FSE

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By Sovandar

Magus Alden started to stir, groggily. What the hells had just happened?

His knee hurt... and so did his shoulder and arm. Bruised? He must have landed pretty hard on the bare stone floor... put his arm up so his head wouldn't hit the ground... yes, he'd had just about enough consciousness, or perhaps instinct, to do that... hadn't he?

"Magus! You okay..?" came a gruff voice from behind him. He raised his head, and turned... thankful that he definitely hadn't broken anything, no more than a sprain. Who..?

"I'll... be fine, thank you, Sergeant", he replied, groggily placing the voice. Sergeant... whatsisname, the tall, burly, dark grey-skinned half-orc leader of the little band of watchmen who normally stayed in the newer tower a mile away; they'd barely been introduced an hour ago, and Alden hadn't expected to even stay *this* long.

He needed to be on his way... it was still a long journey to reach the desolate, mountainous plateau on the northern border, where rumours of a resurgent necromantic cult had drawn the King's attention, and prompted the wizened but tyrannical old man to send Alden out to investigate... probably as a reminder to Alden's father, Lord Halstom, that political agitation in the Royal Court could be punished thoroughly and subtly.

But that didn't mean the mission was futile; these threats had to be taken seriously, and Alden was keen for a chance to prove himself.

This old, half-crumbled watchtower wasn't even in the foothills, and it was more than a hundred miles until the supposedly well-patrolled roads ended. Some guards these watchmen were, letting this happen...

...what, exactly *had* happened?

"What happened?" came another voice, echoing his thought. He had no trouble with the name this time; Jerim, the slim elven bodyguard who accompanied him everywhere, as befitted Alden's high station.

Alden looked around; all three of the local watchmen, his bodyguard, his assistant, and he himself, all sprawled out on the dusty, weed-strewn floor of the old tower's entrance hall, rendered momentarily unconscious by some magical trap placed behind the door. He'd caught a glimpse, a vague momentary impression of glowing blue symbols on the back of the door as he'd turned to ask the watchmen a question... that was the last thing he remembered.

No... some bolt of energy leaping out from the door... *that* was the last thing.

"There was... some kinda... lightning that hit us? Was it lightning?" said the pudgy young watchman, the other of the pair of locals who'd come to show them some 'strange writing' in the old watchtower. He was groaning and standing slowly; and was the first to rise to his feet, his slightly pasty complexion belying a font of youthful vigour. What was his name... R-something?

"I... some magical trap..." Alden started.

"The...the runes... on the back of the door so we'd see them once we were all in the room... s-some spells trigger from sight, or r-reading them... I think Magus Alden caught sight first, and got hit, and the r-rest of us got caught in the backlash..." came a wavering, hesitant voice, interrupting Alden, who sat up and glared at the venerable interrupter.

"Ah... apologies, Magus..." the resilient old wizard said as he started to rise shakily to his feet, noticing that he'd upset his boss. He was normally quite tactful, but he was evidently still shocked at the unexpected trap that they'd sprung.

"Well observed, Damarr..." Alden said, dryly, offended more out of social necessity than by a real sense of grievance. "...but quite right, I did catch sight of those... runes... first, and that seems to have triggered a spell that hit all of us."

Damarr, well into his seventies, was an old friend of the family and a faithful servant of Alden's father; and even though Alden was nominally in charge, he'd defer to the elder mage's wisdom, and they both knew it... even as the elder mage deferred to Alden's magical skill. Alden was a sorcerer; infused with magical energy in his very blood, a scion of an ancient and noble family. Damarr, a mere lowborn scholar, was an expert in magical theories and ingenious to boot; but he required elaborate rituals to use more than the most basic of spells, and could hardly fathom the ease with which Alden summoned magic; and Alden, who had spent a life training for leadership as his birthright demanded, was forever in awe of Damarr's seemingly infinite knowledge.

Alden tried standing; and despite a momentary rush of dizzying nausea, he felt a lot better. Whatever spell it was had faded quickly... leaving its purpose all the more baffling. "...is anyone hurt?" he asked, quickly stepping over to the door and pushing the rune-covered side to the wall, without risking any further glances at it... but he caught no glow in his peripheral vision.

"Roland! Weapons ready! Any injuries?!" the Sergeant barked, leaping to his feet with that legendary orcish ferocity. The younger watchman snapped queasily to attention.

"No, Sarge!" he intoned, though at a subdued volume that sounded less than enthusiastic, drawing his sword and fumbling a little as the reality of potential danger dawned on the youth.

"Just need... a moment..." Roland said, slowly... before rushing to the door with his eyes frantic and wide, and vomiting violently into the thick bushes on the side of the path.

"Ugh. I apologise for the troops, milord..." The Sergeant said in Alden's direction, with a disgusted sneer. "They don't make farmboys the way they make your calibre of city folk!" he said, noting that Alden, Damarr and Jerim had all stood already, and with considerably more fortitude than Roland had managed.

"Don't trouble yourself, Sergeant, this was a magical attack of some surprising power... rune-magic, I've not heard of that in many years..." Alden said, thoughtfully.

Damarr continued almost seamlessly as Alden's thought trailed off. "It's not commonly used ... though some of the Dwarflords were said to have perfected the art centuries ago and buried it to prevent its abuse by the 'lesser' races..." Damarr added. "It's not a rune-spell the Academy has in its stock, I'm sure of that... I... don't quite know what its purpose is..."

Alden exhaled slowly, deep in thought. "Clearly it was meant to incapacitate us... but there was no ambush, even though surely that would be the best way to take advantage of it..." Alden said, carefully looking around the room and the people within... but could sense nothing magical around him. No active magical spells or curses that had been placed on his companions, and he felt no such magic in himself, either... his sixth sense was a very subjective way to assess danger, and far from infallible, but it nonetheless reassured him. "No long-term curses, I'm sure..."

"Sir, it must have done something..." Damarr added. "Those runes were only added recently... and you said you'd seen them before, Sergeant Bakal? Perhaps they were still being added, and they were only charged with magic since you last saw..?"

"Something was up with 'em before, too, milord", Bakal replied, adjusting his helmet thoughtfully and watching as Roland, paler and shaking, wiped his mouth clean and walked back indoors. "They was glowing when I saw 'em. It's why I said it was magic..."

Alden suppressed an irritated grumble. When superstitious conscript militia see a Magus coming from the capital, they often start jabbering about various 'magical' stuff they've seen recently... he'd assumed the 'weird magic writing' the trio of watchmen said they'd found at a derelict keep a mile from the road, would be just another example of overactive imagination. Their amusing argument over which one of them would have to stay and do their real job - guarding the road, at the new roadside watchtower - had done little to assure Alden of their professionalism or competence, but he had to feel sorry for the Elven boy, Loris, who'd drawn the short straw and stayed behind.

But would have been bad form to tell them what he thought of them and their mystery symbols; and as one of the great Magi of the realm, he was duty-bound to aid the guards enforcing the law... even if that did mean investigating the occasional bit of meaningless graffiti. So he'd gone, disdainfully, and never in his wildest imaginings had he thought it might be actual magic.

"You saw they were glowing?! You didn't mention that before!" he said, his brow furrowing with irritation. Didn't the imbecile realise how vitally important it might have been to say that before now..?

Bakal shrugged, a little embarrassed. "I said it was some kind of magic writing. You said you'd look for yourself. Nothing a Magus couldn't handle, you said."

Alden was tempted to explode with anger... but that would serve little purpose. Someone had created that spell for a purpose... a half-finished trap, perhaps? Whoever it was might still be here.

"It doesn't matter now. We search the keep... thoroughly, top to bottom. There must be something here... Damarr, check for magic. I'll do the same."

Damarr whispered some arcane words as Jerim drew his sword and withdrew his buckler from his pack; Alden simply stood serenely, knowing he needed no preparation to use his magic - unlike Damarr. Even Jerim needed time to prepare himself for combat; expert swordsmanship still required a blade in hand, and Jerim's fighting style required a buckler shield in his off-hand, to deflect lethal blows.

The five waited patiently, on edge, as Damarr spent a minute on this most basic of rituals... the faint creaking of the old structure, the gusts of wind that echoed down the spiral staircase on the far side of the circular room that comprised the ruined tower's base floor; this half-collapsed two-storey building now promised danger, enemies lurking in the shadows, ambushers, traps...

...the last thing they expected was nothing. They ascended the stairs carefully, and yet the topmost floor - the roof so damaged it was open to the elements in places - was empty save for a rotted table, some weeds, and a fireplace that clearly hadn't been used in months, or perhaps years.

"Nothing else here, like I said, Magus", Bakal stated, flatly. Alden noted with irritation that both the watchmen had already sheathed their swords after no more than a cursory look around.

"I agree, sir; whoever placed those runes is long gone..." Jerim added, though he, a professional if young soldier, kept his blade drawn until Alden gave permission to stand down.

"Be ready, just in case... that spell was left here for a reason", Alden said, with a touch of irritation, feeling his authority a tad undermined. "Those who placed it might be watching with magic... or concealed somewhere."

Alden felt a faintly vindictive delight as he saw the younger watchman go pale and fumble for his weapon again; but his irritation intensified as Bakal stayed at ease. He turned instead to his mentor. "Damarr, is there a way to examine the runes without endangering us?"

Damarr looked pensive. "...very likely... but it'd take time, and... well, sir, can we spare the time..? We should be travelling north to Havenwood by tomorrow night..."

Alden thought, a moment, long and hard. The mission was critically important... even if there wasn't anything in the North worth investigating, the King himself had ordered the mission, and one did not simply get sidetracked from royal commands.

He smiled faintly. "I should consult with my Father. It will only take a moment; the magic is... not simple, but I am well versed in it."

He always relished the impressed looks on the faces of bumpkins; the watchmen clearly hadn't ever considered the potential for magical communication before - even though it was probably of greater importance than the ability to hurl bolts of fire.

He closed his eyes and focused on the great mirror at his family's villa; home. The mirror was a scrying focus; it would be manned at all times, in case a message was sent by any one of dozens of the family's servants, allies, or other family members. He wondered which face would blur into view in his mind's eye; old Norris the butler, perhaps? Or perhaps Captain Isenmore? Maybe even his father or mother.

His magic reached out, flowed, and...

...nothing.

He focused harder, his brow furrowing in confusion. Something didn't _feel_right... quite fundamentally. He could feel a languid magical flow, but it was... listless. Sluggish... like the stagnant trickle of a dried-up river, quite unlike the rushing force of power that he could, *should* be able to summon...!

He tried; he gritted his teeth, his face darkening with the exertion... and still nothing happened.

His magic had stopped working!

His efforts slackened as he realised the futility of trying to push harder; but even his probing attempts to channel *anything* just produced that same odd, cloying, feeble trickle. His mind raced; how? The trap, this must be its function, of course; ah, but of course, that's why it seemed to have been triggered by him, and how the bumbling watchmen had been able to look on those trap-runes without ill effect; it must be an anti-magic trap, something triggered by the presence of magical power, something intended to enfeeble spellcasters specifically... this whole tower must be shielded against spellcasting, so that no mage could summon their powers...

...no, Damarr had cast a spell of divination when Alden had commanded it. No... that meant this was some curse placed on *him*.

His first thought was overriding, rising horror. How long would it last? Days, weeks...? More than a month and he wouldn't be in a fit state to investigate a necromancer, he'd fail the King's own command!

What if this was_permanent?!_ He would be disgraced and disinherited, for certain; what more potent sign that he was accursed, abandoned by the Gods themselves?!

...which led him to the second thought, as inexorable as the first.

Nobody can know.

But they *must* have seen, nothing had happened, no spark, no mysterious happenings, no_magic..._

No, surely the watchmen would swallow any lie he could tell them. Jerim might be suspicious but was only a bodyguard. He wouldn't know unless told. Damarr would know immediately that Alden was lying; but that was different, Damarr was a man he could trust to help--or to know of someone who could.

Should he tell Jerim? Jerim was new, he had been in the family's service less than a year - and word had it, he was a sellsword adventurer before he decided to settle down and take a steady job. Being a bodyguard was one thing; being privy to a terrible secret required an altogether different kind of trust - and so, Alden reflected, ironically, he trusted Jerim with his life, but not his career.

Beads of sweat broke out on his brow, his eyes still tight shut, painfully aware that everyone would be staring by now, the awkward long silence becoming ever more of an invitation for interruption or speculation... he *had* to say something.

He opened his eyes, breathing heavily, still trying to muster *something*, even if only the feeblest illusion that he could pass off as his spell having succeeded - but to no avail.

Everyone was looking very perplexed; staring at Alden, or exchanging confused glances, wondering what was going on, and why the spell that the Magus had all but boasted of had turned out to be such an anti-climax. Damarr didn't look especially suspicious that something was amiss, though... in fact, he was looking quite unwell again, a fingertip pressed to his brow as if in pain.

Alden cleared his throat, and everyone looked almost relieved that normality was returning. "I have consulted - briefly - with my father's major-domo", he began, "and in my father's absence, it seems most prudent that we stay and make investigation of this... trap... here, and try to consult with my father directly at a later time. After all..." Alden said, grasping around for reasons that weren't too much like a lie, but which wouldn't lead to the *whole* truth, "...we need to be sure that this spell didn't do any lasting harm to us... or what purpose it was placed for. Perhaps, er..." he thought quickly, "Perhaps it's an alarm, for instance, and someone is coming here... or perhaps a seal hiding some treasure..."

He noted Jerim's back straighten slightly at the mention of treasure.

"Er, in any case, we should stay so Damarr can investigate... you, you two", he gestured to the watchmen, "You'd best get on your way, rather than leave the main road unguarded for long. We'll stay here and make sure Damarr isn't interrupted."

Bakal looked dumbstruck; and for a long moment Alden couldn't fathom why the half-orc seemed so reluctant to leave. But it hit him a moment before the half-breed replied.

"Milord... we *must* stay with you, or your father would have our heads if anything happened..." Bakal said, slowly, with what Alden guessed was an unusually meek tone, for the burly officer.

Bakal's eyes roamed over his subordinate with a touch of disdain, sizing him up again; the man might not be clever, but from the slightly pained expression he had, Alden guessed that the Sergeant wasn't sure if Alden might be insulted at suggesting he might need an untrained teenage farmhand to ensure his safety. "...pfeh, I wouldn't trust you to guard a privy door, Roland, let alone a noble!" he said, with a hint of a sneer. "But Loris is going to have to stand guard alone tonight. You'd better go warn him, then report *straight* back here!"

"But, Sarge..!" Roland started to say.

"No buts, Roland! That's an order!" Bakal said, louder. "I'll be staying here and keeping his lordship safe, and you two are going to be doing the job you're supposed to do. Now, get going!"

Alden wondered for a moment if it was wise to let the youth go alone - he was hardly more than a boy, and he *had* just been hit by a powerful spell only a few minutes ago... to say nothing of the fact that whoever had placed the trap must be around somewhere.

But to contradict the local commander would be to shame and anger him; and the alarm did have to be raised. Besides, he reasoned, the watchtower itself was less than a mile away; they could get there in a matter of minutes if needed, and vice versa.

Jerim, bless him, had no sense of social nicety or chain of command. "Sergeant, don't you think it'd be best if you went as well? The woods might be dangerous, given the magical trap we found; better we don't each go off alone."

Bakal's astounded expression suggested that nobody contradicted him and got away with it; and for a long moment Alden felt certain the orcblooded man was going to go berserk and lash out.

Yet despite the intent and almost malicious stare, the Sergeant growled, "If that's *your* order, Magus..?"

Alden sighed inwardly. "Very well. Jerim's suggestion is a good one."

Without another word, Bakal stormed off down the narrow spiral staircase; and after a wide-eyed moment of confusion, Roland sheathed his sword and hurried after his superior officer, with a cry of, "H-hey! Sarge! Wait for me!"

There was a long moment of silence after they departed, before Jerim shrugged and sheathed his own sword. "There, " he said, quietly. "I admit I feel safer *without* those two around. What's our next move?"

Damarr, Alden noticed, still didn't look too well. "Damarr?" he said, with sudden concern. "Are you feeling well..?"

Damarr looked up, as if startled to be spoken to at all. "Hrm? Oh... oh, yes... yes, I mean, it's nothing, the fall and the rush up those stairs, it does my old bones no good... I just need to rest a moment and get my breath back... Jerim, perhaps you should guard the door downstairs? It wouldn't do to have anyone sneak in here while our backs are turned..."

Jerim looked perplexed and even worried for a moment; but Alden nodded his assent, and Jerim stepped away. As the footsteps receded down the stairs, Alden relaxed, realising why Damarr had been acting oddly... he was worried; he'd noticed Alden's failure to create the scrying spell, and wanted to discuss it privately.

"Oh dear... dear me, such excitement..." Damarr began, sotto voce. "That young guard was half-right saying that 'lightning' struck us all... I suspect you didn't notice, but it was very much a blast of magic that struck *you*; the rest of us were just caught in the backlash." Damarr gave a sigh. "I cannot describe how relieved I was when you stood and seemed none the worse for the ordeal. Yet, I rather think... there's more to it than that." He looked Alden straight in the eye. "I need your total honesty, young lord; but judging by the lie about contacting your father... is it that your powers have been taken from you?"

Alden's mouth went dry. He didn't trust his voice to speak; so he simply nodded, his lip quivering.

Damarr put a reassuring hand on Alden's shoulder. "Young man, do not fear. No magic could take away your power so simply; you are a... a font, if you will. You are to magic what a river is to water; it can be dammed and it can diverted, but the river cannot be destroyed, it is too fundamental. No... I rather think that a curse has blocked off your powers from your conscious control." He smiled, reassuringly. "Like my 'dam' analogy, in fact... prevented from flowing for a short while, but it will either break from the passage of time, or we will break it by unweaving the seals keeping it there."

Alden was quiet a long moment as he composed himself, feeling a flood of relief as Damarr's wise words sank in. He spoke hesitantly, his voice almost breaking. "S-so... do you think you can undo it?"

Damarr hummed. "I... believe I can at least work out how it was done; I don't seem to be prevented from using my spells. With a caveat that until I know for certain what caused it, we can't know what it will take to undo it. Some spells are better to work 'with', go with the flow of them... others need to be resisted and let the magic wash past and vent itself elsewhere. I wasn't being obtuse; I will need to examine the runes and take careful notes, and it may well take hours... or days. Most of it can be done while travelling, of course, but my initial examinations need to be *very* thorough... and there's another consideration..."

"...what?" Alden said, still struggling to keep up with the rapidly cycling hope-despair see-saw his condition was forcing him through.

"Whoever placed that runework there was a master of the craft... it's extremely rare to find spells in that form, and even less is known about how they work. If there is a mage around here who can create such a spell... I daresay this is more important than rumours in the north. Such a person must be found and... if they're friendly... recruited; and if hostile, stopped."

Alden nodded slowly. "I see... I see..."

Vague notions of returning home, magic restored, and a uniquely skilled warlock in his entourage started to percolate through the shock. Perhaps this wasn't unlucky after all... perhaps this was the greatest of opportunities...

All things in time.

"You think you can learn more about the person... or people... who placed it, and why, if you study it?"

Damarr nodded.

"Then do it... as long as you need. I'll..." Alden started; but then paused. He'd what? What could he do, what *use* was he like this...?

"...I'll stay here and... meditate a while. See if I can discern why my powers are... blocked. But, Damarr... not a word to the others. Don't let them know about my, ah, condition..."

Damarr nodded, stepping away towards the stairs... with almost a spring in his step, despite his sombre expression. "That surely goes without saying, sir. I will conduct my work downstairs and leave you to your introspection. But, Alden..." he said, using Alden's name, in a rare show of informality, "...don't worry. It will do no good to worry."

Alden nodded, as Damarr descended the stairs... and, sitting on the cool stone floor in one of the last patches of the summer afternoon's warmth, he began to rehearse the most basic meditations from his childhood; to centre himself and feel out the problem within...

It would not be a quick task, trying to push his magic outwards again...

He experimented for several minutes, cross-legged on the floor; he pushed; forced... he could feel *something* stirring, but the familiar and easy surging of his power was softened and blocked, still... but that stirring sensation gave him hope. He must be breaking through it, he *must* be...

...then abruptly his deep meditation was broken by a horrible burning sensation in his gut.

It struck suddenly, as if someone had jabbed him in the solar plexus with a burning torch, and he gasped, leaping immediately to his feet. A magical attack of some kind..?

He could *feel* the magic flowing... but it was more like a leak, the flow wasn't directed at all. He'd never felt anything like it!

The sickening burning sensation quickly faded... but what replaced it was an even more bizarre feeling. He felt a sense of relaxation... and an odd, tickling, very pleasing feeling deep inside somewhere.

"Damarr! S-something's..." he began to say, loudly.

He paused at first wondering why he was out of breath... wheezing like an old man, or a sickly peasant. He didn't *feel* out of breath, but it was oddly difficult to speak... almost like he was lying face-down on a soft bed, at ease and unwilling to turn slightly to free up space in his lungs. It felt like he could choose at any moment to simply stop... yet try as he might, he couldn't. It *hurt* to try, made him feel panicked, like he couldn't breathe...

So he didn't try; his breathing felt comfortable when he wasn't trying to force a big lungful of air to shout with.

But what worried him was that Damarr didn't respond.

He'd spoken quite loudly; for all that his cry of alarm wasn't exactly an urgent scream , the old man should surely have said something in response, or come to investigate... or Jerim, standing guard outside, should have heard.

Where was everyone?

He flushed with embarrassment, feeling almost uncoordinated as he walked forward toward the stairs; the strange sensations around him were becoming almost incapacitatingly intense... and so very pleasant. It would be embarrassing for someone to find him like this, they'd surely think his "meditations" involved a hip-flask of strong liquor...

He flushed harder as he felt a faint sense of arousal build, latching on to and reinforcing the pleasurable feeling in his belly and chest... he couldn't help but give a grunt of surprise as he felt himself begin to harden, the feeling as confusing as a prepubescent's needy self-exploration without any clue as to what was happening... just that it felt *good*.

He stopped by the stairs and leaned heavily against the wall, panting, his trousers steadily, relentlessly tenting... he could still feel his power flowing, leaking from him, and with a sudden burst of understanding he realised that it was that, the 'leaking', this odd, slow flow of his sorcery that was causing this... like some sort of metaphysical touch on sensitive sex organs he didn't know he possessed, firing and fuelling his arousal...

A bead of sweat broke out on his brow and he bit his lip, trying to focus and *stop* the magical flow, despite so much effort at trying to start it before. He had to stop this, he couldn't, didn't dare explain this to the others... nor appear in front of them in such an unseemly state...

The flow seemed to peak; an almost painfully intense feeling... and then subsided, with the suddenness of elastic snapping, a shock that sent him reeling backwards a pace as if struck, gasping for breath with the sudden release of the tension all through his body. He shivered hard, feeling oddly dishevelled and uncomfortable, like he'd just got dressed in a huge rush and none of his clothes were properly straight on his body...

Some sort of curse, linked to the ban on his magic, perhaps...? Something to confuse, disorient and maybe even drive him mad if he tried to break the seals..?

He heard footsteps coming up the stairs; a fast, young step and the clank of the heavy steel-studded boots that Jerim wore. Alden hurriedly adjusted his trousers as his arousal shrivelled into mere discomfort and confusion.

"Magus...?" Jerim said, as he entered the room, looking confused and a little on edge. "is something the matter? I... thought I heard Damarr up here with you."

Alden started to launch into a slightly over-hasty response before he realised what Jerim had said. "Oh, nothing's wrong, I just, a thought struck me about what the spell might... wait", he said, thinking and becoming ever more perplexed. "Why would Damarr be up here? He's downstairs... isn't he?"

Jerim shook his head. "Nobody downstairs, sir. I... thought I heard him calling your name and... some other noises. He must be outside, then..." he said, trailing off and looking away with an embarrassed crimson flush to his cheeks.

Alden's confusion deepened. "So... Damarr's trying to call me?"

Jerim's rosy cheeks reddened further. "...Not calling *for you, sir... I, er... I thought..."

Alden frowned, feeling perplexed and increasingly exasperated; his patience was running out. "Jerim, either tell me what's wrong or leave, I'm in no mood for baffling guessing games."

Jerim coloured. "I... it's... do you... know about Damarr's... tastes? I was... I thought maybe he and you..."

"Tastes? What are you talking about?"

Jerim swallowed. "His... he told me before we left town, he got... very drunk and very melancholy and... confessed that his tastes never lay with ladies and that... being around good-looking young men like me and... you, sir, all the time was wearing on him deeply, and... he t-tried to invite me to share a night with him, s-sir, insulted my elven heritage and d-described me as... 'womanly enough to get away with it'... and intimated that he, er... e-enjoys your presence a l-lot... and that he and you were... c-close...."

Alden's jaw dropped; this was not a revelation he'd expected, not in the least. Might Jerim be lying, trying to drive a wedge between faithful old Damarr and the young Magus? Faithful, lonely, single old Damarr who'd never married, never shown an interest in the pleasures of the flesh... drunk? He couldn't imagine Damarr drunk...

Jerim continued. "I heard you calling his name and he calling yours, and some sounds like..." the man flushed crimson again. "S-something c-carnal... and I th-thought..."

Alden waited a long moment. "Jerim, why are you telling me this?" he asked, perplexed.

Jerim coloured more. "I, er... I sh-shouldn't, it's a breach of confidence, b-but once I'd asked you, I couldn't just.... not tell you. I didn't feel comfortable just... pretending I've not heard anything or helping cover up a crime... and I've... wondered if there was something between you and Damarr, to e-explain why you tolerate him d-drinking on the job..."

Alden was startled again. "Drinking on the job? What are you talking about...?"

Jerim seemed startled this time. "...didn't you notice, Magus? He carries two 'water bottles' on his belt and drinks from one regularly... and not the one he refills at the local wells and fountains. I... did you really not notice, sir? I've encountered worse alcoholics in my time, but it still seemed... unprofessional of him..."

Alden shook his head, thinking fast. Damarr did often complain of thirst... often awoke seeming unwell... and he did carry two water bottles so he 'had a spare'... could any of it be true?

...did Damarr really lust after him? Holy Gods, that would be bad; if it got out that one of the family's most trusted servant harboured unholy lusts, then not only would Damarr be arrested and imprisoned, but the whole family might have to be investigated by the Inquisition; there would be a great deal of disgrace for all concerned. Yet if Jerim knew and was so loose-tongued with it, how many others might already know?

There was a sound downstairs, a door scraping and a latch slipping into to place. Was it Damarr returning?

Alden didn't want to discuss this within earshot of the old wizard. "....I'll investigate when the time is right, Jerim, you have my word. Until then..." he whispered. "Not one word to another living soul."

Jerim looked deeply uncomfortable... but nodded his agreement.

"Damarr? Is that you?" Alden said, trying to sound relaxed, before remembering that if Damarr had abandoned his post downstairs then he should be angry.

His brow furrowed in confusion as a high-pitched, almost wheezing voice replied; it sounded almost like a child trying to imitate a gruff old man. "Yes, sir... it's me, it's Damarr. I... need to speak with you. Quite urgently and in private."

Jerim also frowned and the pair exchanged a look. "...that isn't Damarr, surely...?"

But the voice continued. "I... need to warn you... the magic is... it has changed some things, sir... please, Alden, don't be shocked... but I must speak with you immediately!"

Jerim and Alden stared at each other for a long moment. Then Jerim whispered, "...shall I go first, sir? In case it's... a trick?"

Alden frowned, then shook his head and whispered back. "Stay here. I'll shout if I need help."

Jerim opened his mouth to protest, but Alden was already striding down the staircase. He reached out a hand and took a step forward... then realised he'd simply reveal himself by arguing, and frowned morosely.

Alden rounded the corner of the spiral stair, and Jerim vanished from sight... and a few more paces brought him into full view of the lower room.

There was nobody there. Just the old half-rotted table, chairs, and Damarr's bags placed by them. But the door was closed; and he'd heard someone push it open and close it, and then a voice call out...

He was starting to fear someone hiding in ambush for him, when he saw a movement behind the decaying table... and a creature stepped out. A kobold, he saw; spindly, scaled arms and long, dull-brown toes protruded from under a baggy and slightly soiled robe that was many sizes too big for the diminutive reptile and had clearly once been a human-sized tunic with short sleeves. The creature's long, almost crocodile-like muzzle and slitted orange eyes held a vague expression of... unease, yet with a ruthless hint that made Alden fearful that this was the creature that had sprung the trap. Kobolds were known for laying horrific traps for their enemies... but they were insular and xenophobic, and wouldn't lay complex magical traps far from their lands like this... would they?

Kobolds, surely, didn't possess the lost secrets of runecraft, either...

He was fumbling for his dagger, suddenly and acutely conscious that he couldn't rely on his magic, when the kobold spoke.

"Sir...? Alden? It's me... Damarr. I, er... I believe I've found what the runes were intended to do", said the creature... in that high-pitched, rasping voice that sounded like someone trying to imitate Damarr's familiar tone.

Several things suddenly struck Alden at once. The creature knew his name; it addressed him the way Damarr always did when he had something important to teach; and the tunic the little reptile was using as a robe was the very same that Damarr had been wearing only minutes ago; no bloodstains, no tearing, no sign that its previous owner had parted with it involuntarily.

Alden's head struggled to keep up; and he felt oddly proud at how calm he felt in dealing with this bizarre, absurd situation.

If this really was Damarr, somehow translated into a different species entirely, then he'd know things that surely no interloper on the road could know.

"Prove it, then. Tell me something only y-" he paused, correcting himself. "Only Damarr would know", he said, realising that deep down he already knew the truth.

The kobold's slitted eyes rolled upwards as if in supplication of some higher power. "On the eve of our departure, your father bade you take a copy of his signet ring to signify your new status within the family and to mark you his heir. It was the first time he'd trusted you with this; and you confided to me that you felt relieved since you always felt your younger brother was the favoured heir."

Alden paled, remembering uncomfortably that Jerim was listening to every word. "...okay, Damarr. You are either yourself, or you have truly stupendous powers of divination, whoever you are..." he said, pausing and swallowing, to buy time for his racing thoughts to catch up with the present moment. "...now. You, er... appear to be a kobold, rather than a human... I take it that's the urgent matter you wanted to speak with me about?"

Damarr's muzzle coloured slightly with embarrassment. "...yes, sir. I'd praise your deduction but I fear it would seem sarcastic at this stage..." he cleared his throat. "I also fear that... the rune's effect was intended to... transform and... re-mould people exposed to it."

Alden nodded, his mouth going dry; he'd been suspecting something like this since he first heard the odd Damarr-like voice from the lower floor. "...why? To... what end?"

Damarr shrugged, the motion almost invisible in the baggy tunic. "I... confess I don't *precisely* know. The... the spell, I identified partly from its effect on me, and it... twists the body and the mind. Memories are... not removed but overlaid with... fresh interpretations and a new personality. There appears to be a... well, the effect links people in pairs where possible, and... in the end, I suppose, there's a new troupe of kobold soldiers who'd probably be inclined to listen to whoever placed that rune."

Alden thought hard, hand still on the dagger at his belt. "...how are you still yourself?" he asked, his eyes narrowing, focusing to see if he could sense any lie.

"The... spell warps a person physically first, and... well, for the most part. The progression is different in each individual, sir, but I have been lucky enough to experience the physical symptoms in their entirety first, and thus, had a chance to ward my mind against the worst effects..." he paused. "...I confess I do not know if it messed with my mind as well, but I am inclined to think it achieved little if it tried. My wards can be strong, albeit short-lived... I believe that with caution I will not worsen, and possibly I may even successfully unpick the bonds of the spell and release it... on myself only, I regret to say; a complete removal of a spell of this kind is a difficult prospect."

Alden paled. "So it'll... what, we'll all change? When? Right now...? Hours, days, months? All at once or in sequence...?"

Damarr coloured again, embarrassed. "There are... it's..." he paused. "...yes, we will all change. Though... I don't think the changes are all identical. In... I... I sense, sir, that your..." he paused, took a deep breath, then continued. "I can still sense magic... and the spell on you seems... different to my own. More... draconic, if that makes more sense. And... oh..." he said, suddenly, his eyes widening. "Oh... oh my. I think I begin to understand... the spell is indeed insidious..."

Alden paled further to an almost corpse-like pallor. "What?! What do you see..?"

"You, sir... you appear to be the... source of it. Tendrils of raw magic are... flowing from you like rivers..." Damarr said, and Alden remembered his own half-remembered analogy from minutes ago. His magic surging beyond control like a flood in a drying-up river.

"What do you mean?" Alden asked, bristling, though more with fear than anger.

Damarr cleared his throat. "Sir... Alden... you seem to be the source of this, somehow." he saw Alden's immediate anger at the accusation, and held up his hands in supplication. "I don't mean you're responsible... no. I mean... whatever curse this is, it seems to be fuelling itself on *your* magical power... that must be why you can't use spells..."

After paling so considerably, the rush of colour was suddenly palpable as Alden remembered that Jerim was listening, and he'd lied and concealed his lack of power from the bodyguard. Explaining this would be... hard.

Maybe it was time to call Jerim down..? But then he'd need to explain to Damarr why he and Jerim were having a private meeting and why Jerim was hiding... and that would be equally hard to explain.

Damarr continued, unaware of Alden's consternation. "To judge from my own experience, it's... a rapid spell. It may be possible, with preparation and forewarning, to resist it for an extended period... but I have a suspicion it is intended to run its course within a day."

Alden nodded, glad of the distraction. "How do we... prepare, then? Your wardings, maybe..?"

Damarr shook his head sadly. "No, sir. My wardings are internal; meditative techniques and highly personal magical armours. It's... it's like..." he paused, thinking of an analogy. "It would be like trying to teach someone who'd never held a sword before, how to win a duel against a professional swordsman. These things can be taught, but not this quickly."

Alden nodded; he was familiar enough with magic to know that most spells couldn't be so simply taught. "So... what do we do?"

Damarr frowned, seeming conflicted. "There is no feasible help within a day's travel. Perhaps the best thing is to try and find a way to reverse it once it's run its course... I think the spell will rapidly fade and reverse if not kept fuelled.. so if we can break the links with you, it should self-terminate. But that might not be something that can be done... quickly."

Alden stiffened. "Damarr, that's not acceptable. We have to stop this spell..."

Damarr shook his head. "There's too little time. With appropriate preparation it might be possible to resist longer; but... there may only be minutes."

"How? How do we resist it longer, then? Come on, Damarr!" Alden said, bristling. Damarr wasn't usually so... evasive or unhelpful. He was starting to get a sinking feeling.

Damarr's muzzle flushed with embarrassment. "...avoiding orgasm helps..." he muttered, with almost too little volume to be heard at all.

Alden did a double-take. "Orgasm?! What in the world are you talking about?" he said, loudly, before he remembered that Jerim was listening and that the bodyguard might jump to very much the wrong conclusions, given their earlier conversation.

Damarr's snout twitched slightly. "...the spell manifests in pleasurable ways and... erodes the will by making the victim *want* to feel more pleasure. To surrender. Magic often requires these metaphors in its operation, since the minds of mortals are not fully attuned to its ebbs and flows... succumbing to the pleasure is succumbing to the spell. It's not... necessary or required, but it makes the process faster, more efficient... deeper and more complete." Damarr looked up at the stunned Alden, more focused, suddenly. "...hmm. Perhaps it doesn't work the same for you... if I read the magic around you correctly, it's... attuned to those you're linked with. Perhaps as they succumb, it pulls you down as well... I suspect if the manifestation is pleasurable for you, it has a much more limited effect if you resist or indulge. You would need to prevent the rest of us succumbing to save yourself..."

Alden's mouth dropped open but no words emerged. It made too much sense; the weird, almost druglike pleasure a few minutes ago... maybe *that* was when his magic was flowing and changing Damarr..? But it didn't seem to have done anything to Alden himself...

Or maybe it had. He *felt* different somehow... something had changed...

"I think it's making you into a dragon... hmm." Damarr said, curiously. "I admit I'm curious who designed this spell, and for what purpose."

Alden blinked. "I don't care what it's doing, Damarr. We..." the he stopped. "...wait. Are you telling me that y-you... I mean... orgasm?! I mean... you're so old and... y-you're... I mean..." Alden stuttered, his face reddening.

Damarr bristled immediately. "I admit it was lax and unprofessional of me. But I find your *surprise* a little offensive, young man..."

Alden pursed his lips and decided not to try arguing the point.

"You're young. Perhaps you've never imagined what it might be like to be old... body slowly breaking down, aches and pains and... failures at every turn. Prowess diminishing without hope of restoration. But the worst part is the... urges. They diminish in frequency but never *leave*, not entirely... but it doesn't always *work*!" he snorts. "So I apologise for my lax attitude, Alden... but at my age one learns that if the mood *and* the... physical ability happen to coincide, one takes advantage. There might not be a next time."

Alden gulped. "I'm sorry, I just... I... this really isn't the t-time..." he stammered ineffectually.

With a loud crash, Jerim burst into the room, his sword drawn. "Back! You are not Damarr... if you ever were!" he said, his eyes narrowing. "He doesn't have any intention of helping us, Magus! You heard him deferring and weaselling out of it!"

Damarr's eyes went wide enough for a moment to see the whites around the huge, yellow irises, and he held up his hands instantly. "Jerim? Why the weapon..? You think you can threaten this curse away?"

Alden's jaw was slack, his mind trying to race ahead. This was spiralling out of control. "Jerim, put that sword away! Arguments won't help us, we need to s-stick together..."

He felt something lurch inside him, and his words stopped instantly in a startled gasp. Magic flowing... the flow growing. How..? Why?

Oh. Damn... those bloody militiamen. Off alone in the woods...

* * *

Sergeant Bakal examined his torn shirt-sleeve with irritation while he waited for Roland to catch up. He was finding the youth's lack of vigour and fitness especially irritating today; there was some sort of danger! Peril! Adventure! Excitement! It had his blood pumping, and speed was of the essence. He'd jogged nearly half-way back to the tower already... and had to keep stopping so the breathless human farmhand could catch up.

"S-sorry Sarge..." Roland said, arriving, his shirt soaking with sweat. "I can't match your speed... must be the orc blood you got."

Bakal scowled, facing away from Roland; his bloodline had caused him a lot of social distress, which more than counterbalanced the superior muscle strength and stamina of his heritage; he much preferred to pretend to just be an exceptional human, instead of a standard half-breed.

"Nah, I'm just fit and healthy. You, on the other hand..!" Bakal barked, looking at the youth with disdain before taking pity. "All right, take 5... no, make that 2. We have a schedule to keep", he snapped. "Get your breath back and we'll run the rest of the way."

Then, relaxing slightly, he sighed and slipped off his shirt entirely, letting his grey, muscular torso cool down in the hot afternoon air. "No wonder you couldn't get farm work. But why the hells d'you join the guards instead?"

Roland took some panting breaths before he answered; his breathing was far more settled now. "J-just... my Pa thought it'd make a man of me... and I wanted to impress a girl."

Bakal chuckled. "She not impressed with you already? Wonder why..."

"She... doesn't even know I exist. But she loves uniforms..." Roland said, muttering, staring at Bakal with an odd intensity. "Not all of us have the luck of looking like a carved statue... and, well, you know what they say about orcs being "twice the size" in the bedroom as well as the shoulders. If I were like you, she'd be all over me just to see if I was that well hung."

Bakal opened his mouth to make a witty retort, but found his mouth oddly dry; both with the uncomfortable topic of his heritage manifesting again and with the bizarrely open small-talk Roland was making. The shy farmboy had sometimes hinted there was a girl he fancied but never even managed to breathe a word if sex was mentioned in conversation, let alone start shooting his mouth about penis envy.

Bakal bristled, instinctively feeling he must be being mocked. "Pffft. I'm as human as you are, difference is I'm not a lazy oaf!"

Roland's complexion had faded to a more fleshy hue but suddenly returned to beetroot red again. "Gotta take a leak first, Sarge, just gimme a minute!" he squeaked, and before Bakal could give him permission he'd rushed off into the undergrowth.

Bakal fumed at the boy's sheer presumption at rushing off without being given leave to go; and was perplexed at the same time, that had to be the weirdest conversation he'd had, certainly since he joined the militia. Roland was clearly buying more time to rest.

He became aware how uncomfortable his groin was getting. The talk of women and seduction had stuck in his head, even though he'd not really thought of the subject for days and weeks - as a half-orc, most human women thought he looked scary and brutish, and most orc women thought he looked effeminate. Arousal for him most often meant disappointment and humiliation, not joyous release, and that association prompted him into abstinence a lot.

But it wasn't a conscious decision to abstain; he was young and healthy, and urges couldn't be denied forever. His shaft swelled and stirred in his trousers, and before he realised what he was doing he had a hand under his codpiece, massaging his expanding flesh through the thin fabric of the uniform.

He was alone; and he was pretty horny. He could be quick about it; just work one out before Roland came back. But he was in charge; he was on duty, and had a potentially perilous mission to help an important Magus sent by the King, to find some local magical trapster. He should be setting an example and being professional... jerking off on a whim in the woods wasn't professional. Heck, even being shirtless wasn't exactly the most professional thing to do - but for all his harsh words, he wasn't *that* strong on discipline when it was him, not someone else.

He fondled himself more strongly, a strangely pleasant burning sensation flowing from his fingertips. His left hand spasmed suddenly; the cramps almost painful. He looked with surprise, bringing his bare hand close to his face to be sure he wasn't imagining it as he saw the strange, greenish discolouration on his palm...

His fingers looked bonier than they used to... the joints swollen and the nails sharper... as he looked he could see the flesh seeming to dry out and flake into hard sickly-green spots... scales, he realised, like something on a snake or a lizard.

The burning sensation continued, and seemed roughly to match with the appearance of the weird patches of scaly skin... and it felt exceedingly pleasant.

He huffed, a mixture of frightened and aroused as he felt his joints pop and saw his fingers grow longer... an inch, then two, looking less and less like his own fingers with every passing moment. His cock throbbed at the delightful sensation... and a quick glance downward confirmed his impression that his right hand was twisting and reshaping, too; the thumb looking surprisingly normal and almost shrunken beside the fingers that had doubled in length.

His hands cramped suddenly and spasmed again, and he withdrew the hand from below his codpiece with a start of surprise as he saw his sharper, thicker fingernails begin to sink into the flesh of his fingertips, as if being consumed somehow, until flesh encircled the nail on all sides to leave a sharp, nearly cylindrical point on each finger... and the sickly-green darkened in patches around the knuckle to a deep, vibrant alpine green. The membrane in between his fingers turned green as well, slowly but surely; and wherever it changed colour, it started to grow upward with a bizarre pulling sensation until it was far above his knuckle.

As he watched, the process slowed, then seemed almost to stop; as if it had run out of inertia. His cock ached with a weird delight, and for a moment he felt oddly light-headed, almost tipsy... and quite frightened, all at once.

He tried experimentally flexing his fingers; it hurt to move them. The extended webbing between fingers was thick and narrow, and with fingers three times longer than normal and hopelessly mismatched to the size of his thumb, he suddenly realised he'd struggle to use a sword if it came to it. His thumb felt oddly stiff and inflexible... almost like it had locked up, but it only hurt if he *really tried to force it to bend and grip.

The first thought that occurred to him was to feel a touch of horror at wondering how he was going to relieve his tension next time, if his fingers couldn't grip his stem properly.... He brushed the thoughts aside, with a touch of bafflement; he'd never, surely, been so overwhelmingly horny before...?

Magic? Maybe this was something to do with the spell on the tower door. It only showed the urgency of their mission... where was Roland? They had to let Loris know they would be helping the Magus for the day and not to worry about them; then return to the Magus and his associates. They had to be fast... He started to walk, gingerly, into the undergrowth in the direction Roland had gone

"S-sarge..." he heard Roland's voice say, in a soft, oddly needy whisper from nearby.

Bakal blinked, several times; a few details starting to click into place, he instinctively started walking more softly so as not to alert the youth to his approach. Roland hadn't gone far; and in a very few seconds Bakal could see the youth very clearly.

Roland had dropped to his knees on a patch of mossy ground in a clearing; and his trousers and underwear were unfastened and flapping loosely open. Bakal could see that the boy's formerly well-fitting uniform now seemed a little too big for him; and he was clearly not 'taking a leak'. His shaft was rock-hard, and almost invisible inside a fist that was pumping it methodically and vigorously while Roland's oddly-pointed tongue lolled from his mouth in evident joy, eyes tightly closed.

"S-Sarge...!" Roland said, breathily; yet Bakal knew Roland had no idea he was there, he was... fantasising. Fantasising about Bakal himself!

The half-orc suddenly felt dirty, horrified..! He stepped forward, scowling. "Roland! What's the meaning of this?!"

Roland yelped like he'd taken an arrow to the gut, rolling onto his side immediately and curling up protectively, trying to cover himself. "Aah! Ohgodsohgodsohgods Sarge, it's n-not what it looks like..!" he said, pulling his trousers and underwear closed to hide his shame.

But then he saw Bakal's hands, and his jaw dropped. "...oh gods, Sarge! What's happened to you?!"

Bakal sneered. "Magic of some kind, that's what! And you, Roland, you are in *such* trouble..." Bakal continued, stewing with anger and irritation. Deep down he knew that Roland must be feeling the same 'push' that Bakal himself could feel... but on a shallower and more potent level, he felt vindictive that after he carefully denied himself that pleasure - and even lost the ability to use his hands properly - Roland was happily stroking it as if nothing was amiss.

As he looked at Roland's shame-faced blush of utter mortification, he noticed how dark and brown and... almost scaly Roland's neck looked, in patches. Something was definitely happening to Roland too... but then Roland's eyes flicked back over Bakal's shirtless torso, in a hungrily appraising stare that Roland couldn't seem to resist giving.

A strange rush of pity and a flush of arousal shot through Bakal. Having a male desire him was surely a disgusting thought and he'd never even considered it possible before... but on the other hand, he'd literally never had someone actually fantasise about him before.

Being desired was a surprisingly potent aphrodisiac, and his cock was already straining beneath his codpiece. He preferred female, of course, but... can beggars be choosers? Besides... Roland's body was... well, it wasn't unappealing, in an odd kind of way...

"Sorry, Sarge! I was just... thinking about Lucy, er, my girl... er, hopefully my girl, I mean. I just... I shouldn't, it was stupid, it..." Roland blurted, trying to look away.

"Look at me when you talk to me, recruit!" he ordered, with a hint of a snarl... puffing his chest out slightly with barely-suppressed pride that he might be appealing enough that a glance of his half-naked body might have sent this lad into a sexual frenzy of lust...

Bakal realised that Roland's eyes were on him, and almost without thinking he tightened his muscles, showing them off... raising one arm to flex it gently and displaying his strength, his *virility*...

Roland's eyes widened with enrapturement and embarrassment, and Bakal was pleased to notice the farmhand's badly-concealed member twitch at his display.

"Liking what you see, soldier?" Bakal snapped. "Not thinking about your girl, were you? Lying to a superior officer, pfeh!" he said, his face twisting with a disgust he no longer felt but displayed on instinct. "I heard ya mutterin' 'bout me", he finished, slipping back into his best and thickest orcish accent.

Roland's eyes filled with terrified tears. "It-it's not like that, Sarge! I was just jealous, yeah, I mean, y-you're such a great-looking guy and always in charge and confident and stuff, and I j-just t-thought..."

"Jealous! Pfeh! Only one you're jealous of is your girl, since she'd know what it's like to have my cock in her!" he taunted.

Roland's eyes widened with shock and his open jaw barely emitted a faint, unintelligible squeak before his voice failed entirely. Bakal realised with surprise that he must've guessed right... little pansy wanting to be treated like a woman and bred, unnatural and wicked and...

...enticing.

Bakal felt his own cock straining with need, the urgency renewed and redoubled, and he knew that when he was off duty he'd be using that in some fantasies of his own.

But then the thought struck him that he wouldn't be able to... not with his hands like this... but, he *did* have Roland there, who might be willing, even eager, to help out...

He shook his head, realising he couldn't focus at all with his body making such demands of him... and nor could Roland. So... maybe they needed to clear their heads? Maybe it'd be best...?

"You'll have to do some penalty chores for this, soldier!" Bakal barked. "You have any idea how hard it is to move anything around with these things?!" he said, holding up his hands... which seemed to have changed further, the membrane stretching most of the way to his fingertips now and the fingers nearly an inch longer again. "You're going to help me, is that clear?!"

Roland half-nodded, his face so red it looked like he might keel over from a heart attack at any moment.

"I can't manage my belt buckle. Or the codpiece. Come over here and loosen 'em."

Roland looked perplexed, but obediently stepped forward and hesitantly reached out for the Sergeant's buckle.

"We've got a deadline, soldier! Move it!" Bakal snapped, relishing the enjoyment he was about to spring on the boy. It was still disgusting, but, if he took the farmhand like he'd take a woman he could just pretend...

His cock throbbed with anticipation. "...and while you're at it, tell me what you were thinking when you were getting ready to shoot. The thought of running your hand over my chest? Or were you imagining touching my big orc dick... or better, feeling it inside you... while you got down on all fours?"

Roland's hands shook, and his half-terrified, half-aroused whimper told Bakal all he needed to know. Roland unfastened Bakal's belt, slid it one notch looser, and started to re-fasten it... Bakal barked, "Stop right there, soldier!"

Roland looked up several inches at the taller male with terrified eyes again.

"I did not say to re-fasten! Undo it entirely!" he barked. "Then get on all fours and undo your own as well."

Roland looked utterly blank, unable to process what was going on.

"Lemme get this straight, soldier! With my hands like this, no way can I make myself cum! So you're gonna pull my cock out, stick your arse in the air, and I'll be getting some relief from your backside - and you are gonna damn well spew from it, too, I'm not having you distracted while we're helping the Magus!" Bakal said, a little more softly; feeling a deep itch of need to rut with something, hard, not to be gentle.

Roland's jaw dropped, and he flushed with embarrassment... but despite his frightened, apprehensive expression, he gave a faint moan that was full of need and desire. His hands pulled Bakal's belt free, then pulled aside the codpiece, shyly touching the tented trouser fabric underneath. He undid Bakal's fly-button, letting the fabric fall aside to leave only thin, wet underwear covering the thick pole within.

Roland shivered with desire... and his baggy uniform trousers slipped down to his knees at the motion. Bakal realised with a little surprise that Roland seemed thinner than before; and maybe even a little shorter, though the six-foot-three Bakal was used to looking down at his squad of soldiers.

Roland looked mortifyingly embarrassed... but made no more to cover himself as his underwear, still unbuttoned and unsupported, quickly peeled away from his turgid member and fell away, too.

Bakal's eyes widened with surprise this time. Roland's shaft did not look like his own... and he was half-sure it looked different now than it had when he'd caught Roland jerking it a minute ago. He'd had the first impression that the human's cock was rather like his own; a foreskin, a mushroom head, and nestled in a bed of dark pubic hair, though he'd noted with approval that his seemed longer and thicker than the farmhand's - though how normal Roland's cock was he'd had no idea, he had never before had the opportunity or interest in studying male human genitals.

Now, though, Roland's shaft had no pubic hair near it at all, and it seemed more pointed, smoother, the head devoid of the familiar mushroom bluntness; the foreskin seemed large and looser, and only came half-way up the length. The testicles underneath is seemed to be being squeezed very tightly in their sack, which didn't seem wrinkled any more, it was much smoother and had patches of delicate, pale brown scales on it... as did much of Roland's waist.

Bakal grinned and gasped, that odd burning sensation in his hands returning, but this time it was more like an ache of anticipation, an itch that needed to be scratched. The sight of Roland's strange shaft and scaly groin turned him on suddenly and fiercely, for reasons he couldn't fathom. Suddenly, undeniably even to himself, he felt a desire for Roland's body... a fluttering of deep feeling, not simply to use the lad as a hole to stick his member into.

Bakal grinned toothily at Roland, who'd left Bakal's underwear secure with nervous embarrassment while the officer examined him. "Go on..." Bakal said, softly and encouragingly. "Get it out, then down on all fours..."

Roland looked petrified, and was staring at his own cock. "-but, Sarge, m-my... it looks... different... something's wrong..."

"It looks gods-damn fucking sexy is what it does..." Bakal said, surprising himself with his honest vehemence.

Roland's embarrassment was already so complete that all the blood in his body must be in his face already, yet somehow he still managed to flush a darker shade... but this time he grinned, faintly, and a little of his shyness abated.

He pulled at Bakal's underwear, unfastening it; unlike his own, though, Bakal's clothes still hugged close to the orc's body, and friction alone kept them in place except where Roland deliberately peeled them away... and he peeled them away from the orc's groin with great reverence, panting and wide-eyed to see what was underneath...

Bakal's jaw dropped as well when he saw his own shaft. His foreskin looked unusually large and loose, much like Roland's... but unlike Roland, his cockhead - though less rounded than it had been - had little lumps and bumps on it...and his familiar forest of pubic hair was much thinner than it had been. His shaft, too, maybe... longer than usual? It'd been a long while since he'd dared to compare....

Roland gasped. "It... it looks so... s-sexy..." he murmured. "But, Sarge, it's... huge... it w-won't fit, w-will it?"

Bakal nodded. "It will. Down on all fours, soldier... time for some 'exercises'!"

Roland shivered, staring at the orc's cock, his own inhuman member leaking with desire... and then, gingerly, he knelt down on the mossy ground, leaning forward. Bakal carefully knelt behind him, panting with sudden desire...

"W-wait, Sarge... I w-want to look at you w-when you..." Roland said, looking back, and blushing. "P-please... may I be on my back..?"

Bakal's instinctive answer was to overrule his subordinate; but this time, something in Roland's pleading expression and tone gave him pause. Well... would it be so bad? He imagined Roland lying back and spreading his legs, begging his orc to take him like a female, scaly groin and conical red cock throbbing and leaking and then spewing with delight...

On all fours felt more natural for some reason; and it'd help him pretend Roland were a woman... but, he realised, he didn't *want* to pretend that. Roland was... sexy.

Bakal shivered. "Okay, soldier... on your back."

Roland nodded and looked relieved, rolling over onto his back and trying to spread his legs. It was harder than it looked, with his trousers and underpants around his knees and still wearing his militia boots... Roland squirmed to remove the offending articles.

"Shirt, too..." Bakal whispered, suddenly wanting to see the youth entirely naked... and the orc blushed slightly at the admission.

Roland complied, a little clumsily... Bakal felt sure that the pudgy youth seemed a lot less pudgy now, more wiry... and maybe had better musculature, too, rather than the undefined flab he'd had. Patches of dusty-brown scales covered Roland's midriff, with some extending up as far as his neck and down as far as his ankles. His toenails were sharper on four of his toes; and on four of his fingers, with the big toe and pinky finger looking almost wasted away and frail...

He looked small and oddly vulnerable, and Bakal was filled with an immediate desire to mate with the boy, and to protect him, keep him safe and hold him close...

"S-sarge, I d-don't think it'll fit..." Roland said, with a blush, his unbuttoned shirt flapping open as he stopped trying to remove it, leaving his arms trapped in the sleeves. "M-maybe it'd be better to try something else..."

Bakal scowled with irritation. "What else is there?"

Roland blushed harder. "I... t-thought maybe I could put it in y-you instead... I r-really want to... please, l-let me..?"

Bakal scowled harder at the thought of being un-manned so thoroughly. He wanted to chastise and contradict and , wanted to say no... but instead he could only kneel there, frozen with shock as Roland sat back up, slipped fingers into the loose waistband of Bakal's trousers, and pulled them down to expose the grey-skinned buttocks.

"Please, Sarge..." Roland said, pleadingly, lying back on the soft, mossy ground. "We can swap later I-if you want... y-you can be on top this time, r-ride me... p-please... I n-need you..."

Bakal shook his head and looked horrified... but found himself shifting his position, putting one foot on each side of the farmhand's torso, and squatting low over him, putting some of his weight on his warped knuckles.

"Y-yeah, like that, Sarge... oh g-gods..." Roland murmured, as Bakal's crevice rubbed along his throbbing member. "You s-said you'd make a m-man of me... p-please, let me be the m-man, I w-won't tell anyone..." he whispered, his voice husky with raw arousal.

Bakal couldn't seem to prevent his body obeying... but the feel of the slimy, hot maleness against his flesh made him wonder if he even should try resisting at all. It was kind of sexy, and making Roland happy felt so... good.

He pushed back, feeling the tip of the shaft slide down his crack and catch in his puckered sphincter... and the utterly fulfilling sense of *rightness* was immediate and electrifying. He felt his shaft pulse with sudden need, and the burning, needy sensation from his hands seemed to re-focus in his backside...

He let gravity push him down, and his anus parted with surprising ease as if to welcome Roland's member into him. Roland groaned, his eyes bulging wide as an inch, then two, then a third vanished into his superior officer's warm depths. Bakal too gave a grunt of delight, his shaft throbbing and leaking all down the front of his neat uniform trousers; he vaguely realised that if he came he was going to ruin his uniform and soak it in cum - but he didn't care. That was a distant, future worry compared to the urgent feeling of the hot, throbbing maleness inside him right now.

He gyrated his hips and flexed, making Roland groan again... and to Bakal's surprise, he saw the patches of dark brownish scales begin to spread, slowly yet very definitely. Roland arched his back, and Bakal saw that the farmhand's face seemed to be swelling around the mouth and nose... distorting somehow...

It was such a turn-on to see.

The wonderful burning sensation filled him more deeply than Roland's flesh ever could; he could feel the joints in his hands and arms popping with strain, and he knew they must be warping further. He wasn't a clever man, but he felt inexplicably certain that it was the act of sex driving these changes forward... but that didn't dissuade him, in fact it made him even hornier, more desperate to rut and mate and shift...

Roland gasped as he looked up at Bakal, the farmhand's hair seeming very sparse all of a sudden. "S-sarge... your teeth..."

Bakal felt around his mouth with his tongue and realised that the two pronounced canine teeth, his small orclike tusks, had been joined by several similar teeth... and he could feel his blunt molars thinning and sharpening to points, as well.

His backside burned with need as he raised himself up a few inches, gasping with desire, and let himself sink back onto his subordinate's rod. He felt his spine pulling and stretching, and he could feel from the way his flesh met the scaly crotch beneath that his buttocks were shrinking too, the mass of muscle flowing into his back and thighs like molten wax... he looked over his shoulder and saw several inches of spade-tipped green tail emerging from the base of his spine, and the longer it got, the better Roland's cock seemed to fit into him, the less of his length was left outside Bakal's body when hilted as far as it could go. On the sensitive underside of his new , growing tail he could feel Roland's balls sinking into the farmhand's changing body, to be replaced with smooth, scaly flesh...

From his knees to his upper chest, Bakal's body had discoloured to a sickly green colour; and Roland's entire body was swiftly turning a dark, dusty brown. Pops and crackles from Roland's face signalled that the changes were focusing there, and Bakal saw the swelling on the youth's face become more and more pronounced until it was a short but very definite snout; Roland's hair was gone, leaving him bald.

Bakal's pace increased, feeling a strong outwards pressure in his own nose, an itch building almost like a sneeze before, with a sudden explosive release of exquisite relief, his face jumped forward into a proto-snout, like Roland's... but as the scales formed on the tip of his muzzle, they were hard and thick and ridged, quite unlike the delicate, beautifully fragile scales on Roland's snout.

It felt amazing.

His fingers were more than a foot long each, now; and the membrane in between them was becoming looser, wider, and so incredibly sensitive that Bakal couldn't help but rub them against the soft moss to feel the full intensity of the sensation.

"S-sarge..!" Roland said, with a little urgency. "Y-you're... ch-changing into s-some sort of m-monster..!"

Bakal hadn't thought of it like that... but the thought didn't disturb him as much as it probably should. "So are you!" he said, snorting, and stopping his rhythmic motions; the distraction was too great, he wanted to *focus* on the pleasure, not waste the moment. "Not like I'm complaining..." he added, licking his new lips and eyeing Roland hungrily.

Roland's eyes widened, and he sat up, looking down at himself and gasping. "W-what's happened to me?! What am I?!" he said, lifting longer, bonier fingers to his face to see them more clearly. "I've g-got scales!"

"You look pretty fucking good in scales..." Bakal breathed. "Maybe I want to see more of you like that..." he continued, realising for the first time that it was true; Roland was getting sexier and more perfect by the moment, why would he want it to stop?

Roland flushed. "B-but sh-shouldn't we... the magic, it's... something..."

"You want me to stop? I scare you?" Bakal said, lifting his arms to examine them, realising for the first time that his torso seemed disproportionately large in relation to his legs, his shoulders too broad for his waist, and his arms seemed too long and too muscular to be in proportion to the rest of him... but while he was focused on those changes, some deep instinct prompted him to spread his arms wide and stretch his fingers. As he did so, he realised with shock that each finger could rotate to an almost obscene angle, stretching the membranes taut... and then they locked in place with an audible snap that felt more like the relief of a strained joint popping. He realised with a blissful shock that he could the breeze flowing over his changed hands; and he could feel every tiny whorl, every little eddy and gust, even every *sound* around him... and it was so enticingly erotic that his shaft gave a spurt, making a blob of precum roll onto Roland's chest.

Looking down, Bakal realised that a darker green band of skin had formed across his chest, under his pectoral muscles... and a new, unfamiliar muscle seemed to be forming there, showing clearly and powerfully through the skin.

Roland's eyes were still wide. "You've g-got wings..." he breathed, and Bakal realised that Roland was right; that's what his hands looked like now. Not proper wings, nowhere near big enough, and they were perched oddly on the ends of his arms like big paddles... but he sensed the pleasurable burning focus around his wrist, elbow, shoulder, and down his flanks. It wasn't done yet.

Bakal grinned "Not proper wings yet... want to see me change more? It goes faster when you're inside me... you feel so great inside me..." he said, before sucking in a breath and going silent, mortified at what he was saying - and all the more embarrassed at the truth of it.

Roland nodded quietly. "Y-you l-look really good... s-sorry I called you a monster..." he breathed, sliding his arms out of the shirt-sleeves that were several inches too long for him now, his body less than five feet in height now.

Bakal grinned. "Feels like it'd go faster if you do something with my dick, too... these bloody things aren't any good for touching myself!" he said, and Roland nodded.

Roland lay back down on the ground, breathing heavily, and gingerly reached up to touch Bakal's mutated shaft.

Bakal grinned with delight, baring his teeth before he lowered his forming wings back to the ground, propping himself back up on his knuckles, the membranes folding back neatly together. Without another word he raised himself up again and sank back, the changes resuming their steady, rapid pace in both men.

Roland's toes curled and splayed in pleasure, becoming longer and more widely spaced, his smallest toe vanishing entirely into his lengthening foot as his ankles crunched, becoming digitigrade... and from beneath the farmhand, a short length of tail started to creep out from his spine, and stretched out in a futile effort to match the thicker, longer, more crocodile-like appendage his sergeant was already growing.

Bakal felt his clothes seem to tighten around him, and he felt the tingle as new stretches of membrane started to form around the inner angle of his elbow, as well as under his armpits, spreading steadily down his flanks and drinking in the oddly compelling feel of the breeze flowing over it. He gasped with delight and ground down hard into the crotch beneath him, as if to try and push away the last few surplus flaps of skin keeping their groins from fitting flush together... and it seemed almost to work, his tail leaping out several inches from him and pulling his groin taut, the last half-inch of Roland sliding into him with a faint squishing sound...

Bakal's cock changed further, his balls pulling up tight against his groin and then sinking *into* it, the feeling of compression almost painful for several long moments. The shaft dripped as it extended another half-inch before Roland's wide eyes and gently probing fingers, so that the tip no longer rested on the sergeant's forgotten underwear but protruded beyond it, dripping onto Roland's chest with great frequency. The little lumps and misshapen bumps across it were deepening and joining together to form little ridges, or sharpening into barbs almost like spines; all the while his foreskin steadily loosened and retracted, joining slowly into the skin around his groin, where it quite suddenly inverted and sucked itself inside a slit around the base of Bakal's ever-less-human rod and the whole groin turned dark green in an instant, as if the colour and the scales were radiating out from his tailhole and consuming the orclike flesh in their path...

...and then there was a popping sound from Bakal's boot, as the leather parted from the sole. Bakal only then realised just how painful the constriction of his clothes was getting, and how much of a relief the shoe leather giving way had been. He flexed the toes on his other foot as well, and felt more relief as the leather gave way there as well... and three thick clawtips poked through, the sock inside already shredded silently and out of sight.

Roland gasped with further desire, and reached out to pull the leather further away, realising that it must hurt... and Bakal's sigh of relief sounded more like a rumbling hiss than a human exhalation. The three-toed feet grew longer and further, quickly escaping their confines and inflating with new flesh and bone as Roland stroked at them. As more of his new extremities were revealed, Bakal realised he could feel another toe poking through split leather... at the back of his foot?!

He altered his stance a little to spread his weight on the three forward-facing toes and the one backward-facing toe, and the relief intensified. The feet looked, he realised, reminiscent of the talons of a bird of prey; thick, wicked claws that could grip and hold... and, he sensed, as his leg and ankle muscles swelled as well, could probably kill.

It made him feel *powerful and *right and *incredible*, and he stopped thrusting as he raised and spread his wing-arms again, relishing the feeling of his fingers lengthening even further and the membrane extending from his smallest finger up to his chest now, pushing his wingspan outward and downward and feeling so damned good...

Roland stroked his thighs as well, the shorter male much better able to reach now; he must surely be only four and a half feet high yet his arms and torso seemed disproportionately long... and Bakal was starting to realise that the cock inside him was starting to feel disappointingly small, the feeling of wonderful fullness abating slowly and steadily. Worse, Roland seemed content to just prod and poke at Bakal's cock, the sensation a delightfully teasing one but nowhere near enough to make the sergeant blow.

"Grrr..." Bakal growled. "You're not doing it right, stroke my dick, I want to cum!"

"Easy, easy, Sarge... yeah, just, relax... keep doing that..." Roland murmured, perplexing Bakal for a moment before he realised that changing his stance to accommodate his new legs and feet had also twisted his body a little around Roland's cock... and it must've felt good. He grinned suddenly, his irritation forgotten as he licked his three-inch muzzle tip over the new, sharp teeth, and looking into Roland's discoloured, almost yellowed eyes that seemed slitted rather than round, the irises huge...

"Feeling good, soldier?" he said, without emphasis despite the habitual use of rank.

"Very good... good, Sarge, that's good..." Roland said. The young human was hardly recognisable as a human any more; his muzzle was long and narrow and crocodilian, and small, bony protrusions were emerging from his skull as well. His torso had lost all the boyish pudginess and become wiry and thin, with patterns of lighter and darker scales mottled subtly across his chest... and Bakal thought he looked stunningly beautiful, whatever he was becoming.

He obeyed; twisting his body a little as he rose and fell, the motion causing the seams on his trousers to start tearing with the tightness as his leg muscles grew. He looked down and saw that most of his chest was now covered in green scales, and his cock had grown at least another two inches, and become tapered; flared barbs protruded all along the length in between the steep ridges that had formed, and his balls had long since retreated into that tight, narrow slit from which the mammoth foot-long shaft emerged. Yet it looked natural and right to him... and he wanted to climax so very badly, his whole body ached with the need - yet Roland seemed to have entirely forgotten his shaft, not even teasingly touching it any more.

"Roland... my cock, touch my cock..." he said, trying to sound commanding, but it sounded more like pleading.

Roland didn't seem to hear.

"Roland! P-please... got to cum... can't... myself..."

Roland shook his head. "I'm... close, I... n-need... A-afterward... reward you..."

Bakal was taken aback, but couldn't really focus. "R-reward...? Afterward?"

"Reward... good behaviour... r-reinforcement... if you're a good wyvern for me, Sarge..." Roland breathed. "Shh... nnnngh..."

The shrunken youth's claws dug into the fabric around Bakal's thighs, pulling free the last few stitches and causing the trousers to split entirely at last, leaving two sections flapping free but still connected around the ankle. Bakal gave another hissing sigh of relief and leaned down low over Roland, his back arched and bent almost double to reach, Bakal nearly seven feet tall while Roland was barely four...

His tongue protruded involuntarily and gave the little reptile's muzzle a quick lick... an instinctive move, one whose origin he couldn't quite place. Yet Roland reached up, and stroked the tip of Bakal's six-inch muzzle. It felt so good, so reassuring...

"Goood boy, Sarge..." Roland whispered, making Bakal feel deeply ambivalent, both insulted by the implicitly domineering treatment, yet turned on by how nice it felt to be praised by his... his...

He couldn't find a word for it. But Roland didn't feel like his subordinate any more.

Roland's back arched, and he sat up suddenly, hugging onto Bakal's neck and snout, and gave a sigh that turned into a strange, staccato 'yip' noise. Roland's hips tried to push upward into Bakal further, but the bulk of the half-changed wyvern above him made a mockery of the attempt.

If you're good... that was what Roland had said. Bakal wanted to cum... and wanted to protest at being treated like some servant or animal, to be casually disciplined and bribed... but didn't dare in case Roland decided not to reward him... he needed to earn his reward.

Damn it.

He raised himself a little, keeping his tailhole an inch or two above Roland's groin... the soldier's three-inch member was an amusing tickle in his backside now, but wasn't fulfilling, it didn't have the *power* to make Bakal cum... but Roland took the hint and began thrusting his hips upward, able to easily push to the hilt in the scaly tailhole above him under his own power now.

"G-good boy... that's a good boy..." he said, loudly, interspersed with yips that make Bakal shiver with delight... and then Roland's body went rigid, and his yips became almost one long, continuous yapping. Bakal felt warm fluid flow into him, and start to leak out a little as well, as the little creature below ploughed into him and used him for its own pleasure.

Without meaning to or knowing why, his muzzle parted and a long, forked tongue emerged, giving Roland a thorough, single lick from where his navel used to be up to just beneath his chin; the tongue rubbed along the side of his own shaft and ran through a stream of his own precum, the taste bizarrely intense and vibrant... Bakal gave a happy rumble that sounded almost like a purr, ignoring the almost painful strain in his neck at trying to reach down so far.

It all felt... good.

Roland collapsed back onto the ground, clearly exhausted, his eyes momentarily closed... but then sat up with a gasp, and began and looking around in consternation. "Sarge! I... I'm so sorry, I... don't know what came over me, I..."

Bakal growled, though with a hint of a chuckle. "I didn't", he said. "What was that about needing to reward me afterwards instead?"

Roland's muzzle flushed. "I d-didn't mean it... I... it just seemed really sexy to... pretend you were... like, I was a trainer or something and y-you were..." he trailed off, shamed into silence. But then he began examining his hands and chest in growing consternation. "I'm a kobold..." Roland muttered, sliding out from underneath Bakal, and taking several paces away to examine himself. "How did... why am I a kobold...? What the hells is going on...?"

Bakal saw the smaller male in his entirety for the first time; a little above three feet tall, Roland now had a thin scaly tail that reached down to the ground below; digitigrade feet with four widely splayed, long, thin toes tipped with a sharp claw each; his torso was disproportionately long compared to his total height, by human standards; his head was hairless and ridged, and his whole body was covered in dusty pale-brown scales. His muzzle was a full six inches long, much like Bakal's... but where Bakal's was clearly blunted and not fully formed, Roland's was complete and perfect, large compared to the rest of his body; it was filled with pointed but not very sharp teeth, and his eyes had become piercing yellow slits like a reptile's... yet more emotive, deeper, more intelligent than any mere reptile could be.

Bakal realised suddenly that he could smell the musk in the air... and distinguish his own, needy, unfulfilled scent from the more earthy, wet, musty overtones of the kobold's release. His senses were so intense it was overwhelming.

"I dunno", he said truthfully, to answer Roland's question. "Why am I a... what did you say, a wyvern?"

Roland looked up at Bakal then, and grinned, chuckling a little. "...you.. don't quite look like one. Your neck is too short and you've got a really short snout... and your wings are far too small... and, er..." he pointed at the lower sections of Bakal's body. "Your legs and hips look pretty... human, kinda. Except for the scales."

Bakal realised as Roland pointed that he still had his wet underwear on, the fabric having stayed intact through his copulation and change... and the remains of his shoes and socks and uniform trousers still clung to his feet. In some small way the remains of clothing were comforting to him, he felt a strange fear of losing them and discarding the last traces of his civilised appearance... but they did look rather out of place on his very inhuman, almost animalistic body.

He'd changed a lot, he realised; he raised his wings to get a better look, each wing now much more clearly defined with membrane down to his waist, and nearly seven feet long already. Without thinking he locked them instinctively into the same stance as before; it felt good, but he couldn't quite work out how or why. But he had to admit, the wings looked incredible; the membranes were an emerald green, thin enough for the fading sunlight to shine through them and bring them to sparkling life...

Roland licked his lips, and scratched his head, one hand idly moving to his re-hardening shaft. "W-why are y-you doing a w-wyvern mating display..? I-it's h-hard to th-think with... y-you look... y-you're..."

Bakal felt incredibly aroused, something clicking into place in his head as Roland's words sank in. Mating display; to attract a mate. Foreplay. Yes.... that's what he was feeling, that's what he was trying to do...

In some strange way, that strange, alien thought woke him up, and he realised just how out of control this was getting. This had to be something to do with that magic writing on the door, the Magus could save them... might *need* to save them!

The thought was not a pleasant one, for many reasons. But he gulped anyway. Duty came first.

"Roland, we... we need to... get back to the Magus a-and... get rid of this magic... q-quickly, before it does anything e-else..." he said, unable to muster his old commanding attitude for some reason. "It's ch-changing us..." he said, a droplet of precum falling from his rock-hard member and onto Roland's discarded uniform.

Roland frowned, looking aroused and yet also perplexed and almost irritated. "Y-you're making a m-mess of my uniform, Sarge..." he said, scratching his head, and seemed to be in some confusion. "B-bad w-wy...vern..." he stuttered, sotto voce, before trailing off. "I uuuuh... Y-yeah... j-just don't... keep doing that... messing m-my things... it... it's... you shouldn't mess with my things..."

Bakal shook his head, confused by Roland's reaction. "It's... I didn't mean to! So fucking hard to think, you l-left me kinda... hanging..." he said, panting; the scent of their twinned arousal filling and fogging his thoughts. "I... w-well, but... maybe that was good? S-sex made you change f-faster and... that might be... bad?" he said, too embarrassed to put the full thought into words.

Roland breathed harder. "Y-yeah... you m-made me feel so great and so s-sexy..." he admitted. "...a-and it was r-really good to see you ch-change too..." he said.

"...let's go get the Magus, he can help..." Bakal said, softly, almost with a pleading tone. "We need to hurry... look, you're a kobold now, and I'm ha-half wyvern..."

Roland looked up at Bakal. "Y-yeah... maybe more than half, I mean... you, er... you're... You've still got some more changes to go, Sarge..." he said, hesitantly, seeming rather distracted. "You said... sex makes it go faster, a-and it'd... go even faster if I... played with you?" He said, shivering with delight. "I... I want to see it clearly..."

He tut-tutted suddenly, stepping forward and pulling at Bakal's loose underwear. "Look at these rags... we can't have that, let's get them off you", Roland said, but he seemed almost to be talking to himself.

"Wait, d-dont damage them..." Bakal said, feeling possessive about the last few garments he had, ruined though they might be.

"Wyverns don't need clothes, we'll get you properly kitted out soon enough..." Roland said, bafflingly, continuing and quickly tearing away the remains of shoes, socks and trousers, before tearing harder at the intact underwear to pull it apart at the seams, leaving Bakal totally naked and exposed, without any obvious trace of his humanity or orcishness. "There... isn't that better, boy? Not all caught up in those stupid bits of cloth?"

Bakal's cock throbbed with arousal and his head throbbed with anger at being ignored like this... but above all else, the words felt so *wrong*. "Please... d-don't call me that..." he said.

Roland chuckled. "It's what you are!" he said, with a chuckle. "You like it when I pretend like I'm your trainer, don't you, Sarge?" he said, with a knowing grin. "...you were a real good boy... so I'd better reward you, eh?" he continued.

Bakal was momentarily confused as Roland stepped closer, then felt an odd sense of consternation as the kobold knelt down in front of the large wyvern shaft.

"R-Roland... we have to get help, f-find the Magus, they'll know what to do..." he said. He knew they shouldn't do this... but, Roland was so insistent... and, well... he couldn't seem to argue back, not properly. What in the hells was wrong with him..?

"With that hanging between your legs? Nuh-uh... we need to get your head clear, boy..." Roland said, before looking confused. "Er, Sarge." he sighed. "Maybe I should've let you take my tail first, definitely no way it'd fit now... but, you know, I was kind of scared. Wyvern instincts are... er, I mean, you might've hurt me, it's... er... I mean, a-animals... no, I mean... it's too primal..." he trailed off. "I... d-don't know what I mean, Sarge..."

Bakal stepped back, trying to will his arousal down and away. "Roland, q-quit... the... stop, damnit! It's... w-we should... g-get help..." he said, his nostrils flaring... and realising that Roland was getting hard again, already, the scent on the air was clear and needy.

"Stay still! Easy, boy, easy... good work gets rewarded, yes?" Roland said. "Can't have you tearing up more of my uniform or getting such a mess over it, that's bad..."

Bakal blushed harder, feeling both angry at being overruled and weirdly aroused at the way Roland was treating him... then gave a purring hiss as a hand returned to his cock and gave the tip a gentle squeeze. "Good boy... you're a goood boy. Now, roll over... roll over on your back..." Roland grinned.

Bakal gave a faint whimper of ambivalence, but obediently stepped away and rolled over onto his back, bending his knees and digging his claws into the ground, spreading his legs with more eagerness than he dared admit... his leaking and much-ignored maleness standing straight and proud. "Please, we sh-shouldn't... we should go..."

"Shhhh..." Roland said, as he hopped up onto Bakal's tail and stood over the member that was more than a third of his height, shivering with anticipation.

Bakal shivered too, but with more ambivalent feelings. A part of him, a big part, wanted and desperately needed to cum, after all the stimulation and the teasing... yet another part fought back, and demanded he refuse to surrender to whatever curse this was, changing him and making him lust after males and scales and... and yet, when he tried to protest, he could barely more than produce a hissing whimper.

Roland's hands started to stroke.

Bakal hissed with sudden, powerful bliss, and tried to resist the temptation to roll around and buck his hips, for fear of throwing Roland off him... and having the oddly dominant kobold refuse to try again. He almost but didn't quite succeed, and Roland nearly slipped as the wyvern's body moved under his feet. "Hold, boy! Stay still!" he commanded, and Bakal went limp, suddenly finding it much easier to resist the strong instincts now that Roland had snapped at him to stop.

"There's a good boy..." Roland's hands explored his cock, the ridges and barbs and contours alighting with sensory fire as fingers roamed across them... he hissed and moaned with delight, feeling the burning sensation filling him again...

He looked up and was surprised to see that his cock had grown again... and Roland seemed even smaller! But, he realised a moment later, that wasn't it... he had grown, instead. He spread his wings again and laid them back against the mossy ground, feeling the odd sensation of the growing membrane extended across the moss and grass of the clearing...

For a single, beautiful moment he realised that when he came, he'd shower Roland in seed. Mark him, *own* him... just for a moment. Bound together. Yes... like he should be... rewarded, yes... His cock throbbed hard, and he could feel that this fantasy would very soon be fulfilled.

Gods he was close already, he could feel it!

There was a sudden pressure at his tail, and then something short slipped inside... and he realised that Roland had shifted position and entered him again. His protests were drowned out as the kobold hugged his entire upper body around Bakal's member, and started to lick and nuzzle up to it, stroking hard...

His hips started to cramp and spasm slightly, and he suddenly found he couldn't comfortably keep his legs on the ground any more; his tail thickened still further, giving his lower body a faintly serpentine appearance, and the spade tip broadened and hardened to a bony toughness. His wings expanded and started to extend down his completed tail, the fingers bulking out with muscle, and as he threw his head back, feeling the pleasure quickly approaching its peak, he felt his muzzle extend and widen, and bony protrusions start to push out from his head... and he grew, another foot, then another, until he was as large as any warhorse, a massive and powerful creature being worshipped by the tiny kobold who struggled to even reach all of his groin...!

"Feeling good, boy?" came Roland's whisper. "Let it all out, there's a good wyvern..." he said, as he hugged his entire body to Bakal's leaking member and started to thrust hard into the wyvern's tailhole, with his puny little member almost lost in the folds of the large orifice, rubbing himself against the alien, draconic cock that was as large as his torso and thicker than both his tiny forearms put together!

Bakal looked up at the sexy little creature on top of him, his head perched on a longer, more serpentine neck now; and he was overcome with arousal at the sight of the little reptile holding his shaft so tenderly. There was a sudden, concentrated, painful burning in Bakal's chest, and he coughed with surprise, sneezed, coughed again with a sudden, choking panic... and then gave another cough, and a thick plume of hot smoke rushed out from his nostrils and mouth.

...he could breathe fire..?

Roland's little body gyrated with reckless abandon. "S-sarge..." he moaned.

"D-don't stop..." Bakal said, his wings writhing and pressing back harder on the ground as his toes, raised high in the air above him, curled inwards and clenched. Inner muscles pushed and tensed as his pleasure peaked, and he felt an odd, intense pressure in his head as well, horns pressing out through the skull and skin like a hot knife through butter...

He roared as he felt his cock jump with the first fire of orgasm, and instead of just a roar a huge gout of flame rushed out of him, as if his very lust was forged into fire that had to escape him through any orifice it could. His cock jumped again, and suddenly he saw a jet of thick, white seed leap from him, and he writhed in the throes of the most intense orgasm he'd ever experienced.

Roland yelped slightly as the arcing jet struck him under the chin, some getting in his mouth and hosing him down thoroughly. Bakal saw at once that he was marked, his scent filled and covered the little kobold, Roland was *his*...!

His next spurt was even harder, glorying in primal triumph at claiming his... his k-ko-kobold... m-m-maaaaster...

He felt oddly muddled by the power of this weird instinct, but overcome with desperate need. His shaft spurted again and again, the climax seeming to last hours, wet spunk covering his groin and thighs, showering Roland in a thick, musky rain. He was vaguely aware of Roland yipping in the familiar sounds of pleasure, yet he couldn't feel anything beyond his own orgasm and the kobold's hips slapping hard against his tailbase, the little cock sliding into him... already so wet that he couldn't tell if the little reptile was adding any more fluid to the mix.

His orgasm died down at last, leaving him limp and breathless with the power of it, and he coughed as the last of the fire abated. "T-th-aaanks, Ro-laaand...." he croaked, his voice seeming painful and hard to force out all of a sudden, startling him... his voice sounded different, too, he'd changed even more, grown and... formed.

He felt liberated, somehow.

Yet underneath his arousal he felt a faint chill of fear at what this... curse... might be doing to him. To them both... and little Roland, he needed to protect weak, little clever, little Roland, right? He was big and strong and had military experience. He needed to look out for the farmhand...

"Ugh... b-bad boy, Sorg... getting me all messy like that... no treats for you later! And... where the fuck are my clothes?!"

Bakal blinked. What was Roland talking about? "R-roooland? Hhat's de natter 'iith you?" he said, his voice unfamiliar and hard to make out. He stumbled over the pronunciation of each word, and spoke slowly, with much concentration. It was hard to produce words with this rigid mouth...

"...I...I mean... I'm... R-roland..?" said the kobold, confused. "I... I mean... obviously, I'm Roland... S-Sarge, are... are you okay? You sound r-really..." Roland said, sounding a lot more like his old self. "...s-slow. Er..."

"Hhy calling ne Sorg?" Bakal asked, before correcting himself. "Ne... I... nean, h-w-hhy aah you calling ne Sorg...?" he repeated, falteringly testing ways to make his altered voice intelligible while also trying to think of the right words. The 'm' sound in particular wasn't working right; his scaly lips and thin tongue just didn't have the flexibility to form it right. 'W' was pretty difficult, but he could curl his tongue a little around some of his front teeth and make a hissing sound that was sort of like a 'w'...

It was surprisingly hard to work out ways to sound right while also talking correctly; physical hunger rushed in to replace his lust and somehow it was even more distracting and all-consuming; it made it ever harder to concentrate on trivialities. Speaking was like trying to remember a foreign language; it didn't quite seem to make sense despite a strong air of familiarity...

"I..." Roland started. "...your... name is Sarge, isn't it? I... it... its really hard to remember... or was Sorg your name...? I... had this weird feeling like... I was... Roland doesn't sound right, my name's Rylon?" he said, hesitantly. "And... I feel like I'm mad, asking an animal... though... you weren't always an animal... right?"

Bakal tried to blink in surprise, finding a strange membrane fluttering across his eyes instead, momentarily startling him. "Nuh! No... Ne is... I'n not a aninal! I... w-aas huunan 'n' orc a... a just before. Nane w-aas... B-Baaakal..." he started, before blushing and correcting himself. "Nane *is* Bakal... Sarge is a r-rank... soldier. Nilitary. You w-aas... you... nane is Roland, not... Rylon, that's a k-ko-kobo..."

"Kobold name..." Roland finished for him. "S-sergeant... rank..? Oh, gods, S-sarge, it feels like I'm trying to remember something trivial from weeks ago, and... not what real life is like! We need to get back to the others, t-they can h-help... right?"

Bakal nodded vigorously. "Get back to w-iizards. They help... can help..." he said. "I keep you safe, little Ro..." he said, slurring the promise a little as Roland started to slide out from his tail, and to detach from his cock.

"...Call me... Rylon, please..." Roland said, looking embarrassed. "Roland doesn't sound... right. Can I... call you Sorg..?"

Bakal shook his head. "Baaakal..." he said, firmly, rolling and rising to his feet, his own seed dripping from him. Without thinking he gave Rylon a long lick across the head, to clean off a little of the mess... the little kobold deserved it. Such a g-good... m-maa... maasssttt...

Bakal shivered and recoiled; what in the world was he thinking?!

Rylon shivered too, but with a touch more disgust. "Ewww... you got me totally covered. I should've planned better than just to stroke you off like that, but you were being so unruly..." he said, before shaking his head. "N-no... you were... a p-person... why is it so hard to think that..." he said, as if to himself. "But, ugh... I need a wash before anyone sees me... there's a stream on the way back to the tower, right? Getting cummed on like that... by a wyvern! What would the others think?!" Rylon said, eyeing Bakal with irritation and... even disdain.

"Y-yoooour idea... you say it a r-reward f-for ne being... goood... t-tw-w-iice..." Bakal said, feeling hurt. "Letting you h-have ny taaail..."

Rylon looked startled and horrified. "Reward?! F-fucked my mount?! No fucking way! That's... ugh, that's an a-awful t-to say... bad-bad w-wyvern..." he said, his voice becoming obsequious and whimpering, like his old self. "S-sarge, it... gods..." he said, sounding like himself again. "It's... so hard to... remember you're not... an a-animal of s-some kind..." he said, his cock starting to inflate again. "It's... you're... really sexy.... okay? It's just... you look like a... a war mount. For a kobold... I... I er... I keep feeling like you're my... war-mount... and... it'd be so weird and... wr-wrong to..." he trailed off, with a blush. "So nobody can know... okay? It's... embarrassing."

Bakal gave a hissing whimper at the implicit rejection. He wanted the little kobold praising his virility, calling him sexy, making him feel... like he'd been good and earned more rewards and... making him feel like the little reptile he'd dared to mark might want to share his n-nest...

Nest? Rewards?! What was he thinking?! What was Rylon talking about?! Mount? He wasn't a horse or a pony to be... used like that! He was a... a soldier, a half-orc!

But he, too, found it oddly surreal to think that... and so very tempting to just go with what Rylon told him, and act the part... What was wrong with them both?

He hoped the Magus could solve it... and that Rylon's bath wouldn't take too long. It only occurred to him a few minutes later that he might need one too... but it seemed less important.

He was just a wyvern, after all.