Valkurm (Final Fantasy XI, M/F, vanilla)

The sun was setting on the dunes of Valkurm.  Long shadows were cast in its dimming gaze by warriors locked in battle with the predators and prey that roamed the seashore.  The sands would run red by day, and only had time to recompose itself by night, for even the bravest parties were wary of venturing out under the light of the undead moon.

Further away from the ongoing melee sat a man near the region’s outpost, idly chewing on a bit of jerky that had to be tougher than the armor he wore.  He watched the skirmishers carry on without him. Parties would sometimes stop by and fill their ranks with the other vagrants loitering here, but they often passed on men of his expertise.  A war was being waged against the world itself, yet it had no need for actual soldiers.  No, it was a conflict that was going to be won by magic and music alone.  It made sense enough to the man.  How could steel ever compare to the arcane in a crisis like this?

This would mark the second day of idleness for the lone soldier.  It was bad enough that he wasn’t welcome in these parts already.  This region wasn’t under control by humans, which meant that he had to deal with the tall leer of the knife eared guards at the outpost as he leaned against its log walls.  Currently, there was a truce being held between all the nations of the known world in order to deal with the monsters infesting the lands, but that did not quell any past racial tension.  The man debated on either making camp again or making the trek back to the nearby fishing village to rest.  At least there were some friendly faces there.

As he was about to get up on his feet, he heard a noise to his side.  The clatter of resting armor and unburdened baggage was far too familiar to him.  He turned to see a woman, sitting with her legs carelessly sprawled out. She immediately stuck out like a sore thumb.  Those who were new to the call of war would cut their teeth on these dunes as a rite of passage.  The beasts here were too dangerous to fight alone, which necessitated the organization of hunting parties and taught the importance of coordinated skirmishes for the long campaign ahead.  She, however, could easily fit the bill of a royal guard.  Metal plates of exotic alloys adorned her body from head to toe, all shaped to give her the motif of a raging dragon.  The runic spear on her back sealed the fact that she could be nothing else but a dragoon; a member of the coveted flying knights.  What was someone like her doing here?

The woman pulled off her ornate helmet and cast it aside, revealing two long, furry ears that protruded from her bob-cut, ivory locks.  The man glanced down, expecting to see a tail to match the feline traits often sported by the people of Gha Naboh, only to see a bandaged nub protruding from the backside of her armor.  Despite the opulent state of her gear, she herself looked as if she had endured countless hardships.  Faint scars intertwined with stress lines to sculpt a tired, hollow expression across her face, further accented by her cat-like nose that sat slightly off angle due to, what he assumed, were far too many bludgeonings.  Despite all this, she was still easy on the eyes.  Most of her kind had a natural beauty that never seemed to submit to the march of time.

She reached into her right ear and produced a small, glowing pearl.  From where the soldier sat, he could hear a cacophony of voices emanating from the jewel in her hand.  Every guild employed such enchanted trinkets for communication in this day and age.  She held the shouting bauble aloft, giving it a long, empty stare before crushing it in the palm of her armored hand.  The pearl’s dust trickled out into the dunes and quickly vanished into the wind-swept sand.  She took a deep breath and then propped herself up against the ground to gaze at the ongoing combat in the setting sun.

Words failed to leave the man’s throat.  Here he sat, a new recruit adorned in second-hand bronze scales that were dented and deeply stained with blood and ichor. A battleaxe that lost its edge ages ago was strapped to his back, along with sacks filled with what few possessions he could call his own.  Gods knew when he had last bathed, or shaved for that matter.  He felt like a worthless peasant that was in the presence of a goddess.  The fishing village was screaming his name now.

The knight produced two linen bundles and sat them to her side.  One unfurled into a short stack of grilled, skewered meats kept fresh by an ice crystal that adorned the pile, while the other revealed curious little clay casks that sloshed around with a drink of some sort.  She absently reached for one of the skewers, but stiffened at the sound of someone’s growling stomach.  Slowly, she turned her head and finally acknowledged the soldier, locking eyes with him for a split moment before he cowered away into himself.  The smell of the food was driving him wild, helping not with the anxiety churning in his guts.  She gave him a quick once-over before breaking the ice.

“Want one?”

She held a skewer out to him.  Their eyes met once more.  Piercing, rusted hazel.  Her voice was raspy from age, but it felt like honey to his ears.  He couldn’t muster an answer, and simply nodded to her instead.  As he reached out for the food, he realized just how filthy his gauntlets were and quickly shuffled them off, only to find that his bare hands were no better.  He let out an exasperated sigh before gingerly gripping the very tip of the stick.  The bit of jerky that was still on his lips fell to the ground as he went in to take a bite.  He felt red enough to die.  The woman didn’t seem to mind his antics however, and went back to looking at the sunset.

“Been waitin’ out here forrr awhile, haven’t ya?”  She asked.  Her kind, regardless of status, always conducted themselves in a bluntly casual manner.  The soldier was gnawing at the bare skewer by the time she addressed him again.  It was easily the best meal of his life.  “Ye-yeah,” was all he could sputter out.

“It neva changes.  This warrr doesn’t need morrre people like us.”  She went for one of the casks and cracked its wax seal against her armored shin. The smell of pungent wine soon filled the air.  She gestured with her chin for him to take one as well.  He couldn’t quite replicate her trick with the worn-out greaves that he wore.  Instead, he used the tip of his axe to pry the lid open.  Gods knew the last time he had a proper drink.  The first sip burned like fire and left a horribly bitter aftertaste in its wake.  The knight, however, effortlessly emptied her cask in one go and chucked it aside to start on another.  She gave the man another glance over before returning to her drink.

“Ya look about rrready to move on from here.  Head to Jeuno.  Ya’ll have morrre luck therrre.”

The soldier frowned and shook his head.  “I, I can’t,” he muttered.  “I got to finish something here first.”   The knight furrowed her brow at him for a moment before wincing at the realization of what he meant. “They’rrre still makin’ people do that rrridiculous test?” she asked.  He seemed confused, but nodded solemnly.  “Rrright.  Ah know exactly what you’rrre lookin’ for.”

---

The nearby fishing village of Selbina housed a hermit; an old battle master hailing from wars that came before the grand one currently engulfing the world.  He was one of only two people left alive that could teach the art of interweaving combat vocations.  Such a skill was mandated to be known by any warrior worth their salt, and, while he would gladly take on any student that approached him, he would only ask for an offering of strange hunting spoils in exchange for his teachings: the underbelly of a crab, the stomach parasite of a giant damselfly, and-

“An undead skull,” she snorted.  “It’s a sick cycle.  The weak arrre culled at these dunes, the moon burrrings 'em back up, and then theirrr 'eads arrre taken as a token.  Bastarrrd purrrobably has a mountain of 'em by now.”  She looked back out at the sun.  One of the hunting parties surrounded a giant, bipedal lizard.  A warrior from one of the minute races was at its side, stabbing it relentlessly with her tiny sword before she finally got its attention.  The lizard then whipped around and clamped its massive jaws around her head, sending itself into a death roll that none of her companions could stop before it was too late for the girl.  It was a common sight in any battlefield of this war against the world.  Nightfall was coming.  Most of the parties were already making camp while the ones desperate to complete their rite waited for the dead to rise once more.

The knight packed up her impromptu picnic and put her helmet back on with a sigh. “Ya won’t have much luck gettin’ the skull out herrre, purrriah,” she said, “but I know a place nearrrby wherrre we could scrrrounge one up without any trrrouble.  What do ya say?”  She stood up and reached her hand out to the man.  Her face shone a small smile in the last few blood-red rays of the sun.  How could he say no?  He finished the remainder of his cask with a grimace, and took her offer.  Her grip was like iron, pulling him up to his feet as if he weighed nothing at all.

“I don’t even know your name,” the soldier said.

She paused.  His hand was still firmly in hers.

“Yehna, of Windurrrst.  And yourrrs?”

“Johannes, of Bastok.”

“John,” she rolled the name around in her head.  “We’ll need ta marrrch thrrrough the highlands a bit ta rrreach the spot.  Follow my lead.”  She finally let go and strode off to the north, casting a long shadow in her wake.  The soldier followed suit.  He could process this turn of events later.

---

The moon was full that night.  No torch or lantern was needed to guide the two through the old overgrown path they took.  John was slowly lagging behind the pace that Yehna had set.  He couldn’t help but let his gaze wander towards the knight’s legs.  Her kind’s eternal aversion towards wearing proper slacks gave him a perfect view of how immensely toned her thighs were.  They made sense to him.  The dragoons were originally formed to fight like the dragons that used to rule over the skies, and the knights only managed to achieve this by learning how to leap to dizzying heights.  Her stride, however, seemed a bit different than the other felines.  It lacked their usual sway that caught the eyes of passersby, no doubt due to her lack of a tail.  Or, perhaps she was just drunk.  John felt tipsy from the single cask that he had earlier.  Many questions swirled in his head, and some of them managed to escape his mouth as they trekked onwards.

“So, what brought someone like you to the dunes?”

There was a very brief halt in her gait before she continued. “Nostalgia,” she replied.  He waited for her to elaborate.

“It neverrr gets easierrr, John.”  Heavy pauses buffered her statements.  “Valkurm is awful, but it’s simple.  Ya don’t even need rrreal tactics out there.  Just a buncha clods whackin’ wildlife all day.  If only ya knew how complex the rrrest of the warrr is like.”

“But, it’s all worth it, right?   The war’s been going on for as long as I can remember.”

His words were met with a snort.

“Surrre, surrre.  Look ahead.”  There was a pale blue light emanating from a rocky alcove in the distance. “We’rrre almost therrre.”

“Could I ask you something else?”  She gave him a shrug.

“Did something happen to your wyvern?”  Even he knew that all Dragoons were supposed to have a draconic familiar with them.

“He’s dead.”  Her words were curt.  She turned around and their eyes met once more.  He could scarcely take her gaze for very long.  “He and half of my ol' company arrre dead.  I messed up bad, John.”  The faint smile from before still hung on her weathered face.  “You an' I arrre both purrriahs now.”

What originally looked like a cave to John was actually an old mine of Bastokian design.  Judging from the rot and webs, it must have been abandoned for quite some time.  Yehna was about to head in, but then she stopped and slapped her helmet.  “Rrright,” she said, “we got ta get ya squared off.”

From a pouch on her belt she produced a vial and a small silk bag.  She held them up to John.  “Have ya used these beforrre?” she asked.  They looked vaguely familiar, but he shook his head. “Alrrright, listen.  Lemme take the lead in here, an’ don’t do any herrroics.  If things get bad, rrrub this oil on yourrr armor, empty the bag on yourrr head, an’ rrrun.  Got it?”  He blinked dumbly, and then nodded. “Also,” she handed him a second vial, “go ahead and rrrub that one on yourrrself.”

“What is it?”

“Deodorant.  You rrreek, John.”  She held her crooked nose and went into the mine.  Redness flushed over him once more.

---

“How’d you find out about this place?” John asked.  Old arcana still kept the mineshafts lit well enough for the two to walk through them without any difficulty.

“I had help gettin' my skull, too.  Came acrrross one of those templarrr types at the dunes; a real knight errrant.  He hearrrd these mines werrre currrsed an’ wanted ta purge it for training, so helpin’ me out was killin' two birrrds with one stone.  He didn’t even want my rrreward for it.”

“What did you offer him?”

“Well,” she sauntered up to a wall and braced herself against it with one hand. “I took the skull, gave him my hearrrtfelt thanks, an’ then,” her free hand pulled her silken subligar aside and she cast a svelte look to her companion, “I told him t’ take his pick.”

John balked.  He couldn’t help but notice how smooth her thighs were before, but it seemed like she kept everything shaved below her waist.  The look on his face was priceless to her, and her laughter echoed through the mine as she tucked her subligar back into place.  “Can ya believe he said no to that?  Chivalrrry, I swearrr.”

How could she be so casual here?  A faint bout of rattling from deeper within the mines answered her racket.  Yehna readied her spear, while John cautiously reached for his axe.  The day had been a whirlwind to the recruit, but for the moment he was just more than thankful that his armor kept his primal desires concealed.  “Rrremember,” She said, “No herrroics.”

With that, they stepped out of the shaft and found themselves in a grand clearing.  Rotted gazebos stood in the carved out pit, housing old tools, crates, and cots.  The mine’s original base of operations was clearly stationed here, and its miners and soldiers still kept at their tasks, their efforts now being poor caricatures of what they used to do among the living.  Yehna took a deep breath, and hurled out a roar mightier than anything a lion could ever produce.  The roof shuddered, its supports groaned, and all empty eyes slowly turned to her.  John stayed near the entrance.  Going into the resulting fray would be suicide, surely.  How was she going to fight skeletons with a spear, anyway?

His question would be answered with a ringing clang.  Yehna swung her spear like a club at the first ghoul that approached her, rendering it into dust with a single graceless blow.  Two more came upon her with picks, yet neither could land a solid blow on her writhing form.  She reared up and kicked one of them square in the ribs, sending it flying across the cavern and splattering into countless pieces upon impact with a wall.  With a precise thrust, she entangled the other’s spine upon her spear and hoisted it into the air.  The horde was starting to clump up, but this wasn’t a cause of concern to her.  She leapt up and slung her captured prey into the crowd like a horrid ballista, creating a parting of dust through the center of the masses.

Astonishing as this all was, John noticed that she wasn’t leaving even a scrap of a cadaver left to be claimed as spoils, much less a fully-intact skull.  The ghouls had been reduced to the single digits now.  Yehna tangoed with a sentry, easily sidestepping its wild blows.  Switching to a more refined stance, she aimed for its shoulder and prodded its weapon arm out of its socket with a single stab.  The crippled thing was twirled towards John with another prod before being shoved to him.  “All yourrrs!” she shouted, before going back to the rest of her prey.

John gritted his teeth.  He had never fought the undead before, nor had he ever decapitated someone.  Deep breaths.  He now noticed just how stale the air was here.  The ghouls seemed to crumble easily enough to her blows.  Even if his axe was dull, a hard enough strike should sever what remained of its neck.  John wound up, sent the blade flying, and-

Crack.  Too diagonal.  His axe was now firmly lodged in the ghoul’s collar bone.  The fiend closed the distance quickly, using its remaining hand to latch firmly onto John’s throat.  The recruit cursed himself for opting out of buying a proper gorget.  In a quick fit of imitation, John sent a clumsy kick at the skeleton.  He wasn’t limber enough to reach its chest, but he managed to land the blow in its pelvis, knocking its legs out of place and sending the ghoul to the floor.  Its arm became dislodged as well, but it did not release its grip on John. The world was starting to spin.  He planted a foot on the skeleton’s spine and frantically tried to leverage his axe back out again.  He almost hit himself with the blasted thing once it came loose.  Deep breaths.  Can’t breathe.  The ghoul had not a limb to its name anymore.  With one more attempt, John brought his axe down, and with a snap, its skull was finally his.

John fell to his knees.  His hands shot to the boney digits still wrapped around his neck.  There was no magic manipulating them now, but ancient rigor mortis had stiffened the joints into place.  “John!” he heard Yehna shout.  He strained to lift his head towards her, only to see another ghoul towering above him, arching its club directly towards his face.

---

This wasn’t John’s first brush with death.  Being in the face of foes as a profession would naturally lead one to seeing flashes of the reaper out of the corner of their eyes, watching. Waiting.  And now, death wasn’t bothering to hide anymore.  Its shadowy form was the only thing that filled his fading vision.  John’s time had come.

The sensation of choking still persisted in the dying embers of his mind. He opened his mouth, only to be greeted by a foul deluge.  His nose was clogged, though he swore he could smell faint notes of grilled meat and bitter wine through it.  Reminiscence. An impromptu picnic with a stranger.  It was such a casual event, something that no one would linger on, yet he cherished it to a ridiculous degree.  He had lived a commoner’s life up to this point, and then he got to travel with a hardened hero right before his end.   He clung onto that memory desperately as the void crept in slowly around him.

And the memory clung back, its iron-like grip keeping him just above the surface.  It felt like he was frozen in this moment for ages.  He tried to breathe once more, and this time, something indescribably pleasant ran down his throat.  Suddenly, he was jettisoned from the void. There was a droning, sawing noise growing in his ears.  His synapses screamed and sensations returned. The shock of everything reactivating at once forced a gasp out of him, and with that, John woke up.

---

Deep breaths.  His lungs worked once more, but it was difficult to get air down his clotted sinuses.  John found himself on one of the decrepit cots that he spotted before the brawl took place.  He shuffled his hands out of his gauntlets and reached up to touch his face, expecting it to be a caved-in mess.  Surprisingly, nothing felt too out of order, other than his nose feeling slightly loose.  Small bundles of linen had been shoved into his nostrils.  Removing them revealed that they were completely soaked through with blood.  He must have bled like a geyser, judging from how much of the stuff now coated his chin, neck, and half of his chest piece. The sour taste of tinctures lingered on his lips, along with an enigmatically wonderful flavor.  Medicines, perhaps?  That must be why he felt so great despite his body indicating otherwise.

The sawing noise filled his ears again.  He turned towards the source of the awful racket, only the see Yehna slumped against his cot, snoring.  Her helmet was off again, and surrounding her were piles of empty wine casks.  Among the vessels were a vial and an immensely fancy-looking crystal vase.  He leaned towards one of her ears to call out her name, though his attempt sounded more like the gurgling of the undead that they just fought.  No response.  The reek of alcohol now masked the faint notes of tropical perfume and fresh sweat that coated her before.  She was out cold.

How much time had passed since he had fallen unconscious?  John debated on waiting for Yehna to wake up, but then noticed something odd happening where the horde had been laid to rest once more.  Bit by bit, the chips and shrapnel that had been scattered from the fight began to congregate into numerous little piles of bone.  Out of those, feet were formed, and the rest of their legs slowly manifested on top of them.  The skull that John had claimed earlier was by his cot, and it too tried to crawl back to its former body.  It was quickly stuffed into a pouch on John’s belt along with the rest of his trial’s spoils.  They needed to leave, now.

John crawled out of his cot and strapped Yehna’s helmet back on her head.  He then scooped her up in his arms, mulling for a moment over how light she felt despite being in her full regalia.  Didn’t she say something about applying oils and powders to evade situations like this?  It’s not like it mattered now.  Her snoring was a blaring alarm to their position anyway.  He ran.  Clattering bones were hot on his heels.  His muscles screamed to deafened nerves.  He just had to make it to the entrance and pray-

-For daylight.  The undead cowered from its burning rays.  John kept running.  Potential threats were everywhere.  Wandering goblins would stop and stare as he strode by, and he swore he could hear the clinking of their tiny boots behind him.  A few more miles.  Peat eventually turned to sand.  He was in the dunes once more, passing by parties that passed on him just the other day.  He took a left at the outpost and about lost his footing as he rounded towards the entrance to Selbina.  Home free.  The last set of stairs to the only tavern in town finally got the better of John, sending him flying through the front door.  He spun and landed on his back, clinging tightly onto Yehna to protect her from the impact.  “Johnny?”  The old knife ear at the counter asked.  He wasn’t sure if the bloodied, bleary-eyed mess on the floor was the same human patron that had visited frequently over the last couple of weeks.

The tavern was typically devoid of customers during this time of day, leaving only the various merchants that peddled their goods in the corners of the tiny building.  Thus, the only bed in the establishment for travelers was currently vacant.  John sprung back up and carefully laid Yehna on top of it before shuffling back over to the counter.  He took out his wallet and placed it in front of the bartender, who had preemptively drawn up a mug for the soldier.  All eyes were on him.  John slammed the drink down and finally spoke:

“Keep an eye on her.”

He then left as quickly as he arrived.

---

For the hermit, passing on his teachings was routine.  Every day, at least one fresh face would come to greet him.  He would say some pleasantries and then send them off on a seemingly pointless errand in the dunes.  Sometimes they’d come back in one piece.  Other times, their sun-bleached skulls would be handed back to him by other would-be students.  Nothing fazed him at this point, or so he thought.

On this perfect, sunny day, a man-like thing stood before him.  It was a being frayed beyond recognition, unkempt and foul and smeared with blood.  In its wretched hands were a skull, a crab shell, and a rotting clump of worms.  It then placed the rubbish in a little pile in front of him and kneeled in anticipation for the lesson.  The hermit blinked at the sight, then coughed a little before returning to form.

He muttered a little spell, and the pile of spoils burst into flames.  He didn’t need to tell the fool to stare at it.  The hermit then held his hand in front of its face, and snapped his fingers.

---

John blinked.  There was now a pile of ashes in front of them. The sun was setting and the hermit was gone.  His head was pulsing with newfound knowledge.  He got back up on his feet and shambled over to the tavern once more.  It sounded like the evening crowd had arrived.  Just as he was about to enter, the old bartender stuck his head out of one of the nearby windows.  “A bath’s been drawn for you in the back, Johnny.  Clean up before you scare off my customers!” he shouted.  John didn’t argue.

The rear courtyard of the building was butted against a cliff, providing one of the few areas of privacy in town.  There he found a tub, a bucket, and a bench topped with wine bottles and grooming supplies.  The soldier sat down and necked one of the bottles immediately. Did Yehna set all this up for him?  Where was she?  His heart wouldn’t stop racing, and thinking about her didn’t help that issue any.  A bath would be perfect right now.  He quickly stripped out of his armor, and debated on whether any of it was salvageable at this point.  What bronze scales were left attached were bent and paper-thin from wear, and no amount of vinegar and scrubbing would ever get the stench of rot out of the soggy leather lining.  If he was ever going to have a chance at joining another party, he definitely needed a new set of armor.  Yet, he had not a single coin to his name now.  Maybe he needed a break; find some odd jobs to do.  It was not uncommon to see other soldiers pick up a trade for funds as the war provided barely any provisions or pay for its conscripts.

The tub’s water was lukewarm.  He must have been in that hermit’s trance for a few hours, it seemed.  He filled the bucket and got a razor and mirror ready.  He could barely make his face out in the dull reflection of the leaded glass, but he looked like he had been dead for a week.  His skin had been thoroughly burnt from the sun, and his beard was caked stiff from various humors.  What did people think when they saw him running around with someone like Yehna in his arms?  Why did she get so bent out of shape over potentially losing him?  They had only just met yesterday. Questions upon questions piled up in his mind.

As he shaved, he half-debated on going bald, but eventually decided that everything beside his mane had to go.  He was starting anew.  Could he even ask Yehna about how she managed to keep her skin so smooth?  Was she still asleep?  His body was completely covered in nicks by the time he was done.  He lathered up a second time, rinsed, and eased himself into the tub.  Being idle felt alien to him.

Night had arrived once more.  The angle of the building and the cliff blocked much of the moonlight in the tiny courtyard.  John closed his eyes and tried to process the whirlwind of events that had engulfed his life over the last two days.  He was broke, battered, and had only old civilian clothes to his name.  Maybe he could sell off his axe to fund a trip back home, pick up a proper trade there.  Bastok was the center of the industrial revolution, after all.  His nation didn’t mind people retreating from the front lines as long as they were still supporting the fight by some logistical means.

Footsteps.  John couldn’t see who it was, but the clatter of armor on the sand was unmistakable to him.  “Didn’t I say no heroics?” Yehna asked.  A rag and a bar of soap collided against John’s head.  She circled around to the other end of the tub, dipped a finger into the water, and recoiled.  A moment later, she produced a fire crystal from one of her pouches and threw it into the water.  Steam began to rise into the night sky.  She then slunk into the tub with him, sending a bit of water over the edge.  Glass clinked against its wooden rim.  She must have grabbed the other wine bottle. Their knees brushed against each other, and John felt his heart skip a beat.

“Ya look terrible, purrriah.”

Of course.  Her feral eyes probably had no problem with seeing in the dark.  He tried to hide his face, only to feel a hand come up under his chin.  Supple iron.  She was close.  He could feel her breath against his skin as she turned his head about.  The scent of wine was strong.  “Keep the bearrrd next time around.  Ya look too soft without it,” she said, before withdrawing to her side of the tub.  “Now then, ya owe me a favor.”

“Huh?”

“Do ya have any idea how much that ambrrrosia was worth?  Millions, John!  You’rrre lucky I was saving some forrr a rrrainy day.”

So that’s what was flowing through his veins.  John looked away once more.

“Why did you waste that on me?”

She snorted and leaned further back against the tub. Her legs kept rubbing against his.  He had never been this close to a woman before, much less in a situation like this.

“I wouldn’t be much of a knight if I couldn’t save at least one parrrtnerrr of mine, John. Anyway,” she prodded at the rag that she threw at him with her foot, “give me a scrrrub, why don’t ya?”

If only he could have seen the fang-filled grin she was beaming at him.  John didn’t know where to even start. He thought people usually presented their backs for communal washings, but she was still facing him as before.  With a lathered rag, he started on her shoulders and arms.  She was letting him handle her as he pleased.  He found himself enamored with the old injuries that traced across her body.  There were bite wounds, bullet holes, burns, and swollen scars dotting wherever his fingers fell on her skin. Hesitation overcame him as he got to her chest.  It was not from shyness, but the horror of how much flesh was absent from her.  Even most of her ribs were missing.  Why was she still fighting in this condition?  How was she still fighting?  Yehna was, for once, a bit thrown off.  She usually got a kick out of seeing people recoil from the sight of her body, but this time she was greeted with tears from the young man before her.

“How did this happen to you?” John asked.

Yehna took a long drink from her bottle before she responded.  “Do ya know how one becomes a Drrragoon?”  John shook his head.  “Ya gotta tango with a drrragon and rrreceive its blessin’.  Even airrrships would drop outta the sky if the drrragons didn’t want em up therrre.  So, I picked a fight with a fierrry type, and guess who got too cocky once the bastarrrd was earrrthbound?”  She swirled her wine around idly.  “Bein’ wrrreathed in firrre was good enough for the rrrite, I guess.”  Her humor from before had completely drained from her face.

“Tell me I’m disgustin’, John.”

In a second curve ball, he responded with a kiss.  It was awkward, and clumsy, and she had to hold back a laugh from the effort.  “Close yourrr eyes when ya do it, cherrryboy,” she managed to say before dropping her bottle into the sand and wrapping her arms around him.  She leaned him back and slowly straddled his waist.  He had been ready to go the moment she got into the tub, but she did admire, briefly, the restraint John had up until now.

His heart was pounding out of his chest.  He was going to be disappointing, surely.  She pulled back from his lips and began to guide his modest member into herself.  It was going to be two thrusts and a lifetime of shame.  The tip finally hit the mark.  Five seconds, at most.  It was a miracle he didn’t already let loose. Slowly, they became one.  Yehna let out a soft purr into his ear as she adjusted to his size.   John didn’t know what to do.  Her vice-like grip, no doubt a side effect of her impressive physique, pulsated and squeezed his mast with her every move.

He should have been melting from pleasure, yet, he was strangely numb to the sensations.  It must have been the ambrosia, he thought.  Taking advantage of this fact, he tried to buck his hips, only to be pulverized by her own as she began to ride him.  Grace was thrown out the window; it had been too long since she was with another man.  She expected a quick climax from him, and planned to reach her own on the second round, yet here he was, enduring her assault like a seasoned lover.  Water sloshed around with each thrust alongside her guttural growls, all of which were thankfully drowned out by the tavern’s bard ensemble.  Eventually she stiffened, clenching her teeth as she dug her nails into John’s shoulders.  That old rush shot through her spine and flushed through her every nerve.  She had lost to a rookie.

John let her catch her breath.  He was afraid to make an aggressive move with her wounds in mind.   Once she released her grip on his shoulders, he reached for her hands, and slowly interlocked his digits with her own.  Yehna couldn’t help but laugh at the sappy effort.  The balance he offered let her easily grind at his pelvis for awhile before picking up her pace once more.  It didn’t take long for her to climax again, and again, while John was left wondering if he should be worried about the growing numbness in his legs.  By the fifth round, she collapsed against his chest and fruitlessly groped around the outside of the tub for her bottle.  “Just, just do what ya need ta finish up, John.  I can take it.” she mewled.

Instinct took over, and John pressed Yehna against the tub’s inner walls in an attempt to be in charge.  Much of the water was gone, leaving only the soft clapping of muscles on muscles to filter through the tavern’s music.  There was a nagging feeling in the back of his mind that he was forgetting a crucial bit of advice.  Yehna locked her legs around him as she stiffened once more, and that was finally enough to bring him to his own climax.  It felt like his very soul was being coaxed out of him with each crushing shudder of hers.

And at that moment, the ambrosia had finally run its course.  The strain, the pain, everything came rushing back to him at once.  John blacked out.

---

A rocking feeling alongside mild nausea brought John back from his dreamless brink.  Everything hurt.  He opened his eyes to find himself in unfamiliar territory.  It was a hull of sorts.  Cargo crates were stacked high, and smaller piles of freight were sat upon by the traveling merchants that owned them.  His armor was gone, and in its place were his old civilian garments.

“Yerrr a lot heavierrr than ya look, purriah.”

Yehna was sitting by his side in full regalia sans her helmet.  Next to her were an assortment of wines, rusks, and hard cheeses.  She motioned for John to help himself, which he didn’t hesitate to do.  It felt like he hadn’t eaten in ages.  Yehna grinned at the sight at someone so uncouth devouring such a regal meal.

“Always nice ta see someone enjoying my crrraft.  We’rrre on a course towards Windurrrst, by the way.”

John blinked.  “You’re a chef?” he asked.  Yehna cracked open another cask before responding.  “And a distiller, before the war, anyway.  I was thinkin’ of gettin’ back into all that once I’m home again.”  John rolled the information around a bit in his sleepy mind.  “Why did you bring me along?”

“Why do ya think?  Ya doubled down on your debt to me last night.”

“Huh?”

Yehna rubbed her stomach gingerly.  “You’rrre a rrreal brrrute, John.  Absolutely no mannerrrs at all.  We’rrre getting hitched the moment we rrreach shore.”

A cold sweat broke over John’s face.  He didn’t pull out.  That’s what he forgot to do.  He began to stammer out an excuse, but Yehna then broke into laughter.  “I’m kiddin’.  I’m too old to bearrr childrrren anyway.”  Her smile faltered for a moment.  “I figurrred ya could be my apprrrentice in the kitchen for a bit ta pay me back.  How’s that sound?”

John grinned like a daft child.  “Sure!” he replied.  Yehna gave him a peck on the cheek and returned to her drink.  He would probably go off on his own eventually, either to join the frontline again or find a woman that was more befitting than a weathered battleaxe like her.  But for now, she thought, this was a welcome change of pace for both of them.  The war could wait.  She knew too well that it wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.