Chapter 2 - The Road to Blackrock

The sun was a bloody egg yolk sinking into the horizon. My ass hurt, my canteen was almost dry, and Bertha, dear Bertha, was limping. From the look in her eye, she'd rather be anywhere else. Then, like a mirage in the desert, I saw it. The crooked chimney of The Bent Spoon Inn, puffing out a lazy trail of smoke like an old man's cigar. I nudged Bertha with my heel, and she let out a tired groan, but she picked up the pace. The promise of warmth and ale can do wonders for morale. Even Bertha's.

The inn wasn't much to look at, but it didn't need to be. The sign creaked in the wind, the spoon bent at an angle that suggested it was making a break for it. The building itself was a sturdy stone affair, with a thatched roof that had seen better days. The stables out back were ramshackle, but functional. I led Bertha inside, giving her a pat on the rump. "You take it easy, girl," I said, tossing her some hay and making sure she had water. She snorted, which I took as a thank you.

The scent of roasting meat hit me so hard I almost proposed to the kitchen. My stomach growled loud enough to turn heads. The room was dimly lit, the fire crackling in the hearth casting shadows on the walls. The air was thick with the smell of ale, sweat, and the kind of stories that only get told after a few too many drinks.

I made my way to the bar, my boots kicking up dust with each step. The barkeep, a gruff-looking man with a thick beard, raised an eyebrow as I approached. "What'll it be?" he growled.

"A tankard of your finest ale and a bowl of whatever's making that godly smell," I said, tossing a coin on the bar.

He grunted, sliding a tankard down the bar to me. It was heavy, the ale dark and frothy. I took a long swig, feeling it burn its way down my throat. Then I made my way to the fire, finding a spot on a bench that had seen better days. The stew arrived a few minutes later, and I dug in with the kind of enthusiasm that only comes from not eating a decent meal in days.

The common room was buzzing with conversation, the kind of tired hum you get when people are three ales deep. I leaned back against the wall, letting the warmth of the fire seep into my bones. My eyes wandered around the room, catching snippets of conversation. "Malkor" was a name that came up more than once, always in hushed tones, always followed by a nervous glance over the shoulder. Sacrifices, dark magic, and something about Blackrock Hold. The smart move would've been to pay closer attention, but my brain was too fried from the road to file any of it away properly. Still, the name stuck. Malkor. I'd be hearing it again soon enough.

In the corner, a bard was plucking at a lute, some slow ballad about a knight and a maiden that nobody was really listening to but everybody needed. A few patrons were clapping off-beat, tankards sloshing. Two dwarves were arm-wrestling near the hearth while a halfling took bets. The whole place had that end-of-the-road energy, everyone too tired to start trouble but too wired to sleep. I got it. Three days on the road will do that. My legs ached, my lower back was one wrong move from staging a revolt, and my brain kept circling back to Blackrock Hold and whatever mess was waiting for me there. But right now? Right now I had ale, I had stew, and I had a fire. That was enough.

Then I saw her.

She was across the room, near the bar, her back to me. But there was no mistaking her. She was an elf, her hair a cascade of blonde that caught the firelight like gold. Her leathers were travel-worn, but they clung to her curves in a way that made me forget all about the stew in front of me. She turned, her eyes locking onto mine, and my pulse kicked up a notch.

She smiled, a slow, deliberate smile that made my brain forget how chairs work. Then she winked, and I was a goner. I raised my tankard in a silent toast, feeling a grin spread across my face. She laughed, and I felt it in my chest. She turned back to the bar, her hips swaying in a way that made me wonder if she knew I was watching.

I leaned back against the wall, taking another swig of my ale. The fire was warm, the stew was good, and the view was even better. I didn't know what the rest of the night had in store, but I was more than happy to find out.

I nursed two more ales after that. Maybe three. The bard switched to something slower, then gave up entirely. The crowd thinned out in stages, the dwarves first, then the halfling with his winnings, then half the tables. I stayed put, watching the fire eat itself down to coals, stealing glances across the room every now and then. She was still there. Still at the bar. Still worth looking at.

The fire was dying down, glowing embers now, mirroring the sleepy quiet that had settled over the common room. Too much ale, too many tall tales, the usual inn lull. The barkeep was still at it, wiping the bar like it owed him money. Stragglers were slumped in corners, snoring or staring blankly into the dying flames. I was leaning against the wall, the dregs of my ale warming my hand, when I saw her move. Lyria. She stood from her stool near the bar, and gods damn did she stretch. Arms reaching for the rafters, back arching, pushing those curves into overdrive. My eyes tracked every glorious inch as her leathers tightened, showing off a body built for sin. She caught me staring, a slow, knowing smile spreading across her lips, and then she started walking towards me with the kind of purpose that made my survival instincts and my libido fight for control. Hypnotic. That's the only word for the way her hips moved.

She stopped in front of me, close enough that I could smell her. Sweet perfume and the lingering tang of ale. She tilted her head, looked down at my nearly empty tankard, and smiled.

"Rough road?" she asked.

"Three days of it," I said. "My mule has opinions about it."

She laughed, low and warm. "I saw the mule. She does look opinionated." She slid onto the bench beside me, close enough that her thigh pressed against mine. "I'm Lyria."

"Sam."

"Well, Sam." She leaned in, her breath warm against my ear, and my brain stopped doing anything useful. "Those warlock stories are giving me the shivers. Perhaps you could... warm me up?"

Warm me up? Honey, you're already setting me on fire. Before I could even form a coherent thought, let alone a witty reply, she grabbed my hand, her grip soft but with zero room for argument. And she pulled. Towards the stairs. I stumbled after her, my worn boots catching on the first step. Real smooth, Thornwood.

She laughed, a sound that was half delight, half growl. And she kept pulling, dragging me up the creaking wooden stairs. Each step groaned under our combined weight, echoing through the hushed inn. At the top, she released my hand long enough to shove me into a room, then she was right behind me, slamming the door shut with a satisfyingly final click.

*

She spun around to face me, and the dim light from the window caught in her eyes, turning them to molten gold. She looked at me the way I'd looked at that stew. And I mean that as the highest compliment.

I didn't have time to process much of anything before she was on me, her hands going straight to the buckles of my cloak. I fumbled with the clasps of her leather jerkin, my fingers clumsy with urgency. She smirked, clearly enjoying my suffering, and pushed my hands aside, taking over. Her fingers were quick, efficient, and before I knew it, my cloak was on the floor, my tunic following shortly after.

She stepped back, her hands on her hips, and looked at me like she was deciding if I was worth the trouble. I didn't mind. I was too busy trying to get her out of her clothes. The jerkin came off, revealing a soft, white tunic underneath. I cursed under my breath when I realized it was tied up in some kind of intricate elven knots. She raised an eyebrow, batted my hands away, and reached up to undo them herself. Deliberately slow. Making me watch. The tunic fell to the floor, and she was standing there in nothing but her boots, her skin catching the dim light filtering through the window. She didn't pose. She didn't need to.

I kicked off my boots and pulled off my pants, my cock already hard and aching. She looked at me, her eyes narrowing slightly, and then she was on me, her lips crashing against mine in a kiss that was hungry, desperate. Her tongue was in my mouth, tasting like the spiced wine she'd been drinking. Her hands were on my back, digging into my muscles, pulling me closer until there was no space left between us.

We broke apart for air, but our bodies stayed pressed together. Her hands slid down my chest, tracing the lines of my abs, lower and lower until they cupped my cock. I groaned, the sound rough and unfiltered, and my own hands went exploring. Her breasts were soft under my palms, her waist narrow, her hips flaring out in a way that made me want to grab onto them and hold on for dear life. I squeezed her ass, and she gasped, the sound sharp and startled.

How is this happening right now? Seriously. Twenty minutes ago I was eating stew and feeling sorry for myself, and now there was a naked elf woman pressed against me making noises that should be illegal. I wasn't about to question it. The gods giveth, and Samuel Thornwood receiveth with both hands. Literally.

"Gods," she muttered, her voice breathless, "you've got hands."

I grinned, my mouth against her shoulder. "You've got ass."

She shoved me back toward the bed and I landed with a soft thud, the mattress groaning beneath me. She knelt between my legs, hands on my thighs, eyes locked on mine. No words needed. I leaned back against the headboard, and she got to work.

Alright, let's see what kind of elf shenanigans she's got planned.

Her fingers traced patterns on my skin, light enough to make my muscles twitch. Then, with a low hum that I felt in my goddamn bones, her lips descended.

Not on mine, not yet. On my cock. She took me in her mouth and my brain shorted out. Her tongue swirled around the head, deliberate, teasing, each lick dragging me closer to the edge. I groaned, head tipping back against the headboard. Her hands gripped my thighs, strong and sure, guiding me deeper. Slow at first. Then faster. In. Out. In. Out. Her tongue doing something on the upstroke that made my toes curl. Every nerve in my body narrowed down to that one point of contact, the wet heat of her mouth, the pressure of her lips, the way she'd pull back just enough to make me desperate before diving back in. In. Out. Deeper. Faster. My hands found her hair. My hips moved on their own. The pressure built, and built, and built, climbing toward a point of no return.

She broke away right when I was about to lose it. Breathless, chest heaving, looking thoroughly pleased with herself.

She looked up at me, eyes wide and innocent, Gods what a great girl, "Is that… comfortable?" she asked, as if genuinely concerned about my well-being. Comfortable? Woman, you're about to drive me insane, and you're asking about comfort? I grunted in response, too far gone to form words.

She scrambled onto the bed, straddling me, her knees bracketing my hips, her wetness already slick and inviting against my throbbing tip.

With a sharp intake of breath, she positioned herself, then slowly, deliberately, slid down. Taking me deep. Gods, deep. Inside. Filled. Gone. I groaned, the sound ripped from my throat. She was tight, and warm, and every inch of her felt like it was designed to ruin me for anyone else.

She started to move. Slow, rolling her hips, finding the rhythm. Every time she rose, the cool air hit me for half a second, and then she'd come back down, and my brain would white out all over again. Her breasts bounced with every thrust, and I couldn't look away, didn't want to. The sounds started next. Low moans at first, soft and breathy. But they escalated fast. Louder. More unrestrained. Screams, almost. And every one of those sounds shot straight through me, stoking something hot and reckless in my chest.

Gods, she's loud and bouncy. A wild grin split my face. Usually, I preferred a quieter partner, someone more contained. But Lyria? Lyria was a force of nature. Her unrestrained enthusiasm was a show, a performance for an audience of one, and I was fucking loving every single, glorious second of it.

We moved together then, a primal, instinctive rhythm taking over, erasing thought, erasing everything but sensation. Lyria rode me hard, her hips grinding against mine with fierce intensity, her breasts bouncing wildly, each jiggle a visual echo of the explosive sensations coursing through me.

I gripped her hips, my hands digging into the soft elven flesh, guiding her movements, controlling the pace, pushing back into her with equal, animalistic fervor. Her moans intensified, escalating into gasps, then full-throated screams that echoed off the low ceiling of the small room, bouncing back at us, fueling the frenzy.

My ego swelled right alongside everything else. She was lost in it, completely consumed by the pleasure. And me? I couldn't think. Couldn't form words. Just heat, and pressure, and her, and gods don't stop.

Between gasps, Lyria tilted her head back, her blonde hair flying, and yelled over her shoulder, "So, uh, where are you off to in such a rush, anyway?"

I almost choked, trying to keep my rhythm going while processing the sudden shift to casual conversation mid-fuck. "Warlock," I grunted, teeth gritted, trying to hold back a groan. "Blackrock Hold. Gotta… kill him."

"Ooh, that warlock!" she shrieked, her voice hitting a new, higher pitch as she bounced harder. "Sounds fun! Wish I could come!"

Fun? Yeah, right. More like suicidal. But gods, she felt good. "Busy… saving squirrels?" I managed to pant out, sweat beading on my forehead, trying desperately to delay the inevitable orgasm that was threatening to explode.

"Poachers, actually," she corrected, grinding down hard enough to make my vision swim, but somehow managing to sound perfectly conversational. "And some dryads complaining about... tree sap theft." She rolled her hips in a slow circle that nearly ended me. "You know, the usual elf stuff."

"Yeah," I gasped, my vision blurring at the edges, muscles clenching, "makes… sense."

The tension coiled tighter. Tighter. My grip on her hips went white-knuckle. My breath came in short, ragged bursts. Everything narrowed to a single, unbearable point.

Then it broke.

Every muscle in my body locked up. My back arched off the bed. I came so hard my vision went white, and for a second I forgot my own name. Lyria threw her head back, blonde hair whipping across my chest, and let out a scream that rattled the shutters. Her whole body shuddered on top of me, her thighs clenching, nails digging into my shoulders. Then the sound faded into a long, trembling sigh, and she collapsed forward, her forehead pressing against mine.

I groaned, spent, utterly drained and yet buzzing from head to toe, a wide, satisfied grin plastered on my face. Definitely not boring.

We ended up collapsed against each other, sweat-slicked and breathing like we'd sprinted a mile. My heart was hammering so hard I could feel it in my teeth. Slowly, it settled. Her breathing evened out against my chest, and the room went quiet except for the creak of the bed and the distant pop of dying embers from downstairs.

The silence stretched for a moment, and for once I didn't feel the need to fill it with something stupid. Then, Lyria shifted slightly, her head still resting on my chest, and murmured, her voice still a little breathless, "So... Sam." She paused, tracing a lazy circle on my collarbone. "Is that short for something?"

"Samuel," I said. "But nobody calls me that unless I'm in trouble."

She hummed, a small sound of contentment. Then, after another beat of silence, she spoke again. I could hear the smile in her voice.

"Well, Sam," she said, tilting her chin up and pressing a lazy kiss to my jaw. "May your blade strike true and your enemies fall screaming, da'len."

I meant to say something clever back. I was asleep before I found the words.

The sky outside was lightening, painting the window in hues of pink and gold. Dawn was breaking, and with it, reality. I shifted, and she stirred, her eyes fluttering open.

"Morning," she said, her voice husky, barely above a whisper. She smiled, stretching in a way that made me seriously reconsider leaving, arching her back and extending her arms over her head. Her breasts lifted with the movement, and I felt a pang of regret that this was ending.

"Yeah," I replied, my voice equally rough. "Dawn's breaking. I should get moving."

She nodded, sitting up and swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Her back was to me, and I took a moment to appreciate the view. She stood, grabbing her clothes from the floor and starting to dress quickly. I watched her, already missing the warmth.

When I was ready, I turned to her. She was fully dressed, her hair tied back in a loose braid, her face soft with sleep. I walked over, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead, and pressed a soft kiss to her lips.

She smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Safe travels, Sam."

"You too," I replied, turning and heading for the door.

The inn was quiet as I made my way downstairs. The common room was empty, the fire reduced to ashes. The barkeep was nowhere to be seen, but I didn't need anything. I had my gear, my wits, and a night's rest that had done more for my morale than a week of sleep.

Outside, Bertha was waiting, her ears perking up as I approached. I patted her on the neck, loading my pack onto her back. The sky was fully light now, a pale blue with a few lingering stars. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and the faint tang of smoke from the inn's chimney.

I mounted Bertha, settling into the saddle. The road stretched out before us, winding into the hills toward Blackrock Hold. Somewhere up there, a warlock was doing gods-knew-what with dark magic and human sacrifices, and I was the idiot riding straight toward him.

I clicked my tongue, urging Bertha forward. The sun was rising, casting long shadows across the ground, and the road ahead looked a hell of a lot darker than the one behind me. Good. I was done with the easy part.