Lean Times: Never More
by Balance
- provided for use on SirJeff's Ponygirls.
- do not use without the author's permission.
The 'plot' so far, as related in the first Lean Times 'story':
Sharbush, the leader of a small mountain goblin tribe, despairs of the state of things these days. It seems that every year the human villages produce less food, there are fewer and fewer teenage girls suitable for use as mounts, and the ones they do manage to capture are mere runts compared to proper ponygirls from the north side of the mountains. Raiding the last small town in his tribe's territory, he was disgusted to find paltry amounts of grain and meat, and only four villagers of the right age to be ponygirls - the others either too young and weak, or too old and thus more effort that they were worth to break in. But deciding that needs must, he ordered the four broken in and trained anyway; they should be ready just in time for the winter migration, and with a lot of luck they might just survive the snows…
Meanwhile Branwen, one of the four girls captured, was shocked beyond words by the raid, almost unable to comprehend what was happening. She had always heard tales of goblins riding around on human girls, but they had been fairy tales, ridiculous and fanciful stories she had loved to be frightened by as a child; it was always the spoilt little girl who got her comeuppance at the hands of the cunning goblin. She had only been able to stare open-mouthed as the stories came true in front of her eyes, the goblins riding to the attack burning and slaying all before them. Before she had quite realised it she had been lassoed, stripped and bound, and was trekking back to the goblins' camp roped by the neck to one of the bizarre woman-beasts. Slowly it had sunk in that not only were all those fairy tales true, she was doomed to become part of them…
Branwen had lost count of the days since she and the three other girls had been captured by the goblins, but she knew it stretched into many weeks. It had been so long that her arms, tightly tied behind her back with tough twine since the day of her capture, were almost completely numb. Every day the village girls were roused before dawn and made to jog, sprint, drag rocks and carry weights until past sundown. They were kept roped up via the huge, rusty rings that had been clumsily and painfully shoved through their noses; they were fed awful slop, desperately picking at near-cleaned bones thrown to them by the goblins; they were teased and beaten, suffering spear-pricks and thrown rocks for sport. Branwen had soon learned never to make a sound after seeing what the goblins had done to her friend Rhosyn on trying to speak; the girl hadn't been able to walk for a week.
In the last few weeks the physical conditioning had been augmented by command training. Agonisingly tight bridles with bits that carved into their cheeks like saws had been strapped around their heads, and the whips had driven them this way and that while the reins were tugged. Remarkably quickly the commands became intuitive, and after only a few days Branwen was responding to them instantly, without thinking about them all. Obeying at first simply to please her masters, desperate to avoid the brutal torture that followed failure, she now did so automatically, the reins bypassing her conscious mind as they controlled her body. As she danced like a puppet at the whim of her expert trainer, she had never imagined that sensations of powerlessness and humiliation could run so deep.
Over time more and more complex commands were added, and soon she had been saddled for the first time. The battered leather straps were horribly uncomfortable, tightened beyond reason and biting into her chest painfully. The hunched and bony grey-skinned goblins were deceptively heavy; they were powerful for their size, and had weight to match. Branwen had shuddered in revulsion at the touch of her trainer as he - or possibly she, Branwen couldn't often tell the difference - had mounted her for the first time. The calloused skin of the hideous creature's bare legs felt disgusting as they grasped her back, and the loud, rancid breaths rasping next to her ear were horribly nerve-wracking.
But to her disgust, she had soon got used to it. She learned to kneel when kicked in the ankle so a rider could mount her; she learned that rough heels smashed against her hips were a command to move faster. Soon the four girls' training consisted entirely of long rides through rock-strewn trails.
Later they were deliberately exposed to the dangers of the mountains. At first they had grown nervous at the sight of crag panthers prowling the ridges above them. They had panicked the first time they had seen a titanic Roc eagle, big enough to carry away one girl in each lethal talon. They had shied in terror as their riders steered them through treacherously narrow ravines. But the new ponygirls quickly learned that the predators kept away from armed goblins, and that the ravines could be traversed, and soon they were no longer fearful.
Branwen hated the fact that the training was conquering her so easily. Somehow she felt that she should have been able to resist, that it should at least have been a battle for the goblins to break her in. But instead she had simply crumbled, as had the other three village girls. Totally subservient, they might as well have been real ponies for all their ability to act any differently. Branwen dreaded the day when the training stopped, for that would mean that the goblins had succeeded in turning her into nothing but a trained animal.
That day came sooner rather than later. Barely a week after, the first snows of winter rode the western wind into the mountains, and the goblins packed up their camp. Branwen realised they were probably heading into the lowlands for the winter, and that meant that her training must be over. The goblins were satisfied she had been completely tamed. And she knew they were right.
To her surprise, though, she felt not horror or despair, but simple resignation. She knew that there was no chance that she would ever be anything but a ponygirl, and that knowledge brought with it a perverse peace of mind, even contentment. The last of Branwen's dignity had drifted away on the winter wind, and with it had gone the tantalising agony of hope.
Branwen was already saddled as the first rays of morning sunshine struggled through the haze of grey snow clouds over the summits. She stood placidly while her new owner's grimy, bony fingers scrabbled and scratched, tying eagle-down speed charms into the overgrown forest of hair between her legs. Being treated as such didn't feel the least bit unusual any more. She didn't even resent the cold that was biting spitefully at her naked flesh, numbing her ears and feet. It pained her, and she longed for the warmth she had once known; but even as the first delicate snowflakes settled on her filthy, knife-cropped blonde hair, it seemed natural that she should suffer it unclothed. She felt no injustice in being treated this way; it was what ponygirls were for.
Branwen's heart sank as she felt a kick on her ankle, telling her to drop to her knees so her bridle could be fitted - evidently the ponygirls were not to be fed before the goblins left, so the scraps of the previous night would have to suffice. She knelt, obediently parting her teeth to accept the bit as it was pulled roughly into her mouth from behind. The bridle that was lashed around her head made her feel as clothed and complete as any dress ever had.
Her owner shuffled into view in front of her, bearskin cloak flowing, leather cap skewed. The beady eyes and massive, permanent grin common to all the goblins were especially disconcerting this close up, and Branwen tried not to inhale his rotten breath as it seethed past his huge, yellowed fangs. Small even for goblin, for whom three feet was a respectable height, this one was definitely a 'he'. The tatty flap of animal hide draped from a string between his skinny bow-legs was far from sufficient to hide the disproportionately large genitalia flapping obscenely behind it. It was probably only there as the merest token nod to hygiene - it definitely had nothing to do with modesty.
He grabbed the reins in an oversized, ham-joint fist and yanked a few times, jerking his ponygirl's head forward violently. Satisfied the bridle was tight enough he clambered into the saddle, commanding Branwen to rise with another jerk of the reins. He rode her over to the mouth of the pass where the mounted goblins were congregating as they waited for the last few members of the tribe to pack up, blades and packs rattling from the saddle, and joined in a noisy, bickering conversation with several other goblins. Branwen couldn't understand what they were saying. Other than sharp ponygirl commands which were as likely to be nonsensical barks as anything else, the only word she had picked up of the goblins' language was what they had named her: Sagrug. She had no idea what it meant but it didn't sound complimentary; the goblins had fallen about laughing the first time one of them had said it.
The wind blowing from the pass gusted, sending a volley of heavy snow slashing into her exposed flesh; she closed her eyes as it blasted into her face. A shout rang out as the last of the goblins saddled up and rode over to the mouth of the pass. The tribe's leader was giving the order to move out. In disorganised dribs and drabs the goblins spurred their mounts into the pass that lead down to the foothills.
A sharp tug at the corner of Branwen's mouth turned her to follow the others, and she took off at a jog as she felt her rider's booted heels against her hips. Even for her powerful body it was a struggle against the ever-stronger freezing wind and the lashing snow, but she could do nothing but obey the commands of the hideous little creature perched on her back.
As the wind slashed through the pass, the ponygirl gritted her teeth against her bit and redoubled her efforts - the faster they went, the sooner she would be into the lowlands away from the snow. Branwen shut out the cold and concentrated on the calming rhythm of her own footsteps.