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Kivensa’s father passed away on the first day of the month of the Sahagin. His son had begged him for a ruby pearl, a rare jewel formed in the heart of large Kaffhan oysters; So for his birthday, his father waded out into the tide pools of the Ruby Coast, on a dark and moonless night it was told, and went searching.

He never returned.

Kivensa searched desperately for months. On foreign sands. In the rainforests along the base of the Dragon's Spine, and among the mysteries of their misty heights. Braving biting winds. Wild beasts.

He saw no sign of him.

His tribesmen widened the search past the mountains, to the dry badlands and beyond, where the heat was inhospitable to their gills, and still they saw no sign. His hopes of finding him dwindled with each passing day. Sunrise brought only dim light, and each sunset seemed to take the light into unfathomable darkness.

And then one morning, appearing through the fog, a tribesman burst through Kivensa's tent, waking the young heir from dreamless sleep. Heaving, with liquid eyes. His father’s torn, waterlogged prayer beads hanging from his fingers.

Days bled together. Skies went gray. When the tide was at its highest, on a moonlit night, Kivensa waded out into the crystal blue waters to observe the sending ceremony. He was bathed in the silver light of the blue moon, watched by his tribesmen as their mourning voices lifted to the stars in song. He carried a bowl of fresh water with his father’s prayer beads floating upon it, and carried it close to his breast, not ready to part with it. But the sharkpeoples of the Ruby Sea are taught that the ocean carries away all things, no matter how precious.

He gently laid the bowl on the surface of the ocean tides per custom, and let the waves pull the bowl out into the dark of the sea. The waves took the offering, bouncing it on its white caps. And slowly, the licking abyss tugged the bowl deep into the dark. Kivensa watched it disappear.

His father. Washed away again.

His crowning ceremony was thick with the ashes of incense and sorrow. Tongues were too leaden to speak, eyes too heavy. The Clan shaman raised the beads of the chieftain’s necklace over Kivensa’s angular head and let them rest on his smooth shoulders. Tears fell silently down his cheeks. No words were spoken.

Word of the Chieftain’s death crossed the waves to the far shores of the coast, where the Sejolk tribe had long waited for the Tekkeit, Kivensa’s tribe and shield of the archipelago, to weaken. Once the news broke, the Sejolk Chieftain marshaled his men and took them across the sea. In just a week, five-thousand Sejolk crested their fins and crossed ocean waters toward the Tekkeit, and Kivensa marshaled his men just in time to meet them. Warriors beat their chests and roared, donned their bow and arrows, and flung their spears through the air. The ocean turned crimson.

Unrest plagued the tarnished coasts of Kivensa’s home for the next year. His leadership was bolstered by his father’s kinsmen, rightly guided, but no amount of advising could close the gap between Kivensa and his father’s legacy. Men died. Families grieved. Kivensa buried his shame in Sharkrum. Spent cups littered his desk, tipped over, dripping.

Often, his footmen would find him drinking from his cups while imbibing on the sexual qualities of his own men. In the barracks it was whispered that the flap of his tent blew with the sea winds, often found in the laps of his strongest warriors, sharkmen with twin-cocks that had sired many eggs in the tribe. They’d find him with seed oozing from his hole, cum dribbling down his thighs. He made them wait until he finished.

“What do you need?” He’d ask, head turned over his shoulder, his eyes like a knife.

“You are needed at the war table,” The footman would say.

Kivensa would sigh, then look towards his lay on the bed. “I’ll be back. Don’t move.”

The affairs were an open secret. No one paid attention. No one cared to.

The war was far too urgent.

Several more months passed. On a random day during the month of the Ogre, a footman barged into the chieftain’s tent during their war council. He was met with furious eyes until he explained himself: “Clan leader, quickly. The Father has come.”

Kivensa turned his head, fury replaced with disbelief. “Now? Here?”

He marched frantically, men flanked on either side across the bridges of his home. At the front gate of their village, a raven as large as two great carriages with black feathers and ruby eyes sat perched. And next to it, smaller yet with no less stature, a bugbear with a dark brown pelt stood stroking its feathers.

They greeted him immediately. “We welcome you, Father.” Kivensa says, kneeling. Behind him, the rest of his men uniformly kneel with him.

Gaur saunters slowly toward the new chieftain and his men, his footsteps crushing the stones beneath his feet as he toys with the jewels on his fingers. “You will excuse my sudden arrival,” His voice seemed to weigh the air, its full timbre falling upon them. “Where is the chieftain? Bring me to him. We have much to discuss.”

“My apologies, Father…” Kivensa begins. The heaviness weighs on his tongue. Makes him pause.

Gaur’s feet come into view under his crest-fallen eyes, toe-claws and strong digits settling just underneath. The toe-rings glimmer dimly in the winter light. Kivena’s attention is drawn to them, watching how they curl and settle on the earth. But the shark continues on, mind returning to the emptiness in his stomach.

“...But he was sent upon the waves.”

There’s a shift on the curtain of the air, as though a boulder had been dropped on it.

“Kalendil has passed?” He asks.

“Yes…” Kivensa says. “ I, his son, lead in his stead.”

Silence deafens them. Gaur speaks after the moment sits. “You have my condolences, Chieftain. He was a good man.”

“The best I’d ever known,” Kivensa says. His voice nearly breaks. It takes the shark all the strength in the world to keep his tears in his eyes.

“You lead in his stead, then?” Gaur asks. Kivensa’s attention is brought back to the Father’s feet.

“I do.” He says.

“Then it is you who I must speak to.”

Kivensa pours aged Sharkrum from a holy vase into a small wooden cup. He offers it to the Father and Gaur takes it with two clawed fingers, lifting it to his black lips. When the Father is present, it is customary for the Chieftain to offer him a glass of their finest.

The waves of the ocean lash along the wooden pillars of the chieftain’s hut. Seagulls cry overhead. A tired sun slinks close to the horizon. Sea-salt wafts on the breeze.

“I will speak frankly. You are inexperienced,” Gaur says, after his sip.

Kivensa stands alone next to Gaur, so he takes the insult from him without a word.

Gaur licks his tusks and continues. “Your tribe is the bulwark that guards The Rock from our enemies. I cannot afford to lose it. As discussed, you will forfeit your leadership to mine in secret. You will tell this to no one.”

Kivensa grimaces.

“I trust you have no issue with this.”

“I… I cannot.” Kivensa says.

“Why?”

Gaur turns from the ocean and lumbers past Kivensa. A wave crashes into their hut. Saltwater spritzes the wooden floorboards.

Gaur sits on the Chieftain’s throne, an ornamental seat decorated with shells, carapaces, and bones of great fish. He widens his legs, and takes another sip from his wooden cup.

“Come.”

Kivensa approaches Gaur with soft steps on the woodbeams. He cannot bring himself to look him in the eye. Instead, he watches the entrance of the tent flap, worried.

“Do not concern yourself over the others. I have made sure that we are alone. Now kneel.”

Kivensa obeys. Once again, he’s face to face with the bugbear’s feet. Gaur lowers his paw with the cup and offers it to Kivensa. The shark raises his head to it.

“Drink.”

Kivensa gingerly takes the cup, hesitates, then downs it.

“In a year’s time, you’ve lost three-thousand men, and the Sejolk have lost five-hundred.”

The truth stings Kivensa.

“Every few months, you lose another thousand, to your inexperience, your bravado. It is costing the tribe resources. Time. Morale. The elders speak of you in hushed tones. Your strategy is meager at best, and your advisors are most likely plotting against you, even now. You have no allies. What do you hope to gain from clinging to your seat?”

Kivensa grits his sharp teeth. It feels as though a knife scrolls through his chest. He tries to find words that will not anger the Father.

“I can’t so easily toss away my Clutchfather’s legacy. In our culture, the family is all we have.”

“You have already shattered his legacy like flotsam.” Gaur ripostes. “What you say is true, family is all we have. But you are beyond yourself. You are not ready. Has your Clutchfather ever told you this? Does any of this sound familiar?”

“Yes,” Kivensa says, narrowing his eyes. “Many times.”

“Do you not think he ruled here as my son? Do you think he earned his position without My blessing? My guidance?”

A silence crawls between them as Kivensa stares ahead. He sees nothing.

“More of your rum,” Gaur orders. Kivensa rises and pours him another cup. The bugbear takes a sip, then offers it to the shark.

“Drink.”

Kivensa takes the cup and watches his reflection ripple on the surface of the red drink. Then, he downs it.

“I am offering you a way out. You see that, don’t you?”

Kivensa’s eyes wander to the sea. He watches the waves lick against the hut, trying desperately to shut out the thoughts raiding his mind. A half-thought forms, and then his eyes wander to the Father’s feet. They linger there.

They curl as he watches them.

“Come close,” Gaur orders.

Kivensa chooses to obey.

“You were admiring them before.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Kiss them.”

“Of course, Father.”

Kivensa leans forward, planting his angled snout upon the tips of Gaur’s toe-claws, a customary acceptance of the Father’s rule in ages past, repeated again here. It wasn’t unnatural for a chieftain to perform sexual, ritualistic favors for the Clan Father. All throughout history, it had been known that the bugbear was a carnal beast, reveling in the pleasures of His superior biology. It was the force that created the golden sands, the force that birthed it anew, in every era.

He hesitates as he brings himself closer to the fur along Gaur’s feet, realizing just how close he’s come to losing control of his own tribe, of his destiny, of his authority over his own life. His arms begin to tremble.

“The loss will sting, at first,” Gaur intones. “But then you will feel the cool relief of surrender wash over you.” His words sound like dripping honey, smoky and serene, slipping into his ears. “You will be able to rest easy, like many nights before, when you were still a prince, and when you still had guidance. Let Me take control.”

Kivensa’s eyes gently flutter. Fatigue encroaches upon his muscles, the effects of the Sharkrum. The Father’s toe-rings glimmer gently in front of Kivensa, though they are shaded from the sun. The logic required to make that distinction doesn’t come to the shark’s mind. Instead, Kivensa’s attention is pulled to the glow.

“Yes,” the shark says. He says it almost as a confession.

“The war. It is too much for you. Too much pressure for you to handle. How could you possibly be expected to fend off these invaders without help from your Father? None of your advisors are of any use, and you are alone…”

“You’re right, Father. I am alone…”

“Better that I take things from here. No?”

Kivensa is silent, watching the bugbear’s thick toes wiggle, splay. The valleys between his toes, open to the cool air.

“Isn’t that right, son?” Gaur repeats.

“Yes, Father…”

“Good boy.” His voice sounds like the roll of thunder. The noise of the ocean waves recedes. The light of the hut dims. The toe-rings glow bright, bright, brighter.

“You will not only forfeit your leadership. You will also forfeit your position as Chieftain.”

“I will forfeit my leadership, and my position as Chieftain…”

“You will forfeit your authority. Over your tribe, and yourself.”

“I will forfeit my authority. Over my tribe, and myself…”

“You will heed my words and obey.”

“I will heed your words and obey…”

“You will admit all this to yourself and to your Father.”

The sun outside slips past the horizon. Gaur’s toe-rings seem to blaze. A new sun. Kivensa’s only concern. The shape curls around his digits, the metalwork pristine, a shade of gold that seems all-too natural upon the Father’s feet. The accessory compliments the form. Completes it. The shark runs his fingers along the cool metal, rubbing his smooth fingers over the tops of those muscled feet, admiring them. He runs his fingers from them and up the powerful tree-trunk thighs, then back down to the tips of his clawed toes, appreciating the curves and chiseled strokes of a living sculpture, a work of fine, masculine art.

“Worship my feet.”

“Yes Father. I will worship your feet.”

The shark leans in, arms braced against the floorboards, kissing the toe-rings. One kiss on each foot, the metal cool on his lips. A soft, shuddering moan leaves him as he catches a faint, gentle breeze of the Father’s scent in his nares. Salt and sweat, laced with leather, sand, the Father’s journey through the desert. A rare scent, not found anywhere in the sea. Kivensa’s eyes flutter.

“Good boy,” Another rumble of thunder, high up in those clouds.

Kivensa’s ears barely catch up to him. The impulse to worship floods his brain, chemicals numbing his thoughts, the higher modes of thinking. He lifts the Father’s foot and nearly buckles under its weight, but the sight of the Father’s bare soles sends shivers down his spine. Ebony wrinkles and thick foot-curves tell the shark of a story, the bugbear’s many years of rule. Of conquering. Of battle. Thousands of lives meeting their end underneath these feet, these feet that he’s drawn to worship, to pamper and clean, bigger than his head, his torso. They light his nerves on fire as the scent gently pushes into his nostrils. He takes a full deep breath of it, all at once, inflating his breast with it all, and his eyes roll to the back of his head.

The Father’s air. Completely filtered through his masculinity.

Bliss.

“Lick.”

Kivensa lets out a whorish moan as tears prick the corners of his eyes. His tongue extends to lavish the foot in one long, broad stroke; from the oversized heel to the tips of those thick toes. The taste hits him hard. He bucks his hips, tries to pull his muscles inward, shirk away, but the taste is too strong, and the shark prematurely comes under his loincloth, white streaks jetting from his twin cocks and painting the floorboards in rhythmic, pulsing throbs. Some of the seed spills on Gaur’s other foot.

Gaur glowers down at the dirtied foot, and lifts it to Kivensa’s face. “Clean,” orders the Father. Marred in the shark’s lowly white, the foot looms into view. Kivensa obeys, curling his tongue along the wet soles, the speckled toes, cum stringing between digits and wiped off onto his tongue.

The Father orders him to bury his snout between his toes. The Father’s hallowed scent destroys his nostrils, stains them. Every breath afterward is laced with the scent of the Father’s feet. He no longer can smell the salt breeze, the ocean scent he’d grown up with since he was a hatchling. His moans fill the hut as pleasure wracks his body. And the shark comes again.

Ocean waves crash against the hut. Kivensa hardly notices. His face drips with the bugbear’s humidity, his smooth sharkskin smeared by his God’s testosterone, the God that guided his people to paradise. An honor given, a blessing only his people could enjoy.

When the Father demands control, it is only natural for his sons to listen.

Sweat slips down his sharkskin as he balances such powerful feet upon him, having thrown himself into their embrace, the weight of them tiring his muscles. His moans and swirling eyes are smothered by the Father’s footpads, blanketing him in feet, covered in nothing but feet everywhere he turns, everywhere he looks, coaxing another load. The shark’s eyes roll again as seed sprays like a fountain, uncontrollable, lost in religious rapture as the bugbear’s toes curl and keep him. Keep him, just as the Father will keep them all. Kivensa’s tongue lolls as his body convulses.

His mind slips from consciousness, out from the light, into the dark, over, and over, feet looming close, then out of view. Time fragmented between moments under His feet. Toes in his mouth. Nose in arches. Tongue between toes. Until he dips into the dark and it finally keeps him. Blanketed by a humid abyss, a void of male musk.

It is warm. It is deep. It is comforting. Like the nights before, when he was still a prince, and his Clutchfather still ruled.

Kivensa lurches from the abyss as he wakes, standing. Fatigue is heavy on his eye-lids and a peculiar stench wafts from his rubbery jaws. The smell is so strong that he can’t help but open his mouth and extend his tongue to gather it from his face. An automatic response.

“Are you awake now? Good.” The voice of the Father.

His voice punctures Kivensa’s drunken reverie and his tongue stills, drooping down his jaw. It’s daylight, sometime in the evening, and Gaur and Kivensa stand on a cliff-face. The bugbear is near the edge of the cliff, puffing on a cigar.

“Pay attention. I need you lucid for this.”

Kivensa nods automatically. He cannot help his eyes as they’re drawn down to the bugbear’s feet, their massive arches flexed as the bugbear leans on his knee for a strong perch on the cliff.

“Down there. Look,” Gaur points with his cigar.

Kivensa crawls to the edge. What he sees is a platoon of the Sejolk tribe’s army, marching through the forest valley behind the Tekkeit’s villages.

“A seafaring people, marching on land.”

Gaur takes another drag of his cigar as the sounds of footmen are carried up to them from the valley below. A hellish chorus of voices; generals barking orders, the sounds of oxen braying, wooden carts rolling over vines and caking into mud.

“The humans must have a hand in this,” He chuckles.

“There,” Gaur points with his cigar toward the shadow of a mountain. “That is where they will wait, and where your tribe would have been wiped out, if I were not here.” The bugbear’s back is like a mountain face, as though the beast himself were made of boulders, muscles swelling underneath a pelt of fur. Strength that Kivensa’s father once had. Strength Kivensa had chased his entire life.

“Thank me for what I will do for you, son,” He orders.

Kivensa quickly kneels as though he had been waiting for permission, pressing his lips to Gaur’s feet in shameless worship, pure and unrestrained. “Thank you for your guidance Fatherrrr…” He says, speech slurred with hypnotic drawl. “Thank you for your wisdommm… Your strengthhh…”

The sound of his smacking lips fills the night air. Somewhere above, Kivensa can hear His pleasure; a steady growl, as though a rock were rolling down the spine of a mountain, tumbling, lurching. Gaur’s cock strains beneath his loincloth. Pre-cum and sweat drips from underneath it, and Kivensa opens his mouth to catch it. Salty rain.

The shark re-doubles his efforts. He lavishes. Kisses. Baptizes himself in the vintage of Him. His body drips with masculinity, indispensable holy oil. He wipes the sweat and rough gravel from the Father’s feet and carries it to his face for deeper worship. Passionate and unrestrained.

“Good boy,” a sprinkle of ash falls from the Father’s cigar next to Kivensa. He cleans that from the floor, too.

Gaur removes his foot, turns. Kivensa’s face follows the Father’s feet, kissing the tops of them, hugging the Father’s legs, rubbing himself on the all-powerful feet of his God, as though he were a pet who could not restrain even his most basest impulses. The Father’s paw lowers to pet the shark, running his fingers affectionately under his chin.

“Follow. Let me show you something else.”

The Father shakes him from his legs and lifts a foot. The sole comes to life with runic etchings, flaring brightly in a desert script like the blaze of a torch, and the foot falls on Kivensa’s face, carrying him down to the floor, crushing him to the boulder. The brand burns deeply into his smooth skin. The pain and discomfort only lasts for a second.

And then, he understands.

Days after their meeting, it was told that a shadow fell upon the Sejolk tribe on a winter morning. A raven beat its wings as it flew over their encampment. Black feathers fell like snow. And then, something terrible loomed in the sky.

In only a few moments, the tribe’s camps were ablaze. Amethyst fires tore through their tents, burned their wagons, supplies, and oxen. Fireballs rained and flashed on the earth. Volcanoes erupted. Sharkmen were swallowed into flaming maelstroms. Animals screamed as they fled into the mountain forests. The mountains themselves echoed with the screams of dying men, burned to ash.

A great scar was torn into the shadow of the mountain, a gash deep and purple, as though a sickle had cut a valley into the rock. The front-line of the Sejolk’s army was reduced to ashes; forty-five hundred men, gone overnight. The war, ended.

The Tekkeit rejoiced. Sharkmen broke from their huts, drinking, cheering. Tears of happiness spilled, and so did the Sharkrum. Their prayers, answered.

But in the months after, traditions changed. Rituals were replaced. Statues of Gaur were erected all along their villages. Soldiers foreign to their people made themselves home in the barracks of their tribesmen; Bugbears, orcs, gnolls, with armor and weapons bearing the sigil of Clan Brimstone. And then, the Chieftain delivered a proclamation to his people.

“Brothers!” He announced with his arms lifted to the heavens like a priest, abdomen and stomach and chest and face completely tattooed in what seemed to be runic etchings, dripping with sweat. “Today, we celebrate the coming of our Father…”

Kivensa’s hole oozed cum, dribbling down his thighs, puddling underneath him. His slurred words were drowned out by the angry crowd. Those deemed too disruptive were caught and detained by soldiers of Clan Brimstone, carried off with newly fastened collars. The angry crowd soon turned into an outright rebellion, but it had been squashed as easily as it appeared, with the Father’ men dealing His punishments swiftly.

After the speech, Kivensa returned to his tent to join his Father, returning to the bugbear’s feet where he belonged. He gazed up at Gaur’s satisfied face with a blissful grin, snout and cheeks reeking of the Father’s musk. Even now, after weeks of worship, the shark hadn’t had enough, returning to the bugbear’s soles, snout balancing the feet on his face, licking more sweat and taste away from the strong feet that had conquered him; Dark and Godly and Holy and Everything he wished he was but couldn’t be. Male perfection given earthly form.

It would never be enough.

Gaur lowers a paw and hooks it under Kivensa’s chin, caressing his son as the shark smiles absently, his face marred by runes in the shape of his feet. They begin to glow.

“That’s my boy,” he says.