So apparently I went crazy and never submitted this gem of a commission; the third story concerning  iracrowe's delightfully beefy cast of high fantasy characters, like Hrothgar the Black Devil, and Ganzor, an orc of immense proportions who can be my warchief any day. This story continues the reign of Empress Iresia, as she brings her harem of beef personal champions to smash a rebellion against her rule. You can read the other two stories with these characters here:

https://www.furaffinity.net/view/25338036/
https://www.furaffinity.net/view/25678438/

Story © c'est moi
Characters ©  iracrowe

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A warm summer sun rose over the rolling hills of Talamora, the jewel of the Southern Icelusan Coast. Sprinkled with cypress trees, olive groves, and vineyards, dotted with sprawling marble villas, the tranquil countryside belied the near catastrophic political climate. Ever since the death of King Faeltan, the noble families of Talamora had all but burst into civil war. Although all Kings and Queens of the seven elven kingdoms that made up the Empire of Icelus swore fealty to the divine light of the elves, Empress Iresia, the kingdoms were allowed to do as they please. It was accepted wisdom that the ever-present Imperial Army and a smaller army of bureaucrats ensuring a steady stream of tax revenue would keep the local aristocracy in line. In the wake of the death of their King, however, the nobles of Talamora were taking far too many liberties for the Empress’ liking. The occasional spat between noble houses, Iresia could tolerate, but when armies were being raised and battle lines were being drawn, that is where the Imperial Crown had to intervene.

Iresia was travelling in style; her royal carriage was pulled by four hippogriffs, while two regiments in shimmering mithril armor marched in front and behind, the sunlight glimmering off their polished breastplates, blue and silver banners bearing the sigil of the Empire, framed by griffins. But perhaps the most impressive sight were the three figures closest to the carriage, each of them colossal in their size and scale. They were officially christened as Tuath De Iadraicht, the Companions of Might, and risen up as the Empress’ right hand when a little, or a lot, of muscle was needed. Some months passed as Berach and Galwain, the two junior members, got used to their new roles. Galwain was tall, a high elf with a shock of red hair and piercing green eyes. His body looked like it had been carved from marble, each hard, diamond cut muscle on his massive frame taut and rippling. He was the smallest of the three, but it still put him three times the size of a normal elf, with an expansive pair of heaving lats that made his studded leather outfit creak, and bulging arms that would not suffer sleeves. He was noticeably top-heavy, but the ladies at Court were quick to appreciate the V-shape contours of his body, not to mention his boyish looks and adorably naive demeanor. His bow of polished heartwood, itself the size of a small tree, was so taut, only a Companion could wield it, and Sir Galwain could use it with deadly accuracy.

Riding opposite Galwain was Sir Berach, an entirely different creature. If Sir Galwain was compared to the sun god, Unoriel the Light-Bringer, then Sir Berach was Thanascath, the Shadow of Death, the trickster god. A dark elf with a skin like twilight, highlighting every curve and bulge on his burgeoning frame, Berach was a mage and a rogue, able to slip away into shadow and command the energies of fade and fel, but none would know it from his shape. He was larger than Galwain, with a middle like a beer keg, matched with gorilla-like arms and a chest like a bulwark, and thick, meaty legs that drove a different set of courtiers, men and women alike, quite giddy. Dressed in rich silks and velvets that stretched taut over his girth, Berach’s white hair was well-groomed, and he often boasted of his chest hair, comparing it to a starry sky over his vast chest, which was always open. Under the Empress’ first and favored champion, Hrothgar, the two musclebound elves formed a powerful trio paired up with the minotaur.

Of course, Hrothgar, the Black Devil, dwarfed both his fellows. The minotaur was a moving mountain, a body hard as stone under his shaggy black fur, with all of Berach’s bulk and then some, but with all of Galwain’s exquisitely cut and defined form. He refused to wear armor, leaving his engorged flanks, back like a valley framed by shoulders like mountains, and arms almost as thick as Berach’s waist, were bare, for all the world to see, nothing more than a leather kilt and gold ornaments adorning his vast, monumental body. They were tokens from Iresia; gifts showing her affection, but also a good measuring stick. If Iresia could see the piercing on his chest, she knew the view was magnificent. Still, his red eyes scanned the countryside, never at ease. Their were rumors of so-called rebels, little more than jumped-up bandits and rogues, as far as he was concerned.

“Hrothgar?” Iresia called, leaning forward from her seat in the carriage. “You are so tense, I could use you to run a clock. When we get to the capital Chartigra, I’m ordering you to their spa, it’s supposed to be famous. You need to relax.”

“I’ll relax when you’re behind castle walls,” the minotaur grumbled.

Iresia grinned, leaning out the window to steal a kiss on his cheek. “Smile, Hrothgar. Mustn’t let the rebels hiding behind the hills think you’re ill at ease, should we?”

Hrothgar gave a crooked smirk. “Don’t tempt fate.”

Fate, however, was well past temptation. The road dipped down, cutting through two hills. Sir Galwain was the first to spot the tip of a spear ducking behind the crest of one hill, and quickly gasped, withdrawing his bow.

“Ambush!”

Iresia’s easy smile disappeared in an instant, holding out her hands and flexing her fingers, an iridescent dome of magic enveloping the carriage and her guards as the first volley of enemy fire came, fireballs seering the Empress’ shield.

“They’ve got mages!” Berach growled. “Hrothgar, ready, big man?”

The minotaur exchanged a look with Iresia, then grunted, wielding his massive spiked warhammer. “Do it, Berach!”

The dark elf nodded, summoning up an inky black portal. Hrothgar charged through, and appeared on the other side, landing with a thud on the cliff above. His warhammer slammed into a rebel soldier like a battering ram, sending his broken body flying as the huge minotaur roared. Galwain’s arrows, enchanted with fire and ice, flew threw the air like the wrath of the gods, smiting the Empress’ enemies with deadly precision.

The armored regiments, models of form and discipline, sprung into action, mopping up the scattered remains of the rebels’ first charge. As Berach and Galwain joined the battle, Hrothgar picked one rebel up effortlessly, his engorged bicep larger than the roguish elf’s face.

“You’re attacking your Empress, you fool!” the minotaur snarled.

The elf gasped for air, hands scrambling at Hrothgar’s beefy forearm. “We’re killing her.” He said with a defiant smile, cocking his head to where a larger force was gathering, charging up the hill to join their comrades in arms to repel the Imperial guards.

Hrothgar’s eyes bulged as he squeezed the life out of the rogue and threw him down. “Berach! Galwain! Get Iresia out of here!”

“What about you?” Galwain shouted back over the din of battle.

“Don’t WORRY about me, get Iresia out of here, or I’ll tear your arm off and beat you with it!” the Minotaur snarled back, knocking down three more rebels.

“Come on,” Berach grabbed the archer’s arm. “We don’t have time to argue!”

The two burly elves raced down, collecting the remains of Iresia’s guards; it was a complete rout, as the rebel ambush had them outnumbered. Slipping back behind Iresia’s barrier, Berach and a handful of guards rushed to the Empress’ side as Galwain peppered their pursuers with arrows.

“Where’s Hrothgar?” Iresia demanded immediately.

“No time to explain, we need to get you out of here!” Berach said. He pointed his staff at the hippogriffs, filling their minds with visions of terror to propel them into a gallop. The carriage rushed madly out of the canyon, the hippogriffs trampling rebel fighters beneath their hooves, drowning out the Empress’ protests as her magical ward burst. Berach and Galwain brought up the rear; they were not built for speed, after all. And soon, the remaining guards directed the carriage into a nearby forest, losing the rebels in the trees. Iresia was thoroughly shaken as the carriage rumbled over rough terrain and loose stones, but when they at last came to a stop, the Empress was safe, but absolutely livid as she burst the door off her carriage with a flick of her wrist.

“You left Hrothgar behind? FACING THAT ENTIRE SAVAGE MOB!?” She thundered, her diminutive frame suddenly not mattering as much as she cowed Berach and Galwain.

“He told us to get you safe!” Galwain protested lamely, holding up his hands defensively, half afraid the Empress would set him on fire.

“And is this safe?” Iresia looked from the two champions to the guards. “My carriage is torn to shreds from that little romp through the forest. If they find us, we’ll be sitting ducks, and we are in no position to save Hrothgar!” She began to pace, entirely beside herself. “What if there are more lurking in the shadows? And what about Hrothgar?”

The remaining guards grasped their weapons harder, looking to the shadows. Every rustling leaf and snapping twig put them on edge. “I think there’s something here, Your Majesty!”

“Please,” Berach grumbled. “It’s probably just a deer.”

Iresia continued to pace, her mind racing. She was despondent, but after several tense minutes, the snapping of twigs and heavy footfalls called everyone’s attention to the trail of twisted branches and broken roots the carriage had left in its wake. Iresia’s heart leapt when the figure blocked out the sun; it could only be her Black Devil.

“Hrothgar!” she gasped breathlessly, running into the minotaur’s arms. She sucked on her teeth when she saw an arrow sticking out of the minotaur’s chest. “Gods above, you need a healer!”

He smirked, then tore the shaft out. It seemed to barely graze him, a mere surface wound that didn’t do much to the massive wall of black muscle. “Don’t worry. It felt like a bee sting.” Hrothgar rumbled, enveloping her entirely as he pressed her against his cliff-like chest. He looked up to Berach and Galwain. “You followed orders. Thank you.” He nodded, before turning back to Iresia, nuzzling the crown of her head.

“A lovely reunion,” a new, deep voice rumbled, and instantly, all of Iresia’s guards and champions drew their weapons.

Out of the trees, the points of spears and drawn bows were thrust into the light. Hrothgar couldn’t make out who had surrounded them, but a good number of them were noticeably huge, their dark outlines shrouded by the forest’s shadows filling the space between trees.

“Do you know who this is?” Hrothgar growled. “You threaten the Empress of all Icelus!”

“Because that threat worked so well last time…” Berach muttered, summoning up whisps of dark energy.

“I know who she is,” came the same deep voice. He was easily the biggest of the shadowy figures, his vast shoulders brushing against the trees he passed by on either side. He revealed himself to be an orc; and the biggest any of Iresia’s party had seen. Enormous traps swallowed the beast of a man’s neck, his green skin drawn taut over his enormous musculature. Pecs the size of shields jutted out from his chest, forming a heavy shelf of mass, chin wedged against it. Both arms were forced to sit at angles by his enormous lats, even with that sprawling mass his monstrous biceps pushed into the sides of his chest. Blackened iron greaves were clinging to his swollen thighs, those pillars rolling around each other even as his weight shifted back and forth. “I am Ganzor, son of Gartan, and Chief of the Forgotten Wanderers.”

Berach and Galwain gripped their weapons tighter as Ganzor lumbered closer. He was dressed for war; the scraps of metal armor that clung to his engorged mass painted with pitch. He was adorned in warpaint, intricate patterns of black, brown, and dark green tracing over every bulge and swell of muscle. A shock of red hair was cut in a mohawk, crowned by an iron circlet. He easily dwarfed the two elves, though their size did give him pause as his golden eyes arched; he had never seen elves that large before.

When he came to Hrothgar, the minotaur put himself between the orc and Iresia, lowering his horns and snorting. The minotaur’s red eyes narrowed, a little unsure; Ganzor was bigger than him, even. He eyed a gold armband that somehow encircled Ganzor’s surging green hill of a bicep, and felt it would be roughly big enough for him to wear as a belt.

Still, Ganzor stopped, keeping a respectful distance between him and the Empress. He drew out two swords each taller than an elf and thrust the blades into the ground. “I’ve come to parlay. But make no mistake about who has the upper hand here, Empress.” He gestured to his men, their weapons still drawn. Ganzor held up a fist, and they lowered their bows and spears.

Iresia looked up at the orc towering over her. Hrothgar, in a moment of jealousy, swore she was looking at Ganzor with a hungry look, but she raised her chin, turning an imperious eye to the orc. “As Empress of Icelus, I recognize your call to parlay. But I’m afraid I’ve never heard of the tribe of Forgotten Wanderers.”

Ganzor scoffed, crossing his arms, biceps digging into his chest as the sheer mass of his pecs spilled over his forearms. “I’m not surprised. King Faeltan pissed over the rights of Talamora’s orcs for decades, driving us off our lands and forcing us into the woods. My father wrote to Emperor Ilsoun, demanding he act on behalf of his loyal subjects. We never got a response; he ignored every appeal we sent.”

Iresia gave Ganzor an indignant look. “My father was a hard-working monarch. He wouldn’t ignore a call for aid from his people.”

“If those people were elves, maybe,” the hulking orc grunted.

Iresia’s silver eyes bulged with anger, but she quickly recovered. “I am not my father. Whatever he did or did not do, it should not be visited upon me.”

“True. Which is why I’m even bothering to talk to you.” Ganzor jerked his head, cheek brushing against his mountainous shoulder, then nodded to the setting sun. “We’ll take you to our camp. There’s no chance you’ll make it out of the woods tonight.”

“We’re hardy enough to make it through a southern forest, thanks,” Hrothgar grumbled.

“The rebels love ambushing at night. They’re predictable like that,” Ganzor returned. “Come. An orc will never attack his guests; our hospitality is sacred.”

The minotaur shook his head. “We need to get to Chartigra, we don’t have time for a camping trip.”

Ganzor arched his brow at Hrothgar. “You haven’t heard? Chartigra’s been taken by House Sartorin. They sent emissaries to Icelus City.”

“We’ve been on Imperial Tour for weeks,” Iresia explained. “I’ve left Icelus under the regency of King Culcain of Llendwyn.”

“Ah, that would explain it,” Ganzor nodded. “House Sartorin has declared Talamora’s independence from Icelus. They declared war when their emissaries were locked up. Lord Valcoren has declared himself King; it’s his men who have formed the rebel armies that attacked you.”

“What?” Iresia’s jaw dropped. “I’m away from court for a month, and one seventh of the empire breaks away?”

“King Faeltan was popular with the noble houses; he made them fat off the lands that used to belong to my people. When he ran out of orc landholders, he turned on the poor, which only made the nobles happier.” Ganzor pulled back a tree branch, revealing a sprawling camp, hidden behind a crude stone wall and dense trees. “This is the tribe of Forgotten Wanderers. I’ve brought the orcs to my banner, but I will not turn away the suffering elves of Talamora. Whatever our differences, this is their home, too, and they suffered under tyranny as well.”

Around the campfires, orcs and elves sat in relative peace. Iresia could detect the undercurrents of unease between the two races, especially when the elves shot up at her presence, bowing deeply and muttering “Adorei ai Aloira,” the traditional greeting for elven rulers. The orcs remained where they were, watching their chief’s guests warily.

“You may stay in our camp for the night. Then go back to Icelus; I will fight for my people against House Sartorin, but Valcoren is right in one thing: Talamora will be free. The Crown of Ages has failed my people for too long,” Ganzor said brusquely, holding open a tent flap for the Empress’ party.

Iresia and her three champions were left alone; the Empress’ guards formed a barrier around the tent, to prevent prying eyes. The Pale Lady was beside herself once more, pacing furiously and muttering angrily. “This is a disaster, a complete disaster! We need to call in the Imperial Army, now. I want every legion breaking every notion of rebellion in Talamora!”

Before any of the champions could speak, she waved them off, clicking her tongue. “But no! The bloodshed would be enormous. Who would we ally with? House Sartorin has gone rogue, Faeltan’s house would stab me in the back as soon as look at me, so we would be fighting a protracted war with nothing but the Imperial Army to back it up. And these orcs! They’re huge. We haven’t fought orcs in centuries!”

“Ah, Your Majesty?” Berach shifted nervously, rolling his broad shoulders. “Is it really a good idea to talk about reconquering this kingdom when we’re literally in the camp of a rebel group? You heard Ganzor; they want out of the empire, too.”

“Maybe we can talk to him more?” Galwain shrugged. “He’s let us into his camp. He’s not entirely unreasonable.”

“Orcs are stubborn,” Hrothgar grumbled. “They respond to brute force and little else.”

“Well,” Iresia rose, a sparkle in her eye that Hrothgar had learned a long time ago usually meant trouble. “I’ll just have to throw my weight around, then.” She moved to the tent entrance, and looked to the three champions. “Coming?”

“I want it on record that this is a bad idea,” Berach muttered, but followed after the Empress, alongside Hrothgar and Galwain.

The orcs eyed the elves and minotaur warily, while their elven compatriots looked at the Empress with reverence. “The elves still seem to regard you as worthy of respect,” Berach noted. “Maybe we should try talking to them? Ganzor will be diminished if we snatch away half of his tribe.”

“I’m not going in for half, Sir Berach, I want the whole hog,” Iresia said briskly. “But… why don’t you and Galwain mingle amongst the elves. See what they think.”

The burly dark elf’s head was already being turned by a shirtless, spear-wielding elf that seemed to have gone native amongst the orcs. “As you say, Your Majesty,” he hooked his bulging arm around Galwain’s, and tugged him away as Hrothgar and the Empress moved on to Ganzor’s enclave.

“What do we even say to these people? We’re two Icelus boys,” Galwain said. “Talamora’s a different beast.”

“Gal, have you learned nothing?” Berach flashed a toothy smile, adjusting his shirt to show off the cleft of his bulging, hairy chest. “Charm is a universal language.”

The dark elf lumbered towards a group of elves around a campfire, laughing loud and calling for drinks, but Galwain looked towards the infirmary, catching sight of an elf that had been watching him with interest. She blushed when their eyes met and quickly turned away, hefting up a large basket under her arm. The elf spun too quickly, and ended up tripping over a tent spike, the contents of her basket going everywhere. Galwain rushed over to help, crouching down to pick everything up.

“O-oh, that’s not necessary, sir,” the elf murmured, avoiding looking Galwain in the eye. She was tall for an elf, if not quite as tall as Roland, and thin like a willow. She did not have Iresia’s fine, porcelain looks, but she was easy on the eyes, and there was something about her blond hair, all tied up in a messy bun, and her large, soulful eyes that captivated the archer.

Galwain gave her an easy smile, collecting a ball of cloth; she seemed to be carrying nothing but strips of cloth. “It’s alright. I like helping people. What’s all this for?”

“Oh… bandages. The warriors had a run-in with the Imperial Army, then the rebels the next day. Is, uhm. Was that the Empress with you?”

Galwain’s grin tightened. He couldn’t tell what she thought, especially if her comrades had clashed with the Imperial Army. “Recognized her, did you?” he asked as he headed into the infirmary. A lot of orcs were in need of bandages, and more than a few elves.

“I’d only ever seen her portrait once, on a silver moon. Only time I had seen a coin that weren’t a penny. But I saw her, and I told myself, if anyone’s an Empress, it’s got to be her.” She nudged Galwain playfully as the musclebound archer helped her wrap bandages around the wounded. “The bowing helped too. When everyone’s sayin’ ‘Adorei ai Aloira,’ it’s not hard to figure it out.”

“Hah, yes… uhm. I’m Sir Galwain, by the way.” He rubbed the back of his head, bicep brushing against his cheek. “They, uh. Call me Unoriel’s Wrath.”

“You don’t look terribly wrathful, Sir Galwain, if you don’t mind my sayin’.” The blond elf moved on to a tall and lean elf, with a scar over on eye. He was unconscious. “Ain’t never seen an archer built like you. Most’re lean and wiry, like Scratch, here. He’s our best shot.”

Galwain idly bounced his pecs, letting the leather creak as his chest swelled. “Most think the swordsmen and the knights, those are the big fellows. And granted, no weak man is going to be running around in armor, swinging swords, but you pull back a bow that can kill a man at two hundred paces enough times, you’ll build some muscle, yeah.”

The elf woman blushed at the sight, giggling in spite of herself. “You’re very… nice, Sir Galwain, to come in here, helpin’ people you don’t know. Your enemy, if you’re with the Empress.”

“They’re not my enemy,” Galwain explained, tightening the bandages around Scratch. “It’s why I serve Empress Iresia. She’s a part of the Tarlinydha dynasty. Just four generations back, they were the same as you or me. Iresia cares about the people, and she made it so I can help them. This Rebellion’s only making trouble, but now that she’s here, Iresia will put things to right.”

The blond elf’s smile slipped. “Wish you were here just a month ago, then.” She grabbed up her basket and moved away. “Thank you, Sir Galwain, but I can manage from here.”

“What? What did I say?” Galwain asked. “Please, wait, I don’t even know your name.” He grabbed her arm.

“Unhand me, ya great brute!” she shouted, loud enough to stir some of the wounded. Galwain instantly let go, shocked as the blond elf glared at him. She began to shrink again with all the infirmary’s eyes on her, but with a furious blush in her cheeks, she cut the space between her and the archer that towered over her. “My name is Brigid, and I were a loyal elf to the Crown of Ages. My family lost its farm to our Lord, Cartoran of House Renmaer. We begged the Imperial Garrison for help, and where was Iresia then? You think we got it back? My brother got dragged off and forced into an Imperial tabard for our trouble, and my father got the hilt of a sword smashed in his rib cage when he fought back. Where were you then?”

Galwain was stunned into silence. There were tears standing in Brigid’s eyes, but she grabbed up her basket and marched out without another word.


Hrothgar and Iresia had been made to wait for far too long; the minotaur was getting angry. Ganzor’s tent was filled with orc women, and at least one elf, but no Ganzor. Each of the women stared at Iresia with looks Hrothgar did not care for at all, and he was about to speak out when the moving mountain that was the orc chief forced his way in.

“Sorry to make you wait,” Ganzor grunted, in a way that made it clear he wasn’t terribly sorry. His great mass slumped into a throne-like chair made of rope, leather and bone as he rested his hand on the hilt of one of his swords. “These are my wives. It falls to an orc chief to take a harem, to propagate the next generation. Gulna, my sword-wife,” he nodded to a particularly muscular orc woman that looked ready to eat Iresia whole. “Bolne, my hearth-wife,” he gestured to the orc that looked the least hostile, and could almost pass for pretty by elf standards. “And my newest, Valeria, of House Tarcoran.” Ganzor’s massive arm wrapped around a tanned and blond elf, kissing her cheek. “I haven’t thought of her role. But I love and provide for her, as I do all my wives.”

Iresia’s brow arched. “Valeria? I hadn’t heard from you since…”

“Since your coronation,” the elf grinned, curtsying out of practice. “It’s good to see you, cousin.”

“Tarcoran?” Hrothgar rumbled. “You snatched a Princess from King Faeltan’s house?”

“I didn’t snatch her,” Ganzor rumbled. “She came to me.”

“An orc, Valeria?” The Empress gasped with shock. “You ran from Lord Drumoren to marry an orc?”

Valeria made a face, scrunching her thin, pretty nose. “Lord Drumoren was a frightfully dull creature, and far too old for me. I never forgave Faeltan for marrying me to that old scarecrow.” She draped herself over Ganzor, her slight arms unable to wrap far around Ganzor’s swollen lats. “Ganzor is… passionate, strong beyond measure… just look at him,” she purred, running a finger over the crest of the orc’s bulging chest. “There’s just… so much of him to love. Not that I need to tell you about that, cousin,” she tittered girlishly, smirking to Hrothgar.

The minotaur snorted, and Ganzor smirked. “I think we need to speak privately. Would you leave us, my loves? Gulna, make sure none of the warriors need rest. Bolne, extra rations tonight, we still haven’t celebrated driving back the Imperial Legion. Make sure the elves get their fair share, too. We’re all in this fight together.”

One by one, Ganzor’s wives stood, filing out of the tent. “Valeria’s not the most articulate. I understand she has a reputation for being… flighty.”

“She’s no great philosopher, no. I’ve known her since she was a little girl,” Iresia commented.

Ganzor chuckled. “She’s nice, though. And cares about the people. That’s rare in a Talamoran noble.”

“I’m sure the fact her overly ripe bosom was nearly spilling out of her dress was of no concern, then,” Iresia said sharply.

Ganzor arched his brow. “You can judge my marriages later, Empress. What did you want to discuss?”

Iresia straightened herself. “Your distaste for King Faeltan is understandable, and rising up against him, even moreso, given your claims my father did not answer your appeals. I’m sure you felt as if you had no other choice.”

“Correct,” Ganzor rumbled.

“But now you have a second choice. As a citizen of the Icelusan Empire, your loyalty is ultimately to the gods and their chosen representative; she who wears the Crown of Ages. As Empress, I demand, here and now, that you renew your vows of loyalty. Do so, and I will do everything in my power to ensure justice is the province of Talamora once more. Your men will be seen as defenders of the empire, and any crimes you have committed in this rebellion pardoned.”

Ganzor was stunned for a moment, then burst out laughing. “You’re serious? We’ve beat back your Imperial Legion twice on the field, and Valcoren’s thugs know to avoid us like the plague if they know what’s good for them.”

“You have defeated a beleaguered garrison already facing two enemies on two fronts. I promise you, when I call the rest of the crown’s legions to the field, they will be fresh men, filled with resolve to restore the empire’s order,” Iresia countered.

Ganzor stood to his full height, stepping closer, thighs thicker than tree trunks rolling off one another. Hrothgar snorted again, lowering his horns as he put himself between orc and elf.

“No closer,” the Black Devil growled.

“You think you scare me, Empress? Orcs were once the most feared fighters in the world,” Ganzor declared. “We beat back the human kingdoms, shamed the dwarves, and it was only our own pride and the intervention of the gods that broke our own empire, the ruins of which yours sprawls all over. We haven’t had a homeland since, and I will not let this opportunity slip through my fingers. My people need a kingdom to call their own.”

“Then if you will not submit, I have no choice but to challenge you for leadership. I declare myself Chief of the Forgotten Wanderers,” Iresia declared.

Ganzor smirked. “A woman cannot be chief. My warriors would not follow you. And I will not fight you; I don’t wish to harm you.”

Iresia and Hrothgar exchanged looks. The minotaur sighed, resigned. “Then I will challenge you.”

“You?” Ganzor stroked his stubbled chin. “Slayer of the Black Devil- no, no. Devilbane! I like that more.” The orc curled his fist, his massive arm tensing, and swung. He stopped short of connecting with Hrothgar, but the minotaur still flinched, which made the orc chief laugh.

“Not used to being the smaller one, eh, Black Devil?” Ganzor patted the minotaur’s cheek. “Meet me tomorrow, if you still have the stones. We’ll fight for the chiefdom there. Now, please, go back to your own tent; my hospitality is stretched awful thin when my guests threaten my title.”

Hrothgar was a towering inferno as he stalked out of the orc’s tent, his red eyes burning with anger. Everyone from the hardiest orc warrior down gave him a wide berth; Ganzor was bigger than him, but then, he was still bigger than anyone else in the camp. When Hrothgar entered the tent, he thundered with indignation.

“That overgrown pig! I’ll roast him on a spit when I’m done with him!” the minotaur roared, striding over to a sturdy looking bed, pummeling it into oblivion.

“I think that was supposed to be my cot…” Berach muttered irritably.

“Hrothgar? Hrothgar!” Iresia rested her hands on the minotaur’s arm. “Calm yourself my love, please.”

The minotaur snorted, pulling away. “You didn’t seem this attentive when you were ogling Ganzor.”

Iresia was taken aback. “I beg your pardon?”

“You think I don’t have eyes, Iresia? He’s… bigger than me.” Hrothgar’s vast shoulders slumped as he sunk into a chair big enough for him. “I saw how you were looking at him.”

“I was taken aback! Hrothgar, please,” Iresia still had to stand on her tip-toes to reach Hrothgar’s face, stroking his cheek. “You are the only one I love. You saved me from Faeltan. You stood by me, protected me. I could… fill Icelus with absolute titans, each one bigger than the last. I could work on every guard until they burst out of their uniforms. And I will not lie; Berach, Galwain, Ganzor, are very nice to look at.”

Sir Galwain blushed at the thought. “Well, thank you, Majesty.”

“Don’t act surprised, Gal. We’re not dressed like this for combat reasons.” Berach rolled his eyes, but still, he bounced his pecs, almost entirely slipping out of his shirt.

“But just because I like the look of something doesn’t mean I’m going to snatch it up. I have restraint. And no one can touch me, hold me like you can.” Iresia kissed Hrothgar gently. “Be that as it may… perhaps you do need some attention. We need to level the playing field between you and Ganzor.”

Hrothgar snorted, arching his brow. “What was all that talk about loving me just as I am?”

Iresia stuck her tongue out at him. “As if you’re not pining to put Ganzor in his place. Besides, is it not a sign of affection that I want to ensure you’re the biggest in the room, always?”

The minotaur rumbled as Iresia pet the thick locks of his fur matting his wide pillar of a neck, fighting a smile. “Alright.”

“Ah, Your Majesty?” Galwain stepped forward. “Before you… retire with Hrothgar, there was one matter I wanted to speak about. Berach and I talked with the elves, and it’s not just the orcs here who have reason to be distrustful of the Crown. I had an idea, if you would be willing to listen.”

Iresia gave the archer her full attention. “I’m all ears.”


The following morning, all of Ganzor’s tribe gathered around a stone circle, preparing for the fight between Ganzor and Hrothgar. The two had not emerged from their tents yet, but Galwain picked his way through the crowd, rolling his broad shoulders to pass by the orcs undeterred. He soon found Brigid, and rushed to her side.

“Brigid! Please, listen, I have something to show you.”

The washerwoman jutted her chin out, summoning all her willpower to look up at the beefy elf. “What do you want, Sir Galwain?”

“I understand why you regard the Empress so… coldly, but look at this.” Galwain produced a piece of paper, stamped with the imperial seal. “This is a letter condemning House Renmaer, stripping them of all their lands and titles. Iresia acted as soon as I told her of the situation.”

Brigid’s frown lessened. “I… I don’t understand. Are ya tryin’ to win me to her side?”

Galwain grabbed her hand in his own. “I once lost everything, too. My family was taken from me by thugs in Icelus, and I was homeless. No one listened until I decided to act on it. I stormed my way to the palace, and trust me, I did not look as… impressive as I look now. If Iresia wins today, her word is law again in Talamora. And if she doesn’t win… I’ll leave her side, for a time, until I put an arrow through Lord Cartoran’s black heart myself.”

Brigid smiled tightly, nodding as she stood on her tiptoes to kiss Galwain’s cheek. “Now, that’s the Unoriel’s Wrath I wouldn’t mind ta see. Thank ya, Sir Galwain.”

A hush came over the crowd as Ganzor appeared, then the orcs roared their approval for their chief. His wives flanked him, with Valeria beaming up at the mighty, hulking beast. Every muscle rippled in the sunlight; his warpaint had been washed away, replaced with oil to make him shine. Judging by Valeria’s stained hands, it wasn’t hard to tell why he was so thoroughly covered. Flashing a toothy grin made all the more intimidating by his tusks, Ganzor struck a pose.

Thick hips rolled as the towering orc shifted his weight. His back spreads as his hands rested on his hips, lats flaring as the heavy muscle below his skin rippled. In nothing more than a leather thong his meaty glutes sat on full display, dense muscle bouncing as he clenched them. Swollen thighs forced his stance wide and even then they mashed together. Lifting one arm he curled it, hand balling into a fist as his bicep rose, the peak splitting as a few fat veins popped over the mountain on his arm. Tipping his arm slightly closed the gap enough for him to kiss the side of his bicep, having to lean past his bloated pectorals to make it, the tribe howling their approval.

“Why’s he showboating like that?” Galwain muttered.

“It’s part of the match. Orc chiefs pride themselves on their strength,” Brigid explained.

Then, Hrothgar made his entrance, and the crowd grew quiet. The minotaur dwarfed Iresia as she walked beside him, and Ganzor narrowed his eyes; as the Black Devil drew closer, it was obvious the gap in size had been resolutely closed.

“What witchcraft is this?” Ganzor demanded.

Hrothgar’s only response was to step into the stone circle. Snorting and shaking his head, the minotaur brought his hands together in front of him, leaning forward. With a great bellow, his pecs and biceps surged, slamming together as his traps swelled and pushed against his cheeks. Reaching down with one hand he smacked one of his thighs, shaking it slightly before tensing. The exaggerated tear drop of his quadricep was easy to see even against his dark fur. Lifting both hands behind his head he took a breath before clenching his core, rippling abdominals squeezing together as his chin pressed firmly against his pectoral shelf.

The two sized each other up, circling each other in their lumbering, heavy gait. With a roar, Ganzor charged, surging arms tensed as he met and grappled with Hrothgar. The Black Devil held as steady as a mountain, not giving an inch. The two giants were locked in combat, stomping the ground enough to make it shake, landing blows with their battering ram-like arms, but neither would let up. Summoning up all his strength, Hrothgar roared, lowering his head and driving his horns against Ganzor’s chest. It didn’t puncture the orc’s leathery hide, but it was enough to break his balance. Finally, the orc began to give ground, but before the fight could come to a definitive end, a burst of magical energy separated the two, and Iresia stepped into the center.

“I think I’ve made my point clear,” the empress said.

“Your point?” Ganzor released his grip on Hrothgar, a scowl painting his face. “This is a sacred tradition! You don’t just call a duel to make a frivolous point!” the chief stomped towards the empress, but Hrothgar stopped him in his place.

“Please,” Iresia held up her hands, to calm both hulking brutes. “I did not mean to offend. I don’t want your title, Ganzor, nor does Hrothgar. We are not orcs, and it would not be suitable for us to lead your people.”

“Then what did you come here to prove? That you can use magic to cheat your champion to the top?” Ganzor spat. “Don’t tell me that Hrothgar’s miraculous growth is the result of a single workout; I worked years to get into this shape.”

“Obviously,” Iresia waved it off. “But it has its limits. Hrothgar is as big as I can possibly make him. If you can get bigger, time will tell. But this is my point; you underestimated me, and my companions. We have strength to match yours, and I can, and will, make more of them like Hrothgar if I must. So let us consider ourselves equal partners.”

“Partners in what?”

“The restoration of Talamora. Join my Imperial Legions, and together, we can oust this pretender king from Chartigra.” Iresia gestured back to Hrothgar. “If you want, you can finish this fight. But I think you know how it will end. ‘The Black Devil’ was not a epithet given because of his gentle demeanor.”

Ganzor narrowed his eyes, and looked down to Valeria, who subtly nodded her head, then to his other wives, who also agreed. Swallowing his pride, the massive orc chief held out his hand. “Then we shall be allies. For Talamora.”

Iresia took the hand, though Ganzor’s thick digits nearly swallowed her entire upper arm. “For Talamora.”


Chartigra sprawled along the coastline, with stout walls and an uncommonly muscular statue of an elf overlooking the bay, Chartigra’s famed Bronze Sentinel. Inside the walls were large temples and palace, mansions covered in lush green vines, and a harbor that should have been bustling with ships from all over the world. But now, the ships had deserted the new king, cutting off Chartigra from the world. Outside, arrayed in splendid formation, was the third Imperial Legion, with white, blue, and gold armor shimmering in the hot Talamoran sun. Opposite their camp was Ganzor’s orcs, each one twice or even three times the size of an average elf. They too, were disciplined, but wore far less armor, their strong, hard, muscular bodies on display, adorned with warpaint.

In the command tent, the Companions of Might, Iresia, Ganzor, his sword-wife Gulna, the Legion Commander, and two of Ganzor’s lieutenants huddled around a map of the city.

“Chartigra was once an orc city,” Ganzor rumbled. “We know it better than anyone, even after a thousand years.”

“Preposterous,” the Legion Commander, a proper elven noble, scoffed. “The walls and the Bronze Sentinel, the palace of the Talamoran King, these are all marvels of elven engineering.”

“Do you ever wonder, General, why the Bronze Sentinel is so… large for an elf?” Ganzor countered.

“Then do tell me, Chief Ganzor, why would your people build a statue of an elf?”

“Obviously, like everything else Talamoran elves do, they took the achievements of the orcs and put their own face on it,” Ganzor growled. “So may I continue, or do you somehow know about the warren tunnels underneath the walls?”

The Legion Commander glowered, but was properly humbled; a look from Iresia shut him up. Ganzor nodded, continuing. “The warrens empty out in caves, further down the coast. They were built in a time of plague and panic, when the thought of abandoning the city was a very real concern. The bulk of the army should stay here, so the defenders of the city are not wise to our plan. I will lead a strike team in; we’ll storm the walls.” He nodded to Hrothgar. “I think the Black Devil suddenly bursting out into the middle of the city will give the people a good scare. We get the gates open, the Legion will pour in, then you, Empress, can ride into the city in triumph.”

“Until then, let us take a moment to prepare,” Iresia said. “Go to your friends, wish them well. We will all fight better, with greater spirit, if we have the blessings of the gods and our loved ones to propel us on to victory.”

On the Empress’ recommendation, the army shared a hearty dinner. Iresia and Hrothgar spent their time together, talking as if they were just on a country holiday. Ganzor and his wives, however, had a very different dinner.

Around the firepit in his tent, Ganzor looked around. “What do you all think?”

“Our entire tribe will be in the city. With the blood of a king on your hands, you can force the issue,” Bolne said.

“Chartigra should be an orc city,” Gulna added. “If the Empress denies us, then we fight for it.”

Ganzor furrowed his brow, staring into the flames. “Valeria? You’re quiet. We’ll be fighting your Empress.”

“Iresia is my cousin, not my Empress,” Valeria raised her chin. She stood, massaging Ganzor’s shoulder; she could barely reach the other swell of muscle. “You are my husband, my king. And perhaps…” She flexed her slender fingers, digging into Ganzor’s hard flesh. The huge orc grunted, then his eyes bulged as he saw his own bicep swell in size, veins tensed as the muscles all over his colossal frame rippled. “Perhaps Iresia should know that some things run in the family… she has her Black Devil. We have our Green Mountain.”

As dusk gathered and the stars dotted the sky, Berach and Hrothgar waited outside the yawning mouth of a cave.

“You think we can trust these orcs?” Berach muttered.

Hrothgar huffed. “I don’t think we have a choice. Besides… maybe I was too harsh on Ganzor. We have a lot in common. Can you imagine him lumbering into Gaelathe Palace? The court would go apoplectic.”

“You’re just sweet on him because he’s no longer bigger than you,” Berach smirked, as Hrothgar rolled his eyes, punching the dark elf in his thick side. His brow bounced, however, as Ganzor approached. “Or… perhaps not.”

Illuminated by the twilight, Ganzor’s monstrous frame was even larger than before. Not by much, but enough to add more of a swagger to his step, his two huge swords looking just slightly smaller in his grip, and his armor a little less able to cover the sprawling green landscape. His face was adorned with warpaint in the shape of a skull, his gold eyes pinpricks of light.

“Ready?” he asked, nodding to the two champions.

“Let’s get this done,” Hrothgar snorted, eyeing the swell of Ganzor’s arm. Dammit, his armband was back to belt size all over again.


Galwain stood with the archers, his eyes scanning the walls for the signal.

“Sir Galwain?” Brigid called, rushing to the large elf’s side.

“Brigid?” Galwain exclaimed. “What’re you doing here? This is the frontline!”

“I know, but… I couldn’t let you go out to battle without this.” She produced a long, light-blue ribbon of silk. “I heard stories, yea? How a lady would give a brave knight her favor. I’d… like ya to have mine.” She grinned sheepishly, wrapping the long ribbon around Galwain’s surging arm. It only barely traversed his huge, swollen arm.

Grinning, Galwain tensed his arm, his bicep surging in size, but not enough to break the silk. “Thank you. I’ll wear it with pride.”

Brigid played with a strand of her hair before kissing the peak of Galwain’s bicep. “I know ya will. Come back t’me, Sir Galwain.” With a lingering look between the two, Brigid slipped back to the camp, and Galwain turned his eye back to the gatehouse. A torch was waving in the sky; the gatehouse had been taken.

“The walls are ours! For Icelus, for the Empress, charge!”


“Let’s get down to the street level,” Hrothgar grunted. He, Berach, and Ganzor had taken the gatehouse, and between the three of them, Chartigra’s famed bronze gate, heavy enough for two dozen men, had been risen. Vapors of dark magic, caved in skulls, and sliced up bodies of the false king’s men were the signs of the three musclebound warriors’ fight, but as the squeezed their way down the narrow corridors to the street below, they didn’t see a lone guard, still clinging to life, inching his way to the gate’s release lever.

The Imperial Legion was marching, shields raised as the city’s remaining defenders peppered their formation. Galwain made his mark with each arrow, and Ganzor’s orcs were charging faster than they could be hit; they were so close to reclaiming their home. Hrothgar and Ganzor stood beneath the gate, waiting for the men to come, while Berach had moved on ahead, slipping in and out of the shadows to clear the way to the palace.

“I can’t believe it was this easy,” Ganzor said. “Who knew elves made such shit defenders, eh?”

Hrothgar grunted. “They’re too lean and wiry. No proper meat on ‘em.”

Ganzor chuckled. “We shouldn’t be rivals, you know. You’re the type of warrior I’d be glad to call a blood brother. The way you just threw two elves over the wall, practically juggling them; that took finesse.”

The minotaur smirked. “You should show me a few things with those swords; I never got used to blades.” He tapped the head of his trusty hammer meaningfully.

Both stopped, however, when they heard an ominous groaning overhead. The massive bronze gate was hurtling towards them.

“Catch it! Now!” Ganzor bellowed, holding out his huge arms.

Both musclebound titans had just a moment to brace themselves, as a hundred tons of bronze slammed down on their rippling backs. They cried out in pain, but they held firm, their engorged thighs thick as Berach’s waist keeping them upright, vast, rolling mountain ranges of backs keeping the gate up.

Ganzor’s orcs were the first to reach the gate, seeing their chief buckling under the ungodly weight, every huge muscle strained, his teeth clenched, face dowsed with sweat. “What’re you waiting for?” He snarled. “Get in there, and remind these willowy bastards why orcs are to be feared!”

The orcs saluted their chief, an with a great war cry, poured into the city.

“We can’t keep this up,” Hrothgar wheezed, his arms trembling to keep upright. “Can you hold this for a minute? I’m going to have to raise the gate.”

“Can I trust you?” Ganzor hissed.

“We’re blood brothers, aren’t we?”

The orc chief looked the minotaur over, then nodded. “Go. Go!”

The Black Devil nodded grimly, then shrugged off the gate. Ganzor cried out as all the weight fell on him, but he kept firm, every fiber in his massive frame strained to the breaking point.

As fast as he could, Hrothgar raced back up to the gatehouse, smashing the head in of the lone guard leaning against the gate’s lever. Looking at the massive contraption, he grabbed a hold, and threw all his massive strength into the pulley, legs bulging enough to tear at his leather kilt, arms digging into his puffed-up chest, ever muscle rippling as he took one laborious step after another. Slowly, the gate began to rise.

Below, the elven legion had just finished pouring into the city, and Iresia’s honorguard was bringing up the rear, the Empress sitting proud astride a hippogriff.

“Ganzor?” she asked as she drew near the half opened gate. “Where’s Hrothgar?”

The orc chief’s legs were wobbling as he took a few uneasy steps, the weight at last lifted off his shoulders. “He…”

There was a loud thud behind him; Hrothgar had leapt down from the gatehouse, leaving a sizeable crater in the cobblestone street.

“He was just ironing out a few kinks, looks like,” Ganzor replied. Shaking his head to clear it, he grabbed up his swords, pointing one towards the palace. “Now I don’t know about you, but I’m getting inside before I miss all the fun.”

Ganzor and Hrothgar looked as if they could have taken Chartigra single-handedly. The two monumental beasts slammed into the city’s remaining defenders; Ganzor moved with surprising speed, his massive arms strong enough to send his blades slicing through steel armor like it was butter, the minotaur by his side sending men sailing into the air with a single knock of his hammer. At last, they made it into the great hall of the city’s palace, just as dawn was rising.

Iresia was not far behind, with the legion commander in tow.

“Six of seven districts are ours, Majesty; it’s safe to say Chartigra is yours once again.” The elven general bowed to Iresia.

“Any sign of Valcoren?”

The commander shook his head. “None yet. He was always a coward; don’t worry. Our men encircle the city, and no ship has left. He can’t have gotten far.”

The Empress moved towards the throne of Talamora’s king. “He’s forgotten one rather important article…” she picked up a golden crown, fashioned like laurels, with green emeralds the size of olives.

Ganzor looked from Hrothgar, to Gulna, who had brought her own regiment of orcish warriors inside. He crossed his massive arms, pumped biceps larger than Iresia, it seemed, digging into his mammoth chest. “So. It’s yours again, as the commander said. What now?”

“I am Empress of Icelus, Ganzor,” Iresia murmured, gingerly holding the crown. “I have enough titles. This isn’t mine, but… I have upheld my end of the bargain, wouldn’t you agree?”

“So far, yes.”

“Enough that you and your people would swear loyalty to the Crown of Ages again?” Iresia asked pointedly.

Ganzor shifted, shrugging his mountainous shoulders so his traps brushed against his jaw. “My loyalty, Iresia, is to my people, first. If swearing fealty to the Empire is what’s best for the orcs, that’s what I’ll do.”

“Then… I think this belongs to you.” Iresia held out the crown to the orc chief. Hrothgar arched his brow as he joined her side, looking over Ganzor’s stunned expression.

“You might be pretty good at it, blood brother,” the minotaur rumbled. “You can do as you like. Faeltan was able to get away with murder, so you know we won’t be checking in too often.”

Ganzor let out a dry laugh, gently taking the crown in his hands. It was such a small thing to the orc, but it represented more power than he could have imagined. Power enough to change things for the better, in a way brute strength could only carry so far. Finally, in a voice far more quiet than either Iresia or Hrothgar were used to hearing from him, he nodded. “I accept.”

Gulna drew her blade, holding it aloft. “All hail Ganzor, son of Gartan, Warchief of the orcs, King of Talamora!” she and the other orc warriors fell to their knees, their heads bowed.

Gently, Ganzor placed the crown on his head. He felt a little silly; it seemed so small and dainty for his tastes, but in a rush of excitement, he bowed as best he could to Iresia. “All hail Empress Iresia. Adorei el serenar, ai Aloria.”

Iresia beamed, exchanging a look with Hrothgar then placing her hand on the orc’s crown, giving her blessing. “Rise, King Ganzor. Long may you reign!”