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"Fuck." He muttered. "This one was too smart."
Mule sat down and crossed his legs. He took deep breaths and held each one for a moment. His heart pounded in his chest from all the exertion, so he put his attention into calming it down. Deep, slow, rhythmic breaths repeated again and again until he was barely breathing at all.
Slow the heart... Slow the poison...
* * *
Sweat trickled down his face and tickled his nostril. But he didn't stir, he couldn't stir. He was dead; even his heart had stopped beating. Then why was he sweating?
This new catch of hers was odd. Meat wasn't supposed to still be alive when it was dead, that was just silly. She fluttered her wings once in annoyance to straighten out the feathers. When they bunched up together uncomfortably, it agitated her. Her hands touched his cheek -- it wasn't completely cold, but close to it. She leaned down and placed her ear to his chest one more time and listened. Still nothing.
Yet he felt comfortable, so she stayed there, laying on her food and feeling his muscled chest with her fingertips as they danced up and down his body. It was a shame this one had died, he would have made a nice nest-warmer. She closed her eyes and imagined what he would taste like if she could have kept him to warm her on cold nights.
Something thumped inside his chest. It startled her and she lifted up and looked at the handsome dead man underneath her. All she could hear were the rending sounds of her children devouring the other corpse. She looked over and found her two daughters feasting heartily and contently.
Curious, she placed her head against his chest once more and waited.
Thump.
She smiled. This one was still alive. But what to do about him? She didn't know what ailed him, or how to heal him. If she ate him still alive, what ever disease or poison that made him this way would then infect her. A glorious idea came to her -- meat that would keep a bit longer. They would take him home until he died properly, then they would know not to eat the flesh. Should he recover, then she would decide whether to have a meal later, or a nest warmer.
"Harla, Yuma, Eat your fill then help me take this one home."
"Yes mother." Her two girls replied in unison. Their mouths were smeared with blood, but their eyes were innocent enough to not understand their mother's intentions.
They finished eating what they had in their claws and hopped over to their mother like a bird would. A fitting amble, considering below the waist they resembled birds. Their mother pointed to each of the man's arms. Yuma and Harla waddled over and each one took hold of an arm. Their mother grabbed his legs, and on her signal beat their wings soundly once to straighten them, then furiously to lift their cargo off the ground. Their combined effort was enough to get airborne very quickly, and with practiced synchronism, they flew off towards home.
High in the branches of a giant redwood the three came to a landing amid an intricately woven array of rough lumber planks and rope. Holes in the planks were threaded with the rope to create a flexible, yet durable, net. Soft straw and feathers had been packed into crevices and openings to pad the wooden web, and to build up a softer, cushiony wall. The whole structure resembled a shallow bowl.
The three winged women dropped off their cargo, and then landed apart form him.
"We go finish eating now?" Yuma asked.
"Yes dear, don't stay out past dark."
"Yes Mother!" Harla squealed with glee as the two flew off to finish their meal.
Their mother watched them go for a while before turning her attention to the prize they had brought home. It had been a long time since she had lain with a male and kept a nest warmer. Not since Harla and Yuma were conceived. The memories suddenly made her yearn to know that touch and taste once more.
Her mind reminisced as she looked over his body. His clothes would have to go. So she proceeded to remove them carefully. Unlike her children, her hands weren't clawed but still resembled a human's and so were capable of dexterous work. The smell of him was rich and alluring, she paused to breath in the scent from his clothes. Her head tilted back, her eyes rolled shut, and her senses fluttered from the invigorating smell of this male. A shiver ran down her body and her hands followed it as they coursed over her pert athletic breasts and down her flat stomach. It tingled her womanhood and both hands converged on that spot.
Her mouth slowly dropped open and she breathed huskily through it, letting the pheromones of her man tickle her nose a little more. There was something special about him, something electrifying, like the smell of the air right before a lightning storm. Healthy or not, she couldn't wait any longer to taste him.
Slowly she crawled on top of him, her arms planted by his sides as her head hovered over his chest. He smelled so much richer now. Her elongated tongue came out for a little taste and took a long lick from the top of his chest. She tasted the sweat that had started to bead along his sternum and cooed deeply. She wanted more. She needed more.
Her body started to sway slightly as each pass of her tongue over his skin awoke old sensations in her body. Her lips sought out one of his nipples and bit it slightly, the sharp points barely pinching the flesh. She drew back sensually and watched it keep its erect shape -- he was responding. That revelation made her womanhood tingle again - she could make him respond to her. Slowly she slid down his body, her tongue tasting his chest, abdomen, and sides along the way. Each lick was savored and summoned a moan of delight from her throat. The smell of his crotch called to her, his scent was strongest there, and she licked all around the small tuft of hair that grew right above his cock.
Her fingers gingerly picked up the limp piece of flesh and moved it aside so she could taste the inner sides of his thighs. That limp flesh in her fingertips throbbed in response, and her fingers started to stroke it between them. Her tongue swirled wetly over his scrotum, caressing each round hairy testicle. But her attentions were not getting her the reaction she desired. His pulsing member was only slightly swollen; he would need to recover before she could get what she wanted.
Frustrated, she pushed away from him. As her mind pondered how to remedy this predicament she leaned over the man and looked at his body. It would take some time for him to recover on his own, of that she was certain. To keep him alive, he would need to eat, but not as he was. An idea came to her, one that only a mother that had nursed sick children would have. She pulled the man's head into her lap and leaned her breasts down to his mouth. Slowly she kneaded the areola of one supple breast until mother's milk started to flow down into his open mouth. It gave her a slight amount of pleasure as well, and she moaned softly to herself as her fingers played with the other nipple pleasurably. She would feed him like this, it might not be enough to make him strong, but it would keep him alive until the poison or sickness worked its course.
Then she would have her nest mate. Her mind fantasized of the lovemaking they would do as she played with her nipples. Her fingers let the erect bud go and went straight for the wet mound between her thighs. In her already aroused state, it wasn't long before she brought herself to a climax. Her wings spread wide and spasmed as her voice screeched high into the dusk sky.
**** *
The Mischevious
There, she heard it again.
The Mischievous listened carefully to the sound of the rain - the soft pitter-patter of the slow drizzle. That was the second time she had heard the faint call of a predator bird in the distance. Something big had just died, and this bird was calling its family in to feast.
She looked to her leg. The wound was still unhealed, but the metal barb had been removed and the muscles had reattached. She was too tired to try magic again, but it was working. Slowly, but surely, the old lessons she had ignored in her training were coming back to her. She needed to practice channeling it better before she could completely mend the flesh. Then, she would be fit enough. Then, she could have her revenge.
High in the rafters of this storage building the Zecarin girl hid away from the eyes of the humans that lived in this compound. Only the stupid ones came to this building to fetch supplies. The masters trained in the courtyard. She could see them all clearly from the small vent hole in the roof near where she hid. Since she escaped the chapel no one had come looking for her - not the elite soldiers, not the flunkies, not even the Father. It was as it they didn't care what had become of her - a very odd reaction to her escape.
She thought about what The Father had said -- they only take students here. Not guests, not hostages, and not visitors. That implied that the reason they weren't looking for her, was because she hadn't tried to leave the compound. As her thoughts reminisced, she remembered the interrogations. Not all of them had been unpleasant. A warm flush came to her cheeks and a yearning between her legs. She touched the bare skin of her thigh and caressed herself softly.
"Need to scratch that itch?" The Father's comment suddenly popped into her memories. He was right; she needed to stop sating her sexual lusts. She would need the extra edge to deal with these humans. But the thirst needed to be sated or she would go insane quickly.
Her caressing hand went to her wounded thigh and parted the bare pink flesh. Blood swelled up and she dipped her fingers in it before bringing them to her lips. She teased herself at first letting the drop of crimson soak into her tongue as she savored the taste. Just when it was about to make her cheeks flush again, she suckled her red fingers, licking them dry. This technique had its limits. She would need a fresh supply if she wanted to sate her thirst. But first she needed a healed leg.
Her hands went to each side of the wound, and she pressed the flesh together. It hurt, but she didn't falter. She closed her eyes and exhaled deeply. The patter of the raindrops above started to fade away as she concentrated on the spell. She became aware of her own body, the throbbing of her injury leg, and her own lifeforce within it. Now came the part that scared her. She pulled at that energy from other parts of her body, arms, shoulders, feet, guts, and spread it around her wounded leg. She always used a gentle touch before, only pulling small amounts of that energy out of fear of damaging the healthy parts of her. That was the danger in healing magic -- nothing was free. But her light touches weren't having a quick enough effect on her wound. So she pulled more energy to it.
She remembered a training exercise when a recruit slipped and fell, breaking her neck and multiple bones. Her lover tried to heal her wounds, but they ended up with two corpses that day. Fatal wounds required more healers, to lessen the cost to all, and there weren't many Zecarins willing to sacrifice their own health.
Her mind snapped back to her task and she found the wound closed and the skin barely scarred over. She ceased the spell immediately and took in a deep breath. There was a sudden surge of aches and pains all throughout her body, as the muscles, joints and bones had given up some of their health for the wound. But as she took stock of her condition, it was nothing a good night sleep couldn't fix. Her head throbbed painfully as the sound of the raindrops returned to her ears.
The Mischievous leaned her head against a support beam and gazed out the window. Out in the courtyard, elite soldiers were training with two short sticks a piece -- two handed combat. She watched them practice and spar mercilessly, no strike was pulled, no target off limits. But once an opponent went down and didn't get up, he was through and the next one presented himself.
The rest was a blur as an exhausted sleep quickly took her.
***
Predawn light seeped into the darkness of the monastery courtyard. Eight of the guards, the ones that called themselves Elites, were already awake and training with thin staves. They sparred silently, working diligently to mask their sounds of combat. This was more stealth training than weapons training. Two sparred at a time while the others watched and observed. When one was beaten down to the ground, the winner backed off and two more took their place. The only sound that escaped them was the occasional clack of an exceptionally powerful strike.
The Mischievous watched them from the window in her loft. She still had on the same blood-stained green pants and open brown vest that exposed her chest. Her hand fidgeted over the hole in the green fabric where she was stabbed. There was something odd about the men here, and she was determined to find out their secrets. Old men shouldn't be able to move that fast, and his flunky guards shouldn't be able to overtake her in aerial maneuvers. These guards were the real force here, the rest --the acolytes- were just servants.
An acolyte in a dark robe appeared from one of the barracks and walked towards her barn. As he came closer she could make out his face and, more specifically, the broken nose she gave him. He was one of her torturers - the one that liked to urinate on prisoners. A foul minded, ruthless man who used his wit as a weapon. He liked to provoke his adversaries into a blind rage so they would make mistakes. And he liked to brag about it to them.
She couldn't have hoped for a better target.
He opened the large door to her storage building. A shaded metal lantern lighted his way inside as he entered mumbling and scratching himself in obscene ways. He went to the dry storage crates along the east wall and opened one up. Carrots, potatoes, and beets were piled high and deep inside the crate. The acolyte fumbled through the selection trying to find some appetizing ones, unaware he was being watched.
The Mischievous waited for just that moment when he was preoccupied and descended upon him. There was no warning, just the quiet thunk! of her knife in the back of his neck. She caught the body as it fell, and laid it down quietly as the last jerks and spasms of an ending life subsided. The faint clack-clack of the sparring outside resumed uninterrupted. She waited until she was certain no one was coming to investigate before she hauled the body over a shoulder and carried it out the door he came in. There was no one around accept the men training in the courtyard. She skirted along the side of the buildings until she came to the sheds these men used to make their waste. If she understood their custom, these sheds covered deep holes the men used to relieve themselves and to dispose of their garbage. She opened one of them, and fed the body down the chute until it disappeared from sight.
"So long." She whispered with a grin and slunk off into the cover of the closest building. As she skirted the side, she came up on the side that faced the sparring elite guards. Curiosity got the better of her and she paused to watch. Their skill was very impressive, and their control over their own body was almost flawless. But after a few such matches she could already predict some of the parries and thrusts -- they had no improvisation, it was all overly practiced to the point of being routine. "hmm, I wonder if that's what the old geezer meant." She whispered to herself.
Her lips curled slightly into an impish grin and she bit her bottom lip playfully as a thought came to her. She crouched and pulled her hair back, tying it up with bit of lace cut from her boot. She buttoned her vest up so that it squished her dark skinned breasts to overflowing proportions, yet held them snuggly against her. It was time for some exercise. She made her way towards their sparing match; if they had looked her direction they'd have seen her coming. Her hands stretched forward, loosening the muscles. But the moment she stretched her back, a twinge of pain shot through her back and she crumpled to one knee grabbing it.
The healing...She had forgotten about it already.
Before they spotted her The Mischievous quickly darted back behind the building. Then, just as she had come, she made her way back to her barn and climbed up the rafters to her window. Her body still needed to heal, and it would be wiser to learn more about these men. So she settled in and watched the sun rise over the grounds.
The day drew on with little excitement. Acolytes came and went doing their chores. They even held their own martial practice sessions, but their skill was far below the elites; she could see why. These men didn't have the focus and discipline for it -- they made the same mistakes in their routines again and again, or lost their temper and grew frustrated easily. They would never pose a threat to her or any skilled combatant.
Her observations were cut short when she saw three acolytes walking towards her new abode armed with spears and lanterns. They walked with purpose -- no doubt coming to investigate their comrade's disappearance. She slinked off into the shadows above. There she watched and waited as they searched every bin, box, bag, and barrel in the building below. When they found his lantern they gathered around it an examined the area.
"Where'd he go?" one man muttered.
"At this point, I don't really care anymore." Another replied. "I'm going to get the vegetables so we can finally eat. You can stay and search if you want." And he did just that, making some quick selections from the crates and heading back the way he had come.
"Should we report this?" The third one asked.
"To who?" The first one said.
"To the Father!" he replied.
"I don't need another lecture on vigilance, do you?" the first one said, "and I don't want to spend time in the box for breaking my vows. You know he'll ask about her. She's the only one that coulda gotten him."
"I thought the Elites killed her?"
"I heard they did, but she escaped."
"You mean that damn Zek is still on the loose?!" His companion went white as he grabbed the first one's arm. The man started laughing so hard he had to bend over and grab his knees. His alarmed friend let go of his arm and looked angry.
"I got you!" He laughed. "Let's go check the shitter, he's problem in there waxing his pole again."
"You bastard!" he fumed and punched the other in the arm. "You go check the shitter. I'm done with this. Going to go get something to eat." He muttered and walked off after the third one.
"Ehh... Fuck the bastard, I'm hungry too." The jokester shrugged and followed the others.
The Mischievous pulled her legs into her chest and settled in for a nap. With this kind of 'vigilance' she didn't have much to worry about. Just as her thoughts started to drift off, her stomach churned and growled. All the talk of food reminded her she needed something to eat as well. An idea came to her and she crawled over to the ledge of the attic space she occupied and peered over the edge. Below her was the same carrot and potato crate. She was craving some nice juicy meat -- a rare steak sounded delicious -- but what she had below would do, and it served as an opportunity to practice her old magic lessons.
She draped her dark grey-skinned arm over the ledge and concentrated on the carrot. She envisioned it levitating up into her hand, and locked that image into her mind. Long moments passed and nothing happened until her stomach growled again.
"ergh..." she muttered and rolled off the ledge, falling down to the first floor. At the last minute she alighted in mid-air, and floated the rest of the way to the ground. She grabbed a healthy looking carrot and bit the tip off it viciously. It crunched loudly in her mouth as she munched. There was some corn and tomatoes here as well. But it was a very phallic looking cucumber that snagged her attention. The Mischievous grabbed as much as her arms could hold and looked up at the ledge. Her body lifted up and soared straight up to the loft above where she settled back in to finish her lunch.
