Corvid
Executioner
The orcs call her Rumeli. It wasn't her name when they took her; in some grotesque contraction of a coarse tongue, it's a contraction of an identifying syllable, the place she was taken captive, and "breeder bitch."
So the nearby cells in the dungeon are the home to Temeli, Homeli, Yoomeli, Comeli, Aneli, and Gemeli. All of them once had different names, too, but to use their human names where the orcs might hear is for both called and caller to be beaten. And life as a breeder bitch is hard enough without asking for trouble.
Demonstrating the point are the rough, guttural snarls and snorts of orcs in the adjoining cells, punctuated by the crying of the women as they are violated, by the impacts of flesh on flesh, flesh on stone, phallus through cunt. They give reason enough to cry. And if the women don't cry, the orcs find ways to make them.
Breeder bitches are chosen because they appear both healthy and strong. If they aren't, they'll never survive bringing an orc to term over the short six months of an orc gestation, nor the delivery, let alone do so multiple times. Barmaids, princesses, millers' daughters: orcs are happy to rape them when they're available, with the possibility that their seed will take root and they'll either die in pregnancy or survive to be shunned by their fellows and starve.
But breeder bitches are almost exclusively a narrow strain of high-born noblewomen... and warriors.
When Rumeli was Kattarina, she was a knight in service to a local baron. Female knights were rare. Several of the other women on the cellblock had been part of the town garrison, but Kattarina had been the one with formal training, with skill in sword and horse, with armor and barding and title.
A great deal of good it had done her when the town on the outskirts of that barony had been overrun by an orc horde, and with every weapon of the garrison, every fighter on horseback (namely herself), every man and boy able to pick up a pitchfork or threshing flail or cudgel, they had still been outnumbered twelve-to-one.
She had watched innocents being maimed, beheaded, gutted. She had watched women being gang-raped until they lost consciousness and ceased to be of interest. She had seen the injured lying moaning on the churned-up earth, only to be pierced by orcs roaming the field with spears- not once, not a clean killing-stroke through throat or chest, but over and over again until they rattled and perished.
She had wept for them. Now she thought them the lucky ones.
Rape came for them three times a day. Meals came twice. Homeli had tried to starve herself, and they had broken her front teeth and force-fed her gruel through a pipe. When she puked, they whipped her.
There was some rotation, some regulars; different orcs preferred different women, and apparently there was some way of requesting, earning, or paying to access their favorites. Kundak liked to fuck Rumeli, and took every chance he could get to be one of her three visitors.
Kundak was the one with three small bone spurs jutting from the middle of his cock. Such "modifications" were a thing certain orcs had done to them by their chirurgeons. The unlucky ones had their cocks rot off, and their chirurgeons tended to die unpleasantly shortly thereafter.
Unfortunately, Kundak's chirurgeon had known his business.
Rumeli is alone in her cell that morning while the other women suffer through their visitors. That frightened her. They had been captive for eight months; most of the breeder bitches had been found pregnant and taken to another area to await their deliveries. Some had already delivered orc-spawn and returned to the cells to be impregnated again, bringing with them horror stories of hissing, mottled infants born with mouths full of teeth that were quickly set to their breasts.
Rumeli is having her menstrual bleeding, and her rapist of the previous night had clearly been incensed by the sight of it.
There is a clacking as the bar of her cell's heavy, iron-bound door is torn from its shackle and pulled open on protesting hinges. Kundak stands silhouetted in the torch-light of the corridor. Rumeli shies back on her feet and rump into the corner across the straw strewn on the bottom of her cell, pressing her back against the wall, clinging to the thin, shredded rag that is all that hides the curves of her body.
"Rumeli..." The orc hisses, mouth open in a sneer, a string of saliva dangling between the fangs jutting from his upper and lower mouth. He advances into the room, and there is nowhere further to retreat to; the knight-woman shudders in fear.
The orc is six-and-a-half feet tall, packed with muscle. His skin is a piebald smear of unhealthy shades, ranging from umber-rust to bruise-purple to moss-green; greasy hanks of black hair running in thick clumps from the middle to the back of his scalp.
He seizes her by the throat, one-handed, and forces her to rise. His other hand jerks away the threadbare rag where it covers her abdomen and pelvis, revealing the shameful brand, symbolic of the uterus and ovaries, that adorns her lower belly. He prods her there with one thick finger.
"This says 'breeder bitch'," he snarls. "Where is the spawn, growing in this womb?"
Moving his hand higher, he tosses the coverlet from her chest, baring her full, rounded breasts. Rough, chipped nails sink into the swell, plying dangerously close to her nipple.
"Where is the milk to feed tomorrow's horde?"
Rumeli's blue eyes grow wide. Her lower lip trembles as she faces the unenviable question of whether answering the rhetorical question or remaining silent is more likely to invite brutality.
Kundak grabs her by the hair and forces her in front of him, leading her out of the cell.
"W-where... Where am I going?" She whimpers.
Kundak slaps the back of her head and pushes her between the shoulder blades; she falls forward, is arrested with a jerk by the hand tangled in her blond locks, and cries out. Desperately she regains her footing. The message is clear: keep walking.
So the nearby cells in the dungeon are the home to Temeli, Homeli, Yoomeli, Comeli, Aneli, and Gemeli. All of them once had different names, too, but to use their human names where the orcs might hear is for both called and caller to be beaten. And life as a breeder bitch is hard enough without asking for trouble.
Demonstrating the point are the rough, guttural snarls and snorts of orcs in the adjoining cells, punctuated by the crying of the women as they are violated, by the impacts of flesh on flesh, flesh on stone, phallus through cunt. They give reason enough to cry. And if the women don't cry, the orcs find ways to make them.
Breeder bitches are chosen because they appear both healthy and strong. If they aren't, they'll never survive bringing an orc to term over the short six months of an orc gestation, nor the delivery, let alone do so multiple times. Barmaids, princesses, millers' daughters: orcs are happy to rape them when they're available, with the possibility that their seed will take root and they'll either die in pregnancy or survive to be shunned by their fellows and starve.
But breeder bitches are almost exclusively a narrow strain of high-born noblewomen... and warriors.
When Rumeli was Kattarina, she was a knight in service to a local baron. Female knights were rare. Several of the other women on the cellblock had been part of the town garrison, but Kattarina had been the one with formal training, with skill in sword and horse, with armor and barding and title.
A great deal of good it had done her when the town on the outskirts of that barony had been overrun by an orc horde, and with every weapon of the garrison, every fighter on horseback (namely herself), every man and boy able to pick up a pitchfork or threshing flail or cudgel, they had still been outnumbered twelve-to-one.
She had watched innocents being maimed, beheaded, gutted. She had watched women being gang-raped until they lost consciousness and ceased to be of interest. She had seen the injured lying moaning on the churned-up earth, only to be pierced by orcs roaming the field with spears- not once, not a clean killing-stroke through throat or chest, but over and over again until they rattled and perished.
She had wept for them. Now she thought them the lucky ones.
Rape came for them three times a day. Meals came twice. Homeli had tried to starve herself, and they had broken her front teeth and force-fed her gruel through a pipe. When she puked, they whipped her.
There was some rotation, some regulars; different orcs preferred different women, and apparently there was some way of requesting, earning, or paying to access their favorites. Kundak liked to fuck Rumeli, and took every chance he could get to be one of her three visitors.
Kundak was the one with three small bone spurs jutting from the middle of his cock. Such "modifications" were a thing certain orcs had done to them by their chirurgeons. The unlucky ones had their cocks rot off, and their chirurgeons tended to die unpleasantly shortly thereafter.
Unfortunately, Kundak's chirurgeon had known his business.
Rumeli is alone in her cell that morning while the other women suffer through their visitors. That frightened her. They had been captive for eight months; most of the breeder bitches had been found pregnant and taken to another area to await their deliveries. Some had already delivered orc-spawn and returned to the cells to be impregnated again, bringing with them horror stories of hissing, mottled infants born with mouths full of teeth that were quickly set to their breasts.
Rumeli is having her menstrual bleeding, and her rapist of the previous night had clearly been incensed by the sight of it.
There is a clacking as the bar of her cell's heavy, iron-bound door is torn from its shackle and pulled open on protesting hinges. Kundak stands silhouetted in the torch-light of the corridor. Rumeli shies back on her feet and rump into the corner across the straw strewn on the bottom of her cell, pressing her back against the wall, clinging to the thin, shredded rag that is all that hides the curves of her body.
"Rumeli..." The orc hisses, mouth open in a sneer, a string of saliva dangling between the fangs jutting from his upper and lower mouth. He advances into the room, and there is nowhere further to retreat to; the knight-woman shudders in fear.
The orc is six-and-a-half feet tall, packed with muscle. His skin is a piebald smear of unhealthy shades, ranging from umber-rust to bruise-purple to moss-green; greasy hanks of black hair running in thick clumps from the middle to the back of his scalp.
He seizes her by the throat, one-handed, and forces her to rise. His other hand jerks away the threadbare rag where it covers her abdomen and pelvis, revealing the shameful brand, symbolic of the uterus and ovaries, that adorns her lower belly. He prods her there with one thick finger.
"This says 'breeder bitch'," he snarls. "Where is the spawn, growing in this womb?"
Moving his hand higher, he tosses the coverlet from her chest, baring her full, rounded breasts. Rough, chipped nails sink into the swell, plying dangerously close to her nipple.
"Where is the milk to feed tomorrow's horde?"
Rumeli's blue eyes grow wide. Her lower lip trembles as she faces the unenviable question of whether answering the rhetorical question or remaining silent is more likely to invite brutality.
Kundak grabs her by the hair and forces her in front of him, leading her out of the cell.
"W-where... Where am I going?" She whimpers.
Kundak slaps the back of her head and pushes her between the shoulder blades; she falls forward, is arrested with a jerk by the hand tangled in her blond locks, and cries out. Desperately she regains her footing. The message is clear: keep walking.
