Elaric Voss paused on the forest trail, the lazy afternoon sun filtering through the pines as a faint breeze stirred the leaves. He lifted his tunic collar to his nose and inhaled—sharp, metallic blood clung to his skin and clothes like a second layer, thick and cloying, mixed with the earthy tang of sweat and the faint iron drip from his sword hand. The massacre's residue coated him: dried flecks on his forearms, a subtle stickiness between his fingers, the warm, visceral scent that no amount of wiping could fully erase.
He grimaced faintly. Not revulsion—merely inconvenience.
The distant rush of water called to him. He veered off the path toward the wide river that cut through the valley—a broad, clear expanse of sun-dappled blue fed by mountain snowmelt, bordered by smooth boulders and soft grass. No one around for miles.
Elaric reached the bank and stripped without ceremony, clothes falling in a careless pile: blood-flecked tunic, trousers stiff with dried sweat, boots thudding softly. He stood fully naked in the open air, sunlight warming his bare skin, highlighting the lean, corded muscle earned from years of solitary labor—and the hidden lethality that had just claimed two dozen lives. His cock hung heavy between his thighs, thick even at rest, the broad head still slightly flushed from morning arousal, balls relaxed and full beneath.
He took one step and dove.
The shock of cold water hit like a lover's slap—crisp, biting, exhilarating. It enveloped him completely, rushing over every inch of skin, washing away the blood in swirling pink clouds that dissipated downstream. He surfaced with a sharp inhale, water streaming from his dark hair, rivulets tracing down his chest, over defined abdomen, dripping from his nipples and pooling briefly in the hollows of his hips before sliding lower.
Elaric floated on his back for a moment, letting the current cradle him. The river was cool enough to tighten his skin, raising gooseflesh along his arms and thighs, his nipples peaking hard against the chill. His cock, half-submerged, responded to the contrasting sensations—cold water lapping at sensitive flesh while sunlight warmed his chest—beginning to thicken and rise slowly, heavy and insistent, the broad crown breaking the surface like a buoy.
He rolled onto his stomach, diving deeper, powerful strokes carrying him to a shallower spot where smooth rocks formed a natural seat. He settled there, water swirling around his waist, and began to wash properly—hands scooping the icy flow to scrub his arms, chest, under his arms, between his legs. Fingers slid deliberately along his shaft, cleaning away the last traces of sweat and faint pre-cum from the morning, the cold making every vein stand out, the touch turning from practical to lingering as blood-warmed skin met frigid water.
A low, involuntary groan escaped him as he cupped his balls, lifting and rinsing, the chill tightening them before the heat of his palm relaxed them again. He leaned back against a sun-warmed boulder, legs spread in the current, letting the river tease his exposed length—gentle eddies swirling around the head, cool fingers of water stroking the sensitive underside until he was fully, achingly hard, jutting upward through the surface, glistening wet.
He stayed like that for a long while—chilling in the river, naked and alone, body humming with the contrast of cold water and building heat, the forest silent witness to a man washing away death while pleasure stirred unbidden in its place.
Eventually, he rose, water cascading from his skin in shining sheets, cock still rigid and swaying heavily with each step as he climbed the bank. He dressed slowly, the rough fabric rasping deliciously against sensitized flesh, and resumed his walk toward the village—clean, calm, and carrying secrets deeper than the river itself.
Elaric Voss continued his leisurely walk along the winding forest trail, the crisp pine-scented air filling his lungs, sunlight dappling the path through the thick canopy overhead. His body still hummed from the river bath—skin fresh and cool, muscles relaxed, cock half-heavy in his trousers from the lingering chill and friction of wet fabric drying against sensitive flesh.
Suddenly, a distant cacophony pierced the tranquility: savage growls, the frantic neighing of horses, shouts of alarm, the clash of steel on claw, and the wet, ripping sounds of fangs tearing into meat.
Curiosity prickled like a familiar itch. Elaric's steps turned silent, footsteps muffled on the soft needle-strewn earth as he ghosted toward the noise, body low and fluid, sword hand resting casually on the hilt.
He emerged behind a cluster of ancient oaks and paused, expression flat and unreadable.
There, on the rutted road, a ornate carriage—polished oak with gilded holy symbols of a sun goddess—stood surrounded by a snarling pack of massive dire wolves. At least a dozen beasts, each the size of ponies, with matted gray fur, glowing yellow eyes, and dripping fangs bared in feral hunger. The air reeked of their musky, predatory scent—wild and primal—mingled with the sharp copper of fresh blood from wounded guards.
Six armored knights formed a desperate ring around the carriage, swords flashing in frantic arcs, shields dented and slick with saliva and gore. They were clearly overwhelmed—sweat-soaked, breathing ragged, one already down with his throat torn out, blood pooling dark beneath him.
Inside the open carriage door, visible through the chaos, sat two breathtaking MILF priestesses—mature beauties in their late thirties, clad in flowing white robes embroidered with golden holy threads that clung damply to their voluptuous curves from the humid forest air. The first had cascading auburn hair, full lips parted in prayer, her heavy breasts straining against the low-cut bodice, nipples dark shadows beneath thin fabric as fear and exertion flushed her creamy skin. The second, raven-haired with piercing blue eyes, clutched a glowing staff, her wide hips and thick thighs shifting as she chanted barriers of light—robes riding up to reveal smooth, pale legs and the faint outline of lace panties soaked with nervous sweat.
Elaric watched from the shadows, face impassive.
"Heh. Classic," he muttered in a flat, bored tone, eyes tracing the priestesses' heaving bosoms and the way their robes clung to sweat-damp curves, outlining stiff nipples and the subtle mound between their thighs.
The knights were losing—wolves lunging, claws raking armor, fangs snapping inches from throats. But Elaric didn't move.
After all, he liked women, not men. Save those sweating, grunting guards? What reward would that bring—a bunch of cocks and back-slaps?
No.
His gaze lingered on the priestesses—robes torn slightly at the hem, revealing flashes of creamy thigh; one's bodice slipping to expose the upper swell of a heavy breast, nipple peeking dark and hard from fear-induced arousal. They were moments from death… or capture.
And grateful holy women, saved from monstrous fangs, might offer divine… devotion. Bodies pressed in thanks, soft curves yielding, sacred lips parting around his throbbing length, tight, untouched heat clenching in ecstatic prayer.
Just the thought sent a hot jolt straight to his groin. His cock twitched violently beneath his trousers, swelling thick and insistent, a warm bead of pre-cum oozing from the slit to soak into the fabric, the sticky wetness spreading as his shaft strained against the rough weave.
Elaric exhaled slowly, hand adjusting himself discreetly—fingers brushing the rigid outline, savoring the ache.
He remained hidden, watching the wolves circle tighter, the priestesses' chants growing desperate—their bodies trembling, robes clinging transparently to sweat-slick curves, promising exquisite rewards for a timely savior.
The tension coiled low in his belly, cock throbbing with dark anticipation.
The dire wolves closed in tighter, their hot, fetid breath steaming in the cool forest air, yellow eyes glowing with primal hunger. The pack's snarls vibrated through the ground, a low rumble that mixed with the frantic neighing of the carriage horses and the desperate shouts of the remaining knights. Blood already slicked the rutted road—dark pools soaking into the earth, the sharp copper tang thick enough to taste on the tongue.
One knight, younger than the rest, stood closest to the carriage door, shield cracked and sword notched, sweat pouring down his face beneath his dented helm. A massive wolf lunged, jaws wide, fangs dripping saliva. The knight raised his blade too late—the beast's weight slammed into him, claws raking armor with a screech of metal, jaws snapping inches from his throat.
Elaric watched from the shadows, expression flat. *Heh. Classic,* he thought, the words dry in his mind.
But something shifted. The knight didn't flee. Even as fangs grazed his gorget and hot wolf breath washed over his face, he held his ground—shield shoved forward to protect the carriage behind him, where the two priestesses huddled in terrified prayer.
*They could run,* Elaric thought. *Leave the women to die. But they don't. They stand their ground… just like my mother and father did. Just like Seraphine protects her people.*
Respect flickered—rare and quiet—in his chest.
He moved.
The sword left its sheath with a soft, lethal whisper. Elaric stepped into the open, and the nearest wolf—a hulking brute with matted gray fur—whirled toward him, lips peeling back in a snarl that sprayed flecks of foam.
He didn't break stride.
The blade flashed once—horizontal arc, clean and precise. The wolf's head parted from its body mid-leap, blood spraying in a hot, arterial fan that splattered the underbrush. The carcass hit the ground with a heavy thud, momentum carrying the headless body forward to slide in the dirt.
The second wolf lunged from the side, jaws aiming for his thigh. Elaric pivoted smoothly, sword descending in a diagonal slash that opened the beast from shoulder to ribs. Hot entrails spilled steaming onto the road; the wolf's dying yelp cut short as it collapsed, legs kicking spasmodically.
The young knight staggered back to his feet, staring wide-eyed as Elaric dispatched the immediate threats. "Thank you, sir—for saving my life," he gasped, voice hoarse with exhaustion and gratitude.
Elaric nodded once— curt, emotionless—and turned to the rest of the pack.
The wolves hesitated, hackles raised, sensing the shift in prey. Then they attacked as one.
Elaric flowed into motion.
A wolf leaped high; he dodged left, blade thrusting upward under the jaw, piercing brain in a wet crunch. Another charged low—he sidestepped, sword whipping down to sever spine at the neck, the body crumpling mid-stride. Two flanked him; he spun, steel singing—a horizontal cut taking one across the eyes, blinding it in a spray of vitreous fluid, while the reverse slash opened the second's throat, blood gurgling as it choked.
The air filled with the wet slap of steel on flesh, the copper reek of blood, the acrid stink of fear-piss from dying beasts. Fur flew in tufts; paws scrabbled frantically on dirt as bodies piled.
Then the alpha emerged—a monstrous dire wolf, easily twice the size of the others, shoulders scarred from countless battles, eyes burning with intelligence and rage. It roared, a deep, earth-shaking bellow that made the horses scream and the priestesses clutch each other.
The alpha charged.
Elaric met it head-on.
It lunged, jaws wide enough to crush a man's torso. Elaric ducked under the snap, blade slicing along the belly—shallow, drawing first blood that steamed in the air. The wolf whirled, faster than its size suggested, claws raking where he'd stood a heartbeat earlier, tearing gouges in the earth.
He countered—thrust parried by thick fur, but the tip found purchase in the shoulder joint, grinding against bone. The alpha howled, snapping at his sword arm; he twisted away, boot planting on a fallen log for leverage, slashing across the muzzle—blood spraying, one eye ruined in a burst of fluid.
They circled, beast panting hot breath, Elaric calm, sweat tracing cool lines down his back.
The final clash: the alpha reared, paws battering like hammers. Elaric rolled beneath, sword driving upward in a two-handed thrust—through the chest, piercing heart and lung in a wet, crunching plunge. The wolf's weight bore down, jaws snapping weakly inches from his face, hot drool splattering his cheek.
He twisted the blade once, feeling the last shudder of life, then shoved the carcass aside.
Silence fell—broken only by the drip of blood from his sword and the ragged breathing of the survivors.
Elaric flicked the blade clean, sheathed it, and turned away—expression still flat, the forest air now thick with the scent of slaughter.
The knights stared in awe. The priestesses, robes disheveled and clinging to sweat-damp curves, gazed at him with wide, grateful eyes—chests heaving, lips parted.
But Elaric only walked on, the bored laziness returning to his steps.
After all… respect was one thing.
Reward was another.