It was a boy, barely older than Louis himself. It was hard to say if he was tougher or fitter than Louis -or at least, his human body- because nearly every inch of the young man was covered in armour. It gleamed brightly in the afternoon sun. Only his youthful face was visible through his open visor, spotty and decorated in a fuzzy attempt at a beard. He looked surprised at the applause he was getting.
The orc in Louis’s mind scoffed. The armour was pretty but impractical. Far too heavy for the boy and with an ornate gold trim that served no purpose. The orc was equally disparaging about the boy’s sword. A longsword, similar to Louis’s. But though the metal was finely polished, it did not look too sharp. The blade was a little bent, as if it had been kept propped against a wall for a long time. And, again, it was much too heavy for the boy.
The boy seemed to be having similar thoughts about Louis, for he grinned and dropped his visor. Then, clanking and groaning, he raised his heavy sword and stomped towards Louis, drawing a great cheer from the crowd.
Louis did not move. Though the orc reared to put the boy in his place, Louis made him wait. The boy kept on plodding his way over. The crowd grew restless from anticipation. The boy’s grip tightened on his sword as he approached close enough to consider a his strike. And that’s when Louis unbuckled his loincloth.
Still, he forced the orc to take his time, so that the boy had taken a few more steps before he saw he was no longer looking down at Louis. Louis let himself expand as gradually as he could manage, muscles slowly pushing out of his chest, his legs pushing his feet outwards across the sand, his hips widening until they fit the loincloth tightly. The closer the boy approached, the more Louis towered over him. Finally, the boy was wise enough to stop in his tracks.
He watched in fascination and terror as thick hair bloomed across Louis’s chest. As his skin darkened to a mottled, olive green. As fat tusks pushed their way out of his grinning mouth. And as a magnificent beard fell out of his chin, putting the boy’s own meagre whiskers to shame. He was so dumbstruck by what he saw that he almost didn’t react when Louis lunged.
The orc was set free and Louis allowed himself to be carried with him. He struck, playfully, left and right at the hapless boy, who only barely parried each blow. Louis was like a cat playing with its prey. It was exhilerating just to move, to fight, to dominate, and Louis was determined to make it last.
He deliberately dawdled on his next blow, giving the boy time to strike. But when the boy swung, clumsily and much wider than was necessary, Louis needed only to step casually out of his way. He did this a few times, laughing louder with each impotent swing. It was like they were dancing. No, they were fucking. It had the same sweat, the same heavy breath, the same intimacy. Orcish passion rose up in Louis and he didn’t know whether he wanted to kill or kiss this boy who inspired such a flame within him. Hate and aggression were so often identical to love and admiration.
Desperate, the boy’s movements quickened and, with gleeful excitement, Louis had to actually work a little to keep from being hit. Just one cut and that’d be it. That’s where the boy had the advantage. Not a slip of skin showing, while Louis was so bare. Such a tease.
The boy suddenly changed movement in mid strike and caught Louis off guard. Louis was grateful for it. The orc retreated from the swing, but this time into Louis’s head. He shrunk rapidly back into his human self, allowing the blade to swipe harmlessly over his head. Then, just as his loincloth was about to slip, the orc leapt out again. The momentum of his quick growth carried into his muscular arm and Louis’s sword crashed into side of the boy, clattering off the metal and knocking him off his feet. Louis leapt after him, landing on the boy’s chest, pinning him with his thighs. They were so close. He could smell the sweat and fear, could feel the boy’s chestplate heaving beneath his crotch. With his free hand, he batted the oversized helmet from the boy’s head before bringing the sword down.
‘No,’ said Louis. He surprised himself by saying the words aloud.
The orc stopped. The blade was inches from the boy’s neck.
No, said Louis again, inside his head this time. I’m in control. We don’t kill him. We kill no humans.
The orc obeyed. Relief filled his veins. He had let the orc get carried away. No, he had let himself get carried away. But he was still himself when it mattered.
Grinning, he gently nicked the young boy’s face with the tip of the sword, leaving a small cut.
‘First blood wins,’ he said.
It was only now the fight was over, and he felt more like his usual self again, that he realised how eerily silent it was. The crowd was not cheering anymore. Nobody dared make a sound.
Louis recognised this type of silence. He had experienced it in Westriver, when he, as the wolf, had skidded around the corner and come face to face with an angry mob. It was that moment of indecision, where a crowd did not know how to react. Louis knew all it would take was for one of them to decide. One shriek of terror, one cry of ‘DEMON!’, to turn this paralysed crowd into a vicious horde.
Louis could only wait for what they would do.