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ourladytamara · 3 years

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Seeing Eye to Eye

Tamara - 2020

Commissioned by @t4t_cyborg on Twitter

CW’s: exhibitionism, a lot of anal, nipple torture, alcohol

Arg-Qa Narach’s spindly form rises from the morass of blood swamps and blasted earth formerly known as Denmark. Despite the inhospitable conditions of its environs, it was the largest pleasure-compound in all of northern Europe. Behind the impenetrable walls of meat and basalt echo the sounds of laughter and revelry. Glasses clinking, the coo of lust and intrigue fluttering daintily above a sea of song as dignitaries meet, greet, and fuck; these galas were one of the few times that the often-hostile upper echelons of Demonic high society met as mostly-equals.

...mostly being the word of import.

“Fucking harlot! You insult me by coming here wearing this!?”

At the grand mycelial gates which guard the entrance to Arg-Qa Narach stand a cluster of figures, Demonic and human, now parted by the indomitable wakes of two horned figures in particular. Lit red from behind by Europe’s Hellified atmosphere stood Marchioness Karha Yr qu-Vadash, draped in strangely alluring iridescent satins – the amount of skin she was concealing was absolutely unacceptable! This sacred hall was no place for such prudish displays of material extravagance! Even the slave, a fidgeting human girl, bound up in black leather at the end of Karha’s leash, was practically chaste compared to her peers! The damned heretic! Had this not been a gala she’d have slain her on the spot.

Across from her, Eparch Yal Dagash q’ma-Narach, her narrow face contorted in a scowl. In sharp contrast to her rival governor, she was nearly nude; what little skin was covered was still peeking through translucent material, an inky black like thin-stretched latex. Her dripping cock was entirely exposed, leaking thick pre all over the textured stone floor. Reflective silver spikes jut out from straps and belts of Hellish leather. Beside her, a particularly frightened-looking human slave, her expression exposed – as was the rest of her – by a translucent amber film, decorated intricately with black and gold sigils, which covered her entire figure, save for the Hellsteel binds upon her extremities – and the painful-looking nipple clamps fastened to her little rosebuds.

Karha smiled and lit the audience with a fluttering of gasps.

“I thought we left that kind of talk for outside the gala, Sister-Eparch.”

Silence – an encore of gasps. This was to be a very interesting evening.

Standoffishness, of course, was a well-respected trait! In the Paradigmatic Deen one’s own Will is the single most divine thing a mortal can possess, and it is highly encouraged to express it wherever, and whenever, possible. Spitefulness, sadism, callousness, greed – merely signs of a potent Will, one able to bend others to its bidding.

Logically, this led to some… incidents, especially among Demons whose chosen expression of Will is so directly contradictory; to some, upholding the religious dogma of carnal need was the truest expression of Will imaginable. To others, Karha in particular, expressing one’s Will meant constantly skirting the boundary between heresy and orthodoxy. Few thrills excited her like evading deposition by the Paradigm – pestering Yal was a close second, though.

“You’ve quite the fucking nerve, don’t you, Marchioness?” Yal continued, downing a hearty sip of her liquor. “And that animal with you – wasting precious textiles on such a crude body!”

“Would you describe these as crude, Sister-Eparch?” Karha smirked, roughly tugging her slave closer and squeezing her silk-covered breasts. “I’ve spent many hours on perfecting them, as I see you’ve done, as well. It’s good to take care of your property, isn’t it?” By now there was quite a congregation gathered, eagerly watching the catfight unfold at the enterance. The door guards, seeing a breast being grabbed and knowing where this was going, lowered their weapons. Gradually the distance between each pair of hot-headed hierarchs closed, a flurry of unspoken insults with every clicking footstep against the basalt. With deft fingers Karha twists her slave’s chain leash around her hand, pulling until the poor girl’s practically rubbing against her Owner’s much larger form.

“Ugh. Your willingness to be so close to it is truly dreadful, Marchioness.” Yal grimaced at the sight before her but failed to hide the rapid rising of her own member. A thick strand of pre drooled from her engorged tip and landed beside her heeled hooves – to which her slave immediately lowered herself to the floor in response, film-coated body squelching as she moved.

“...but I must say it’s turning me on.”

In stark contrast was the barely-concealed nausea on her slave’s face, rising from her stomach like the thick, musky scent of the fluids on the floor. Of course, she was used to it; Owner trained her diligently, and she accepted each and every command with the eagerness of a sheep saved from slaughter. Still, she had yet to learn to fully mask the overwhelming taste of Demonic seed; the saltiness and offputting savoriness of it was impossible to get used to.

As the twin Demons grew increasingly hot and bothered so too did the crowd, now a congregation of dozens of other Demons encircling the front of the foyer like a cockfighting ring. It boxed her in, her mind rattling like angry bees in a locked box, a flurry of lust and a voice not truly her own begging her to snap out of it.

Yet even despite the rise of a protestation in her preoccupied mouth, the enslaved girl did nothing as Yal knelt down and began rubbing her equine member across the slick film covering her asshole; this, too, she was trained for. Her pussy unable to accommodate her Owner’s length, the slave girl’d been anal-only for the past year of her training, finding herself strangely loving it. The feeling of being stuffed with Yal’s full length was indescribably fulfilling, and she soon learned to associate it with a deep, almost pacified happiness.

“And I trust you’ve come unprepared, prudish Marchioness?” Yal asked, panting as her slave’s insides massaged her cock. “Come to flaunt all that you keep locked up in chastity?”

Karha twists a silk ribbon and the wrappings fall away. Beneath the layers of exotic textile is a masterwork canvas of pain. Tattoos and decorative scarification completely cover every inch of her now-exposed skin, a woven monogram of religious iconography and the fascistic cubism of speed and violence in ink. It nearly distracted from the large, elaborate nipple clamps that clenched her flesh like feral jaws, hooked to a twin-headed chain which hung above her sternum. A Hellsteel chastity belt locked her crotch away; her quim drooled around the crimped metal edges regardless, arousal uncontained by the metal as her wetness seeped outwards. Above her womb and integrated into the belt was a brass sigil, the fine engraving upon it glowing an ominous red as it imbued her body with the carnal heat and hunger of Anguish.

Demonic fingers wrapped around the slave’s collar like a lioness gripping its cub by the scruff. The human offered no resistance, knowing better; if her Owner chose to move her, such was her right. Collapsing was made more difficult by her bondage, bumping her into the heavy steel, but nevertheless she made herself available. Karha came prepared; dropping her dress revealed a leather harness around her gravid hips, an archiorganic dildo strapped to her inner thigh like the hidden blade of a cunning assassin. She thought it was clever, a sentiment reflected in the delighted expressions of a few demure Demons in the audience.

“I’ve never been unprepared in my life, Sister-Eparch.” Karha replied, now only the distance of two slaves away from her fuming compatriot. “It’d do you well to learn that, I assure you.”

Every ounce of effort Yal put into her scowl was brushed off with a flex of Karha’s gloved hand. Her fingers moved gingerly as they gripped the lewd, almost meatlike shaft and socketed it into her harness with a wet pop like hacking meat from bone. With it she could feel almost naturally, the thing an extension of her own body. Teeth peeked from her grinning lips as she grabbed the slave by the hips and rolled her over.

Prepared, indeed. The chastity belt wrapped around the girl’s crotch was only single-sided; a triangular arch formed in the back of the metal kept her ass open and her pussy completely off-limits. On the floor the wriggling girl could do little more than wait eagerly to be used; like her counterpart, she’d been broken and trained by her Owner’s strict regimen of denial and chastity, now craving practically any touch with a ravenous hunger.

Oh, but how Karha indulged her! With a blissful instant of discomfort and a sudden fullness, her Owner’s cock was inside. It twitched in an uncannily-lifelike manner against her inner walls. Whatever lingering embarrassment at being fucked in front of so many dignified strangers melted from the slave’s mind, leaving a blank slate of contentment in its place.

“I suppose you’re not the prudish little heretic I’d initially pegged you as, Marchioness,” Yal began, voice raspy with pleasure, “yet I must say your technique could use some work!”

Yal shoved her slave’s head down to the ground with a gesture, a hand, then a hoof; now she practically stepped on her head, the film on her cheek squishing and pulling as Yal dug Hellsteel hoof-shoes into it. Tears welled in her eyes beneath the sunset-yellow sheet, the emotion of their origin currently suppressed by the girl’s well-trained instinct of self-preservation. A headache probed the edges of her vision, softened by the river of physical sensation she floated in. Dopamine and adrenaline were her only paddles and the current was hastening towards a waterfall.

And despite it all the girl still extended her tongue, licking hopelessly in her film at the air before her. Her training demand that she service Yal’s hooves whenever she graced her with them, and now was no different. Duty overwhelmed the pain.

“So much decoration for an animal’s body! These mucosal membranes work wonderfully in their stead, you know; keeps them warm enough to fuck without stopping, and cum tends to slide ride off of them.” A giggle. “Or out of them, if you use ‘em like I do.”

Yal’s cock popped out of her slave’s ass from the force of a poorly-aimed thrust, the glistening length sliding between her well-toned cheeks. A disappointed groan and a slap to the girl’s face was all it took to bring her out of her dissociation; in an instant the girl braced herself against the ground and spread her legs out as far as the shackles would let her, giving Yal more than enough of a shot at the loose hole before her. Mere seconds of panic later and she was back inside, balls-deep and grunting like a pleased stallion, music to the trembling girl’s ears.

It was almost surprise, in fact, that filled the space between her ears. In her panic she’d essentially forgotten about the world beyond Yal and Yal’s cock – including the woman dropped right before her. Glassy eyes looked back at her; whatever pleasure filled them was as hollow as her mind, higher thought terminated at the end of the chain in Karha’s hand.

“But a little jewelry can go so far, darling! Don’t you see?” the strap-donning Demon laughed. A tug on the girl’s nipple chain did the explaining. Karha gripped it like it owed her something; the slave, buckled over in pain and pleasure, breaks her momentary gaze with her opposite and falls freely into the throws of a powerful, body-shaking orgasm. The approving coos of the audience only serve to intensify the already-electric sensation rocking her entire form, her tongue rolling free of her mouth and coating her beautiful garments with droplets of spit. “Such great utility – they truly hate it, too. Wouldn’t you say there’s a beauty in the profane?”

Karha grunted and exhaled deeply, forcing the length of her strap out as it exploded in ropes of some kind of black, inky, artificial semen stand-in. It spattered tastefully across her slave’s ass, seeping into the fabric and reflecting the light. Moans and applause from the now-orgiastic crowd told the Demon all she needed to know: her entrance had been grand, indeed. The political capital would pay for the garments and jewelry tenfold. It was a good day to be Marchioness.

Yal chuckled indignantly at the other slave’s lewd expression, giving her own property a ruthless slap across the ass that rippled through the film. It was all it took to send the girl over the edge, cumming forcefully from the pain she craved so well; clenching in response only served to to help Karha in unloading the last hour’s worth of built-up cum – quite a bit, considering she’d unleashed in a service station before arriving.

“Mhm. Maybe there’s something to your methods, Marchioness…” Yal said.

With a huff she pulled her member out in turn, pearly white ooze with it; the film apparently extended all the way into the slave’s anal cavity, the cum seeping almost effortlessly from the hydrophobic interior. Fluids of a practically-uncountable variety sat in puddles and smears upon the floor. The slave girl, finally spent, allowed her head to collapse in a puddle of jizz and alcohol.

A second scarcely passed before Yal poured out the rest of her drink on the girl’s head, the chalice dropping on the floor with a thud. Karha dropped the chain connecting to her slave’s nipples, smiling warmly at Yal. They stepped over the unconscious bodies and took each other’s hands.

“Let’s say we discuss our differences then, hm?” replied Karha.

“Over drinks?”

They clasped their hands together, leaning in for a kiss above the cum-and-booze-soaked bodies collapsed on the ground. The orgy they’d caused moved in to engulf the spent girls in a wave of motion and slapping skin as the Eparch and Marchioness strode away from the crowd.

“And a second round, if the slaves can handle it!”

“It seems we’re not so different after all, Sister-Marchioness.”

#milennium penance

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divine-colossus · 6 years

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Tales From Eternity: Last Flower in Hell

HELLO! Yes, I know it’s been ages, and the questions coming to mind are probably something like “What the hell are you doing on my dash? Weren’t you dead?” The answers are simple: I’m not dead, but I did happen to go back through my old work, and decided to finish up a little short set in the Mythos universe. It was a bit rushed at the end, but I wanted to post it, even in it’s less-than-polished form. Quick warning though: This is by no means a guaranteed return to my writing, but I might be posting more in the future, so keep your eyes open! In the meantime, enjoy!

Chirrups of birds and the sounds of morning spread through Summerland as the magical revels of the night wound down to an end, and the creatures of day began to wake. Dawn trickled like pure honey down through the canopies of the towering forests, and brushed the tips of the grasses in the sprawling meadows. There was peace here, a paradise for those who were born of nature, and had lived connected to it all their lives. There were layers to this world, helium jungles embedded deep within azurite caves, and rivers of liquid nitrogen which shot the soil through with permafrost. All things of nature had their places, and all were overseen and taken care of by the Great Ward of Nature, The Horned God.

His palace was a place of revelry, where great celebrations of life and joy twinkled long into the night created by his ally, the Midnight Queen. The palace complex dug deep within the earth, down to caverns of sparkling crystal and the homes of deep things, but also spiraled high into the heavens above, where winds howled among the carven branches of what some called Yggdrasil, the World Tree, the mother of all arboreal organisms.

More wine! Winter comes again tomorrow, though it may last not a week, and we shall have no revel then. Drink, and be merry!

The towering figure of the Horned God languished in the Overgrown Throne, hooves laid up on the end of a banquet table that stretched far back into the shadows of the hall. All around, there were signs of festivities, centaurs and elves and nymphs and satyrs, all dancing or singing, or else taking from the mountains of food laid on the table and downing alcohol by the tankard.

A satyr wearing a crown of laurel leaves approached the deity, “It may be time to end the revels for the night, my liege. The sun rises, and we have matters to attend to, especially in regards to news from Hades.”

The Trickster sat up, hooves stomping the floor and causing a small earthquake to shudder through the hall, What the devil does he want? Pun intended of course. Ah, it matters not at the moment. Disperse, you creatures of night! We shall call for you again when the winter passes! He stood then, shaking infatuated nymphs from his legs where they had clung and stroked his fur throughout the evening.

“If you’ll follow me, your verdantness?”

Of course, Alia. Shall we walk among the canyons or the jungles this morn?

“The canyons should be quite beautiful at dawn, and besides, ‘tis preening season for the ouro birds, is it not?”

Ah yes, those bright plumages never get old, no matter how many millenia I’ve seen them shown off.

With the next few quaking steps, the Horned God shrank to a more manageable size of around ten feet, still towering over his satyr lieutenant, but not so tall as to disturb the crowds of dispersing partygoers. Alia led the way as the pair broke into a run, the Greenfather letting loose a great bellow to bring the glory of morning forth into his world, the night fleeing before them. They slowed at the edge of a misty grove, and the Horned God raised a hand, whipping the mist into a frenzy. When the vapor settled, they passed through into an entirely different landscape consisting of a rapidly descending slope that wound between mica walls pockmarked with caves, all under a blazing desert sun.

These canyons were the chosen nesting grounds of the ouro bird, whose plumages fletched many arrows across the multiverses. The birds were able to fly true in nearly any airy environment with perfect ease, largely due to their feathers and the latent magical energies within them which guided their paths. Unfortunately, this meant the feathers were in high demand for quality arrows, and ouros across many worlds had been hunted to extinction before the Horned God intervened and saved a large portion of the species. Now their plumages, which were famed for beauty as well as utility, would be valued only for the former, and their species would live on in peace.

It was this sight that the Horned God and Alia gazed upon as they strolled through the canyons, discussing business. As he received the briefings on the general state of Summerland and the proposals for what new species should be introduced to the paradise, the Horned God began to grow impatient. Alia had been skirting around the topic at hand for too long.

Alia. What news from Hades? The Verdant One growled, increasing his height slightly and casting a shadow over his friend.

“M-my apologies, your holiness. I thought you would not wish to be troubled with a single flower.” Alia replied in a trembling voice. Although he had been the longest lasting, the Horned God had replaced lieutenants in the past, often with painful results for the previous occupants of the position. The Trickster God did not always make his tricks playful.

It depends on the flower, Alia.

“Greenfather, it is a true bloom... in Hell. It appeared these past hours, and Hades sees it as an act of aggression.”

Why in the world’s name... Oh, all right, tell him I’ll be along to discuss it with him shortly.

“Sir, he’s not waiting. The Lord of the Nine Hells is currently en route to the Blessed Meadows to burn them.”

ALIA! Why in the name of the Council didn’t you tell me this earlier!? The Trickster was now shaking with fury.

“You didn’t listen when I attempted to inform you during the revels, your holiness. My apologies.”

The Horned God waved a hand to silence his lieutenant, and then turned him into a frog as an afterthought. He would revert in a few hours. Then the Greenfather stalked off to meet his fellow Worldshaper, each step towards the Blessed Meadows adding meters to his height. It would not do to look weak and small in my own land. He will pay if he has harmed a single bud, and I will deal with Alia later. Fool! The sky began to tinge with gray, and the Horned God smiled grimly as he strode into the mists again.

==O==

A butterfly flies lightly on the wind, paper-thin wings catching breezes to carry the small insect to some unknown destination. In a moment, it approaches a towering monolith of black iron. Curious, it draws closer, puzzled by this new flower, and at the moment of contact… fries to a crisp.

Hades, Lord of the Nine Hells and Magistrate of the Underworld, towers like a volcano over the Blessed Meadows, a volcano prepared to erupt in moments. There is deathly silence here, a tension in the air that has caused the animals to flee, leaving the swaying grasses blissfully unaware of the coming storm.

TRICKSTER LORD! COME FORTH AND WITNESS THE BURNING REVENGE I SHALL WREAK UPON YOUR GREEN LANDS!

Hades raises his staff, gathering mile-long ribbons of hellfire around his mountain-sized weapon, and brings it down, impacting the earth and sending out… a swarm of flower petals. The staff sinks more than halfway down into the growing cloud of petals before the Devil King realizes his error at losing half his weapon. A tap on his left shoulder and a twist to investigate reveals nothing except empty space, and he whirls in rage to face the Horned God, standing tall, as the other god hides a chuckle at the inane nature of his simple prank.

I see the fire of anger has filled you with a bit of hot air, eh? Nothing for it but to grab the bull by the horns! With this the Trickster taps Hades’ leftmost horn and a circlet of flowers appears around the tip. The ensuing laugh is cheerful, but not shared by the King of the Underworld.

With a grunt of anger, Hades’ horn glows white hot, and the flower crown disintegrates in glowing motes of ash. I DID NOT COME TO BANDY WORDS OR LAUGH AT CHILDISH JOKES, HORNED ONE. WHY ARE THERE PIECES OF YOUR REALM IN MY OWN KINGDOM?

The Horned God shrugs. Beats me, Hothead. You may want to refresh your walking stick there, though, before we take this stroll, gesturing at the now-shortened length of black iron.

AND WHERE MIGHT WE BE GOING?

To see this flower, of course! I do wonder what kind it is…

I CAME HERE TO ANSWER YOUR CHALLENGE TO MY POWER, AND I WILL NOT LEAVE UNTIL I HAVE DONE BATTLE. THE RULES OF CORPOREAL COMBAT SHALL BE FOLLOWED.

The Greenfather sighs. So be it. A wave of a hand brings them into a gray desert, where featureless sand stretches for miles, the expanse only marred by monoliths of black stone shot through with purest silver.

You shall do no further harm to my treasured realm. We will fight in this empty void-land. Do your worst, the Greenfather declares with bowed head.

And it begins. Hades grinds his massive heel into the sand, and blasts forward towards his resigned opponent. The iron staff whirls around, feinting left but whipping the back end around to connect squarely with... The Horned God’s wooden buckler. Shards of sharp wood spray outwards from the impact, unnaturally seeking out chinks in Hades’ black iron cladding as the giant stumbles backwards after the Greenfather’s parry. Some miss, and some find their mark, but all have minimal effect on the great demon, who shakes them off like a light breeze.

Don’t you know better than to try and trick me? You’ll win this fight by strength and rage alone, Hades, for you’ll never match me in matters of wit... obviously. The Horned God gestures at Hades’ slightly undersized demon head.

Hades bellows, a primal yell infused with the suffering of his subjects, and the Horned God’s hairs stand on end, but he stands his ground, despite his domain’s suggestion that he should run. I am divine, greater than the beasts I govern... but beasts do attack when they are threatened. So will I. A dagger made of Heaven’s Joy flashes like a drop of rain across the space between the deities, and embeds itself in a chink of Hades’ armor near the shoulder. He roars and loosens his grip on the staff, pawing at the hilt with black talons. While the Devil King struggles to extricate the dagger, which is embedded deep in his black flesh and wedged in the armor, the Horned God leaps forward, smashing the buckler into Hades’ exposed face, and whirling to deliver a vicious backhand with a staff that has suddenly appeared in his clawed hand. The Lord of the Nine Hells goes down to one knee, leaning heavily on his staff, ichor oozing from a bloodied face and the wound in his arm. The Horned God approaches cautiously, meeting Hades upturned gaze.

YOU DO HAVE SOME FIGHT IN YOU, HORNED ONE. IT WILL BE BURNED FROM YOU THIS DAY.

Hades launches the tip of his iron staff at the Horned God’s ankles in a last-ditch attempt to knock his opponent to the ground. The tip whizzes by harmlessly with a simple sidestep, but the Greenfather realizes too late that he has been tricked. A push on the other end of the staff, and the tip, now behind him, whips into the back of his left knee, while the other end takes his right ankle out from under him. The satyr body is sent sprawling in the sand, while Hades regains his footing, dagger removed. Before the Greenfather can stand, the tip of the iron staff is at his throat.

REMOVE YOUR... YOUR... ABOMINATION FROM MY REALM!

The Horned God simply smiles. I propose a trade, as we are on equal footing here-

EQUAL FOOTING!? MY WEAPON IS AT YOUR THROAT, TRICKSTER. THERE IS NO... TRICK... HERE... A glance down from Hades reveals the legs of the Horned God primed facing his chest, wickedly sharp hooves ready to deliver a fatal (to any other being) kick to his ribcage.

Shall we go see this last flower in hell?

==O==

It’s not much to look at. Grackle knows that. But it’s as much comfort as a humble demon can afford for something that should be illegal anyway. Grackle has no idea how it got there, but it’s pretty and he likes it. He never expected that Lord Hades himself would take an interest in the pretty little plant. True, it’s much nicer than the fireweed and the painvines that adorn most of the Hellscapes, but it’s just a small thing, a little gift for Grackle, come from who knows where.

They wanted to take it away from Grackle, Lord Hades and The Greenfather. Something about it “being an encroachment of power”. But Grackle didn’t think so; after all, it was just a little plant. Nothing it could do to hurt the Hells. So it stayed, a microscopic spot of green in a vast expanse of red and grey and black. Over the millenia, some condemned souls managed to catch a glimpse of the Last Flower or it’s keeper, and their features seemed to brighten for a moment, for if such a thing of beauty could exist in a place of darkness and suffering, then there was hope for them all. And Grackle? He tended to his flower happily, serving as the first, and only ambassador between Hell and Summerland, and keeping their leaders from locking horns. It wasn’t much, but it was welcome.

#my writing #the mythos #tales from eternity #I love writing the horned god #probably my second favorite god?

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alchemistc · 7 years

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an: apparently my muse is still alive and kicking, it just likes to spend almost an entire year dormant before doing me a solid. this is heavily inspired by ‘uprooted’ my naomi novik, but it’s completely unnecessary to know anything at all about it, though you should definitely read it and cry about it with me.

Summary: Killian Jones has no desire to return to Misthaven, but his captain and his crew are tied to the kingdom in a way he has never understood, and they consider it a duty to be there for the Choosing. Once every fifteen years, the witch in her high tower chooses a man or woman among them and whisks them away, in payment for all she has done to save this kingdom, and to most it is considered a blessing to be chosen. All Killian wants is for the Choosing to be finished and The Jewel to return to sea, and to forget once again all that Misthaven has taken from him.

The Price: Chapter One

There was a hum of quiet anticipation hanging over the bay when The Jewel of the Realm docked in port, despite the teeming masses of ships, boats and dingys all huddled in together - and Killian sighed as he surveyed the place. He’d been too young to really remember the last Choosing, but Liam had woven him grand stories of it - of the mass of people who returned to their homeland, of the ceremony and the excitement bubbling among the residents of this land, of the tense wonder of the people as they waited to see who would be chosen from their ranks. Killian, for his part, didn’t understand it. He’d spent so little time ashore in this kingdom, he could hardly understand why this day, this day that happened once every fifteen years, was so important to the people of Misthaven.

Liam, for all his stories of the land they’d been born in, had no way of explaining the importance of this day. His own memories of growing up amidst the sailors and pirates who frequented their mothers inn while on land were more emotion than anything else, and no matter the tales Liam spun of the place he remembered so fondly, Killian had never quite understood what he meant when he called the place home.

To Killian it was nothing more than a place to resupply.

It was meant to be an honor, being chosen, the greatest honor a man or woman of Misthaven could receive, but for himself, it seemed more like imprisonment.

“Who d’you think it’ll be, this time?”

Killian bit out a sigh, turning to give their quartermaster an unimpressed look. They’d only returned for fear the crew might mutiny if not given the chance to be among those the Swan could choose from - despite an understanding among the crew that of anyone in Misthaven, these merchant sailors were some of the least likely to be chosen in the entire realm, there was a feeling among most of them that even the dream of a chance would be enough. At the very least, they wanted a story to tell, desired that bit of genuine truth to the tales they spun in taverns and whorehouses across the world. The Choosing, they imagined, would make for a larger than life story.

“I’d just as soon cut off my own hand as make idle speculations about what sort of person an immortal sorceress prefers for a servant, Turk. The sooner it’s done and we’re on our way, the better, I say.”

“Oh come, you can’t truly believe there’s some greater importance to this ridiculous event, can you? The witch comes down from her throne once every fifteen years and chooses a strapping young lady or gentlemen with nothing much to recommend them, and it’s a blessing to a tired father who despaired of ever marrying off his daughter, a burden released from a mother of too many children. You call it a blessing, and I call it indentured service.”

“Shouldn’t call her that,” Turk intones quietly, glancing furtively around him as though terrified the woman herself will appear out of thin air, materializing amidst the barrels of spices The Jewel has brought to sell. “And if it ain’t some kind of important, why’s it only ever the one, eh? She’s got enough power, why don’t she just descend on some village and take off with the whole lot of ‘em?”

It’s a question Killian has no desire to answer, and so he doesn’t.

“You should join the crew ashore, Turk. Enjoy your gossip and revelry in the tavern for the night, for tomorrow she’ll choose herself a companion and the rest of us will return to life as normal, and it won’t be a single one of you she chooses. Perhaps you’ll be lucky enough to have known the poor bastard she picks.”

“She’s chosen a man of the sea before, y’know. Nigh on a hundred years it’s been - might be time for another.”

“Well I’ve no desire to take on new crew here, so you had all better pray it’s not one of you.”

The man merely frowns at him before he turns away, and Killian returns to glaring dourly at the shoreline, where tents are being pitched and the growing anticipation in the air hangs over them all like a dark cloud.

He has no desire to be here, not in this place that only ever took from him. He longs for the sea already, for open ocean and steady wind. He’d long ago given up glory, but at least out at sea he has a purpose, a place.

Here there is only the steady march toward uselessness, the inevitable decay of life.

Tonight, the Swan will slide hidden into the crowds of people awaiting her decision, and from them she will find a man or woman silly enough to suit her tastes, and tomorrow Killian will watch his crews disappointment as she returns to her lair, with the knowledge that at the next Choosing, he will be far too old to be even a consideration. And with any luck, a fortnight after that, he will be back at sea, and after a month or two, the crew will forget all about the Swan of Misthaven.

------

He means to spend the evening aboard the ship, but as the sun sets over the bay, he finds himself being cajoled into a rowboat by Liam and dragged across the beach to an encampment of men the elder Jones had sailed with years ago.

While his brother joins in the merriment of the crew, who all remember him fondly, and wish to celebrate both the day and their friends ascension through the ranks to captaincy, Killian stews over his meal. He’d told Liam this was all a waste of time, that Arendelle would pay twice as much for the spices in their hold, but his brother had been insistent that they attend to their duties - they’d been born in Misthaven, raised under the light of its prosperity, and it was only fair they paid homage to the sorceress who secured that peace, or so Liam said.

He had a foggy memory, when it came to their childhood, or at least the part Killian had been a part of. His brother was ten years his senior, and his recollection of this place was perhaps more happy than Killian’s own.

But Killian remembered the sickness that had taken his mother, her loss like a missing limb, he recalled the way it had felt when their father vanished, remembered scrounging for scraps and most of all he remembered what it felt like to be stripped of his freedom, to be forced to work for awful men and to be beholden to the moods of masters.

Laughter broke out not far off from Killian, and he watched his brothers grin widen as he shovelled a pile of mismatched trinkets into his ever growing pile of winnings. If he looked closely, he was sure he’d find his brothers very own set of ivory die being used atop the upturned crate masquerading as a table - a pair Killian himself had bought his brother in a fit of pique, knowing his honorable brother would find no pleasure in cheating a man in a gamble. And yet, despite making a show of tossing the damn things at Killian’s head, they’d managed to find their way into Liam’s coat pocket on many an occasion, and they’d swindled plenty of even less honorable men out of coin before. He couldn’t imagine why his brother would be using them now, but Killian had made himself something of an outcast in this group, and attempting to slink into their ranks now would arouse suspicion.

His disposition only darkened as the exuberant crowd around him broke into song, and all along the beach others joined in, until the melody overpowered every sense - he’d been seven the last time he heard this song, crying in the dark as his mother faded, and still she’d hummed brokenly along as the people in the tavern below bellowed the tune.

Across all of Misthaven this song was being sung, and to most of them it was a near sacred melody, the song of the Swan, who saved the realm and offered its people prosperity in return for one of their own, once every fifteen years.

To Killian, it was a reminder not of gain, but of loss.

Not halfway through it, Killian had had enough. Gathering up the bottle of rum he’d hardly touched, and avoiding his brother’s gaze as Liam threw an arm around the shoulders of his neighbor, he darted away toward the treeline, and cut across the dark edges of the forest in search of some peace and quiet.

He slowed his pace only when the sounds from the beach were overtaken by the soft lapping of waves. He’d reached an empty cove, too small for a ship to weigh anchor and thoroughly unoccupied, and with a small sigh of relief he pressed out into the sand again, leaving behind the quiet whisper of the trees. The moon was high tonight, a fact for which Killian was grateful for - he’d spent the better part of his hike taking great gulps of his rum, and the moon provided the only light along the shoreline, now that he’d wandered so far from the firelight of the camps.

His steps were far more careful than usual as he climbed down a rocky outcropping to reach the sanded shore of the cove, but when he reached the sand he lost his studied air, shucking off his boots to let his flesh sink first into sand and then the crisp cool waters of the low tide. There was a vague, niggling memory of his mother, here, of her admonition the first time he and Liam had dragged each other home from the beach after dark, sopping wet and freezing, too giddy with their own small rebellion to care as they dripped onto the floor while mother bundled them in blankets and sat them before the fire.

It was a warm memory, and Killian settled softly into the sand, the bottle of rum - significantly less full now than it had been earlier - tucked against his side.

Off in the distance, Killian could see a number of boats anchored a mile or so out, and felt a desperate pang to be aboard one of them - any, really, would do - to feel the sway of the ocean beneath his feet, where he was far steadier than he’d ever been on dry land; to see land fall away and hear the wind catch the slack of a sail.

He let himself be carried off for a while by the sight of the bobbing lanterns far out, let his mind wander to far more pleasant things than this wretched spit of land Liam still sometimes called home, and so he could hardly be blamed for letting his heart be calmed by the gentle sound of water slipping over the beach, for letting his eyes dip closed as he slid his head to the pillow of the sand below.

He couldn’t tell how long it had been since he dozed off, but when he opened his eyes again he knew instantly that something was off. The light of the moon should have dimmed by now, as it slipped further inland, but instead there was an odd, bright light filtering through the semi-circle of the cove.

The bottle of rum beside him was empty, and though Killian couldn’t remember drinking it all, the only logical conclusion was that he’d finished it off. A dream, perhaps, or a hallucination - there was every possibility he’d stumbled across some plant along the edges of the forest that sapped the sanity temporarily from a man, and as he blinked and sat up his theory seemed confirmed.

There was a woman by the edge of the water, and it was from her that this mysterious light seemed to come from, glowing as though from inside her skin. Killian shook his head, trying vainly to clear the cobwebs, but as he continued too stare he took note that the fish tail he’d been sure was a trick of the light was, indeed, nothing of the sort.

She smiled, and though Killian knew he should find solace in this charming grin, knew without having to think that it was meant solely for him, something in it felt off. It was a trick, and no amount of rum or Misthaven weeds could convince him otherwise.

Though he knew she was beautiful, if asked to describe her he wasn’t sure he could bring up a single feature to explain what she looked like - not the color of her hair or the curve of her jaw, not the shape of her eyes or the twist of her lip. The grin fell from her face as he reached for the dagger at his belt. “Are you frightened of me?” the creature asked, her head tilting to the side in careful study as he scrambled inelegantly to his feet. The rum, as ever, was both his warmest friend and his greatest enemy.

“Frightened? No. I find myself unwilling to place too much trust in a creature of magic.”

She laughed, amused by something other than his quiet tension, and the sound should have been magical - indeed he felt, and fought, the sense of calm that washed over him at the tinkling of her voice. “I wish you no harm, sailor.”

“Forgive me if I don’t take a siren at her word.”

The grin widened, her lips nearly cracking with glee, and there he could see it, hidden under the surface of her soft face and the bright light around her - darkness, inky black and desperate to break free. “Is that what you see? Interesting.”

“And what am I meant to see?”

The beast raised her arms out from her sides, twisting, and for a moment it seemed to Killian as though she were sprouting wings, the shimmering image of white feathers billowing out around her - a blink and they were gone, as she twisted from side to side. “Whatever you want to see,” she told him, but as she looked at him now her eyes flashed, and there was something pointed in the turn of her lip, beaklike for a moment before the image of the siren returned.

“I’m dreaming,” he spoke aloud, just to remind himself of the fact, and again, the shimmering image of her darkened.

“Perhaps you are. Perhaps not. It makes no real difference. Though if you are, I have to wonder why your mind has conjured me up.”

“A reminder not to trust this land, not to fall victim to it’s trickery.”

“A fine theory. Allow me to submit a counterpoint?”

“My dream. If I tell you no, and you go away, then it doesn’t matter. If I tell you no and you respond anyway, I suppose I must want to hear it.”

“You’ve a strange mind.”

“Say your piece and leave me be.” Whatever this dream was meant to be, Killian wanted it to be done.

“If this is a dream, perhaps you see me for a different reason. Perhaps your mind is trying to remind you of the magic you alone among your fellows is able to see. And if it’s not a dream… well. The same logic applies.”

“My men have seen creatures far more terrifying than you.”

“Oh, I’m certain they have. But what do you see? To them, I’m as you say - a creature sent to lure them to their deaths, a beast with a handsome face. But you see something else, don’t you?”

Killian desperately wished he could say no, but the feathers of the wings, furled tight now against her back, were gleaming in the unnatural bright blue light, and the whites of her eyes were fading into corners, a swirling darkness taking it’s place.

“What is it, exactly, that you see, Killian?” the beast wondered, and for all that he’d convinced himself this was a dream, he felt a chill at the idea that she knew his name.

“I see all this place has ever shown me. A pretty lie, a beautiful wrapping, and beneath it nothing but loss.”

This was apparently all the beast needed. Her grin faded as she took him in, careful and considering, a hint of annoyance snapping across her features before her expression became neutral, and without another word, she slid away from him. In the fading light, Killian watched her go, his eyes struggling to keep track of the tail sliding into the water, unable to make sense of why one moment he saw scales, the next a jut of feathers, and then both the beast and the light were gone.

Killian woke to the sun blazing against his face, the tide at his knees, and a finger of rum left in his bottle, the dream still vivid in his mind, more real than memory. The cove was quiet and empty, still, and if he had to guess, it was close to midday. His body felt rested but his mind still teemed with exhaustion, and without a care for the way it would look to his brother, Killian downed the last of the rum before he stood.

There was an inkling of memory, of the rum having been gone the night before, but that seemed reason enough to believe it had all been a dream.

Before he left, he took one last look to the edge of the beach where he’d dreamed up the creature the night before, and though the spot where she’d lain had by now been wiped away by the water, he could see no sign of her having ever been there.

A dream, he reminded himself, and set off to meet his brother.

#i feel so rusty #but it won't leave me alone #idk what version of them i should call this #leiutenant dark!swan #for now #cs ff

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