Orin The Great Ch. 02

Bartram jerked slightly, when he felt Silas' hard cock sliding across his buttocks.

"I will do as you say." Silas replied, as he groped at those same buttocks, spreading them and releasing them a couple of times.

Bartram felt the fumbling between his legs, as Silas aimed his cock at... at where Bartram's cock should have been. Only there was no cock, only Rohanna's hot and creamy slit. He was in the woman's body, and somehow sharing it with her. Bartram jerked again as he felt the end of Silas' hot poker prodding between his legs.

He heard Rohanna's soft laughter, which turned into a faltering gasp, as Silas began to enter that slick and anxious passage. Bartram was forced to release the smock. He grasped at the wooden rail, feeling its coarse fibers under his fingers and palms, as Silas continued to ease into him from behind. Silas did not halt until he was fully planted, and his abdomen pressed hotly against Rohanna's ample cheeks.

The feeling was intense enough to provoke a soft wail from the woman's lips. Bartram was glad that the voice emitting from her mouth was Rohanna's, and not his.

Then Silas withdrew his cock fully, exploding shivers of pleasure all over the woman's body, and another, more powerful wail.

"You're more excitable than usual, love." Silas commented.

"I've missed you, Silas, and I thought you might not come today. This is why I was so sullen when you came in." She'd raised her head slightly to speak, but now leaned forward once more. "I've changed my mind now. I would rather not risk you taking too long here and be missed elsewhere. Tell me you love me, and do what you came her for, and that will keep me for another day or two."

"Of course I love you! Never think it otherwise!"

"Then show me how much, and be gone with you before your mother finds out what we're doing. You know how she doesn't approve of us being together."

"One day, I will have you all to myself, and no man or woman will come between us." Silas vowed. "Until that day comes, you will have memories like this to remind you of the ardor of my love."

Silas pushed into her again, eagerly, wantonly, as if attempting to fill her entire body. He prompted her to mewl out loud, and even more so as he began rocking back and forth behind her. His thrusts were profound and enthralling, and his legs slapped softly against the backs of Rohanna's fleshy thighs. All the while, Bartram imagined his arse jutting back and being pummeled into by another man.

Fervor climbed within Silas, provoking him to come crashing against Rohanna's backside, sending ripples cascading over her flesh, and granting him the pleasure of hearing her cries of delight. He rotated his hips to catch her at angles, further agitating her, and quickly reaching that high pinnacle of lovemaking that all lovers hope to find.

Rohanna cried out in bursts of love, and along with her, Bartram cried out also, for he was feeling everything that she felt. From the hurried movements of Silas' cock, to the stimulating reaction her insides experienced, Bartram felt all there was to feel. When she reached her climax, incredibly, so did he.

As the two of them exploded in ecstatic wails, Silas recklessly plunged into Rohanna, until his own howls mated with theirs and created a symphony of expressed bliss and love. He grasped his lover's middle, even as he burst within her and expelled his liquid heat into her, and even after this he continued to push into her. Until the last traces of ardor were spilt from his body, Silas kept his place, and then, ever reluctantly he slipped away.

Rohanna, still bent over that sturdy rail, barely heard her lover recover his trappings, as her breaths were still loud and harried.

"One day, I will no longer be forced to hide my love for you, Rohanna." Silas said. "I promise you this."

Rohanna straightened up slowly, but by the time she stood upright, Silas was gone. His promise, she knew, would never, ever be fulfilled, for as long as they lived. Perhaps even in death, their love would remain forever tainted.

The body Bartram was hidden in hurriedly straightened out its smock, and rubbed the coarse fabric against its thighs to clean off the last of her lover's expulsion. Afterwards, the eyes roamed over to the stalks of wheat that had yet to be machined. Bartram could feel the woman's face contort into a grimace.

"I've gotten behind, due to my longing for my Silas." Rohanna sighed. "But it matters not in this place, for I can relive this same day over and over again. I can finish my task early, or I can finish it not at all. Can you understand what this is like for us, Bartram? For Silas and I to relive these same days over and over without end, for the remainder of eternity? The only thing that has kept us from becoming vengeful spirits is the love we still hold for each other, but even this grows stagnant at times. This is why we draw newcomers into our trysts, because although Silas and I truly love one another, we have grown sick of seeing only ourselves in this accursed state and no one else. Will you aid young Orin in relieving us of our plight?"

As the shock of being jostled about by ghosts began to subside in Bartram's mind, the feeling of sadness and eternal confinement began to replace it.

"It must be as Hell for the both of you." Bartram realized.

"It is, truly it is."

Bartram gave his accord. "On my word, I will do what I can for you."

"You are a good man, Bartram. I thank you, and Silas thanks you as well. And worry not about your secret, for it is safe with us."

Bartram would have gulped, then.

In the next moment, he felt the dream slipping away from his mind, and he opened his eyes to gaze upon the starry night, obfuscated partly by the trees around them. The entirety of the story of the two young lovers came to him in a flash, and such a revelation it was that Bartram gasped and immediately sat up.

He saw the lingering flames from the campfire, and past this he saw Orin, sitting up as he was, and watching him closely.

"She's a plump hen, isn't she?" Orin grinned.

Bartram stared at the young man for a long moment. Not knowing what to say in response, he lay back down and gave his back to the fire, and hoped dearly that Orin would not begin to pepper him with questions.

The cursed doll still lay only a few inches above his head, but somehow, Bartram knew he would be plagued by its startling dreams no longer. He left it where it as, and in the span of a few minutes, the man was soon soundly asleep.

Orin noticed that Bartram was unusually quiet the next morning, at least regarding the previous night's happenings. The man was, however, being as instructive as he'd committed to being, and perhaps even overly much. Bartram had given Orin his bow, and every fifty meters or so, he'd halt Orin and direct him to take a bowman's stance.

"Again, Bartram?" Orin balked, the next time his new mentor ordered him to assume that same pose yet again. "We've done this nearly twenty times already!"

"What does one need in order to become an accomplished bowman?"

"Practice, practice, and more practice."

"It would only work to your advantage to heed my words." Bartram stated. "If you wish, I can stop teaching you now. If I did, you may as well break up your bow and your remaining arrows and use them for kindling. You will never become proficient enough to catch any sort of wild game with your current level of mastery. The best you can hope to do is to come across a farm, and even then you would be lucky to down so much as a loose hen."

"Oh, very well, Bartram." Orin chuckled. "I'll take the stance. Go ahead and remind me again of my many faults."

The young man assumed a bowman's pose, while the older man walked around him in a tight circle and closely scrutinized him.

"Give thanks to me, for your faults are not as numerous as before." Bartram inspected him. "What is your target?"

"That birch tree there, the leafy one at fifteen yards."

Briefly, Bartram considered the tree, and their distance from it, before he commenced his critique. "Your feet are correctly aligned toward your target, good. Your draw hand is up and near your lips, again good. Your left elbow is crooked a tad too far away for now, but this is much better than how close it was earlier. Hold your position, focus your aim, relax your breaths, and the beats of your heart..."

"Otherwise that birch tree will notice me and go bounding off into the woods!"

Ignoring the young man's jest, Bartram halted before Orin's front. "This time, I will examine your release. Shoot when you are ready."

After a few moments, Orin did.

"Once again."

Orin repeated the action.

After a few moments, Bartram asked, "Who is it that taught you how to shoot a bow?"

"I taught myself."

Hearing Bartram's chuckles made Orin's ire burn. What bothered the young man most was not his ineptitude with archery, for he already knew he was deficient at this. Instead, he resented the idea that Bartram would think of Orin's father as an incompetent who had taught his son nothing. Orenn the Fearless had taught him plenty, but not in the Way of the Bow. Orin's proficiency lay in the Way of the Sword, with his strongest foundation being in maneuvers while on the battlefield, or in any other close quarters, and also in movements of stealth involving the penetration of an enemy's lines, for the purposes of scouting, spying, extricating valuables and assassination. He could not, of course, reveal any of these things to his new mentor.

"My father had little need for a bow." Orin admitted, in the man's defense. "Had he a purpose for an archer, he would have simply hired one. I learned how to fashion a bow and how to shoot one, only by watching other men from afar. You may correct me as you will, Bartram, only do not judge my father for what I lack in."

"I will respect that." Bartram nodded. "There were two critical flaws in your release. At the point when you should be letting go of the string, you are giving it one last tug and skewing everything out of true. The correction for this can be troublesome, for you will have to break that bad habit. Instead of one last jerk, you must teach yourself to keep your fingers firm, and to allow the string to roll off on its own. Second, and just as important, is that you're relaxing your stance even as you are releasing the arrow. Again, this affects your entire balance. The correction for this is much simpler. Keep your body in the bowman's stance until the moment the arrow strikes the target. Can you remember these two things?"

"As well as I can remember the rest of it, I suppose." Orin replied. "Thank you, Bartram. I'm rather glad you came to seek me out."

The older man grinned at the younger, and a few moments later the pair was on the move again.

For the next couple of hours, things went this way, until they happened on an approaching traveler. It was a man most curiously dressed, for his garments were primarily dyed in a deep, rich red wine color, fringed in white, and speckled on the fringes with gold and silver flakes so that he seemed to twinkle as he walked. His hat was relatively tall, droopy and conical like an elf's, with a great white feather extending from one side. He wore a tunic that drew down to the thighs, leggings beneath that, and shoes with an exaggerated and pointed tip. The man's stride was both full and bouncy.

"Ho, there!" The man announced, his voice cheerful and as buoyant as the rest of him.

"Ho there, yourself." Bartram replied. "You have the look of a town crier about you."

"That I am." The man, who looked to be only a year or two older than Orin, bowed lightly. "Welcome to the both of you."

"And the same to you, friend." Bartram grinned. "What sort of news do you bring?"

"Only the most heart-fluttering sort." The crier divulged. "In two days' time, in the town hall of Sleepy Glen, master Derek of the Tollsons will wed the lady Josephine of the Fletchers. It will be a grand time for all and all are invited to attend. There will be a dance held in the town square after the wedding, food, ale and wine will be abundant, and a troupe of entertainers has been commissioned to add to the merriment."

"It sounds as if it will be a splendid event!" Orin immediately perked up.

"Indeed it will be, young laddie." The crier smiled at him. "All that we ask in return is that any guests be announced in the proper manner, and that their names and places of residence be recorded by a notary. In this way, the variety of the guests will forever be remembered by our town."

It was not an uncommon request, Orin knew, for the names and hometowns of guests to be requested. Many of the smaller towns and villages lay far, far away from the beaten paths, where visitors were rather few and far between. The entire purpose of the town crier was to herd as many people away from the road and toward the feast as possible.

"Of course, if it is within one's means to do so, a gift for the bride and groom would be most appreciated." The crier added.

"Oh, we must go there, Bartram!" Orin said, excitedly. "It's been some time since I've been to any sort of festival at all!"

"And do you hope to find any sort of adventure at this wedding, perhaps of the young and female persuasion?" The older man teased, before he addressed the messenger once again. "You mentioned that the bride's surname was Fletcher, yes? Are the arrows this family makes worth acquiring?"

The crier leaned forward like a conspirator. "The Fletchers make fine arrows, but ever since the demand for them has increased at the marketplace by Tooker's Ferry, they have become a tad bit overpriced."

Bartram considered this.

"Ask this man about... the other thing." Orin reminded him.

"Ah, yes." Bartram nodded. "By chance, would you know if there is a capable conjurer or sorcerer in these lands?"

The crier looked alarmed. "Why would you be needing one of those?"

"Uh, it is a rather delicate subject, but I suppose I can trust a man of your calling with it, as you do seem a good sort." Bartram confided. "Young Orin here, ah, prickled his arse the other day, while relieving himself in the brush. We were not able to identify the shrub from which the thorn came, and now a rather unsightly and pus-filled swelling has formed. The last conjurer we came across believed the shrub must have been cursed, and that whatever demon resided there has transferred itself away from the shrub and into Orin's arse, where it seems to have made its new home. Orin would be glad to show you this malady, but I fear that upon seeing it you will deprive yourself of sleep for some time to come."

Looking even more aghast than before, the crier took a quick step back. "I would do very well without such a sight!"

Barely harboring his smirk, and the bushel of giggles hiding behind it, Orin gave the men his back.

"There, I've embarrassed the young one now." Bartram said, grimly. "But you do see how we find ourselves in dire need of a magician, and preferably one adept in the manipulation of cursed spirits."

"There is a witch who lives not too far from here." The crier revealed. "She is an old and hideous woman, but they say her magic is very potent. It is not unheard of for her visitors to travel great distances in seeking her. Her name is Sundri, and the place in the hills where she lives is known as the Devil's Crag."

"She sounds wonderful." Orin frowned.

After receiving directions from the man, the two adventurers went on their way. They had only walked a short distance, however, when Orin gave his mentor a punch in the shoulder.

"Of all the people you could have chosen, I can't believe you told that grand lie to a town crier!" The young man snapped. "The Devil's Cave, the Devil's Crag, I suppose that now they'll be calling me the Devil's Arse! Look there, that's the Devil's Arse, and he's come to ask me for a dance. How many women will want to dance with me, Bartram, after that crier spreads that false rumor around the entire village?"

Nervously, Bartram grinned back, but in truth, his shoulder was already throbbing, for Orin's punch, unexpectedly, had been very, very strong.

The Devil's Crag lay at the end of a seldom-used trail that went through an especially thick length of copse. The trees were crowded and menacing, with cracked bark in a muddle of black and gray, and crooked branches that seemed to droop down deliberately to poke and scratch at the pair of visitors. No sooner had they left the trail and the trees behind, than they confronted the rough, craggy face of a barren hill of reddish dirt and broken rock.

In the midst of these looming, bleak portraits, was just enough room for a lean-to. The posts holding this crude dwelling up were stripped trees, and three of the walls along with the roofing consisted of nothing sturdier than old, ruddy canvas. The fourth side of the lean-to was wide open. Within its narrow stretch they observed an old cot with straw for bedding, and a single dingy, coarse blanket. Beside this, there were a few old jars and a smattering of old garments and shoes. Sitting on an old, straw-padded stump and watching over a meager fire was none other than the witch they had come to find.

She was an old woman, with a gaunt, weathered face. Her nose was hooked like a claw, her eyes, sharp and leery. Her hair was white and gray, and at spots stained with yellow. Her clothing was once colored a pleasant shade of gray, but now looked moldy and as bedraggled as its wearer. The woman's attention was entirely focused on the two men entering the very small clearing.

"Why have you come?" The witch demanded.

Squeamishly, Bartram deferred their introduction to his companion.

Orin felt squeamish himself, and was only barely able to suppress his fear when he replied. "We were told that we could find a woman named Sundri here..."

"I am Sundri. What of it?"

"Is it true that you can manipulate spirits?"

"Of course I can. Is one of you possessed?"

"No, not at all."

"Then what do you want? Spit it out or I'll have you both dragged out of here by my minions."

Anxiously, Orin glanced about, but he saw nothing whatsoever that might be construed as minions, and he was not at all eager to meet any of them either. As quickly as he could manage, he pulled off his pack and from it he retrieved the cursed box. Not wanting to approach the witch any further, he held it out with both hands.

"Bring it here." Sundri ordered.

After a long exhalation, Orin trudged forward, his nose wrinkling as he took in the reek of stale sweat, urine, and defecation. For the sake of the two cursed lovers, he braved through the stink and presented the box to the witch.

Sundri studied the box from various angles, and even from underneath, before she went on to open it. The doll she studied even longer.

"There is a very old curse here." She said, finally, and with some of the hard edge gone from her voice. "Who did this?"

In short order, Orin revealed the story of the two lovers, and how they had ended up trapped in the cave at Dunnidale. Of more than that, he said nothing.

Once the tale was told, the two travelers were puzzled to see the witch holding the straw doll close to her bosom. What's more, the old woman began to cry softly before them. Orin and Bartram were both too apprehensive to give her any comfort, and stood by uselessly until the tearful episode was done.

"What good is love, if jealous people seek to hew it down the moment they have noticed love taking root?" Sundri asked, as she wiped the last of her grimy tears away. "I will remove this curse and release the two lovers, but this will come at some cost to you."

Orin said, "I haven't much in the way of coin, but all that I carry is yours if you do this."

"Bah!" The witch expelled. "What would I do with coin out here?" She began to study the two men closely. "I will break this spell, but only on one condition. I wish to be cockled. It has to been many years since I have known the company of a man, and I suddenly find myself desiring one."