"Okay, so, yes I technically shouldn't have been trespassing in your territory." I start, plastering as confident a smile as I can muster on my lips. It's not every day that you find yourself tied to a tree, and staring down a small clade of Huntresses. Judging by the facial tattoo on one particularly, breathtakingly handsome example of an Orc, not only just a Huntress Clade, but one of their Bezhir-Zhashak. The Red Hand.

Also known as real fucking hard huntresses. The kind that don't take too kindly on those that stray into their territory.

Especially not some punk-ass ranger with a mop of fiery hair, a patchwork cloak and even patchier armour.

Especially especially not some punk-ass ranger carrying a small fortune's worth of smuggled, stolen goods from the south, now skimming their territory to try and make it to the Black Desert in the north.

In all, not the best time to be me. Luckily for me though, this could prove to be a lucky break. I know the Orcs of this region. A few of them, anyway. I know some of their problems, too. No males left to carry on the bloodline thanks to a particularly wicked Bloodline curse a few centuries back. Raiding the local villages had just made the source of virile men simply just... well, move away. Though I have a feeling that was likely more down to any nagging wives, fearful that their lame, pot-bellied old husband was going to wander off in search of the first decent fuck of their lives.

Orcs are a deeply spiritual race. Hard not to be when your society's built arou d being strong. Not just physically either. Cunning, wisdom, intelligence... strength comes in many forms for the Orcs. Arguably their system, of the best leading, works better than any system we've come up with in the past thousand years.

I mean, think about it. Orcish Steel is hardly... pretty to look at. It tends to be fairly plain, compared to Dwarvish metal or Elvish Craftsmanship. A Dwarven Axe'd last you a lifetime, though you could never sharpen it yourself. An Elvish bow might hit accurately, and both'll look pretty as a picture on your mantlepiece.

Orcish Steel could cleave mountains in half. Always wickedly sharp, enduring, built to last, and be as practical as possible. Comfortable too, surprisingly light when it needs to be, or heavy as Lead when swinging a warhammer or a battleaxe through plate armour.

The Orcs are a very... practical race. Everyone works for everyone else. No-one gets left behind, not even the lame or the crippled. Wounded warriors are seen as highly reverent figures. Who best to teach the next generation of fighters than one who's lived through the worst of it?

And judging by the look of the Red-Handed ones in front of me, looks like they're hardly going to be leaving me behind. So I crack a wider smile, try to straighten in my bonds, my neck craking a little.

"So, you caught me. By your custom... I'm yours." I look at their leader again, and down at myself for a moment. "So, when do we leave for your camp?"

Little did I know at the time, well, when you get marked with a rune that looks a little like a pointed spearhead mixed with some kind of curling horn... well, apparently the term 'Fuckbull' starts getting passed around.

And so does one marked like that.

Okay, dead simple this time. Big, strong orc women take a Futa as their own. For Snu-Snu. Not hard, this one. I do love me some character changing and such, so just... well, hit me with some ideas or something. Transformations, potions, character ideas.

Likewise, I generally just want to be on the recieving end of some frankly Amazonian fucking right now. Not getting fucked, being fucked by someone big, strong and really fucking hot. Okay? Okay.

Standard rules n' stuff apply. No jumping right in. No kik, chat or otherwise. Introduce yourself, put some effort in. Okay?

Send some orange the way of yours truly, and let the pelvis-shattering snusnu begin.