Lamentations of the Turnip Farmer
Copyright© 2026 by Snekguy
Chapter 4: Favorite Sword
Fantasy Sex Story: Chapter 4: Favorite Sword - After his fief is put to the torch, a lowly serf named Rian is taken captive by Orcs. The women cart him back to their stronghold and put him to work cooking, cleaning, and serving them. Little do they know, his new situation is a marked improvement. For the first time, he has a soft bed, plentiful food, and a warm hearth. Will his hosts ever find out that he's only pretending to lament his new role?
Caution: This Fantasy Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Romantic Heterosexual Fiction Farming High Fantasy Humor FemaleDom Light Bond Polygamy/Polyamory Massage Oral Sex Petting Pregnancy Tit-Fucking Voyeurism Big Breasts Muscle Mommy Size
“What is that smell?” Ghorza asked, yawning as she emerged from behind her screen. She was wearing her linen nightgown, its pale white color contrasting with her rich green skin and red hair. Following her nose, she joined Rian beside the firepit, the sound of sizzling fat accompanying the alluring scent.
“It’s bacon,” he replied, moving the strips of meat around in the skillet with a wooden spoon. They were cooking in their own bubbling fat, Rian pausing to sprinkle some seasonings of pepper and sage on them. “I saw that you had a lot of salted pork in the storehouse, so I thought I’d put it to use.”
“You cook pork this way?” she wondered, still a little drowsy. She sat down on the couch, watching him prepare the meal with passive interest.
“It’s salted and then smoked to preserve it,” he explained. “You have a few barrels of the stuff tucked away at the back. I didn’t eat a lot of meat, but I often slaughtered a pig at the start of winter, and the pork would keep through to spring. It fries up a treat. Add in some slices of bread for sops, and you have yourself a fine start to the day.”
“You talk a lot,” she replied.
“I haven’t had a lot of people to talk to or much reason to talk,” he replied as he tossed the bacon. “Besides, you Orcs are such good listeners. I can prattle on all day, and you never interject with any troublesome thoughts or opinions.”
As he fried up the bread in the bacon fat, the other Orcs emerged, rubbing the sleep from their eyes and taking their places at the table. He served the bacon atop the slices of wheat bread, letting the oils and juices soak into it, the Orcs eating with enthusiasm. If he had to guess, they probably roasted their cuts of pork over the fire like they did everything else. Dirt food made one soft, after all. He started on his own portion, the bacon crispy and salty, mulling over how much better fed he was in captivity.
“So, what are you doing today?” he asked, trying to make conversation over breakfast. “Is there more hunting to do?”
“We have work to do loading caravan for trade,” Sharog replied.
“Oh, are you heading further south to sell your spoils?”
“Not us,” Ghorza replied. “But we help load carts.”
“We have task for you today,” Sharog added, giving her counterparts a smirk across the table. “You will forage for berries and medicine in the woods.”
“And why is that so amusing to you all?” he asked, raising an eyebrow as they chuckled.
“Foraging is work for children,” Urami replied haughtily, looking down her pierced nose at him. “Not task for warriors.”
“I’m very ashamed, I assure you,” he sighed as he bit into a strip of bacon. “You’re forgetting something. I don’t know these valleys, and I don’t know what berries and plants you expect me to find. Besides, there might be wolves or bears. You said it yourself – I’m no warrior.”
The Orcs began to mutter to one another, seemingly having not considered that fact. It must be second nature to them, especially if they had all done it as children, but he came from a completely different region and culture.
“Very well,” Sharog conceded. “Urami will go with you. She will teach.”
“Why must I go?” Urami complained, giving Rian a scowl.
“Why do I have to go with her?” Rian asked, returning her frown.
“Urami is strong warrior,” Sharog insisted, planting a fist on her chest. “She will protect you.”
“I think she’s more likely to kill me herself and claim I fell down a ravine, but I suppose I’m the slave here,” Rian said with a shrug.
“Do not tempt me,” Urami growled.
“You set out after meal,” Sharog insisted, and it seemed that it was decided. Urami lowered her head and resumed her breakfast, trying to look sullen, which was a challenge when presented with a plate of crispy bacon and sops.
Rian still wasn’t clear on the hierarchy of the little Orc family. Was Sharog their leader, or did they operate on some kind of voting system? They sometimes spoke in Orcish, and he had no idea what they were saying. Perhaps he should change that. How hard could the Orc language be, anyway?
When breakfast had concluded, Urami suited up, equipping her hunting gear and drawing a spear from the weapon rack. Laden with pouches and leather straps, she led him out of the hut and into the courtyard, turning up her nose as they passed his little plot of fertilized land.
“It’s going to grow some lovely food,” he explained, noting her disapproval. “If you want more tasty dishes, that’s where the herbs and spices are going to come from.”
“Your dirt food make us weak like you,” she chided.
“Oh, I don’t think putting a little mint and salt on venison is going to do that,” he replied as he followed her down the path to the courtyard.
A number of Orcs were already hard at work, carrying great chests and barrels over their broad shoulders, transporting them from the various huts and storehouses to several carts. Rian recognized them as the same ones they’d used during their raid. If what Sharog had said was true, another caravan would be heading deeper into the valley to trade with the other Orcish tribes further South. A few of them glanced up at him as he passed by, but they made no comment.
“This is humiliating,” Urami grumbled as they reached the gate and passed beyond the wooden wall. “I am a warrior. My station not to teach children how to forage.”
“I’m not a child,” he shot back. “Speaking of which, I haven’t seen any children in the settlement. Where are they all?”
“No children in colony yet,” she replied, leading him across the rickety bridge. He paused to glance over the side, watching the river course past beneath him. “Colony is young. We only live here few months. We not bring children on such dangerous expedition.”
“Haven’t had much time to make any Orc babies yet. I see. Well, if someone has to forage, it might as well be me. Think of it this way: once you teach me how to do it, I can forage on my own.”
“You still need protection,” she scoffed. “You weak dirt tender. You cannot slay boar or shoot wolf. You not know how to navigate by stars or live off land. What happen if you get lost in forest? You die.”
“I’ll grant you that,” he conceded, stepping off the far end of the bridge. “Serfs are not taught such things – our only task is to sow the crops and then harvest them. We’re not taught to navigate or hunt or build shelters. But that doesn’t make me weak. It doesn’t mean I can’t learn.”
This was the furthest he’d been from the village since arriving on the cart. He turned to look back at the settlement, nestled within its wooden defenses at the base of the cliff, a few of the taller fabric roofs peeking above the barricades.
“We will see if you capable of learning,” Urami grumbled. “Come. Keep up.”
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he muttered as he hurried to match pace with her.
Urami led him away from the village and deeper into the valley, the craggy terrain dominated by tall fir trees, the lack of grass leaving patches of the ground bare. It was a strange landscape to his eyes, dominated by scattered wildflowers and hardy thistles. Far from being barren, it was full of color, the sound of the river always nearby.
“You don’t like me very much, do you?” he asked as he struggled over an old landslide. The piles of shattered rock had been sunken into the ground by soil and colonized by lichens and mosses now, making for slippery and uneven footing.
“Why should I like you?” she scoffed, waiting for him to catch up on the far side. She tapped her spear into the ground impatiently, as if she had somewhere more important to be. “You are slave. You are property.”
“Sharog and Ghorza seem to like me,” he replied, pausing to catch his breath when he reached her side.
“Ghorza easily entertained,” she replied, pressing on without giving him much time to recover. She was tireless, obviously accustomed to navigating this kind of terrain, and her long strides made her hard to keep up with. “Sharog think you useful.”
“And what about you?” he pressed as he navigated around a prickly patch of purple thistles. “Don’t you like having someone around to draw your bath and cook for you? My dirt food seems to be a hit with the others.”
“They like fancy things,” she explained, stopping at the top of a hill to peer ahead with her keen eyes. “It is their right. They take fancy food, soft fabrics, and good soap as spoils. That is Orcish way. We are strong. We use strength to take what we need from others.”
“As a spoil myself, I can appreciate that,” he huffed as he climbed the incline behind her. Silk trousers and a velvet jacket had not been the best outfit for such an outing. “You don’t approve, though? Maybe Sharog and Ghorza have developed tastes that are a little too fancy for your liking?”
“We not need such things,” she grumbled, not even extending a hand to help him the rest of the way up. “Eat spiced food, sleep on silk, smell nice. These distract from warrior life.”
“But what’s the point of doing all that raiding if you can’t enjoy the spoils?” Rian continued as he arrived beside her. The view ahead was magnificent, the valley stretching into the distance, the snaking river reflecting the blue sky like glass. The trees were so dense that he could scarcely see anything but their rich green pine needles, the rocky cliffs rising up to either side of him. He felt like a seed being planted in a giant furrow.
“This is not way of Krak’tul,” she explained.
“That’s your deity, right. You know, we have monks who forego fancy things. They believe that living a simple, humble life without a lot of the comforts that others enjoy brings them closer to God. As someone who didn’t have those things to begin with, I’ve never found that to be the case, but it does draw some interesting parallels. If you don’t approve, why not move in with someone who shares your beliefs? Why stay with Sharog and Ghorza?”
“We are bonded by battle,” she snarled, baring her teeth at him. “Dirt tender cannot understand why honor and loyalty important. Krak’tul commands this also.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” he replied, raising his hands. “I’m just trying to learn.”
“Why you talk so much?” she grumbled, tilting her head like a confused dog.
“In the absence of good conversation, I find that I have to fill the silence,” he huffed as he leaned over to catch a breather.
“You use fancy words like you eat fancy food and wear fancy clothes,” she complained with a gesture to his outfit. “Is not necessary. Say what you mean, then no more talk.”
“Direct and to the point,” he reiterated, stretching his back. “I can appreciate that.”
They continued on, trekking deeper into the woods and further from the village, Rian crunching pine cones underfoot. There was so much nature out here, the birds singing, and the leaves rustling softly in the cool wind. He wasn’t too chilly in his fancy jacket, but he could feel in the air that winter was on the doorstep. The trees here were evergreen, so they didn’t shed their leaves in the fall, and there were none of the naked branches that he usually associated with the season. He wasn’t even sure how much snow they’d get this far South.
As they navigated the steep, rocky terrain, Urami paused to gesture to the ground. She had spotted a little bush filled with purple flowers. From a distance, they looked like the thistles that they had been passing the whole while.
“This plant,” she said. “We call urrak. Used to clean wounds. You will pick the flowers.”
“Urrak?” Rian repeated, approaching to kneel beside it. The smell was immediately familiar, and he was able to identify it at the first whiff. “This is lavender.”
“It is urrak,” she repeated with a scowl, tapping a pointed ear. “Listen to me.”
“No, I understand that your word for this plant is urrak,” he explained as he began to pluck the flowers from their stems. The Orcs had given him a leather satchel, and he placed them inside it one by one. “My people call it lavender, and we have medicinal uses for it too. They grow it in the monastery gardens. It’s mostly used for relieving headaches.”
“It can be drunk in tea or applied beneath bandage,” Urami added. She always wore a scowl, so it was hard to tell if she was at all impressed with his knowledge of herbal remedies. As a serf, he couldn’t exactly go to a store to purchase medicine, so he often had to forage for what he needed much as the Orcs did.
When he had stored away a good handful, they moved on, and it wasn’t long before he spotted another interesting plant.
“What about that?” he asked, pointing at a patch of white flowers with yellow stamens. They might have been mistaken for daisies by the uninitiated.
“Good,” Urami said with a nod. “This is martak flower. Used for fevers.”
“Chamomile,” Rian said, stooping to pick some of the plants. “We use it to soothe a bad stomach and to help people sleep.”
“That is a stupid name,” she muttered. “Cam ... o ... mile... ”
“Some of the herbs I’m growing in the garden have medicinal uses, you know,” he continued as he buttoned up his satchel. “Sage, garlic, rosemary.”
“I would need to see them,” she replied dismissively, hopping deftly over a sizable rock. “I do not know your words.”
“You should teach me some of yours,” he insisted, navigating around the obstacle. “Your language, I mean. If I’m going to be living with you for the foreseeable future, it only makes sense that I should learn to communicate better, right? Maybe I can learn to speak a little Orcish.”
“You do not need to know,” she scoffed. “We tell you to clean floor, you clean floor. No need to talk.”
“If I know more, I may be able to help you in other ways. How about it?” he added, hurrying a little to catch up with her long strides. “What’s that called?” he asked, pointing to a tree.
“Ruul,” she replied with a roll of her eyes.
“What’s that called?” he continued, pointing to a rock.
“Kral.”
“And what about that?” he asked, pointing to a cloud.
“Continue, and I leave you behind,” she snarled. “Focus on work. We seek small cluster of white flowers. Yarra. This is warrior’s salve.”
They foraged for another half hour or so, traipsing through the tall trees and wading through shrubs. There came a sudden movement ahead of them, and Rian paused, holding his breath as something heavy rustled the undergrowth. The head of a deer emerged from the foliage, the animal halfway through chewing a mouthful of leaves, peering back at them with its beady eyes. With a flick of its furry ear, it turned and fled, bouncing away into the forest.
“You make poor hunter,” Urami complained, striding past him. “You not know how to walk. You make noise. Scare prey.”
“Well, I never claimed to be an expert hunter, did I?” he replied. “That’s business for Orcs.”
“You never hunt?” she asked, pausing to look back at him with a disdainful expression. “Not even catch rabbit for stew? Only eat food that comes from dirt?”
“I told you this morning that I know how to cook up a pig,” he responded with a hint of annoyance. “Now who doesn’t listen? For your information, serfs are not permitted to hunt. If I had broken the law, I would have been punished by the Lord. The bailiff would probably have given me a raw hiding.”
“Strange people,” she muttered with a shake of her head.
“Oh!” he exclaimed, gesturing to the bushes where the deer had been lurking. “That’s the flower you were searching for, right?”
“Yarra,” she confirmed, watching as he knelt to pick some of the little white flowers.
“We call this yarrow,” he explained, placing them in his satchel. “It sounds a little similar. Perhaps you learned of it from us, or we learned of it from you.”
“It is yarra,” she insisted, planting a hand on her hip defiantly. “Favored medicine of Krak’tul. It is warrior’s flower, used to staunch bleeding and treat battle wounds.”
“Makes sense to me,” he said, rising to his feet and brushing himself off. “Right, do we need anything else, or-”
Urami shushed him suddenly, putting a finger to her lips as she glanced around warily.
“What is it?” he whispered.
She replied by tapping him on the head with the haft of her spear, hissing at him.
“Silence! I hear something.”
She crouched low with her spear in hand, and Rian followed suit, swiveling his head and straining his ears to hear what she was hearing. Maybe she could hear far more than him with those long, pointy knife ears. There wasn’t much of anything other than the creaking of the branches in the wind, but that wasn’t a good sign. An unnatural quiet had fallen over the forest, and even the birds had stopped their singing, as if scared away by some terrible presence.
After a few moments, he heard a twig being crushed underfoot, turning his gaze to the shadow between two tree trunks some twenty paces away. There, he spied a pair of yellow eyes staring back intently, a stab of primal fear rocking him. The visage of a snarling wolf resolved, its ears tracking him, its stare piercing and unblinking. It was as large as any that he had glimpsed from afar in the copses back home, maybe three feet tall and as long as a man, wreathed in a coat of silvery fur. Its long snout was furrowed in a snarl, its sharp teeth exposed as it slowly inched closer.
“Wolf!” Urami hissed. “They come deeper into valley in search of food. Where there is one, there will be more.”
“Maybe they were tracking that deer!” he whispered.
“They hear you from leagues away,” Urami chided. “You make more noise than dying elk.”
She rose to her seven-foot height suddenly, brandishing her spear and baring her tusks, bellowing a challenge at the wolf. Her voice carried through the valley, loud and surprising enough to jolt him. It made him doubly glad that he had never picked up that sword.
The wolf seemed unperturbed, perhaps hungry enough that it was willing to take the risk. He heard another growl, seeing a second wolf emerge from the shadows, then a third. Urami switched her attention between them, giving them another yell and slamming her spear on the ground in an attempt to scare them off, its long haft thudding in the dirt.
Rian had no doubt that Urami would win a fight with a wolf, but could she protect him at the same time?
One of the wolves gnashed its teeth, and the pack began to close in, Urami leveling her spear and appearing to choose a target. She bared her own teeth, tusks jutting from her lips as she gave them another intimidating yell.
Rian stooped, feeling around on the forest floor. When he rose again, he was drawing back his arm, a war cry of his own carrying through the trees.
“Fuck off!”
He pitched a sizable rock at the closest wolf, and it sailed through the air, bouncing off the animal’s skull with an audible thud. The wolf yelped, its paws scrabbling in the dirt as it turned, rushing away as fast as its legs could carry it with its bushy tail tucked between its legs. Its packmates hadn’t yet gotten the message, so he wound back his arm and threw a second stone, which bounced off the bark of a tree near the second wolf. It turned to follow its friend, a howl echoing off the valley walls as the pack turned tail. They vanished into the shadows of the forest, weaving between the trunks of the trees, until he and Urami were standing alone again.
Urami lowered her spear, turning to cock an eyebrow at him.
“Nothing a good kral can’t solve,” he said, tossing a third rock and catching it.
“We go home now,” she sighed.
“How it go?” Ghorza asked as Rian and Urami stepped through the door, greeting them with a mocking grin. “You teach turnip boy to forage, Urami?”
“He already know how to forage,” she replied, walking over to return her spear to the weapon rack. Sharog was watching curiously from her seat beside the fire, a tankard of ale in her hand.
“It turns out that we share a lot of the same medicinal herbs,” Rian explained, carrying the leather satchel over to Ghorza to show her his haul. “How’s that for spoils? We’ve got some urrak, and some yarra, everything a poorly warrior needs to lift their spirits. I even pitched a kral at a wolf.”
“What?” Ghorza giggled. “Urami, what does he speak of?”
“His loud and ceaseless talking brought wolves upon us,” she replied, making her way back over to them. “But ... turnip boy has good arm.” She gave him a glance that was very nearly devoid of her perpetual scowl, something approaching respect crossing her angry features. “He struck one with a stone, and it fled.”
“Impressive,” Sharog mused, taking a drink from her cup. “He cannot wield sword, but he can throw a stone. What distance?”
“Fifteen paces,” Urami replied. “Give or take.”
“I wish I had taken him foraging instead,” Ghorza added with a pout. “You had more fun than we did loading carts. My shoulders are sore,” she complained, rolling them with a grimace.
“I can guess what that means,” Rian replied.
“We are hungry,” Sharog declared from her seat, raising her tankard in his direction. “You will cook for us.”
“That does seem to have become my lot in life,” he said, setting down his satchel on a nearby table.
A quick jaunt to the storehouse, and he returned to the hut with an armful of goods, the Orcs watching curiously as he began to prepare their meal. It was midday, so he wanted something a little lighter to tide them over until dinner. Fortunately, the pantry was always well stocked.
He slapped three large carp down on the cooking table. They were fresh, probably sourced from the nearby river only recently. Using a sharp Orcish knife, he beheaded them, scaled them, and boned them to the best of his abilities. He kept the skin on, as it would help hold the fillets together during cooking. Unlike the venison, fish was something he’d been able to eat on occasion, and he knew well how to make the best of it.
When the pale meat was cleaned and laid out, he set a pot of water to heat over the fire. He added a generous helping of salt, then headed across the room to the keg, filling a tankard with ale. He gave it a sip, swilling it around in his mouth for a moment as the Orcs watched in confusion. Satisfied, he added a portion of the drink to the pot.
“You cook fish in ale?” Sharog asked with a grimace. “Fish should be charred over fire. Good and crispy. Ale is for drinking.”
“Trust me,” he replied, stirring the mixture with a spoon. “I haven’t led you astray yet, have I?”
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