The Dragon and the Elf

Text by: crabbyoldman Illustration by: littlenoddy

Prologue

      Seldom does the warlord weep, stammer like the tavern fool or howl madly like the wolf, yet as the ground begins to shake and burn, even the hardened veteran shall cry as becomes a fountain. Smog—the monster that leaves the house aflame, women as charred husks, the screaming of children and the wailing of embers, inferno for an eye. Yet it was not always so.

1

      Smog the dragon broke through his egg and into the beyond alone. The desperation of the first years was branded to his memory—catching enough mice to fill his belly. The wild fearful taste of a twitching rodent impaled on his talon still gave him much pleasure, but now that his flame had developed a roasted deer, or even an entire herd was just a small forest fire away. From the insatiable hunger of his infancy he had gradually fashioned an idyllic life, rolling in the fresh grasslands, sharpening his talons on proud oaks, and drinking the clearest water from mountain springs.

      But one evening, Smog had settled into his mountainside perch and just tucked his head under his wing, when a strange feeling overcame him. It was as if his stomach was empty. He flew out and devoured a few grazing cows, but when he returned it was still there and regardless how he tucked his wing he could not quite fall asleep. Maybe there was something wrong with his perch, perhaps he was lonely, but that evening Smog left for the valley and would not return.

     The next morning the birds sang differently, the old tree bent less on its cane and the deer did not shy from his shadow. He spied a strange creature amongst his slender oaks. She had strange ears—far pointier than the round ears that sometimes made the mistake of snaring rabbits in his woods. She had enchanting long hair that billowed behind like a stream as she rode her strange mount—like a deer without horns and a longer tail. This must have been an elf like those from the trapper’s tales. She rode swiftly on to the river’s edge. He nearly sneezed, which would have been seriously unfortunate for the elven lady and her strange mount.

     The elf set up a strange contraption of cloth and battens—some sort of shelter—as her mount began to graze, oblivious to the luminous golden eyes fixing her from the murky darkness of the woods. Then she smoothly stripped of her hide and plunged into the river. Even without adamantine scales, her form was incredibly pleasing and there was something magical in the way her long silvery hair flowed with the river as she let it down. How natural the creature seemed; as if she belonged in his river—her scent akin to the water lilies that floated in the little lake. That she didn’t smell him was even more surprising, he was quite particular about his—a bouquet of freshly burned grass with a hint of coal—irresistible. Yet as he complimented himself for his good taste, he marked a new smell. At first he thought he might have missed a spot, for it began to reek of rotting flesh, but then the stench began to intensify and interfere sickly with the sweetness of the bathing elf. Orcs and she still went on as if nothing was wrong. Clearly, she did not possess his olfactory prowess. Should he warn her? Instead, he would witness the fabled archery of the elves.

2

       A few anxious glances over her shoulder—the feeling of the eye’s arrow on the small of her back, yet what where the odds, it was probably just the rabbits save which the forest was deserted. She sighed, soaking the water and methodically working the soap into her skin. It was to be something diplomatic concerning the forging of rings, by invitation of the Lord of Mordor. Would he be handsome? Her hands slipped between her legs as she settled deeper into the river.

      She didn’t hear the orcs sneaking up on her camp and the brutes were already halfway down the riverbank by the time her horse warned her. If only she had been even a split second faster to take down the first orc, but by the time the elf darted out the water, a crushing blow befell her, before they roughly bound her hands and feet with crude twine. How could she have been so stupid, she sulked. She hadn’t even taken something as simple as a knife into the water and by the time she had gathered up her bow, the orcs had snapped it’s sturdy frame in half in one powerful stroke.

      They clearly weren’t too bright, for they seemed to have forgotten elves wore clothes and left her entire wardrobe in the tent as they dragged her off. Worse,  when she informed them of their mistake, they were too lazy to walk the few steps back to her camp and retrieve even a simple dress. Instead, Ruk, their leader, decided it would be more entertaining to keep her naked, shoved a large wooden gag into her open protesting mouth and fashioned a makeshift leash for her, which he fastened to the saddle of his wolf-like mount. So there stood the elven princess, nude, captured by a wandering horde of reptilian morons as she pleasured herself to the prospect of meeting the Lord of the Mordor, although the only ring he would likely offer her now was the kind that went through her nipple.

3

      Ruk’s sleep was abruptly cut short when his wolf-mount cried alarm. He drew his rusty blade and quickly ran to see what bothered his beast. The she-elf had shed her bonds, but his mount had thwarted her escape when she had foolishly stepped on its tail. Ruk rubbed his wolf’s snout soothingly, glaring intently at his captive.

    “Take those off, you idiots” Ruk blurted, pointing to the bonds his companions had quickly retied around her wrists. He had spotted a sharp rock on the ground that she must have freed her previous restraints with. Ruk reached reluctantly into the saddlebag of the wolf. He had been hoping to save the shackles to enslave another hapless traveller.

    Even shackled the elf continued to sabotage his troupe’s morale. She sneaked bitter roots into their water, purposely undercooked their rabbit stew and fed pebbles to the wolves, making the mounts unfit for travel. He had a serious dilemma on his hands. If she could be broken, the elf would fetch an excellent price at market. However if she continued her rebellious ways she could threaten his authority and the integrity of his group.

    “We’ll eats the she-elf!” shouted Derk, his lieutenant, ominously drumming the inside of the stew-pot with a wooden spoon.

    “Best roasts her on a spit,” argued another.

    Curiously, this began to make the desired impression and the she-elf began to squirm rather uncomfortably in her chain, as the drool ran from the corner of her gag. For a moment Ruk entertained the thought of a feast. Elven flesh was said to be the most succulent among meats. Kreg claimed to have an old recipe for she-elf and maybe they could even stuff an apple in her mouth. The elf began to cry. He bared his teeth. Elves claimed goblins were unimaginative. He wondered what she would think of her punishment, his tongue flicking nervously as her ordeal was prepared. Ruk sniffed the air suspiciously. His skin was itching.

4

    Smog easily found the goblin’s fire and circled lazily just below the clouds. Still disappointed elf’s poor performance at the riverside, Smog had come to see how she would act before the goblins turned her into a spit roast, or perhaps a stew. The goblins had been far more inventive in their sleeping arrangements for the captive elf. He was surprised orc hands had been nimble enough to braid the elf’s luxurious silvery hair into a long braid, which had been fastened to a strong branch directly above her head and driven a thick wooden pole into the ground directly between the elf’s legs.

    At first Smog couldn’t quite surmise the purpose of this. However, eventually the elf relaxed her toes from their pointed posture, sinking ever so slightly onto the pole, driving it deeper. She cried out ever so slightly, before quickly regaining her previous stance. There was no way she could entirely remove herself from the pole. Her toes were already stretched as far as they could go, yet this left a tiny portion of the stake embedded.

    Her hands were tightly secured by a pair of manacles, which pushed the rounded protrusions of her torso even higher than when she had been bathing. The trappers had always obsessed about these shapely outriggers and now he finally understood why. As the she-elf occasionally lapsed into distraction and fell lower onto the shaft they would jiggle about as she started up, like game bounding across a meadow they pranced across her chest as she inhaled.

    As the first fingers of sunlight began to appear the elf began to do something rather curious. Previously, she had bucked at the slightest touch of the stake, yet at the onset of dawn she sank down further than before, wincing. Then, once it was embedded, she began to slide up and down, slowly, then increasing in pace until she reached a critical rhythm. Her face twisted, as if hurt, but her continued motion suggested otherwise. She hastened her tempo further and her breast began to heave violently as if it was some great exertion. She gave a final cry, plainly audible through the dense wooden gag and slumped on the pole, somehow become impervious to its previous jiggle inducing repulsion.

5

    She had made the most of her night; there was no shame in pleasuring herself in the face of a boiling pot of water. She grimaced. By some miracle she had survived the goblin’s design without a splinter. It was just too good, caught like a fish in a barrel by a bunch of second-rate orcs. She winced as the first blood trickled down her thighs. His mashed nose sucked at the air, and his yellow eyes shed their scarred eyelids as he was roused by the smell of blood. The elf began to shake as the goblin rabble drew uncomfortably close.

    “You’ve been a naughty elf,” Ruk mewed, as he ran his warty hand up and down the soft of her thighs, bringing her blood to his forked tongue.

    “Still lonely?” he hissed brushing away his loincloth.

    She reared away. His clawed hand cupped her breast, as he brought her nipple between pointy teeth.

    They cut her down and she fell to her knees, exhausted. Derk began banging the big pot again.

    “Prove you can be of pleasure to an Orc and you’ll see the livestock market. Refuse and tonight we feast on elven flesh.”

    So it would be a bitter aftertaste or a slow boil.

    “Royal treatment,” Ruk declared, but she only rolled her eyes as the gag was replaced. The goblin leader had no idea how close he was to the truth.

6

    After several more degrading weeks in the company of goblins the moment of dread was upon her, as her nakedness was exposed to the open plains. There wasn’t much further to walk and they only passed a few riders in the great expanse of the steppes, no one to stare at her too long.

    The goblins were becoming restless. Derk had disappeared and a giant shadow periodically swept across their convoy. At first she mistook it for a bird of prey, but the darkness of subsequent passes suggested something massive. It must have simply been a series of extremely rain-laden clouds and Derk was probably just scrounging around, looking for another stick that reached far enough to tease her from atop his wolf-mount, but as they reached the gates of the livestock market it was clear Derk wouldn’t be rejoining them. They waited another day, but eventually Ruk angrily jerked on her rope, nearly flinging her into the ditch, before she was led into the city.

    The elven lady took a deep breath as she entered the market. So it had really come to this, she would be sold off like a head of cattle. The goblins hadn’t allowed another chance for her to escape and she knew perfectly well what awaited her on the auction block. The mounted folk of the plains were particular buyers and demanded to see everything in detail. Nudity wasn’t even her primary concern. The plainsmen’s traditions alone would make it incredibly humiliating. When she arrived she was first appraised by the auctioneer and then cast into a pen. There, Ruk put her into the sort of heavy chains typical of a livestock auction. Meant to restrict nearly all movement, the chains made slaves more pliant to the auctioneers touch. The gag remained in place; from now on it would only be removed if she needed to feed and the elf had to learn how to suck the water in through the corners of her mouth.

    The auctioneer entered the pen and grabbing her by the collar dragged her out onto the block. She shuddered as he began to play with her nipples outlining their superb shape and hardness. A horse whinnied nearby as it was put through the same motions. A tear trickled down her cheek, that’s how they probably saw her—an animal to be bought and sold. The bidding began to slow as the highest bidder emerged. She had already seen what would happen next—pierced—a nod to the ancient traditions of the plains. The square had already echoed with the muffled cries of the women sold before her. One for the nose, one in each nipple, one on her belly button and last, depending on how traditional her master, one through her clitoris or at least her labia. He read her mind, moving to the last item that would entice the buyer, making a small adjustment of her chains, bending her over as to expose her to the crowd. As his sales pitch reached its final invasive push she began to buck furiously. He chuckled.

    “A spirited elf,” he exclaimed: “the discerning buyer shall well enjoy breaking her in.”

    “Indeed,” roared the clouds and suddenly the elf found herself swept up, hundreds of feet in the air; cradled in the razor-sharp talons of an enormous dragon.

Epilogue

    It's been said there is a drake that fiercly holds an elven maid and if they haven't perished hence, they live gladly to this day.