Rising

The sky was painted with smoke. It cast a heavy gloom, promising a sizable downpour of hail laced rain, a stinging sleet that would smother and sap the strength of all. The dark and suffocating drear of the sky had already sapped their spirits.

Methaniel stood upon the small rise of a hill, his hand resting on the hilt of his broadsword. His armor gleamed in the rare flicker of light to penetrate the smoke and cloud. A large dent graced the left of his breastplate. It had originally been much larger, but had since been worked out as well as the smith could manage. The smithy was crowded with more heavily damaged equipment, so Methaniel did not mind. The damaged plate pressed inward against his pectoral muscle till it ached. It was one of many minor discomforts that he couldn't find the heart to complain about. His life remained and he stood without any heavy wounds or handicaps. It was more than most could say. After nearly a year waging war on the battlefield, only the luck of the goddess could explain his relatively unscathed state.

The land before him stretched on, a bloody and scarred field with thick mud that had been trampled by countless boots. The coming rain would only worsen it, and footing would be difficult when the rain lifted and the armies met on the field. It could be tomorrow...it could be a week. Winter storms in the mountainous regions were never certain. Beyond the field he could make out the hastily erected tents of the enemy encampment. They too would be counting their dead today, re-grouping and rearming their remaining soldiers and horses. Upon the morn, battle would commence anew.

He swept a shining copper lock from his face, pushing it back to hang down to his shoulders. His hands grasped his cloak and pulled it tighter around his body in a futile effort to ward off the chill and damp breeze. He stood motionless a moment longer, a tall and proud figure atop the small rise, gazing on at the grim truth of his world. He turned and his cloak whipped back and billowing out in the slight breeze that filled it. He walked back to his tent.

Before he could reach his tent Grimlock intercepted him.

Grimlock was a physician, though he was a dwarf, and a burly one with massive, gnarled hands that looked better suited to the smithy than the delicacies of medicine and healing. He was something of an oddity in that he was one of the very few physicians in the army. With clerics and priests to neatly tend the wounded through divinities, holy spells, and sacred relics, physicians were deemed messy and unreliable. However, in recent months the war had become more costly than ever, and the death toll was on a steady climb. The clerics and holy men were overwhelmed by the dead and wounded, and a call had gone out to those who healed not through magic, but through science.

"A moment m' lord," Grimlock rumbled. He wiped blood from his meaty hands with a rag heavily splotched in red.

"What news, Grimlock?" Methaniel asked quietly.

"Arthas din'a make it. The lad's taken 'is place in the gods' kingdom," said Grimlock somberly. "I be sorry, Methaniel. He was a good lad. I couldn'a help him."

"I understand, Grimlock. I held little hope that he would survive. The wound was grievous," Methaniel replied. He patted the dwarve's broad shoulder gently and began to walk to his tent once more.

"Methaniel," Grimlock spoke after him. "Ye need to see this."

The Dwarf pulled a large arrow from where it had been tucked into his belt. Methaniel turned and approached Grimlock. He took the arrow and turned it slowly in his hands. The shaft was slightly bent, either from the impact with which it slammed into Arthas' chest or by Grimlock when he extracted it, which one Methaniel couldn't tell. It painted black and had no other distinguishing features. The arrow head, bent and chipped from thudding into Arthas' sternum, was made of steel, which would penetrate deeply if the aim was true.

"Thank you, good Dwarf. This makes some things clear...and others less so."

Methaniel would say nothing else and walked into his tent with the arrow clutched tightly in his fist, leaving the physician to scratch thoughtfully at his beard.

*

Chapter One

An hour before dawn Ahma awoke. The seven other women in her room were in the same process of waking; they were all used to years of the routine. A chill breeze rushed through the cracks between the stone walls, causing the women to shiver as they dressed and braided each others hair. Hannah, the only other Wingling in the house, helped Ahma to braid her thick brunet tresses. Ahma returned the favor and carefully groomed the older woman's delicate, dainty wings.

The two Winglings scurried out of the servants quarters and tailed the others to the kitchens. The fires were burning in the stoves, the only light coming into the room. Soon the kitchen would be fully lit by sunlight streaming through the windows. The cook put out the servants food.

Breakfast was only ten minutes these days, a merger meal of crust and scraps of last night's few pieces of meat. Very few words were exchanged during the meal. Ahma sat in sullen silence and tried to calm the grumbling of her stomach demanding more than what had been set out for it. She finished her thin, gruelish porridge and started the hard crust provided for her. The bindings holding her wings tightly to her body chaffed at her. The discomfort and pain ruined her appetite as it always did, and she forced herself to eat even the little amount of food she had.

After the morning meal the servants split apart and began their duties around the manor. Hannah went to the foyer at the front of the Manor to clean. Ahma made her way toward the library. It had been her desire for some time to be the servant assigned to the library. Cleaning the room, dusting the shelves, polishing the desks and chairs took a full week to complete, but the room held fond memories for her, from the times before the old Master's death.

The study was massive. The Master had been an advocate of books in a realm that was only marginally literate. Aside from the royal library (which from what Ahma had heard from Gareth, a Halfling man who once worked in the palace, was largely unused), Master Daelen's study was one of the single largest collection of text in the north most reach of Durinum. Bookcases stretch from ceiling to floor, worked from rich, well polished oak. The volumes gracing the shelves ranged from barely an inch thick to being almost too big for Ahma to properly carry. The well-dusted volumes were written in the native script of nearly all the races that coexisted in Durinum, and even some that did not. Two great, spacious windows occupied the only wall that was not crowded by bookcases. The windows overlooked the richest of the Manor's south gardens. The sun crept through the window and edged the well-trimmed hedges and brightly blooming pants in the glowing orange of dawn.

First, she dusted and polished the master sitting chair, as she had every day for more than a decade. It was a tall backed, well crafted chair befitting nobility, carved from cherry wood with intricate and fine vines and wildlife along the back and a true rarity: a padded, feather-down seat. She could still see him, sitting upright and proud in his comfortable chair, gesturing to a book he wanted to read. Often, he would read aloud to her, letting her neglect whatever duties she had that day.

But those were different times. She now had to finish her duties before the evening meal or there would be consequences. Not just for her, but for everyone. The death of the Master meant hardship for everyone and personal grief for herself.

She didn't have time to think about it, and her state of mind would only deteriorate if she did. She emptied the shelves on the west wall today. She tended each wall and its respective shelf on a daily rotation; there were simply too many books in the study to tend and clean in one day. The Wingling girl dusted and polished the wood. It gleamed with the care of dozens of servants over the years. The manor had stood for hundreds of years. It was rumored to have been built and first inhabited by an extension of the royal family itself, and later given as a gift by the king to the Master's grand father for his service to the throne. With proper care, this library would stand for another hundred years or more, and Ahma felt an odd sense of pride for her role in keeping it in shape.

She put the books back on the shelves in exact order. The Master had spent countless hours organizing the library, with her help, after his retirement from the knights. He had been the first in generations of his line to organize the room, really to even care for it. He had declared a need for a hobby once his retirement was official, and with his son so far from home, he had set about busying himself fully with the study's organization and refurbishing. He was not a man comfortable in idleness, that much had been sure. Even with his attention focused upon the study, it was obvious he was not comfortable no longer having an active role in Durinum's army. The Master had always struck her as being somewhat lonely...His wife, the love of his life, had passed away before Ahma had even come to the Manor, and he had never taken another woman to her knowledge. His son had rarely been home...she could hardly even remember seeing him in her youth. Perhaps that was why the Master had always talked to her and been kind to her. Ahma had become something of a strange companion to him...and he, a father to her. Some of the other servants had been resentful, especially the Stewart...but the Master had told her to pay no mind.

Ahma sniffled softly. She clenched her jaw and willed the wave of misery to pass. It had been nearly half a year since the Master had passed, and with him, the only bit of kindness in her life. She would not give in to self pity, and the period of mourning for the Noble had ended four months ago. But how could one confine one's grief to a set period? Humans and their traditions confounded her sometimes.

Quickly as she could, but much attention and care, Ahma finished with the shelves and books before moving to the Master's desk. It was large, also carved out of cherry wood, and during the Master's life, surprisingly cluttered and messy considering what a neat and orderly man the Master usually was. Now it was clean and neat, with a pen set beside a capped inkwell and a stack of unblemished parchment beside it. The Master's favorite book, written in elvish (which he had spoken fluently) and bound in leather sat on the left side of the desk, placed there intentionally by her. He had often read it to her. It described Dragons, the fearsome creatures that were feared and hated the realm over. The mountainous reaches of Durinum had once housed many roosts of the wyrms, but the spreading nation had chased the massive creatures away with raiding parties too large for even their impressive might to contend with. Ahma had never seen a Dragon of course...No one had, except for perhaps the oldest of Durinum's elves, but she was as secretly fascinated with them as the Master had been.

Ahma let out a heavy sigh and stood up. Her wings were stiff and achy from all the bending and stretching she did while she cleaned. The sun filled the room, stifled by the gloom of heavy winter clouds hanging across the sky. At first Ahma thought it would snow, or perhaps sleet, but the heavens began to open and a light drizzle began to fall across the gardens below.

She placed her dusting rag in an unoccupied drawer in the Masters now empty desk, and shut the door to the study quietly behind her. She was done before schedule, and the study would not be inspected till just before the evening meal. She could stay in the Study, undisturbed, and continue to attempt to finish learning how to read, but without the Master to finish teaching her where he left off, reading felt hollow. And the rain called to her.

The crisp grass tickled her bare feet as she shut the door to the side gardens behind her. She walked deeper into the gardens, taking a deep breath. The day smelled of gloom and greenery and rain, and Ahma was glad the Manor was uphill of the city commons, and thus upwind of the stench of Durinum's masses. The rain was coming down steadily now, a soaking but gentle downpour.

The east garden was much more natural than the southern garden overlooked by the study. This garden was more of a clustering of trees and shubbery, and had been allowed to grow in a more natural and wild way. The grass was tended and weeds removed, and the trees and undergrowth had been cleared out so that people could walk through the trees and bushes, but the plants and flora were allowed to otherwise grow as they would. Many of the trees were naked and spindly looking, their green cloaks having been shed for the winter, leaving their gnarled and branching bodies to cool in the winter winds. The snow had been cleared away from this part of the gardens, but another shower was sure to come along in a few days and leave the ground white. The limbs of the trees were still fairly heavy with powder.

The rain was chill, but Ahma did not mind cold, and the day was surprisingly warm for the season. She would have to spend time warming herself by the kitchens fires when she went inside, but for now she was unconcerned. She wandered deeper into the garden till she came near the small lake the Master had been so fond of. He had fished therein his youth, but as age came upon him took to simply watching the ripples on its surface. A layer of ice covered it now, and snow was piled on its smooth surface where it had fallen from the overhanging branches in great clumps. She didn't trust the ice as stable enough to walk upon given the mildness of the season.

The Manor was still in sight, but the men would be busy tending to the animals and bringing them out of the rain for the day and harvesting the winter crops on the west side of the Manor as quickly as they could before the approaching winter rains and snow ruined them. The other servant women had enough sense not to be out in the cold rain.

Ahma undid the bindings on her dress as she approach the lake. She smiled when she spotted Hannah and nodded a greeting.

"We Wingling have no sense, you know," Hannah said by wave of greeting. "I think the Humans may just have it right with their bathes and warm water."

"It is our way," Ahma replied. She pulled her dress off and placed it under a pine tree that still had most of its needles.

Hannah handed Ahma a rag and a sliver of dirty and worn soap. Ahma thanked her.

The young Wingling was a vision as she bathed. Her hair was long and thick, a shining, healthy chestnut shade with shocks of gold along her bangs. Braided it hung down below her buttocks and was so thick it took several minutes out in the rain for it to completely soak through. Her skin was the snow white shade of her people, as if untouched by the sun, though she bore light tan-lines from regular tending of the flowerbeds. Her face was perfection. It had a gentle oval shape and large, wide eyes of a deep brown. Her nose was small and delicate and slightly upturned and her lips were full and had a natural purse with a pronounced and dainty cupids bow.

Ahma's figure was that of her people as well; slender and slim with pronounced, extravagant curvature. Her shoulders were slightly wide and her hips round and supple. Her breasts were full, perky, round, and enormous, hanging high and surprisingly firm on her young chest. They were as all Wingling women were; Hannah, too, had an oversized bosom, and it remained tight and perky despite the graying around her temples. Wingling women could support their generous chests due to the powerful flight muscles needed for flight through their backs and chest. Ahma's took on a firm teardrop shape, with just a touch of pull along the heavy bottoms. Her nipples were hard and throbbed softly from the cold rain splashing across her bosom, a pleasing cherry blossom color. Her areola were of the same color and stretched across her generous breasts. Her bosom jiggled softly as she bathed.

Her stomach pulled inward slightly and her ribs could be seen through her flesh. Hannah had the same look about her middle; all the servants did these days. Belts had been tightened alarmingly since the Master passed away. No one could complain...it did no good for any of them, and had only been met thus far with even more ration cuts.

Her womanhood was soft and plump, and smooth as silk from top to bottom. This, too, was the way of her people, both the men and the women...Some Wingling grew a small path of downy feathers over their genitals, as Hannah had. Ahma and Hannah had both been puzzled upon seeing a thatch of pubic hair the one time a human servant woman had joined them in their bathing ritual, and agreed that humans were quite odd. Ahma's buttocks were full, shapely, plump and meaty with a perky and round shape.

Finally, Ahma's beautiful wings lent her an exotic, fabulous beauty.

Or rather, they would have if they had not been bound down against her back.

Wingling servants and slaves regularly had their wings clipped and their flight taken away so they could not escape. It had been so with Hannah, who's wings were beautiful and delicate, but useless for anything but their aesthetic value. Hannah had been sold to the Manor by another, but Ahma, who had been directly taken in and cared for by the Master, was spared this fate. The Master had delighted in Ahma's flight, watching excitedly as the child soared through the clouds. In her later years, he had even taken her out on the hunt with him, letting her fly high above as he rode down his quarry.

Ahma tried not to choke on the bitter-sweet memory.

The Steward would have nothing of the kind. As soon as he was able, he had her wings bound to her back with a kind of corset he had made just for the cruel function. It scooped down around her middle, just under her breasts and over her navel, and lapped over her wings. It was locked in the back, and the Steward was the only one who had the key. The corset flattened them tightly to her back, making them chaff and sore and ache from disuse. Ahma was afraid her feathers were going to fall out soon. She bit her lip. She would not dwell on the injustice, and she would not give the Steward the satisfaction of making her miserable.

"Why do we even follow the old ways?" Hannah asked sadly as she soaped her generous breasts.

"Because it is who we are. We bathe in the sky's gift of rain, and we say silent prayers to the turning of dawn and dusk," Ahma replied hollowly.

"We are long removed from our people," Hannah reminded.

"We are our people. We are not removed from each other. It is enough," Ahma said, as she always did.

"You are young," Hannah smiled, and there was resignation in the smile. She cupped rainwater in her hands and splashed it across her bosom to wash away the soap. She began to rub her last bit of soap into the feathers above her womanhood.

"I am not so young anymore," Ahma said, allowing the hint of a smile to curve her lovely lips as she lathered her inner thighs and buttocks. "I've seen Twenty-Two years."

"Not so long, in the grand scheme of things," Hannah chuckled.

Ahma was silent for a moment before looking up at Hannah. "How much longer do you think the Steward will go unchecked?"

Hannah stared at the younger Wingling woman for a moment before letting out a soft sigh. She began to bring her wings forward to clean them then, remembering Ahma's inability to do so, folded them back. "I do not know Ahma. The war is long, and it is terrible, and everyone's attention is occupied by it. Compared to the war, our situation is nothing. You know this."