Barbarians.
Now those boys know how to throw a party.
You hear the war horns? Drums echoing down the pass? You know it’s about to get wild. Next thing you know—bam—the door bursts open and in stomps so slab of muscle with a na like Orn, or Bjorn, or Urn, covered in furs, dripping with rain and bad decisions, shouting, “BRING YOUR FINEST AT AND WOMAN.”
And we do.
Because when those lads show up, it’s on.
You think elves are fancy and Lycans are primal? Barbarians are just joy. Pure, ale-soaked, blood-slicked, naked joy. No pretense. No drama. Just raw laughter, slurred toasts, and soone absolutely ends up licking ad off your tits while shouting a drinking song about their mother’s goat.
I’m not even mad. That’s my style.
One ti, I swear to the gods, five of them showed up mid-blizzard. By the ti the fire was roaring and the clothes were flying, I was on the table, two girls were swinging from the rafters, and soone was trying to roast a chicken on a candle.
No one even noticed we’d run out of wine. We were too busy screaming into the void and loving every second of it.
And in bed?
Absolute chaos. In the best way. They don’t know technique, they don’t need it. They just go, like they’re plundering your soul through your pelvis. Hair pulling. Boot still on. Slling of pine smoke, sweat, and victory. You’ll wake up bruised, full, and deeply satisfied—sotis next to an axe and a fur pelt that isn’t yours.
And the best part?
They leave you a tip and a war chant. And sotis a wolf pup. One ti a boar tusk necklace. I wore it for weeks.
So yeah.
Barbarians?
Ten out of ten.
Would pillage again.
Barbarians?
Barbarians are what whores live for.
You think I’m joking? I’m not. Every seasoned harlot has her favorite client type—so like the brooding necromancers, so go for the coin-heavy dwarves. ? I’ll take a barbarian any day of the week and twice on raid day.
They walk in, all muscles and mayhem, covered in war paint and probably soone else’s blood, and the mont they see you?
Boom.
“Elven princess,” they whisper, eyes wide, voice low, like they just spotted a unicorn wearing perfu. Never mind your accent’s Seebulban dockside trash and your last bath was a prayer and a splash. You’ve got smooth legs, no facial hair, and your tits sit nice? To them, that’s noble blood. Royal lineage. Wife material.
They wanna marry you after every round. No joke.
You barely finish wiping yourself off and they’re already muttering about building you a longhouse and giving you eight sons with nas like Skullbreaker and Goatbane.
And they always threaten to kidnap you. That’s part of the whole thing. “I’ll take you north,” they growl, “make you my winter bride.” Yeah? Then do it, Ulfgar. Do it. Pack up, carry off like a good brute. But no—they never actually do.
Because it’s a ga. It’s always a ga.
They ravish you, roar about destiny and fated love, then pass out hugging a barrel. You tuck them in, steal their coin pouch, and the next morning they’re weeping because “the snow spirit maiden” is gone.
That’s , darling.
Saya. Spirit maiden. Elven whore queen of the beer hall.
We play the part, they play theirs, and everyone leaves happy—sore, drunk, slightly robbed, but happy.
That’s what I call good business.
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