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The Sinner and the Sorceress

Francis leaned back in the hay, his tunic had been removed, exposing his chest to the heady atmosphere of the barn. His fur was a deep grey colour mottled with blacks, with a blow of white spreading up from his sternum and across his chest. Duncan's knee rested between his legs, his paw beginning its journey at Francis's waistline. The paw crept up his belly like an eel, fingers splayed as it touched upon the wolf's white patch. Francis licked his lips, blushing deeply as the paw reached the edge of his neck and moved to cup his jaw.

"I beg you look upon me free of worry, do not deny me that mercy." Duncan whispered. Also a wolf, Duncan was taller than Francis, but his fur was a rich chestnut brown. His family had originally hailed from across the sea, and upon their arrival two decades prior, had injected a much-needed change of palette to the village's smattering of grey and black coats. "It's a cruel world out there, and we've been clothed like decent men for far too long." He shuffled forward, tail curling around his body.

Francis glanced away, distracted.

"Go on then." Duncan added quickly, his paw now shifting to the side of Francis's face, supporting it. "Speak your mind."

"I simply wonder for how long this fancy might continue." The wolf finally admitted. "I'm afraid, afraid--" Duncan didn't let him finish.

"Hush." He said, putting two fingers to the end of Francis's muzzle. "Don't let yourself fall to despair. Open your ears and your eyes, we are truly alone here." Francis smiled despite himself, glancing around. The barn they laid in could almost be considered cozy, the rain outside creating a consistent blanket of noise on the roof and walls, as if sealing them in from the greater world.

"Duncan." Francis said softly, taking the brown wolf's paw in his own and squeezing it to his breast. "You might think me fond, but I wonder... how long can we truly continue this? I consider it might be best we cease it now, before things become too arduous."

"And what is the point of a life lived without love?" Duncan whispered, leaning in closer and kissing Francis on the crook of his neck. His other paw went to the wolf's waist, squeezing at his hip. "Did the Lord place us upon this Earth simply to toil and die?"

"I..." Francis breathed, unable to help falling back as Duncan's lower paw brushed over his bulging crotch.

"Lie back, my sweet, fretting Francis." The brown wolf continued, his paw snaking into the top of Francis's breeches. "I oft suspect that I was sent here simply to allay your worries." His paw wrapped around Francis's sheath, thumb rubbing firmly at the slit as he stiffened.

"I... suppose." The grey wolf replied, groaning as he relaxed, his cock pushing out from his sheath as Duncan slowly massaged it. He could no longer recall how their parlay had begun, but he knew deep down he couldn't bear it to stop. When he asked Duncan if they should, he was seeking only that his fears be put aside.

In that regard, the wolf had not disappointed him.

"Oh, you're much too decent, Sir Francis." Duncan said wistfully, retracting his paw from the breeches. He licked at his thumb, eyes meeting with his lover's.

"Don't play." Francis said, chuckling as he swatted at the brown wolf. Duncan grinned, then began to undo Francis's breeches. He pulled the strings slowly, eventually shuffling the fabric down to his knees.

"Well, it seems one came prepared." Duncan added. Francis's cock stood tall, bright red and slick, a slender line of wetness dripping down the side. "Thankfully, I came with a wolf's appetite." Francis rolled his eyes, but then gasped as Duncan leaned down and took the head of his wolfhood in maw.

"Duncan..." Francis grunted, his legs twitching as the muzzle went up and down his length, tongue wrapping expertly around his head. Duncan's paw squeezed at his knot, slowly exposing itself now, shimmying his paw in time with the bobs of his head. Francis writhed in place, and saw that Duncan's own cock was now out, his other paw stroking at it fiercely. "I'm not long for the end." Francis gasped between moans, his paw squeezing at Duncan's neck. The brown wolf pulled his muzzle off his lover, glancing up.

"Has anyone told you you're quite the dramatic?" He asked, snickering. Francis growled slightly, gesturing with his hips. Duncan, still grinning, allowed his head to be pushed down, once again taking Francis's cock in his maw. The grey wolf picked up the rhythm, his hips thrusting as he approached climax. Duncan was grunting now too, tail flicking back and forth merrily as he worked.

"I'm..." Francis cried, pushing Duncan's head down, burying his cock in the earthy-toned muzzle. Duncan squeezed his thigh and Francis came, his entire body shaking as he ejected three thick ropes into his lover's throat. Duncan dutifully swallowed it like medicine, and even continued to lick at Francis's tip. The grey wolf exclaimed loudly, pulling his lover off with a short, pained cry.

"It's much too sensitive now," he said breathlessly. Duncan guffawed, wiping at his lips. He then crawled up Francis's body, laying alongside him in the hay, his paw tracing small concentric rings in the wolf's soft belly.

"I prithee my darling's worries feel sufficiently calmed?" Duncan whispered.

"Aye." Francis replied begrudgingly. "The doubts shall return, they always do. But for the moment..." He looked down at Duncan's straining wolfhood. He reached over and cupped the brown wolf's balls, massaging them gently. Duncan sighed.

"Ah, I'm trying. Care to offer assistance, fair maiden?" Francis leaned in and kissed the fool, his paw wrapping around Duncan's cock and squeezing.

"Rouse yourself!" Francis blinked himself awake, shielding his eyes and groaning. "Get UP heathen!"

"What...?" He groaned, looking around. Duncan was away from him, naked on his paws and knees, a guard next to him, a short flintlock carbine aimed straight for his skull. Francis looked forward, and spied two more village guards with firearms aimed for him.

"Pick yourself from the bed of viciousness, heretic!" The one on the left barked. Francis rolled to the side, and lifted himself up. He kept his paws raised, lest they suspect any trickery on his part. "To think, there were a bugger laying with Satan in our midst." He spat to the side.

"Still yourselves, we'll calm easily. We sought only shelter from the rain!" He exclaimed, glancing to Duncan, who had a thick strand of blood hanging from his nose. "We were caught out in the storm by surprise, be decent men! There was nothing irregular here, take my word, I swear it."

"Your oath is worthless now, Francis. If you sought only shelter, then explain your nakedness!" The guard on the left shouted again. "Explain how you laid like man and wife when we found thee! Paws lain upon unmentionable places!" Francis recognised the guard on the right, a young and friendly boy, but whilst his disposition was gentler he held his firearm no less still. He looked to his ally on the right for support.

"Oh Mister Reddick, why must ye force our paws like this?" He asked, a slight whine to his voice. Francis turned to face them proper, still naked, feeling small and ashamed.

"I'm forcing nothing of you William. Our clothes were soaked through and we wished to dry them, as for our improper positioning, would you ask a man to control his actions whilst unconscious? Would you ask we dig up the village graves just to make sure the dead are laying in the Earth properly?!" He was angry, and seeing Duncan pushed roughly to his feet made him only angrier still.

"It's not for us to decide now." The guard on the right said plainly. "You can make your case to the Clergyman."

"That man is filth soured over!" Francis hissed. "We all know he takes to the drink more than's called for, and allows many a transgression in his midst - so long he gets his due. I demand a fair trial if one is so to be had! If you arrest me then surely you must arrest Barnebus in turn!"

"Stifle your blasphemy degenerate! It falls on deaf ears." The rougher guard shouted, throwing a bundle of clothes at Francis. "Dress thyself, the quicker we be done with you the better."

"You know the Benefit of Clergy as much as any other." William added, as Francis hurriedly tugged his breeches back on. Duncan had been pushed out of the barn already, it was only the three of them remaining. "Unless you have an ecclesiastical court lying spare Francis, Magister Barnebus will preside without complaint."

"Don't use his name boy!" The other guard hissed. "Keep your ears sealed to the hellion's fancies, lest his melancholy cant overcome ye."

"Yes Mister Thatcher." The young wolf nodded. Francis finished buttoning his shirt, and turned to the two, trying to look as decent and normal as he could. Within, his heart raced and his stomach turned over, but he did his best to project confidence and assuredness.

You know these men, we played together oft as pups. They'll surely see reason in your character.

_ _"I have simply, one plain request for both Mister Thomas and myself before we're to be tried." He said gently.

"You'll get nothing from me, sinner." The harsher guard snapped, stepping forward and smacking his gunstock across Francis's muzzle.

Magister Barnebus sat behind a large ornate desk, a small line of rosaries clutched absentmindedly in paw. The gaudy oak furniture did not fit the room at all, and why one would ever request it was beyond Francis's reasoning.

"Why must we be seen apart?" Francis asked. His nose throbbed, and he was hungry. He hadn't seen Duncan since they were in the barn, and he desperately wanted to ask after him. The only thing stopping him was the ploy at callousness. "Is it not customary for us both to be judged as equals?"

"Mister Reddick." The Magister said slowly. To his right a wiry, light grey wolf scribed their words upon yellowing paper with a quill. To his left sat the village's third-in-charge, and head of the guard, Mister Braddock. "We shall be the deciders of what is and is not customary here. You stand hereby accused of deceit, heretical inclinations, and buggery. The man whose barn you illicitly took shelter in found the two of you abreast in his hay, then promptly alerted us to the... correspondence." His lip curled slightly at the implication.

"So you've already hung Mister Thomas then? Since this mockery of a trial is apparently pre-determined I ask what is the purpose!?" Francis asked snidely. Mister Braddock slammed a clenched fist on the desk and stood straight up in place.

"Check yourself, Mister Reddick, or we shall add contempt _and _disrespect to your charges!" He roared.

"Still yourself Mister Braddock." Magister Barnebus said calmly, waving an open paw. "If you truly must know, Francis, we have decreed you be seen separate lest either one of you attempt to dazzle us with your wickedness."

"So I spoke the truth. You've decided in your hearts us to be guilty yet then." Francis said, shaking his head. "This is a farce! A farce!"

"This is what we've decided." Magister Barnebus said, his voice somewhat flustered, a tad slurred in the inner intricacies of each word. "From the moment you were thrust awake by young Master William and Mister Cornelius, to the present instance, you have insisted to us that ye both are innocent. That you took shelter from the rain amongst the hay, stripped your clothing lest it further chill you, then cuddled like a man and wife for warmth.

"Here's what _I _say, Mister Reddick. It is scarcely mid-September, the cold carries with it not the bite it shall in the months to come. Not only that, but you're both young, strapping wolves with the coats on yer backs the Lord himself gifted ye with. I've yet in all my years seen a wolf that might suffer frostbite on a night such as last." A pit began to form in the bottom of Francis's stomach, a tight, worming knot of certainty. This would not end well for him. "And, Mister Reddick, I have already heard word from Mister Thomas. He posits that you seduced him, used both your cunning and well-stocked larder to leverage him into your satanic want."

"That isn't..." Francis began, pausing. It was a gut punch he wasn't braced for, and his mind reeled for any handhold. "Duncan spoke those words?"

Barnebus ignored the question. "Nothing has grown well these past few months, it is common knowledge amongst the people that more stocks are required if we are to survive the winter in good health. We may not freeze to death but we can _certainly _starve." Francis grimaced.

"There is plenty food, the people need only restrict themselves somewhat. I have confidence--"

We did NOT ask for your bleeding confidence!" Braddock roared. "Shut your maw, or I will get up and shut it for you!" Francis shut it. He was still unsure of the food supplies relevancy to his hearing.

What are they insisting here? Am I to be held blame for the dwindling larders?

"The situation, however." The Magister said, his voice dropping conspiratorially. "Is direr than we might allow be let on." Francis frowned, still yet mystified. "This last harvests corn is all poisoned. Rot through. You're a sinner Mister Reddick, but you might yet be allowed to be our salvation."

"I never forced Duncan for anything." Francis said softly, not certain what compelled the words. He was still holding his shock in, lest it drive him to hysteria. "It was a mutual coupling."

"He admits something halfway truthful, finally, even if he yet denies the more seditious machinations." Mister Braddock scoffed. "Keep your peculiars to yourself, you disgusting rutter. It is the duty and honour of a man that he controls his feral instincts, lest he become a beast in all but appearance. Unlike the ferals of the forest we were given will and mind Francis, some of us have elected to use it."

"We did nothing wrong. We infringed upon nobody." Francis replied. It hurt, it hurt to have someone you love turn on you like a rabid dog. But, he told himself, at least this way perhaps only he would suffer. Perhaps Duncan could make a normal life for himself.

"You infringed upon the Lord!" Mister Braddock exclaimed. "Not to mention the decency of the people, and Mister Thomas's own sanctity! Keep your devilled words to _yourself _Mister Reddick." Francis did not, if he was to hang no matter the defense, why bother?

"If the stocks are truly spoiled you have a duty to let the people know, these lies can't continue, it's unsaintly!" The scribe to the Magister's left scribbled furiously, making faces of shock at what he heard.

"We are not saints, pretending at it would be blasphemous." Barnebus interjected. "Nor can we allow the farmers to undermine themselves with a panic, I will forbid these people from descending into melancholy! For you, I will give one warning Francis, not to trouble your mind with matters of the village bets left your betters."

"But they're farming right now! If my ears don't deceive you're saying it's all for naught!" He cried, suddenly gripped with a new panic. Francis had heard of villages unexpectedly running out of food before, horror tales of dwindling rations, an increase in panic and desperation that drove the people to turn on one another in frenzy, and devour their neighbours like demons.

"It's not all for waste." The Magister hissed. "Some of the corn is untouched yet, and it's wise to keep people busy, lest their minds wander. I won't tell you again not to trouble yourself with it."

"Salvation." Mister Braddock said quickly, his tone implying change. "You've heard of the witch that lies deep in the north wood, Mister Reddick?"

"The pup's fairy tale?" Francis asked numbly. "What of it?"

"Tis' no fairy tale." Barnebus said gravely. "Far to the north, past the hills and into the darkest centre of the forest, there is indeed a wicked Sorceress. She commands unholy power, presiding over the plant life and the feral beasts. She's enacted a thin veil to Satan upon which she offers pieces of her soul up for payment. She, this vile heretic, she is the one who hast poisoned our soils and murdered our future!"

"Might as well hath smothered our pups in their cribs." Mister Braddock said, spitting. Francis sighed.

"Here is our proposal to you Francis." The Magister said. "What you have done is truly distracted, you've snatched away Mister Thomas's innocence like a thief in the night, using your own good fortune to twist his will!"

"Does it matter that Duncan has almost as many stocks as I?" Francis asked, and the men ignored his question.

"But, like Dismas on the cross at Golgotha, you yet have a chance at paying penance. Now stood here before us, collared with sin, you hold your own fate in yer paws." The Magister said, his voice gravelly and tired. He looked like he needed another drink.

Francis inhaled deeply. "And prithee, what would thou ask of me?"

"We will indeed brand thee guilty of raping, of heretical inclinations, of deceit, and of buggery. In turn, ye punishment shall be light in the eyes of the village - thirty lashes at the village edge, followed by exile." Barnebus said slowly, as if trying to recall his own plan.

"You deserve hanging." Mister Braddock grunted. "But the people shall know you repented fervently, and that we are but turning you over to Lord's judgement."

"Aye." Barnebus continued, nodding. "But after your exile you shall travel north, licking your wounds no doubt. Here is the unbridled truth. The Sorceress hath cursed our people with a blanket shielding us from God's light, and only with her purging by flame shall our people be set free unto this world."

"You'd ask me to travel weeks north, with no supplies, recovering from thirty lashes, to destroy a Sorceress?" Francis asked, wanting to laugh. This entire ordeal was nonsensical, he almost wished they would just hang him and be done.

"We'll allow you supplies, buried a half-day's travel into the wood." Mister Braddock said.

"If this holy crusade of yours is truly so vital, then why send only a poor begotten sinner like myself?" Francis asked spitefully. "Why not gather the town's bravest boys and have them ride up to vanquish evil, like some old fable?"

"The same reason you haven't been told of the corn rot." Barnebus said. "Mania. The venom of fear."

"Unlike your damned soul, our people are pure of heart and mind." Mister Braddock went on. "Your own deviousness may yet protect you from the wickedness of the Sorceress. Children, they are the purest of us all, and manipulating them is a trifle for the grown - this is the same. You'll see her lies for what they are, because your own bosom holds them dear."

"You've sent men before." Francis laughed. "You sent people and they never returned, aye?" The two wolves looked down in shame. "And prithee, tell me why should I play along with this delusion of yours? I've not seen any proof of a Sorceress, I've not seen satanical ruminations, nor have I a soul of lies and deceit. All I see is plain conjecture, and frightened, superstitious men!" Speaking so plainly would ordinarily be grounds for a lashing on its own, but Francis was so worked up he was beyond caring.

Mister Braddock cleared his throat. "If you perform this indecent task, set our village free from this curse, Magister Barnebus and I shall see you are welcomed back to the village. You might not achieve your former station, but you will find work and food."

"And if you do not." The Magister added softly. "We shall see that both you and Mister Thomas, are flogged sixty lashes and then hanged until dead."

Francis's teeth felt on the verge of shattering completely. He screamed through the bit, his muffled grunts lost beneath the twenty-seventh crack of the whip. Blood poured down his back in gushes, his flesh torn open, the cold morning air stinging as it touched his wounds. None stood before him, but to his rear were more than a dozen watchers. Attending the flogging was not compulsory, but some came of obligation, and some came for the excitement of violence. Francis strained in place, pulling feverishly at the log he was secured to, wrists burning as he tried to yank himself free. He'd never experienced a pain as excruciating in all his life, and his eyes burned with tears, every muscle strained rock-firm, the world outside nothing more than a hazy blur of colour and agony.

I'm a sinner. _He thought, holding what he'd shared with Duncan in his mind. _I know you were afraid. _He told himself that while he did not forgive Duncan's lies, he did understand them. Rage tempered at the edge of his mind and he denied it, refusing to let their misfortune spoil the beautiful thing they shared for nigh a year. The brown wolf had always been so carefree, so easy and relaxed, never troubling himself with harsh realities that might lay ahead. Francis was simply not minded the same; he'd never found his thoughts free of come what _may. He did not consider what he'd done a sin, but the Magister had decided his fate, and endure it he did. He could have chosen the gallows, true, but principles be damned; when one found oneself faced with the truth of their own death, principles were the first to go.

Ergo, Duncan lied to save his hide. The brown wolf would still receive his own twenty lashings, and five months hard labour, but it was a great deal better than death, or exile.

_Are they not one and the same? _Francis thought, staring ahead as the twenty-ninth whip crack blew apart pieces of well-brutalised flesh. The wilds of Northern Ireland, whilst beautiful, were vicious and unforgiving. The cold came without mercy, and both the people and land were bitter. Once their village placement had been envious, a locale of great fertility and pleasant climate on the edge of a deep, populated wood - that had all wasted slowly but surely. Perhaps it truly was a vengeful Sorceress, or perhaps it was simply a natural result of the gluttonous raping of the land. The Magister said he'd seen the Sorceress with his own eyes, but he was a known liar and scoundrel. Mister Braddock had indeed sent men forth into the wilds - Francis recalled hearing that they never returned from their 'scouting mission' - but they could easily have fallen prey to starvation, accident, or a particularly ornery feral bear. Mister Braddock and Magister Barnebus were likely only shamed their mission had failed.

The world was cruel, but the people that inhabited it were far crueler.

"Thirty!" A voice cried out, as two young men rushed to Francis's side and undid his bindings. He collapsed back to his knees, panting, the pain a shattering earthquake through his body. The fur on his back was matted and soaked, gore pooling at his feet.

"On your feet Reddick." Mister Braddock said, taking him by the arm and helping him up.

"We are _NOT _savages!" Magister Barnebus exclaimed for the crowd. "We may have branded Mister Reddick a sinner in the eyes of the Church and the Lord, but it is not for us to decide his death! That judgement remains the Lord's. He will be given shelter for four nights and his wounds seen to, and then he shall be sped on his way!"

Francis, nearly blind and half-delusional from the pain, allowed himself to be led to a nearby hut. The surgeon there salted his wounds and bound them, before offering a small bottle of whiskey for the pain.

He found the darkness filled with nightmares. He dreamed of a giant house with bird legs, towering over men, walking over them with no care for wellbeing. He saw another great bird flying, burning in the night, blood pouring from its beak as it worshiped all the devils he could name. He found himself writhing naked in the forest, Duncan's lifeless body cooling next to his own, tendrils and roots conniving around him, pulling him down into the soil, into the poison-filled, accursed soil.

Francis looked into the eyes of evil and it whispered his name.

"Bloody charlatans." He grunted, shoving over a small cairn of rocks. To his back, and a half-day's travel away was the village that had cast him out with such glee. Now he was alone, surrounded by the company of naught but tall, looming trees. They were twisted and gnarled things, with half-crazed faces found in the bark, but only when spied out the farthest reaches of his gaze. It was a dreary day, but the wood obscured even that pale light, shadows pooling at every corner and edge. Buried beneath the rocks Francis found a small pack, mostly filled with dry meat and dehydrated fruits. There were no grains, for now the people had to hoard what little good corn they had. He also found a small flintlock pistol wrapped in burlap, a carving knife, and a sizeable pairing of flint and steel.

The wolf quickly took inventory, readjusting the heavy coat on his shoulders. It would keep him warm and protected, but it ground against his heavily bandaged back with every step. Each movement stretched the flesh, and he hissed with pain at any kind of rapid action, the most overzealous attempts causing him to seize up with torment. Looking at the meagre supplies, he estimated that if he were extremely conservative, and caught some dim-witted game, there might be enough supplies for him to make it to the next town over. Chances stood the Magister had already sent traders however, and with them word of his sentence.

_No, forward is the only path offered. _He thought. There were savage beasts in this wood, and whether commanded by a foul Sorceress or not, they were dangerous. A simple pistol wouldn't kill anything large, but it might make enough noise to scare them off.

A dark, vengeful part of him pretended at stealing back into the village, under the cover of darkness. He imagined to invade Duncan's house, and remove his manhood with that knife. It seemed only proper, as they effectively sentenced Francis to death already, what more could they do? But he simply wasn't that vindictive, and much as he disdained it, a part of him still yearned for Duncan's love.

"Bastard." He muttered, hefting the pack onto his shoulder. It took him some time to fully commit to one method of carry, finding a way of resting the strap across his neck so his shredded back was left unmolested. If a beast didn't kill him - infection surely would. He took a swig of the small whiskey he'd been given, and headed north.

The first three days' travel was uneventful, though the second rained. Secured to the bottom of his supply pack Francis found a small oiled sack he could sleep within, and when he wrapped himself up in it he kept mostly dry. He changed his bandages once with great ardour, finding the spoiled rags soaked with blood and pus. His body was slowly becoming accustomed to the pain, and he found that so long as he didn't twist too egregiously, and restrained from lifting heavy things, he could manage a steady pace.

On the fourth day he woke to gripping spasms, his limbs curling and shaking in agony, an unknown ailment attacking him from within. It took him until nearly eleven to manage to get up and leave, and he made little progress that day.

The further he travelled, the angrier he became with the village. The Magister, and those in charge of the people's wellbeing, had lied and cheated their charges. People were toiling over fields that yielded nothing, thinking that their back-breaking work would be keeping their bellies filled come winter. Instead, they would all eventually suffer and die. They'd be forced to smother their cubs, lest they suffer the same slow and cruel fate. They'd eat each other eventually, madness overtaking their minds. And then the acts they had committed in a frenzied hunger would damn their souls to hell. They would suffer for eternity, simply because of a lie the leaders were too craven to face. Would the Angels grant mercy for madness? Would they look favourably upon the people and the heinous acts they had committed? Francis didn't know, but with each step he found himself further and further from the Church's teachings.

Another part of him argued they were trying their best. He did his upmost to stamp out the hatred, to eradicate the blackness dwelling in his soul, for he had no use for it. He told himself that one day he may forgive them, told himself they acted on fear.

What if there is no Sorceress, but instead we have partaken in some collective mortal sin? Perhaps we aren't being hidden from heaven, but it has in fact abandoned us, like Sodom and Gomorrah? I may be a penitent thief, like Dismas on the cross, but will my attempts to save them be enough to spare myself damnation? _Another thought had been brewing in his mind alongside those. He'd stepped into the wood a skeptic, putting the tales of a Sorceress down to the overactive imaginations of peasantry. He knew from stories his father told that in times of panic, lesser and uneducated men (he counted himself in this lot) would always descend into pagantry. _But... But-but-but. I cannot deny the sense of mysticism in this place, so far from civilisation.

"What if you are real?" He whispered aloud. In the distance somewhere he heard the wind howling, and at eye level, a small talisman hanging from a sturdy branch. The tree itself seemed dead, grey and faded, no leaves on its limbs, the roots curled up at the edges, the bark fraying. On that lone sturdy branch however, hung a small figure of a wolf built of twigs, mud, and leaves. It was suspended on string, with no telling how long it had been present. "Hello?" Francis called, turning about in place. Nothing answered him, and so he took the figure in paw, holding it before himself.

It was simple, crude even. Two hind legs, a short tail, arms overturned forward. The head had the most detail, with a narrow snout and tiny little triangle ears. It felt surprisingly firm, and he was shocked at the craftsmanship of it, though he'd never seen anything of its ilk.

"What if you are?" He whispered, pocketing the small wolf figure without knowing why, and continuing deeper yet north.

He found himself eventually free of nightmares, instead dreaming his own memories with Duncan. It was bittersweet, and he woke with tears in his eyes, not sure if he was filled with rage or despair.

"WHY?!" He screamed one night, slithered on his belly like a snake, trying to sleep despite the shuddering wind. "Why did you do this to us?" He hated that he still held love for a liar like Duncan. Hated that he still wished he could go and lie with him, kiss his muzzle, feel his soft fur. He dreamed of the brown wolf atop him, his knot driving deep inside, filling him with warmth as he climaxed. He dreamed mostly of not being alone.

_Let love be genuine. Abhor what is evil; hold fast to what is good. _Romans had always been his favourite book, and he tried to take solace in recounting pieces of it. He told himself again and again that the comfort the book brought him was no hollow, forced himself to believe it.

As he walked, he made a pact with himself to never lie again. If he ever had the grace of seeing another living man, each word that left his lips would be the truth as he saw it. Lies had destroyed his life, and they would kill every man, woman, and pup in that village he'd been exiled from. If not this winter, then the next. For things rarely got better. They had a habit of picking up momentum, Francis saw that now with absolute clarity. One lie forced another, forced another, forced another until nobody even knew where it had begun. It was wrong, it was ungodly, and it would destroy civilisation eventually he was sure.

How could one even act, if you could not determine what is truth? If your boy has a cough and the village doctor says 'do not worry', because even though he is deathly ill there is not enough medicine to go around, what is one to do? These thoughts echoed in Francis's head, and he found himself each night on his knees, praying to a being he wasn't sure was listening anymore, recounting every one of his lies he could manage to recall.

He was a penitent thief, and he found true comfort in recounting the story of Dismas to himself as he walked, but it was not for the reasons that had outcast him. He had stolen truths as much as any other man. In this fog of revelation, Francis decided that if he truly was able to find a Sorceress, he would indeed destroy her, lest his last words be a lie as well. He would be better than those who had wreaked this havoc upon him.

Two weeks into the journey he found a small, empty hut. His belly was full that day from catching a feral rabbit, but still he was leaner than before. The hut was unlike any other he'd ever laid eyes upon before. Francis found strange runes etched into the walls both inside and out, more odd wolf and animal figures hanging from the roof's edges. He found a stash of dried meats, and these he took along. The cabin had clearly been abandoned and so he felt no guilt; the door hung wide open, dust and mud covered the interior, several tiny feral bats had even made nest within. He slept two nights there, leaving behind a small pile of bandages, stained with more yellow than red.

His back ached less now. Still it itched and burned, and any stretch or moment of effort would still cause it to seize and weep. Despite this however it troubled him less than he would have imagined. He began to sing as he walked, with nothing else to occupy his mind or ears it was a small comfort, and kept his voice warmed. His favourite was a particularly satirical tune, named 'The Vicar of Bray'. It seemed apt to Francis, due to the story it told of a corrupt Vicar contorting his principles in order to hold onto his position in the ecclesiastic office.

'In good King Charles's golden days,

When Loyalty no harm meant;

A Zealous High-Church man I was,

And so I gain'd Preferment.

Unto my Flock I daily Preach'd,

Kings are by God appointed,

And Damn'd are those who dare resist,

Or touch the Lord's Anointed.

And this is law, I will maintain

Unto my Dying Day, Sir.

That whatsoever King may reign,

I will be the Vicar of Bray, Sir!'

There were more verses that Francis knew, mostly pertaining to the Vicar consistently changing his principles to appease each ruler that came to take power. The first verse however amused him the most, and was the part he recalled with the greatest clarity. So he found himself singing it, over and over, belting it out so greatly his lungs would seize and he'd be racked with coughs.

He tried not to despise the people of the village. That was an old way, revenge, anger, viciousness - Francis was changed anew. He felt the more time he spent in the wood, the more he found himself. They were frightened, that was why they'd cast him out. He justified their actions to himself. They were afraid of the truth, afraid of starvation, of damnation. Like Duncan, he did not forgive their transgressions, but he told himself he understood. They'd been punished for love due to fear - the people didn't understand what they saw, they bought into the greater lie told by all; the lie that said only man and wife could be of love. The lie that said anything beyond a chaste life was sin, the lie that said good men must deceive in order to preserve harmony, to prevent the spread of panic. It was lies from the top down. A passage that any God-fearing man knew came to Francis time and again.

Do not punish them, for they know not what they do.

He told himself this, as it was the only way to preserve his mind from crumbling unto its own weight.

I hold love for Duncan Thomas still. He did not deserve my ire, and I am paying for my lies. I... I deserve this, I am truly a sinner.

"I deserve it." He whispered aloud, between verses of song.

Three weeks into the journey, running extremely low on food, Francis saw little sign of the Sorceress. He found more figures and frames, tiny things built of twigs and mud. But naught beyond that, the models and structures could have been laying abandoned for decades and decades, the interior dwellers long dead. Perhaps once there had indeed been pagan worshippers in this locale, but he was beginning to suspect they sired no descendants.

It was then he realised a pack of feral wolves were stalking him. He heard their howls in the night, saw the odd scout skulking in the distance. He kept the pistol ready at all times, his body and mind on edge, jumping at shadows, half-starved and crazed from weeks in the wood alone. He hated going to sleep, and began to less and less. The world tilted at him, and he saw colossal predatory birds flying in the sky. He knew they weren't real, for after a few seconds of staring they would bleed away from him, mere blots on his eyes. The wolves were all-too real however, he found their droppings, he found the bones of other creatures they left behind. A path of bloody destruction.

"What is so different between us?" He cried out to them one day. "I walk on two legs and you four, but we share a coat! We share a spirit and an Earth! We need not debase ourselves!" Of course, the wolves did not answer him. The wolves saw a sick and dying piece of meat, an easy meal.

They came at dawn, as he made his way down a steep hill, in the shadow of a great tree. He heard nothing, but turned at one point on a whim to suddenly see six giant feral wolves, bearing down on him, bloodlust in their eyes. He twisted in place and fired, the flintlock kicking back as its buck-and-ball load exploded outward, ripping half the face off one of the beasts. Francis had no time to even attempt reloading and dropped the gun, drawing his knife. He danced backward, but they came like the wind, the leader of the pack roaring as it reached him, teeth sinking into his leg and disrupting his foothold. He hit the ground with a short cry and two of the heavy beasts were upon him, their paws pinning him, jaws snapping for his throat. He tried to push them away, tried to slash with the blade, but they were overwhelming. The newly healing scabs on his back all tore open as he fell, managing to get to his knees just in time for a fourth wolf to slam into his side.

Francis tumbled over and began rolling down the hill, the wolves chasing and nipping at him, ripping chunks of fur and flesh away as he spun uncontrollably. He hit the bottom and came to a stop against a rock, covered in gore, his ribs shattered, his bones like glass wedged in his muscle. The wolves went for his feet, growling and snarling as they tried to drag him back, exposing him belly-up. It was all Francis could manage to shield his throat, until eventually, all went dark.

He gazed down upon an inverted world, taking in the curvature of the Earth, the trees reaching up from the soil, like long-dead fingers hoping to ensnare him. He pulled away from the wicked limbs, not wanting holes punched through his flesh. He was drifting so high, the moon was to his back, the Earth to his face, the Sun hidden away. He felt love as he swam through the air, and a deep glory washed upon him.

_Is this the Kingdom of God? _He considered, looking down unto the world. He saw the feral wolves that killed him, running through the wood, gliding over underbrush as if it weren't there. He saw his village, the people in it going about their day. He saw Mister Braddock shoot a man for discovering the truth of the corn supplies.

"Forgive me O' Father, for I have sinned." Francis whispered. He felt no pain, in this place, only a honey like viscosity that coated his bones and eased his muscles. It was like numbness, only warmer. "I have yet one lie to repent, one falsehood, one moment and I shall bare my soul clean. I lied as much as the rest; I declared to the Magister and Mister Braddock I was only a friend to Duncan Thomas. I was not - I was a lover, I loved him, and they sought to destroy me for it. I lied in attempt to spare my hide, instead of throwing myself upon their mercy. It matters not that Duncan himself trespassed against me, though I ask the strength to forgive that too, given time. I am wicked, I am vile. I am a sinner."

The Earth spun beneath him, a blur of perspective.

"You don't appear so vile to me." Francis opened his eyes. He was within a bed, cradled by thatch and wool. Warm, and free of pain and suffering. Above him, more wolf figures hung, alongside bizarre triangle patterns stitched into wood, that were of such intricacy his brain could not yet parse them. A fire burned in the bricked corner of the small room, and near it a colourful figure sat at a plain desk, whittling a piece of wood.

"I'm alive?" Francis asked blearily. "This is hell, isn't it?" The creature chuckled, turning to face him with a pointed head sat on a long neck. He saw a golden beak, white patterns laying hold to small orange eyes. The feathers of the being's neck were an indulgent azure, giving way to yet more gold and green below. "Definitely hell."

"This is not hell, Francis Reddick. We remain upon the Earth, though perhaps not as you've yet seen it." The peacock stood, her tail feathers spreading naturally. Francis felt something in him shy away from the myriad of patterned eyes staring down at him, despite the undeniable beauty of her form. From the curves, and the voice, and the nudity, it was plain to see the creature was a woman - but still she shimmered to match the most glorious of men. Wicked magicks indeed.

"Speak your name, wench." He said slowly. He'd never before met a peacock, but he'd heard word of the species. They were not native to Ireland, that much he knew as certain. The bird tittered, throwing her head back.

"Why, I'm your Sorceress." She replied, walking over to him slowly. Her arms and form were slender, blue feathers giving way to long dark claws. Her legs were like contorting sticks, levers of muscle culminating in powerful reptilian feet, the colour there descending from yellow to grey. Francis felt himself blush at the indecency. He too was naked, but he had the thatch blanket to protect his modesty. "Hast thou not been seeking me?"

"I... I confess I have, aye." He admitted, sitting up. He strained, bracing in anticipation of the bodily pain that had become so commonplace for him, but none came readily. He felt at his back, finding only smooth fur and flesh there. He checked his legs, remembering the wolves destroying them, looked over his neck and chest, touched his ribs. All was well, as it should be. "I... prithee, tell how long have I slept?"

"Not long, verily. I healed your wounds, as a thank-you for your songs out in the wood. They amused me greatly." Her voice was singsong, and she now stood at the edge of his bed, looking down at him as a mother might her pup. He felt no threat at her presence, and if anything a deep sense of calm overtook him.

"My, my songs?"

"The Vicar of Bray?" She laughed, "It reminded me of small men, with small goals, like the ones from your village. You've been on a mission of spiritual cleansing, but I feel there is yet more to do." Francis sighed, tears welling in his eyes.

"I have confessed every lie. I have accepted my sin." All that was left was to destroy her.

"Not quite, I suspect." She laughed, stepping away and retrieving a small cup made of wood. She passed it to the wolf, and Francis found it filled with a sweet-smelling tea. It was hot, but not so hot he couldn't sip it. "Here, this will give you strength."

"Be truthful, I beg you. Are you a... a Satanist?"

"Of course not." She chuckled again. "I am simply in search of a life lived more authentically with my spirit, and in turn, the world around me. 'Tis why I came to this country, away from the smog and steam and noise of industrial London, where my mother hatched me. I sought truth in the wilds, but I have been pushed away more and more as yet villages continue to erect themselves."

"Your wish then, is to be left alone?"

"Left to my magicks and parlour games, yes. I have the ferals and spirits for company."

"So you _do _practice magick." Francis said, a firmness in his voice. "That is undeniably heretical, it comes not of God."

"Only if what you have been told is true." She dipped her head slightly. "You might call it magick, or witchcraft, or sorcery, but they've accused greater truths of less. A man named Galileo was burned for revealing the truth of our Earth, the true glory of creation. Something is not wrong Francis, simply because you do not yet comprehend it - you should realise better than most." He put the tea to one side, pushing back the blanket and pausing.

"Do you have any clothing; I might hide my shame?" The Sorceress simply looked at him. He cursed and stood naked, trying not to blush as he felt his sheath moving. He felt so overwhelmed in that moment, as if the walls were closing in, despite the comfortable feel to the room. "May I take some air?" He gasped, stumbling towards the door. He pulled it open and made to step out, only to find there was no ground before his foot. He stared off the ledge, spying stars twinkling back at him. "What in God's name?" He grunted, glancing back at the peacock. She pointed upwards. Francis leaned out into the night and looked beyond the roof.

There, metres and metres above was the ground. And he realised finally, that the cabin was in fact suspended in the air with no clear method, hanging upside down in the night sky.

"I hope this doesn't frighten you." She said, coming nearer the door.

"Not much can, now." He muttered, wishing the queasiness in his gut would subside. "I was sent here to destroy you, you know, to free the village from your curses."

"I haven't cursed your village, Francis. It's true your clergyman visited me, and tried to take what is mine, and then cursed me as swine when I revealed my nature. But I sought no fury, no vengeance, he is a simple man of simple desire." She said. "I've never cursed anything; my methods are... somewhat more direct." Francis felt uneasy.

"Then, the crops..."

"Imagine a woman, Francis." The Sorceress said, taking him by the shoulder and leading him back to the bed. He laid in it at her behest, and she stood above him once more. As she spoke, she illustrated on her body, slowly running a finger from the narrow slit of her vagina, up toward her ribs. "Imagine you cut her open, sliced from crotch to sternum. Then you rummage about within, putting strange tools in, taking organs out, not even half-sure what you're doing but trying to make it look as normal as possible. Then imagine, that you close her up, mount her, and fill her with seed. Would be shocked she does not bear child? Now if we did the same to you, what would you be able to give back?"

"We must survive though, what would you have us do?!" Francis exclaimed. He laid on his back, naked still as she took hold his paw, knowing he was powerless to resist. "Would you ask we starve? How is our kind; sentient life given will, supposed to exist in this world without damaging some of it? We need meat to thrive, we need food from the soil. No, I won't accept that we were put on this Earth to suffer and waste."

The Sorceress climbed atop him slowly, each of her knees to a side of his waist. Francis felt no reticence, instead he felt a great deal of trust as she straddled him, her warm underside grazing his sheath.

"I do not rape and destroy the land." She said. "I live in connection with the world, it gives unto me, and in turn I give back." She held up her claws, and only now did Francis realise she was missing three fingers - two from one hand, one from the other. "I have given yet more in my time." She gestured around at the cabin, at the world turned reverse outside.

"I..." He said, putting his paws on her waist only because it felt natural. She reached down to the narrow slit between her legs, fingers slipping inside with a soft squelch. When she pulled back, a large male organ came with her, growing out of her and taking form. She stroked the new cock with a sigh, and Francis let his paws run up her thighs. They chased over her stomach and chest, feeling the smooth, soft feathers.

"You cannot simply take, and take, and take." The Sorceress whispered. "It is indecent."

"Why are you..." Francis said, as she groped his stiffening prick. The Sorceress lifted herself up over him, then slowly slid onto his length, much as Duncan would have. He felt himself push inside, the newly created cock twitching in time to the soft moans.

"Do you crave me?" She asked him, leaning down and moving her hips up and down. "I attempted to accommodate."

"Yes." Francis gasped, thrusting up, his knot already exposing itself. "Yes I want you, don't stop." He wrapped a paw around the Sorceress's pale pink cock, stroking it quickly, his fur growing slick. "Ah..."

"Francis," the Sorceress said, leaning down and whispering in his ear. "I want you. And I want your truth, breathe it on me, unveil your manic elegy, and melt away the snow they've cast upon thee."

"I've given it all." He gasped back, his knot pushing at the edges of her hole. They groaned again, picking up the pace.

"You've come so far." She said. "Don't deceive yourself now."

"I forgive them." He muttered. "I... understand their actions, they were born of fear."

"Don't lie." The Sorceress said. "You swore off that long ago."

"I..." He gasped, knot straining to push inside. The Sorceress sat up, bouncing up and down along him, pulling furiously at her own throbbing cock, pre dripping from the tip.

No more lies.

"Wear your grudge as a crown Francis, and not a collar. Justify not their denials and viciousness - instead accept your desperation, lest it sink you deeper into this nightmare."

No more lies.

"I hate them." He grunted, as his knot pushed inside, balls tightening as his climax built. "I hate them all! The liars and hypocrites! Casting me out, just for loving someone! Twisting everything! Controlling us, sending our families spiralling into starvation and death!" The Sorceress leaned back as he came with a roar, ropes of hot cum shooting inside, his claws digging into her back. Her own cock leapt as she too finished, spurts of white painting Francis's chest and belly.

"And there it is."

Francis lay back panting, feeling as if he'd been struck by lightning. Since leaving the village, he'd been bargaining with himself and those in his mind. Trying to understand, trying to let go of the fury. He'd told himself again and again that they were as afraid as he'd been.

But the truth was he held rage like never before, that was the _honest _reality. As the Sorceress had said, they lied, they took and took and took, they raped the world that gave them such gifts, and offered _nothing _in return, expecting God to fix their twisted lives. When Francis agreed to perform their dirty work of 'destroying evil', they gave him thirty lashes and barely enough dried meat.

And Duncan... that man he despised most of all, simply because Francis had held love for him, and that myopic wolf had thrown it away, just to save himself.

_This life, is unsustainable. _He realised. The Sorceress was right.

"They must give back." He muttered.

"You gave me songs, and you gave me your comfort, and your seed." The Sorceress said, adjusting herself, still mounted atop him. "You aren't a bad man, Francis."

"Am I good?"

"That much isn't for me to say."

"Can you help me?" He whispered, tears in his eyes.

"I already have."

Wear your grudge as a crown, lest it become a collar.

Francis returned to the village close to dawn. He walked to the middle of it, wholly naked, the return trip having transpired much faster than the journey away. The ferals had aided him, bringing him scraps of meat, clearing the way, leading him through unseen trails. He walked without fear or need of sleep, his feet unbloodied, his flesh and spirit whole.

A guard saw him and fetched Mister Braddock, and the large wolf met him near the well at the centre of the village. He approached cautiously, eyes searching the nude form of the wolf. He held a flintlock pistol close to his side, waiting for a sign of attack.

"So the sinner hath returned." Braddock said slowly. "But what of his sentence? Are our people free of curses, of hexes born of Satan?" He licked his lips anxiously, watching for any hostile movement. "Were your clothes destroyed by the Sorceress and her wicked magicks? Speak, I demand it!"

"It's amazing what the clarity of confession can bring a man." Francis said softly. He was an empty vessel now, drained of hope - drained of the lies that made a man. He wondered if those before him had ever hated as he had before? That was beyond him now, or rather, he was beyond it. Beyond the hatred and anger; he had accepted it, made it a part of himself, inoculated his soul against vengeance. "You're hiding yourself from me, but I can hear you crying."

Now he felt for justice.

Braddock frowned, watching with growing horror as a space began to force itself between the wolf's feet and the ground. From Francis's perspective, the Earth began to shy from him, but the former third-in-charge (now the second, after a recent and timely suicide) saw Francis Reddick slowly levitate off the soil. He stood plain as David, the air around him quivering slightly, a greater pressure leaning on the atmosphere.

Around them, the village began to warp and burn. There was no lightning, no booming voice decreeing them condemned; instead the nearby buildings simply combusted. The blaze ripped through the village like a hound through steak, peasants screaming as their fur went up in a thick acrid smoke. Magister Barnebus fell to his knees outside his home, wailing at the sky, begging God to stop as his organs melted like butter. A huge force punched through walls and separated limbs, the fire all-consuming, swirling and roaring with the fury of a Sorceress scorned. A huge bird head appeared in the sky to some, to those who had not yet been devoured by flame.

Some tried to run, but as they reached the village edge the ground crumbled beneath them. The dirt became mud and they sunk, fed to the roots and the grass and the worms. Braddock stood yet untouched, in shock, continually making the sign of the cross, condemning Francis as best he was able. One nearby wolf leapt into the well for shelter, hoping the water might preserve him from the heat. Instead it quickly vapourised, becoming steam and stripping the flesh from his body in a flash. Francis watched his hate become manifest, and as he too began to burn, he sang.

"And time it waits for no one

It heals them when you die

And soon you are forgotten

A whisper within a sigh"

End.