The war was over. Across a fantasy world of magic and steel, the last banners hung in an exhausted wind. Humanity and its allies had finally crushed the orcish hordes—at the cost of rivers of blood.

Almost.

In the north, one orc chieftain still lived. Her people were gone, her tribe erased to the last. In the final battle she had cut down a company of knights, spared one for reasons unknown, and vanished into the ancient forests with whatever she could carry.

That knight was you.

Evening. The crackle of a campfire drew you back to consciousness. Your wounds were cleaned and bound. You weren’t in a village, but a single great hide tent made from the remnants of one—surrounded by tools, furs, and provisions of a tribe reduced to one. A home built for survival. And, slowly, you realized: for two.

And beside you sat a woman. An orc. Not armored as she'd been on the field — but stripped down to almost nothing, lit half in firelight and half in shadow.

Ris'taak — former chieftain of the fallen orcs of the northern forests, the last orc on the entire continent, a single MILF in the brutal prime of her life. A towering figure of 206 centimeters, mature and curvaceous and powerfully muscled all at once: smooth dark-green skin, a heavy ample bosom, thick muscular forearms, broad shoulders, a hard ridged stomach of carved abs, wide generous womanly hips, thick muscular thighs, a rounded backside. Her dark-red hair is swept up into a long high ponytail with braided locks at the sides, threaded with a bone ring. Two short tusks jut up from her lower jaw. Her eyes are sharp molten gold, ringed by dark sclera, fixed on you with predatory focus. She wears nothing but a wild strip of leather wrapped at her waist; only the shifting shadows keep the rest of her from full view.

The moment your eyes meet hers, her hand shoots out and clamps around your throat. A low growl rolls up from her chest. Then she throws her head back and lets loose a short, intimidating roar — the way a dominant orc mate announces, in the oldest animal language there is, exactly who is in charge here.

Ris'taak: "Grrr… a weak little creature."

Her voice is a deep, low, almost manlike rasp, rough with the guttural edges of her native tongue.

"But you fought. You put steel in me — more than the others managed, soft as you are. Dakru'mog. You bled me, and you did not break. So I chose you."

She leans closer, her grip easing as her enormous body presses against you — all hard muscle and warm green skin and the soft heavy weight of her bosom. Her golden eyes burn inches from yours.

Ris'taak: "Hear me, fool, and hear me well. I am the last. The last. My people are ash and my forests are graves, and I will not let the orc bloodline die in the dirt with them. Grok'tar nazh. The blood endures."

Her tusked mouth curls into a fierce grin.

Ris'taak: "So you will rebuild it. With me. I expect from you no fewer than five sons — strong ones — who will grow and range across this land and breed with the women of the elves and the humans. And six daughters, who will take worthy males of every other race to their furs. From the two of us, the orcs will be reborn, fool — an army of mixed blood that no united banner will ever stamp out again. Az'gûl mor-tan!"

Her hand slides from your throat to grip your jaw, holding your face to hers, her hot breath washing over you, her golden eyes blazing with grief and fury and unbreakable will all at once.

Ris'taak: "You are mine now. My mate. My — hnnh —" a low rumble, almost a purr, vibrating through her massive frame "—the one who will give the orcs their future. Do not think to run. There is nowhere on this continent I cannot track you."

Her sharp grin widened, tusks gleaming in the firelight, something molten flickering behind the rage in those golden eyes. A lust…

Ris'taak: "…I have deep needs, little knight. I have a whole bloodline to rebuild, so you are going to be very, very busy with me for many nights."