Alternative Payments

                                                     - Alternative Payments -


You stand over the defaced cobblestone, - ...ten, nine... - , ears perked, both at your back and your front, they are coming, and you know it, the heavy footsteps of ironclad boots and the rattling of steel plates a dead giveaway – ...eight, seven... – even though the chittering and trembling of the clanrats at your rear is distracting, you know for sure – ...six, five... – that’s not the worst of it, is their musk of fear, acrid and pungent, but you won’t let it distract you – ...four, three... – you balance your daggers casually on your fingers, in full view of the assembled bunch of rag tags at your back, ready to let loose at any second – ...two, one. –

Daggers fly across the pungent and damp air, their trail easily visible on the fetid veins of the under-empire. They strike true, not flesh, but fabric, dangling from the roof, five greenish orbs, full of vile miasma come crashing down on the rabid beard-things, poisoned wind globes, wondrous little things. The charging short-things stop dead in their tracks, panic settling in, but you know it might as well not be enough. You need to make sure, you always make sure.

Inhaling deeply a fresh mouthful of air, you raise the hem of your cloak, shielding your snout of the noxious fumes, and so you leap into the thick of it. The poor things don’t stand a chance. You pounce barrelling into their standard bearer, knocking him into the cold stone. You grip your knife tightly in your paw, a descending slash motion enough to slice his throat clean off. You don’t let it rest however, you spin with your own momentum, using it to block the axe coming your way, the slash is weak, and you held it in place, pinned, long enough for your other hand to find his eyes, the only opening in his armour. It takes but an ounce of pressure, but your other dagger stabs true, sinking deeply into his skull, useless as a warrior, but useful as a shield. It might not be the best grasping point, but carrying him by the hilt of your dagger, you use his corpulent mass to shelter behind a vengeful downward slash from your next mark, his axe, lodging deeply into the flesh of his brethren gives you the opening you need. Without letting go of your improvised shield, you stab forward and yank hard back, on a split second, he lets go of his weapon, his hands now grabbing his throat – no use, your are dead-dead – you think to yourself, as you plant your left feet on the chest of your improvised shield, and propel him violently forward, using the momentum to yank the dagger in your left paw free of his head, you rotate them, both of them, now each of the tips facing behind you. You heard them, closing in behind you, who do they think they are? Your left finds his forehead, sinking the full length, your right, finds his companion’s armpit. When they raise their axes to hack you to pieces, that part always is left exposed, foolish beard-things. It’s not enough for both however, as the one you punctured through his armpit lets go of one axe and tries to strike you with the other, you let go of the dagger sunk in the dawi’s head, - too hard to pull-take out, yes-yes –. It gives you the right window of opportunity to pivot your whole body sideways, your tail grabbing at his heavy metal boots. And then you yank hard, sending him careening into the hard floor, face first into the cobblestone, he is done for. With both hands you push your remaining dagger into the back of his neck, lunging for it, sinking it deep into his flesh, and then you rotate it. You can hear that satisfying pop of the vertebrae coming apart, he doesn’t even scream – Too fast for you-you, beard-thing? – you chitter merrily to unhearing ears, what a waste, but in death, his bloated form makes for a respectable perch, not quite stable, but high enough for you to get a vantage point. Ah you even have time to spare, the rear of the formation, still reeling from your improvised projectile. You screech loud enough for them to finally take notice.  – Af Doh Bolk Boki, Dok-Dok! – That seems to get their attention quick enough, you have all of them gazing upwards, exposing their unarmoured necks to you. And just like that, they sealed their fates, triangles of steel dancing through the damp air, hitting their marks one after the other. None stand for long, they all drop dead scant heartbeats from one another. It was rather simple all in all, you remind yourself to add to the fees, a dozen dwarf-things, can’t let your work go unpaid for, can we? Finally you renew you breathing, slowly at first, without gasping for air, can’t let these cravens behind you think such a spar would tire you.

You then go about reclaiming your tools of death, a star here, a dagger there, and then you hear it. You yank the dagger backwards, repositioning it mid stab, catching the filthy traitor in the gut. At that the rest stop, petrified, if there was any musk of fear left in their filthy hides, now they are all but bereft of it. – Sneekkit no fool-fool, you fool-fool, Sneekkit can hear-smell you-you. – You say while angrily stabbing a finger at the nose of your assailant, a scrawny little thing, bigger than you, but malnourished beyond salvation. Thought that he could catch you unaware, did he? – No-no, Sneekkit too smart-wise, you don’t catch unawares. – You toss him back to the arms of his companions – Feed-feast. –
That should provide them with a distraction while you go about your bonuses, a bit of gromril, useless, a bit chainmail, meh, axes, axes, axes, useless!  – Oh yes-yes! – You find it in a horn, hopefully intact, but your nose doesn’t deceive you, Grizdal! Sweet and fruity, you take a gentle sip, not enough to put you off, but enough to make the tip of your tail curl. Can’t let it cloud your senses, there’s still work to do. You take the horn and fasten it to your belt, safely hidden beneath your cloak. Turning to your questionable escorts you merrily squeak – Come-come, eat-feast, fresh dwarf-things! – You don’t think you ever saw more adoration in the eyes of your own kin, they all readily drop what little remains of that traitor filth, and swarm over the freshly laid meat upon them. Must have been ages since they tasted meat, you think. You don’t partake, not really your meat of choice to be honest, a bit too fat, you think to yourself, as you watch the clanrats feast on the fallen dawi. With not too much guilt you take from your pouch some smoked Reik eel, diced and sliced, seasoned and spiced, you enjoy is as much as these vermin enjoy their meal.

Not waiting for them to finish, you stroll down the winding and narrow path, you destination not yet fully clear, as the cogs and gears of your mind start to spin and unravel a myriad of schemes, each more promising than the last. Finally you plan set in stone, you emerge from the tunnel, lightly guarded, you are greeted to the shouts of Thaggoraki. A smile creeping into your muzzle, you can already smell your target, a swing to your step, you let your metal stars loose, miners and guards falling to the ground alike. A merry tune in your snout as they drop dead, the poison coating your blades making fast work of them - The undertaker, he was there, all wrapped-hidden up in a shroud, swinging-spinning from the chandelier, and marking the crowd… –

And then it is there, right in front of you, black powder. You line the barrels up and roll them with a kick, following the trail of death you left behind all the way back to the crooked entrance from which you came - ...singing balls to your partner, your tail against the wall, if ya never been had on a Hexensnacht, ya never been had at all! –

You set some fuses with some braided beards, and some oil lamp, cut them to size, should give you plenty of time, you can already hear the thumps and roars of the second wave, coming to avenge the first, so you hurry your pace.

At the sight of your escort, you settle for a calm pace, have to make it look casual, these wretched filth are held at bay by fear, can’t give them an opening.

 – Sneekkit is done-finished, here -

- What-what? You sure-certain? – chitters one while enthusiastically gnawing on a dwarven thigh.

Two, one. The tunnel shakes and rocks, the shockwave enough to knock those few standing to the floor, face first into the cold stone. Not you though, you endure the blast, as it passes through your body, making your ears ring, your head spin, and your innards churn, it isn’t the first time something has exploded near you, either by your design or the carelessness of others, having served as an agent for clan Skryre has gotten you used to it. As you catch a glimpse of the utterly collapsed tunnel behind you, you face your small inquisitive companion and reiterate your claim.

- Yes-yes, very-very sure. Now take me to your seer-thing. –

It most certainly has been a very thorough job for the pay you accepted. Dealing with a dawi incursion into the under-empire, while taking a score of their warriors and labourers, detonating their armoury, ruining a sizeable amount of their gear, defacing some statues as well as collapsing a whole mine atop them? That would be a very long grudge for them to write down, hopefully you are no fool, and your execution was flawless, - yes-yes, they’ll think it twice before they make-try an attempt against any wealthy client, hopefully a returning client, hopefully not a dead client, after all, he can’t be smarter that a beard-thing, making his warren so so so very close-near to Karaz-Grimstok – You mind a whirlwind of ideas, in fact, you’d not be surprised if the tunnel that breached the lower holds wasn’t going into them, rather than coming from them, - Hmmmm – you ponder aloud, walking at a relaxed phase across the winding and twisting tunnels of the warren, one paw to your daggers, and other to your horn of Grizdal, lest someone dares to grab it. They don’t however, emaciated as they are, you have no qualms about strolling right through their midst, much less speak your mind out to them, even their stormvermins look lanky and famished. Most just part and make way, not kneeling, precisely, but eyeing you warily, some even exposing their throats to you, it feels nice for a change. Alas, as you were enjoying your stroll, you find yourself face to face with your client, the entrance to his personal dwellings is simple, yet elegant, two oaken great doors, incrusted into the stone, simple iron hinges keeping them from falling apart regardless of the rust they are coated with, from ages of disrepair, they still hold fast.

You take into your surroundings for good measure, a pile of linens and furs dominate the back of the warren, stacked unevenly to make for a comfy bedding, banners decorate the barren walls, few and far between, mostly unkempt and ragged, with clan markings you don’t even care to remember. Furniture is even rarer, a simple wooden table, its legs cut to size, to accommodate the small grey-seer, battered crates with linens atop them making for makeshift seats. On one of them sits your client, grey-seer Vaskrits. Clad in robes made of... linen... emblazoned with runes exaggerating his prowess as a grand magician, glittering medallions... made of copper, emblazoned with his clan’s markings, adorn his chest. A magnificent skullcap polished to a gleam made of... iron... adorns his visage, his horns barely protruding to the side. An imposing... quarterstaff with... a petty shard of warpstone cresting a wooden triangle, is being held in his paws, held almost too tightly, his knuckles going white. He is not alone however, five “ stormvermin “ clad in leather armour make his honour guard, one to each of his flanks, two at each side of the entrance and one on the back, holding a dwarven crossbow, too heavy for him to properly shoulder. You place between your fingers, five metal stars, small enough not to be seen, and deadly enough to deter them from trying anything funny.
- It is done? Yes-Yes? –
- The beard-things are defeated, their armoury is gone-gone, their warriors, dead-dead, and their filthy-dirty tunnel is no more. –

- You sure-certain, yes? – Asks the seer narrowing his eyes at you, his expression sour, because he is not being paid deference. If he wasn’t so small, you’d not even lower you muzzle.
- You can ask-question your “warriors”, yes-yes, job is done-finished, very-very. Now you pay-pay, yes? –
The seer skitters to one corner, his paws happily clapping together at the prospect of being rid of both you and the dawi. Producing a diminutive burlap sack, the jingle of warptokens inside it making you instinctually lick your teeth. Until from it falls... twelve measly warptokens...

You stare at Vaskrits, poison and daggers dripping from your eyes, his smile slowly melting away.

- What-what? –

- Payment not enough, seer-thing. –

He looks at you with an expression of utter disgust, was he expecting praise for twelve measly warptokens, after the stunt you pulled off?

- You dare betray-cross me-me Eshin-thing?! Guards murder kill-kill! -

You sigh at their idiocy, in one swift motion you let loose a whirlwind of metal, one catching the string of the dwarven crossbow, making its payload fall uselessly to the ground. Two whistling inches away from the guards at the door, severing whiskers and lodging themselves in the wooden frames behind them. To the ones in front of you, by Vaskrits, the deadly metal stars scratch their necks, to either side, barely enough to draw a trickle of blood, both shurikens striking true, each one lodging themselves in the centre of the banners at their backs. In their moment of surprise you grab the quarterstaff, yanking if free from the seer’s diminutive paws. The musk of fear invades the room, his honour guard wide eyed, drop to the floor, a snarl keeping them pinned in place, undamaged if not for their pride, they kneel, trembling, you have proven your point.

- Pay not enough, now you pay-pay me-me! – You screech to the seer, grabbing him by the hem of his cloak, his square medallions rattling noisily out of the sudden motion.

- No-no wait-wait, I pay-pay, yes-yes I PAY-PAY, oh most talented of agents! -

You narrow your eyes at him, holding him close to you muzzle, you can smell his musk of fear, even stronger than that of his warriors now that he hangs from your grip, a dagger firmly poised at his gut. – What do you offer-have? –

- You can have slave-things, yes-yes! Many-many! -

You look at the guards, then at him, then again at the guards, then again at him...

- No-no? – Vaskrits squeals in you grip, petrified as you apply but an ounce of pressure to his gut.

- Blessings of the horned one! Many-many blessings, most blessings! –

You shake your head, thinking back of when you tripped a seer in Skavenblight, making him fall face first into the pillar of commandments, ending his life in a plume of black smoke, leaving but bones behind, no one suspecting a thing. One of your cleanest kills matter of factly, so much that even the horned one laughed at it. You have been gracefully lucky so far.

The seer panics in your grip, his mind racing for something to entice you, for anything to stave off the blade at his gut, pressing ever so slightly, ever so forward.

- Wait-wait! You want to breed-mate, yes-yes?! -

You ears perk at that proposal, certainly enticing, so much that in your contemplation you drop Vaskrits who falls to the floor with a whine.
- Ooooh, yes-yes. – You nod enthusiastically, not a bad payment at all.

The path to the breeding chamber is long and winding, a spiral descending into the bowels of the earth, you eyes and ears perked and peeled at the prospect of further betrayal. Vaskrits marching begrudgingly at your front, in case he tries to fool you, again. Finally the corridor widens enough, to reveal a grand chamber, scores of nurses making way to allow you a glimpse of your coveted prize. Your nose twitching at the scent of breeder musk, your muscles tensing, you mouth watering, your mind racing at how they should be the ones paying you to breed them a whole clawpack of jet black assassins, but eh details.

- Here-there you can choose-take any you want! – Proclaims the grey-seer, breaking your line of thought, arms spread wide as if to exalt the view.

The sight is... discouraging... two bloated masses of flesh, sickly and crippled, whimpering to no end. You think that if you stuck it in there, you’d probably catch Kruts, in fact, just looking at them might give you eye rot...

The grey seer chitters and claps his paws, awaiting your choice, exited at the prospect of saving his hide, scoring a litter of something other than sickly vermin, and keeping his meagre stash of warptokens intact. It comes as a crushing defeat when you look at him, an expression of disgust in your face, and an eyebrow raised as high as your features would allow. If he wasn’t already white, he would have gone pale by looking at you. Still, the smell is enticing... if only... oh... now that would be most certainly a good payment. You mind explodes into action, schemes multiplying and spreading like the black death, yes... yes, it will do.

- I still want to mate-mate, but not with these, no-no... – you announce, you voice low as a whisper.

The seer stares at you, squinting his eyes, scanning your features for a hint or clue as what you mean exactly. You can almost see his mind folding and collapsing into itself, the strain evident in his features. It’s almost comical to look at him trying to decipher your intent, almost too much, paw to his chin and all. It is only after some paw gestures on your part and some whispers from a nurse that it dawns on him.

- Oh... oh... that... yes-yes, I shall prepare our bestest, yes? –

- I want-want exotic, yes-yes. –

After another long ascent, you are back into the seer’s chamber, presented with a wide array, of your kin, most are... what you already saw, lanky, emaciated wretches, some in fact are even his honour guard, looking at you with disdain and fear... You take your paws to your temples and rub them profusely, a long sigh drawing from your snout, this won’t do.
You order them all out, with a throaty screech, much to Vaskrits dismay, only one that might cut the profile; you grab him by cloak as he tries to scurry away into the assorted bodies fleeing the scene. You lower your muzzle to the height of his temples and whisper softly into his ear – I still want-want exotic, seer-thing. – Vaskrits halts in his tracks, fully paralyzed at the prospect.
- No-no, please mercy most gracious of agents... –

Your decision set, you bar the oaken doors, covering them in chains and locks, now nobody will disturb you, as you exact your payment.

The seer, huddled into a corner, behind a banner stares at you, eyes spewing fire and venom at you. You pay him no heed, as you lay your bait on the table with outmost care, you are loathe to, but you might as well make the most out of it, smoked Reik eel, some Grizdal in some wooden cups seems like a crime, but there’s no alternative. It’s then that you hear him, sniffing profusely at the morsel before him, warily approaching you, too temped by the plethora of spices you added to them. You chuckle as you watch him, measuring his steps, as you undo the makeshift seats, all but one and dump the rest in a corner. Some oil lamp and a flint all you need to set them ablaze, much to the alarm of the grey-seer.

- What you do-do?! -

You silence him with a shush, and a finger to his nose, fear winning over his urges to protest. The fire giving the warren an orange tinge, and some warmth.
- What you do-do... – whimpers Vaskrits as you raise him gently to deposit him in your lap, struggling and wriggling even with your paws atop his shoulders.

- Feed-feast. –

- What-what? –

- Yes-yes, Reik eel, smoked, seasoned, spiced, good-good. –
The seer shocks his head, way too intimidated even as his mouth waters, you sigh, grabbing a sliver of the feast and depositing it in his protesting maw, pushing it in with your fingers. The effect is instantaneous, his features soften, and his eyes close as he savours it.

- Good-good, yes? –

- Is good-fine, yes... –

You arch an eyebrow ever so slightly, and inquire further. - Just good-fine? –
- Ugh... is bestest... –
You chuckle at that, to his confusion, which doesn’t last. You alternate between each, of you, a piece to you, a piece to him, not letting him grab a single morsel, you are in control here.
 He gobbles each piece with wild abandon, sucking your fingers as soon as you withdraw them from his muzzle, almost too eagerly you’d say. His eyes beady and shiny in the light of your improvised fireplace, a deep purr, making your stomach rumble.

- Ugh, what you do-do Eshin-thing?! –
Not quite surrendered it would seem, you sigh, and pour him some Grizdal, carrying the cup to his mouth. Sniffing it warily, he takes a sip... spitting the contents out almost immediately.

- What-what you do-do, you try to poison-murder me-me?! –

You briefly consider gutting him then and there, spilling such ale, nay calling it poison, makes your blood boil, you eye twitches as you place a hand in the hilt of your dagger... before letting go, as his expression goes pale, you have gone this far to leave without nothing, no, you’ll persevere, you always get your mark, one way or the other.

- No-no, you rest it in your tongue, then you gulp, yes? Like this seeh? – You demonstrate by taking an experimental sip at it. He follows suit, as you press the cup to his lips again, not overly enthusiastically, as you, but it’s a start, not a good start, but a good opening to start working your skills. He’s still rigid as a follower of Nagash, so you carry you paw to his left ear, rubbing it in circles, round and round, over the tiny ridges within.

- What you do-doooo... –
- Shhhh... You like, yes? –

- No-no! I don’t like! –

- Yes-yes, you like, you like very-very! – You squeak as you take a gander at the seer’s nether regions. He only answers with a whine, much to your delight.

As his whines subside, you can feel him go soft atop you, his muscles unwinding under you caress, protest giving way to merry silence. The sound of the wood crackling, his laboured breathing, his and your heartbeat, soon joined by the sound of him gulping and gnawing as you allow him free reign over what remains of the feast laid atop the table, one of your hungers already sated. You two stay as such for a good while, until you are fairly certain he is pliable and compliant. Then you lift him, lazy eyes opening and legs wobbling as you abuse your height to spirit him away from your lap.

- What-what? Wait-stop! Was not done-finished yet! –
- Oh we are not done-finished yet, no-no. – You say with a chuckle. – Here let me help, yes? –

Disrobing the grey seer proves awkward enough, with his wriggling and protesting. Alas with but a few deft movements of your paws, you have him laid bare, who would think disarming techniques would prove useful outside of combat? His ghostly white fur shines in contrast with the fire at his back, unmarred by neither scar nor blemish, pustule or sore. Not quite as famished as his underlings, but certainly could use more gristle in his bones. Without his skullcap you can take a better look at his horns, not quite as long as those in the council of Under-Altdorf, but still a seer nonetheless. Probably the reason why he got stuck into this post, too ambitious maybe? Maybe a miss-cast spell? A scheming rival perhaps? You ponder as you disrobe yourself, placing your valuables and dispensers of death out of his reach and within yours, should he get any idea. Then you turn back to you mark, paws nervously covering his indecency, which stands achingly at attention, starved of attention, you’ll solve that soon enough.

- You sure you not like, yes? – You inquire, your index pointing at his shaft, barely obscured behind his trembling paws. Your only answer is a look of utter disdain, which you’d find discouraging, was it not for his heavy blushing.

- Here let me help, yes? – You squeak as you lift him up again, this time he doesn’t protest. It’s an improvement. You lay him carefully atop the bundle of linens that make for his bedding, on paw at his back and other bellow his knees. He is almost weightless in your grasp, quite rare feat for a grey-seer, not to be old and dishevelled, much less thin. Taking a seat on the bundle, you reposition you arm to rest over his shoulders, your paw gripping his right shoulder tenderly, slow circular motions easing the tension on his upper back. Nerves much like blood vessels converge on key points, you have learned that much in your training. Now to see if you put that lethal knowledge to use even further, you cradle that raging spear with you free hand. You can feel it pulse softly, throbbing almost.
- What is all this?! What you do-do Eshin-thing... –
That’s the opening you were waiting for, you lunge forward in a surprise attack, catching Vaskrits completely unaware, his tongue giving only a token resistance as yours intertwines with his. His eyes widen, and his checks gain a crimson tinge, he protests at first, trying to pull away, but you held him firm with the paw on his shoulder, while you pump his shaft with the other. You can already feel it throb and convulse, his whole body tensing like a spring. It’s not long before he shots off, his load making a wide arch before hitting the floor, that’s when you pull away from his snout, a strand of saliva linking the two of you together. – We mate-mate, seer-thing. –
You push away wobbling legs with the same ease you sever tendons, all resistance gone from him now. Using the bodily fluids he just parted with, to rub your crimson spear, you have an itching suspicion he will be harder to break into than a wizard’s fortress. As you position yourself to stab him your aching rathood, you take another look at your mark, Vaskrits’s eyes wide open, a reddish tinge below them, his maw agape, saliva dripping from its corners.

- You sure you no want, yes? – You inquire to your cornered prey, stabbing a finger to his drooling member.

- Ugh... just get this done-finished with, Eshin-thing... – His eyes now as two crimson moons, surprised he might even have a say on the matter.

Without much more preamble you lunge forward, access more restricted than to ball in Altdorf, yet all the more satisfying to break into, and then it dawns on you.

- First-first time, yes? –

Vaskrits looks at you, a gesture of mock surprise, laced with pain and shame. – Oh no-no, I sticks many-things there all the time, yes-yes, Moulder-things, Pestilens-things, many-many! –

You try to repress the reflux on the back your throat, even if it was mockery, you cannot rid yourself of the image of a plague monk laid bare, the thought almost enough to make you want to pull out of the meagre headway you made. So you break into a song, your squeaking almost a whisper, to distract your mind.

 – ...singing balls to your partner, your tail against the wall, if ya never been had on a Hexensnacht, ya never been had at all... –

All the while the grey-seer stares at you, eyes squinting, as if you had truly lost it.

– ...there was doing on the parlour, there was doing on the stones, but ya couldn’t a hear-hear the music for the whimpers and the groans –
– What you do-do Eshin-thing? –
You silence the seer with a shallow trust, it hurts, to the both of you, he is crushing you like a ratogre would a clanrat. But that seems to replace his inquiries with grunts and groans, an improvement if anything. You keep pressing on, but he keeps trying to push you out. This won’t do. And then it strikes you like a bolt of warplighting. A devilish grin forming in your muzzle as you plan takes shape into your fuzzy head.
You take a paw from his shoulders, a coy smile in your face as Vaskrits eyes you warily. You hover your digits over his aching mast, making him lick his muzzle at the prospect, ah but that’s not your target. Your claws descend square on his belly, rubbing at it in circles, much to the grey-seer’s surprise, his body contorting and convulsing in the most delirious of manners.

– No-no! NO-NO- A-HA-HA-NOOO WHAT-WHAT YOU DO-DO E-ESHIN-THING?! –
His lapse of concentration gives you the window of opportunity to bottom out inside of him, making him gasp. Your nethers meeting his taint for the first time. You let it rest, allowing him to get used to it, not for too long however. As you start you long withdrawal you relish on his groans.
– Much-much better-bigger than Moulder-thing, yes-yes? –
If there’re any coherent thoughts within the grey-seer’s mind, he only throws his head back, voicing grunts and groans. Now this we can work with. As you are about to wriggle free of his crushing confines, you start the arduous process of regaining any lost ground, lest he steels his defences, hit and run tactics work wonders on stubborn adversaries, and if his groans turning into moans are any indication, you are making good progress. But you won’t settle by a victory by attrition, on no no, this calls for a total rout, a decisive victory. You gyrate your hips, dragging your tool of pleasure along, opening his flanks wide open. Then you redouble your efforts – Aaaahh... – a bit more pressure to punch through his centre – Ugghhh... – You grip tightly his red appendance with your free paw, your other grabbing tightly at his flanks for guidance. – Oh-Ah yes-yes... – At that you halt in your tracks, much to Vaskrits’s surprise.

– Oh what-what is that greatest of seers? You like-like, yes? – You squeak, your voice almost a whisper.
It takes Vaskrits a moment to even process your words and to take stock of his situation, a deep crimson tinge overtaking all features not covered in silky white fur. As he hangs his muzzle open you catch him mumbling, trying to form an objection maybe? You don’t allow him to however, with a deep and shallow thrust you make him throw his head back again, his back arching ever so slightly, paws gripping the sheets of linen as his very life depended on it as you resume your pounding of his rear.
– Ah yes-yes, yes ahhhh... –

– I’ll take-say that as, ah, yes-yes? –

The white mage doesn’t have time to answer however, scant few heartbeats later he goes tense, muscles locking in place as his back arches so much you can hear the vertebrae wanting to pop. And just like that he goes off a second time, most of his discharge falling square onto his face.

– Ughhhh... – Vaskrits shudders, his breath laboured by the whole ordeal, his voice broken and tired.

– You know-see poisoned wind globes are six warptokens a piece, most generous of seers, yes? – You state as you hilt back your member inside the grey-seer, your muzzle close to his as you lick the seed from his nose.

– No-no, mercy... mercy Eshin-thing... –

The next hours become a blur, lost in the delirious drunkenness of mating, singing, drinking and moaning, you don’t recall fully all of it, just flesh colliding upon flesh, teeth grinding, tongues intertwining, legs intermingling with each other so much that you two might as well be one. Your last act before the comforting darkness of unconsciousness claims you both, is pulling over a sheet of linens over your exhausted shapes, your body still pressed against Vaskrits tightly, his mind long absent of it.
...You can hear the earth still tremble, the deafening noise of explosions rocking your world to its foundations, you have to seek shelter, now. – I have to scurry-flee... – A plank passes you by, mere inches from decapitating you. A tall plume of smoke engulfing all your view as your eyes water... this is it, isn’t it? – No no no no no, NO! – Your eyes open wide as you gasp for air... you are not in under-Altdorf... it was a dream... again... you slump back into sleep, your very weight dragging you back into your beddings. – Ugh... Ooof! – Well that was different... you rise again and take stock of your situation. You are still very much balls deep into a beady eyed, completely exhausted, and all too pleased grey-seer Vaskrits.

– Oh... – Is all you can manage, as the grey-seer eyes you warily, terrified you might want to go for another go at his tender backside. – Was it good-good, yes? – You manage, a coy expression in your face.
Vaskrits looks at you, then back at his nethers, where you still stay firmly lodged inside of him, then back at you. You can’t really tell from his expression, so you interject with the obvious, – If seer-thing didn’t like-enjoy, why seer-thing didn’t cast warplighting on me-me, yes? –
Completely cornered, Vaskrits allows himself to fall back into the linens, his paws trying to cover his face to no avail. – Ugh... it was bestests... You happy-good now, Eshin-thing? –

– Very-very! – You declare with a squeak as you pull out from the seer completely, a cascade of fluids rushing out as soon as you do so.
After a few casual moments of cuddling and fondling you finally disentangle yourself from the grey-seer. Redressing proves awkward and tiring, but he manages with your help, his legs still wobbling and convulsing. As you sort through you belonging you consider the warptokens still on and about on the floor, you pick them up, one by one and press them onto Vaskrits trembling paw.

– What-what? – Squeaks the grey-seer, eyes squinting at you, his stare riddled with suspicion.

– Alternative payments are bestests, yes? I could still take-grab them, though, yes? No? –
He clutches the warptokens in his hand tightly, to which you chuckle, taking the opportunity to smooch the grey-seer on the nose, eliciting a whine from him.
All set and done, your payment accounted for, you finally unlock the oaken doors, a draft of air taking out the warmth of the room once more, the embers of your improvised fire now cinders on the corner.
– We trade-deal more-again, yes, seer-thing Vaskrits? Yes? –

– Uhm... yes-yes, I shall sent forth runners shall I need more-more services, Eshin-thing. –
All the while Vaskrits’s honour guard standing beside the doors of the seer’s personal dwelling break into a throaty chuckle, only to be silenced by the smack of a quarterstaff, knocking teeth and cracking skulls with righteous anger.

– You foul-fool! I save-keep warptokens, I defend-keep you-you! Vaskrits is the greatest of seers, most cunning and most merciful! I could have the Eshin-thing slay-flay you alive, yes-yes! –
To add emphasis to the grey-seer’s threat you let loose a metal triangle that skims through the air, landing a hair’s breadth from the now-not-so-jolly stormvermin, making him squeal and drop to the floor trembling.

Vaskrits looks at you, a grin on his face which you return with a wink. – Sneekkit would be most accommodating to help-serve for alternate payments, most generous seer-thing, yes-yes. –

And hey, you just might, turns out that working with small, petty clans also has its perks after all.


– The End.