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.
Urdin vs. The Assassin Vine
Note: This story is another sword-and-sandal style snuff story in which a beefy hero fights a staple of erotic monsters: a vine/tentacle horror. It has no connection to any other story and can be enjoyed on its own.
Urdin silently watched his prey, listening over the roar of a nearby waterfall. His targets, a pair of well-armed and well-built hobgoblin guards, stood watch over the entrance of the cave that served as their hideout. Urdin raked their bodies with his eyes, spotting and mapping every muscle and artery in the tan-skinned, hairy goblinoids. He knew every bone and sinew in a hobgoblin, and knew just where to strike to kill one; this knowledge had been beaten into his head ever since he was a child pretending to be a warrior. All he needed was an opportunity.
It was because of this specialized training that Urdin had been hired for the mission. The village of Waterford could not afford the tribute the hobgoblins demanded, and faced destruction at their hands. In exchange for what payment they did muster, Urdin agreed to end the threat. Though the death of their leader would be more than sufficient to break the hobgoblins’ hold on Waterford, the sturdy assassin couldn’t pass up the opportunity to remove a few more of his favorite enemy from the world.
“Hold on a second,” The slightly smaller, bald hobgoblin spoke. “I need to take a piss.” Urdin peered down from the rock face above the cave, and watched as one guard strolled away toward a boulder near the cave mouth. The hobgoblin concealed his lower half behind it with his back turned to his companion, and whistled a tune.
Urdin silently watched his prey, listening over the roar of a nearby waterfall. His targets, a pair of well-armed and well-built hobgoblin guards, stood watch over the entrance of the cave that served as their hideout. Urdin raked their bodies with his eyes, spotting and mapping every muscle and artery in the tan-skinned, hairy goblinoids. He knew every bone and sinew in a hobgoblin, and knew just where to strike to kill one; this knowledge had been beaten into his head ever since he was a child pretending to be a warrior. All he needed was an opportunity.
It was because of this specialized training that Urdin had been hired for the mission. The village of Waterford could not afford the tribute the hobgoblins demanded, and faced destruction at their hands. In exchange for what payment they did muster, Urdin agreed to end the threat. Though the death of their leader would be more than sufficient to break the hobgoblins’ hold on Waterford, the sturdy assassin couldn’t pass up the opportunity to remove a few more of his favorite enemy from the world.
“Hold on a second,” The slightly smaller, bald hobgoblin spoke. “I need to take a piss.” Urdin peered down from the rock face above the cave, and watched as one guard strolled away toward a boulder near the cave mouth. The hobgoblin concealed his lower half behind it with his back turned to his companion, and whistled a tune.
Dar vs. The Bear Clan Brothers
Note: This is the fifth match in the Dar series and references, but does not necessarily build on or directly involve, his battle with The Red Hawk Chief. You may want to read that one before reading this one.
King’s peak loomed in the distance, a majestic purple and gray shadow against the afternoon sky. Many cities and towns dotted its lower slopes and the foothills that rose around its base; one of them was Dar’s destination. The compact, muscular brute plodded slowly along through the ancient sea of trees around the mountain, grumbling whenever the bright sun pierced the canopy and struck his unprepared eyes. The path he walked, Dar was convinced it was a path and not a road, was merely a wide section of relatively flat dirt that snaked through the wooded hills. To his left was a steep slope up, covered in scraggly bushes and tree roots, while to his right was a more gradual descent to a small creek. The floor of the valley was nearly completely covered in vegetation clambering for the patches of precious sunlight. Because they had remained unchanged since his departure from Tenningford, Dar had grown weary of these features and scenes, with the exception of the creek, which was a relatively new and welcome sight. This was made worse by the fact that Dar spent most of his time scanning the leaf-covered hills for motion. He was still on the fringes of Red Hawk territory, and though he should be a free dwarf, Dar placed little trust in the honor of orcs; He expected an ambush at any moment. Considering his large hands and man-crushing arms, he believed the impending ambush to be of the distant and pointed variety.
As Dar rounded the coming bend, a wooden structure came into view deeper in the valley, and farther along his path. He stopped. The structure appeared to be a shoddy hut constructed of rocks and wooden logs, nestled on the edge of the path and partly into the hill. Dar discerned that it had been constructed with minimal resources and even less planning, with no concern for the use of the path itself. He felt suspicious, but he figured he could handle whoever, or whatever, built it should it become a problem. After only a brief moment of inspection, Dar continued on.
King’s peak loomed in the distance, a majestic purple and gray shadow against the afternoon sky. Many cities and towns dotted its lower slopes and the foothills that rose around its base; one of them was Dar’s destination. The compact, muscular brute plodded slowly along through the ancient sea of trees around the mountain, grumbling whenever the bright sun pierced the canopy and struck his unprepared eyes. The path he walked, Dar was convinced it was a path and not a road, was merely a wide section of relatively flat dirt that snaked through the wooded hills. To his left was a steep slope up, covered in scraggly bushes and tree roots, while to his right was a more gradual descent to a small creek. The floor of the valley was nearly completely covered in vegetation clambering for the patches of precious sunlight. Because they had remained unchanged since his departure from Tenningford, Dar had grown weary of these features and scenes, with the exception of the creek, which was a relatively new and welcome sight. This was made worse by the fact that Dar spent most of his time scanning the leaf-covered hills for motion. He was still on the fringes of Red Hawk territory, and though he should be a free dwarf, Dar placed little trust in the honor of orcs; He expected an ambush at any moment. Considering his large hands and man-crushing arms, he believed the impending ambush to be of the distant and pointed variety.
As Dar rounded the coming bend, a wooden structure came into view deeper in the valley, and farther along his path. He stopped. The structure appeared to be a shoddy hut constructed of rocks and wooden logs, nestled on the edge of the path and partly into the hill. Dar discerned that it had been constructed with minimal resources and even less planning, with no concern for the use of the path itself. He felt suspicious, but he figured he could handle whoever, or whatever, built it should it become a problem. After only a brief moment of inspection, Dar continued on.
Barge vs. Skum
Note: This story was written in a single sitting, drunk on Mike's hard lemonade. It is essentially a scrap, submitted only because others have nevertheless enjoyed it. It has no connection to any other story and can be enjoyed on its own.
Barge stepped from stone to algae-covered stone, cautiously making as little noise as possible so as not to alert the cavern's potential denizens. He had heard stories of a rare and mysterious plant that, if used in an alchemical elixir, doubled a man's strength. To a six and a half foot tall man with almost three hundred pounds of solid muscle, this was quite an increase. So much so, that he felt the need to risk his life to find it. According to the legends, the tiny, ghost-white plant could be found in the darkest reaches of this very cavern.
The dim light, provided by diminutive glowing fungi, facilitated his stealth. The only sounds he could hear were the near-silent dripping of water and the creaking of the heavy leather of his boots. He moved ahead, his massive, nearly naked body filling the tunnel with his presence. He wished he had better protection than his leather loincloth, but metal armor would only make his presence more obvious, and he had little knowledge of what monsters lived in the dark he found himself in. The spiked metal helmet that scraped against his shaved head, however, was a necessity in his mind.
Barge stepped from stone to algae-covered stone, cautiously making as little noise as possible so as not to alert the cavern's potential denizens. He had heard stories of a rare and mysterious plant that, if used in an alchemical elixir, doubled a man's strength. To a six and a half foot tall man with almost three hundred pounds of solid muscle, this was quite an increase. So much so, that he felt the need to risk his life to find it. According to the legends, the tiny, ghost-white plant could be found in the darkest reaches of this very cavern.
The dim light, provided by diminutive glowing fungi, facilitated his stealth. The only sounds he could hear were the near-silent dripping of water and the creaking of the heavy leather of his boots. He moved ahead, his massive, nearly naked body filling the tunnel with his presence. He wished he had better protection than his leather loincloth, but metal armor would only make his presence more obvious, and he had little knowledge of what monsters lived in the dark he found himself in. The spiked metal helmet that scraped against his shaved head, however, was a necessity in his mind.
Dar vs. The Red Hawk Chief
Note: This is the fourth story of Dar's matches and builds off of his encounter with the Red Hawk Warrior and the Bloodstone Bandits. You should read those before reading this one.
Dar’s hot breath swirled about his face, confined by the burlap sack over his head. The improvised hood had already become damp with the dwarf’s sweat, and the air he breathed humid. He heard little more than his own ragged breathing and the occasional chirp of a bird or rustle of wind through the trees. Unable to see the way forward, he stumbled over an unexpected rise in the path, but managed to keep himself standing. He grunted and mumbled, sounding annoyed.
“Are you sure about this, sir?” Bruce asked, slowing his pace and offering slack in the chain he carried. Though it was not wrapped tight around Dar’s powerful forearms, the chains still made it nearly impossible for him to catch himself should he fall. Bruce wasn’t concerned for Dar’s safety so much as his own; he simply didn’t want to be responsible if something were to happen that angered his master.
“It’s da plan.” Came Dar’s gruff, muffled response. Bruce glanced about, scanning the trees. He saw no threats, but couldn’t decide if that was good or bad. The Red Hawk orcs were known for their stealth and power, silently dealing lethal strikes with heavy bows from impressive distances. Though Bruce himself was a strong man, built like an ox and capable of lifting the average man with one arm and a grunt, he had little interest in tangling with a greenskin. When he had exhausted his visual search, finding nothing to ease his concern, he tugged at the chain lead. Dar began to trek solemnly in the indicated direction.
Dar’s hot breath swirled about his face, confined by the burlap sack over his head. The improvised hood had already become damp with the dwarf’s sweat, and the air he breathed humid. He heard little more than his own ragged breathing and the occasional chirp of a bird or rustle of wind through the trees. Unable to see the way forward, he stumbled over an unexpected rise in the path, but managed to keep himself standing. He grunted and mumbled, sounding annoyed.
“Are you sure about this, sir?” Bruce asked, slowing his pace and offering slack in the chain he carried. Though it was not wrapped tight around Dar’s powerful forearms, the chains still made it nearly impossible for him to catch himself should he fall. Bruce wasn’t concerned for Dar’s safety so much as his own; he simply didn’t want to be responsible if something were to happen that angered his master.
“It’s da plan.” Came Dar’s gruff, muffled response. Bruce glanced about, scanning the trees. He saw no threats, but couldn’t decide if that was good or bad. The Red Hawk orcs were known for their stealth and power, silently dealing lethal strikes with heavy bows from impressive distances. Though Bruce himself was a strong man, built like an ox and capable of lifting the average man with one arm and a grunt, he had little interest in tangling with a greenskin. When he had exhausted his visual search, finding nothing to ease his concern, he tugged at the chain lead. Dar began to trek solemnly in the indicated direction.
Dar vs. The Bloodstone Bandits
Note: This is the third story of Dar's matches and builds off of his encounter with the Red Hawk Warrior. You should read that before reading this one.
Tony's head was swimming. The tavern was a blurred riot of tans and browns, and the cheer of the crowd seemed distant and muffled. He could barely make out the blue markings on his opponent's biceps below him. Before he could understand what was happening, Tony felt himself falling, and unfortunately only the arid, dusty floor of the wrestling ring rushed up to catch him. The crowd's approval roared like a storm around him, faceless and powerful, as he landed with a wet thump. He coughed and sputtered. His body ached. He could hardly gasp a few gulps of air before a shadow appeared, towering above him. With the approval of the faceless crowd, the dark figure descended, and everything went dark. A hot, moist weight against his face and a choking miasma of body odor clouded Tony's mind. He could feel nothing else. Even the crowd has seemed to fall silent.
The athletic farmer moaned and gagged, rolling his head drunkenly from side to side, struggling to stay conscious. After a few moments with his face firmly trapped beneath Dar's loincloth, however, Tony succumbed to the powerhouse and passed out, mercifully never realizing that the flesh he rubbed his cheeks against was the dwarf's partially erect penis. The three-hundred pound muscleman grinned at his victory, and pumped his mountainous biceps for all who watched. Veins bulged in all directions like cracks in an ancient statue, and every muscle fiber visibly rippled his skin.
Tony's head was swimming. The tavern was a blurred riot of tans and browns, and the cheer of the crowd seemed distant and muffled. He could barely make out the blue markings on his opponent's biceps below him. Before he could understand what was happening, Tony felt himself falling, and unfortunately only the arid, dusty floor of the wrestling ring rushed up to catch him. The crowd's approval roared like a storm around him, faceless and powerful, as he landed with a wet thump. He coughed and sputtered. His body ached. He could hardly gasp a few gulps of air before a shadow appeared, towering above him. With the approval of the faceless crowd, the dark figure descended, and everything went dark. A hot, moist weight against his face and a choking miasma of body odor clouded Tony's mind. He could feel nothing else. Even the crowd has seemed to fall silent.
The athletic farmer moaned and gagged, rolling his head drunkenly from side to side, struggling to stay conscious. After a few moments with his face firmly trapped beneath Dar's loincloth, however, Tony succumbed to the powerhouse and passed out, mercifully never realizing that the flesh he rubbed his cheeks against was the dwarf's partially erect penis. The three-hundred pound muscleman grinned at his victory, and pumped his mountainous biceps for all who watched. Veins bulged in all directions like cracks in an ancient statue, and every muscle fiber visibly rippled his skin.
Dar vs. the Red Hawk Warrior
Note: This is the second story of Dar's matches and contains references to, but does not rely on, his encounter with the Bull of Canton. You may want to read that one before reading this one.
"SHLORP" came the sound of Dar's boot sinking deep into the mud. The recent rains had made his forest trek much more difficult, and the light misting of water in the air kept it that way. The dwarf grumbled, jerking his leg upward. His foot came free, but the leather boot remained firmly implanted in the soil. Dar swore, lost his balance, and fell to his knee. He shivered as the cold, moist ground curling up around his vascular calf muscles. He snatched the boot, stood up, and threw it onto his foot haphazardly. The mud bubbled inside as he slid in. Frustrated with the chilly goop, he pulled his feet out and instead decided to walk barefoot, carrying his unruly footwear. The dwarf began to regret getting boots that were made for a bigger human, but the method of acquisition was more than worth it. Slightly. When Dar finished reminiscing about his previous animal-handling conquest, he stood, using a fallen tree trunk as support, and began trudging through the weeds between the trees. It itched more and it wasn't nearly as flat, but it wasn't muddy, and that's all Dar cared about.
Dar stumbled through the thicket for what felt like hours, slipping down hills and tripping on roots. His short red hair was soaked with rain, running tiny rivers of rainwater down his stubbled face, his thickly muscled torso, and into his loincloth, which now sagged rather immodestly with the weight of the water it had absorbed. Eventually, he found himself on the edge of a clearing through which a gentle stream flowed. The dwarf didn't care much about the picturesque scenery or the quiet rustling of light rain, however. His feral eyes were focused solely on the tall, athletically-built orc standing half-naked on the river's shore. The greenskin leaned back in a stretch, his muscles rippling beneath his wet, shimmering flesh. He wore a metal-studded black leather loincloth, but his boots and armor plates were scattered around the grass. The coloration of the tunic dangling from a nearby bush identified the orc as a Red Hawk warrior. He was obviously preparing to relax, and was unaware of the dwarf spying on him from the wooded hill.
"SHLORP" came the sound of Dar's boot sinking deep into the mud. The recent rains had made his forest trek much more difficult, and the light misting of water in the air kept it that way. The dwarf grumbled, jerking his leg upward. His foot came free, but the leather boot remained firmly implanted in the soil. Dar swore, lost his balance, and fell to his knee. He shivered as the cold, moist ground curling up around his vascular calf muscles. He snatched the boot, stood up, and threw it onto his foot haphazardly. The mud bubbled inside as he slid in. Frustrated with the chilly goop, he pulled his feet out and instead decided to walk barefoot, carrying his unruly footwear. The dwarf began to regret getting boots that were made for a bigger human, but the method of acquisition was more than worth it. Slightly. When Dar finished reminiscing about his previous animal-handling conquest, he stood, using a fallen tree trunk as support, and began trudging through the weeds between the trees. It itched more and it wasn't nearly as flat, but it wasn't muddy, and that's all Dar cared about.
Dar stumbled through the thicket for what felt like hours, slipping down hills and tripping on roots. His short red hair was soaked with rain, running tiny rivers of rainwater down his stubbled face, his thickly muscled torso, and into his loincloth, which now sagged rather immodestly with the weight of the water it had absorbed. Eventually, he found himself on the edge of a clearing through which a gentle stream flowed. The dwarf didn't care much about the picturesque scenery or the quiet rustling of light rain, however. His feral eyes were focused solely on the tall, athletically-built orc standing half-naked on the river's shore. The greenskin leaned back in a stretch, his muscles rippling beneath his wet, shimmering flesh. He wore a metal-studded black leather loincloth, but his boots and armor plates were scattered around the grass. The coloration of the tunic dangling from a nearby bush identified the orc as a Red Hawk warrior. He was obviously preparing to relax, and was unaware of the dwarf spying on him from the wooded hill.
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