The Champion & The Prince Ch. 00

The sun sets low over the kingdom of Alfareowyn. A gorgeous city lost deep in the primeval forests of the northern interior of the northern continent. Castles that seemed to be gigantic natural-growing gems, intertwined with coiling wood and vines, rose to heights just under the tops of the tallest trees.

Natural, glistening streams trickled through the city, filling it with the song of water and the calls of birds. Rabbits, deer, and natural prey animals roam between the buildings, feeling safe from killers such as foxes, wolves, and bear. And mankind.

The roads are not roads. But merely worn down paths of forest under foot. Deer trails amidst weeds and green growth. Yet, only the most avid woodsman could see what is blaring obvious to the deer and the elf.

Dressed in clothing made from still-living vines, or meticulous armor that glistens like the finest steel, the elfs prepare for combat. Wielding blades shaped like leaf edges, or spears adorned like deer antlers, they arm themselves with long wooden shields decored in the Celtic styles of their native home.

The queen of the elfs, Drielywndir, or just 'Lady Driel', trots down through the halls of her home. She is completely nude, minus the 10 feet of long blonde-white hair that trails behind her like a cape. Her skin is pale and pinkish-white, her ears are short and pointed. And her eyebrows look to be made from shavings of diamond formed into the shape of hair follicles. Her lips are thin, behind pearly but rabbit-like teeth. Her incisors, while the rest of her teeth are perfectly human. Well, minus the small fangs in her lower jaw. Like a boar sow's. Only when she yawns or fully opens her small, dainty mouth do those tiny tusks reveal themselves. Hideous to humans, but to elfs a thing of glory. A natural "crown" of the leaders, naturally grown. Her eyes are like the dark, brown eyes of a deer, except in human form.

Her thick, black fingernails, more similar to tiny hooves than fingernails, brush a lock of hair from her face as she tip taps down the grand hall. She is worried. Fearful. The misty, foggy mountains have begun to march onto the forests. Her home. And not only will the elfs fight, but so will the beasts. Deer, geese, turkey, elf, even some of the shy apemen, have sent their strongest bulls and leaders in the defense of their home. The filthy wolves and foxes wait in the shadows, to feed on the fallen.

Lady Driel enters a grand hall that has more in common with the base of a giant oak. It is beautifully light, with vine shaped windows, marble floors, and bathed in mushroom light that has more similarity to watt bulbs than fungus. A bevy of elfs bow to her. All the females have mini-tusks in their mouths, signs they are the matriarchs of the region. The males have bigger ears, and some have literally black lips.

They all sit at a table. She is the only fully nude one, symbolizing her status as most dominant leader. She taps her black fingernail on the marble stone table...

"What news have you?"

"My lady..." ahems a male elf with small antlers sticking out of his helmet; "...they are coming. We can't tell just how many, because...uh..."

"Don't you dare tell me... Tell me, Gorwyn."

"They sent word back that they ate our scouts."

"These barbarians and their appetite for rabbit..."

"I didn't MEAN the rabbit scouts, my lady."

"Ssscheit! Fine. We will meet them in the fringes. We won't be held up in our tree tops or in the thickets of our homes. We'll meet them in the fringes. Send the word!"

As she yells, a flock of sparrows dive out the window. Each one, deviating in a particular direction with urgency.

"Lil' J.T.!" she screams, and a sparrow with a backwards hat, and a gold-tipped beak hops out from the corner to flutter down to her shoulder.

The elf lords cough, and glare at her.

"What?"

"Uh, my lady. No offense, but... Lil' J.T. may...sort of...breaks the, uh..."

"Damn..." sighs an elf in the back, as he walks out embarrassed.

"Oh, right! Riiiiight..."

She shuffles the little bird under the table where he no longer exists in this universe. You over-sensitive, educated, literate bitch.

Rivendell, motherfucker.

"AHEM!" coughs the elf lords.

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In one of the spiral shaped epicenters, a sparrow flies down to an elf guardsman. He listens to the bird's song, and intently watches it's eyes and movement. His eyes flicker down, as he sighs and nods in agreement. The bird flies off back to whence it came, taking the word back to the lords.

The guard rushes to tell another, who them promptly takes off down the spiral staircase leading to the castle's bottom floor. Inside the great green hall is a mass of elf soldiers, armed to the teeth and stalwart. In the midst of them is a great elfish lord, the prince of the region. His hair is long, thick and white. It runs down to his butt, like a glistening cape of silk. His bangs cover his forehead, and long locks in braids run down the sides of his cheeks. He is hairless. His fingernails are long and white. He is thin and svelte, yet moderately built. His eyes glisten like the pearlescent insides of an oyster's shell. A great massive two-handed claymore is strapped to the back of his armor, which looks like a tree used vines to try to make a man out of glittery fishscale. His eye makeup is in a green stripe across his nosebridge and eyes, warpaint.

His long, pointed ears twitch when he hears the guardsman rushing from the top of the wall.

"Sir Vryntorix, we're to head to the northeast! We're to meet those dumb brute animals in the fringe lands."

He sighs a smile, showing his white teeth. His eyes glisten with the ferocity of a war king.

"So be it, then!"

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The elfen armies have entrenched themselves deep into the fringes of their territory. They sit silently, waiting. Watching. Listening. Smelling. Feeling.

The bull elks and bucks snort and drool with testosterone, impatient for the violence to commence. Sparrows, doves and mockingbirds stealthily hop along forest tops, not making a sound. Sending word to one another. And bats careen through the blackness of the forests, reaching their elf military superiors. They gnash their little sharp teeth and twitch, detailing what's going on, before being sent back into the dim tree branches.

The forests sing. Another normal day.

A massive boulder crashes through the tree tops, sending soil and plant debris to fly into the air like ocean spray.

The elks roar the call to arms, and the birds scream through the treetops, signaling the "sniper". At the top of the hill is a massive troll, hoisting up another stone boulder. His body has more in line with a gorilla than a man. He is covered in brownish-grey fur. A tail like an ox's switches behind his muscular buttocks. His face is like a man's, except the nose is incredibly long and thin. His beady eyes glimmer red. His pale lips are thin. His mouth is wide. Inside his mouth are sharp, pig-like yellow teeth. And massive tusks rise from his bottom jaw, like a boar's. His ears are like an elf's, only taller and bigger. Using hands like a pale man's, and on feet like a Nordic lumberjack's, he angles himself for another toss. Runic blue paint is across his face and down his tusks.

He sneers an insult, as if he is looking at vicious genociders. He hoists the boulder through the air, sending it crashing among the elfs, now scattering in panic. A hail of straight-shot arrows thump into his chest, giving him a look like a porcupine. He coughs, dropping to one furry knee. A fox rushes up to him, baring her teeth at those who shot her best friend. The troll laughs, as if his doggy could make a difference. He tosses the dog into the air, knowing she will land on all four feet. But mainly to save him from the next hail of arrows. He knows the fox won't run if he tells her to.

A roar echoes through the forests, and waves of the troll army rush forth. Wolves and owls rush down with them, fang and talons at the ready.

The elf prince screams a sound like a deer buck. The elfs, deer, elks, and strong large herbivorous birds all rush forward.

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The forces have scattered, clashing and fighting. As if two handfuls of seeds have been thrown into the wind over a field.

The fighting has been ferocious all night long. The night could have been worse, since that is when both forces are at their most active and capable. The trolls in the darkest night, the elfs at dusk and dawn.

But the forest is silent. Except for the rare or occasional sound of a scuffle lost in the distance. But the fighting is over. The trolls have been pushed back. But trolls are brilliant creatures. Smarter than the average elf, smarter than all but the wisest of humankind. And this worries the elfs. But the losses, the might of the push-back, was enough to send even wizards rushing for the hills.

In the lonely night, the elf prince Vryntorix, walks towards the absolute fringes he thinks the fighting must have first happened. His troops are scattered, yet as elfs, they are aware of one another by scent and hearing. He doesn't sense anything, most must have returned to the original defense position. But, as a prince, he deems it a must that he see what if any could be farthest from safety. There is no scent of anything. Maybe of a few who rushed through here hours upon hours ago. But otherwise, it is silent and lonely.

Good.

He continues to pace forth, alone in the dusk of the next day. All of a sudden, he sniffs the air. His long, pointed ears skint back, and he grabs his claymore with both hands. His soft-bark gloves creak as his hands tighten. He smells a scent like fresh pine, and frosty mountain fog.

Troll.

The ground behind Vryntorix trembles. No sound. No splash. No thunder. Just a tremble.

He smiles a war lover's grin, spreading his legs wide apart, and throwing his shoulder, whilst spinning around deftly. And there before him is one of the biggest trolls he's ever seen in his life.

It has a massive body that boasts strength. Not cud, not rippling, but brimming with power. Big. Massive. His fur is like that of a shaggy black cow's. His oxtail switches angrily. His beady eyes glow yellow in the darkness. His own hairless pointed ears fold back. Two large, white tusks rise out of his frowning bottom lip. His nose is long, like that of a witch's. His hair is short, his jaw is painted black. He wields something like a giant stone knife in one hand, and a flat boulder in the other. A unique style of shielding. Holding a rock may look stupid, but in the hands of an adept troll, it is a weapon, shield, parry tool, and projectile all at once.

The boulder must weigh at least 70 to 90 pounds. And he hoists it around as if it's nothing. He looks down at the 6 foot tall elf from a 7 foot height. They lock ones. Glowing red beneath white bangs. Glowing yellow under a heavy browridge.

"You think you can best me, beast? You think you can just take me as your prize? A meal? A conquest?" Vryntorix sneers with confidence. He will kill this beast before it makes him a meal, or a target.

"I don't wanna do this..." the troll mumbles. A sense of exhaustion and sadness rumbles from his smooth voice.

"Very smart, deviant. But you will not find me merciful!"

The claymore's blade smacks against the boulder, sending sparks flying.

The troll is frighteningly fast. He's strong. But... he's lackluster. He has a air or just doing enough to push the blade away. He doesn't rush, or turn, or anything.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Say what you will, beast!"

* CLANG! *

"What are we doin' this for? I mean, to what end? For WHAT? I don't wanna fight nobody. I hate violence. I hate this shit."

"Then why are you here?!"

"My mother. For "honor" and what not. I just... why can't honor and righteousness be done in conjunction? Why can't we all be friends instead of lines in the dirt? I refuse to be a soldier for any lord. If a benevolent or kind being is what they say they are, then they would want you a soldier in defense. Not offense. Not a life lifting a bloody banner and spending your olden years trying to find SOME way to fight. Why not enlighten and become enlightened? Why not elevate?"

The troll's words sting. The glittering red eyes of Vryntorix blink hard. His guard has not dropped at all, but the troll's has. He knows he could go for a killing blow. But after the last few clashes, this giant would probably just dodge it.

"I think the heavens truly are benevolent. And orderly. And it is the damned fool who THINKS he is pious that is a liar. A liar lying on that which he does not understand. No more. I will not be a soldier for any lord. Because the heavens would rather me be a soldier in promoting justice and order, not combat for the glory of combat. To elevate and become enlightened, not spend eternity living a "us vs. them" existence."

The elf prince tightens his muscles. Ready to swing.

"Fuck this. I give up. I refuse to waste my existence in the fevered dreams of liars who don't even understand their own sources of violence."

He drops his weapons. Giving up. He sits down on a stone, looking down at the soil. His elbows on his furry knees. He looks tired. His black fur glistens with dew.

"Don't give up just yet..." the prince was not expecting this. His senses affirm they both are alone in the woods. Just the two of them. "You still stand a chance at me. You're a valiant warrior! We have to battle our ways in this life to have what we deserve!"

"I do not want to move and act and react in accordance with your style of combat. I don't want to fight anybody. I want to speak as I feel. I want to help people. I want to find joy. And joy, for me, is peace and contentment. Not... Not THIS."

"You refuse to fight me?"

"Yup."

"Then what's to stop me from killing you here and now?"

"You."

"What?"

"You're better than this."

"How would YOU know?!"

"I can feel it. This stalwart, war-loving, valiant "prince" is not you. You don't like this anymore than I."

"Life is cruel. And to succeed in it, we must be cruel as well."

"Life is not cruel. Life is orderly. INDIVIDUALS are cruel. Because they choose to be. And because they know their choices are condemnable, they find clever excuses for their heinous acts. Excuses that prevent others around them from condemning their own aberrant behavior."

"That's not true."

"If I murder a bird, for the joy of murder, I will be condemned as a sicko. Which I am. BUT, if I say the bird was cursed and I had to kill him, or say the holy tree condemns birds, and find some twisted way to convince people the holy tree DOES say that, when it doesn't, then they will believe me. And believe that birds must be slaughtered for no wastefully, because "that's just how it is." Nothing is "just how it is." There is a reason for everything."

The princes relaxes his posture. His pointed ears return to normal.

"I will not be dropping my sword, troll."

"Here. Take mine." the troll tosses the elf his giant knife, which lands at the immaculate boots. "I'm Gorraks."

"Foolish, to toss aside your weapon."

"No. Foolish to live a life too busy clenching onto warfare rather than holding your neighbor's hand and climbing the steps of higher being."

"...hmf..."

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The troll champion and the elf prince spend hours into the night talking. To the point that the prince sits down himself, the tip of his sword in the soil. They share their ideals. Their outlooks. Their dreams. They laugh. Deep in a hidden grove of green grass, surrounded by oaks and pines, they laugh and talk. Alone.

The moon glows high in the sky.

Gorraks lays on his back in the grassy knoll, his leg crossed over the other. His big, pale, human-like feet with clawed nails gently rocking back and forth. His oxtail swishes contently. His massive chest and arms seem to flex and swell with even his slightest movement. He looks into the moon with his yellow eyes, listening to the prince talk.

Vryntorix notices for the first time the beauty of his massive muscles. The shiny gloss of his fur. And how gentle his tusked face looks. He tries not to stare at the huge chest. If the prince was to be honest, he'd say he looks much stronger than any rippling muscle champion. For the first time in many centuries, Vryntorix feels relaxed. Comfortable. Able to speak freely.

They stop and sit in silence for about 5 minutes.

"You're beautiful." Gorraks blurts out. Just staring at the moon.

Vryntorix feels his face flush with warmth. He glows red with flattery. He lightly coughs, brushing a braid behind his ear.

"Well, yes. Elfs are known for being attractiv-"

"I don't mean elfs. I mean you. You're beautiful."

The prince's face flushes hotter.

"Don't misunderstand, Gorraks. I am a capable warrior, I am a defender of my people and my appearance does not co-"

"We've been speaking how long already? You know I don't mean that. Either that, or you're not thinking. When it comes to combat and all that, you're better than I am. The best I've ever seen, from what I get from your stance and body language. You are. You're a better swordsman than I have ever been. I don't care. I just want to say what's on my mind. What's in my heart."

"...heh... you are... very intimidating." The prince's face burns beet red. "I have never... admitted something like that before. But, you are...incredibly intimidating. You're huge."

"Heh. Me?"

"...yes."

"You intimidate me, too. To meet someone as lovely as you, my heart turns to quivering water."

"Hehehe...no..."

"Yes. Everything about you is beautiful. Unlike me..."

"You are massive. You're so powerful. So wise. Your soul is so gentle, the most gentle I have ever met."

Vryntorix feels himself burn with want. With curiosity. He can't take his eyes off those massive arms, the huge chest. He gently stands up, feeling the painful erection in his pants.

"You really think I'm such a beauty?"

"Absolutely."

"May I... touch you?"

"What? Heh! You'r-"

Gorraks hears the elf's armor fall away. Revealing the beautiful, feminine body beneath. His erection stands at full attention, throbbing in the air.

Vryntorix confidently approaches the giant laid back on the grass. Gorraks has a smart ass smile, looking him up and down. The pale prince lays down next to the champion, rubbing his fingers across the massive bicep. He feels hard, and huge.

Their eyes lock. Gorraks powerful fingers gently run through the white locks hanging down and spooling onto his chest. Vryntorix slides his hand under the massive beast's fur skirt, grabbing and stroking the impossibly thick cock. His pale fingers grip and stroke the dark cock, furiously making it harder and pulse faster.

He pulls off the skirt, causing the massive dark skinned dick to rise into the air like a pillar.

"Oh, my..." he teases, licking his upper lip. He claws his nails down the massive chest and abs, as he eases between those massive, muscular furry thighs. Gorraks looks down to see the long, silken hair of the elf prince between his legs, greedy and hungry. He looks up at him, opening his mouth wide, and lapping his tongue slowly up the cock. Gorraks sighs a hard release of pleasure as his head falls back onto the ground. The small effeminate hand grips the cock base hard, as the lips wrap around the thick red head and slide downwards.

Vryntorix loves the feeling of engulfing this titan's cock. He loves the passion and arousal felt for him. He loves the tender touch from clawed hands that can crush a boulder. He loves making his deft tongue cause the titan to tremble and shudder beneath him.

Gorraks looks up to see the head of the prince slowly and deftly bobbing down on the cock, leaving it glistening with his lustful saliva. One hand grips and positions the cock by the base, while the other pumps the pale, long erection between his own legs. The upward arching elf cock dribbles precum down the knuckles of the beautiful hand furiously pumping it. The elf prince's cheeks flush red, as do his chest and plump buttocks. He's never been this sexually excited in his life before. He feels like he wants to explode. He arches his back, not even knowing that he's slowly rolling his hips in a clockwise fashion, lost in the gentle breezes of passion it gives his taint and hanging balls.