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Zephath savored the sting of the wine as it glazed his throat. He tried to calm the swaying of his tail to the beats of Old Wyvrk, but the drink always gave the damn black puff above his ass a mind of its own. Music only exacerbated the effects as the minstrel troupe nodded their heads and strummed their lyres with a forced stare of concentration. Too many of the minstrel shows (especially ones of non Sheoul species such as this lousy Sciurdae group) had ended up devoured in local taverns. Even though this group enjoyed the promised protection of Claudine, it was a fear not easily calmed. Lucio tore his fangs into a cut of lamb while a near passed out, bloated mass that resembled Zaphath's friend Trebidor crawled beneath the table to chase a blood loaf slice that slipped through his claws.

This was no fate for a future duke of Artex. True he had stayed behind the lines as king Claudine's latest effort to subvert their gray cousins the Geth dragged from a wet spring to a miserable summer. Sure his one act of heroism had been to pull a rogue arrow from the thigh of the king's idiot son who fancied himself a general. Of course his bravery in the face of a bloodthirsty trio of Geth who managed to flank the Sheoul forces from the left had been a product of sheer panic and a compulsory swinging of a bastard sword. But Claudine had made him a Duke nonetheless. Nobility and fortune waited for him so long as he didn't catch a plague or find himself somewhere ahead of the king in another god forsaken war to bring the Gray curs back to obedience.

Stupid fucking Geth. Something had gotten their blood boiling again and the wars were sure to start back up once the Sheoul loosened their leashes. It was always the same. Except now his noble title offered him a light in the darkness, a future worth dragging himself up past the hangover and even disowning the idiot friends that had always held him back. So why was he still with them in the lower level of the grand tower? Where was Claudine to call him up to the higher ranks to sup glorious meats and meads? For now, he wondered if Claudine had forgotten the promise made to him on the field outside Gethfell when both their faces glazed with blood and his withered hand clasped his own black claws in oath.

But Sheoul were not known to keep oaths. So Zephath opened his throat and imbibed more of the cheap stock stored for the grunts.

Just as Zephath accepted his fate, the gargantuan oak doors to the upper hall broke open. Claudine, proud in his height and regal, purple robes strode into the vulgar assembly with two Praetorian guards at his side. Behind strode a blood witch in insectine armor and a jeweled helm that resembled the eyes of a spider. Claudine stood in the center of the room and settled his eyes upon Zephath. Lucio and Trebidor froze in the presence of the monarch, and all the throngs of Sheoul soldiers stood at attention.

Claudine spoke with a voice of distant thunder, his breath whisping through the long, grey hairs around his lips. "There stands among you a man of newly earned prestige. He is a man who time and time again showed me bravery in the face of our savage brethren. He cared for my own son when he was wounded and helped stave off a treacherous incursion of the grey fiends we call our brothers." Claudine motioned to Zephath, and he stood with the pride and solemnity of legend. His time had come. "Zephath, you have earned a place with my high council in the north tower. Come, my Duke of Azren. We have much to discuss."

Zephath marched to Claudio's side as the entire troop began their walk to the oak doors and the inner stairwell. For a moment, Zephath caught the eyes of the Blood Witch consort to the king. She pursed her lips and frowned, displeased at his presence. The praetorian guard shut the doors behind them and their weight reverberated through the stair. Zephath smiled as he climbed to claim his destiny.

* * *

The inner sanctum of Claudine looked horridly familiar. Zephath spied Orsio and Uriens armwrestling before a naked Gethian girl. The gray wolf's tears streaked her face as she struggled to hide her shame before the throng of black furred brutes. The winner obviously would carry her away into the dark halls and have his way with her. Elsewhere Lancior struggled to stand with a half empty tankard in his hand and his shirt torn to shreds. He sang on old song about syphilis and paused to vomit as they passed.

He had imagined this differently. These were the iron willed heroes of the most recent Gethian war. Men who had rode horses through the towns, slaying men where they stood. Soldiers who had worn plate armor and fought toe to toe with Grey Wolves two heads taller than they and lived to tell the tale. Above an alcove of tables hung a severed arm once attached to the oldest son of Achon Aeschylus. These men were gods walking the streets of Artex. Even Oedus the Brass, who Zephath knew for a fact would soon have a statue erected in his honor in the victory square, stood on one end of a spit roast with a fat Lepus girl writhing in pleasure as he tore her womanhood to shreds. The other end belonged to a kitchen knave half as tall and half as endowed as Trebidor, yet the Rabbit girl still maintained a sad exuberance.

Zephath didn't abhor the occasional act of wanton debauchery, but surely this kind of filth should be kept from the eyes of the king. Claudine walked with the serenity of a cherub, holding his head eye and not so much as glancing at the orgiastic proceedings. The Blood Witch winced a bit as a drop of white, viscous fluid shot from some corner and pinged the shoulder of her armor. Without a shift in her step, she shot a glance at the hedonistic host and an entire corner of the room froze. She brought up a nimble, armored finger, flicked the substance off and continued on her way. For a moment Zephath fancied the feminine enigma that commanded so much fear in this den of excess. But the Blood Witch Coven had a horrible reputation, and he put the thought out of his mind.

Claudine approached a table where a group of more regal looking men sat in armor, robes and the tight tunic of the Ecclesiastic cabal. This corner of the higher sanctum at least resembled his fantasies in spirit. The men picked at a feast of marmot, pig, and chickens while whispering into each other's ears. Unfortunately, Zephath did notice another Gethian slave chained beneath the table, servicing a robed member of the trades guild. At the very least, she seemed to be enjoying the task set before her. The merchant on the receiving end betrayed no pleasure in his face, though from the sound of her slurps, she had plenty to work with.

Claudine raised his voice over the throng in the other room and at least could be heard over the immediate assembly. "Gentleman. I present to you Zephath, our future duke of Azren."

"Here here," the assembled council shouted in unison. The men raised tankards to the air in tribute to their newest member. The Gethian girl beneath the table let out a nauseating gag as her back visibly arched beneath. The trades guild member had apparently climaxed in mid salute. Claudine pointed to an empty seat beside the freshly serviced Sheoul. On his left sat Ermine, a wizened if slightly idealistic member of the Ecclesiarchy. Zephath recognized his gray and white spackled face and the larger than average ears pointing straight into the air. Ermine had been a teacher of faith discipline at the Artex military academy years before. Zephath looked upon the old man fondly and focused most of his attention to him.

"Welcome to the top Zephath..." the old man said, picking his teeth. "It took you long enough."

Zephath smiled as he pulled out the chair and settled in. For a few minutes, he simply gawked at the conversation bubbling about the king's entourage. More Gethian land was being annexed. Slaves were being marched to work the mines, but most important of all the Geth would be granted a degree of autonomy in exchange for a sworn allegiance to aid the defense of Artex as part of a militaristic servitude. If the Geth should ever rebel again, the blood witches would see to their complete eradication. Of course, Gethfell would see increased quotas for the supply of slaves to the blood witch covens, but within a hundred years those numbers would reduce.

No one wanted to eradicate the Geth, few believed the blood witches capable of such outright destruction, but the Geth had primal fear of their sorcerous ways and would likely stay chained to the agreement out of sheer fear of what horrors their ranks could unleash when not reigned in by the Ecclesiarchy. It was during this conversation of treaties that the blood witch consort to Claudine took her seat facing Zephath. He felt a chill as her green eyes met his own. The jet black of her fur, the sleek curves of her bust, and the amber brown of her spindly armor overwhelmed his senses. He had seen what these monstrous bitches could do on a battlefield. Fear was rational, but he maintained his composure.

"What do you think of all this Cercirae? Would you be ready to roast the white devils should they throw off our benevolent yoke again?" The tactician general Kaniel was well known to harbor ill sentiment to the blood witches. He held up a cup overflowing with wine, and hiccuped midsentence. Cercirae looked his way and brought the same armored finger that flicked away the strange bodily fluid up to her lips in deep thought. Zephath once watched this woman call fire down from the sky while tearing out the throat of some terrified herald of whatever god the Geth worshipped. Mocking her was likely not the best of ideas.

"We do as our king commands Kaniel." She gingerly lifted a cup of beer to her lips. "And wine is for women you cunt."

Kaniel shrinked like the cock of a wolf who had recently lost his head. As much as Zephath feared the blood witch, he admired her strength, her power. Zephath felt two small hands run up his legs. An eager mouth traced around his thigh and a tongue pushed against the head of his own member. He looked down to see the Gethian girl in chains curled up between his legs. Her eyes were clear, a smile across her lips as her fingers dug at the top of his trousers.

"Not tonight little one. Though I appreciate the effort." Zephath ran a hand across her face and put his claws through her hair. With little acknowledgement, she moved to the lap of Ermine. He did not refuse her advance. Zephath felt the eyes of the blood witch staring at him. She continued to sip the beer and occasionally dart her glance to other members of the council. It was very rare for blood witches to take interest in males. She was up to something, or maybe she had a stirring in the blood for breeding. Either way Zephath found her intriguing at least.

Then the three wives and six concubines of Claudine entered. His wives were three of the most beautiful Sheoul Zephath had ever seen. They came carrying dishes of spiced boar and stewed blood loaves. The oldest, he couldn't remember her name, wore a boustier with the breasts cut out, and her supple form moved with each elegant step. Her pink nipples peaked from beneath fur as black as a starless night. The middle, who had fathered most of the king's children, walked with an air of dignity. He believed her name to be Moira. Her dress was short. Though her breasts were covered, her bottom would wink anytime she raised her arms or wagged her tail. She wore no under garments beneath it and a general grabbed a handful of ass as she passed. The king and the wife both laughed heartily at the otherwise haughty gesture. The youngest was fully clothed in an elegant dress. Jewels hung around her neck and she wore her long white hair over her eyes in coquettish curls. Everyone knew Claudine loved the youngest the most and guarded her with a fierce jealousy. Now she carried a tray of honeyed rolls and distributed them gingerly with her thin, clawless fingers. Everyone at the table paid her the utmost respect and thanked her gently.

The concubines entered behind. They were a more uniform garb of tunics with their hair in simple ponytails. There were Sheoul among them, a Felidae that the court feared as a violent shrew, and even a fat cheeked sciuridae barely able to keep her focus in one direction for more than two seconds. The concubines serviced the kings more primal desires. Rumors circulated that concubines tended to disappear into the king's chamber and never return. Only his most favored of toys managed to survive his wild indulgence. The Chambermaid, the head of the king's unwed consorts, was the only one with the authority to speak in public at all. She was the one the king favored and they usually lived longer, healthy lives. Zephath heard the king had recently appointed a new Chambermaid after the last one died of Endmir's plague.

Zephath was shocked to see her. The chambermaid wore an elegant linen robe with a brooch shaped like a scythe, the crest of house Trollex. Her hair hung in long, black strands, braided like moss around her angled face. Her fur was dull as a gloomy, cloud choked morning on an Eastern horizon. The eyes blared a piercing blue, looking through all who came before her. The Chambermaid was a Geth. A gray wolf had earned a spot of political prominence next to Claudine Trollex. The sight should have terrified Zephath, but his own emotions spiraled like a storm in his gut, dropping down to his bowels before shooting back into his throat. The girl was an angel, a star birthed in violence before tearing apart an infinitude of worlds around her.

She smiled as words escaped her lips. Her white teeth catching the low light of the torches in the great hall. "My lord, what would you wish of us?" Zephath heard nothing. His claws dug into the wood of the table as the Geth crossed her arms awaiting her king's response.

"I want the girls to dance for us. Only the concubines of course, unless my older wives wish it. I want them to disrobe as they dance. I want each to take a turn breeding with my newest Duke. If he can last five minutes with each girl, I will grant him another fiefdom."

The men of the council cheered as the girls began to whirl. Their clothes littered the floor as Ermine and Kaniel dragged Zephath to the center of the room. Zephath protested while keeping his eyes focused on the Gethian center of his newly reborn world. She began to remove her robe to reveal a simple sheer garment beneath. For a moment, Zephath marveled at the obscured perfection of her frame.

Claudine spoke with the authority of thunder. "Not you Namah. My Duke is a hero, but even my generosity has its limits. Namah refastened her cloak as Zephath's heart broke. His pants left his waist as the Sciuridae monstrosity draped her mouth over the full length of his cock. He feared she would swallow his entire member and gasped for air as she swirled her tongue around the base of his manhood. Her throat pulled hard upon his girth and he inhaled deep to stave off an almost imminent climax.

Moira stood before him pulling the dress above her head. Her unclothed nethers beckoned him as she positioned her fingers to part her flesh. The bright pink within dripped with lust and the rush of seed once again throbbed through his hips. There was no way he would last even for a minute as the squirrel's tale thrashed with each enthusiastic rise and fall of her lips on his sin.

But even as Moira brought her waist in close to give Zephath a sniff of her own paradise, his gaze averted to Namah. He kept his stare locked onto her eyes locked onto hers as he flooded the poor Sciuridae's mouth. Namah tried to look away, tried to look out into the hall or even meet the eyes of her king who took in the entire hedonistic sting with a perverse whimsy.

"I told you he wouldn't get past Rena." The king said as money changed hands and raucous laughter filled the hall.

Zephath feared his mind would snap. The name echoed again and again in his mind as the woman now center to his life turned and excited with a look of quiet disgust.

"Namah...Namah..."

* * *

Cercirae eyed the girl closely. Rena was not the most favored of the king's consorts, but her ability to "please" him had earned her a distinction of legend in the castle. Now, with a collar around her neck and her wrists in chains, the poor girl looked nearly cross eyed with fear. It was clear the praetorian guard assumed she wanted to bleed her dry and torture her to death the way so many of the blood witch coven typically did when collecting the vital essence for their craft. Cercirae flicked her wrist and with an eldritch wind the bonds holding the poor squirrel captive unlocked and fell to the ground.

She blinked like an idiot for a few moments before rubbing her neck and wrists to relieve the pressure that had built up there.

Cercirae frowned as she spoke. "I know it's not a secret that things get hellish when it comes to coven rituals. And yes, many die when it's time to collect blood for our rights. But Rena I do not intend to harm you and honestly I need your help."

Rena's attention focused and even her massive tail somehow managed to stop moving as Cercirae continued. "Squiridae blood is very special Rena. Not many know how special it actually is. I can do some very important things with it. Things I promise to do GOOD with. I can heal people. Help people. Things blood witches don't usually do. But what makes this hard, is I can't simply tie you up and drain it from you against your will. You need to be calm. You need to give it to me willingly. If you aren't in the proper mindset it will be worthless."

Rena continued to blink. It was obvious she had prepared to meet her end. The guards had likely even taunted her and abused her on the way to Cercirae's tower. It is quite difficult to calm down after confronting your own mortality. She should have made it clear to Claudine she did not wish to KILL the girl, but the lascivious fool had likely already replaced her within the concubine ranks. The situation could be made benefit Cerciare in the end, but right now the girl's terror made this process more difficult. Luckily Cercirae had prepared to entice the girl's cooperation. The blood witch floated across her study, moving a few bottles and dusty books before turning once again to the terrified sciuridae.

"This is one of the first things I have used Sciuridae blood to concoct Rena. This is a salve that can cure Buboes."

Rena's eyes grew wide at the words. She knew Rena's brother had developed Buboes beneath his legs and been confined to the sanatorium beneath the castle. It should be a relatively simple affair for the sciuridae to administer the tonic and very likely save his life.

"I just need you to bleed into this dish Rena. I will dress your wound afterward. I will make it quite painless." Cercirae produced a large silver plate with a funnel on one end to collect blood. It was a ghastly looking thing and Rena would very likely feel disoriented after bleeding the required amount. She didn't blame the squirrel for her shudder of fear, her hesitation.

She spoke again with calm sincerity. This dumb squirrel was simply the most valuable being in the world for her right now. "Please Rena. I promise I will not hurt you more than is absolutely necessary."

Rena trembled, then offered her arm. With a quick cut down the flesh, the fluid poured clean. Rena winced and gasped as the first flow escaped and Cercirae applied pressure above the elbow. A tear welled in the poor girl's eyes as the process dragged on.

Cercirae stood when she felt confident the bleeding would fill the dish. She left the room rummaged about in the nearby kitchen adjoined to her study. She fixed a plate of nuts and squeezed a few fresh tangerines into a cup. The image of a vicious blood witch fetching food for a now disgraced slave to the king would elicit laughs from her sisters could they see her, but this girl needed to not only live, but thrive if Cercirae's plans were to ripen. When she returned to the table where Rena had begun to bleed out onto the floor, Cercirae observed a glazed look in her eyes and a slight list to the left. She was about to pass out.

"Drink this." She said, lifting the pulpy fluid to her lips. The squirrel sipped slowly. Her energy and color returned a bit as she slid the plate of nuts in front of her. "Eat some. Let me know if you want more." Cercirae pulled a small kit from beneath the table and removed bandages, salves, needles and spider thread in case the wound needed to be sutured. The wound would likely not be complicated to dress and she focused on staunching the flow of blood.

Rena's eyes focused as she stared at her feet. 'I am so sorry. I bled on your floor. I'll clean it up." Rena tried to stand.

Cercirae grasped gently but firmly, sitting the Sciuridae down onto the seat once again. "Never you mind that little one. Those tasks are no longer for you. Sip, drink and eat. Find your bearings." The poor girl sat in shock as the blood witch dressed the wound. Rena had been born to slaves in the castle and her mother died in the service of King Trell before she could even walk. She would have no memory of maternal care. Cercirae was gentle, asking if prodding and movement caused any pain. Rena rarely spoke as intelligence returned to her eyes. When they were finished, Cercirae ran her fingers through her hair and kissed her lips. She then pulled a thin, shining chain from a hidden compartment in her ceremonial armor. A jeweled scythe glowed with gold and a ruby on the handle. It was the signet of House Trollex and the ruby showed the authority of the Blood Witch Coven sworn to the service of the king. Rena shuddered as Cercirae draped it around her shoulders.

You are now my ward. You will assist me, you will attend to me. You will bleed for me. In return I offer my protection, and I hope a better life than what you have known." Cercirae had little doubt that Rena's life would improve drastically. The concubine quarters were lavish, but shared between the six. She would also no longer have a lascivious king pawing at her at all moments of the day and night.

Rena was still in shock. Her mouth hung agape exposing her slightly bucked teeth. In many ways she looked like a child, an urchin dressed in rags with a bandaged arm receiving an honor she never dreamed. "Across the hall is my attendant's chambers. There you will have a fire, a warm bed, and an entire wardrobe that should fit your frame. If you are still hungry feel free to ring for the kitchen. They will fix you whatever you desire. Rest and go see to your brother."

Rena had tears in her eyes as she rose. The blood still stained the floor at her feet, and she left large foot prints across the study as she walked out the door to her new life. Cercirae laughed at the idiocy of it, but decided to clean the mess up herself. She had originally hoped to gift the quarters to her last Sciuridae subject when she had finally discovered just how valuable their blood could be. But an idiot guard raped and killed her before she had the chance. Cercirae rarely engaged in violence these days, but it felt good to beat that Sheoul cur within an inch of his life and pull his left eye from its socket. He would spend the rest of his days guarding the horse stables and walking with a crutch. Rena's luck was Shura's doom. Poor Shura, what useless fate to suffer at the hands of a brute.

There was work yet to do. Cercirae rushed to disperse the blood into equal vials. She placed the small, glass tubes on a round stand and kindled a fire beneath them. She clumsily dug through a cabinet to find the large flask of leech venom and carefully poured a drop into each vile as the blood began to boil. The anticoagulant fermented a strange acidic smell that some witches used to attain visions as the blood condensed to its most basic form. Cercirae had never engaged in such foolishness. Visions were the past time of the feeble minded and too easily distracted.

Just as Cercirae contemplated taking a seat and pulling one of her fat tomes from the shelf to indulge, her door flew open with a loud and oaken slam. Startled, she turned and raised a claw at the seeming intruder.

It was Zephath. The fool had lost weight. He appeared gaunt and ghostlike as grey hairs began to creep into his muzzle. He was only a shadow of the Sheoul warrior that had spilled his seed so quickly before the king's entourage less than a year earlier. She had little patience for the hunger that so tormented him.

"Please Cercirae. I am going mad..." he said with a pathetic growl mixing into a whimper. She had heard such sounds from men before, but usually they were drunkards nursing a grievous wound of some sort. She didn't doubt the severity of his pain, but she doubted her ability to ease his suffering.

"Does Azren not long for its Duke? Do you give your fief the attention and care the king believed you would supply?" She had seen Zephath haunting the court almost constantly for the past three months. He would slink into the shadows with his hands clutched to his chest, eyes always darting from one corner to the next, searching for the source of his pain. If she knew his mind well at all it was likely in a constant state of futile prayer.

"I am going to die Cercirae." Zephath took a heavy step into her chamber and shut the door behind him. The action was almost threatening, if Cercirae didn't know of at least fifty different incantations that would boil his blood and drop him dead within a minute.

"Why not take a trip to West Watch out past Gethfell? There you will find many women to scratch your peculiar itch for gray fur." Cercirae turned her back to him and pretended to tend to the now boiling vials. The smell of venom shocked her nerves as she tried to lean away from the vapor.

"It's not Geth I long for. It's Nammah. We are one flesh. I cannot sleep, I cannot eat. I would starve myself just to caress her hand Cercirae..." He bowed his head and fell to a knee. "Yet she spurns me. She won't look upon me. She won't speak with me."

"Probably because she knows Claudine would flay the flesh from both your bodies and display you in the city square for the birds to pick clean." Cercirae turned to him once again. She gave him a light kick in the ribs. "Get up you pathetic cur. Untangle your balls and bed a woman of your own kind." Cercirae had considered offering herself up to the duke once or twice just to cut down on these visits. In this shape though, she couldn't stomach the thought of touching him.

Zephath didn't rise after the kick. He turned his gaze up to hers with an otherworldly defiance and a sneer that raised the hairs on her neck. "I would gladly bleed just to breathe in one breath of hers. I have watched you Cercirae. You have rained hellfire from the sky. You brought a Geth back from the abyss of death to interrogate him. You have moved mountains and drawn the very soul from a guard who defied you." He stood now. A strange strength filled his frame. His fur bristled with savagery. The deepening growl of his throat no longer dripped with despair. He drew his claws up close to her face and snarled. "You LIE...when you deny your ability to aid me."

Cercirae suppressed a laugh, but THIS was the Zephath she would bed if he would only stop to see the sex dangling in front of him. "Okay then fool. I won't help you because it's beneath me."

Zephath sobered up slightly. He retracted his claws and pain returned to his eyes. She spoke once again. "I channel the power of a nameless god that wanders the dark between stars. His strength demands violence, hatred, deceit. Matters of the heart, or matters of the cock run contrary to his very nature. Trust me Zephath, using his power for anything other than war is a game of insanity. It's taken me years just to bend his power to heal even the most minor of ailments and many have died in my quest just for that. So what makes you think..."

Cercirae turned to her work once again in mid sentence. But her words stopped as if some terrible force had closed her throat. The scent of leech venom filled her senses. The acrid stink of sour alchemy lit a fire in her brain she had never once felt. All at once the world opened before her. A blood caked crown fell to a cobblestone road. A child was born and whisked away to a grove of cypress trees. Heads on pikes sang a hymn to Old Geld, and a pair of shackled wrists broke their silver chains. The moon waxed black as it melted to a pool of red.

Zephath had barely noticed the gap in her speech. Tears flowed from his eyes. He sniffled like a child and pulled a tuft of fur from his left cheek as a drop of blood weeped from an exposed follicle. "I want to die Cercirae. Could you at least aid me in that?"

"Deceit..." Cercirae whispered.

Zephath brought his face up from his hands, the fur of his cheeks still damp from weeping. "What?"

"The nameless god...he deals in deceit." Cercirae took one last breath from the vials and turned to face Zephath. "I'll help you."

Zephath's shock hid his joy. "You will?"

Cercirae looked possessed. Her pupils had dilated, flooded with new vision. A grand purpose had unveiled itself to her. She would never be able to describe its majesty to Zephath in this state, but still she tried. "The pulse of destiny beats within your carnal lust. A king deposed, a seed sown and lost to time, a people freed from bondage. All of this lies within your base desire to blast your rancid seed into that Gethian bitch. Our nameless god has granted me a vision. He has seen fit to bless you."

Zephath blinked as dumbly as Rena had earlier. "A seed sown? Sheoul and Geth can't conceive."

Cercirae ground her teeth at his lack of faith. "Just because something has never happened before doesn't mean it can't happen you limp dicked fool." Zephath showed no emotion to the chastening. He simply stared, blood clotting on the side of his face. "Besides, I only saw a glimpse of the future and now I must move earth and souls to bring you to the precipice you have so long only fantasized of standing upon." She turned once again to her work and began pouring the concoction into a larger basin where the blood could ferment.

Zephath crossed his arms like a child. "What should I do?"

Cercirae pulled the leech venom out and brought it up to her nose. "Leave. Go and find a whore or rub one out in the dark of the street for all I care. Whatever keeps you alive until I see the path we must walk. Return in a fortnight. If I need you sooner I will send for you."

He turned to leave, once again to throw himself into dreams of his love. Tonight however, would bring him something he had not felt in ages: hope. But before he could reach the door, Cercirae called out to him one last time.

"Tell no one what has transpired here tonight. There are others besides Claudine who would want to cut our throats if they knew what we conspired.

* * *

Cercirae had become addicted to the scent of pure leech venom. This presented a problem. At first she carried a fine mix of blood and venom to dull its overwhelming effects, but now she kept a pure vial tucked carefully in the compartment on her wrist. Going too long without at least some exposure to the fumes would leave her with a crippling headache and her dreams were growing increasingly disturbing. They all played variations of the prophecy revealed upon her first exposure, lingering too long over the boiling concoction while Zephath bellowed like a wounded Marmot. Only now, the image of her own head on a pike featured prominently in the vision. She chose to think of that image as an expression of the addiction, not prophecy.

Every experiment, every attempt to probe the future for guidance failed, but she could still hear the voice of the nameless one calling her to action. She put aside all faith in her own skill to divine his meaning, walked under cowl to the archives beneath the tower at Nin-Banda, and huffed herself into a near frenzy where she walked aimlessly through the wretched library of the Blood Witch Coven. Her memory was patchy, a cloud that only parted for mere moments of recollection. She had found the book in a forgotten map collection hidden in a box beneath old charts of settlements dotted through Leifmarsh. The tome had no business being there. It had been hidden in an innocuous corner eons ago. It glowed with destiny as her senses melted into one horrid vision calling out to her.

She had made love with Rena that night. That she could at least remember in vivid detail. Her brother had passed, the concoction had seemed to stave off the infection for a time, but he had gotten a sepsis in an old wound and he died in his sister's arms within the comfort of her own chambers. Rena had mourned for four days as Cercirae threw herself into a drug addled madness searching for the incantation that would grant Zephath his prize. After locating the tome, Cercirae called Rena into her chamber and apologized for her latest failure, she had indeed every confidence that her brother would survive.

Rena wiped a tear from her eye and smiled. "Ma'am did her best."

Cercirae was touched by the girl's patience, her strength, her devotion to one who had grievously failed her. Cercirae rose and still empowered by the scent of the venom moved to kiss Rena deep, probing her silly bucked teeth before pushing her larger, more canine tongue beneath the squirrel's.

Cercirae tasted the girl every way she could. For the first time in her life, Rena's pleasure was center in the act of love. She moved her arms and legs, positioned her, listened closely to her moans and coos, probing, seeking, hunting the elusive center of her passions long neglected. She settled on the taste of Rena's sin. The twist and power of the Sheoul witch's tongue within her elicited squeaks, and her breath quickened as she parted her gates and pushed deeper within. The girl's thighs shook as the wolf lifted her almost into the air and hung her writhing frame upside down upon her bed. Her eyes glazed and tears streamed to her hair as her toes curled with the power of an O. Cercirae laid her down and held her close, the wolf's breasts mashing into her back. Her clawed hands cradling the smaller breasts between her massive fingers. It would be quite a while before she could bleed Rena again, beautiful gentle Rena.

The night of Zepath's appointment came slowly. Cercirae devoted all of her time to the book, praying with all her strength the solution hid within its pages. It was an odd goat. Cercirae considered herself a polyglot and could read variations of all Canisian, Lepusae, and even some older versions of Felidasian. This though, she had never seen script like this before. The writing reminded her of older variations of Geth Skrit. Luckily, someone had translated large sections of the work and written extensive notes in the margin, but even that had an older Sheoul vernacular that sometimes left her scratching her head. Why would a seeming commoner speaking in a lower brand of Sheoul waste their time translating a book? How had it found its way into the library?

The book seemed to be some kind of history. There was extensive discussion of battle lines, a lyric devoted to the conquest rape of a tribe called the Leiel, and a long list of names forming geneologies that went on for pages and pages. Cercirae recognized none of the names and wondered if the chronicle had come from somewhere deep in the mainland. Then she saw a name that grabbed her eyes and focused her attention to a needle point.

"Morla..."

Where had she heard that? It had the sound of an old bogeyman kids would discuss running through the alleys while playing with sticks. She sat back in her chair and rolled the name back and forth on her tongue.

"Morla...and...Leiel?"

She rose. Walked to the shelves and pulled out another dust covered volume and flipped the pages. Morla of the Leiel was an old legend about an adviser to a king who had betrayed his master and raped his wife. Their child would go on to found a dynasty that would put an end to the Leitian wolves and sire the twins long considered to be the first of the Geth and Sheoul. If this was true, this book was an account of the life of Morla and a military campaign he had executed years before the birth of his tragic sons.

Was it possible that this book dated back to the time of Letian wolves? All the writing from that era had supposedly been lost to both a burning of the first historical archive and a purge of all remnants of the empire built by the sons of Leto. Not only could this book be far older than anything else in the library, but it was also one of the most valuable things in the city of Artex. She could also very well be executed by the Blood Witch Order for possessing it.

That didn't make it any less undecipherable. For a moment, Cercirae worried the leech venom was driving her mad. Delusions of grand destinies filled her brain and she was swept away in a new reverie as she inhaled the venom deep into her lungs. She knew weening herself from the toxin would be brutal when all of this was finished. She would very likely die in the process, but her needs outweighed her caution as more and more of her supply dwindled to feer her new prophetic needs.

And then, just as randomly as the very visions that first blessed her mind's eye, stood a glowing text center of a crowded page of translations, notes and marginal asides. It was most definitely an incantation. She could barely make out the low gothic words thought to be eternal, and there was also something about cutting the wrist before reciting the chant. At least she had enough of Rena's blood to supply that.

As Cercirae copied the words onto a scroll, she scanned the surrounding paragraphs. Apparently the archivists of old myth had gotten something VERY wrong about Morla of Leiel. He served an old Letian king after being captured and witnessing the devastation of his own tribe. But it wasn't revenge that caused him to rebel against the old king, but a lust very similar to Zephath. The fool had fallen for the King's young daughter and the old man would never see her wed to a different species of Wolf, let alone a slave. He hadn't raped her either. Apparently the incantation included in this text was used to change his outer visage to that of "an other." It was a very strange way to describe the spell's effect. He put on the image of the girl's betrothed, slept with her and begot twins upon her. When they came out a color other than Letian white, the king assumed the truth and had Morla executed. The twins were raised and would eventually overthrow their uncle and oversee the entire extinction of the once mighty white wolves of Leto.

Cercirae was never a history buff, but the story itself ran wildly against what little the Blood Witches were taught about Canisian lore. If this was true, the incantations of the nameless god were far older than any of the Coven had ever thought. The wolves of Leto pre-dated the Coven for at least five hundred years.

She had no time to ponder these discoveries. There was a spell to learn and a destiny to fulfill. Just as the final words bled onto the page, her headache subsided. It was a small mercy granted by some strange deity guiding her every move. Maybe she would even begin to lighten her dosing on the slow path back to sobriety.

* * *

The stage was set. The blood had distilled to a state where it would freely pour. The scroll sat on a nearby lectern but Cercirae knew every word by heart. Ceremonial candles burned within a pattern called Leoric's star, and the smell of vanilla incense crawled about the room like a beast in heat. She had told Rena under no circumstances to intrude into the chamber this night. She was conducting an experiment that may cause unusual sounds, but she was not to leave her personal quarters. The poor Sciruridae seemed frightened, but Cerciare caressed her cheeks and promised to find her "joy" once again if she obeyed. The girl had blushed and exited with no complaint.

Cercirae had been three days without inhaling the venom. She needed a sober mind and had spent day and night rehearsing the words. Rena had brought her meals when she had forgotten to eat and even helped set up the complicated ritual for hours. Cercirae had never truly loved a being in her life, but now she had no vision of the future where this silly squirrel was not by her side. All had fallen into place. There was no surprise when three heavy knocks reverberated through her door.

Zephath had regained some weight, and a fierce excitement brought light to his once dull, yellow eyes. He entered the chamber with quick but heavy steps, tossed his cloak to a pile of papers and turned with all the regal pompousness of a soldier reporting a duty. "Did you find it? Are we ready?" His voice boomed from his chest with only a hint of aging gravel.

"I believe I have. But I must warn you Zephath. This incantation is hard to decipher. I am not sure exactly what it will do. From what I have read, it should change your appearance in order to help you meet with your deepest desire. I would assume that would change you to the likeness of the king. If you can't figure out what to do from there then you are beyond all hope really." Cercirae ran her fingers through her hair. The light of the candles made Zephath's fur glow with the warmth of a sunset. His smile filled her heart with warmth and dread.

"I like this. She will give herself to me willingly." Zephath clinched a fist as he spoke. His teeth beamed from behind his lips as he grinned.

"Remember wolf, all I know is what the book says. I haven't tested it yet. It took all of my effort just to commit the damn thing to memory. I am not sure how long the effects will last. There is even a slight chance it may not be reversible. In that case I don't know what we will do."

Zephath bit his lower lip and stepped close to Cercirae. For a moment she thought he would kiss her. She would not have refused his advance. The wolf had become something wild. Something irresistible. If he would simply show this side of himself to Namah. Cercirae though of Rena's warmth as he brought his face close to hers.

"Damn the consequences, witch. I will have her even if I must lose my cock afterward. My life means nothing to me anymore. Cast your spell."

Cercirae stepped back. Her voice wavered in the growing stench of vanilla and musk. "You need to disrobe. All of it."

Zephath did not question her command. With the speed of a whore paid each night by the number of clients, he stripped to his bare fur. "This had better not be some trick to obtain my seed."

Cercirae brushed the comment off. She did take a moment to admire the wolf. He was tall for a Sheoul. He would likely stand just as tall as many Geth except the Spectre breed they used as pikemen. Hunger had etched out his abs, and his manhood hung far, farther down than any man's she had ever given herself to. Hopefully that part of him would not change to reflect the king's own physique. She had heard many rumor's that time had been cruel to him in that way at least.

Namah was in for quite a night if this actually worked. She should demand payment of some type.

All jest faded from her mind as she focused on the promise of destiny. She retrieved Rena's blood from a ceremonial flask and approached Zephath. "Kneel," she said, narrowing her eyes and taking on the air of the king's personal sorceress. Zephath obeyed. She poured all of the fluid in one graceful motion. Zephath kept eye contact as the blood dripped down his face and into his eyes. He drank in her image and fought the urge to the lick moisture as it dripped past his lips.

He was special. This one had the scent of destiny wafting from his every fiber.

She took her position within the star and raised her arms to the sky.

Kuru Doma, shiru Nohamah Donmai, Aragashatu ruuhan diderot...

Zephath kept his gaze locked upon her form. An eldritch light infested the chamber. It was as if a blue fire burned from her very center. Strange shadows lurked and grew as the candles danced only to slink away between Cercirae's alien speech. The air between them grew cold as a distant thunder growled in rhythm to her words. And then, the strange speech ended as she turned all of her focus upon him. She spoke once again in the familiar words of common Sheoul.

Speak son of Geld. What wouldst thou desire?

He spoke with authority, confidence and zeal. The words were unrehearsed but delivered with almost poetic precision. "I would know Namah, know her flesh. I would have our destinies intertwine. I would be one with her and her with me."

Cercirae smiled as her eyes glowed a nauseating green. "Well said wolf."

With a final crash of lightning and a blast of cold wind she shouted "Kurumagah!"

Something fell away. A great crashing down and down as if his being were undone. A singular point focused in an infinitude draining away all the otherness suffocating within it. The point became lost within itself. Silence devoured the noise and an axe fell with horrid weight upon the marble of the floor.

Cercirae eyed the gray metal of the pole; the clean, shining silver of the head; and the precise, fine cut of the blade. It was a battle axe, hewn to deliver all of its weight in one crushing and final blow upon any fool that would stand before it. A fetid smoke cleared as the power fled her form. Her mind reeled with an emptiness and a fresh craving for the scent of the Leeches bile.

"He will take the form of an other..." she whispered as she drew her hands to her lips and struggled to contain a scream. When her wits returned she pulled upon the wire that would summon Rena before frantically blowing out the candles and whisking both the scroll and the book away to a locked cabinet. She had little time to act, and even less ability to comprehend the horrid portents of Zephath's fate.

He was still there. His soul was forged into the weapon. What hell have I brought upon us?

With barely a thought, the blood witch lifted the axe and turned to Rena, freshly dressed and standing with a confused look etched upon her innocent face.

Cercirae placed the weapon in her much smaller hands as the squirrel winced under it weight. She spoke barely above a whisper as fear threatened to strangle her words.

"GO! Quickly. Take care not to be seen. Hide this within the armory near the Eastern gate. Don't let anyone see you Rena. Both our lives depend upon it!"

With a terrified visage flashing within her eyes, Rena skittered down the hall as the blood witch fell to her knees. New visions danced through her addled brain as her world twisted about in a maelstrom.

* * *

I am the blade. I am the axis where steel meets the air and molecules slide feverishly into their endless decline. My soul has inhabited this near impossible space for two years. Yet, for me it is but a day. Little has escaped me, but ignorance is a draft I drown myself within.

I have hid among others. We stand, monoliths and soldiers gathering webs. We are brothers of no words, no slight expressions or unspoken camaraderie. We are made to deal death but have had none to partition out among those who crave it.

But now it crawls. Its cage is unhinged and the time of blood looms beyond our ancient crypt. I am not sure of my brothers, but I can smell our purpose slowly approaching our hallowed hall. Is it not my time? Have I not been made for this moment of all the infinite others my altered state must now face?

He enters. A Sheoul not much unlike the others in the King's guard. His purpose is indeed grim, but he moves dutifully, leaden boots clanking against the ancient stone of the floor. He knows not what standards guide his eye, what makes one weapon suit his needs more than another. But his eyes fall upon me. He approaches and removes me. He is satisfied with the weight of my handle, the sharpness which now houses my soul. I am chosen. I am to taste flesh. I am eager.

The city rages, chaos erupts from the alleys and shop windows are tightly shuttered. The cry in the air shouts for justice. A blood witch rounds a corner with a mob of Sheoul pulling her by the arms. Tears streak down her face as they shear her hair close to the scalp. The bald wolf cries mercy. A fat woman wraps her arms around her neck and strangles her. She leaves my field of view.

A Geth soldier is nailed to a wall. He is half dead and half praying for death. His pants are torn and soaked with blood. It appears his manhood has been removed as life drips in fat globs from his crotch. He shivers as the cold of mortality shakes itself from his frame. An egg hits the side of his face. A Sheoul approaches and spits in his eye.

The king is dead. I know not how I come by this knowledge. Another Sheoul man approaches with a lit torch. The Geth's screams fill the air as I round another corner.

We are headed to Cour of Geld. A place of public discourse and executions. I would shiver if it were possible. Five heads stand on pikes. Their blood glazes the wood beneath them. They are all of them Sheoul, female, blood witches. I know not how I fathom this, but I know the face in their center.

It is Cercirae. Sad fate. She betrays no fear or pain in her watch. The eyes are shut as if restful, the mouth hanging slightly agape as if her decapitation interrupted a yawn. A lesser being would wish her a happy eternity in hell. I am no lesser being. I am in myself and total being of myself. The creature Rena kneels at the ground below the head. Her clothes are torn and she holds her head within her hands. Tears flood the stones beneath her knees. A lesser being would pity her. I am incapable of being lesser. I am being in myself. I can be nothing else.

The crowd refuses to see her. They allow the horror that holds her steadfast and unyielding.

We approach the scaffold. It is a new structure built of cyprus. The smell of death dances here. It Waltzes and pirouettes free from shame. It is incapable of less. We ascend the stair. The Sheoul flexes his fingers around my handle. The time draws near.

She is here. I have kept my mind centered around the certainty of this moment. Time flexes and flows steady to the fulfillment of my being.

She is shorn. Her once luxuriant gray locks clipped close to her scalp. Her eye is bruised and swollen like a flyblown fruit. Her teeth bare as the crowd throw stones. She is unable to shield herself within her bonds. Her face glares, blue eyes stare wide at the crowd that calls for her head. Pride has not fled from her face. She is being in itself, defiance and incapable of less. In this way, she is more beautiful than my lesser self could imagine.

We will be together soon.

I cannot discern her guilt. Neither can I sense innocence. It is of no use and no point to ascertain. My bride is forced to kneel before the throng of wolves. A voice orders the one who holds me. Another forces her down upon a block of oak. She does not resist. She lowers her head as if in offering. She gives herself willingly to the fate that has found her.

Namah...my Namah. My bride and my love. We will be one. I shall know your flesh the way you will know mine. Eternity's gates open before us. But what fate for my fractured self awaits within being only in itself?

It is of no matter. The voice once again barks orders. I am raised into the air. I catch a glint of sun upon my edge before I descend.

The strength of the wolf that holds me is of less import than my weight. I meet her fur and it parts before my edge. I meet the flesh and it flees my steel. I separate the meat and bathe in blood. The muscles burst and snap below. The bones break and shatter true. All at once time stops. I am here, deep within my love. I bask in her scent and stand possessed of pride meeting her soul here at the end, ensnared and one where being collapses singular and true.