Mugs slammed and men roared, a tavern full of life with lights glowing dim into the sand and reflecting off the dew-covered leaves of the tropical canopy above. The sunkissed ailor that bustled about in groups of two, three, many. Their glasses never empty of ale and rum as many tavern wenches poured from their pitchers as to never let the lips of the patrons dry.
One group of patrons in particular were especially intoxicated, a group of sailors. Some Daen, some D'Ithanie, others were Ceardian. All were plastered off their asses. The way they flung regals and slammed drinks was a sight to see for the tenders of the Twisted Grove.
The tavernmaid catering to the table was a younger orc woman, cuffs on her ankles and wrists showed her class clearly. Her hair was a stark black, pulled into a loose knot that damn near met her ass as she walked, her muscled body forced into some skimpy dress to keep the others drinking.
She passed by, filling one of the men's mug with rum; however, as her hand pulled away to continue onto her next table she found herself being tugged back by her wrist, his grip tight enough to turn her green flesh a dark pink.
"You- you. Wha's your name?" The man asked, his ceardian accent slurred and broken as he attempted to force a sloppy smile. His ponytail was collapsing, letting his greasy brown locks fall in clumps around his face. His skin was nearly the same colour of the orc he held, sickly and green.
"Dhorma." The kin replied, trying to tug her arm back.
"Come have a drink?"
Dhorma sighed, looking across the table of drunkards. Her wits were fooled, and before long she found herself being led off by the man to a tent not far from the tavern.
Hours passed, and the sun rose over the horizon. His eyes were strained, opening with the sound of a painful groan from the light. An arm rose, shielding his bearded face as he looked about his bed, then to the body beside him.
Oh no. Noo, spirit no.
Legs flew upward, the man flipping himself out of the bed as he simply stared at the equally nude orc in his bed. Without haste, he dressed and escaped the tent, leaving nothing but his one-time lover behind.
Dhorma woke, finding herself alone in her lovely strangers bed. She collected herself, shuffling on back to her fruitless work for another tiring day.
The sailors laughed and laughed over their companions tale, the night of passion he had drunkenly shared with an orc. Gregory left Fenderfelle early the following morning, unbeknownst to him that within the following months he would be a father.
One group of patrons in particular were especially intoxicated, a group of sailors. Some Daen, some D'Ithanie, others were Ceardian. All were plastered off their asses. The way they flung regals and slammed drinks was a sight to see for the tenders of the Twisted Grove.
The tavernmaid catering to the table was a younger orc woman, cuffs on her ankles and wrists showed her class clearly. Her hair was a stark black, pulled into a loose knot that damn near met her ass as she walked, her muscled body forced into some skimpy dress to keep the others drinking.
She passed by, filling one of the men's mug with rum; however, as her hand pulled away to continue onto her next table she found herself being tugged back by her wrist, his grip tight enough to turn her green flesh a dark pink.
"You- you. Wha's your name?" The man asked, his ceardian accent slurred and broken as he attempted to force a sloppy smile. His ponytail was collapsing, letting his greasy brown locks fall in clumps around his face. His skin was nearly the same colour of the orc he held, sickly and green.
"Dhorma." The kin replied, trying to tug her arm back.
"Come have a drink?"
Dhorma sighed, looking across the table of drunkards. Her wits were fooled, and before long she found herself being led off by the man to a tent not far from the tavern.
Hours passed, and the sun rose over the horizon. His eyes were strained, opening with the sound of a painful groan from the light. An arm rose, shielding his bearded face as he looked about his bed, then to the body beside him.
Oh no. Noo, spirit no.
Legs flew upward, the man flipping himself out of the bed as he simply stared at the equally nude orc in his bed. Without haste, he dressed and escaped the tent, leaving nothing but his one-time lover behind.
Dhorma woke, finding herself alone in her lovely strangers bed. She collected herself, shuffling on back to her fruitless work for another tiring day.
The sailors laughed and laughed over their companions tale, the night of passion he had drunkenly shared with an orc. Gregory left Fenderfelle early the following morning, unbeknownst to him that within the following months he would be a father.
