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Working Like a Thrall Chapter 1
This is best shown as a PDF, so if you’d all just follow this link here, you should hopefully be able to read it as intended. I’ll be including a brief introductory portion below that pertains to the story from the librarian’s perspective, so please read it, before you go to the document. Thanks. :D P.S. This does get a bit on the mature side in some places. You have been warned.
Azeroth had been safe for the last six years, after the first great war ended. The dreaded Horde was defeated, its armies pushed back, and its gateway destroyed. Unfortunately, that was not to last. The Horde returned, and it was out for revenge. Many men, women, and children fell victim to this great and terrible foe in their second and most ruthless campaign to date. This is but the narrative of one such victim, whose word was sadly unheeded. The fate he has faced may be deemed too terrible for words. Peruse this narrative with caution, reader, for it is not for the faint of heart, and some small piece of the Horde's foul essence still remains bound within these pages. You are still determined to read it? ... Very well, then. You have been warned.
Working Like a Thrall Chapter 2
Here’s the second chapter, folks. Just click this link.
One of my followers said he was getting bored of the usual dumbing down tfs that I’d been doing, so I thought I’d mix it up with this one and plant it in my Omnistore universe. Hope you all enjoy.
Going Medieval
Trent looked over the simple worn garment and sighed. The shopkeeper had promised the item would be properly authentic, but the thing was far too large. He’d be swallowed by it, if he tried to wear it. The thing would barely hold to the edge of his shoulders.
“Just try it. I find my costumes fit my clients just right in the end,” the owner had said with a smirk that looked very much like a sneer as the teeth on the dark fox head revealed themselves.
How this enigmatic Ronoc had managed to create such a detailed and realistic costume, Trent would never know, but he was willing to do practically anything to look good for the party.
He sighed as he pulled the simple pants from the hangar and drew them up his legs. The extra material pooled on the ground in a rippling puddle of cloth as he cinched up a leather belt with an intricate metal skull that grinned out at the changing room mirror. Then came the shirt. As he suspected, the material felt worn, and draped heavily over his frame. It felt more like a night gown than it did a medieval garment. The lack of sleeves certainly didn’t help that image. At most, this shirt could have been deemed a summer garment for a peasant.
“It’s too big,” he called through the door.
“Just give it a moment to sink in,” Ronoc’s voice called back. Trust me, you’ll feel right at home in it soon enough.”
“Clearly, you and I have different ideas of a proper form-fitting costume,” Trent said as he reached for the clasp on the belt. “I’m taking it off.” He’d just seized the clasp when his whole body spasmed and his hands jerked away from the metal. “What the hell?” he gasped. “It shocked me!” He reached over and probed the belt experimentally. The metal felt cold as ice, but no jolt shook his frame this time. His breathing came faster as his cheeks flushed. The colder the buckle felt, the warmer the room seemed to become.
“Patience is very important in my services, you know,” Ronoc’s voice carried over the door. “It simply wouldn’t do for you to take off the costume before it’s finished its work.”
“W-work? What work?” Trent’s voice cracked as he asked.
“You’ll see. Phase one should be underway by now. Go ahead and watch. It’s quite the enjoyable experience for those who seek power, or so I’ve been told.”
Trent leaned against the wall of the room as the dizziness took him. His skin tingled along his scalp, ears, cheeks, and face. He huffed, then whipped around. He could’ve sworn he felt someone touching him, but no one was there. Again the sensation arose, more like a gentle caress than the teasing he’d received in school.
“What the hell...?”
“It’s perfectly natural to feel certain pleasurable sensations as you change. I recommend you allow them to come,” Ronoc said calmly. “The sooner you enjoy them, the sooner we can move forward with finishing your costume.”
“What are you--?” Trent gasped as he felt a warmth building in his crotch, followed by a swelling between his legs. He groaned as he spread his legs apart to make room for the impossibility he knew was happening down there. His eyes rolled in the back of his head as the mysterious specter went back to work with a vengeance. Knots were kneaded, flesh rubbed down, all while the heat spread and the pleasure rose. His shoulders slumped as his jaw went slack.
“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Ronoc asked teasingly.
Trent could only groan again as he heard the undeniable scrape of stubble grate in his ears while he felt the surface of the hairs being pulled by his mysterious masseuse. He barely even heard the snap and crack as his jaw realigned and his shoulders expanded. The sensation of his feet growing longer and thicker left him swaying unsteadily. He huffed as he leaned against the side of the mirror and watched in a drunken haze as his chest broadened and his torso rose. There was muscle there, and proper tone. His skin darkened to a healthy tan, while the edges of his hair bleached to a suntouched blond with darker tones beneath.
He felt the surge of pressure as his Adam's apple jutted forward and his neck’s muscles expanded with his now significantly broader shoulders. He barely heard the rustle of the fabric as it rose from the floor, though he recognized the gentle pull against his skin as the shirt rubbed his torso.
Finally, the endless assault of pleasure and heat stopped. Trent panted to catch his breath and center himself. Then he stared into the mirror and gaped.
“Is that ... me?” he asked. His clutched at his throat as he heard his new deeper voice for the first time. His square face and chiseled jaw jutted with masculine edges under the light. A shadow was cast over his dark eyes from his brow, giving him an attractive smolder that many a girl would swoon over. His beard had grown in sufficiently to cover and accentuate his chin and cheeks as he puckered and spread his lips to get a proper look at his changes.
“I told you my costumes fit their hosts well,” Ronoc said with a wicked chortle.
“I’m ... big,” Trent marveled.
“Oh, we’re not finished yet,” Ronoc purred. Trent could practically hear the sneer behind the words.
“Not finished? What’re you--?” Fire burned in his veins as his hands clenched and unclenched. The appendages swelled to twice their size as his veins stood out against his skin. He roared as he felt that familiar tingle that seeped into his skin and deep to the bone. His jaw snapped again as two sharp teeth jutted out from his lower lip to rise on either side of his face. The blond faded as the darker hair beneath consumed it, darkening from sunny to sandy to brown to black. It lengthened down to his shoulders as taut skin strained against the rapid pace of his swelling muscles. The healthy tan gradually darkened to a murky brown with hints of swamp green. Finally, the green overtook it as the fire drove itself into his eyes and he watched the iris bleed into a glowing ruby. His brow jutted forward into a shelf that left his face with a perpetual menacing appearance about it.
He ground his new stronger teeth together as he bore the pain. The shirt now strained against his titanic form, and the pants clung tightly to the muscles beneath. He heard the swish of cloth and looked down in surprise to see the belt buckle had expanded into a far larger and hideous skull that held a loin cloth in place over the pants. Its eyes also glowed red as he felt the burning anger surge through him. Rage at the ones who had dealt so dishonorably with him, bloodlust for revenge, and an overpowering urge to fight, control, conquer.
The new orc roared, and the skull’s mouth opened in a terrible pantomime. Its maw gaped hungrily as the war cry died off, and Trent’s shoulders heaved against the now paper-thin material of his shirt. His new sharp ears jutted out to ether side of him, peeking through the veil of his black hair. He turned, and the hair whipped wildly behind him as he slammed the door open to stalk up to the store provider. He towered over the puny creature now, yet the creature remained the picture of calm. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Part of him was outraged. Part of him wanted to laugh. Part of him felt respect for the lack of fear. He wasn’t sure which part he wanted to listen to yet.
“Well now, Durog, you certainly do look fantastic. I told you my costumes worked well.”
Trent furrowed his heavy brow. “Durog?”
“Well, you couldn’t well keep calling yourself Trent. That’s a human name.”
A wave of involuntary disgust rose in the new orc, and his face contorted in distaste.
“I see you agree with me. And yet you’re confused by that agreement.” Ronoc shrugged. “It is how it is. You get the form, you get the instincts that go with it. Just accept the new name. Trust me, it’ll feel better for you, if you do.”
The belt’s eyes flashed. Durog’s eyes flashed. “I’ll need armor,” he growled.
“Naturally,” Ronoc agreed. “A warrior should always be ready for battle.”
“On that, we are agreed.”
“And a chief should always be ready to lead.” Ronoc sneered as he brushed the belt. “You won’t be the only orc walking the streets tonight, if you play your cards right. Just let Durog do the driving. The belt will take care of the rest.”
Durog sneered. “I believe I’ve decided I like you after all, Ronoc.”
Ronoc sneered back. “I thought you might. Just do your best not to forget Trent. Do that and, well, you might well be stuck as Durog forever.”
Durog smirked as a Minotaur tossed him a wicked battleaxe. It carved through the air with a familiar weight that made him grin.
“Would that be such a bad thing?”
