The basilisk’s victim 2: The nature of a beast
Spittor makes contact with the feared monster, but are the rumors correct? Is he...truly a beast? Answers are revealed in the most surprising ways as our protagonist finds itself at a horny beast's mercy!
Description: Spittor makes contact with the feared monster, but are the rumors correct? Is he...truly a beast? Answers are revealed in the most surprising ways as our protagonist finds itself at a horny beast's mercy!
Story written by me ,
***
*The basilisk's victim ch2: Nature of a Beast(M/M feral drake x anthro reptilian) *
***
Under the protective canopy of the forest, Spittor tried his best to shake off the lingering melancholy that clung to him along with Razzek's scent, focusing instead on the trail he hoped would lead to the basilisk. Each step he took further into the forested region seemed to amplify the myriad sounds of the life buzzing, sneaking, or sleeping around him. His senses were set alight by the symphony of nocturnal critters, rustling leaves, and the distant call of unknown creatures. Above all, the scent of fresh vegetation mingled with the earthy aroma of dampened soil, filling his nostrils with a scent far more appealing than the dry dust he sniffed for the first half of the day.
With each step, the sheer diversity of the forest's flora and fauna became more evident. Brightly colored insects flitted between the foliage, while small mammals scurried beneath the ferns under the curtain of darkness. An innate connection to this tranquil wilderness began to stir within him, as though the very heart of the forest welcomed another feral creature in its verdant embrace.
Arriving at the oasis, he recalled Razzek's instructions. Using the sturdy tip of his tail, he began beating out a rhythmic pattern against a flat rock nearby. Each thud resonated through the serene environment in a dull, yet painfully noticeable way to a drake's sensitive ears, leading Spittor to believe the occupant would not be happy, should he be roused from sweetest slumber.
He waited in that dark, perfect silence, seated comfortably with his tail wrapped around himself, drinking in the suave flavors of the night. However, the peace did not last as long as he hoped. From the dense foliage emerged a figure that sent a shiver down Spittor's spine, green of scales and bright of frills. It was Sithrik, the very creature spoken with fear by the villagers, and also, the very beast he sought. Yet, a drake as he might've been himself, the sudden snarl that creased his snout was anything but cordial.
Without any word shared between them, the two scaled creatures sized each other up, taking tentative steps, gauging each other's intentions and capabilities.
Sithrik's visage truly remarkable proved impressive as the stories had told. He wore his sharp green scales like a living chainmail, reminiscent of the deep hue of fir needles, with undeniable majesty. Tiger-like stripes of a darker hue adorned his hide, adding an almost regal touch to his appearance. Beneath him, his underside glowed with a lighter shade of fresh forest green, and Spittor couldn't help but notice the intricate array of smaller, yet formidable scales that acted as an armor.
The way Sithrik moved spoke of a perfect blend of power and grace. Those limbs, each ending in four lethal, sharp claws, moved with calculated ease. They seemed designed for both the soft tread required of a forest predator, as well as the raw strength required to overcome a larger opponent.
But it was the intricate design along his back that truly caught Spittor's attention. Three rows of spikes tied with membranous webbing of a fiery autumn hue, stretched across Sithrik's length. The middle row, towering above the rest, signified a natural defense that might've even made Spittor weary of pouncing the basilisk head-on. However, as Spittor observed right now, these spikes could fold down, almost like a gentle gesture of relaxation, or perhaps even...trust.
"The moon has yet to reach its peak in the sky, and a lone drake arrives uninvited in my territory. What reason have you, to skulk upon my lands, fellow fern-hunter?"
Spittor swallowed hard, taking in the undeniable aura of authority that radiated from the basilisk as his resonant voice made him tentatively lower himself in a defensive posture.
"Rrrh, have I given you reason to raise your guard?"
"No...but-" Spittor faltered as he found the distance between them shrink. The basilisk's eyes, sharp and observant, seemed to look right through him, scrutinizing his very soul. A silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the subtle sounds of the surrounding oasis: a distant bird call, the gentle lapping of water, and the chorus of the many frogs looking for a mate.
"Why are you here?" Sithrik's voice turned darker, almost leaning into a growl, each syllable a warning.
Seeking to find the right words, Spittor hesitated for a moment, "I've come seeking answers... and a possible ally, should Razzek's words prove true."
Sithrik snorted, the exhalation ruffling the vegetation around them. "Many come seeking answers," he retorted, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Few find what they expect."
Trying to bridge the obvious gap between them, Spittor lowered his gaze and spoke with sincerity. "I've heard many stories. Some brighter than others. Razzek spoke of your wisdom, and of the mysteries you guard. I wish to understand more of who you are...what you are, in the hopes of finding a compromise that may quell Shara'Hazad's ailing thirst."
The basilisk tilted his head, his gaze unrelenting. "Razzek's words alone do little to deter my judgment. Why should I help you? You, who trespass into my territory stinking of the very humans who demonize our kin? What could you possibly offer that Razzek had not in years?"
Sithrik drew closer, his imposing steps freezing Spittor in place. A sniff. That's all it took for the air between them to change. A subtle shift, true enough, yet a meaningful one, as Sithrik's nostrils flared, inhaling deeply. He took a step closer to Spittor, his eyes now filled with curiosity. "You do bear his scent upon you," he murmured, his focus wavering just a little as another, deeper whiff dazed his senses. "Rrhhh...perhaps...more than that."
Feeling a flush of embarrassment race along his rising plates, Spittor quickly dipped his head, "Razzek... is a close friend. We've... shared an intimate moment before necessity drew me to you on this serene night. My need was so great, I hardly had the time to cleanse myself."
Sithrik studied him, the previous hostility now replaced with something akin to contemplation. "Razzek is close to me as well. He has spoken of a drake, one with a curiosity and an appetite for coupling that even matches his own." The basilisk rumbled playfully, forked tongue playing across his scaled snout. "That would be you, I presume?"
Spittor nodded swiftly, his tail trying to coil tighter around his limbs, as if that could prevent the smell of seed and lust from spicing up the air around them "Yes, he spoke warmly, even... highly of you. He believes you might hold the key to the troubles we face."
For a moment, it seemed like Sithrik might soften further. But just as quickly, his old guard returned with a rise of his spines. "Words are wind, drake," he stated dismissively. "What matters are actions. I have seen many come and go, all with promises and tales. Few left a lasting impression."
Spittor, undeterred, pressed on. "Let me prove I am true to my words, then. Allow me to earn your trust through any means you see fit"
Sithrik regarded him for a prolonged moment. "Perhaps I shall," he finally conceded, "but not tonight. Not while the seed of my friend clouds any clear judgment I may form of you. You may cleanse yourself in my pools, as a gesture of goodwill. But after that, you will leave back to the humans you serve."
"I-I do not..."
Sithrik's rising snarl proved the basilisk was in no mood of arguments. As Spittor moved towards the inviting waters, he cast a final, lingering look towards the basilisk. "Thank you, Sithrik, for allowing me this small kindness," he murmured, heavy with both gratitude as well as concern for the lapse in thinking.
"Be cautious, drake. The forest hides more than just its creatures. And while today our paths have crossed, I'd advise against seeking me out again."
With that, Sithrik turned, disappearing into the dense foliage, leaving Spittor alone by the oasis to ponder upon the enigmatic words of the creature he had so desperately sought.
The water lapped gently against Spittor's scales as he waded into the oasis. The soft rippling of the serene pool contrasted sharply with the complex weavings of his thoughts. As he submerged himself, the coolness enveloping his frame, memories of his recent encounter with Sithrik flooded his mind. The basilisk's enigmatic aura, that unmistakable gravitas, was so unlike any presence he'd ever felt. Dipping a clawed paw into the water, he scooped it up, letting it cascade over his head and down his back. Each droplet seemed to magnify the weight of their meeting, especially those piercing, almost entrancing eyes that felt as if they carried several lifetimes behind their amber veil.
With each methodical stroke along his forelimbs, belly, and other parts he could easily reach, Spittor's thoughts lingered further on what he could've said or done better. Immersing himself fully a second time, the drake let the water's embrace wash over him, hoping it would rinse away his burning curiosity, but instead, it only intensified.
Emerging to the shore, he took a moment to appreciate the oasis' tranquility. Could he decipher the depths of Sithrik? Breach through to the allure of unearthing those enigmatic layers? Perhaps, tapping into the basilisk's profound wisdom? Such thoughts gnawed at him. Spittor raked his fingers through his crest, water droplets flinging in all directions, a symbolic attempt to rid himself of the overpowering draw Sithrik had on him.
Yet, even as he tried to concentrate on the cleansing ritual, Spittor could not deny the intrigue he felt, the yearning to understand and, perhaps, to be understood in return by a fellow drake.
As the last droplets got shaken off vigorously from his body, Spittor gave one longing look to the oasis, the scene of their encounter, before setting off. The path ahead was shrouded in mystery, much like Sithrik himself, yet he had no choice but to walk it.
The night was alive with sounds as Spittor ventured deeper into its embrace. The chirping of nocturnal creatures formed a harmonious tune, and the silvery light of the moon painted a path for him through the shifting canopy caressed by the calm winds. Shadows danced, sometimes giving the illusion of figures watching, yet Spittor was unfazed. His thoughts, still dominated by the basilisk, kept him plentily busy, making the journey less daunting.
In the midst of his musings, the familiar outskirts of the human settlement began to emerge. However, distracted by his thoughts and the possibilities of his next move, Spittor didn't register the immediate threat.
The first arrow whistled past Spittor's head, narrowly missing his eye. A second and third swiftly followed. They clinked harmlessly against his robust scales, but the audacity of the act stung more than any physical wound. The familiar clang of the bell sounded a warning across the outpost, a sign that the fearsome basilisk made another attempt at plucking the settlement's riches for his own selfish needs. Spittor, realizing the misunderstanding, tried to emit a calming roar, but was interrupted by a harsh shout from a man he never heard before.
"You damned creatures! All the same, aren't you? Monsters, no different from that basilisk terror!" The man who yelled, a ragged hunter with eyes sharp like a hawk's and an unruly mane of dark hair, glared from atop the outpost wall.
Spittor's nostrils flared, sensing the heightened tension in the air. He could feel the heat from hastily lit torches, the vibrations from shuffling feet, and the weight of dozens of watchful eyes soon coming to bear down upon him. Every muscle in his body tensed, ready to react, yet he held his ground. These were not the actions of a beast but of a creature that understood the precarious situation he was in.
From behind, a gentle hand landed on his flank. "Hold," came a whisper. Recognizing the scent and the voice, Spittor tilted his head slightly, catching a glimpse of Razzek trying to mediate the situation. The smaller creature gestured at the guards, gesturing them to lower their weapons. "I apologize for my partner's sudden return, but he is no basilisk. Simply... Spittor," Razzek exclaimed. "He's no threat to us. Unless you provoke him, that is."
A murmur of disbelief ran through the forming crowd. Weapons remained drawn, but a few skeptical eyes now darted between Razzek and the taller drake beside him. Uncertainty hung in the air, choked by anxiety and fear.
The one who had shouted earlier jumped down from the wall with the help of a rope, his boots thudding heavily on the ground. He quickly made his way to the duo, the grip on his spear tightened. "You vouch for this... thing, Razzek? After everything that's transpired over the past two seasons?"
Razzek nodded, his emerald eyes temporarily lidded with serene understanding. "I do. And if you've any trust in me, in what I've done for this outpost, you'll let rest within the safety of our walls."
Spittor remained still, every scale, every fiber ready for a fight that may not come. He could feel the pulse of Razzek's heartbeat against his flank - rapid and worried. And as the seconds ticked by, another sensation bubbled up inside the drake: gratitude. Gratitude for the smaller being who stood with him, despite the overwhelming odds of a crowd itching for any reason to skewer them.
Finally, with a raised fist and a single shout, the tension broke. The guard who had challenged them, after what felt like an eternity, lowered his spear. "Very well," he grunted. "But he stays close to you. One wrong move, and we'll not hesitate to defend our own."
The gathered crowd began to disperse, their hostility replaced with wary curiosity. Whispers filled the air, and more than one pair of eyes lingered on the duo as they made their way through the outpost.
Razzek leaned in closer, his voice a soft hiss, "That came far too close to confrontation. We need to be more cautious in the future. Especially at night. That damned armor of yours is hard to see by their eyes. Were I a human, I might've panicked as well."
Spittor responded with a soft rumble, nodding his agreement. He had no illusions about the delicate truce they had achieved. But for now, at least, they seemed to be safe.
They walked deeper, the soft glow of lanterns lining the outpost's narrow pathways barely provided enough illumination to pierce the thickening dusk. Spittor's keen eyes, however, caught every movement, every shadow. Especially the three figures that stepped out from an alley, their weapons glinting in the suave light of the lanterns.
Even as a traveler, he instantly recognized them as Vartan's cronies. Their smug grins, the mocking tilt to their brows, and the predatory gleam in their eyes. They moved like a pack of wolves circling their prey, each step deliberate, confident.
"This here is the root of all our worries, boys," one of them drawled, his eyes fixed on Spittor's scales, "Ain't he pretty? Clammed up 'neath plates like a fockin turtle? I've always wondered how tough drake hide really is. Would make a fine armor, pluckin' a few of those plates for me needs... wouldn't it?"
Another laughed, twirling a dagger in his hand. "Aye, maybe a shield too. Imagine deflecting arrows with a piece of this beast's back."
Spittor's nostrils flared. The weight of their gaze on him, evaluating, appraising him as a valuable item... It was not fear that churned in his gut, but indignation. He was no mere object to be torn apart for trinkets.
Yet, it was Razzek's voice, calm yet tinged with a subtle edge, that sliced through the tension. "You all forget the beast has to be felled before it's plucked. Is your greed worth your lives?" The question echoed with an authority that halted the cronies in their tracks.
One of the men, his face marked with a long scar, sneered. "Bold words for someone so small. But you're forgetting, ain't not just him," he gestured towards Spittor, "that we're interested in. The boss wants a word with all the scaled folk. That means you too, lizard."
Razzek's gaze never wavered. "If Vartan wanted to speak, he could've approached directly. He doesn't need you three to fetch us."
The tallest of the trio stepped forward, his mace swinging by his side. "Oh, worry not for our presence, tail-licker. We just ensuring you don't lose your way," he grinned with a malicious smile playing on his lips.
Spittor felt a rumble building within him, the need to assert, to protect. But Razzek's hand on his flank asked a gentle plea for patience. The lizard-man's wisdom was evident. Confrontation here, in the heart of the outpost, would do them few favors.
Reluctantly, they followed as ordered, escorted on all sides by Vartan's men. The journey was silent save for the soft clinking of weapons and the murmur of night creatures. The tension seemed to follow them from the shadows like a palpable entity, winding its way around buildings, casting longer and deeper shadows.
Fortunately, the tenebrous journey proved short. Amidst the desert outpost, Vartan's dwelling was an architectural marvel. Without the luxury of wood in this arid expanse, it was meticulously crafted from sun-baked bricks and intricately chiseled stones. The interplay of those two elements formed a mosaic of earthy colors, illuminated faintly by the lanterns flanking its entrance. The soft, flickering light gave the inlaid stones a mysterious shimmer, as if holding secrets from a race above their own. This structure was undeniably the residence of someone significant, standing as an unwavering banner for Vartan's commanding presence within the community.
Stepping inside, Spittor and Razzek were immediately enveloped by a pungent aroma. The heavy, medicinal scent of herbs hung thick in the air, intensified by the close quarters and limited ventilation. Before they could fully adjust to the atmosphere, Vartan's eyes locked onto the unwelcome visitors. Without a word, with an unambiguous gesture of his hand, he motioned for his cronies to disperse. They retreated hastily towards the cool air wafting from the entrance, leaving the room with a mixture of reluctance and trepidation, making it clear that Vartan's authority could not be challenged, even in the presence of such despicable guests as Spittor seemed to be.
Past an intricately designed antechamber was the heart of the dwelling. Vartan sat on an elevated platform, his silhouette framed by an expansive window that showcased the vast desert beyond. But what caught Spittor's immediate attention was the figure laid out on a table below the man's furrowed brow. An anthro jackal, lifeless eyes staring into the void, its fur marred by angry gashes.
Vartan's voice, cold and laced with bitterness, broke the silence. "See what your kind has wrought?" He waved a dismissive hand towards the dead jackal. "The basilisk's doing. Another innocent life lost, because of scale-kin filth."
Spittor's crest raised with a flush of anger, but before he could respond, Vartan's icy gaze silenced him. "I didn't ask for the opinions of a feral beast," he spat. "Should I change my mind, you will know. Now speak, lizard! SPEAK!"
With a placating gesture, Razzek stepped in, "Vartan, let us discuss this rationally. Spittor means no harm to this settlement. In fact, he seeks to aid it, as you have already been made aware of."
The leader's eyes narrowed. "Oh yes, words and promises, yet nothing that shows actual value. I...want...the oasis," he began, his voice dripping with menace, "That water-eye is CRUCIAL to our survival, yet your scaly friend's kin guards it like a jealous lover. Our settlement won't survive another season without the water that creature pisses inside whenever it pleases!"
" If water is all you seek, there must be a way to negotiate, to share its resources without any form of bloodshed."
Razzek's placating words seemed to stoke the flames of Vartan's fury rather than quell them. His face flushed a deep shade of red, eyes narrowing into slits as he stood. "Negotiate? NEGOTIATE??" he spat, each word laced with venom. "You think we can simply sit down and have a civilized conversation with the monster that did this?" Once again, he pointed at the jackal, yet his temper could hardly keep the man in one place.
He began pacing the room, his steps agitated. Every so often, his hand would fly out, pointing at some unseen destruction only he could see. "Every sunrise, our farmers venture out, hopeful for a great bounty, only to return with empty baskets. Our crops wither, livestock vanish. And for what? Because that creature lays claim to the one oasis that can keep this settlement alive?"
Vartan's voice grew louder, more hysterical. "Children go to sleep with their bellies empty, their cries echoing through the night. Mothers are left to watch, helpless, as the very life is drained from their little ones. And all the while, that basilisk, that cursed creature, sits upon its watery throne, denying us the very essence of life!"
Though he had his own stakes in this game, Spittor could feel the weight of Vartan's piercing gaze, accusing and blaming with every spiteful glance. He had known his kind. A warrior without a battle left to fight. Yet he had no sympathy. Only disdain.
Razzek attempted to interject, his calm demeanor a wave of water that tried to quell Vartan's fiery tirade. "Vartan, I understand the pain-"
But the leader was in no mood to listen. Cutting him off, he continued, "Pain? Do you truly understand what pain is, Razzek?"
Spittor felt almost shocked at the mention of Razzek's real name, yet said nothing, did nothing. He merely listened.
"Have you watched a loved one fade away, their eyes losing their spark, because they didn't have enough water to keep them going for another day? Have you held a child, too weak to cry, knowing that the end is near? And all because of that BEAST?"
He pointed accusingly at Spittor. "Him, Him and the rest of his wretched kind! Creatures of scale and claw, with no regard for the life of a man! Only for their selfish desires!"
"Vartan, we can find a solution. If we'd only-" Razzek paused, expecting a sharp retort. But when none came from the huffing blob of a man, he swiftly pushed forth. "If the basilisk responds well to its own kin, Spittor might persuade it to seek another territory. Perhaps a different life altogether! Is vengeance against the beast more important than the lives of those who rely on you? Those who wish to live...just for another day?"
For a moment, there was silence. Vartan, heaving, seemed to be searching for words. Finally, he spoke, his voice trembling with barely suppressed emotion. "One chance, Razzek. But if you fail...if that creature doesn't relent, then blood will be spilled in the name of water. And I won't be held responsible for the consequences that follow, for this is your decision. Yours alone."
The dense air of the room seemed to grow heavier as Vartan pointed to the lifeless form of the jackal, the pain of his death freshly etched on the leader's face. "That boy," he began, voice shaking with a mixture of grief and rage, "trusted creatures like you. He was good...and kind! And look where it got him."
Spittor lowered his head, feeling the weight of Vartan's words. The mental image of the hunting party, fallen prey to the basilisk's rage, was a gruesome one to envision. But beneath the layer of the human's anger, the drake could sense an undercurrent of raw, unbridled pain, the kind of agony that only came from witnessing horrors firsthand.
"He wasn't the only one," Vartan continued, every word dripping with contempt. "The basilisk's hissing echo still haunts my dreams. With a mere exhale, it sent our strongest allies, the quadrupeds, fleeing in terror. Left vulnerable, our men stood no chance. One by one, they were consumed, their pleas for mercy echoing through the reeds."
"And you," Vartan spat, his scornful eyes boring into Spittor's. "You think you're any different? You think that... just because you share its scales... the basilisk will sp-spare you??"
The drake, in all his majesty, could only bow his head in humility. There was no defiance, no rebuttal to offer. Not this time. He understood the sentiment, the wariness of relying on another of his kind after what had transpired.
A brief moment of respite followed when Spittor dared to meet Vartan's eyes. In that fleeting exchange, something shifted. Perhaps it was the sincerity in Spittor's eyes, or the realization that they had a common cause to live for, but Vartan's hardened expression faltered, if only for a moment.
Drawing a deep breath, Vartan declared, "One chance, drake. If you wish to prove your worth, to show us that not all of your kind are selfish beasts, then rid us of that basilisk. But heed my warning," he added, voice icy, "should you fail, don't bother stepping into my settlement again. I won't think twice about ending your wretched existence."
Emerging from the shadowed archway of Vartan's dwelling, the outside air felt like a splash of cold water, momentarily jarring Spittor from his contemplation. The sneering remarks of Vartan's underlings faded into the background as the two, drake and reptilian, made their way towards the beast pens, a sanctuary amidst the chaos of the settlement.
As the gates of the pen closed behind them, the outside world seemed to be left behind, replaced by the familiar scents and sounds of creatures settling down for the night. It was a familiar, comforting space for a duo that thrived in this type of environment.
Spittor watched as Razzek sank to a sitting position, running his fingers through the sands, lost in thought. "It might seem unlikely, after you've just heard, but..." Razzek began with a sigh, "Sithrik wasn't always like this. There was a time when he trusted humans, and they trusted him. He even helped the settlers build this outpost, long before Vartan was even born."
He looked up at Spittor, a touch of sadness in his eyes. "But they betrayed him, Spittor. Took advantage of his trust. Now, he clings to that oasis because like it's all he's got left."
The weariness in Razzek's voice caught Spittor's attention. It was rare to see his friend this disheartened. The weight in those words, that sorrow for promises broken and bonds shattered, affected him on an intimate level, as he could very easily suffer the same fate, should he linger around Vartan longer. As the tale unfolded, Razzek's gaze grew distant, as if he were watching the scenes play out in his mind.
Spittor could only imagine what it felt like, to bear the weight of past mistakes, to grapple with the repercussions of choices made long ago. He felt a pang of sympathy for the basilisk, even as he rumbled softly in empathy for Razzek's own struggles.
His large snout nudged gently against Razzek's shoulder, drawing the lizardman out of his reverie. The simple gesture spoke volumes, reciprocated in the warmth of a touch, a caress over the neck, and more. Spittor too nuzzled into Razzak's embrace, with a silent promise that he would stand by him, no matter what.
The reptilian gave a weak chuckle, wiping away a stray tear. "You always have the cutest ways to cheer me up," he said, leaning into the drake's embrace, seeking comfort in the familiar warmth of his friend's presence.
The two of them sat in silence for a few moments, lost in their thoughts. Spittor's rhythmic breathing proved a comforting background noise, anchoring Razzek to the present.
Then, with a deep sigh, Razzek straightened back up. "No use to sulk about what could've been done. We'll find a way to bridge the gap between the past and the present, between Sithrik and the humans."
Spittor responded with a low rumble, the vibrations resonating through Razzek's frame. He too yearned for a peaceful resolution, for a way to heal the wounds that had been inflicted.
But for now, all they could do was take solace in each other's presence. For in the beast pens, amidst the chaos and uncertainty of the world outside, they still had each other.
A few hours passed until they split ways. Spittor's journey back to Sithrik's territory was silent, guided only by the gentle rustling of the leaves and the distant chirping of forest inhabitants. He was so intent on reaching the oasis, his mind focused on the mission at hand, that he missed the warning signs: the quieting of the forest, the faint sensation of being watched.
Spittor's heart raced, a mix of fear and confusion surging through him as he suddenly found himself drop paralyzed on the forest floor. His senses, sharpened by danger, captured every little rustle of the underbrush. The distinct color of yellow flickered across his vision, causing his heart to skip a beat. It was just a fleeting glance, but it was enough for Spittor to know he wasn't alone.
Suddenly, the familiar form of Sithrik slithered into view. The basilisk's intense eyes bore into Spittor's own, emanating an aura of dominance. A low, rumbling voice came next.
"You should know better than to intrude once a warning has been given," he hissed menacingly, his scales shimmering in the moonlight.
The threat of being left paralyzed for a whole day terrified the helpless drake. But before Spittor could find a way to plead, something unexpected happened. Closing in the distance between them with teasing steps, the basilisk reached his prey. He could've clawed or bit his quarry as he wished, with no concerns for reprieve. Yet instead...he chose another path
"Hrrrsssss," Sithrik's nostrils flared as he caught the familiar scent of Razzek, and a glint of intrigue sparked in his eyes.
Spittor's pulse quickened as Sithrik's body inched closer to his own, the basilisk's intentions now veering in a different direction. Instead of the obvious irritation, Spittor sensed a different kind of intensity from Sithrik, one that made the drake's scales tingle with something other than fear.
Lower and lower, the basilisk trailed along his form, until he found what he was looking for, nestled between his quarry's hind legs.
The sensation of Sithrik's hot tongue upon the sensitive flesh of his vent came as an unexpected deluge of confusing sensations. He wanted to growl. To hiss. To...do something. Instead, all he could was to take in every sensation worked by the basilisk into his increasingly receptive halls. Each warm, wet stroke sent shivers racing down Spittor's spine, luring him into a deeper form of surrender. Paralyzed and vulnerable in more ways than one, he truly found himself at the mercy of the basilisk's exploring tongue, a devious thing set on conquering every nook and cranny it slithered into.
"Hrrhhh...it's been so long...since I tasted one of my own," the basilisk hissed briefly, analyzing the tastes on his tongue before he delved back for more. The once stoic and fierce creature now seemed intent on unraveling him from the inside out, eating at his captive's slit with little regard for the sensations he produced.
With every lick, Sithrik delved deeper, his tongue flickering and teasing, finding hidden spots that made Spittor gasp and whimper in muted agony. There was a rawness to the way he attacked, a primal connection of instincts and need that transcended words. The world blurred as sensation took center stage, drowning out everything else.
But as Sithrik's relentless attention stoked the flames within Spittor, there was an edge to his pleasure. A torrent that waited to be unleashed. It built and built, a mounting pressure with only one direction to flow in. Each touch of Sithrik's tongue brought the captive drake closer to the edge, yet never over it.
Spittor hovered there, just on the brink, unable to tip over the precipice that would see him unleash.
A moan slipped past Spittor's lips once the basilisk lashed his cock with two licks. His entire body thrumming with need. He wanted, no, needed release. But Sithrik seemed to revel in keeping him teetering on that precipice, attacking his hidden member again and again, until pre flooded his tongue.
The basilisk finally pulled back, lips dripping with fresh fluids, eyes gleaming with mischief and satisfaction. As Spittor lay there, still paralyzed, his breath came in ragged gasps, aflame with unquenched desire.
With devious dexterity, Sithrik rubbed himself along his body, then leaned close, whispering, "Consider this a reminder of where you stand, drake."
The weight of the moment pressed on Spittor, the lingering sensations of aroused helplessness making the night drag on into an endless nightmare, until something finally loosened.
Within the blink of an eye, the basilisk's power waned. An avalanche of sensations threatened to topple him once muscles that once stood still now twitched and spasmed in reckless fits of bliss. Ironically, Spittor found himself collapsing yet again, his body jerking uncontrollably, the mounting pressure of his unraveling prostate culminating in an overwhelming eruption of passions as hot as his emerging cock. The first spurt was fierce, ejecting a stream of hot seed that splattered against his scales and the ground below. Another followed almost immediately, then another, each diminishing slightly in force but never relenting in the blissful relief they produced.
Four, five, six times he pulsed, the flow of his essence admired by the basilisk's enraptured eyes. His breath came in ragged gasps at the end of the intense deluge, paws twitching, tail shifting weakly as he tried to comprehend the enormity of what had just happened. His scales were slick with his release, the warmth contrasting starkly with the cooler air of their surroundings. The smell of seed was unmistakable, thick and musky, permeating the space between them.
Sithrik, for all his nonchalance, couldn't help but bow down towards the slickness of release and inhale deeply. His nostrils shuddered in the same manner as his growl. The scent was heady, primal, serving as an aromatic proof of Spittor's virility. The gleam in the basilisk's eyes, betraying a keen interest that went beyond mere scientific curiosity, told Spittor more than he wished he knew in that strange, enthralling moment.
Even in his post-ejaculatory haze, Spittor noticed the change in the basilisk's posture, in his very character nuance. He felt a rush of embarrassment and vulnerability, but there was something else too. A subtle shift in the dynamic between them. The sheer volume of his release, more than he would have expected, seemed to have made an impression on Sithrik.
The basilisk's voice broke the thick silence, calm, yet laced with traces of deeper needs. "Impressive," he murmured, the single word loaded with layers of meaning. The vast pool of seed, shimmering slightly in the dim light, spoke louder than any words could. The potency of Spittor's climax was undeniable, and both drakes were acutely aware of its implications.
As he slowly came back to himself, Spittor's gaze met Sithrik's. The basilisk watched him with detached amusement, the same satisfaction of a predator observing its prey. Stammering, he tried to form the words of an apology, but they clung to his tongue like the seed clung to his body, heavy and awkward.
"I...it happened so swiftly...Why?" Spittor managed, voice raspy. His eyes searched Sithrik's, looking for some understanding, some reasoning behind the intimate intrusion.
Sithrik's voice, when it came, was calm, almost analytical. "I wanted to see," he began, pausing for a moment, "how deep the touch of man had permeated you. To know if beneath all that conditioning, the raw instincts of a drake remained intact."
Spittor struggled with that revelation. Was it just an experiment? A test? The weight of Sithrik's scrutiny, combined with his recent release, left him feeling more exposed than ever.
Upon noticing the drake's distress, the basilisk's gaze softened slightly. "You've given me my answer, Spittor, and...it was nothing short of pleasing," he murmured.
Sithrik's usually aloof demeanor wavered, his sinuous body curling slightly as he distanced himself from the pool of seed, but not too far. The gleaming yellow of his eyes seemed to brighten, almost as if backlit by a hidden fire. As the moments stretched, the weight of the silence was broken only by the occasional rustle of Spittor's attempts to clean himself or the subtle shifts of the grasses beneath them.
Spittor, still grappling with the embarrassing nature of his most shameful moment, dared to glance towards the basilisk. It was a quick, furtive look, but it caught something. The scales near Sithrik's vent, typically smooth and uniform, appeared slightly ruffled. A sheen, not unlike the one that coated Spittor's body moments earlier, glistened there. While the basilisk's form was undeniably different from Spittor's, some things were universal among their kind.
The scent in the air, mingled with the overpowering aroma of Spittor's release, had a new note. A subtler, more nuanced, but no less intoxicating flavor similar to his own. Spittor's nostrils flared as he took it in, his lips barely able to contain the arousing effects of an aroused male's aromas.
"Curiosity can be a double-edged blade," Sithrik finally spoke, his voice lower, the hint of a rasp altering its cadence. "It seems I'm not as detached from the primal instincts of our kind as I may have thought."
Spittor, finding his voice, responded with a soft chuckle. "You and me both, it seems."
Gathering himself, still processing the swirling emotions from their intimate encounter, Spittor met Sithrik's gaze. "Will you allow me to speak, to explain why I've come?" he rasped in the wake of his earlier release, attempting to form his thoughts coherently.
Sithrik regarded him with those piercing gold eyes, an unreadable expression playing on his scaled face. After a heavy pause, he finally gave a dip of his frilled head, "In exchange for a taste of that which you've so generously spilled upon the grasses of my territory?"
Spittor, taken aback, gulped. But he understood the weight of Sithrik's request and what it represented. A gesture of trust, albeit cloaked in twisted fascination. "I shall," Spittor agreed, heart racing, "If it earns me your time."
The rustling of the basilisk's frills, quivering with barely-contained anticipation, was the only sound that filled the space between them. With a nod of agreement, Sithrik quickly lowered his head to the earth, the lengthy fork of his tongue extending to lap up the remnants of Spittor's release.
With every movement of the basilisk's tongue, Spittor could feel the weight of those golden eyes, studying him, assessing his every twitch and shift. But, summoning courage, he began, "There is a man, Vartan, a leader of his people, who has set his sights upon your oasis."
As Sithrik continued to scoop up the precious fluid within his increasingly eager maw, Spittor forged ahead, detailing Vartan's desperation. "Their lands are parched, dying. The oasis is a lifeline they believe they cannot live without."
The drake's words seemed to draw more of Sithrik's attention. The basilisk's rhythm slowed, his tongue sliding more languidly across the earth, absorbing not just Spittor's essence, but the weight of his words.
Sensing another opening, Spittor continued, "They are prepared to fight for it, even if it means... battling you."
But as Spittor relayed more of Vartan's intent and desperation, the basilisk's tongue suddenly found a new target. He came forward, and Spittor let him, the gentle brush of warm tongue against a colder, half-receded length stealing the drake's breath, interrupting his narrative.
Spittor's voice quivered, trying to stay focused. "They... don't understand, Sithrik. They...harrhhh... only see the oasis, not its guarrrrdian. Stop...please...before you weaken me again..."
Sithrik paused with a blink of his alluring eyes, his tongue momentarily stilling upon the surface of the purple drake's cock. The depths of his golden eyes held Spittor captive, seemingly weighing his sincerity, gauging the truth in his words.
Yet, the basilisk's only reply came in the form of more licks. His movements were gentler this time, a slightly more controlled contrast to their earlier engagement. His tongue, smooth and cool, coaxed Spittor's member back within its slit, the intimacy of the act deepening with each lap.
Finally, withdrawing with a satisfied hiss, Sithrik sat back, regarding Spittor with newfound respect. "Your words have weight, drake. But actions speak louder. We shall see what the days ahead bring."
Breathing heavily, a mix of exhaustion and relief, Spittor could only nod, hoping that this tenuous agreement they had just formed would be enough to forge a solution to everyone's problems.
The sway of Sithrik's retreating form confused him, for it bore multiple meanings he hardly understood. The exposed member of the basilisk was... captivating in both appearance and scent, a rich mixture of musky wilderness that seemed to spark new thoughts and feelings within the drake. Feelings he had never expected to experience during this meeting.
As these intense sensations threatened to overwhelm him, Spittor mentally shook himself from their fetters. The task at hand, the stakes, were too high to be lost in a haze of carnal fantasies. With renewed determination, he took off after Sithrik, desperate for a clearer answer. The settlement's fate could hang in the balance.
"Sithrik!" he called, trying to catch up. "Wait!"
But the basilisk, swift and fluid in his movements, didn't make it easy. Only when Spittor mentioned Vartan's name again did Sithrik halt and whirl around, snarling with fury.
"I have told you my answer! What else is there to say? Vartan is a deceiver, a taker," he hissed, his voice cold. "His thirst will not be quenched with one oasis. And it is because of him, and those like him, that the settlement suffers."
Stepping back, Spittor paused, trying to make sense of the accusation. "What do you mean? What has Vartan done?"
The basilisk's eyes darkened, the yellow irises becoming nearly molten. "You do not know the half of it, young drake. There's a history few would be privy to hear, one Vartan would rather remain hidden."
Pressing on, Spittor asked, "Then tell me. Help me understand!"
But Sithrik's gaze dropped, his serpentine body curling in on itself a bit. "It is not for you to know," he muttered, avoiding eye contact. "Leave, now, before I lose my patience."
Frustrated, but recognizing the genuine threat in the basilisk's voice, Spittor hesitated, his mind racing for a way to break through to Sithrik.
Yet before he could find the proper words, the world spun around him as a paralyzing force overcame him. The last thing he saw was Sithrik's yellow eyes, full of regret.
Time seemed to warp, moments stretching into hours, and when Spittor felt movement yet again, it was Sithrik's scaled body brushing against his. The paralysis began to fade, replaced by a cautious optimism.
"I... may have been too hasty," Sithrik admitted, his voice softer now. "Perhaps there's a way to share our stories. To...understand one another past any assumptions we may hold."
With his limbs still weak, Spittor managed a nod, grateful for this unexpected turn.
Feeling the tinge of color rush back into his limbs and the strength steadily returning, Spittor slowly pushed himself up. For a moment, his eyes danced with mischief. "You know, if you're keen on restraining me, there are certainly more... pleasurable means to do so."
The basilisk's head whipped towards Spittor, his yellow eyes narrowing, hinting at his displeasure. Yet, before the tension could spiral out of control, Spittor quickly added, "Your frills, they're so... captivating. I've never seen anything like them on a drake before, and I met quite a few of my own kin. Truly mesmerizing."
Sithrik seemed taken aback by the compliment, momentarily losing his poised demeanor. The edges of his frills, a luminous shade of amber, pulsed gently in response, an unconscious, albeit visual acknowledgment of the flattery. It wasn't often that anyone took the time to appreciate his features, let alone speak of them with such genuine admiration.
Hiding the emotion bubbling within, Sithrik nodded curtly, masking his surprise. "Come," he said, "there are things you must see before the night is done."
Spittor followed Sithrik's lead, tail swaying gently behind hin, intrigued by this unexpected turn of events. The dense foliage of the forest seemed to part in reverence as Sithrik passed, as if nature itself recognized his dominion. Yet, even in this serene environment, Spittor sensed a hint of melancholy emanating from the basilisk.
After a few moments of silence, Sithrik paused and looked towards a clearing, where the remnants of an old structure, possibly a temple, stood. "This," he began, his voice tinged with regret, "is a piece of my past."
Spittor tilted his head, gazing at the ruins. The stone walls, though eroded with time, bore intricate carvings, hinting at the sanctuary's former grandeur. They depicted serpents, dragons, and drakes, much like Sithrik, intertwined with human-like figures. An embroidery of unity, harmoniously woven between their species.
"This was a place of communion," Sithrik continued, "between the scale-kin, my kind, and humans. We protected them, shared knowledge, and lived in harmony. But, over time, greed took root."
Spittor felt a lump form in his throat as he realized the implications. "They betrayed you?"
Sithrik nodded, his eyes reflecting centuries of pain. "For resources, and most importantly, land. They wanted the oasis for themselves, without understanding its significance. Without acknowledging our shared history."
Spittor reached out with a paw, placing a reassuring touch on Sithrik's side. "I...I am sorry," he whispered, feeling the weight of the betrayal even though it was his own.
The basilisk met his gaze, his eyes softened by Spittor's genuine empathy. "It's a tale as old as time, humans betraying those who only sought to better their lives. But you, young drake, have shown me that perhaps...not everything is truly gone."
The underbrush crunched underfoot as Sithrik led the way further inland, his muscular limbs gracefully navigating the dense vegetation. His tail, long and sinewy, left an imprint on the soft earth with each movement, winding like a river through a desert. As Spittor followed closely behind, he couldn't help but admire the basilisk's impressive physique. His golden, fiery eyes, reminiscent of blazing embers, seemed to pierce through the thick foliage of the surrounding forest.
He particularly had a fondness for his membranes. The fiery orange tint on the edges of Sithrik's frills caught the moonlight in fleeting glints. They shifted rhythmically with his breathing, each movement graceful and deliberate. Along the basilisk's spine, the frills bore orange dots that mirrored the brilliance of the setting sun. They painted an arresting sight against the muted colors of the forest.
As they ventured deeper, the woods seemed to encroach around them, each step revealing a new facet of its ancient soul. After a stretch, the colossal silhouette of a baobab tree loomed ahead, its massive trunk carved by nature's timeless endurance.
"Be welcome inside my hollow, drake." Sithrik offered with an encouraging nuzzle against Spittor's scaled neck.
Spittor's eyes widened as he stepped inside. The cavernous space carved within the baobab proved unexpectedly cozy to one that only expected more grasses. His gaze darted around, taking in the incongruous assortment of objects. How had a basilisk come to possess such a trove? A neatly stacked bookshelf stood in one corner, filled with worn-out tomes. On a table further to the right, the tools of agriculture used by the men of the past lay in haphazard arrangement. Off to one side, swords, bows, and an ornate set of armor were on display, while small animal carvings adorned a mantlepiece.
"Why all this?" Spittor asked, genuinely curious. Sithrik, with a motion of his tail, gestured for silence.
"Admire first," he whispered, his voice a gentle rumble against Spittor's excitement. "Answers will come later."
Eager to discover more, Spittor approached the objects, his claws gingerly touching a carved statuette resembling Sithrik's visage. But in his excitement, he accidentally knocked over a serpentine vase, sending it crashing to the floor. Panic surged in him, and he quickly muttered, "I'm so sorry!"
But Sithrik simply chuckled, a deep resonating sound akin to two growls of different pitches strung together. "Curiosity should never be punished, even if it leads to mistakes," he said. "Better a lived-in space than a hollow lost to the dusts of history. It's the marks of life that make a home feel like a home, after all."
Relieved, Spittor glanced around again, his curiosity piqued. "Will you tell me their stories?" he inquired, eyes gleaming with wonder at the basilisk's ridiculous numbers of artifacts.
"In time," the basilisk replied, that cryptic smile playing on his lips once again. "But first, how would you like to stay a few days? To truly understand the significance of the history that surrounds you?"
Spittor blinked in surprise. The offer's warmth touched him deeply, considering how tonight's adventure started "I'd be honored," he murmured before a thought suddenly occurred to him, "What if Vartan's men come for the oasis while we're here? Will they not be able to make off with waters from your pool?"
Sithrik's gaze grew distant. "Let them. Few have the courage to tread here, and none linger for long. The oasis has its protectors, even when I'm away."
Spittor's eyes were filled with admiration at the creature's stoic confidence. This mysterious basilisk, with his vast knowledge and tender nature, was turning out to be a most intriguing companion. So much so that Spittor looked forward to the days ahead, eager to unravel the secrets of both the oasis and its guardian.
Within the dimly lit hollow seemed to hold an ancient magic, as if its walls were privy to countless stories that had been whispered over time. Sithrik, stretching his long limbs, turned his fiery gaze toward Spittor. "It's been a long day, even if the night provided certain...pleasures," he murmured. "I intend to rest for a while. Explore the hollow to your heart's liking, and find comfort wherever you wish, should exhaustion weigh down your limbs."
As the basilisk moved towards his designated resting place, Spittor's eyes trailed after him. The nest, a warm haven of dried reeds, furs, and feathery fluff, beckoned invitingly. The drake hesitated, pondering the idea of joining the basilisk. Their eyes met for a fleeting moment, leaving the unspoken question hanging in the air.
"No?"
"Maybe...after I..." Spittor awkwardly turned around.
He couldn't get very far before a gentle toothy grip pulled him by the tail.
"Alright, alright...I'll join you!"
Nestled within the basilisk's comfortable bed, with his scent impregnating every twig, Spittor found himself too distracted to simply fall asleep. More so when the heat of a fellow drake's body slithered beneath his own plates. Shortly after the basilisk's breath dimmed to the steady rhythm of deep sleep, Spittor slowly crawled out of the nest, intent on admiring his host from up close. His gaze first settled on Sithrik's finely sculpted fingers. The claws, sharp and well-curved, seemed to be a perfect combination of both beauty and function. Traveling down from those paws, Spittor nuzzled and sniffed along the basilisk's sinuous form. He found a particular fascination with the creature's athletic haunches, honed by many years of living a wilder life than he had. Yet, beneath that haunch rested a different place. A sensitive hollow bearing a scent he encountered before, when Sithrik's own gender briefly revealed itself to him.
With his breath picking up, Spittor moved forward, pulled, coerced... mesmerized by the basilisk's entrancing male-vent. Surrounded by moist, smooth scales that shimmered faintly in the dim light pouring through a natural hole in the tree's trunk, it exuded a quiet allure. An involuntary shiver went through Spittor upon gazing upon the delicate pink line nestled between the basilisk's dimly scaled folds; an acknowledgment of the unique beauty and the raw, animalistic attraction of a fellow male that sat right in front of him.
His heart raced with the implication of his fantasies, each beat echoing the myriad of sensations flooding through him. As he took a step closer, the basilisk's rich scent, an amalgam of earth, musk, and some leftover arousal from their earlier episode, wrapped around Spittor's senses like a cocoon of enticing bliss. The mere smell was intoxicating, sending Spittor's mind into a dizzying spiral and eliciting a soft, involuntary whine from his throat. He tried to shake off the sensation, to regain his bearings, but the fragrance seemed to seep into his very being, clouding his thoughts with splatters of indecent intimate activities.
Sithrik, the cause of his current turmoil, tilted his head slightly, eyes glinting with a hint of mischief. "Is the price of comfort too demanding, young drake?" he teased, the chuckle in his voice betraying his amusement.
Overwhelmed by being caught so deliberately in the act, Spittor could only nod in response. His voice seemed to have abandoned him, leaving him bereft of words. With a hint of hesitation, slowly retreated from the in-between of the basilisk's legs and nuzzled his way along Sithrik's neck in apology.
A soft hiss greeted him, warm, just like the basilisk's slick tongue playing along his still-shuddering nostrils. "It will pass in a moment. Rest in my embrace while the scent disperses."
Spittor began to settle down beside the basilisk. The nest, a warm cocoon of carefully selected comforts, seemed to welcome him, but it was the basilisk's clawed embrace that truly made him feel wanted, the snugness of their connection providing the most exquisite physical comfort a drake could ask for.
Yet, even as his body began to relax, Spittor's mind raced. Each detail of Sithrik's form, from the sinewy ripple of muscles under his shimmering scales, the fiery edges of his frills, to the mysterious allure of his vent, beckoned his attention. The basilisk was a creature of contrasts; fierce and gentle, beautiful, and intimidating, ensnaring him in a web of attraction from which there was no chance of escape.
Moments turned into minutes, minutes that felt like an eternity. With each passing second, Spittor's internal battle intensified. The memories of their past interactions, combined with the present allure of the basilisk, kept him fantasizing on and on about lascivious scenarios, each naughtier than the last. The weight of attraction pressed heavily on him, making it hard to discern reality from fantasy.
However, the intensity of his feelings soon became too much to bear. Silently, Spittor eased out of the nest, seeking refuge in the embrace of the night. The contrast was immediate, the chilly air acting as a much needed balm to his feverish thoughts.
Settling amidst the grass, the cool dampness grounded him, bringing him back to reality. The wilderness embraced him with its nocturnal symphony. The crickets' soft lullaby, the gentle rustling of the leaves, and the serene glow of the moon were part of a setting that felt like home. Amidst this serenade, Spittor's anxious heart found peace, allowing him to slip into a calm, rejuvenating sleep.
***Want to support me create more stories?***
A) Get a story+art ych combo here. Special guest...my fluffy self!
(m/m anal fluffy love) https://www.furaffinity.net/view/53310379/
M/M dom sub dubcon bondage mating dragon in heat https://www.furaffinity.net/view/53396889/
B) Throw a few snacks at the dragon here https://ko-fi.com/siranor0720
C) Commission me! The latest promotions can be found here https://www.furaffinity.net/journal/10678471/