Chapter Text
Autumn was every halfling's favorite time of year, and - despite only being an honorary halfling - Max couldn't help but feel the same. Pelor's sun still shone down warmly on the world, but Obad-Hai's breath was still gentle and cool; it soothed Max's brow as it rustled the leaves and grain alike. Crimson, gold, and russet danced with the green leaves still bright on the trees, among fruit almost bursting with ripeness, but not even a hint of green marred the vast field. He took a deep breath, savoring the scent of ripe fruit and cool air, and let a smile spread across his face. It was as if Yondalla herself had blessed the coming harvest, and for all he knew, she had. Even he wasn't privy to every whim of his beloved Goddess.
"So, what's being a holy man like, anyway?" asked the massive woman striding beside him, a wide grin etched into her scarred green face. Kraega, a mercenary by trade, had ostensibly been hired as a guard by the caravaners they'd tagged along with at Meridian. Ostensibly, because in the wake of the Many's sundering and the Reaper's requiem, she'd still had nothing better to do but bug the people who weren't paying her to listen when they told her to shut up. There were still dangers on the road, monsters and bandits and the occasional remnants of those who'd flown the Bloody Banner, but things were still more peaceful than they'd been in living memory. And when that living memory included elves and dragons, that was a long time indeed. "Your God bother you back as much as you bother him?"
"Her," he corrected, turning to her without letting the smile drop from his face. "Why, are you thinking of converting? I hadn't planned on proselytizing."
"A holy man who actually shuts up sometimes?" she asked, scoffing and tossing her thick black hair at the grumbling from a half a dozen or so paces behind them. "Will the miracles never cease. Nah, I just want to chat. Although," she growled, the closest to a purr she could manage in with her hoarse and husky voice, " if you wanted to persuade me with that silver tongue of yours…"
Max smiled outwardly, but if he could have rolled his eyes without her noticing he would have. Truth be told, Max would have welcomed her forward attempts to get to know him hours ago, in both senses of the word, if she'd stop shooting cocky looks at his wife every time she got him to smile. She had no reason for that confidence; her trying to steal him from his beloved was like a hill trying to overshadow the sun. Still, Rosie, as he'd suggested she call herself, had been amused by the attempt. She'd even taken him aside, when Kraega had gone to relieve herself, and asked him if he wouldn't mind playing along. As always, her wish was his command, which is why he'd dropped his guard a little, and let Kraega wriggle her way in. She hadn't let up since. He almost felt bad for her, and depending on what mischief his wife was planning he might end up feeling far worse. Probably not, though; even at her most playful, Rosie was kindness through and through.
"Perhaps later," he deflected, pretending to ignore the wicked look she shot Rosie, and the little smile that crossed Rosie's lips when she'd turned back to him. "We are in mixed company, and I doubt the good pilgrim behind us would appreciate my tongue nearly as much."
"His loss," she chuckled, provoking another frustrated growl. "So, holy man. What's it like?"
Max thought for a moment, then nodded as the obvious analogy came to mind. "It's much like being drunk, I suppose. Except my coordination is better."
Kraega had burst out laughing before he finished the first sentence; by the second, she'd nearly toppled. "It-It's like…? Gods above and below, I've never heard that one before."
Max laughed as well, then held up a linen-gloved finger. "It's true, though! Her love keeps me warm on the coldest nights, and lifts me up in my darkest moments. With her alongside me, I feel like there's nothing I can't do. Everything seems easier, more full of joy."
"And you make really shitty decisions you regret the next morning?" Kraega asked, her grin a little less playful and more genuine than her tone implied."
"Ah, but that's the trick," he replied. "There is no morning after, which means I never have to regret any of the utterly idiotic decisions her influence leads me to. No hangover either."
Once again, Kraega barked with laughter, but the pilgrim behind them wasn't nearly so amused. He snarled and stomped forward until he could grab Max's shoulder, flipping him around to face him. He was a big man, tall and sturdy, with well-articulated plate underneath his pilgrim's robes. It was, Max idly noted, polished to a mirror's shine despite the dusty journey. "You," he spat, "are a disgrace to whatever holy order accepted you into their ranks, and were I so inclined-"
"Lay off," Kraega snarled back, taking a single stride towards the two of them, only stopping when Max raised a hand, only backing away when he looked to her and shook his head.
"I beg your pardon, sir…" Max began, only to completely forget the other man's name. "Could you help me out here?" he whispered to Kraega, apparently not quietly enough to keep the pilgrim's grey eyes from nearly bulging out of his skull.
"Borin!" he spat, flecks of spit catching in his scraggly beard. "Sir Borin to you, cur!" Max barely stifled a snicker at the serendipity of his name. Kraega, however, stilled for a moment, before shaking whatever worry had come over her off.
"Well, Sir Borin," he continued, tone polite and level, "it seems I have somehow offended you. What is it that I have done to disgrace my order so, and what punishment would you mete out, if you were so inclined?"
"Were I so inclined," Sir Borin growled, "I would strike your head from your shoulders for daring to blaspheme any goddess of righteousness in that fashion, let alone your own."
Max blinked, then, rather than respond to the accusation and threat, turned to Rosie. "You're more familiar with Yondalla's teachings, love. Is teasing my goddess blasphemy?"
She shook her head, red-gold tresses flowing over her breathtakingly beautiful face like leaves in the wind. "I'd say it's closer to a sacrament," she continued, a smile on her cherry-red lips. "She'd be a poor goddess indeed if she could dish it out but couldn't take it.
"Well, there you have it," he said, finally acknowledging Sir Borin again, while ignoring the blotches of furious purple spreading across his face.
"Oh I like you," Kraega growled, clasping a hand to his shoulder. "I like your Goddess too. Maybe I should convert. Think she'd take an Orc?"
He flicked his eyes to Rosie, who nodded gently, a roll of her own eyes to make sure he understood how ridiculous having to ask was. "I guarantee it. It wouldn't even be close to the most ridiculous thing she's done."
Rosie giggled at this, not covering her laughter but letting it ring out open and free, a bell ringing through the valley. Anyone with a heart would feel it melt when they heard that laugh. Sir Borin, it seemed, lacked one entirely. "As… innocent and forgiving as your goddess may be," he growled, nearly adding a blasphemy of his own to the confrontation, "your insults are not just a blasphemy against her, but her station as a goddess of righteousness, and therefore against righteousness itself. In the name of Pholtus, the Blinding Light, I demand you abjure your blasphemy at once."
Max had heard of the God in question. He'd thought it was a minor Pelorite schism until they'd briefly eclipsed Hieroneous in popularity as the Bloody Banner spread across the land, leaving ruin in its wake. Even the Archpaladin, in all his fury and wrath, had seemed too gentle to some. Kraega, it seemed, knew more. She grabbed Max with one green hand, yanking him aside, and squatted slightly so he could look her right in her eyes rather than up at her. Her face, he noted with concern, had gone a pale mint green. "Do it," she hissed. "If he's who I think he is? Apologize. Now. You don't want to fuck with this guy, Maxie."
'Maxie,' as shocked by the nickname as her sudden change in attitude, just looked at her, dumbfounded. The pilgrim, on the other hand, just chuckled. "So even a beast knows her betters."
Well, now Max was just going to have to do this on principle.
"I'm afraid, sir, that such an abjuration would be far worse than blasphemy. You see, my Goddess," he continued, waving at the golden wheat and swaying trees around them, "delights in my teasing, and I, in turn, delight in teasing her. Which is a problem, because I swore I would never quench my own light, nor permit another to quench it. I could apologize," he admitted, "even though I wouldn't mean it, if it'd make you happy. But swearing to never again subject my beloved Yondalla to my japes and jests?" He shook his head, slowly and sadly. "That would be a betrayal of my oath as a Paladin."
The only noises around them now were those made by bird, beast, and wind. Sir Borin stood trembling, apoplectic; Kraega stared at him with wide eyes, disbelief and horror etched into her rough features. Even the remaining caravaners, those who hadn't just walked around their little confrontation and left them in the dust, were just watching to see what happened next. To anyone watching the scene, Sir Borin was the first to react. "Then you will die a paladin," he snarled, reaching beneath his pilgrim's robes and grasping at the handle of a heavy steel hammer.
Rosie, however, had reacted far more quickly. In the space of a breath, she'd dashed in front of Sir Borin, seizing his arm with one rough, weathered hand. Her golden eyes, the color of the ripe wheat billowing around them, began to water, and her apple-red lips puffed into a pout. She released Sir Borin, before he could realize how hard he'd just struggled in her grasp, then clasped her hands beneath her trembling chin. "Please, good sir," she begged, "you would not try to make a widow of me on my honeymoon, would you?"
He growled - Yondalla's bountiful arse, was there any other sound the man could make - and crossed his arms. The sound of armor on armor, muffled as it was by cloth, was unmistakable. "Your husband appears to have made that choice for me."
Max looked at the scowling man, then to Rosie, who shrugged gently. "I tried. Be gentle with him?"
Max inhaled deeply, breathing in not just the cool autumn air but the scent of the man in front of him. He stank of armor polish and dirty wool and too many days on the road, but nothing viler than that. He may not be worthy of Arcadia, but he hadn't yet crossed the line into Acheron. Fine, then. He could do gentle. "If you would take my life, then prove you are worthy of it. I challenge you, Sir Borin. Face me as a paladin, not as a would-be executioner."
Sir Borin sneered. "It would be my pleasure."
———
The caravan leader had demanded the two of them postpone their duel until they reached Mezzanine. Neither were willing. Then he'd tried to cajole Kraega into knocking some sense into them, threatened to withhold her promised pay. She'd laughed at him. "Go ahead," she jeered. "You don't pay me enough to die." Finally, he'd at least tried to convince the rest of the caravan to just move on, let the idiots duel in peace. But nobody was budging. In fact, everyone who had headed onward had now doubled back, eager to watch the bloodshed. So now he just fumed, kicking at the dirt, as Rosie and an apologetic young man wearing the same robes as Sir Borin negotiated the terms of the duel.
It was, they'd finally agreed, not to the death. At least, not intentionally. They would fight to first blood, and they'd try their best not to kill the other, but these things happen and nobody would be punished if they did. If Sir Borin won, and Max survived, he would abjure his blasphemy or accept a merciful execution. If Max won, Sir Borin would recant, and apologize for his accusation. It seemed a little unfair to Max, what with him being the only one putting his life on the line, but he wasn't particularly worried about that possibility.
Kraega, on the other hand, was far more concerned. "Look, if this guy is who I think he is, and if I wasn't sure before that godsdamned hammer convinced me, you have to call this off. He's going to kill you. Like, he's not going to just give you a bloody nose and call it a day. He's going to smash your skull in."
"I'm pretty hard-headed," Max replied, giving her a wink. "Besides, what makes you so sure?"
She stared at him, agog. "You new here or something?"
Max nodded. "We're just passing through. Like I said, it's my honeymoon."
"Okay, well, Sir Borin, Gavel of Pholtus-"
Max barely held back his laughter. Pholtus, it seemed, was a little careless with his titles. Kraega scowled at him, either not getting the joke or not in the mood to laugh at it. "As I was saying," she grumbled, "he's kinda infamous throughout the Gilded Plains. He's a preacher, a thief-taker, and a monster hunter, and tell is, he treats the latter two jobs exactly the same. Rumor is," she whispered, looking around to see if anyone was listening, "he's never failed to bring a man in, but never once alive."
"That just means he's terrible at his job," Max pointed out.
Kraega made a noise like she was choking, or like she'd tried to laugh and gasp and done neither quite right. "Well, he's damn good at hunting monsters," she said. "He's got another epithet: Dragonhammer. One of those scaly bastards decided to set up camp near Meridian, and he split its damn skull open."
"Was it a big dragon?" Max asked. Kraega stared at him, in disbelief. "Was it a big dragon?" he asked again. "I'm hardly going to be impressed by someone killing a baby dragon."
"I don't know!" Kraega hissed. "Big enough for people to talk about it! Point is, you might have a hard head, but it's not dragon hard. And I don't know why your idiot wife is going along with this-"
"Careful now," Max cautioned.
"-But if you were mine," she continued, ignoring his warning, "I'd knock some sense into you and make you say you were sorry or make a break for it."
"It's not the apology that's the problem," he explained for the dozenth time, "it's the abjuration. Besides," he assured her, "I've got nothing to fear from him."
"No," she corrected, "you're not afraid of him. Because you're fucking drunk."
"And I haven't made a decision I've regretted yet."
She sighed, then grabbed him by the shoulders and planted a kiss on him, barely avoiding nicking him with her tusks. "Don't die," she demanded. "And when this is all over, dump that bitch and get yourself a real woman. Doesn't have to be me, but love doesn't set love a test like Borin the fucking Dragonhammer."
"She didn't set me the test," Max protested.
"No, but she's not trying to get you out of it."
"That," he said simply, "is because she trusts me." Then, leaving Kraega in silence, he headed to the woman in question, who was just finishing up her negotiations with Sir Borin's second. She looked up at him expectantly, and he knelt down, planting a kiss on those soft, apple-red lips. "Hey you," he sighed, as she returned his kiss, dragging her pearly teeth against his lower lip, lingering long enough for her hot breath to warm away the cool autumn air.
"Hey me," she murmured, pressing her diminutive body against his, half his size but still perfect in his embrace. "His second wanted to agree to fisticuffs, but Borin refused."
"That'll make things harder," Max sighed.
"No it won't," she giggled.
"Do you have any idea how hard it is not to kill someone with a sword?" he asked her. "Genuinely. It's a feat."
"Well within your capabilities," she assured him. Then, she nipped at his earlobe, and whispered, "I believe in you. My hero. My champion." Another nip, and a pause, letting her hot breath tickle his ear. "My consort."
"My guiding light," he whispered back, sighing in bliss.
She lingered against him a few moments longer, then a few moments after that, until a growl from Sir Borin left her reluctantly pulling herself away. Then he stood, facing the other paladin, as Rosie strode away and mingled in the crowd of caravaners and travelers on either side of them. He noted the coin flowing freely, whispers and gestures indicating the outcome of their fight had become fine sport indeed. He also noted that the odds weren't favoring him, not in the slightest. He couldn't help but smile at that; Rosie would be making out like a bandit. "Alright," he sighed, "let's get this over with."
"On that," Sir Borin sneered, "we can agree." Then he threw back his worn grey cloak, revealing the armor beneath. Not a single scratch marred its surface, not a smudge obstructed its mirror sheen. One mirrored fist grabbed the heavy wooden handle of his heavy steel hammer. As his title implied, it wasn't a war hammer, but a judge's gavel writ large, repurposed as a weapon of warfare. "You face Sir Borin," the man roared, "Gavel of Pholtus, Bringer of Justice, Dragonhammer!"
Max had to admit, it looked impressive, if you didn't know anything about combat. If you did, the man looked ridiculous. Shining armor was the sign of a novice who'd never even tasted battle, or a puffed-up popinjay whose armor had only known the still air of a display case. By the time he'd retired his own armor, it looked like something a magpie had gathered up. As for the gavel, well, a proper hammer had a spike for a reason. And, of course, if Yondalla saddled him with a title that made him Sir Boring, she'd have done it in jest, and it wouldn't have been one he'd be expected to share with others.
"Max," he said in simple reply, then let a smirk cross his lips. "Prove you're worthy to hear the rest."
Oh, that riled him up. Sir Borin roared with apoplectic fury, dashing at Max, hammer already swinging as he reached his foe. Max sidestepped the swing, but Sir Borin reacted immediately, using the hammer's momentum to reset it to a ready position, keeping Max from getting inside his guard with the sweep of the blow. Again and again he struck, pressing Max with every blow, keeping himself in a constant state of readiness when he wasn't ready to strike. He moved… well, he moved like a seasoned knight. Like someone who'd learned to fight in an academy, survived getting the shit getting smacked out of him by the real world, then learned and relearned what did and didn't work until he'd gotten good enough to crush a dragon's skull. Not a big dragon, that was one of those things the spike was for, but probably a fully grown one. But, it seemed he hadn't been knocked on his ass enough to lose the cocky attitude he'd doubtlessly started with. Otherwise, he'd have proudly worn those scratches, his armor reflecting his journey and not his attitude.
Well, Max could certainly help him out there.
Sir Borin had finally paused his assault, giving himself a moment to catch his breath but keeping his hammer at the ready. "Hold still, damn you!" he spat. "Coward! Blackguard! Too afraid to draw your blade?"
Max couldn't hold back his laughter, provoking a snarl for the other man. "Do you have eyes?" he asked, unable to keep the grin off his face. He'd been waiting a lifetime and a half to make this joke.
Sir Borin stared at him in fury, those steel eyes he clearly had bulging.
"You have eyes," Max laughed, "and yet… you cannot see Mount Celestia."
The hammer struck his forehead. He saw it coming. He didn't bother to move. The crowd roared, some in approval and some in outrage. He even heard a strangled sob from the mercenary who'd been flirting with him the whole trip. Rosie, on the other hand? "Oh, get on with it!" she laughed.
"As you command," he replied, throwing back his own plain brown cloak, pushing the hammer from his forehead in the same smooth motion. His forehead, not the skull beneath had been cracked, splitting like green wood rather than getting pulped by the blow. Not a drop of blood fell, and not a drop could be seen; a hint of sap glistened between the cracks for a moment, then a moment later, the wound had healed without a trace. "I do believe we were trying to avoid killing each other?" he asked, then clicked his tongue at the gape-mouthed Sir Borin, who stared in disbelief and horror at the man he'd just struck. At his green hair, the color of young leaves just spreading from the bud; at the suit of hard linen over boiled leather he wore, verdant green and loamy brown tastefully embellished with gold; at the wooden shield at his side, grown into a shape as reminiscent of Yondalla's cornucopia as it could be without interfering with its functionality. But, ultimately, Sir Borin's eyes fixed on Max's hand as he gripped the hilt at his side, drawing a plain and utilitarian hanger sword, crafted from the single horn of some vast and mighty beast. "Still, you've struck me, so I suppose you're worthy enough for me to grace you with my name."
Sir Borin staggered back, nearly dropping his hammer, and… Yondalla's succulent tits, the poor man actually squeaked.
"I," he announced, voice the calm before the storm, "am Beacon Maximilian, Protector and Provider. Yes-The-Reinforcements. Scythebreaker." Then a little crimson dusted his cheeks as he announced his newest and most treasured title: "Courier of Yondalla." With a flourish, he returned his ivory sword to its scabbard, letting his cloak fall back over him.
The wind whipped through the valley, still gentle but far less so than before. A strong breeze, but not a cold one. It brought with it the warmth of a spring morning and the smell of fresh fruit and herbs. And, from the tip of Max's blade as far as the eye could see, the wheat from the field behind them danced in that breeze, lazily drifting their way to the fields below.
"I… I'm sorry," Sir Borin croaked, eyes wide with shock. Then he dropped, collapsing to the dusty road, blood soaking into the earth beneath him. His armor had been split clean through, his hammer's head chopped from its shaft, and a bone-deep slice across his sternum. Max nodded at that detail; he'd been confident he'd held back enough not to kill the man - a promise was a promise - but a little bit of him had still worried he'd overestimated his adversary. Then he walked to the fallen paladin, knelt down, and grabbed the hand he'd held his former hammer with.
"I forgive you," he announced, as the warmth of a spring day surged down his arm and into the dying man. A bit of a pull, and he'd hauled Sir Borin to his feet, the man looking in awe at the unblemished skin beneath the cleft in his armor. "Just don't do it again."
Sir Borin silently nodded, and for a few moments, the world around them kept that silence. Then it was broken by the meaty sound of a palm striking leather, and Max's startled yelp. He leapt into the air, rubbing his stinging bottom, turning and looking down at Rosie in surprise. "You'd better not be thinking about letting that go to waste," she huffed, waving one small but surprisingly strong hand at the harvested wheat.
———
Sojourner's Rest , named for the inn on the road it had grown around, wasn't precisely a town. It had some permanent lodging, but mostly it served as the local market and gathering place, and a location for the farming community's many festivals and ceremonies too small to merit a trip to Mezzanine, as well as those impromptu ones that sprang up from time to time. Sudden births, sudden marriages, sudden funerals whose celebratory nature wouldn't have been welcomed in the city proper. Or, in this case, a caravan led by a sheepish paladin and his exasperated but affectionate wife, each and every caravaner, guard, and fellow traveler loaded down with thick bundles of wheat. Oh, they'd grumbled about it, about the delays and lost opportunities and the costs of business, but platinum had a surprising way of smoothing things over, especially when silver would have sufficed. Further platinum had also soothed any complaints about the unusual nature of this early harvest. Max's satchel had hung empty; that platinum had been meant to cover their entire honeymoon. Then again, Rosie loved helping out in the local communities she passed through, and paying their way through service held merits of its own.
Whether in celebration of the sudden reduction in their workload or the sudden influx of wealth, the villagers had taken the opportunity to celebrate the way villagers do best: Good food, good drink, good music, and good company. Well, decent enough. Both food and drink were hearty fare, filling the belly and satisfying the tongue, but even with a full belly and a second pleasant buzz alongside the first, he much preferred the company he'd brought with him. They weren't bad people, but Yondalla's luscious lips, they just would not stop fawning over him. If he wanted that kind of attention, he'd have done something more worthy of it than humbling an arrogant paladin.
The caravan and most travelers had only stayed long enough to fill their bellies and lift their spirits, but some had stayed behind, enough to provide safety in numbers when they continued their journey the next day. Max and his darling wife, of course, were among them. They had no itinerary, just delighting in the joy of the journey and themselves. Kraega, unsurprisingly, had also stayed; to enjoy the festivities, she'd claimed, although nobody believed her. A much humbled Sir Borin had personally offered to take her place guarding the caravan, so she'd eaten and drank and made merry with the rest of the travelers had stayed behind.
The moment the sun had brushed the horizon, she'd begun to lurk around him. She wasn't very good at it; it was obvious what was coming next. She'd waited until Rosie had been distracted in conversation, then grabbed Max, dragged him behind the inn, and planted another kiss on him. This time, she hadn't bothered to watch her tusks; she knew they wouldn't have scratched him. "Take me now," she demanded.
Rosie, not nearly as distracted as she'd seemed, cleared her throat. Kraega had leapt in surprise, pale mint and deep forest green doing an elegant dance on her features. But she hadn't been looking at Kraega. Instead, she looked up at Max, and gestured to the orcish mercenary impatiently. "You heard the woman," she huffed. "Take her now."
A paladin's work, it seems, is never done.
He was able to persuade them to delay their festivities long enough for him to pay for a private room, but not much longer than that. Kraega had pounced the moment the door had closed behind the three, kissing him with enough force and vigor that a lesser man might have been carved by those tusks of hers. Then, after letting them savor their kiss, Rosie had grabbed the orc's belt, dragged her from her husband, and held her arms up with an impish smile. He'd lifted her and kissed her in turn, until - minutes later A she was briefly satisfied. Then at her urging, turned her around and let her grip Kraega's shoulders.
Kraega blinked in surprise. "I don't-" she began, before Rosie's strong legs wrapped around her waist, and she began to kiss Kraega as fiercely as Kraega had Max. "No, I…" she continued, protests getting weaker, as Rosie's small hands roamed down her back and through her hair. "But I'm not-" she sighed, then began to return the kiss, disproving whatever statement she'd been about to make. "Why do you taste like raspberries and mead?" she eventually managed to ask, between the kisses, face flushed to a dark olive shade.
Max chuckled at the comparison. He'd always thought her kisses had tasted closer to strawberry wine. Then, he placed a hand on the orc's shoulder, and grinned lecherously. "You should taste her cunt."
An ordinary wife might have kicked him for that. The woman who'd stolen his heart leaned back in her embrace, met Kraega's gaze, and waggled her eyebrows.
Soon, they'd retired to the bed, clothing and armor scattered across the room. It wasn't a fine bed, but it was large enough for a full family to share, which is all they needed. Rosie hadn't immediately given Kraega access to the prize she'd sought; she'd made the mercenary earn it with kisses and touches both gentle and rough, but eventually, she'd parted her thick thighs, muscled not like a warrior but like a farmer, a woman who'd spent her whole life on her legs bearing loads that would have buckled a frailer form, revealing her field of red-gold curls and the glistening pink flesh beneath them. Now she curled her fingers through Kraega's hair as Kraega snuffled and lapped at her with ravenous abandon, whispering honey-sweet encouragement and singing a wordless song of bliss and ecstasy. In those few moments she could pull her lips or tongue from Rosie long enough to speak coherently, the only words Kraega could offer in return were ones singing his wife's praises. "Gods," she groaned, "You taste - ah - like someone made sauce out of sex… fuck! And, um, and served it over pumpkin pie. H-How?"
"Ecclesiastical secret," Rosie sighed, her every word melodic with bliss and delight.
Max, currently - and happily - filling his lungs with the bitter musk of Kraega's sweat and coating his tongue with the primal tang of her arousal, would have disagreed with her assessment. If he had to draw a comparison, he'd say Rosie tasted more like cider mulled with sex, lust, and passion alongside the other spices. But he suspected the experience might differ from celebrant to celebrant, so any comparison would be meaningless anyway. Besides, he thought, as he dragged his tongue between her folds, sending another spasm through her heavily-muscled form, he had more important things to do.
Eventually, as the sun finished its descent and Kraega had thoroughly soaked his face and neck, a note of mischief began to mix its way into Rosie's ecstatic song. lI think she's ready for you," Rosie announced, then pulled Kraega from between her legs. "You wanted him to take you, didn't you?" she asked the dazed orc, whose face literally dripped with her sexual fluids.
"Your… your husband-" Kraega mumbled, a full reversal of her earlier attitude.
"My husband," Rosie agreed. "Which means I get to share him with whoever I want. You want to borrow him, don't you?" she asked. "Look how hard you made him. I didn't do that. You don't want to leave that big, heavy blade without a sheathed, do you?"
Reluctantly, Kraega pulled her face from Rosie's fertile fields, and gasped in surprise. "Do humans normally get that big?" she asked.
Max tried not to blush. He wasn't unusually large, which had been a plus for the human women he'd shared his bed with. He'd never been described as impressive, which was fine with him; he much preferred the blissful sighs and moans of 'just right.' Or, in the words of the delightful young wizard he'd adventured alongside as a novice, 'the planar ideal of a phallus.' But halflings judged by their own standards, and he'd quickly developed a reputation in the shire he'd been raised in as a challenge only for the brave or foolhardy. Which described a large number of halflings, more-so as he'd earned the less sordid parts of his reputation, but he'd never gotten used to the gasps and yelps when he enjoyed the company of his own people and they discovered the exact challenge they'd need to overcome.
Orcs, as the self-proclaimed treasure hunter who'd traveled with him and the wizard had claimed, fit a halfling's standards better than a human's. She'd said it to justify why she jumped between his bedroll and the other woman's, but never that of the shaman they'd traveled alongside. He'd thought it was a jest, taunting their companion's surly attitude and disdain for their playfulness, but the look on Kraega's face right now suggested otherwise. The same look he'd seen on his own countrywomen looked outright comical on her rough face.
Rosie, once again, came to the rescue. She took Kraegq's face in her hands, turning the orc to meet her sunny smile. "He's going to be gentle with you," Rosie assured her, before looking up at Max. "You will, won't you?" she asked, giggling as he did his best to imitate the way she rolled her eyes when he asked her a question he knew her well enough to not ask. "For her, my love," she admonished him gently. "She's still a little nervous.
"Of course I'll be gentle," he huffed, forcing as much exasperation as a man in a threesome with his wife and another woman could. Which wasn't much.
Rosie nodded, satisfied. "See?" she assured Kraega. "He'll be gentle with you. And he'll make you feel so good. Don't you want to feel him?" she asked, almost pleading. "Don't you want to let him take you?"
After a moment's consideration, while Max patiently stood at attention, she nodded. "I've just, um, I've never been with a human before, so-"
"I actually haven't been with an orc before," he admitted. "Let's enjoy the experience together."
He didn't enter her then. Not yet. He guided himself through the thick black jungle of her pubic hair, but he stopped the moment he felt the moss-green flesh beneath. Her labia were well and properly soaked, but she still trembled as he brushed against them. So he moved his hips, letting her warm up to the idea of them, swirling her silky folds with the movements of his cock. One strong hand reached down to grope at her thick, muscular ass, the other reached between her legs, teasing the thoroughly swollen green bud he'd been savoring shortly before. She groaned and grunted, the tremors running through her body slowly shifting from trembles to the release of tension, while Rosie kissed her and whispered to her and fondled her modest, athletic breasts. "She's ready for you," Rosie finally announced, and he began to tease her more properly, dipping himself in just enough to feel her stretch, resuming his playful dance, only sinking in deeper when he knew she'd warmed up to it.
By the time he'd fully entered her, Rosie had guided Kraega's head back between her legs, resuming her wordless song as she stroked the orc's black hair. She'd groaned when he bottomed out, groaned right into Rosie's cunt, and Rosie had giggled again in response. "Good girl," she hummed. "That was just what you needed, wasn't it? Doesn't that feel amazing?"
The moan from Kraega, muffled as it was, had a very affirmative quality to it.
"It gets even better," Rosie promised, as Max began to move, and Kraega's moan became a strangled, yet thoroughly delighted, cry.
Even without his assurances to his wife, and his own affectionate nature, he would have needed to be gentle here. Yondalla's ever-fertile cunt, this woman was tight. Almost painfully tight, and strong too, strong enough that a lesser man might have hurt himself and certainly would have hurt her. But he'd enjoyed the company of enough halflings to know how to ensure they'd leave satisfied and - hopefully - come back with friends. He pleasured her as he fucked her, hands massaging her ass and her public mound, rubbing her clit as her entrance stretched around him. As they moved with all the eagerness he felt, the movement of his hips stayed slow and purposeful, letting her adjust to him, to accept him instead of just taking her. He'd pause, letting himself soak in her warmth and letting her muscles rest, or press into her just enough to feel her stretch and only withdraw enough to feel her relax before pressing into again. But never, not even for a moment, did he stop.
She'd already come more times than she could count from Rosie's nimble tongue. He didn't want to brag, but he didn't think she'd stopped coming shortly after he'd started fucking her. Orgasm after orgasm melded together, her body quivering and spasming until her legs had given out one after the other. He'd taken over then, holding her hips, savoring the feeling of wielding the mercenary as she gripped the linens and soaked him and the bed down to the canvas beneath. If it wasn't for Rosie, she'd probably have kept the entire inn awake, if not the permanent residents sleeping nearby. But just as he hadn't stopped, at no point had she lifted herself from Rosie's treasures and tapped out. "Such a good girl," Rosie crooned, and he swore he'd just heard the orc giggle in response. He'd certainly felt the way she'd clamped down on him.
"I'm close," he finally warned her, as the last faint traces of sunlight faded into the dark night. He'd been close before, but he'd been able to hold back, but even he had limits, and he'd just about reached them.
"You'd better not be thinking of pulling out" Rosie admonished him. "Not on our honeymoon."
Kraega jerked at the command, but Rosie hushed her, brushing her nails against her scalp. "You wanted this, didn't you? You wanted my husband to take you?" A grin of pure mischief spread across her features. "You're not going to back out now, are you? Leave him unsatisfied? Aching for you? No," she crooned, "because you're a good girl. My good girl. Aren't you?"
The moan from Kraega sounded reluctantly affirmative.
"Besides," Rosie murmured, "don't you want to feel it? Feel him coming inside you? It's going to be the best thing you've ever felt," she promised. "You don't want to miss out, do you? Just let him enjoy you a little longer. Can't you feel him throbbing in you? Feel him desperate to just fill you up?"
This moan was far more affirmative.
"Good girl," Rosie purred. "Now give that gorgeous ass of yours a little wiggle so he knows you want this. You do want this, don't you?"
Kraega wiggled her ass eagerly, pressing herself into Max, wrapping her legs around him as he plowed her into his wife. Even if he hadn't wanted to, he wouldn't be able to hold back now. But if he hadn't have, Rosie's honeyed words would have convinced him. Right now, he wanted nothing more than to fill Kraega to the brim, damn the consequences. So he stopped holding back, pressed himself into her as deep as he could, gripped her and held her and fucked her, until a nova of warmth and bliss erupted inside of him and radiated through him. He gasped at the feeling, groaned as Kraega clamped down around him once again, held her tight as pulse after pulse of ecstasy accompanied the spurts of seed filling Kraega's vice-tight passage. Then, with a moan that might have embarrassed a lesser man, he buried himself deep in her once more, savoring the last aftershocks and feeling of bliss as he softened inside of her.
When her own grip had loosened, he'd finally pulled himself from her, letting her collapse in exhaustion as he slid to her side and wrapped his arms around her. He laughed softly, and so did she, pulling her face from his wife's cunt long enough to share a kiss that tasted almost as strongly of Rosie as if he'd been pleasuring her with his tongue instead of their bedmate. Still more like cider than pie, he thought, as his tongue caressed hers.
"'S warm," she groaned, rubbing her muscular thighs together, smearing the mix of fluids leaking from her between them. "So warm. Like sunshine in my womb." She reached down, running her fingers across her exhausted legs, then licking them clean. "Good," she sighed. "Like maple candy." Then she collapsed back into Rosie's lap, nestling into her thick thighs like the world's most perfect pillow.
"I think he tastes like nectar myself," she murmured, stroking the orc's sweat-soaked hair, lulling Kraega to sleep in barely a minute.
Nevertheless, Max waited until Kraega's breathing had truly slowed before gesturing to the mess slowly leaking from the orc and raising an eyebrow at Rosie. "Was that really necessary?"
"Necessary?" Rosie asked, the feigned hurt on her face completely failing to conceal the mischief dancing in her eyes. "She was your wedding present. Did you enjoy her?"
"I did," Max admitted. "Very much so. But I hadn't actually planned to knock her up."
Rosie giggled. "You know who you married, love. Consider that your wedding present to me if you must. Besides," she continued, stroking the sleeping orc's rough features, "I think I deserve a little bit of fun. This naughty girl spent the entire trip trying to seduce you away from me. Not just borrow, but steal! On my honeymoon, no less!"
"Generally, people don't regard a prank where they wind up pregnant as a little bit of fun."
"Generally," Rosie countered, "people don't let the clergy of a fertility goddess inseminate them if they aren't prepared for the consequences." She shook her head gently, letting her red-gold hair drift lazily across her bare, melon-sized breasts. "She knew what she was getting into. Shook her ass at you and everything. Besides, it's not like she won't be cared for."
Max raised an eyebrow. "Will she?"
"No child of yours will ever want for anything," Rosie promised. "His mother's pregnancy will be easy, his birth without incident, and he'll grow healthy and strong, his mother by his side. An honorary halfling, just like his father, and a treasured member of our community. Children are sacred to me, yours even moreso. Ours," she murmured, patting her belly, "most of all. But I want her to grow up along family. As large a family as you can manage."
Max blinked. "You mean you're already-"
She just rolled her eyes. "You know who you married, silly man. You know my titles and domains. I was pregnant our first night together, although even I don't know how long she'll grow. Speaking of titles," she continued, a playful growl in her voice, "I don't recall telling you that you could borrow that one."
"Borrow?" Max asked, askance. "Isn't it a husband's prerogative to take his wife's name as his own? Also, I think you owe me one for the latest title. Your Courier? You think anyone won't understand that double/meaning?"
"Oh, I guarantee they will," she giggled. "And you'll love it."
"I will," he admitted, with a faux-exasperated sigh. "As I love you, my Goddess."
"Do you?" she asked. "That fertile cunt of mine you like to swear by seems awfully empty for one so loved. Why don't you- ah, there's a good Courier," she murmured, as Max supported Kraega's head long enough for Rosie, avatar of Yondalla, to wriggle her way out from under her.
"A Paladin's work is never done," he chuckled, as he gently slid a pillow under Kraega's head, then caught his Goddess mid-leap.
"It isn't," she murmured, as she wriggled her hips and welcomed him into her own perfect depths. "But you love it."
"But I love it," he agreed, as he and his Goddess began to make love once more.