Witchfall

Out of the harsh and blinding blizzards of the East, tread three heroes, their tired and bedraggled bodies evidences of their trials and tribulations, silhouetted against the low winter sun. Against all odds, this unlikely band of heroes did what no other group of adventurers had done before: slay the evil witch. Eight had set out on this mythic quest. Three returned. This is their tale...

Warriors watched and children stared as Erik the Chronicler helped the strangers drag the frozen body of their comrade into the village's central hut. The frozen man was an assassin of sorts, the sole woman of the trio built like the savage women of their clan, but otherwise strange to them.

Not to the men's lusts however. The full and heavy peaks of her sun browned breasts were cupped in chainmail as silvery as it was skimpy. Many craned their neck to see how the wintry winds blew up her scant chainmail skirt, showing glimpses of round and sculpted cheeks, bouncing together like smooth plums.

The other man of the trio was slight and long of limb, his perfectly manicured mustache moving the bearded barbarians to instant suspicion. That, and they didn't like how he didn't help Erik and the woman carry the frozen man in, instead posing over a barrel with his foot propped up, giving an eye and a smile to the local women.

Their women.

The Blackskull clan did not like outsiders. When the men, women and children filed into the massive hut, they expected a story... or a death.

***

"There are... rumors. Rumors of more ruin in Camelot. They speak of two kings who once called each other brother now call for each other's death. That the great armies of the Witch Queen are divided and lost to the winds." said Erik. "You tell me the witch is dead. But is it done by your hand, or the is it the mere consequence of evil paying evil unto evil?" The jarl glowed like an ancient bronze man in the light, the fire of torches crackling behind him as they thawed out the assassin's body. "Tell me true."

"Done by our collective hands. And as dead as she'll ever be." replied the mustachioed man, twirling his finger off his lip. "Except in memory of course."

Erik leaned forward, his gnarled hands clasped. "Do not play me false, outlander. We do not suffer liars and cheats. And yet are obligated to give the jewels promised for the witch's death. But we have only your word to go by."

The man nodded sagely. "It is a dilemma, to be sure."

"Do not mock me." growled Erik.

The she-barbarian rose her hand and with it the assembled crowd's eyes fell to her buxom chest, massive mounds cupped in the silken steel of her chainmail bra. "My lord! If the word of a fellow mountain dweller means anything, I swear by my father, Orm Redhand, that what my companion says is true. I witnessed her death myself."

Erik craned his head to the woman, his jowls swinging beneath his wintry beard. "As a matter of fact it means nothing! I would no more trust the seed of Redhand than the man himself! Or did you forget how he came by that title!?"

The woman straightened up, tall and proud, and her large, darkly tanned breasts followed suit, her cleavage on the cusp of spilling free. "He was given it when he slew Juhar Trollking in single combat, ripping out his heart with one hand!" she said with a smile, her blue eyes fierce like a wolf's.

Erik scoffed. "Wrong, you simple wench. It is because he stole my predecessor's sheep! My jarl had a spell laid on his sheep so he would know the thief when next he tried to grab one... and come the next morning your sire's hand was as red as a newborn's!"

The woman stepped forward and pulled back her fur cloak, revealing a gleaming sword hilt next her shapely hip. The mustachioed man gawked at her taut belly, her waist so small it could not help but emphasize the huge globes of her breasts, now heaving to her outrage. "My father was no thief." she said levelly.

Before more men could draw weapons the mustachioed man leapt up to his feet and paced around the hut's central fire, between the woman and Erik. "Now now, I'm sure we can all agree, that there are many Redhands! Some noble, some not, and some share the name Orm. And Redhand. But don't let that distract you, Erik... from paying us our due."

"Your due..." muttered the old man in a bitter tone. Erik slumped into his chair, and steepled his fingers, his eyes gleaming in the fire. "You said... Morgana might live on in memory... there is another thing too. It might live... it might die." He looked to the man. "Your honor."

The man with a mustache looked bemused. "I don't follow, my lord."

Erik nodded to servants in the shadows, who came forward and began daubing the man's forehead, as well as the she-barbarian's head, in blue paints. "There is an alchemy we do here. We call it Soul Walking. You shall walk us through what your soul witnessed... and we shall see if your words match with what the smoke tells."

Flickering images flashed through the smoke in the fire. "I see..." said the man, beads of sweat rolling down his forehead.

Erik smiled. "You must come closer to the fire. It will not burn if you do not lie." He watched the man step forward, and the images in the fire became more distinct. "Tell us who undertook this quest... show us how it began."

The man with a mustache exhaled and then stretched his arms. "Showtime." he said under his breath. The smoky image shimmered to the man's remembrances, growing more sharp by the second. He narrated, his dramatic gestures eliciting 'oos' and 'ahhs' from the women in the audience:

"First of our party was Princess Sybilla, leader of our expedition and descendent of Princess Eva, who made her fateful escape from the Witch Queen all those years ago!" The smoke showed an image as clear as if the woman was right before the audience. Her olive skin was complimented by her flowing ruddy amber locks, her full and majestic bosom guarded under a gleaming breastplate, wrought with curved lines of in-laid gold where the armor mimicked the lush shape of her breasts.

The image then changed to a handsome youth, his black hair and bright eyes giving him a noble, clean-cut appearance. "And then there was Kael, young, dashing and a farmboy to boot! The young lad always felt he was meant for something greater, that he was meant for more than a farmer's life, and who are we to deny a man the call to adventure!"

The women swooned at his image, and then began fanning themselves as the next image came to be. "Who could forget this bastard? Nobody, not with him reminding us every second! Ambassador Varneth of the Elves, yes they're not all dead. Show him a throat, and he'll show you what used to be a throat!" The Elf's sky eyed, thin-chiseled face stared into the audience, the stare of a lover as much as it was a killer which sent some women into a fainting sleep.

"And yes children, he shoots arrows! Combined with an effervescent charm, brooding angst and irrational hatred for Dwarves, he would make the perfect companion toooo...." the image reformed into the appearance of a stout, muscular Dwarf, his red beard reaching down to his belt, "Dok! Yes, that's really his name! Dwarves are a practical folk, anything more than a syllable is a waste really. Now you may ask, Greatest Rovino, Soul of the Age, what is this fine gentleman's pathos, his raison d'etre? Well.... he's a bloody Dwarf! He drinks, he's stubborn, he's so damn typical of his people that no one really cared why he joined, think of him as an arrow shield attached to a great big bushy beard!"

The image shifted once more. "Onto the next one, and really, if we can all be honest for once, the best one, ME!" A brown haired man with a twirled mustache and sharply manicured beard, with a deep blue waistcoat and ornamented rapier at his side materialized before the audience, his sharp chin and quick eyes looking off to some distant horizon, imparting upon the audience the intended image of a man of a cultivated bearing. "The Great Rovino! Wanted in 21 provinces, banned from Amazonia, seeker of Excalibur, lover of... I don't know how many, slayer of gentlemen and perfidious rakes alike! When I heard the call to adventure, I knew this traveling band would need a bard, a storyteller to pass on my gl- THEIR glories, and here I am!"

With a great whoosh and spark of flame, the image moved to two women, the two as far apart in appearance and character as life from death. One was a barbarian, the other, a witch. "The other fair ladies of our adventure, Braya of the eastern barbarians," Braya looked in the image much as she did in front of the audience, but for a few bruises on her arms and dings along her robust face, she was unchanged, her immense breasts just as prominent and high on her chest. "and Levina, witch of the west!"

The witch was not near so statuesque as Braya, her thighs slender, her back gracile. "Coming from a land across the sea, one I never cared to ask about, she was commissioned by her coven to put an end to Morgana, Witch Queen of the Black Moon!" Levina's skin was a coppery red, graced with dusky, heavy lidded eyes. Her mere image, flicking her eyelashes inspired groans of want and desire from the assembled men. Her plunging neckline on the other hand, showing off the soft and heavy slopes of her well-endowed chest, inspired their lusts.

Finally the glow of the image tapered down, illuminating the hard edges of a pale face, the upper half cloaked in a hood. "Our final member...Guillaume de Montfort of Bretanreich! Or Gil, as I shall be calling him for the rest of my narration because... truly... that name. His story is not one that I would repeat in polite company, thus I have no issue sharing it here..." A member of the audience let out an awkward cough as the image pulled back from Gil, revealing an assortment of daggers, shurikens, short swords and glowing potions underneath his cloak. "As you can see, he's a master assassin! After his village was burned down and his family slaughtered by marauding hordes he vowed... that he could do a better job! Indeed random barbarians robbed him of the chance of what he had been planning to do since childhood!"

The story struck a chord with some of the warriors present, their bald heads and furrowed, scarred faces nodding in understanding while some of the children playing with his unconscious body immediately stepped away, hiding behind their mothers.

"Now. Princess Sybilla was the one who brought us together. Held us together. Greatest of us all really," he said wistfully, though Braya rolled her eyes at that and frowned when the encircled barbarians seemed to buy into his feigned emotion, "our journey was great, our friendships forged, a quest to throw down one queen and return another!"

Images of the company flew forth in glimpses, rolling green hills, flame strewn battlefields, great slaughters of the fairies and their lascivious Mother Luna, cackling as her luscious ebony breasts swung back and forth, trying to bury Ambassador Varneth's face in them. "The fairy folk of Dark Wood were tempting indeed, but not well formidable!" Other images showed of the band hacking down giant flowers while Levina held back a horde of tittering, voluptuous winged harlots with a wall of magic.

"Moving on!" The images shifted again.

Tellingly, most of Rovino's memories of their adventures involved little more than watching Sybilla's deep valley of feminine cleavage swell and press against her armor as she cracked in the skulls of bandits, raiders and Black Moon cultists alike with her hammer.

That or the odd glimpse of spying on Sybilla as she bathed in a lake or under a waterfall, often along with Kael, the farmboy's lust for her as pure as her ignorance for him, the boy so lowborn she did not even register him as a possible suitor. He and Rovino often watched the secretive and prudish princess at night, never getting a full view of her round and giant breasts, their carnal curiosities sated whenever moonlit drops of water ran down her plump and satin soft ass cheeks like streams of silver.

Rovino smiled nervously when he saw Erik grimace in his chair, the old man not finding the lecherous images as amusing as the younger men in the clan. "But even so, we are not here tonight for a recounting of our journey, but of our kill. Things got... interesting, when we approached the queen's accursed city of Camlann from the cliffs..."

The image in the smoke grew dark and the audience leaned in...

***

Princess Sybilla broke the neck of a sentry with a blow of her hammer. He flew off the wall and to the ground below, where the city's main entrance loomed, the road lined with ancient marble phalluses.

Even through the dark, Braya's keen eyes picked out the women strapped to the pillars.

Their moans floated through the night. Their breasts, some small and perky, others heavy and round, rose and fell to their dark ecstasy, lighted by the moon's pale rays. Braya's blood ran cold seeing black and glistening things writhe up along the pillars and into the women's legs, pumping between their quivering thighs with utmost smoothness.

Braya laid a hand on the princess's armored shoulder. "We must save them! We have the weapons and the will-"

Sybilla brushed the she-barbarian's hand off with aristocratic distaste. "Verily, but not the time. Our quest calls us to a higher evil."

Braya searched the eyes of the Elf and the witch. "You could shoot the chains free with an arrow and you..." Levina's dusky eyes met Braya's brilliant blues, "you could spirit them away with a wave of your hands!"

"Oh! Oh!" screamed one woman below, her flat belly writhing as her ripe ass cheeks bounced and squeezed against the pillar, her orgiastic convulsions moving her to foam out her mouth. A writhing black tail slapped against her inner thighs and pubic mound before implanting itself in completely. "Ohhh..." she moaned weakly, her will broken, her resistance sundered.

"I will not reveal our position on account of a mortal's purity." said Varneth, his face cold as his eyes in the moonlight, his flowing silvery locks accenting his arrogance. "You would do well to listen to your better."

Braya fumed and dared not look into the smug face of the princess. Only in a world of titles could that brat ever be the she-warrior's better.

"Their words are true." said Levina. She watched the spectacle below with a little too much curiosity. Her delicate fingers traced down the silken chasm of her protruding breasts and squeezed her ample feminine flesh. Her hard nipples dented her silks and her plump lips parted to short and quiet breaths of excitement. "Their sufferings are unfortunate... but the world hinges on us, not them."

Rovino boosted Dok up with his hands so he could see above the battlements. The Dwarf grinned and pointed a stubby finger at the woman below whose eyes had just flared violet. "Hah! That one has big tits!" he said in loud enough of a voice to attract another minion.

As if on cue, a dead eyed Black Moon cultist seemingly emerged from the shadows and rose a dagger at Sybilla's back. Kael sliced off his head before ever the loon got within five feet of his love. The farm boy sheathed his blade but all still watched the debauchery below the city walls. "Hey did anyone see that, I just chopped-"

"Let us begone! Our victory and my crown awaits!" Sybilla spoke over Kael and all moved along the battlements in stride. At the end of the walkway waited a man, a man they had hoped not to face until the witch was slain.

Varneth pulled an arrow, Braya drew her sword, Kael unsheathed his, Levina's palm glowed reddish white, and Sybilla raised her hammer along with the rest. "Be quick! Do not let him speak! Do not let him raise his hands!"

Morvith, Son of the Queen, Prince of the Black Moon, did not change his wide stance, nor did he draw his sword. He simply gestured up to the looming voluptuous statue perched above them. The immortalized woman's hips were as smooth as a snake, her stony breasts blotting out the moonlight. "Fitting that I should meet you here. Under the shadow of the Betrayer."

The whole band stopped, keeping their weapons raised as they looked to each other in confusion. Sybilla barged her way to the front, her ample tits jiggling to the center before she did. "What is this? Are you not the son of Morgana? Is it your wish to die with your sword sheathed?"

Morvith continued on, gazing upon the stars and leaning on a battlement. "Parisa the Betrayer she was. Such a treacherous little slut. Until she betrayed my brother's bed and rutted a common house slave in his stead. Mother laughed. She didn't." He peered over the edge of the wall. "She screamed all the way down when he threw her off." He looked back to Sybilla. "Just as I imagine my dear mother will when you throw her off her tower, after I let you in."

Princess Sybilla frowned. "Why would you do that?"

Morvith smiled and stroked the hilt of his blade, his voice like a low purr. "Do you know how long it takes for an immortal queen to die off? Five hundred years is a long time for a prince never to become king."

Sybilla stuck her chin up, but try as she might, she couldn't look down on the dark prince. "I'm not going to make you king, thou duplicitous craven!"

The prince yawned. "No I suspect not, but you'll be quite a bit easier to topple than my mother." He stepped forward and appraised the party, mocking each of them with a smirk and a glance. "You walk through this door behind me, and I'll conjure a portal that will take you right below the Tower of Darkness."

Sybilla arched her back and puffed her chest out, her giant bosom swelling underneath her plate into a canyon of cleavage so great that not even a blind man could miss it. That Morvith did not care to ogle her lush femininity stung more than she could have imagined. "This is dishonorable, treacherous and traitorous..." She turned back and faced her party, searching their eyes for insight.

Kael's pride swelled when the princess's eyes met his, almost as much as his groin. He saw his moment, to tell her how he really felt. He summoned his breath and struggled to look above her round and billowing cleavage. "Princess, ever since I-"

Rovino stepped in front of Kael. "Now now! Who says all victories need be won honorably, my lady?" Kael turned red behind him. "Better to go underground than fight all her servants in the city streets. Surely you wouldn't deign to let the chaff of Morgana's army see your resplendent beauty, for it is for the noble, not the wicked..."

Sybilla sighed dreamily. "Oh Rovino, you can be so thoughtful at times, your words sing to me..." Kael turned redder.

"Piss on that! I wanna fight!" said Dok, hefting his axe.

"Ignore the halfwit." said Varneth, his eyes like sapphires in the darkness. "Save our strength and weapons for more foul flesh, not these..." he looked to a cultist's corpse, "slack faced cretins."

All the other adventurers nodded their heads and murmured in agreement.

Morvith cracked open the door behind him, the local guards sprawled out in pools of their own blood while an oval and violet portal blazed bright light across the stones. "That one speaks true. I would not do this unless I thought you had a chance."

Sybilla stared into the portal, seeing where it led and so much more. Visions of glory. A crown. A queen with many children. Redeemer of her line. "Very well, Morvith. Do not betray us in this." She stepped forward and looked him in the eye, violet as his portal and ten times more cruel. "I shan't forget you."

"No woman does." He walked forward along the wall as Sybilla's party moved forward, giving a pat on Kael's head and on Dok's, as if they were children. He sneaked a grope upon Braya's plump buttocks, eliciting a brutal slap on Rovino behind her. 'It wasn't me!' he heard the rogue whisper. Morvith turned around and gave them one last bow. "Farewell my friends! Be sure to give my mother my love! And a knife to the heart, mustn't forget that!"