Princess Constance Meets the Goblin

Author's Note: Hello, everyone. This story is an offshoot of my other work, Princess Amber Fairpeach, which is a prequel of author zaxxon's own work "Princess Amber Fairpeach Meets the Goblin." If you liked Princess Amber Fairpeach and the accompanying artwork, please take the time to read this one as well as I will be including more illustrations.

Also featured here is my very first crack at making gif animations, so I apologize that I took a shortcut and traced for the first one but the second gif is 100% from my own hand. As well, since the 2020 COVID-19 quarantine happened, I've been pushing myself outside of my comfort zone to try different styles of drawing, so I hope you'll excuse the inconsistencies in styles. The further along the story you get, you'll see a progression of styles as I work to develop my own unique drawing style, but rest assured they're still Princess Clara Constance and Tellok the goblin!

Something else to note, the pictures weren't drawn in any particular order as the story progressed when I was typing it out, so if a drawing looks out of place and you're confused why the quality is so bad, I have put a date on the bottom of each illustration to clear up any confusion.

Word count: 17,000

Illustrations: 15

That said, I hope you enjoy this piece of mine as much as I enjoyed writing and illustrating it!

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He stood before her, framed by the heavy fabrics of the doorway to her opulent tent while guttering fires could be heard crackling some ways behind him, the plates of his kit outlined in the soft orange of dying embers that spoke of the progress of the night. Her first impulse, of course, was to scream, yet the diminutive figure raised his hands and hissed out a plea for her to remain quiet, 'Hush! Don't scream.'

Her second impulse, albeit belatedly, was to embrace her nearly-naked bosom for while Princess Clara Constance was no stranger to undressing, what had caught her unawares was when someone barged in on you when you were in the process of undressing. Such a thing normally would never have happened for inasmuch as she was the only daughter of the royal Constance family and was the youngest from a long, long line of nobility that could trace its unbroken roots to the earliest days of the Dominion of Our Martyred Lady, the princess would normally have an accompaniment of personal guards to keep her person and privacy sacrosanct, the realities of the war and her family's impending poverty meant she no longer enjoyed such luxuries.

She stared at the shadowed figure for long seconds, pensive, her eyes taking in what details the shadows let her take from their jealous grasp, and that was precious little as it is. The low, guttering brazier, only there to stave off the cold, was of little help.

The interloper wore a beaten helmet with a bent and battered Pickelhaube that stood somewhat proud of the ancient metal it was attached to. Pointed ears, almost reminiscent of the horns of beasts of burden, yet their short, pointed ends were more akin to the depictions of demons in those illuminated manuscripts she'd read in the past that detailed the various mystical beasts and demons that were said to prowl the ancient forests and woods of Ylmandoras.

Cresting over one of the figure's shoulders was the unmistakable outline of a broadsword's hilt with proportions looking like it was made for someone much, much bigger than the one who currently wielded it. Wrapping over those narrow shoulders was a loose and moth-eaten tunic that may or may not have been a potato sack at one point in its lifetime. A vest that looked equally old and abused wrapped around this silhouette's torso, though it looked to be a poor way to keep warm even as a gust of cold breeze that blew in through the vestibule caused Princess Clara Constance to shiver.

The most glaring, of course, was that he barely stood above half of the entrance to her tent, cutting an unassuming figure amidst the backdrop of giant men, orcs, and elves who fought the demonic hordes in the name of the Five's survival.

'You dropped this,' the diminutive figure offered after she had not said a word, nor screamed out for help when he told her not to, 'Outside. I saw it fall from your arms.' The figure held out something in its hands, a few pieces of parchment bearing her own distinct handwriting.

Another strong gust of wind caused Princess Clara to shiver again, blowing in the familiar scent of soot and dying embers through the still-open vestibule where the figure stood, annoyingly stock still, as immovable as a mountain and making clear no intent to finish its business and leave. Somehow that was even worse.

A vestibule was designed to keep the cold air from blowing into a pavilion's warm interior, and yet, this creature had managed, whether by fault or design she would never know, to somehow cause the main outer flap to be wedged open while he himself held the inner flap above his pointy head. Her familiar was slow to react, though she could see it weakly tugging at the fabric in an effort to draw the main entrance closed.

Princess Clara felt rooted to the spot, a form of paralysis keeping her legs from moving or her arms from falling to her sides, her limbs trembling as she found herself unable to do or say anything in such an unexpected situation to which she had nothing prepared to say, nor pre-set lines of conversation she usually used to extricate herself from exchanges she found herself not wanting to partake of.

She stared at him, her mind going through a million times a million scenarios to which she had prepared herself in case she found herself in a situation in which she did not want to be, yet she found that she did not have one prepared for an instance where some tiny stranger had barged into her traveling pavilion demanding she take pieces of parchment she dropped when she was outside, and stared at her while she was in a state of near complete undress close to the frontlines of a war against hordes of demonic entities bent on destroying and corrupting everything they encountered.

How stupid of her. How could she have not prepared for this specific instance? She'd managed to build a repertoire of countless lines of sentences and possible responses all designed in such a way to allow her to leave or make the other party go away, and none had ever failed her. She had always, somehow, managed to find an excuse to leave any encounter she had no inkling to indulge. Yet now... she simply had no excuse.

She had nowhere else to go, either. The Constance manor was large and expansive, and the convenient excuse of "not feeling well" or "needing to be off for an appointed task" served her well in matters of expedient escape. Yet now...

'B-bring it here...' she said, just barely managing to stutter, 'And... c-close the flap to the vestibule.' Inwardly, Princess Clara cursed herself. She had meant for the figure to give her the parchments, but to somehow not to come any closer. Maybe throw it at her? No that would ruin the delicate notes. Use magic to gently make the slips somehow levitate towards her? The figure did not look like some kind of sorcerer who could perform such a feat, but was it too much to hope for? She had no plans of speaking to anyone this evening. She just wanted the parchments and for him to go away and if that meant doing the impossible then so be it. She just wanted to be left alone.

She had also meant the second half of the statement to mean that he should seal the entrance behind him once she took the parchment and was on his way out, but the veiled figure took this as a sign to pull the heavy canvas drapes closed and simply cavort across the expensive rugs closer to her with frightening purpose. The words she was about to shout in reprimand turned to ash on her tongue even as she inwardly panicked at his speedy approach, the princess' expression the very image of surprise and fright.

He passed the charcoal brazier that stood right past the threshold and its dim lighting cast its luminescence on the figure's shadowed visage, finally putting a face on and confirming one of her first suspicions about him.

'Here,' he came to a halt before her and closer than any one had a right to be, looking up and holding the parchment out in one scrawny hand, 'I also take payment in kind or in the form of sex.' Eyes that were tiny pits beneath a thick brow ridge stared up at her, skin that would normally be green under sunlight was now a peculiar shade of spent charcoal under the firelight. She had never seen a goblin before, let alone met one, as she ever rarely left the safe confines of the Constance estate, much preferring to cloister herself amongst books and manuscripts and busying herself with matters of learning and avoiding contact with as many people as possible for she despised casual conversation outside of a very small handful of individuals.

She knew, however, with absolute near certainty, what a goblin looked like, and their propensity for mischief and other unsavory things that more often than not ended in trouble for anyone and everyone involved.

True to form his other hand was raised, palm-up, in anticipation for the payment he fully expected to receive.

'You're a goblin.' She spoke the words after a long pause, cautious yet somewhat fascinated, and left the sentence hanging for lack of anything better to say. Princess Clara, still holding her arms up to conceal the generous swells of her breasts as best as she could, started to feel awkward when the goblin did not say anything for long, agonizing moments.

A touch of pink kissed her cheeks as her mind scrambled for things to say but it was all a jumble of nonsensical sentences that stifled any attempts to banish the awkwardness.

The figure, still holding the parchments up in one hand, looked around in feigned bewilderment, even going so far as to spin around on the spot before shrugging, 'You're very smart to figure that out, huh? I'm sure your parents must be very proud of you demonstrating that...' he looked around, briefly, and spotted a large standard hanging from one side of her pavilion, her family crest writ large upon the ancient tapestry in royal shades of violet and blue, '...Constance education.'

Princess Clara felt the insult in his sarcasm, those rosy cheeks turning a dark shade of flustered red, and she made to grab the parchment he held, but the tiny figure was faster than a striking serpent and she missed it the second and third time.

'I can play this all night long, princess wench,' there was a hint of glee in the goblin's tone even as he toyed with her by waving the parchments in the air, 'You have to move faster than a cow's ass if you want these back.'

The goblin began to step back and even sidestep Princess Clara's attempts at regaining what was hers, putting all of her focused efforts into simply taking the sheafs from his hand, 'You...' she gasped, 'Dumb goblin, give those back!' After a few lunges the goblin had a measure of her abilities and it was as easy as breathing to evade her after that.

Exhibiting cunning where the brute force of intelligence was lacking, the goblin bounced on his heels lightly, paying special attention to keep enough distance where the struggling princess built up enough momentum and speed to cause her to overshoot when he sidestepped, but not close enough that she could easily grab him within her considerable arm reach, at least when he didn't, 'Or you can pay me with that cow's ass of yours if you're too cheap to cough up some coins.'

Stature and proportion - those usually found in the royal houses, though carefully cultivated and encouraged through countless generations of selected heirs was beautiful to look upon, and the beautiful Princess Clara Constance was no exception to this tradition - counted for little in this encounter, it seemed. The goblin nimbly rolled between those long legs or ducked low from those swiping arms those times he teased her with the prospect of perhaps catching him with her bare hands but he was always just a hair's breadth away, never a moment where the princess was confident of catching the impetuous goblin.

If there was ever a time where height could be seen as a disadvantage it would be in this one specific instance, and the goblin was relishing each moment, glee writ large on his hideous features as he made use of the cunning and speed his kind were well known for to toy with such a majestic example of a greater race.

The princess started to sound out of breath as the goblin took her for a wild chase, holding the parchment out at arm's length, tantalizingly close to her reach, only to swipe it out of the way, and darting back before sidestepping to avoid her clumsy lunges. He never turned his back on her, not once, his long, purple tongue waggling at her the whole time, globs of stinking spittle flying from his jowls.

The goblin soon turned his attentions to the sheets he held in his hands, narrowly avoiding the princess' clumsy attempts at snatching her parchment back. It was not that Princess Clara Constance was slow. No, far from it. Her hands were like lightning and her swipes were surprisingly coordinated to the little goblin, but it's just that he was faster, and the princess' pendulous breasts often caused her no small amount of imbalance or overbalance. She found herself nearly blundering into a piece of furniture or careening through her tent wall on more than one occasion.

The goblin clumsily turned the sheets over a few times, seeming to examine intently the written notes that looked to have been penned by the hand of an artist, or an individual who seemed to be a stickler for details. Such obsession and neatness permeated into the handwriting for the letters were written in a flawless, flowing cursive and each letter was identical in not only the size to its twin but each sentence was arrow-straight and showed no tilting upwards or downwards along the sheet. The goblin, however, seemed to take no notice of that, and only appreciated it for the fact that the evenly-spaced letters made it easier to read - inasmuch as he was capable of reading, that is.

'What's this now?' He asked, scratching his head as he struggled to make out the words and phrases laid down neatly in blue ink on the expensive parchment. He was not gentle with the parchments, his claw-like digits digging into and crumpling the sheets terribly.

Princess Clara, however, did not seem to appreciate that, and she shrieked a desperate denial, 'No! Stop! Don't read it!' she puffed the words out between labored breaths, already working a sweat that gleamed on her temple and brow, 'You'll ruin everything!' She tried to grab for her notes once more, yet like before, it was all in vain, and her tiredness only made it all the easier for the tiny, quick goblin to avoid her persistent - if slowing - attacks. The goblin, however, had yet to even begin breathing hard, and the reason for the disparity was plainly obvious and kept the goblin's lustful gaze pinned - namely her massive breasts.

Her sweat was working through the damp cloth of her thin, white tunic, giving the lecherous creature a wonderful view of the large breasts within and those puffy nipples whose healthy shade of dark rose caused them to be starkly contrasted against the thin fabric.

'Y-year... 980 Mart... Martyred La-lady. Off to... be married... P... Prince... Fairpeach,' the goblin started, though he seemed to pause and scratch his head again as he read more from the parchment and took in what he could understood, 'You have a problem, huh, lass?' He looked up at her, taking a moment from the difficulties of reading and gazing up at the princess who'd seemed to forget that she was almost naked and clad only in that thin, white tunic and a pair of tight panties that was the color of rare Strybing flowers, and was bracing herself on her knees and trying to catch her breath from the few minutes she spent chasing the goblin down.

'S-stop reading... that. It's... ha... private,' Princess Clara sat down on the edge of her bed, catching her breath, hearing only the rush of blood thundering through her ears, her breathlessness causing her to momentarily not care about the parchment or the secrets she wrote down on them, 'Give it to... me... please. Ha.' She thought, however, that she would resume trying to take the sheets once she'd regained her breath and energy.

She wiped the sweat off her brow with the back of her hand, her massive chest heaving and hoeing with her rapid, shallow breaths.

'Not so very careful with... secrets, eh, princess?' the goblin asked, walking over to the puffing and panting young lady who made one more swipe at the parchments when he teased her with them, 'You must have turned a million and one secrets into a million and one tragedies if you've been as careful with them as you have been with this.'

Princess Clara pushed away from her eyes some of the blonde locks that had become matted from her sweat and stared at him with no small amount of resignation mixed in with some resentment, a young lady barely beyond the reaches of her spoiled upbringing, 'Those are my personal notes. Private.' She pulled a blanket to her and embraced it close to her breasts, as if only now remembering that she had been in the process of undressing before this stranger made her perform exercise, which is her second-most hated thing right after talking to strangers. This... this was too much, and she now had one more reason to hate this impetuous imp, 'How much did you read?'

'Enough,' came the nonchalant reply as the goblin took a seat next to her while casually stuffing the sheafs into his filthy vest, the sound of crumpling and tearing parchment causing Princess Clara to cringe inwardly, 'You are a terrible royal for...' the goblin patted the visible lump where the crumpled sheafs were tucked, letting the sentence hang, his attentions wandering around the inside of Princess Clara's pavilion and catching on points of interest to his amber eyes.

'What do you want? Gold? Royal favors?' Asked Princess Clara while trying her best to anticipate what the goblin was likely to say next and formulating a hundred scenarios how this encounter would play out. Suffice it to say such an unexpected turn of events caused her to speak awkwardly, her body language tense in the extreme as she sat with her back straight and her hands gripping the blanket in a white-knuckled grip, 'I know you goblins like to hoard gold. I've read all about your kind on the Libra Agris and it speaks much about your kind's proclivities for hoarding and stealing and pillaging and generally working for the highest...'

The princess' nervous explanations went on for long, long, long seconds as she detailed the known habits and predispositions of the various goblin populations that littered the known world in scattered tribes that ignored the other while offering their services to those that would benefit them the most financially or materially.

She detailed the long history of the feral goblins from a thousand years back to their joining the sentient races - in what form they were capable of - and their preferred methods of trade and services and what each tribe from each province needed at each season of the year. Princess Clara spoke all this and more, sometimes branching off into how each kingdom treated the goblin tribes, from the most hostile to the ones that were most likely to foster trade and friendship with the lowly creatures who were generally seen as just a cut above vermin by the more "enlightened" races.