White Lion

 Alistair roared. The prestigious white pelt of his namesake spun with him as he lashed out. The revolting skaven before him bisected as a foul stench filled the air. Pirouetting on his heels the pommel of his axe smashed the skull in of a rag covered rodent. For the past five minutes the skaven swarmed him. For every three he killed in one swing four more came at him. The mere insolence of the degenerate warp spawn enraged him. Did they think he could be overwhelmed by numbers? That he was easy prey? That the White Lion adorning his shoulders was mere ornamentation?
Alistair snarled.

‘Come!’ He brought his axe down in a two handed grip. Shearing through rags, fur, and bones the rabid skaven died screaming. Switching his grip Alistair repeated the maneuver his father taught him, bringing the axe back cleaving through more of his foes. Eddu carving a bloody swathe through his enemies.

‘Kill-Kill Elf-thing!’ The skaven chattered at him. It's transgression quickly repaid with his axe-head being buried in its skull. A stone mere inches from his head as he shifts out the path of the slinger's aim. The stone knocking another skaven off its feet. A growl escapes the Ranger's lips as he charges toward the slinger. Skaven interposed themselves in his path, putting them in his warpath. Limbs fly, heads decapitated, and bodies rag dolled from the brute strengthen exerted by Alistair. The slinger deciding to turn tail moments to late as Alistair's axe severs its spine.

‘Kill-Slay it!’ The skaven chitter. Their courage not yet shattered.

‘I invite you to die!’ He returns, ready to leave a mountain of corpses in his path. An object sails over his head, landing in a wet thud. The same foul stench accompanying the skaven in battle amplifies.

‘Flee-Run! Retreat! Scurry-Hide!’ They scream in fear, scattering to the winds. Alistair spits. His foot crushing the head of the leader of this small party of Skaven.

‘Don't thank me too soon.’ A woman’s mocking voice raises from behind him. His hands gripped his axe tightly.

‘I never asked for your help.’ Alistair responded dismissively, dropping to the forest's floor and examining the trampled paths.

‘Is this the extent of nobility the White Lion's possess? How utterly disappointing.’ The woman continues.

‘Watch your tongue, witch.’ The ranger snarls. ‘Lest you lose it.’

‘How barbaric. I didn't know you had it in you.’ Alistair glared at the woman. Her pale features a slight contrast to his fairer, sun-touched own. Only the beginning of a bevy of contrasting features. She was lithe as far as elves go, against the stature and strength broadcasted by Alistair's frame. Daggers, shortblades , vials, and flasks adorned her scantily armored body. Alistair was always disgusted by the Witch Elves propensity for impracticality, foregoing traditional armor for a girding that puts their assets on display. A circlet contained flowing jet-black hair to rival the golden dreadlocks of Alistair's own head.
Three days have passed since the Skaven ambushed Alistair's party. In service to a mage leading an expedition to Lustria in search of magical artefacts. As the Mage and spearmen held the line, weathering the encroaching hordes of vermin Alistair slighted the pack-leader. The vermin a head taller than his disgusting cohorts, rotting breastplate held together with sap, hair, and other unidentifiable substances. The path of gore the ranger carved through the horde wasn’t enough to stop them. Skaven are cowardly and treacherous at heart, but with the goading of larger, more powerful skaven that cowardice transforms into a tide of suicidal rampage. But Alistair was a rampaging tide of his own. As the pack leader was slain and the hordes disintegrated, a dagger was slipped beneath his guard. All it took was a prick to lay the mighty warrior low, Skaven toxins and poisons notoriously powerful. Lost beneath the dead and the fleeing Alistair was dying. Memories of the past assailed him as his body began to fail. Of days hunting in the forests, nights beneath the star lit sky of Ultuhan training with his father, of his first hunt to fell a White Lion.

Then, she came.

‘The trail is cold.’ Alistair stayed as he rose. The tracks leading to this groove wasn't natural. The skaven in their foul cunning used scavenged high eleven gear to lead him into the ambush. He gripped his axe tightly once more, angry at himself for being fooled by his hopes.

‘I could have told you as much.’ The Witch-Elf added behind him.

‘When I require your council I'll ask for it.’ It was foolish of him to let her walk behind him. An enemy such as herself would find no qualms with slipping a dagger into his ribs. But she needed him. She needed someone who knew the arts of the woodland paths should she have any hope of reaching her own people. It's the only way he could reason such madness.

And unfortunately he needed her should he fall afoul of poison once more. Her knowledge of the vile arts is what saved him the first time. Honor dictates that he returns the favor. They travelled in silence for hours. Alistair leading them deeper into the jungle, following the signs of battle between Elf and Skaven, of branches heated by magics, the grisly remains of skaven and elf. Drucii or Asur.

‘Are you sure this is not another trap?’ The woman asked, her tone sardonic as ever. Weather she was perturbed by the remains of her people she showed no sign, yet another of the despicable traits of the enemy. He rose, the chain of memorabilia dangling from his axe softly chiming together.

‘I'm counting on it. There's something in this jungle. It would be wise to strike it down before it can surprise us.’ He continued on, his pace much slower, more measured. Senses alert. Alistair half-expected another mocking comment. All he received was her silence and the drawing of her blades.

The two elves continued deeper into forests. Trees lying felled over, paths torn up, strange footprints in the dirt. These were the signs that had Alistair on edge. It's close now. He drew his axe as they continued. The sound of a waterfall could be heard near. Advancing cautiously the elves came upon a grotto. A waterfall trailed down from the clearing, its crystal clear waters reflecting the setting sun. The forest that was once alive with the chirping of birds, screams of dying prey, and howls of numerous predators was deathly silent beyond the sound of the waterfall.

He stood there for moments longer. Listening.

Thud, thud, thud, thud

Something was coming. Alistair planted his legs and took a deep  breath.  The sound getting louder as the moments passed. A slight tremble to the earth.

Then it came. Exploding through the waterfall with a spray of water the Rat-Ogre howled, charging all the while. Alistair remained calm, his breathing measured as the hulking rodent approached. But, Alistair was undeterred. He ignored the attempts to frighten him, he ignored the chittering of the gathering horde behind him, watching. His attention focused soley lm the monstrosity charging him. It was a rat several hundred times the size of a normal skaven, its body warped through foul alchemy and magic. Its body bristled with muscles that threatened to burst through its skin, its face nearly lupine in it's features, a blind thing lead by its hunger and anger.

Within moments it was upon him.

Alistair swung as the Rat-Ogre sought to crush him beneath massive hands,  his axe shearing through the wrist of the creature nearly taking a hand off. As the Rat-Ogre roared in pain and anger the Witch-Elf was bounding up and over Alistair's back. Her motions that of pure bloodlust. Blades falling swiftly, striking at vitals and tending. It's nose cut in half, its neck pierced,  its shoulder mangled. The rat-ogre howled and sent the Witch-Elf flying with a swipe of it’s good hand. Alistair matching its roar with an intensity of his own met the Rat-ogre before it could recover. His axe chopped into it's legs, bringing it to one knee. He ducked below a hastily swipe and buried the axe with it's back. The mutant screaming in pain but somehow still alive. He moved to put all his weight into connecting to its spine, the Ogre twisting on a mangled leg to batter at him. Alistair dug rivers of dirt as he was pushed back, his guard raised in the nick of time.

Two daggers impale the beasts shoulders. The Witch-elf using her feet to bury them deeper as she scaled it’s back. Legs wrapped around it's neck her daggers were a blur, rising and falling into it's skull. The bears screamed once more, desperately attempting to dislodge the she-elf from it. Alistair ducked between its wildly swinging arms, his axe fully severing its maimed leg. The ogre collapsed, whining. With a roar of anger Alistair brought his axe down upon its back once more, digging into the wound he made earlier. The axe rose and fell with an executioner's motion, the immaculate metal catching the sun's light and shining brightly through the grove with each rise and fall.
And the it was over.

The beast was slain. The hordes gathered to watch them die was on the verge of routing. But, they needed more. He walked around the corpse of the Rat-Ogre, the Witch-elf watching him with a look he found disconcerting. He severed the head of the ogre and turned to the forest.

‘Is this the best you can do!?’ He roared brandishing the head. ‘Is this all you're worth! I have survived you for three days! I have fell your leaders! I have trodden over the corpses of your warriors! I have weathered your hordes! Is there any who would test me further!?’ His question was met with utter silence. The skaven instead pushed another to the forefront. The larger rat biting and scratching to free itself from those behind it. It stood in the clearing alone, shivering in fear. The foul stench rising once more.
‘O-Oh great warrior-slayer-' The ranger buried his axe within the head of the pack-leader. Decapitating it with a swing before the body could fall.

The horde broke. The skaven fleeing completely, rodding over smaller rats in an attempt to live for another day.
Alistair crouched within the cave, maintaining his axe and cleaning it of filth, his gear stripped for maintenance. He sat in his trousers in the comfort of a small fire, its crackling relaxing as he worked. The she-Elf's gaze remained on him as he cleaned his axe. The woman returning from her time beneath the waterfall, her skin shining near the fire.

‘What?’ he asked, tired of her attention.

‘I’m wondering why you waste your talents. You would make an excellent Executioner.’ She answered stalking towards him, her voice as smooth as any silk from Lothern.
‘And your tongue would make an excellent souvenir.’ He answered glaring at her while she approached. him.
‘Such anger!’ She laughed. ‘Is that what lurks beneath that façade of honor and nobility you Asur wear so closely?’
‘Watch yourself witch!’ He had suffered her backhanded insults for long enough. ‘Continue down this path at your own risk!’

‘Such a roar my little lion has.’

Enough was enough.

He rose, his fist lashing out to strike her. Only to fly through the air as she ducked beneath it. Within moments he was grappled, her feet set against his own as she used his momentum to toss him to the ground. Alistair jumped to his feet, while surprised by her strength it is his trade to prepare for the unexpected. A lesser elf would have been stunned by the display of power in such a small, curvace-
Alistair charged her, throwing punches that she easily weaved out the way of.

‘Where's your ferocity, my little lion?’ She teased weaving out the way of more strikes, her taunts dying in her throat as his foot reached out to trip up the witch.

Alistair wasted no time as she fell. He mounted the Witch in moments, his hands tightly wrapped around her throat. He had enough, between her taunts and her very existence Alistair had been tested more than enough. He pressed harder, her struggling strangely devoid of much effort as a manic look appeared on her face. Her skin was… soft. Despite himself Alistair found his eyes roaming her glistening features. Dark enthralling eyes, full plump lips, large pert breasts. She was the definition of elven beauty.

His grip slackened slightly. The mere moment of weakness more than enough for her. Prying his hands open she pulled him down into a head butt. Reeling up and backwards Alistair was tackled to the ground. In the light of the fire her features were enhanced tenfold. The witch sat atop him, the freakish strength granted to her by dark rituals pinning his arms down as she stared into his eyes. He started back, radiating utter hate.

She pressed herself against him. Her erect nipples digging into his skin as she grinded herself on top of him, a warm wetness spreading on his trousers contrary to the cold water covering her. Her tongue reached out, trailing teasing paths around his torso. Her wide hips gyrating and pressing her large ass into his pelvis. Endure it. He thought to himself, endure her perversions for a moment longer. Find a way out and kill thi-

Her lips pressed against his own, cutting off his thoughts and filling them with recognition of how soft and pliable they were. He bit down, hard. The witch grinning and chuckling at his efforts of resistance. She pulled away, a trickle of blood trailing from her lips and down her chin. She licked it away, a wild look on her eyes. His trousers becoming damp.

‘The Lion has a bite~’
He refused to give her the satisfaction of a response. She however was undeterred. Using one hand to easily pin him down the other began to explore his body. Her soft, dainty hands lightly touching his well toned form sending an electric tingle down his spine that he fought to bury. Her hands slowly descended further south. Grabbing his muscles, pinching his nipples, feeling it’s way across his toned abs, and finally descending beneath the waistband of his trousers. She firmly grasped his hardening cock, a hungry gaze falling upon him.

‘For me?’ She mockingly asked.

Her hands were blissfully soft against his cock. Her ministrations bringing him to full mast within moments, his penis straining against the restraints of his trousers. She continued to jerk him off, waiting for a response. Her fingers wrapped firmly around his middle, her thumb occasionally brushing against his cock head.
He endured being hunted by a white lion. This she-beast of an elf is nothing compared to that. He bit his tongue as a bead of pre-cum was coaxed from his cock. The witch elf's hand retreating from his trousers. Her index finger and thumb glistened by the fire, covered in copious amounts of his pre-cum. Her eyes lighting up as she put them into her mouth, loud ducking heard as she stared directly into eyes.
He had enough.

With a gargantuan effort he pushed her off of him and onto the cave floor. She grinned. Watching him with a predatory gaze. He fell to his knees before her, a hand finding her throat as he undid the band holding his trousers up. In moments his  cock was exposed to the elements. Engorged with blood, his thick member  throbbed hungrily in the air before the sodden silt of the witch. The heat of her vagina is spreading from the tip of his cock and worming it’s way into his chest.

With a grunt he pushed forward, feeding her inch after inch of thick cock. The witch gasped and twitched. She was almost unbearably wet and tight. Her muscles squeezing him as if to fight his efforts to feed her every last inch of his cock. Despite her body's resistance he pushed forward, her unnaturally wet sex aiding him in spreading her walls. The warmth of her insides rivaled that of the fire. Alistair was losing himself in her. His breath catching as he finally hilted her, his balls coming to rest against her dripping pussy. Her walls spasm around his cockflesh as he rests flushed against her. Her eyes bore into him again, goading him on. Her pussy clenching tightly around him before releasing slightly, taunting him further.
He pulled back, fighting to bring his cock out of her sultry hole, briefly languishing the absence of her folds before spearing right back in to the hilt. The witch arches her back, a chocked gasp coming out as she tried to moan through his iron grip on her throat. Alistair began to pump his hips, feeding her powerful and deep strokes. The Witch spreads her legs, coaxing more of his cock deeper into her. Strangled gasps and grunts escaping with each thrust. Her hands latching onto his back, digging into his skin as the pleasure mounted. Alistair grunted, releasing her throat so he could better balance himself on the cave floor. A loud gasp escaped the witch's throat. Her breath catching as his cock explore the deepest part of her. Alistair's speed picked up, sawing in out of her. Muscles grasping tightly as her fluids soaked his pelvis and the ground around them. The witch screamed in pleasure. Her voice rising with each thrust, every slap of flesh upon flesh summoning new pitches from her. Her powerful legs wrapped around him. Forcing him to hilt her briefly. Her bountiful chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. Alistair growled.
Forcing her into her back he squeezed at a breast. Hiking one of her legs into the air he continued to thrust. Faster and deeper than before the Witch yelled her pleasure out unrestrained. He squeezed her breast, pinching at her nipples and kneading her chest.

 ‘Yes! Harder! Deeper my Lion!” He yelled in pleasure.
Pulling out he flipped the witch over.

Lifting her onto hands and knees, exposing her pert, squeezable ass. Driving right back Alistair pushed her flush to himself. She wasn't content. The witch began to grind her ass against him, her walls strangling movement as Alistair moaned. He grabbed her hips, pulling himself free and regaining control. The clap of flesh tinged throughout the cave once more. Her hips pushing back to meet his, his cock impaling her depths and touching her innermost spots, her warmth spreading to his core and bringing his pleasure higher and higher with every spasm of her muscles. The Witch ‘s hands give out, pleasure forcing her face onto the cave floor as Alistair continued to thrust, her pussy soaking the ground beneath them, his cock dripping every time it retreats from her depths. Her ass quaking with each impact, her voice rising to new heights.

Alistair grunts, the Witch's wild milking notions bringing his orgasm to the surface. His orgasm rising to meet her own. The Witch begins to twitch, her orgasm hitting her hard and forcing her to gasp as pleasure rocks her body. Alistair pushes his cock as deep inside her as he can, letting her still-spasming muscles do the work for him, squeezing and caressing his cock, slathering it with hot juices trapped inside her wanton hole by the thick cock spearing her. His orgasm hits him like a war hammer, a feral-roar ripped from his mouth as his muscles clench. Releasing a thick wad of cum deep inside of the Witch, Alistair continues to thrust again, jackhammering in and out her. His orgasm and newfound energy causes her to moan as another orgasm rocks her. Trapping her in an orgasmic circle.

Alistair collapses on top of her. Spent after days of fighting and the exertions of the cave. His cock still resting inside of her, half hard as his seed begins to seep out of her around his length. He tries to catch his breath as the aftermath of his orgasm fades. Until he fills his cock squeezed once more and he's rock hard in moments.