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It happened in an instant.  One moment, only the line in the sand was between them.  Oborro's back was still hunched, his legs balanced as light and spring as he could be, hands spread wide, eyes scanning for any possible opening.  He had thought he knew Lykopis' speed, having seen her in battle so many times.  There was no comparison, or perhaps, it was not the same being the one she charged at.

There for but a single, poetic moment, he saw the truth behind some of the legend about her.  For that brief momentary frame of time, he saw, in that dark grey blur, black hair billowing behind, and the glow of her feral yellow eyes, the truth behind the myth, and why.  To be the prey in the eyes of a mighty She-Wolf; that singular fraction of time that most likely was the last thing so many others ever saw.

The next second, the Bard's attention snapped back to the present, he was flipping, ass over teakettle.  He felt arms around him, locked tight as if forged steel bands, the pressure and heat of her nearly bare chest, and the rush of wind howled in his ears.  The world spun in a brilliant arc, the twilight blanket of the night swirling with the cheery glow of the campfire.  He saw but a brief glimpse of their little 'sparring ring': a circle surround them ten feet at its circumference, their assorted weapons, armor, and clothing scattered about wantonly in the impromptu machismo of his, now ill-considered, play challenge.

Time and space came crashing back down, much as he did, as his back hit the dirt of their 'dueling ring'.   He had no more time to choke out a gasp in surprise as it was forced out of his body, before his legs abruptly were grasped by iron-hard paws and violently forced above his ears.  All at once, Oborro came back to reality, only then able to comprehend the maneuver she had just employed.

Now he gazed up at her as she loomed above him, all but straddling his hips as they now faced firmly skyward.  On either side her trunk-like, powerfully corded legs spread, easily balancing herself in a deep split, letting the rest of her weight rest idly on her fists, still curled easily around his ankles as she kept his boots at the same level as his head.

All around him cascaded her black mane of currently unbound hair, casting him in slight shadow, as if a veil had fallen over specifically his sight for that moment.  It cast her already iron-grey skin to a much darker hue.  The only thing he ever needed to see, Lykopis the She-Wolf gazed fondly down at him with those yellow-huntress eyes.  Her teasing, tusked, mouth split in a grin as they locked gazes, baring some of her wolf-like teeth behind those beautifully scarred lips.

It was all he could even think of to say in this sudden turn, "Ok so...first round's a draw?"

At first, she laughed, and it rang in his ears like the most beautiful melody he had ever been blessed to hear.  Then..."Bard," the Half-Orc hummed, looking teasing, the way she always did when she felt smarter than him, or was about to teach him something he truly knew nothing about.  "How much of Orc culture are you specifically aware of?"

"Well," he began, tone uncertain and wary as to her query.  "I know...about the, ill-defined by our limited interpretation of your culture concerning the 'subraces' of Or'Khan's children to be based on the five lands he recruited warriors from during his first War against the Elves.  I know that your language varies from culture to culture but shares a root dialect, Khanet, which has roots in Faerie and Aergir alphabets.  I know your people adore war not as a force of destruction but the forging of individual legends."

She nodded along, pursing her lips.  Then as he paused to take a breath, she shoved the crux of her hips down against his, causing a distinct, very localized heat and pressure upon his breeches.  It caused the eloquent, near-uninterruptable Bard to stutter and stumble over his words until quiet came and she lifted back up by an inch or so.  He tried valiantly to not whimper, though whether from strain or being deprived, he wasn't sure.

"And how about...Or'Kharesh?" she purred down at him.

Blinking, he wracked his brains.  The answer was there, written ominously in some sparse tome of Orcish lore that the Bardic colleges still allowed to be in print.  "It is...an Orc ritual meant to establish dominance among its participants; an entirely physical contest centered around hand to hand combat, grappling, and surprise attacks."

Again, she nodded along, but this time she only had to twitch her thighs, each almost wider than his chest, for him to stutter back into quiet.  She hummed even more to see him so obedient.  "And did you also know..." came her murmur, soft growl in her throat, as she bent somehow slightly even more forward.  Her curtain of midnight black sank even lower, obscuring even more light which shone through it like the darkened forest floor of some mystical jungle.  All he could see was the outline of her beautiful face, the glow of her eyes, the flicker of occasional shimmering silver over the white inked tattoos.  "It's how we pick our mates?"

That shut him up better than any grinding or growls.  Heat rushed to his face, making the confines of her hair-veil seem much hotter than they had been before.  "You...don't say?" he squeaked eventually.

She nodded casually.  "Contest and conflict are at every Orc's roots.  Even half-blooded, I always feel the desire to prove myself as the strongest.  So perhaps, little Bard," here she leaned in even more.  Her hair pooled physically around him on the ground, inches now barely separating both their groins and faces.  "You might keep that in mind, before you ask me to 'go easy' after challenging me to a wrestling match."

"I...certainly might have considered it pertinent information, if I had known prior."

"Because I would never dishonor you by holding back."  He met her eyes once again, his gaze guiltily having strayed down her features to admire the entire heft and sight of her above him.  Honesty shone from those amber pools: straightforward, direct, not a shred of herself held back.  It caused his gaze to soften, glistening at the edges.  "Oh Gods," she chuckled then, snapping him out of it.  "Don't cry, little Bard."

He sniffed and tried to reach up to wipe his cheek, then remembered his arms were very efficiently pinned underneath his shins.  Her chuckle resounded in him, her grip upon his upraised ankles softening, but not releasing.  There was no point to try and apologize; they both knew full well.

Lykopis leaned back up then, returning the normal hue of firelight to stream through the canopy of her black mane.  "So, comfortable?"

"Mostly," he admitted with a slight chuckle.  "Although I forgot I could bend this way.  It's been a while."

Her yellow eyes flashed and suddenly she had lowered herself back down into the same slightly deeper split as before, her pelvic girdle pressing against Oborro's codpiece.  Where their bodies now touched was near furnace-like for its radiant, shared heat, both pale and grey skin separated only by thin cloth  "Who else are you putting your heels to the sky for?" she demanded.

Oborro, still caught in the midst of another shocked gasp at the heat and pressure upon him, quickly stammered out, through stuttering lips on the deepest of bright red faces, "N-no one!  No one ever."

"I don't entirely believe you..." she growled warningly.

"No, no, I swear to you," he continued swiftly, taking her momentary pause as a desperate opening.  "It was for an entirely different reason I had to contort myself like this before!  It's a long story, might involve some confusing details concerning a Hork, a teashop, and a den of Suul-Baathra agents, but I swear that..." he petered off as he detected the teasing gleam in her wolf-like orbs.  "And you are fucking with me..."

Lykopis let out another long chuckle, not relenting nor lifting her hips from his, but not balancing the majority of her weight upon his frantically held-in-check instinctive need to react to the proximity to her.  "Concerning Or'Kharesh," she resumed as if never having been interrupted or paused in her bizarre little lesson.  "Flexibility is especially important. as much so as durability, endurance, strength...but it most especially.  Whether fighting or mating, the difference between losing your head or gaining an advantage..."

Now she relaxed her weight fully onto Oborro, the outline of her groin enveloping the imprint of the Bard's length through his cloth shorts.  His breath exploded out of him, eyes becoming star-lined as she ground mercilessly, teasingly, down upon him.

"May come down to just a few good inches~," came her sultry, primal-sounding purr.

Oborro, red-faced and beyond flustered, tried desperately to remember all the different incantations for the Accapella Stenando, so to as not, as she said but moments ago 'lose his head'.  "P-perhaps you could let me up now?" he managed to grate out.

Lykopis' growl heightened then, jerking him back to gaze directly at her again.  "Not a chance little Bard. Orc culture dictates that in Or-kharesh, only the victor may determine when the match is over.  We continue until you concede the match, are able to best me, or most unlikely of all; until I'm satisfied that I've sufficiently established my dominance over my beautiful little Bard.  And until you give it your all, I will not stop, or allow you to rest.  You've called me Queen many times, but this time, it'll be for exactly the reason I've been wanting to hear you say it."

Trying to maintain even a smidgen of composure as the wonderful visions of her half-threat/promise played out in his head, the Bard did not surrender, even though every shred in his body told him to do so.  That was part of the trap though, his instinctive, more primal part told him.  So instead of compliance, he went with defiance   "My head is BETWEEN my ANKLES, what more do you want from me?" he demanded.  He tried struggling against her grip, for all the good it did him.  Still, he had to make the effort.

"New rule," she announced suddenly.  "If I get to the count of three in this hold, and you haven't dislodged or pinned me yourself, I remove an article."

His breath came out of him in a sound only barely recognizable as "Meep."

"Because I count two boots and a very tight pair of trousers on you, with a prize inside I'm just dying to see how equally resilient and durable it might be like this.  All wrapped up, just how I like my gifts.  One."

Immediately he began to frantically try, with all his might, to wiggle free even a second, an inch.  That same primal part from earlier felt abruptly as afraid as a prey animal caught in the jaws of a very hungry predator, no matter how belabored the metaphor.

"Two~"

He might as well have been a child struggling against an adult, as for how much he managed to even budge her.  Maybe he really should have thought this through.

"Three."

There was a ripping of cloth, a girlish scream, rough Orc laughter.  Then the sounds combined, mingled, tumbling and mixing into a chorus of passion: exhalations that ranged in pitch from low and breathy gasps, rolling chuckles, to rapid panting groans that quickly intensified in volume and repetition.

"I've always wanted to try Amazon with you..."

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A short time later, Oborro hobbled quickly across the campsite where he and Lykopis had decided to set up before beginning their innuendo-laden mock-brawl.  He had one boot still on, and tried his best to speed on ungainly strides towards the potential cover of the trees.

From the side came the same rushing of heavy footsteps, the snarling breath of a predator closing in for its kill, and the flying tackle that plucked him off his feet and slammed him back down onto the ground once again, although this time his face was against the dirt.

Behind him, keeping her sweaty, heavily muscular frame pressed tight against his equally shiny back, Lykopis breathed hot growling chuckles against his long ear tip. "Showing me your back will not set you loose, Bard. But I do love the view."

Wiggling and straining, he still could not dislodge her.  Not yet anyway.   "Why...wont...you...rest?!" he grunted.

The gleam of her eyes caught his once again, yellow eyes against the star-laden sky and bright hunter's moon hanging above the treeline seeming as perfect as a painted picture,  "Not until you concede..." she whispered.

"...Never."