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The foot steps ambled through the trackless and uninhabited barin desert parched beneath the draconian sun over shadowed by a wafted clouds. The boot-imprimatured marks of passage, pressed deep by the encumbrance of their thus-shod wearers, and smothered under the rain washed dust, radianced dully against the smatter-dusted earth. Rays of luminous incandescence pounced headlong from the phlogistic orb coursing upward in the arcade of the heavens on the obliterated foots path wending through this sector of the great desert of the Trombunist Empire.
A compassing sword of coruscated steel rammed sparks from the grim mammoth barbarous warrior’s metal ribbed shield he wielded.
“I’ll conduct you to reunion with your forebears in the Hadean haunts of hell,” whooped the second Orc.
“Not if I see you first,” gritted the man called Stridr, the Crumhornian.
Stridr had been in the lead of his party but now advanced back to come between the depredationing Orcs and where his boone companions stood pat, both of who were impressed with terror, and one of them a Hoppit.
The Orcs had interrupted a piscivorous repast they had caught in a desert lake while crossing the baron and sun toasted sand dunces. Only the chartreuse imbrications of the Hoppit’s blue sword had given claxon to the approaching nemesis.
“Taste the ebon vengeance of my Saracen steel,” the fervent Crumhornian shouted through his clenched teeth as he planted his feet and pivoted away from the Orc’s preeminent stroke. As if in one motion the enthused Crumhornian brought the two-handed claymore in a downward descent on the Orc’s frangible head, which eructed with a well spring of crimson colored life fluid disseminating out. Stridr priced his sword from the Orcs disppelling viscera, which luft wafted the fetid redolence of death to the Crumhornian’s nose trills.
“Damn you, marauder”! Husked the dying Orc as he crouched sprawlen on the sod.
The Crumhornian turned to his two accompanists. Frdo Baggns, the Hoppit, held up his small sword, and they could see by the scarlet glowing turquoise blade that other Orcs skulked them. The crimson glow of the cerulean blade had yet to be wrong.
Then Stridr beneficially lobbed an cherish glance at the lithe, zaftig young Rwn, his female accompaniment. The pale boned harlot, half dressed in parsimonious silk of dark pastel that closely grasped the promiscuous jaunt of her slender curves smiled lunch-like at him with her thin, full lips in a grin.
“Death to the foolhardy party of men and elves and Hoppits that has peradventured to invade the fast stronghold of the Trombunist Empire where Orcs supreme hold sway!” barked an Orc rising from behind a rise with drawn sword unsheathed. The pathetic screeches of the dying Orc groveling in melancholy dejection on the trackless wind blown desert granules, his vitals spilling through his uselessly clutching grasp onto the weather beaten dunes, had peeked the Orc’s interest. Never before in the lonely labyrinth of untold eons of ages had the light black eyes starting from his dewey sockets witnessed such an impious sacrilege.
“Crumhorn!” Barked Stridr, vanely wishing for a brief, fleeting fraction of a moment that his bone companion Gandlf was here to help end the odds. Stridr unleashed a yard of corpusculent steel from his hand hewn leather sheath and, swift as a striking snak, cautiously hurled himself at his litigant. Partially from curiosity and partially from an inordinate fear of dying, the Orc defended himself.
As the clean-limbed, mighty thewed Crumhornian barbarian savage and the death reeking, fear dealing, brobdingnagian Orc clashed with flying weapons aspark, Frdo Baggns, the Hoppit, crepted up behind the other-way-facing Orc. Cocking his arm backward, Frdo looked for the right opening moment and then leashed his desperate arm outward at a point midwife between the Orc’s hauberk of midevil chain mail and the wide stamped leather belt that held the sagging Orc’s homespun pantaloons at his waist and also secured a slender poniard with encrusted jewels in place.
The aim of his mark was invisible to the Hoppit’s questing orbs, yet he knew that his anticipated intent must be with reach. He brought his exploratory hand into the breech between belt and hauberk, shuddering to touch the dry, clammy, livid red skin of the Orc. Shuddering with the strength and fear of an unexorcized demon, Frdo turned downward his hand, galvanizing momentarily at the dread that he might have surmised his assumption wrong. Fordreading moments of unmitigated and unreasoning blank terror, his suspense was unasuaged as his crusading hand’s digit encounter nothing excepting the the the cold, unctuous, steamy skin.
Then the extremity of his finger tips were rewarded with the touch of a bunched up and crumbled albeit woven garment. Frdo clamped a tortured gasp from his grinding lungs in exhalation as he vised his finders around the topmost border of the woven garment within the Orc’s homespun breaches. Then setting his thews like tholes of boles, Frdo drew the fabric upward with a yank of drastic tenacity. The startled Orc ceased his sworded hostilities as his eyes opened wide at the lids and protruded egglike forward so that the pupils started in blank disbelief blindishly. As Frdo drew the Orc’s heterodoxically clean undergarment tighter around the Orc’s sacerdotal member, the pensive Orc crimped forward at the waist, expelling a burning gust of tormented breathe into his fiery lungs. The jelly like mass began to bubble like a vat of boiling tar as quavers passed up and down its entire form.
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