Fyyra's Resolution Ch. 01

1.

A witch stands before the mouth of a cave. She's making ready to go in.

It's not a large entrance; a jagged diagonal crack in the cliff face. She'll have to stoop and turn herself sideways to get through there. It's supposed to open up quite a bit, once you're in. Not immediately—you have to go pretty deep. When you do, the cave gets huge. So she's been told.

Instead of a wand or a broomstick, this witch carries a tall wooden staff, more like a wizard, with the top end carved into a hand and painted silver. The hand is pointing its index finger straight up at the air. She wears a green cloak and a broad-brimmed hat with a pointed top, except that top tip is bent, folded over and drooping to the side. It makes her seem a little childish, in an appealing way. It's cute, a blue hat with a green band. Under the cloak, she has a dark dress with a high collar and a full length skirt, but the skirt has a slit on one side, exposing her fuzzy, brightly striped leggings, green and blue. She wears sturdy ankle boots with low heels, shiny silver buckles, and pointed, slightly upturned toes. Lastly, she has a small backpack.

This is no Halloween hag, hunched and warty and cackling. She is a young witch, and quite attractive. Her name is Fyyra. The expression on her face is somber. She keeps biting her bottom lip. A bad habit.

Yesterday six knights went into that cave. She had warned them not to—not without her. She hadn't yet finished preparing her spells and asked them to wait. They refused. They were female knights from the city-state called Yalis. A renowned, proud lot. Their leader was named Shoradeen, and she was quite famous. The knights all had enchanted weapons and armor. They were confident they could defeat the thing in the cave without Fyyra's assistance.

None of them had come back out of there.

The cave was where a warlock, a close friend of Fyyra's, would habitually go to perform dangerous magical experiments. He was trying to create portals to other worlds. It seemed he had finally succeeded, only the one he had opened must have led to some place bad. Then some of that badness had come through it and taken possession of his body. Her friend was transformed into a monster, some species of demon. The cave had become its lair. Last couple weeks, it would come out periodically and prowl the surrounding countryside for livestock or peasant children, when it could get hold of them, and carry them back to the cave.

Today, Fyyra was going in there and getting rid of this foul thing, once and for all.

Soon as she was ready. Just another minute.

2.

Where the passage widened, she found Shoradeen and the other knights. They were displayed along the walls. In the center of the chamber, in a tall heap, were piled all the women's weaponry and armor, all of it shattered and corroded.

At first Fyyra thought the knights were slain, their corpses mounted like trophies. Then she saw them stir, and they began to groan and mumble,

Stout stalagmites in two opposing rows had been reshaped to imprison the fallen knights around their throats and their wrists, like stocks. As if the thick stone teeth were temporarily softened to admit the women's bent heads and hands from behind, then solidified again once those parts projected through them, all facing inward. The captive, miserable women were bent ninety degrees at the waist, and all of them were entirely nude. Their pale skin glistened with sweat against the darkness of the enclosing rock. Their uplifted bottoms bore red stripes. They had been cruelly lashed.

That was not the only disgraceful torment they had suffered, nor the worst. Traces of thick white slime encrusted the insides of their legs, where it had trickled from within their bodies. Similar marks adorned their faces, and their dangling breasts.

When Shoradeen met Fyyra's eyes, she cringed and flushed. "It's you! The little witch who wanted to accompany us! What are you doing here? You mustn't look at us like that, with such disgust. I cannot bear the shame."

"Please try to calm yourself," said Fyyra, "I do not mean to shame you. I fear I dare not attempt to free you yet—I must husband my strength to face our adversary. Do not lose heart. I promise I will return. I will liberate you as soon as it is possible."

"Don't talk such nonsense, child! You must flee! Go at once, or you will face our same fate."

"You should have waited. You should have listened to me."

"Unless you have greater experience than you seem, you cannot have assisted us, and you won't be able to save us now. Save yourself, or you're a fool! Our weapons were crafted to slay demons, and they did no good. We could cut the creature, but it healed too quickly. Its power is too great, too dreadful, and it overwhelmed us. And then ... oh Goddess. The things it did to us. The things it made us feel. You cannot imagine the torment of it. One by one, it broke us. And it ... it went further. Goddess, it ... it corrupted us. All of us, while we watched each other. All of us, we yielded to it. Utterly. Better to have died then ... How will I ever ... No, I must not speak of it. I must not think of it again."

"Do not despair. I will not forsake you."

"You must be mad. It will take you. You will join us in this ghastly gallery of its conquests. You will despise yourself afterward, just as I do. Take heed, for the sake of your soul!"

But Fyyra went on, descending deeper ...

She trembled, yes. She wavered. Still, she knew her duty. It made no difference if poor Shoradeen was right. Duty was duty, and Fyyra could not turn away. She could not retreat.

Eggun, the reckless warlock who had brought this evil into their world, he was very dear to her, for all his faults. She had never told him. Never admitted it to herself until this tragedy occurred. Never entirely realized.

Now she knew. She must save him, whatever the cost. She must bring him back to her.

3.

As they fought, Eggun was visible the entire time within the creature that had enveloped him, suspended within its torso like an insect in amber, except this otherworldly, semi-transparent stuff which imprisoned him was colored green. Fyyra believed he was being used as a power source, fueling the monster's spells. Though immobilized, he appeared to still be conscious. He was looking out at her through the creature's glowing gooey flesh with helpless desperation. He was naked and spread eagle.

He still lived. That was the crucial detail. By hook or by crook, she would reach him. She would dig him out of there. Everything would be all right again in time.

The creature had a roughly human shape, though gigantic and rather wobbly. It wore no clothing, and had fashioned its face into an oversized facsimile of Eggun's.

It was enjoying its contest with Fyyra, at least at first. It had an erection. The hideous twitching appendage projected nearly as tall as her whole body. The monster used it like a club, trying to strike her with it.

Fyyra's magic kept it at bay, as well as the counterspells it tried to use on her. She deflected everything it tried. Again and again, she clobbered the brute and hurled it backward clear across the chamber. It kept clambering back on its feet, cursing in demonic gibberish and shaking off its hurts, then making another furious howling charge which ended up as useless as the last one. Well, she'd just keep hitting it and toppling it over the same way, as many times as it took until the damn thing stayed down. Her teachers had often complimented her tenacity and stamina.

If Shoradeen could have seen how the fight was going, the unfortunate knight would feel pretty foolish. Some battles, knights simply weren't equipped for. They never wanted to accept that. Magic weapons could only do so much for you, if you didn't have the Talent yourself.

Then Fyyra's cloak suddenly billowed out behind her, and jerked quite painfully against her throat. It was like it had been snatched by a great wind—but there was no wind that she could feel. She had to unclip the cloak to keep the thing from choking her, letting it fly away. One of her backpack straps had also busted. All the stitching had just unraveled. A second later, the same thing happened to the other strap. The pack dropped from her shoulders to thud on the ground. She heard glass breaking—one of her potions must have smashed in there. Wonderful.

And now the wind that didn't exist was tugging savagely at her skirt. She felt her collar tear loose at the same time, and some of the buttons down the front of her dress burst from their threads.

She staggered back a few steps. Didn't help. And she could still feel nothing striking or pushing at her. Instead it was like all her clothing had come alive and was trying to wrestle itself off of her body. Obviously a spell from the demon was responsible—yet her shield remained at full strength. She could feel its many layers, pulsing all around her in perfect form. Nothing had penetrated it or touched it—at least no magic she was familiar with.

Then the heel of her left boot snapped off. It was a fairly short heel, compared to other shoes and boots she owned, but the stiff angled shape of the boot still left it awkward and uncomfortable to wear without that heel attached where it was supposed to be. So she had to reach down quick and jerk the buckle loose, and then she kicked the boot off altogether. She realized an instant later she would have to shed the other boot too. Keeping it on made her feel out-of-balance, and that's not a sensation a witch can afford, when she's in the process of casting a steady stream of difficult enchantments as rapidly as possible. Balance and stability are essential.

She hunched her shoulders slightly and lifted herself up on the balls of her feet. The floor of the cave without her boots on was shockingly cold and slimy. Though her fuzzy striped leggings were quite thick, they couldn't keep the chill out. In fact the bottoms of them immediately absorbed moisture from the stone surface. Not pleasant. She loathed the yucky skin-shriveling feeling of soaked stockings. Fyyra considered tugging them both off too, then decided against it. She wasn't going to pull the leggings off right after giving up her boots. She'd just grit her teeth and put up with the yuckiness—it was a minor enough irritation that it shouldn't throw off her spellwork.

Fyyra renewed her attack on the demon, clobbering him with dozens more fireballs and lightning bolts, and then she tried a series of shimmering ice blasts, followed by showers of jagged stone shards that her magic gouged from the walls and the roof of the cave around them and then hurled upon the monster with furious relentless speed, from every side. A particularly nasty, brutal, mutilating spell, that last one. And it was a smart choice. It did its job better than its predecessors.

She was definitely hurting the monster. You could see that she was. Dark bruises, bubbling burns and bleeding gashes crisscrossed his translucent flesh from head to foot, and the glow of it had dimmed and started flickering like a candle flame. He'd also shrunk almost half his original size. He wasn't much bigger than Eggun anymore. Fyyra maintained her bombardment to keep the pressure on the beast, and his power continued to visibly dwindle. She knew she must be quite close to victory. It kindled a warm stirring in her stomach ...

The demon now looked like a strange half-melted rubbery costume Eggun was wearing. The warlock's limbs were sleeved within the demon's, with its ghostly green flesh only an inch above his own, or less. And while Fyyra had covered that guttering surface with ghastly wounds, Eggun's own pale flesh beneath remained, thankfully, unblemished. She was going to save him! The job was nearly done!

Her belt buckle had broken, and all the loops that held it in place around her waist, so now it dropped to the ground with her bag. There were no more buttons left on the front of her dress, while the slit on the side of the skirt now extended as high as her armpit—the entire side seam of the dress had given way, by this stage.

She started to figure out what was happening—or rather, why. And yes, it was, to a degree, a clever ploy. The demon was throwing deliberately non-harmful spells at her, so her shields wouldn't be triggered by them. He wasn't targeting her body or spirit or her magical ability itself, only her clothing. Her protective spells would need to be reconfigured in order to block this kind of attack, and of course she didn't have the time or energy to do that—not right in the middle of their fight, while she was busy hammering him with all her battle spells. Even if she could have managed the trick somehow, it wouldn't be a good move. Might only weaken the shield against the more direct and deadly attacks it was originally fashioned to deflect, like the kinds she was throwing at him.

Her hat, however, continued to stay put, and hadn't even got knocked crooked or wrinkled, and that confused her for another moment. Should have been the first thing she lost. Then she recalled the little spell she'd put on the hat several months ago, during a particularly stormy day, to prevent the wind from blowing it off her head. That spell hadn't faded away yet—she must have done a real good job with it, since it was still strong enough after all this while to keep the hat anchored in place despite the demon's blasts. Sadly, none of the rest of her garments had any such protection. Blast after blast, the demon's magic had gradually torn them all to shreds, and then proceeded to sweep those tattered shreds from her skin ...

Strictly speaking, there was no reason she couldn't simply put up with that and continue the battle. He wasn't physically hurting her or weakening her power—not like her own blasts were doing to him. All he was accomplishing was the ruin of her outfit (except for her hat). Entirely trivial, if she didn't allow it to distract her. A hollow, childish prank. And even if (saving, again, the hat) he should succeed in rendering her completely and utterly nude (which at the rate her costume was disintegrating, appeared bound to happen to her in only another minute or two) it shouldn't make any significant difference to the course of the battle. She was going to defeat him and slay him. It was inevitable and it wouldn't take much longer. She could just keep casting the same combat spells at him exactly as she was doing now, until the last pathetic remnant of his own shields gave out and his regenerative powers were exhausted, if those weren't drained to nothing already—which in fact they seemed to be, judging from his wretched appearance. Either way, he was going to be destroyed, end of story. Her state of dress wouldn't change the outcome. Wouldn't matter, not a jot. A witch with no clothes on is still perfectly capable of casting spells and winning a magical duel.

At least she ought to be.

It was a question of concentration. Mental discipline above all. Either it's a witch's greatest strength, or her ultimate vulnerability. Doesn't matter how great her innate power is if she can't focus her thoughts and channel it properly.

Then she noticed Eggun's cock was hard. His erection had sleeved itself within the erection of the monster.

Was it her imagination, or had an expression of anticipation formed upon his face? He certainly didn't seem as dismayed as he used to. He looked quite keen.

She was flooded with embarrassment. She had just lost the last shreds of her clothing, except her hat and her fuzzy striped leggings. She crossed her arms tight over her breasts and lifted one of her knees to screen her sacred vale with the folded leg. It was pure reflex, involuntary. Eggun was seeing her privates, and he was responding to the sight with lust. It didn't flatter her, in the circumstances. It shocked her like a thunderbolt.

The consequences of the emotional disruption were disastrous. Her spellcraft fizzled, all at once. Her shields evaporated before she realized it was happening.

Naturally Talented as she was, she might have been able to recover, if she'd tried. Fyyra didn't. She panicked. It all had gone wrong so suddenly, so shamefully. She couldn't handle the reversal. It was too much for her. She shrieked and tried to run, like a rabbit.

It was the worst choice she could have made.

Before she'd taken two steps, her ankles were seized by invisible tentacles and pulled out from under her, and she smacked face down to the cavern floor. She was stunned (although her hat still held in place upon her head). For a few seconds, she didn't try to move again at all. She lay there flat, gasping like a landed fish, blinking stupidly ahead of her up the steep, slimy slope of the passageway that led to the exit. Unreachable.

Then she felt her leggings scrunching themselves backward down her legs. The demon was peeling them off of her.

That jolted her into action. "No! No!" She tried to crawl away. It was another mistake. All she did was assist in the removal of her leggings.

When they'd been stripped from her, the demon put them to use. Fyyra's arms were seized and twisted behind her back until her wrists were pressing together, and then one of her leggings knotted itself around her wrists to hold them there.

"Oh Goddess! Eggun! Don't! Don't do this to me! You mustn't!"

It wasn't really Eggun doing it, though. Wasn't it?

She squirmed uselessly against the binding, but did not roll over, because to do so would have exposed her breasts and her sacred vale. Her bare feet kicked feverishly in the air behind her. But then her other legging encircled her ankles and drew them together, until her feet were bound as tight together as her hands. She strained and wrenched against the knots as hard as she could--they didn't loosen. Her stomach churned with dread.

"Eggun, no! Nooo! You can't! Please! Don't do this to me! Not to me! Nooohhooohoooh!"

She was defeated. She was captured. She was doomed.

The monster now put its own glowing green hands upon her. Its touch was moist and sticky, and the slime fizzed and crackled with energy, faintly stinging her flesh. Fyyra gasped at the dismal sensation. It clutched her by the shoulder and by her hair, and rolled her over, and then forced her to her knees. It pulled off her hat, but then changed its mind and returned the thing to its place. Because it looked so cute on her, with its droopy tip.

Poor little Fyyra, stripped and bound, a picture of woe on her knees. She trembles and she whimpers, and her cheeks burn scarlet.

Then tears streamed down those reddened cheeks as she looked up into the monster's face, which was Eggun's. It had not regained its former stature. It was still only slightly larger than the warlock it enclosed—a second skin, still marred all across its surface by the wounds she'd inflicted.

"I must be healed," said the demon. When it spoke, only the outer lips moved, not Eggun's beneath. That reassured her, slightly. Yet still, there was a frightening hunger on Eggun's real face. And his cock was the same as the monster's. Both, the one within the other, loomed over her face, equally swollen and hideous and horrifying. She noticed that Eggun's green covering was its thinnest over the surface of his cock. In that part, they were practically indistinguishable.

"There is much magic in you, cute little witch. Much that I can make use of. Open your little mouth. Pleasure me. Pleasure your friend inside me."

"No. I won't. Never."

"You will obey. Your shame will be great, when you submit. It shall provide the opening for me to take the power I need from you. I will feed upon your shame as it enflames your spirit, and as I do, I will delight in your mouth. Your pretty lips, your clever tongue. So will Eggun. More than I, indeed. You came here for him, after all. You cannot free him from me, but I will allow you to comfort him."