Kiravi's Travelogue Ch. 09

I screamed, Kiravi grunted with exertion and focus in my ear, and Serina mumbled happily with her mouth still filled with my breast. He filled me utterly, having sheathed his entire length inside me at some point without my noticing. My womb ached and burned all at once, clenching on itself and swirling like liquid fire in my gut. So close. So, so close.

"Kiravi, please...oh fuck, yes, unnhh," I moaned, holding onto Serina for dear life, and Kiravi didn't and couldn't stop. His massive, powerful hands held me in place, one on my hip and the other pawing at the breast Serina wasn't suckling on. His hips slapped against my ass, echoing, and I shoved myself back, again and again, trying to somehow take even more of him into me, as deep as I could and more.

I closed my eyes, trying to will the ecstasy to explode from inside me, but it remained stubbornly out of reach. When I opened them again, Serina was looking back into my eyes once more, though her hand had never left my throbbing nub. She smirked impishly at me before looking just past me at Kiravi, "Take her, Kiravi. Claim her. Fill her to bursting with your seed," I mewled pathetically in Kiravi's powerful grasp and promised myself I'd pay Serina back for this. "Please, lover...she watched you fill me in the Ketza...now it's my turn to see."

"NnyyunnghHHH... oh gods Serina, FUCK!" My world collapsed into a single infinite moment of white heat. I was only vaguely aware of Serina eagerly kissing me, or Kiravi biting into the meat of my shoulder as he thrust one last time. Finally, his throbbing head smashed into my cervix, triggering another shockwave of ecstasy before he exploded.

I shrieked, Serina's borrowed and lustful magic mixing through my conduit and the inferno of heat in my womb, and I gushed nectar and energy all between the three of us.

I could feel the way his molten heat filled me, and I moaned and pushed back against him as every new rush of his burning seed sent new spasms of pleasure down my legs and back up my spine. Unable to control my body in any but the most basic of ways, I suppose I pushed back at the wrong moment. His perfect hardness slipped from inside me but stayed between my quivering thighs, still pulsing and jerking his perfect gift outwards.

Serina deftly moved her hand, dropping in my nectar, and coaxed more and more searing ropes of his glowing seed from Kiravi. It splashed onto her belly, the top of her mound, the swell of her hips, and all across my nectar-soaked thighs. As all three of us groaned and desperately sucked in air, his flow finally ebbed, leaving the last sticky strands draped across her fingers.

Had anyone else done what Serina did next, and had we not shared the same erotic act not three nights before, I would've slapped Serina's hand away. Instead, I looked into her eyes while she brought her seed-coated fingers to my lips and wordlessly begged me to clean them. The wave of ecstasy had crested inside of me, but the ebbing flow still swirled back through my mind, and I couldn't help but suck each of her fingers into my mouth, one after the other. There was just something about the way he tasted, something I'd learned all those weeks before in that dark alley. His golden magic tingled on my tongue and down into my belly. The spicy-sweet tang of my own nectar was there, too, a fact that apparently drew Serina to lean forward and lick her own fingers, our noses and lips brushing lightly against each other.

Brushing became nuzzling, became soft and tender kissing. Kiravi watched, fingers tracing back and forth between our two rib cages. "You both came all over me," Serina giggled, taking my cheek and angling my face downwards.

I swear, dear readers, that I'd never done anything of the sort before meeting Kiravi. Of course, a man had never made me cum before Kiravi. Whatever he did to me, I didn't know, but the result was that Serina's stomach and thighs glistened in the faint bluish light far beyond where Kiravi's faintly shimmering seed had landed, and the blankets were soaked.

"I suppose you didn't mind that one bit, did you?" I asked with a hint of a growl in my voice.

"No!" She laughed, throwing her head back and trying to catch her breath. "I loved it. I always love it," her warmly glowing eyes met mine, "I loved watching you. So much."

"You were beautiful yourself, you know," I whispered back to her, touching my forehead to hers. The afterglow faded further, though, and a devious thought flashed through me. First, I elbowed Kiravi in the ribs -- hard enough to sting, but not bruise -- and then reached over Serina's wide hips and delivered a hard spank against that amazing ass.

She yelped, and her eyes went wide, and Kiravi swore bitterly, "What in the Chaos Wastes was that for?" He hissed.

"For starting without me," I grumbled for show, "I'll be making sure to pay both of you back for that."

Serina pouted and rubbed at her reddened skin, "We really did try, you know," the words sounded hurt, but there was a deliciously seductive huskiness to her voice that set my insides fluttering all over again.

"I suppose our huntress here wants us to take her even while she's sleeping," Kiravi shoved me from behind in what I'm sure he thought was a playful way, but my mate had regained almost all of his insane strength by then. I tumbled into and on top of Serina in a tangle of soft skin and sweaty muscles, so I wasn't exactly complaining.

I thought of his taunt and considered it after a moment. Maybe that wouldn't be so bad? "Try it and see what happens," I snapped back at him, but the venom was lacking, and I hoped he saw it as the invitation that it was.

For as much fun as we were having, we were exhausted from travel and frantic rutting. So each of us padded into the darkness to relieve ourselves and clean the worst of the mess from our skin. I stoked and fed the fire, not knowing what beasts prowled this land, and Kiravi passed around a beerskin for us to quench parched throats. Serina, bless her, did her best to rearrange the blankets and move the wettest parts to the edges so we could sleep in relative comfort.

And that's when the purple magic began to bleed from her tear-filled eyes, and she fell to her side shrieking like the damned.

***

Gods-damn the Prize, gods-damn this undeveloped wilderness, and gods-damn the Master that had sent me north and denied me my vengeance.

Sata thought all of those things as he trudged up another ridge in the starlit darkness. Despite overtaking his quarry on the Seleyo, he'd foolishly attempted to row himself north along the coastline instead of chartering passage from the locals. In two days, he'd traveled only half a league, and on the third, the tide smashed his dugout on the rocks. Had he been truly living, he would've drowned a dozen times over while dragging himself ashore, but his Master's magic again kept him from a second oblivion.

Slogging north through alternating marshes and rocky tidal pools, he'd felt the Prize pass him in the night and carry on to the north. The slime-slick coastal rocks had echoed with his frustrated howls that night. But, of course, Sata had no need for sleep or rest, and he'd slowly gained ground on the Prize.

He could feel its pull that night, dragging his unliving body up that ridge, and he knew it was less than a day's travel away. He knew that, just like he knew his Master had forbidden him from acting until he'd met this mysterious ally. Cold rage simmered inside of him, kept from exploding into catastrophic fury merely by the unnatural magic that sustained him.

"What's this?" He rasped, reaching out to brush partially-healed fingers against a small cairn of rocks. The stones grated against each other, and he shoved them over to collapse in a clattering heap. He thought he'd spied something on the ridge just as the sun was setting and, the more he looked around with his unnatural sight, the more confident he was that he stood on a reasonably well-used track. Following it, he climbed ever upwards, leaning on the spear he'd kept even after the ill-fated end of his sea voyage. His Master's magic was bloated and insistent within his ruined body, but that hadn't made the grievous damage to his form heal any faster.

Something struck him, a wave of magic pulsing insistently in the ruined remnants of his conduit. He growled, not knowing it was the backlash from the tracking spell binding him to the Prize. It was nothing compared to the torrent of power he'd felt a few days before. So much had raced from the Prize and into him that he thought it would overwhelm him in an explosion of raw magic. Worse than that were the hints of emotion, of feeling and sensation, that tickled along his mind when the spell shuddered from...whatever it was the Prize was doing. It made him feel almost alive, teasing him with the reward his Master kept dangling in front of him.

Sata snarled and Shoved aside another cairn. The magic boiled along with the rage in his unliving mind, fueled by the dead messenger bird and the constant echoes from the Prize. It began to push its way out of him, glowing purple notes of light gathering around his hands and trickling from his empty eye sockets and other unhealed wounds.

If his Master wouldn't let him use his power on the Prize, then he'd vent his undying frustrations on someone else.

He wasn't to be disappointed. His flensed, tattered feet carried him to the ridge's crest, and he saw just where the track led to. Dying hearth fires burned within a squat, mud-brick barracks and another glowed in the doorway of an impressive guard tower. A few bedraggled Men and Enges paced the cleared space between and more sleepily kept watch from the tower.

Sata made no attempt to hide; it wouldn't have mattered, what with his gifted magic literally spilling from him. Someone shouted a challenge, their voice echoed by another as they repeated their warning. "Someone wake up Captain Itca!" He heard them say, ignoring the name. It belonged to a man who would soon be dead.

Someone rushed out of the darkness, out of breath, and it was far too simple for Sata to stab forward with his spear. The point tore messily into the guard's neck, and Sata wished he could see the way the blood splashed onto the dusty rock. He stepped over and past the gurgling, gasping man, the magic rising further and further inside of him.

"Gavic hunters!" A voice warned incorrectly.

"Nizan rebels!" Another called, though this one spoke something more closely resembling the truth.

A spear hissed out of the darkness from the barracks, and he ducked reflexively. Then, summoning the unformed magic inside him that begged to be released, he launched a bolt of purple energy at the door of the barracks. But, instead of plunging inside, it caught one of the tired guards as they were stumbling into action.

Flesh caught fire, and blood hissed into steam. The hapless man burst apart like overripe fruit, sending burning entrails and fragments back into the room and out into the clearing. Like a hundred little stone lamps, they cast an eerie and flickering purple light over the confusion, and Sata smiled at the perverse wonder of it.

A pair of Enges rushed him, stepping over the obliterated midden of their comrade, shields and spears raised. Sata reached back into his conduit, surprised to feel like it was truly bottomless, and hurled an even larger blast of magic. Like oil cast into a flame, the dusky purple light billowed away from his hand in a great cone of ruin, catching both warriors in its path. One stood no chance; his entire body was consumed like pine needles before a furnace, but the other dove away just a second too late.

He shrieked like the Akagi, like the mourners at the burial of a genuinely beloved king, while dark purple flames ate at half of his face and rippled across his cloak. Sata was pleased to see that his spell had carried all the way into the barracks and caught the thatched roof and simple bedding ablaze. Never hurrying or quickening his pace, Sata moved over to the dying man and rammed the flint tip of his spear through the burnt gristle to the stone beneath.

Sata grunted, not from pain but from the air being forced from his lungs. He stumbled forward but wheeled around quickly, slashing with the wickedly sharp spear tip at whatever was behind him. Something stopped his blow, and Sata's head followed the movement of his spear to meet his foe.

An aging human man faced him, shield and stone mace in hand. His face showed nothing but astonishment and revulsion; Sata knew the vicious blow to his back would've killed him if he'd been capable of such a simple second death. Sata pulled the spear back and readied it for another jab, but this man had made it past the initial surprise attack and seemed to be a skilled foe.

Sata flicked a quick lash of magic at the warrior, a ribbon of energy uncoiling from his hand to catch the warrior. His opponent lunged forward even as the spell connected: a sharp crack and a faint ripple of force billowed away from them as the warrior forced his way through the magic. Sata stepped back, avoiding a quick swing and snarling at the challenge. Every mortal, whether they'd studied or been born with the talent to use it, possessed a conduit nonetheless, and sometimes that innate power swelled to cast off an offending spell.

He forced surging magic into his spear, just as he had in the Ketza, but this time his power was so much stronger. The wood and flint flared with energy, and he stabbed forward at his foe. The man had been readying another attack, and age had slowed his steps, so all he could do was raise his shield to try and save himself.

Like thunder cracking, Sata's spell blasted through the hapless man's shield and the arm behind it. It lanced through him, ripping flesh from bones before shattering them into burning shrapnel. The discharged energy expanded in an uneven and erratic cone, spraying the side of the tower in smoldering offal and scorching purple fire. Two sandaled feet, charred and blistered and ending in ragged stumps halfway up the shin, were all that remained of Itca.

Panicked shouts cut through the echoes of his spell, and someone blocked off the tower's entrance with a heavy wooden plank. All Sata had felt since the Master had forced the ragged scraps of his soul back into his ruined body was hate and rage. Those same emotions churned inside him then, boiling to dizzying heights, and in that uncontrollable hate, he felt some new feeling, a perverse and giddy joy at venting his terrible power and monstrous anger.

He laughed or, rather, the ruined flesh of his throat rasped against his spine.

A spear hissed down from the battlements and pierced his foot, but he felt nothing but annoyance. Rocks and broken bricks pelted down all around him, thudding into the dust, and an arrow punched into his chest. Whoops of victory echoed off of the burning barracks, but Sata couldn't stop laughing.

He supposed that he could blast through the obstruction in the archway before burning and stabbing his way upstairs, but he wanted to see just how much power his Master had gifted him. His desiccated guts throbbed as he gathered the magic into his conduit. Energy poured out of every unhealed wound and arced between his fingers. Another desperate wave of projectiles arced towards him, but none could truly put him down.

Sata laughed and roared all at once, sending the magic surging down his arms, out of his burning hands, and into a savage beam aimed at the tower's base.

Stone cracked and shattered, and mud-bricks crumbled away into burning dust. Shrubs and green-trunks a hundred paces away caught fire. Dust and howling hot wind billowed out from the unliving mage and the tower, lit from within by the eerie purplish glow. Then, with a creaking groan more felt than heard, the building began to slump in on itself, tumbling down into the burning ruins blasted at its base. Men and Enges screamed in terror before the burning rubble crashed down over and around them, and the purple magic consumed them.

A gust of air, tumbling down from the high Yavloni mountains, pushed along the top of the ridge and scattered the worst of the dust and growing cloud of smoke. Sata still laughed, watching the rubble settle around the last few unnatural flames. That insane joy was already starting to fade, and he hated his Master and his unlife with fresh vigor. But, as his emotions deadened and the flare of magic subsided, he noticed something else.

For those short years he'd been Mayor, Sata had presided over many funerals. The village priest may have been the one saying the rites, but he noticed the real effect that those rites had on newly deceased souls. Before, it'd been a slight ripple in the air, a twinge in his conduit that he couldn't explain away.

Now he could see them, the ragged scraps of...something that curled away from the carnage and blew past him on an unseen wind. Even more exhilarating was the fact that he could feel a tiny trickle of new power with each wisp that twisted past him. Perhaps whatever magic had forced him into his ruined husk still exerted a pull on those freshly killed? Whatever it was, it was a new, heady, tantalizing power.

His power, not his Masters.

Sata's cracked, peeling lips curled into a smile, and the rasping of his laugh filled the ruins all over again. The fires spread with no one left to put them out, and smoke blotted out the twin moons and the infinite stars. Sata would have power of his own, and he would do what he wished with the Prize.