The war council tent of the Hobgoblin host was lit by braziers, thick with smoke and the stench of roasted at. Heavy banners draped the walls, black and crimson, stitched with the crest of the Ironfang tribe. Outside, the roars of drilling soldiers and the guttural chants of Orc auxiliaries echoed through the camp, the promise of blood already thrumming in the air.
Six figures sat around a circular war table, the atmosphere heavy with arrogance and pride.
At the head, sprawled in a lounging chair as though the council were her personal feast hall, sat Griselda Ironfang.
Her red skin glead under the firelight, smooth and flawless. Her long black hair cascaded in a wild mane down her back, framing her face, where lips painted deep purple curved into a constant, sultry smirk. Her body was infamous—massive breasts straining against the sharp shards of tal that barely covered them, her hips wide and soft, thighs thick and powerful. She did not wear armor so much as flaunt herself in it: small curved plates clung to her nipples, a cruel strip of tal guarded her slit, and another frad her backside, held together by thin chains and straps that left almost everything bare. Every commander in the tent had already seen her with so man—or had heard the rumors.
Griselda chewed noisily on a slab of roasted at, grease dripping down her chin, before licking it off with obscene leisure. Her sultry, honey-dipped voice rolled through the tent.
"Mmm... so," she said between chews, "our precious princess has spread her wings. Or should I say spread her legs?"
She chuckled, throwing a bone to the floor. "Thristle Chugh... traitor daughter of the King. Bedding so human Beast Tar. How disgraceful. Or... perhaps how deliciously predictable."
On her left, sat Vegia Shadowglow, fidgeting nervously with her sleeves. Unlike the other generals, Vegia’s beauty ca with softness rather than lewdness. Her maroon hair was short, brushing against her cheeks, her eyes pink and wide, lips of the sa pale hue. Her body, however, rivaled Griselda’s—large, full breasts pressed against the fabric of her thick sweater, her curvy hips stretching the dark leggings she wore. Unlike Griselda, she dressed modestly, almost shyly, as though trying to hide her natural allure. Her voice was quiet, gentle, with a shy stamr whenever she spoke.
She looked at Griselda with clear disapproval. "P-please don’t say it like that, General Griselda. Princess Thristle... she... she might have her reasons."
Griselda leaned forward, smirking, purple lips glistening with grease. "Her reasons?" She let out a husky laugh. "Oh, Vegia, you’re far too sweet for this world. Her reason was simple—she wanted to fuck. And she found herself a tall, strong man to mount her. This Beast Tar, this Aiden Nightshade... I wonder..." Her eyes glead, and she licked her lips slowly. "...how is he in bed?"
Vegia flushed scarlet, hands clutching at her sweater. "Y-you shouldn’t say such vulgar things! The princess said herself she wanted to marry him, not just... that!"
Griselda chuckled darkly. "Oh, marriage is just a prettier word for ownership, girl. You’ll learn."
From across the table, a deep grunt rumbled. Korgath Bloodfist—the rcenary commander—leaned forward. He was massive, even for a Hobgoblin. His red skin stretched taut over bulging muscles, his chest and arms crisscrossed with scars from countless battles. One scar, deep and jagged, ran down his right cheek, giving him a permanent snarl. He wore heavy armor even inside the tent, as though ready to fight at any mont. His voice was a gravelly growl.
"Enough chatter about bedplay," he barked. "The king’s orders are clear. The princess is to be captured, not killed. That ans we crush everything around her, then drag her back kicking and screaming. The rest? We can slaughter as we please."
Beside him, slumped like a dying corpse, sat Vork Stonefist, commander of the dics. His hood shadowed his gaunt face, dark circles hanging under his eyes. His skin looked sickly, almost gray, his lips cracked. He slled faintly of herbs and rot. When he spoke, his voice was dreary, like soone already halfway to the grave.
"Why... why bother capturing?" Vork muttered, shaking his head slowly. "She betrayed us... she chose a man over her bloodline. Better to kill her, end her suffering. In war, there is only pain. Only decay. Death is rcy."
Griselda scoffed, flicking a bone at him. "Spare us your funeral sermons, Vork. The king wants her alive, so alive she stays. Besides..." She licked her lips again. "Pretty little Thristle deserves punishnt far more than death."
"Indeed she does," purred another voice.
At the far end of the table leaned Grimp Darkblade. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a handso face frad by long white hair. His red eyes glowed like embers, his lips curved in a cruel, arrogant smile. He wore light armor, built for agility, a sword resting at his side. Won were his sport, and his reputation was nearly as foul as Griselda’s. He had already tasted her once—and now his gaze was fixed not on Thristle, but on the blushing Vegia across the table.
"Princess Thristle will get what’s coming," Grimp said smoothly. "But the true prize here is control. With her gone, the throne will be that much easier to... claim."
His eyes slid toward Vegia, lingering on her chest before crawling lower. He smirked.
Vegia noticed and shrank back, clutching her sweater tighter.
"Grimp," she said softly, almost pleading, "please... don’t look at like that."
He chuckled. "Why not? A flower should not hide its petals."
"Ugh," Korgath spat. "Keep your cock in your pants, Darkblade. We’re at war."
Griselda laughed. "Oh, let him look. The poor girl needs to toughen up anyway."
Vegia shook her head, muttering. "I’m not... like you."
Griselda only grinned wider.
Then, with a heavy thump, the last of the six leaned forward. The Orc general, his green skin gleaming with sweat, tusks protruding from his jaw, placed his aty hands on the table. He was massive, even by Orc standards, broader than Korgath, his body rippling with muscle. His armor was crude but effective, thick plates of iron strapped across his chest. His voice bood like thunder.
"Hrmph. Orc warlord says this—" he slamd his fist down, rattling the table, "—Thristle or no Thristle, this war is already won. Twenty of my finest warriors march with your army. Each Orc worth ten goblins. Your victory is guaranteed."
Griselda leaned back, licking her fingers. "Mmm, yes... with beasts like yours, and our legions, this Beast Tar and his little pets don’t stand a chance."
Grimp smirked. "Exactly. An army this size, Orcs at our side, and the might of the Hobgoblin host... victory is assured. The Beast Tar will fall. His won will be ours. His beasts will be slaughtered."
Vork muttered, "All of them will die anyway. War devours all."
Vegia slamd her hands on the table, surprising them all. "Stop it! Princess Thristle is not your enemy—she’s family! She must have had a reason to—"
"Silence, girl," Griselda hissed, eyes gleaming with venom. "Do not speak of family here. The only thing that matters is power."
Vegia bit her lip, but her pink eyes still burned with conviction. "...She still deserves compassion."
Griselda only laughed, sultry and cruel.
And so, the war council raged on—five generals, one Orc, arrogance dripping from every word, their confidence swelling like the drums of war outside. While Vegia’s soft heart fluttered with worry, the others only sharpened their blades, dreaming of conquest, lust, and power.
The Beast Tar’s na echoed through the tent, spat with mockery, whispered with hunger.
Aiden Nightshade.
The man they would soon et on the battlefield.
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END OF Chapter : 70 : THE OTHER SIDE!
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