Slice of Fantasy Chapter 2
The palace at Groggshead was the one landmark that refused to mute itself in the shadowed sands and silver waves of the landscape. Splashed in torchlight, braziers and bonfires, the soaring granite and sandstone structures seemed like they were ignited in the dark. Metal onion-shaped domes topped the highest of the towers, mirroring their surroundings in a coppery glint.
Hundreds of years after its death, Grogg the dragon watched over the throne room of the palace, its empty eyed visage poised at the top of the length of vertebrae hunched over where the rest of its pearly remains had been reconfigured into a morbid throne, flanked on each side by long, segmented claw bones. A pinkish sheen could be seen on the bones at angles, a trait that identified true dragon's bone.
The seat was piled with coarse pelts and leather coverings, and here perched the reigning chieftess of the raiders, Bonepicker the Hyena.
She would have had an easy time blending in with a group of her raiders. She wore their armor- leather laden with straps, belts and iron plates studded with spikes. It was not the size of the Hyena that was sought after, but the bloodlust that could come in any sized package.
Her black hair was cut short with long bangs flowing in a curtain down one side of her face, always masking one of the stark hazel eyes. A few empty jugs sat at her feet while she sat with a leg propped on a knee, strumming a slow monotonous tune on the wooden lute cradled in her lap.
Each pluck of the instrument's strings reverberated from the vaulted ceiling and between the hexagonal granite pillars lining the long chamber. Lining each flat facet of the pillars were shields and helms ranging from new to ancient rusted scraps of metal- the trophies that Bonepicker's kin had earned over the generations.
Boots clicked from the approach of a Greyhound in the uniform of a wyvern knight, carrying the neutral expression that her long, thin face usually wore. Eyes amber and fur with the palette of an overcast day, Diana Downwell was the general of the wyvern riders and one of the few members of the Cheiftess' inner circle.
She came to a halt sharply at the bottom of the dais, drawing the scimitar on her back and planting it tip down on the step, bowing deeply over it. Only then did Bonepicker's tune halt.
The Greyhound righted herself and sheathed the scimitar, "Ma'am, the gals we sent out west are accounted for-"
Bonepicker raised a hand and shook it dismissively, "Take all the treasure and paint it black,"
She adjusted herself on the throne, resting sideways on the armrests and cuddling the lute closer to her. Her voice was harsh, just barely on the feminine side of androgynous. It invoked a certain white and purple villan out in the broad multiverse.
The wyvern captain shifted in place, though her voice remained steady, "Well, ma'am, there was a complication- we lost one of the parties to an ambush. Gruntilde's squad. Only one of the outriders returned, injured,"
The Cheiftess was silent for a long moment, turning back to sit properly on the throne. She clutched the lute by its neck and held the instrument like a hammer propped on her knee. Just when Diana thought she was going to smash it, she lay the instrument down gingerly propping it against the throne's side.
"Oh well. What's a little more shade to a black heart?" Bonepicker mused as she blew a puff through the hair on her face, "Did that thorn in our side make another showing as well?"
"Yes. The one called the dust devil," Diana nodded, "From the sound of it, she was the main factor in the squad's defeat. I've heard she was skilled, better than legion rabble at any rate. I admit I'd be interested in plucking this particular thorn myself,"
Bonepicker examined her claws, the sharp curves all painted black, "I have a feeling you will get the chance soon enough. I am planning to put the demon's abilities to the test soon,"
Diana frowned, "Is he...I mean to say, it's surprising that he's already prepared,"
Bonepicker nodded, again blowing at her hair, "That's because you don't understand those like us. We connected. Two shadows found each other in the dark,"
Diana's face remained neutral, with no indication of the mighty internal groan.
"I've no doubt of that, ma'am, your wisdom is unquestionable,"
With another deep bow, Diana was dismissed and left the Cheiftess to brood the night away.
The royal chambers were dimly lit in the tones of a waning campfire from a pair of glowing sconces which casted fidgeting shadows up the wall. A curtain on the balcony thinly separated the humid chamber from the outside, dyed by the moon with a soft silvery luminescence.
Bonepicker admired the naked Stag before her with drunken mirth, tethered him to her by her grip on his wrists. He stood before her like a slender sapling before a mighty oak. He was willowy and slender, an ethereal creature in the gloom formed of long limbs and elegant curvature. A lean layer of muscle was tacked to the thin hourglass shape of his body, cradled by a pair of long legs tuned for running.
Her lips moved from his neck to his slight chest, the fumes of a strong drink competing with his perfumed fur. Her nose disturbed the soft tuft between his pectorals where his rich brown coat lightened in a strip down the front of his body.
"Mmm," She moaned into him, "I needed this tonight,"
"I'm happy to serve, ma'am," His reply was a soft whisper.
She nuzzled her way up to his neck and kissed at it, "Your glass heart only reflects my darkness. I'm not yet ready to pollute my lover,"
Staring over her head, he rolled his eyes, "I am merely glad to know your darkness, even if only for a moment,"
Bonepicker's eyes snapped open and she broke away from him, clawing greedily at the belt on her pants. She peeled the leather garment off her, kicking it down.
Standing stiffly between the Stag's narrow, white speckled hips was the thing which the poets of Omerinen had written about since antiquity- the sacred mushroom. Something which could make even the fiercest warrioress weak in the knees through its enchanting promise. A magic of a sort that pierced straight through all reason to awaken the primal energies lurking in even the most civilized of ladies. His was longer than average, touching her stomach where it made itself known with the occasional throb. Two orbs clung closely to his body, small but with a musk to them that was more perceptible to her than any of the many competing scents.
He laid himself back on a couch, a long low square of stone with plush cushions. Reaching behind him, he took hold of the seat's backside and spread his legs to either side, resting a hoof on each of the armrests. Head tilted back, he felt Bonepicker run a hand over his spiky auburn hair, parted by the pair of small, rounded antlers.
She hastily mounted him, causing a gasp when he felt the pinch of the wet vice. He winced and grasped at the seat back, head lolling back with a loud grunt as he bore the considerable pressure.
She slid down and took him entirely into her with an obscenely pleasured groan, oblivious to the pain she was causing him. She grabbed a handful of his hair and tugged it backwards, further exposing his neck until his head was craned over the couch's back.
Teeth pressed against the slender arch that transported his gasps and moans out into the night. Her growls and grunts vibrated against his jugular.
It was their moment, tangled in the throes of the first and most powerful ritual handed down to the tribes by mother Gaia. The female enveloping the male, sheltering his fragile sex inside her much stronger fortress of muscled walls. Coaxing his seed forth, calling him to perform the most important of masculine duties according to traditional society.
In the aftermath, the ambience of the night crept back in along with Bonepicker's slowed breathing. She slept with her head on the armrest, mouth lolling wide with the occasional snort rattling her otherwise quiet slumber. The Stag lay in the moment for a while, sprawled on top of her with his cheek on the indifferent leather armor covering her breasts. He sighed soundlessly, playing his fingers over her bare hip. He lay in the silence and allowed the sconces to burn themselves out.
In the cover of the silent night, he could enjoy his duties to the Cheiftess. The spectre of his father's stern, frowning face never seemed to find him at these times.
Tarn Thornbough, concubine to a barbarian warlord
It likely would have killed the old buck if he knew what his son had become. There was a word back home for males like Tarn. A "Bratgartner" was a term used by some of the the elderly members of his village. It was an old Precursor word that loosely translated to "A male who gives away free sausage on the street corner by day and lays in a rogue den by night"
It wasn't a title he would proudly claim in public- mostly out of respect for his parents, but Tarn never felt entirely guilty for his love of lovemaking.
Hooves touched the stone tiles softly through the carpet of silken sheets laid over them. The Stag moved on muscle memory in the dark, comfortably invisible. He went to the exterior curtain and pulled it aside to stand naked in the night. The breeze passed over him and between his legs, made cool by the dampness there.
He struck a match and took a long drag from his baneweed joint. Out beyond the towers and walls which framed it, the diamond dusted black sky winked at the one admirer it had among the palace.