Sorry again about the lack of updates. The Holidays had me out of town, couldnt type on my desktop. Anyways, here we go again.

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-NetherscreamNordune

Chapter 12: Wet Dream

She hated that meniakaldorae.

He'd left his clothes all around the room they rented, even her half of the home. She angrily gathered up all of his discarded clothes and garbage in one arm, and stomped upstairs. She slapped the door open and threw the filth into his room.

"If you're going to be a pig, human, at least keep your shit in your own pin!" She stood there in the hallway with balled fists, waiting for him to take the bait and become enraged.

There was no response. She walked into the room, glaring around. There was no sign of Tyrion. She felt a pang of worry.

There he was, hidden underneath the sheets, sprawled out on his bed. She immediately strode over to the foot of the bed and stood there, crossing her arms. She blew a bang of hair out of her eyes.

He still didn't notice she was there.

"Tyrion!", her voice cracked like a whip.

No response.

She grabbed the sheets in a fist and ripped them off the bed.

Tyrion was there, of course. Deeply asleep, his hair messy and untamed, his mouth wide open like a fish gaping for air. But that's not what drew Claera's eye.

His midriff was shaped like a V, naturally drawing her eye to his sex. It was bigger than she assumed it would be- he was probably having a wet stood there in shock for a moment, staring at him. She'd never seen...that before. She turned away, tossing the blanket back on him in disgust.

Tyrion stirred to consciousness,slowly sitting up in his bed, holding his head with one hand. It felt like his brain was still trying to pull the fragments of his thoughts back together. HIs room was flooded with garbage and old clothing. He sighed in frustration-Claera had done that.

Claera.

Claera...

His eyes widened. Second long scenes from his dreams flashed in his mind.

Dilated pupils. Orgasm blush. Clenched teeth. Her riding him like a knight would ride a horse. Her clawing his back, and biting his neck. Her legs squeezing around his midriff, her muscles contracting widly. Her bright pink bottom bouncing on him, juices flowing.

He felt sick to his stomach. He could feel his sex stirring, regardless of his will. Tyrion pinched the space between his eyes, trying to compose himself-He felt dirty, lusty, confused, and sick...

He forced himself to stand on wobbly legs, and stumbled over garbage and dirty clothes to the bathing room, closing the door behind himself.

Looking out of his cabin windows, Captain Frejard was pleased with what he saw. His men unpacked cargo onto Booty Bay into the arms of eager tradesmen. He finally had his own ship, and his own crew. What else could he wish for? He sighed with content, inhaling the salty air.

Someone was behind him, and very close.

He spun wildly, just in time to see a blur of steel swinging down at him. He fliched, causing the blade to miss him my a hair's length. The heavy steel slammed into the wood, causing it to splinter. He scrambled sideways, catching a glimpse of his attacker. A man wrapped in tattered cloth, with bright yellow eyes, his claymore covered in rusted blood. He stood there, smiling.

Frejard somehow managed to make it to his desk-He gripped the flintlock revolver he'd left on its surface, and pulled it around to meet the assailant. He aimed the pistol directly at his head.

The assailant pulled his claymore from the wall with one hand. "What? Is that supposed to scare me? Hah. I've been to hell and back, fool."

Frejard steeled himself. "Twenty men have tried to kill me, Forsaken," He said gravely, "and that many men are dead. I'm not afraid to add another to that count." He cocked the hammer on his pistol.

The undead chortled, and a grainy sound erupted from his throat that Frejard interpreted as laughter. " You think I've come to kill you? No, Captain Frejard, I've come to horribly maim you and to question you."

The captain's heart dropped when he heard his own name. This was no ordinary thief or hitman. He could feel the pistol shaking slightly in his grip. "You are a fool. I have thirty men on this ship that will come to my aid once they hear me scream."

"You lie. There were four men on this ship, the other twenty six are selling your precious cargo."

His heart sank into his bowels when he realized he was right. "What do you want to know?"

He pulled out a sheet of paper and held it up. It was a crude drawing of a human boy, with the name "Tyrion Menethil" underneath it. "I know you have seen this boy. You will tell me where he is."

"The boy? Hmm. I don't think I will tell you where he is." He fired a round into the assailant. His shoulder exploded, spraying black blood against the walls. The assailant charged him in anger, tackling him before he could fire another round.

They landed on the fine wooden floor, wrestling to get the higher position, fighting furiously. The undead bit into his collarbone deeply, causing blood to spray out of his neck. Frejard grimaced, reaching for the pistol that was knocked out of his grip.

The assailant drew a knife from within the folds of his wrapping, and put its tip to Frejard's cheek.

"I'll cut you a pretty smile, Draenai, unless you tell me what I want to know. This is your last chance."

Frejard cursed himself inwardly for not giving himself bodyguards. "They rented a place in Booty Bay," he stuttered under the knife's edge," they plan on staying there for no more than a week, then going back to their respective lands. Now will you leave me be?"

The undead seemed to consider for a moment. "Hmm...No..." He plunged the dagger into his cheek bone.

Frejard screamed in pain, flailing and kicking, grasping at his face. The Forsaken got to his feet, brushed himself off, gathered up his claymore. He scratched another notch into it with his own nail, adding another to his kill count.

Behind him, Frejard got to his feet. He had his pistol, again. Blood streamed down the left side of his face wildly. Somehow, he managed to speak through his wound. " Last time, I shot to wound. This time, I will shoot to kill."

The undead grimaced behind his face wrap, rested his claymore over his shoulder. "Are you sure about that? Do you want to risk it?"

"I think I will, stranger. And then, I'll throw your ashes into the sea."

The undead shook his head. "Do you know what your sin is, Captain?"

Captain Frejard cocked the hammer on his revolver, and looked down the sights.

"Your sin is greed." The undead charged. Captain Frejard fired.