Eros

The Sanguine Vow - 73

Alora bit onto her bottom lip, trying to hold still as Kaido smeared the salve on her burn. His touch was gentle and cool against her raw flesh, but she couldn't help wincing. He was so focused at her burn he didn't seem to notice her looking at him. She searched his eyes for the disgust that she felt at the sight of her own face, but could find no sign of it.

"I can do it on my own, Kaido," She murmured. "You really don't have to."

"I don't have to do anything." He replied, more busy with the salve than with talking. "I only do what I want."

"Does it not revolt you?" She asked, both her voice and her gaze lowered.

"Did a part of your brain burn out when your cheek did?"

"Come on, be honest." She frowned and winced, his fingers made the last moist stroke along the edge of her burn. Suddenly, his other arm was around her, pulling her by the hips. She swung her gaze up to find his dark green eyes staring into hers, their noses almost touching, his breath brushing her lips.

"Do I look revolted, to you?" He asked, quiet, but demanding. She shook her head. He nodded, ever so slightly. A pang of regret stung when he withdrew. Before she even decided to do so, her hand reached for him. He stopped at her touch, his eyes questioning.

"Thank you." She whispered.

"Fuck you." He replied. "No more thanks. We are in this together."

-

Gurak rode Zarak through the dead plains of the Warspawns' lands. The Warchief had heard legends of the Deathstriders' speed ever since he was a child. Now, as the chosen of the Deathstriders galloped, ravaging the earth under his hooves, outspeeding the wind itself, he witnessed it. Better, he reigned it.

A dozen of his best warriors mounted other Deathstriders, struggling to match the pace. Gurak trusted Zarak. He only leaned in, and braced himself against the endless gust of air and sand speed brought upon them. Squinting his eyes against it, Gurak looked ahead, eager.

It was rumors that got him up on the Deathstrider. Rumors of a Warchief that united the clans he had not yet reached, removing and spiking the heads of the other Warchiefs in the process. Gurak could respect ambition he himself inspired, but couldn't wait to bring a bloody end to it.

There could only be one Chief Slayer. One Warbringer.

Distance lost meaning in the vast and lifeless plains of the Blighted Lands, but finally, out against the horizon, he saw tiny, dark silhouettes. Huts.

"Campgrounds ahead!" He roared to the others, and in perfect synchrony with the boom of his voice, Zarak sped up. The dozen Deathstriders followed suit, proving to Gurak and his warriors that they may have seen fast, but they had yet to see fastest. Gurak imagined how it would be to crash through lines of human and elven soldiers mounted upon these terrible Warspawns, and cackled with joy.

As hard as they rode to the campgrounds, the clan was up and ready when they got there. Behind Gurak, his warriors displayed the dozen Warchief heads he severed, raising them to the air on iron spikes.

He didn't have to call for this clan's Warchief. She already stood out before them, clear of escort. A Marauder like him, she was. With nothing but rough sawn, dark hides to bind her wide hips and ample bust, he could see the muscles shaping her legs up to her rump, drawing firm lines across her stomach, and building her arms in thick arcs.

"Tell your name." Gurak ordered in a growl.

"Isia Terrorblade." The Warchief surveyed the Deathstriders before her gaze reached him. She had a fine boned face, with a relatively gentle jaw, and no scars but a crimson crescent through the black of her eye. The dark lush of her hair was shaved almost to skin on the sides of her head. "I've been expecting you, Gurak."