The Walking Mountain

Originally intended to be part of a series of very short "snufflets," this one became long enough to post on its own. It was written in one sitting, and includes blood and vicious wounding that may not be to everyone's tastes.

It began with an idle boast, roared to the tavern after too many ales. By the end of the night, Calvagh was on his way to the northern forest, on a drunken quest to hunt and kill the bear known as the Walking Mountain. At some point, Calvagh agreed to the added stipulation that he would do it naked like a true warrior; he assumed he did, anyway, for he now found himself standing on a bed of needles in the ancient forest, surrounded by tall pines and bird songs, the morning breeze against his fist-sized balls. He couldn’t remember much of the night before, but he regretted every minute of it all the same. Thankfully, his companions had departed at some point, or sent him ahead alone. Though he was solid and muscular, his uncovered body shamed him, and he blushed when he realized he had stripped for some drunk farmers. He groaned at the thought that the blue war paint that now adorned his arms, pecs, and the right half of his shaft was applied by someone other than himself. Haunted by the implications of his nudity, he kept one hand cupped lightly over his manhood as he walked.