*** Thorin Oakenshield: Voted Least Likely to Fondle Orc Boobies by the people who don't know him vewwy well, do dey? ***


The Real Reason Why Dwarves Don't Bathe

Days of travel can tell on a man, and Thorin was no exception. His clothes were dirty and sweaty, one of his boots had a hole wearing through that would put his sock in a sorry state if he stepped in one more brackish puddle, and he was surrounded by his comrades in arms. All male. Not a decently rounded breast among them.

Okay, Bombur had some hefty tits, but nobody wanted a piece of him. He tended to fart when he got excited.

That Thorin and his companions were holed up in Rivendell made things a little easier. At least on the eyes. The architecture may be spindly useless crap, but the eye candy walking around couldn't be ignored. Alas, a discrete inquiry regarding the availability of said candy provoked a horrified response, so Thorin dropped it.

Uptight gits, he grumbled.

It was while having a walk around the forest that annoyingly intruded on the Elven buildings, causing no end of infrastructure instability what with the root systems crumbling the foundations all over the place – who the hell planned this city? – that Thorin found his steps had taken him to a stream sparkling with moonlight.

Great, he thought, probably a load of Elves will show up, singing about starlight and moonbeams and other such twaddle. Gimme a good rousing Dwarfish drinking song, that's what's wanted here. Preferably with the drink to go with it. Can't stand dry counties.

Sighing, he muscled his boots off and dangled his feet in the water, letting the stream do most of the dirty work down there. One whiff of the air assaulted by the exposed stench of his boots made him grimace and heft them one by one into the bushes.

A short, surprised squeal came from where his footwear landed, and Thorin immediately leaped to his feet. Thanks to those ambiguously-gendered Elves, he was without any kind of weapon, how convenient.

"Show yourself!" he barked bravely, squinting into the darkness.

"Nar, you first," a harsh, hissing voice retorted. "I ain't that kinda gal."

"Orc," he muttered under his breath, which is where most of his normal speech took place. His nephews gave him no end of grief about it, too. 'What was that? Can you repeat that? I didn't hear you, what?' Idiots. "You're spying, are you? Waiting for me to reveal our plans? Tell you where we're bound? What our purposes are?"

The hidden Orc chuckled. "Listen to yerself. Nar, ain't lookin' fer none'uh that. Kinda hopin' you'd take off the kit and jump in."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Thorin growled, setting his feet apart and placing his fists on his hips defiantly. Then he faltered. "Wait, did you say you were female?"

"So 'gal' means the same round your folk as it does round mine, eh?" she laughed. "Aye, Dwarf. That I am."

Smirking, he nodded. "I see. That's why you're watching, hoping to catch a glimpse of what's none of your business. You can't fool me."

"You're a right smart little Dwarf, ain'tcha?" she snickered. "If I wanna see me some dangly bits, I don't need to go far fer it. Orcs is always flashin' their todgers at the ladies."

"Hmph," he snorted. "Barbarians."

"Yeah, they's flashin', then they's puttin'em away," she lamented with clear disappointment. "Don't let yuh grab'em or nothin'. Teases, all of'em."

"Uh..."

"Then when yuh do get one'uh them boys on their back, they gets all coy and don't wanna stick yuh," she went on, warming to the subject. "'Yuh ain' s'posed tuh be on top, yuh crazy bint!' Hmph. Like they knows what they's doin' when they's on top."

"Er..."

"Don't wanna put their tongues to work on a gal, neither..."

"Madam!" Thorin interjected with alarm. Clearing his throat, he darted his eyes about, hoping nobody else was around for this embarrassingly frank conversation.

"Whassat?"

"This conversation is at an end," he snapped, searching the ground. Huffing with impatience and a little more embarrassment, he muttered, "Toss me my boots, if you please."

The Orcess chuckled softly. "Nar, yuh want yer booties, yuh gotta work fer'em."

"What sort of 'work'?" he groaned, worrying his brow.

More chuckling, bordering on un-Orcish giggling, answered him. "Mebbe yuh just... keep on with what yer doin'." There was rustling in the underbrush, as of someone shifting position for better comfort. "Yeah," she sighed, "pretend I ain't here."

"How am I to do that?" he snarled. This was positively the most awkward position he'd ever been in. Thorin was briefly grateful for Thráin's death – he would never be able to relate an event like this to his father.

"Use yer'magination," she suggested. "Yuh's probly 'maginin' them Elves is girls. Got news fer yuh: they ain't."

"Oh, you've spied on their bathing as well? I thought you said you weren't that sort of girl!"

"Weren't talkin' 'bout that," she snickered. "Go on, then. Give us a peek 'fore yuh dive in and go all small on me."

"You wretched pervert," Thorin hissed.

"Then we'll have ourselves a little chat 'bout what kinda gal I could be," she went on provocatively. "Yuh ain't a bad sort, now I look at yuh. Maybe yuh clean up a bit, get that stink offuh yuh... I might be innerested."

"Um... uh... hmmm," he hedged. "I don't think... That is to say, I don't recall inviting..."

"Whut, yuh thinks I needs fancy call-o-graphy 'n gold letterin'? Nar, just drop yer drawers; 'at's invite enough fer me," she snorted with amusement.

"Why don't you show yourself, then?" Thorin challenged, lifting his chin haughtily. "I'll not even consider your offer until I've had a look at you."

After a pause, the Orcess sniffed, "Fair 'nuff." The bushes shook as she rose and stepped into the moonlight. "Whatcha think, eh?" she said, turning in a slow circle with her arms out a bit. "Betcher Dwarf lasses got nothin' on me."

Thorin's bushy eyebrows lifted with interest. Like most Orcs he'd seen, this one had a broad, flat nose, short pointed ears, and thin, wispy hair. There were even wirey hairs around her jawline and dangling from her chin. She wore no armor; just a short, ragged shift with a belt from which she'd hung a dagger and a pouch. Breasts that put Bombur's to shame swelled above the dipping neckline of her shift. Her legs were slightly crooked and muscular. Her feet were large, bare, and clawed. Standing haughtily before him, hands on her hips, she had the look of a woman who'd yank that ear right off your head if you sassed her.

I'm in love, Thorin thought.

"Well, then," he said breathlessly, "Let's, erm, get started on that chat, shall we?"

"Now yer talkin'," she smirked.