and gore coated him. His fur, having nearly grown back from the early part of his Naming, now looked dull and flat. One ear was stuck to a horn, both caked with now-dried blood. Pingowingo was unsure whether the ear was wounded or not, but it wouldn't pull free.
He didn't care. He didn't care that he was wounded, he didn't care that he was dirty, he didn't care that he was sore. What he did care about was that she was free, and it was he who had saved her.
Slowly, he made his way to the sea, wincing with agony as the salt water seeped into still open wounds. When he was clean, he slowly left it again. They walked back up the beach as the sun set, and soon Sunoree had a fire roaring for them.
Heavily, Pingowingo sat down, and he bandaged what he could again with his magic-laced bandages. Sunoree began to groom him when he was done, and this time, he didn't help her. He was far too tired and sore.
When she was done, he laid down, and soon, he was fast asleep.
