Chapter 10: New Friends
The elven scouts moved through the treeline with the silent grace of their kind, but the forest here was different. Softer. The usual signs of passage—broken twigs, disturbed leaf litter—were absent, replaced by strange, smoothed-down paths in the grass and the overwhelming, cloying scent of blossoms and something else, something musky and animal.
“There,” whispered Lyra, the senior scout. She pointed with the tip of her bow.
In the valley below, the village was a riot of color and movement. Banners fluttered. Laughter, high and giddy, carried on the wind. And everywhere, nude figures lounged, played, and cavorted.
“By the silent groves,” breathed Kaelen, the younger male scout beside her. His sharp eyes narrowed. “Are those… humans? With…?”
“Ears. Tails. Yes.” Lyra’s voice was tight. “And look. At the center.”
There, seated on a tree stump like a king on a crude throne, was Eryndor. He was clean, healthy, but profoundly alien. He wore his ranger leathers, a stark contrast to the sea of bare flesh surrounding him. A blonde woman was draped across his lap, nuzzling his neck, while a taller, grey-haired one knelt beside him, resting her head on his thigh. Others milled about, but their orbits always curved back toward him.
“He’s not a prisoner,” Kaelen stated, confusion edging his voice.
“No,” Lyra said, her stomach turning. “He is not.”
They descended into the valley with caution, their training warring with the scene’s surreal peace. The village had no guards, no boundaries. They simply walked in.
The first to notice them was a redhead chasing her own tail in a sunbeam. She stopped, cocked her head, her nose twitching. “Ooooh! New smells!”
Her cry was a spark in dry tinder. Heads popped up from behind fences, from under bushes. Dozens of pairs of brightly colored eyes locked onto the newcomers. The playful laughter died, replaced by a low, curious hum.
Kaelen took a step forward, his boot landing with a soft squelch.
He froze. Looked down. A fresh, wet pile of excrement, still steaming slightly in the cool morning air, oozed around the edges of his pristine boot. His face paled, then flushed with disgust.
“Oh, tee-hee!” a brunette giggled, peeking from behind a water barrel. “I made that! Was gonna bury it later.” She seemed genuinely pleased.
Lyra gripped her bow tighter. “Eryndor!” she called, her voice cutting through the hum. “By the order of the Sylvan Glade, we are here for your extraction.”
Eryndor looked up. His green eyes met hers, but there was no recognition, no relief. Only a calm, distant assessment. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
It was the blonde in his lap who reacted first. Luna’s head snapped around. Her previously ditzy, dreamy expression shattered. Her lips, usually in a pouty smile, pulled back from her teeth in a snarl. A deep, guttural grrrrrrr vibrated from her chest.
“No,” she said, the word simple and solid as stone.
The hum from the crowd shifted. The curiosity evaporated, replaced by a prickling, static hostility. The women stopped moving. Their postures changed, shoulders hunching, heads lowering. Low growls rippled through them, a chorus of rising menace.
Vara, the grey-haired elder, rose from her kneeling position. She was tall, imposing, and the look in her silver eyes was not wise, but feral. “You don’t take,” she hissed, drool spraying from her lips. “He is ours. Our Master. Our Daddy. You leave.”
“You have corrupted one of our finest rangers,” Lyra shot back, nocking an arrow but not drawing. “Step away from him. This does not need to be violent.”
A peal of laughter answered her—sharp, unhinged, and utterly humorless. It came from a dozen throats. “Violent?” Luna spat, sliding off Eryndor’s lap. She stood between the scouts and her Master, her hands curled into claws. “You come to our home. You threaten our happiness. You think we’re just dumb bitches?” Her voice dropped to a vicious, guttural whisper. “We’ll tear your pretty elven throats out. We’ll fuck your corpses with sticks. We’ll paint our walls with your insides.”
The transformation was absolute. The airheaded joy was gone, replaced by a swarming, psychotic fury. They began to advance, a semi-circle of snarling, naked flesh, their claws—fingernails grown sharp and unkempt—gleaming. The scent of musk became the hot, pungent smell of a threatened animal den.
Kaelen drew his short sword, his knuckles white. “Eryndor! Command them! What in the abyss is happening?”
Eryndor watched for a moment longer. Then, with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of endless patience, he stood.
He didn’t shout. He didn’t raise a weapon.
He simply unbuckled his trousers.
The leather strap made a soft click. The sound was somehow louder than the growls. He pushed the fabric down, just enough. His cock, already half-hard from Luna’s earlier attentions, sprang free.
The effect was instantaneous.
The snarling cut off. The advancing wall of feral women shuddered to a halt. Every eye, blazing with hatred a second before, dropped to his groin. The rage melted, replaced by a desperate, hungry yearning. Whimpers replaced growls. Tails, which had been stiff and high, began to wag in frantic, submissive twitches.
Luna’s defiance evaporated. She dropped to her knees, her head bowing. “Sorry, Daddy. Got… got mean. Please?”
Eryndor walked forward, his exposed flesh a talisman against their fury. He stopped before Lyra, completely unconcerned with his state of undress. He gestured vaguely at the village with his free hand.
“You asked what happened,” he said, his voice flat, conversational. “They were a dying tribe. Cursed, or blessed, depending on your view. Their minds were fading. Their culture, crumbling. Vara, their elder, saw it. She didn’t want them to die out as sad, confused creatures. She wanted them to embrace their decline. To be happy in their emptiness.”
He looked past Lyra at Kaelen’s shit-covered boot. “They’ve embraced it. Fully. They don’t need reason. They need routine. Purpose. Me.” He gave his cock a lazy stroke, and a collective, eager whine rose from the kneeling women. “I provide that. I direct their energy. Without me, they’re just animals, scared and angry. With me, they’re blissful. Productive, in their own way.”
Lyra stared, her arrow still nocked but forgotten. “You… you’re their purpose? This… this depravity?”
“Is it depravity if it’s their natural state?” Eryndor asked, a faint, cold smile touching his lips. “They hunt. They forage. They fuck. They sleep. They are, arguably, more peaceful now than any elven enclave I’ve known. No politics. No betrayal. Just simple, physical needs, met on a schedule I dictate.”
He turned his back on the scouts, walking toward his stump. Luna scrambled after him on hands and knees, nuzzling his leg.
“You can report that Eryndor is deceased,” he said over his shoulder, pulling his trousers up but not fastening them. “Consumed by the forest. Or you can stay. There’s room. They’d be thrilled to have new… friends.”
Kaelen looked ill. Lyra slowly, carefully, lowered her bow. The kneeling women watched the elves, their earlier violence now a dim memory, replaced by panting, open-mouthed curiosity. One of them, a petite girl with black ears, crept forward and tentatively sniffed at Lyra’s quiver.
“I kinda wanna stay” Lyra whispered to Kaelen, who looked at her like she was crazy and run