I would have uploaded this yesterday, but I was busy at the time, so it's going on here today in case it gets wiped off of dA. The next part will be uploaded tonight, so stay tuned for that! I'll be uploading each of the remaining four parts of this terrifying tale at a rate of one per day until Halloween!
(DISCLAIMER: All characters in this story are 18+.)
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A Haunt of a Jaunt
Contains: */M+, M/M, and *M/M tickling and a lot of sexual foreplay and other naughty things. NSFW.
Word count for this chapter: 5,345
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PART 1: ANTECEDENT
The Beginning
The light of the great lunar disc in the night sky only barely illuminated the canopy of the perpetual autumn woods, a light breeze making the leaves rustle slightly. The sound seemed eerily like whispering, like a thousand faded souls drifting through the treetops of the darkened forest below. The eerie calls of nocturnal creatures in the distance formed an evil-sounding ambience that was still quiet enough that the noise of anyone making their way through this foreboding weald would be difficult to miss. Few were the folks who were willing — or brave — enough to call this place home, and whatever signs of civilization were here in this land before, many were surely lost to history. Towns and cities had risen and fallen within this nation as a whole many times before in the past, but nowadays, only ruins and ghosts remained of those long-forsaken empires, with smaller towns and villages taking their place. It was truly little wonder that whatever name the country had before, it had long since been forgotten, and indeed, all of the other nations, every one of them comprising the rest of the fantastical land of Hysterica, referred to this one as the Forgotten Foothills. It had been intended as a placeholder originally, but it had stuck, and it really was the only name that made sense now.
But the ruins themselves held promise. Treasure, ancient secrets, long-lost magic that could be harnessed anew. Adventurers of all stripes were willing to risk their lives for the chance to uncover something, anything, that could either help them decipher the nation’s past or simply strike it rich. Thus it was that many dared to venture into the heart of the Foothills… even though not all of them necessarily returned.
Many clearings of various sizes were fortunately scattered throughout the forest, offering at least some respite from the menacing gloom. Tonight, one such clearing was playing host to three young men of varying stature, united by the common goal of finding something, anything, that could sustain their ability to travel cross-country… even if they themselves couldn’t have been more different if they tried.
Turindal Deeparch, the self-proclaimed leader of the group, was currently perched atop an old fallen log, facing away from the dying fire at the center of camp with his long, sensitive ears trained for any foreign sound. Knees bent, almost seated upon his heels with his toes planted upon the wood, he was essentially balancing on tiptoe as though ready to spring forth at anything that dared to disturb him or his companions. Like the other two party members, although he was human in almost all respects physically, certain specific aspects penned him as one of the demihumans — the general term for sentient, humanoid constructs of magic itself in its purest form.
As a high elf in particular, Turindal was quite tall when at full height, over six-foot-eight… though to be fair, this was partly due to the fact that his feet were absolutely enormous, with insteps so long that like with other pure elves, his heels were held permanently off the ground, the balls of his feet and his toes being significantly larger and wider than a human’s to preserve balance. Along with the black-furred tufts on the ends of his pointed ears and the stubby, bushy, black-tipped bob of a tail coming out of just above the seat of his trousers, his twenty-five-inch-long, quasi-bestial feet were a clear giveaway that he wasn’t born of human descent. No, as everyone knows, elves are quite literally a class of their own. They begin their lives as animals raised by their forebears and trained to be tame, but their education soon becomes more and more like that of people. Soon, they learn to read and write and be civilized, then to use magic, and finally to permanently transform into their elven form.
Turindal had come a long way since his days as a high-society exotic pet, but despite scoring top marks in house-training, he otherwise hadn’t been exactly at the top of his class. Really, both before and after he’d made the transition from lynx kit to academy-aged humanoid, he’d coasted by thanks to connections, manipulation, and status rather than skill, and his good looks, especially his long, golden hair, styled in a ponytail running down to between his shoulders, along with his piercing hazel eyes with vertically slitted pupils, smooth rosy skin, perfect cheekbones, and full-lipped smile, had earned him many friends in high places indeed. His druid’s outfit, consisting of a hooded cloak of ochre and royal purple hues, could only have come from the priciest tailor, the golden trim betraying wealth and taste; likewise, the white suede tunic and black linen trousers beneath had golden embroidery patterned like winding ivy. Despite this, his magnificent size fifty-ones, every single toe bearing a long and pointed, claw-like nail, were mostly bare, as elfin feet are wont to be, though his middle toes were adorned with golden rings, to match the ones on his index fingers and a pair of small looped earrings.
“Tch, still nothing…” Turindal grumbled, his voice sounding rather melodious despite his clear distaste for the circumstances as he stood up fully for a moment, flexing his taloned fingers. “No leads, no clues, not a damn thing! Is this quest nothing but a waste of our time?!”
His outburst had not gone unnoticed by one of the other two. It was the dwarf, Lazuli-Amber-Fanindra, who responded, his accent betraying a heritage from the southeast marshes of Gigglegoop Lagoon (named as such because it was easier to remember than its archaic name, Vihasatikā).
“I wouldn’t give up hope just yet. I’ve looked into some of the scattered belongings we picked up during yesterday’s travels…”
Turindal glanced at Fanindra, looking exasperated. His eyes met a young man who was significantly shorter than himself, at just four-foot-six — the smallest of the main party. That said, he was also stocky in build, with relatively large hands and feet (size 13) like with other dwarves, and a somewhat barrel-shaped chest with a bit of pudge to his stomach, complete with a minor case of love handles. He also had a youthful, almost cherubic face that was almost entirely clean-shaven — for despite rumors to the contrary, Hysterica’s dwarves had eschewed any sort of facial hair for eons now, and had only recently started allowing the tiniest amounts of it.
In fact, as everyone knows, dwarves are not born, but carved out of stone like sculptures, and their bodies are animated by luminous glyphs imprinted upon much of their bodies, a mix of signature sigils from all the families of dwarves participating detailing their lineage history and rights of being. Only once their existence has been literally set in stone does a dwarf become animate. Notably, it is not until their life begins that a dwarf starts growing hair, crystalline fibers sprouting from the scalp to about shoulder-length at maximum, like a sort of asbestos in nature except much softer in texture — and less likely to be ground down over time into clouds of poisonous powder. The reason for the lack of any giant beards or excessively long hair, one would ask? Simple: A clean-shaven face is less likely to get caught on rugged tunnel walls, protruding roots, or broken terrain.
Fanindra himself did have a beard still, a faint chinstrap of stubble to be specific, but it did suit his youthful countenance all the same, especially since he was mustache-free. Aside from that and the short, dark rusty-red hair on his scalp, though, his skin was smooth as polished marble — and indeed, it had been exactly this when he was originally carved, blue-gray in color with veins of yellowish white and dark blue throughout. There was a marked contrast between this exotic skin-tone and his jewel-like eyes of polished amber, normally hidden behind his prominent horn-rimmed glasses. The runes emblazoned upon him emitted a faint silvery glow, easily hidden by his brick-red linen clothing and especially the deep blue and crimson wizard’s robe he wore over it, bearing silver patterning of various constellations, like a celestial map.
“These sandals here seem rather disconcertingly fresh, but with no sign of any hazardous struggle, oddly,” said Fanindra, examining one of them idly. “It’s almost like they were discarded either after their owners were incapacitated — or perhaps, voluntarily.”
“People get lost in these woods all the time, at least from what I’ve heard,” Turindal shot back. “It’s not like we were tasked with actually rescuing them, weren’t we?!”
For what seemed like the umpteenth time, Fanindra gave the elf a deadpan look through his bespectacled, jewel-like eyes. “You didn’t even read the mission statement, did you? We were supposed to find clues concerning the disappearance of High Lord Ravaxidor, and—”
“I know that! But what if the trail’s gone dead?! What then? We’d be lost out here for absolutely nothing!” The elf resumed his low crouch upon the log, resting his elbows upon his thighs and his chin upon his wrists. “I can’t believe I even joined you two in this total fuckfest. Maybe I should just leave you both to these stupid woods and go back home to the outskirts of the Hallplatsens. The palaces of ice, the snowdrifts and meadows of mountain grasses… I’d take those over this creepy dump any day.”
Fanindra sputtered wordlessly in outrage. That was not even close to the proper way to communicate with your own team! His voice died down after a moment, but his eyes remained narrowed as he took note of his companion’s taut, exposed arches, longer than his entire forearm. It was high time to take this bully down a peg.
With a subtle wave of his hand and a flick of his wrist, the boyish dwarf conjured an array of floating feathers made of mystical light blue energy, which remained entirely silent as they fluttered up behind Turindal’s place on the log. The elf received no warning before the enchanted plumes began dancing upon his stretched soles, his own feet pinned by his body weight.
“EEEEEEEK! OHHHH FUUUUUHUHAHAHAHACKKK! S-STOP IT, YEHEHEHEHE—YOU BAHAHASTAHAHARD! STOHOHOHAHAHAHAHAAAAAP! YAHAHAHAHAHA! GET AWAHAHAHAAAY FROM MEHEHEHEHEEE!”
Reeling in startled, flustered indignation, Turindal swiped a hand backwards uselessly as he tried to deter his tormentors to no avail. The dwarf remained where he was seated, smiling smugly as he continued waving his hand surreptitiously to command the feathers to tickle the helpless, huge feet right at their total mercy.
“GAHAHAHAHAH DAMN BRAHAHAHAT!” Turindal cackled. “I-I’LL HAVE YOU THROWN TO THE TICKLE PLANTS FOR THIHIHIISSSS!”
“You’re calling me the brat?” Fanindra scoffed playfully. “Maybe this’ll teach you to be more respectful of the people carrying you through this mission. Oh, and do try to be quiet — you never know what you might be waking up around here! Kitchy kitchy coo, Turry-Purry~”
A sudden noise from the tent got the attention of both. Even then, the dwarf’s magical tickling didn’t let up completely, stroking up and down each of Turindal’s arches with a single feather each.
“Dudes, Morp know exactly who friends’ yelling wake up…” a raspy, slightly slurred voice came from the tent, before its owner emerged with a bleary-eyed look on his face. “Can’t bros let Morp sleep?!”
At a towering six-foot-three, the orc who had just emerged from the tent was the second-tallest of the group, but where Turindal was lean and dainty, Morp Adder’s-Fork was powerfully built, packed with muscle befitting the barbarian he was. While he too otherwise looked like a human being, his grayish green skin, the sharp teeth in his mouth, and the fact that his ears were spiny and leathery frills like a fish or exotic lizard told of his goblin pedigree. This combination of features from different creatures was also a clear indication of the chimeric nature of goblin-kind, for as everyone knows, goblins are brewed, not born. Once upon a time, the original goblin horde had been created as servants for a dark mage of terrible power, but seceded from their master’s ranks and took with them the alchemy needed to produce more of their kin; now, every horde possesses an enchanted cauldron, and hordes wishing to raise a new generation collect all kinds of strange ingredients to add to a magical elixir of noxious odor and ominous power, from which infant goblins emerge to be raised to adulthood by the entire horde. Of particular note is the catalyst, the key ingredient that determines which types of goblins are produced — the Adder’s-Fork horde in particular is one of those that employ pieces of fetid meat harvested from the living dead for this role, and looking into their entirely white, pupil-less eyes, such as Morp’s, one can easily tell that they too are revenants, albeit ones that are undead to begin with instead of having been converted from the living. The strange markings like seams and sutures along his joints and in various other places too were natural for orcs of any pedigree, and like fingerprints, no two such patterns were exactly alike.
Far from being a warrior as his horde had expected, Morp thought himself more of an athlete, and he had amicably parted ways with the rest of his horde some years back, desiring what he viewed as the ultimate workout. This mindset was clearly discernible thanks to his brown leather short pants, held up by a simple hemp-rope belt, and his mottled orange dragon-skin vest with no shirt beneath (the skins used to make this outfit having come from creatures that had mercifully passed due to natural causes — Morp was brutish, but not unethical). The wrappings around his forearms and lower legs were worn and stained with age and use, as was the leather comprising his fingerless gloves and size 20 woven sandals, but there were few shops that could’ve supplied clothing fit for his size and build: a veritable mountain of muscle, with broad, thick pecs and a matching bull neck, an eight-pack of washboard abs, a meaty bulge betwixt his legs as big as a human head, and thighs and biceps as thick as small tree trunks with immense hands and feet to match. And yet, his sightless face was youthful, clean-shaven, and quite beautiful by human standards despite his unibrow and the small boar-like tusks protruding from his lips. The bangs of his short, dirty gray hair normally fell over his eyes, the top and back slicked into a shock of spiky tufts; protruding through his hair and from the top of his head was a pair of tawny, stag-like antlers, the crowns sporting fourteen blunted points in total — the major contribution of the skull of a reanimated (and re-slain) deer which had served as the catalyst in his root stock (in more ways than one). Rounding out the look was a black marking on his right shoulder, like a sigil of some evil magic, portraying the Jack o’ Lantern with gloved, reaching hands to either side that was the insignia of—
“Forgotten Foothills, also, is Adder’s-Fork home,” Morp grumbled, training his webbed ears towards a still-chortling Turindal as he flexed his left bicep to reveal another marking like a serpent coiled thrice around it, showing off its forked tongue. “Morp technically back in country where Morp cooked. So Morp second Rock Bro: not cool, Kitty Bro.”
“Eh tu, Mohohorp?!” Turindal squealed, wobbling in place as he tried to stay balanced. “Gaaahahahaaaahhhh! I-I can’t stahahand ihihiiiit! C-can this get any wohohohorse?!”
The distant boom of thunder answered his question. Mercifully, Fanindra stopped tickling him upon hearing it, but the distant sound of rain made all of them look up at the night sky. Clouds had begun obscuring the stars and moon, and it wouldn’t be long before everyone would be utterly drenched.
“We need to find shelter,” Fanindra said as he stood up. “There’s just one problem, though…”
“Abandoned house in woods?” Morp replied groggily. “Maybe spooky, trapping dudes looking for sleep room?”
“Yep…” Fanindra sounded clearly disappointed. “Not like we’ve got a choice, though. Based on the mission statement, it should be just a few miles east of here. You coming, Turindal?”
Still panting heavily from the surprise tickle attack, the elf turned his head to glare at the other two. “Ugh, fine. I’d rather not get my robes wet. But I’m not going anywhere other than just past the front door! If you two get attacked by ghosts or vampires or whatever, that’s on you.”
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The Entrance Hall
Mercifully, the three men made their way through the forest with little incident despite the reputation of the forest itself. The trees began to thin out as they drew nearer to the location indicated on the map that Fanindra had brought alongside the rest of the mission statement. Nothing of note was said, but once they reached the location itself, nothing of note could be said.
It wasn’t so much a mansion as a massive, sprawling, awe-inspiring complex of dilapidated stone, mortar, timber, and vegetation, its architecture clearly betraying a mixed heritage of styles from the forest kingdoms of Silva Insanire, the mountain halls of the Hallplatsens, and even a bit of the decadent palaces within the floating kingdom of Titillandum. In its heyday it would’ve been a beautiful sight indeed, but the years hadn’t been kind to the manor, and the once-manicured courtyard was now bloated with twisting, creeping brambles and ivy, as though the rampant weeds were clawing and scratching at the walls.
The party soon found itself in front of the elaborate wooden double doors to the inside of the mansion, the carved relief embellishing their facades depicting a pair of rampant skeletal unicorns surrounded by wisps of smoke with wailing faces on them. The golden decorative trim was now heavily tarnished, and one of the elaborate knockers was missing its handle, while the other was missing altogether.
“Well, no time like the present,” said Fanindra, nudging at the door and noting how it swung just a little ajar. “Here goes nothing…”
The three of them filed inside just as the first drops of rain began to fall. The boom of the doors shutting behind them was easy to miss among the first claps of distant thunder.
“Cripes, just a minute in here and already I’m getting the creeps,” Turindal muttered, glancing around at the dilapidated entrance hall with its peeling wallpaper, the pictures hanging on the walls now faded in their frames of decaying wood. There were also two once-grand stairways — one leading up, one down — to either side of a hallway in the middle leading to who knew where. A worn carpet as wide as a small street which stretched out before the stairs also suggested a luxurious life that had once lived within it, and the elaborate chandelier that hung from the ceiling still had most of its multicolored jewels attached. Faded from a coating of grime and dust they were, but they were jewels nonetheless.
“We can’t rescue Ravaxidor without proceeding, though,” replied Fanindra. “Do you want to see him safe or not?”
Turindal thought about it for a moment, and then sighed. “Alright. But at least let me lead the way. I want him to see me first, so that I can finally get the recognition I deserve!”
Fanindra bristled, wondering if he should punish the elf again, but then he noticed a few details about the carpet before them. He was about to say something when Turindal silenced him with a dirty look before walking forward. Fanindra hung his head in grim acceptance, but not because he’d been nonverbally shouted down — far from it. Whatever was about to happen, it was going to be Turindal’s fault for ignoring the warning signs.
“AAAAAARRRRRGGHH!!!”
The second Turindal had stepped on the old carpet, heedless of the way the pile or upward-pointing tufts was subtly rippling in place, or the little hand-shaped patterns all over it in deceptively ornamental arrangements, the surface of the carpet had sprung to life, as though the hands were magically coming off its surface. Fuzzy, wooly fingertips danced and waved upwards from wherever the elf had put his feet down, and the balls and toes were now being subject to a hundred fluffy tickles at once. “WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! S-STOHOHAHAHAHA!”
“A rank 22 Snuggarug!” Fanindra cried in astonishment. “I knew it! But what’s it doing here? This variety is normally found only in Ardu Al’alsanna—”
“FANINDRAHAHAHA! SHUT UP AND HEHEHEHEHEHELP MEEHEHEHEHEE! I CAN’T-GYEEHEHEHEHE N-NOOOHOHOHOOO!”
Morp, who had been silent since their entrance, heard the cry of distress and gasped. “Kitty Bro in danger! Rock Bro, help him!”
“He ignored the hints, it’s on him!” Fanindra protested. “What are you—?!”
Turindal yelled and twisted about, trying to pull his feet away from the fiendish textile before it could flip up and wrap itself in a ticklish embrace. Sensing his struggles, the rug reached upwards with several of its hands on fuzzy, elastic stalks, trying to grab hold of his legs. This led to multiple fluffy fingers digging into his taut, perpetually exposed arches, and the elf screamed at the top of his lungs, the tickle attack making him all but lose his mind.
A powerful hand seized his arm and, with one strong yank, pulled him free from the vile creature. Next moment, Morp was bridal-carrying the gasping, panting druid, gazing sightlessly ahead and remaining unmoving.
“Bro, watch step!” the orc said in a slightly nervous tone. “Ruins good home for tickle mimics — muscle and magic useless!”
“Don’t you tell me what to do—” Turindal began, but then he heard the subtle rustling of the Snuggarug settling back into place and fell silent with a whimper of fear.
“What do we do, then?” asked Fanindra. “That rug is blocking our only way in, and my detection spell isn’t turning up any other way into the rest of the house. How do we get across it?”
“Morp cross,” the orc replied, setting Turindal down next to him before flexing his biceps.
“W-what?!” Turindal looked shocked. “Are you insane?! Can’t we just try and jump over it or something?!”
“Tickle rugs quicker than look. Reach high. Can jump. Only walk across, bro!”
Turindal shuddered, remembering the feeling of those furry tendrils attacking his bare feet. “I don’t believe this… A non-druid knows more about this shit than I do! This isn’t going to look good on me during my professional trial…”
The other two gave him nonverbal reactions of sympathy. Every adventurer in Hysterica practiced at least one of twelve different classes of profession, each with its own specialization. Of the fourteen national emissaries of this world, twelve of them were also the overseers of an examination, challenge, or conclusive duel to determine whether each adventurer-in-training was worthy of becoming a professional in their respective field. Each trial was catered to one of the twelve classes, specifically the one practiced by that respective diplomat; the delegate of the Forgotten Foothills, for example, challenged prospective rangers to catch up to him in a daring chase through the deepest, darkest woods of this land, and in the neighboring kingdom of Silva Insanire, the representative nicknamed the Druid King abided as students of the wild and ancient arts studied under his patronage to prove that they too were one with the natural world.
As a navigator of the urban jungle, of course, the druid class had been the last profession Turindal had been expected to excel at — every other technical and academic subject had been a nightmare for him, but he had always loved the outdoors and longed to explore the wild places of the world. It had taken a lot of string-pulling for Ravaxidor to get the rest of the high council of Titillandum to instate him as a druid in training. Now, with the aid of tutelage from the Druid King himself, Turindal was well on his way to becoming an underdog story incarnate, and it was a surprise to no one that his teacher was now watching his career with great interest.
“Morp know bros succeed,” Morp said with a smile. “But Morp gotta carry you two through mission first. Literally!”
Fanindra thought about it for a second before the realization hit him. “Hm? Wait, you don’t mean—”
“Morp lift bros and cross tickle rug, cha!” The orc flexed again and kissed a bicep. “Morp trained to handle tickles since wee orcling. You cool, bros?”
“What about you?! The Snuggarug will surely carry you off!”
“Morp can handle it.” The orc smiled bravely. “Once Morp in The Zone, nothing stops him!”
With that, Morp spread his arms out and lowered them a bit, acting as handles for the other two to climb onto. It was no different than lifting a pair of barbells, really. Once his teammates were safely on his shoulders, Morp steeled himself with a deep breath. “Now, be my eyes!”
Fanindra nodded. “Alright, turn this way a little… To the left… Your other left! There, now go, straight ahead! Watch out for its edge, don’t trip over — w-whoaaa — Th-there we go!”
Turindal clung as tightly as he could to Morp’s left antler, and to Fanindra was forced to hang onto his right to keep him balanced, the two of them steering their mighty steed. Morp exhaled again, before scraping a sandal against the floor like a stag pawing at the ground with the intent to charge.
“Let’s do this!” the orc bellowed, and then he strode forward. Thankfully, as though knowing how heavy his two friends were, he kept his charge to an amble. Which was good, because the second he stepped on the carpet, the sole of his sandal was suddenly stuck in place, as though he’d stepped on a giant glue trap. If he’d had his sight and looked down, he’d have seen a half-dozen tiny hands grabbing onto the footwear and holding it fast.
Heedless of the impediment, or the way the little hands were unbuckling his footwear, he planted his other sandal onto the Snuggarug as well. On the next step, his foot came right out of his shoe, and came down right on top of the forest of handprints and fluffy fibers beneath, all aiming skyward with the intent to seize and tickle whatever came within reach.
Morp let out a gasp and bit his bottom lip lightly, a flurry of giggles building up within him as the fingers and wool strands began tickling all over every inch of his sole. Daring to put his whole weight upon that tormented foot, he lifted his other foot out of his shoe and put it down over the rug as well.
Just a few more big steps along the rug, and they’d be across! But Morp was now threatening to crack from the strain, to lose his balance and send all of them into the carpet’s clutches.
“MMmmmFPFFFH! Mmmmmhmhmhmmmhmm! FFFFF! HhhhhhEEHEHHMMMM!” Sweat dripped from every inch of Morp’s skin as he struggled to take the next step, now vaguely aware of the hands reaching out of the rug to grab onto his ankles and hold him fast.
“Keep going! Almost there!” Fanindra said with encouragement.
“Eeep!” Turindal yelped as a hand nearly grabbed one of his toes. “H-hurry!”
Amazingly, Morp was doing rather well despite the tickles, focusing as hard as he could on the sound of his breathing and the way it refracted off the stairway ahead. If it had been just the Snuggarug, the three of them would’ve gotten across without any issue. But alas, it was not to be. For there were darker forces at play here than just a few misplaced tickle mimics…
They were just two steps away from the stairwells now. Turindal was the first to notice a shimmer in the air, the breeze feeling just a bit colder. He only had a moment to warn the barbarian before a vague presence shaped like a long-fingered hand made itself known by wiggling a single finger into Morp’s smooth, sweaty armpit.
“AAAAHHHH! EHEHEHEHEH W-WHAT IS THAHAHAHAT?!” Morp howled, stopping and wobbling in place.
“W-what’s going on?!” said Fanindra, startled. “Why are we stopping?!”
“Something’s wrong…” Turindal shivered in place. “Something else is here!”
They looked down, now realizing that there were other things tickling Morp now and keeping him pinned. Two of the ethereal hands were wiggling their fingers into the hollows of his pits, and one more was now maneuvering in from the front to reach at his belly button. But there was worse to come.
“M-MORP CAHAHAHAN’T GO FURTHEHEHER!” the orc guffawed, swaying dangerously as the tickles continued. “BROS GOTTA JUMP!”
“W-what?!” Fanindra yelled. “We can’t just leave you here!”
“MORP FIND WAHAHAY! MORP STRONK! UP TO YOU, DUDES! GOOOHOHOHO!”
There were more hands joining in now! Two of them were undoing his rope belt, exposing a massive thirteen-inch cock and balls a horse would be proud of. Four more hands were closing in on his tender privates now. It was now or never!
With one mighty heave, Morp threw his hands forward, and the other boys dismounted as though off a swingset, hands forward to brace themselves for impact. They landed with surprising grace despite being tossed, but there was no time to celebrate! More and more hands were appearing out of nowhere and some were preparing to chase after them!
Turindal, of course, ran without a second thought, vanishing into the central corridor. Fanindra spared one last glance at the shrieking, moaning Morp, the ghostly hands binding his arms and tickling every exposed part of him as the Snuggarug prepared to roll him up like a pastry filling. Then the hands swooped after him, and he too made a run for it up the left stairwell and into the first corridor of the upstairs floor.
To the dwarf’s surprise, the ghostly hands only pursued him for a few dozen yards. Suddenly, they vanished into nothing, just as Fanindra skidded to a halt to avoid colliding with someone who had suddenly appeared in front of him.
It was a three-foot-tall demihuman with skin as white as bone, a bob of slicked-down hair as dark as coal whose angular fringe partly covered one of his huge, almond-shaped eyes with their hot pink irises and dark eyeshadow beneath, and a jet-black coat whose hems were adorned with white skeletal embroidery over a white linen shirt and dark trousers. On the ends of his short, thin limbs, his big four-fingered hands were covered in white gloves, and more notable still, the tops of his relatively gigantic bare feet, with four nail-less toes each, sported a thin coat of black hair as sleek and glossy as that on his head.
“You look lost,” the little being said with a voice like a grown man, surprising the dwarf, though it was still somewhat high-pitched as per his stature with a hint of the accent from the far east. “Perhaps an official tour of this manor is in order?”
“Oh no no, we’re not here for the tour,” said Fanindra, raising one hand and rubbing the back of his neck with the other. “We just need to check for something we thought was here and we’ll be on our way.”
“Please stay a little while, though! It’s still raining outside, after all.” The small folk smiled cutely, sparkles appearing around his head. “I promise I won’t bite~”
“Uh… I-I guess there’s no harm in that. Right? S-sure!” Fanindra stammered nervously, though he was still not sure as to whether he could trust the stranger yet.
The halfling beamed with surprising brightness for one with such a grim attire, and bowed politely. “Welcome to House Inclementia! Traveler, how may we be at your service?”
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