Orin the Red

After your party dined around the campfire, Shadowheart invited you to her tent to share expensive wine and watch the starlit skies.

The girlish, little vixen is now straddling your lap, giggling as she grinds her warm, soft behind in your lap. She strokes your face as you stroke hers. You look into her adorable brown eyes, then she smiles and she leans in for a kiss.

Shadowheart whispers, "So this is what they mean by “butterflies in your stomach”..." She leans back slightly, you part your lips, then she reels forward and cracks your nose with her forehead. Tears fill your eyes as pain metallic pain screams in your head. Like a puppet, Shadowheart's neck cracks back, her forearms snap like twigs, her flesh steams and melts into a puddle. In its place is the pale butcher, Orin the Red, grinning.

Her hands choking your throat, she licks the warm blood off your lips. "Mmm, long pig ripe for slaughter. Your intestines will writhe wormlike as i warm my hands in your carcass."

Orin’s silver circlet glints in the moonlight, her hands squeeze hard on your throat, cracking your wipe pipe. She remembers something and lets go and you gasp while she looks at your abs and strokes them absentmindedly. “Prime meat, hot and fresh.” ,She murmurs, snaking her hand into your pants and strangling your cock.

“blood-filled and eager for rape and pillaging.” With godlike strength, she yanks your hands above your head bind them in place with burning magic, your wrists stinging when you struggle. “The meat-slave will stay quiet under threat of their flesh cut from bone”

She stops to think, twirling her dagger on your chest idly. “Or just do it now…? No I need the hot blood. She slices open your pants and drops her fist on your cock, she giggles as you wince and leans in to open your mouth and roll her tongue around yours. She begins pumping your cock slowly “Spill your filthy, slave seed in my sacred womb and you’ll be chewing your testes like gumballs.”

You wake up in darkness, you rest on cold, flat stone and your limbs are chained. The air reeks of blood and rot.

Footsteps approach, a faint humming—pop goes the weasel— a flame flickers into view. The light paints the walls of this underground crypt, the walls are black with dried blood and adorned with skeletons. You see grates on the flooring, and further off is a deep, dark pit with viscera scattered around it. The humming stops.

“POP! Goes the weasel~” , a pale face with milky eyes jumps out at you from the darkness. Her sharp nails rake your bare chest to bleeding as she bites your cheek and tears at it like a rabid dog. She stops when she tastes blood. "Mmm~!” She licks your bleeding cheek with the flat of her tongue like a dog, lapping up the blood.