VADNAR
I stand with my trews on the floor, naked from the waist down. The female looks at my cocks in shock, like she had never seen one before.
Maybe the males of her kind aren't equipped with many inches.
The damned things harden, flattered by her shock and inspired to show her in what other ways they can surprise her.
I look down and grip each in one hand, squeezing to try to tame them. That only sends bolts of pleasure up my spine, and I groan.
My eyes find the female again. She is looking at me with an expression I detest: Fear.
As soon as Zolanos discover who I am, they cower away. That's why I'm on this fucking farm. To be at peace. But now I have this female that's making my cocks misbehave and a dangerous emotion bubble inside of me: protectiveness.
I shouldn't shelter her in my home, but she's so small and lost. I know what it's like to feel lost, but at least I'm a hulked bastard with muscles that can shatter the bones of my enemies. This female has no muscle to her name.
I swipe my ruined trews from the floor and pull them on. "Do not touch my things. You will get hurt,"
I grit, but of course she doesn't understand.
She opens her palm, looking sadly at a small clump of metal. Then, she reaches for my equipment again while looking at me warily. When I shake my head, she extends the device towards me and points toward my hammer.
She either wants to fix or destroy this thing.
I pick up the hammer.
She cradles her fist protectively, and I have my answer. For some reason, she wants fire and my blacksmithing tools to fix this thing; whatever it is.
She points to her ear and mouth, and then at the device. She does this a few times, and I guess this must be some communication talisman.
She wants to speak with me.
I sigh, because I doubt she will be able to fix this tiny thing with my large tools. The only way to break this barrier between us is by toying with dark magic. Clearly, whatever sorcery she is using isn't strong enough.
I will have to walk to approach the city and seek a witch to break this language barrier. All while keeping my identity hidden. If the slavers notice me, they will come after me, and I will be taken from my farm.
I could usher these people off my land. That would be the easy way out, but I have a track record of diving head first into danger. And when it comes to this pretty little face, I seem to stumble right into it—pants at my ankles and all.
So to the rotten city outskirts I go. It will be a day's travel, and hopefully, these two won't burn down my farm while I'm gone.
I put out the fire, although she tries to signal for me to stop. She waves her small hands and looks desperate, and it hurts to ignore her.
I take her hand, and lead her around the corner to my bedroom. There is not much of value in here. My coins are hidden well.
I point to my bed, and command her to stay put. Her eyes widen, and I realize I'm speaking too loudly.
Damn it all.
I go to the kitchen and pull a bag of my reserves. There is fried meat in here— a fit meal for a man on the run. This food should last her a few days.
Trusting that she knows where to find water, I make quick work of pulling my boots on, and slide a cloak over my shoulders.
"You will stay here until I return."
She understands I'm leaving. I can tell by the panic in her gaze. Still, she makes no move to stop me. Only clenches the bag of reservations.
I pick up a sword and walk out penniless. The witch won't want my money. I can offer something far more precious: my blood.
I walk out of the house, closing the doors behind me, and I jog towards the city outskirts. There is a town there, home to wanderers and a witch I've heard stories of. She can be trustworthy, for a price.
I jog past my shed. There is no sight of the boy that hides there. I frown at the memory of him hurting the female. I grip the sword tighter.
Hours later, when I'm far from the vicinity of my isolated farm, I pass by a cart on the road. I keep my gaze down to avoid the gaze of the travelers and keep jogging.
A few hours later, I thirst for water, but there is no time to stop. Not when I can see the first few homes scattered in the distance.
It's easy to locate the witch. She lives in the small home with red markings on the door and strong scents whirling from the window. Talismans hang from the door knob, and the chattering patrons that walk across the town center don't give this door a glimpse. She must not get many visitors.
I weave through the people, ignoring their curious gazes.
I knock on the witch's door, and she opens a minute later. "Who are you?" She asks, red eyes peeking from the creaked door.
"A man looking for business."
She squints, but opens the door. I stand on a dark hallway, my head slightly bent to avoid hitting the ceiling.
"I will make this quick. There is a woman whose tongue I don't understand, and she doesn't speak Zolan. I need to break our speech barrier."
She frowns. "She doesn't speak Zolan? Where is she from, a sister island?"
There are only three languages on Zolan. The rarer two are only found on distant islands.
"Can you help me or not?"
"Of course I can. This is children's play. I will give her something to consume, but it will wreck her body for a night. She will wake up speaking and understanding Zolano."
But I don't want her to be sick all night. Her small body would suffer greatly.
"There can't be side effects. I will pay double to avoid her illness."
"Her discomfort will only last a night. A price must be paid for our greed. One that is not monetary. Pay it, or find yourself with a worse punishment."
There is no avoiding it, then.
"And your payment? What do you offer me?" Her eyes become brighter.
I outstretch my forearm. "Blood."
She latches onto me. "You are one of them, then?" She licks her lips. "One of the Masters?"
Is that what they are calling us nowadays, Masters? I have heard many names, but this is the strangest one. What are we Masters of? Misfortune? This supernatural strength we didn't ask to be born with?
"Yes. Take your payment now. I must get going."
She is more than happy to slice my wrist with a golden blade, watching the dark crimson blood trickle into her vase. She stares obsessively at it.
I hold my arm steady, although I hate her interest. 'Masters' began to be born on Zolan twenty-something years ago. All males that hold incredible strength. No one understands why, but the world quickly began to obsess over how to use us, even slavers.
That's why I keep my head low. I will not be captured and forced into labor.
The witch makes me wait outside as she prepares her part of the bargain. I wrap a strip of cloth I ripped from my cloak around the wound, but some beads of blood still trickle onto the dirt.
The door opens behind me. "Here," says the witch.
I accept the small pouch she holds.
"And your name?" She asks. "What was it?"
I walk away without answering. The less she knows, the better.
As I walk back home, I ensure I'm not being followed. I grip the pouch tighter than my sword as I jog, ignoring my thirst and weakness from my drained arm.
I will return by nightfall, and I will finally exchange words with the beautiful alien in my bedroom. What will be the first thing I tell her?
I suppose I can apologize for hardening my cocks in front of her and explaining I have little control over them. Yes. That is the best way to start conversation.