Red Tsonia & the Jungles of Madness

"This isn't a Xhastrian rooftop," Tsonia said reassuringly. "You won't fall and break your legs again."

"At least the ground ought to be softer than those thousand-year old cobblestones," Joras muttered darkly, pulling himself up onto the platform. Tsonia followed suit.

A wondrous sight awaited once she reached the top. There was a small hearth made from stacked rocks where the coals of a small fire still smoldered. Cozy-looking piles of fronds and furs looked enough to sleep half a dozen hunters. Large, leathery leaves had been cleverly stitched together and sealed with dark sap to form water bags. Sighing with contentment, Tsonia stripped off her blood-caked armor and uncorked one of these, splashing herself until the worst of the blood was washed away.

While she bathed, Ambrose and Joras rekindled the fire and skewered meat to roast. They chatted softly with each other. Tsonia noticed the glances the graying captain shot her way. They seemed less accusatory than before, but still far from his usual friendly self. She sighed, feeling the weight of her decisions laid upon her soul. But there was nothing she could do now but push on and make sure they all made it back home safely.

T'pek sat at the edge of the platform, dangling his feet and rapping his drum to as much avail as before. The responses that came back were sparse and scattered, a far cry from the all-encompassing rumble from days past.

Tsonia stepped behind him, sinking her hands into his shoulder fur and kneading the taut muscles underneath. T'pek looked at her in surprise. A soft purr rumbled in his chest.

"What do they say?" she softly asked.

"Confusion," T'pek admitted. "The village is quiet. It is as if no one is there to beat the drums." He listened to an errant bout of rumbles. "That does not happen. The drums are sacred!"

"Can we see your village from here?"

"Yes," T'pek nodded, putting aside his drum. He guided Tsonia back towards the great tree trunk where more hand holds led further up, far above the leafy jungle canopy. "From there," he pointed upwards.

His hand caressed down her spine, inflaming her barely controlled need again. She caught his wrist. "Don't wake my hunger, hunter," she purred. "We must see your village." A soft whine escaped his chest. Tsonia sighed, slipping her hand under his loincloth. She found him hard and throbbing and squeezed fondly. "You will not sleep alone tonight," she promised. "Wisdom first."

Panting happily, T'pek dashed up the tree. His sinuous tail caressed her bruised cheek as he went.

Chuckling, Tsonia followed, albeit a bit more slowly. She heard Shala snarl something, probably another bout of insults but chose to ignore the foul-mouthed witch. This climb was longer than the first, ending at a much smaller platform, barely wide enough for both of them to stand together.

Despite the thick clouds overhead and the deepening darkness of the night, the volcano was easy to see. The massive plume of smoke had gained a glowing red underbelly and the sharp slopes seemed much closer now. In the absence of constant drumming, every growl and rumble of the earth was clearly audible.

T'pek pointed, a dark shade against the gloom. "The village is there. But... No light. No fire."

Tsonia's gaze followed his extended arm. She saw nothing but an unbroken carpet of leaves and swaying trees. Shielding the last rays of sunset with her hand, her eyes dug into the darkness for sign of civilization. After a moment, something finally caught her eye—a flickering light much higher up than she expected, seemingly caught in a square recess.

"What am I looking at?" she wondered. "I see light. Weak light, there."

T'pek leaned forwards, his dark eyes wide to catch every errant ray of light. "The temple. There is fire in the temple." He shook his head. "There should be fire in the village. Fire for light. Fire to cook. Fire to scare beasts away. But there is no fire." He growled in annoyance.

T'pek swung his body off the platform and clambered down the trunk. Tsonia had to hurry to catch up with him. She reached him as he was about to descend to the jungle floor below.

"Stop!" she barked.

T'pek froze, hand on the trunk. "There is danger. I must help!"

"Yes," Tsonia said, taking his hand off the wood. "But do not be fast. Be smart. This danger is new. This danger is Kelgore."

"What is Kelgore?" T'pek asked. His words were taut like a drawn bow. Tsonia could sense him aching for action.

"Kelgore is a bad man," Tsonia said. "He has strong magic. He can steal your... thoughts. Your will."

T'pek gazed at her, struggling to comprehend what Tsonia was saying. "My ... will?"

"His words, his eyes steal... you," Tsonia said, struggling to put Kelgore's horrible power into the simple terms of the Trade Tongue. "Magic makes you obey him."

"His magic steals the will of my tribe?" A dangerous growl came from the hunter's throat.

"We do not know. Maybe. We need to be smart. Clever, not angry," Tsonia said, caressing T'pek's back. "I am your mate. Let me help."

The beastkin exhaled, a long, shuddering sound of apprehension. "Yes," he said. "Help. But how?"

Tsonia offered a horrible, little smile. "We ask the dead witch."

***

Kelgore was beginning to have his doubts.

It had not been hard to persuade the beastkin tribe to make him their ruler. He had only had to ask, first his captors to take him before their elders, and then the elders to revere him as a god. The fact that they shared no common language made no difference at all. Any who met Kelgore's demon-blessed gaze understood his desires intuitively. Those who heard him speak were powerless to resist his will. These savages were no different than the milky men of the Green Cities or the fish-mongers of the Xhastrian coast.

And so Kelgore ruled them. Without his mother's constant nagging, he had been free to rule as he wished and to indulge his appetites without constraint.

The women of the beastkin tribe, he found, were not unattractive. They curved in all the right places and the soft fur that covered their skin was actually quite nice to feel under his hands. The beastkin girl so enthusiastically riding his cock at the moment had pert little tits that trembled deliciously. The way her long, articulate tail thrashed when she came and the claws raking down his chest and back were unexpectedly arousing.

With an agonized groan of release, Kelgore finally ejaculated deep in the beast-girl's fertile quim. He felt a new shadow cross her psyche, a selfish little desire that she'd share with none of her kin. The girl hoped that she was conceiving a great chieftain, a ruler to succeed Kelgore someday and elevate her own status in the tribe.

They had all had the same secret hope, and in hindsight, Kelgore thought it was probably a mistake to gather the entire tribe and turn them all to his debaucherous cause at once.

As the beastkin girl dismounted his throne with a smile and a swish of her tail she was replaced almost immediately by his next suitor, this one older, her teats fuller and hips wider. She bathed his spent cock with a long, slippery tongue, coaxing him back to his full.

In her mind, Kelgore saw all the secret tricks she knew for kindling a lover. He saw her secret fear that she was not as attractive as the younger females of the tribe, and her secret desire to bear the next great chief.

He had lost count of the females he had serviced, each convinced by his will that by bearing Kelgore's offspring their tribe would thrive and flourish, vanquishing all threats and rivals. The males too were turned to Kelgore's cause and eagerly offered up their wives, mothers, and daughters. The cuckolded males brought him food and drink and attended his every need while he defiled their women in front of them. When he had no need of them, they gathered outside the temple, like dolls lined up on a shelf, waiting for the puppet master to resume his play.

Only the elders had another part to play. Without females to bring him and as priests of the tribe's old faith, they needed to be kept busy. From painful experience Kelgore knew that men and women of faith were notoriously hard to sway, so giving them tasks away from their former holy sites to take their minds elsewhere was the only prudent thing to do. He turned the elders, bird, serpent and skull, into watchmen. They were to patrol the village and warn him of any newcomers, announced or unannounced both. They complied, their minds buckling under the weight of their new responsibilities, leaving Kelgore to enjoy the tribe's hospitality.

After days of incessant revelry, the novelty however had long since worn off, and Kelgore discovered much to his dismay that once someone was turned to his cause, it was surprisingly difficult to turn them back. Thus far, he had never stayed in one place for long, raiding coastal villages for food and supplies and bodies, both to replenish combat losses and those to sate his appetite—and that of his men. He didn't care if his charms wore off eventually or how long it took them to do so. Now he learned about the limits of his demonic gift.

No matter how deeply penetrating his gaze, no matter how resonant the timbre of his voice, he could not staunch the beastkin's desire to copulate with him for more than a few hours at a time. He could inspire new wishes and inclinations for a short time, but always that first yearning to breed a generation of his children returned.

Perhaps that cause had been too grand in scale and scope. When Kelgore desired food they brought him food and when he desired sleep, they let him sleep. But after he'd eaten or slept, the tribe's desire returned to milking his seed into the loins of their females. Perhaps after nine months or so, when the cause was fulfilled, his tribe would be ripe for new challenges.

As the next female mounted Kelgore's reinvigorated rod with a murmur of satisfied yearning, he realized that something was amiss. Distracted by the purring beastkin writhing on his lap, it took him some time to realize that the drums, thus far an ever-present rumbling background noise, had stopped. Kelgore had learned that various rhythms tracked and relayed different threats across the island. He could tell the difference between "strangers on the beach" and "strangers in the jungle" and "strangers sleeping", but this silence was odd.

A shadow fell over him. Kelgore raised his gaze. The sharp-beaked golden mask of the bird-faced elder loomed above him. His clawless front paw reverentially touched his shoulder, begging for his attention.

The elder's thoughts were a confused jumble, but something stirred within them, some other form mental connection, not unlike his own. Despite himself, Kelgore closed his hand around the elder's, forcing his will through the hazy confusion. The elder carried a secret, something no one besides his peers was allowed to know. They guarded something, locked away in the catacombs beneath the temple. Something old, something horrible, so vile it could annihilate the whole tribe if it ever broke free from its shackles. Deals had been struck. The elders gave themselves willingly, becoming instruments of the Sleeper's will and fulfilling its desire for nourishment and entertainment. Once sated, it would go back to sleep for years on end, leaving the tribe to flourish.

Kelgore pushed the elder's hand off his shoulder. "What is it?" he snarled. "I'm busy." The female on his lap looked down at his imperious tone.

"Strangers are in the village. One has fur the color of fire."

Suddenly wide awake and invigorated, Kelgore sat up. His true bride had finally arrived and it was time to greet her, make her his queen.

Kelgore took the beastkin woman by her ass and shoved her off to the side of the padded breeding throne the savages had built for him. She stroked his shoulder and chest with an inquiring bark as Kelgore pushed himself to his feet. In her touch Kelgore felt her anticipation, saw her sprawled beneath him, saw her on her hands and knees before him, saw her spooned against him.

"No," Kelgore spat, knocking her hand away. His cold gaze pierced her wide, faithful eyes and she knew his desire even if his words meant nothing to her. "No, I don't want you."

He threw his sturdy over-robe around his shoulders without bothering to dress more completely. As Kelgore hurried from the temple he had appropriated from the village elders, he left the beastkin whore curled up on the throne, sobbing while the elder watched, bereft of any emotion. The other females, gathered as they were in the great hall around the firepit, looked up as he strode past. Some purred in satisfaction, those he hadn't fucked yet crawled on hands and knees to intercept him, their tails high in the air. The sounds they made were between playful coos and desperate howls. He didn't care for any of them, now that demon-blooded, fire-haired Tsonia was close! He snapped an angry order, his loud voice enough for the horny ones to shirk away in confusion and the sated ones to raise their heads in puzzlement. Kelgore paid them no heed, eager to leave the gloom of his makeshift throne room.

The entire village, what there was of it, spread out down the slope beneath his temple. The ruins of once elegant stone dwellings had been repurposed by clumsier hands with branches and bark and animal hides into crude hovels and halls. Surrounding the great hall the tribes' males languished. Unneeded, unwanted, with no purpose save for waiting for their god's next command. As he emerged, Kelgore's worshippers turned to look up at him, their weapons, tools and drums forgotten besides them. They had been blessed by their new deity's appearance. All they wanted was to serve.

And serve they shall. He picked six of the strongest hunters. "You, come with me. Defend me with your lives, but do not hurt our guest." The broad-shouldered beastkin growled in assent and grabbed their spears, coming lithely to their feet.

The other beastkin slumped into listless heaps of fur as Kelgore swept down the steep steps leading into the village. With his guards in tow he strode along the main thoroughfare, an ancient road paved with cracked tiles. Past the abandoned huts he went, past the deserted tanning racks and smoke houses, past toppled weapons racks, scattered tools and forgotten toys, and then into the main square.

Across the plaza Kelgore saw two men—men like him—hugging close to the broken masonry of ancient walls. There was caution in their eyes as they picked their way forward. They were strangers to him, and so Kelgore assumed they must be survivors from the vessel that had dogged him into Shala's storm. One of the men, the younger, wore the tattered remains of a garish orange cloak.

"Fur the color of fire," Kelgore muttered to himself. He would have to have a chat with Bird-face, teach him proper use of the Trade Tongue. While he was disappointed that Tsonia had not yet come to him, he was glad to have the company of other men.

Both men appeared haggard and unkempt, but their expressions brightened as soon as they caught sight of Kelgore and his retinue.

"Praise the gods!" shouted the younger man.

"Succor?" called the elder as both men hurried closer. "Succor, for two shipwrecked sailors?"

Kelgore's guards closed ranks around him and the men stopped dead, as if only just noticing the beasts at Kelgore's command. The men looked past the guards with eyes full of hope and desperation.

"Stand down," said Kelgore with a smile. "Can't you oafs see that these good men are harmless? Welcome, gentlemen. Welcome to my kingdom, such as it is."

As his honor guard parted, the men looked at each other. Kelgore saw a strange pair of expressions cross their faces, and he could not fault their confusion. He was curious to see how the strangers would respond.

"Your majesty!" replied the elder man at last, offering a low bow. "We are your humble servants."

"You may approach," Kelgore gestured to the ground before him and both strangers rushed forward bowing and scraping. They knelt where he had indicated, their eyes cast down in deferential supplication. Kelgore could see now that they were bruised and bloodied. Their trek through the jungle must have been a difficult one. And yet these were civilized men who knew how to behave in the presence of a king.

"Rise and come with me, my welcome guests," Kelgore instructed with all the magnanimity his authority granted. "You will be fed and your wounds treated. My court has need of noble men such as yourselves. I have many questions, but they can wait until you are fed and rested."

Something was nagging at Kelgore as he led the pair back towards his temple. He realized that these men had probably been hunting him only a week ago, but that hardly mattered. If they opposed him, he would simply turn them to his cause. No, what troubled Kelgore was the thought that these two lowly sailors had made their way to him through the treacherous jungle faster than Tsonia had.

***

Serpent waited. He had brought the outsider food and drink. He had brought fresh cloth to cleanse the outsider after he had lain with the women. But now the outsider had no task for him, so Serpent waited. He would wait until the outsider would have need of him again. Impassively he had watched as every last female, young or old, was herded into the temple. He watched as the hunters shuffled from the great hall like cattle, how they crumpled into motionless piles of fur and misery, having to listen to their wives, their daughters mew in heat as the outsider took them, one by one.

He watched as Brother Condor entered the temple and talked to the outsider, causing him to stop the breeding rituals and storm from the great hall in sudden excitement. He had no idea why, but that was fine. He merely had to wait and receive his new orders.

A sharp pain tore through his skull, covered by the heavy mask and ornate headdress. Moaning in agony, Serpent went to his knees. Around the temple, he heard two echoes of his own wail as his brothers suffered the same excruciating pain.

Tears ran down his cheeks and dripped from his whiskers as titanic forces battled for dominance in his skull. He burned in a sudden fever, yet his teeth chattered as he shook with the chills. A fang clipped his tongue, drawing fresh, hot blood and another pained whimper. The pain was strongest at the base of his neck, as if a spear point was forced into his spine.

And Serpent remembered—when he had been chosen, he went into a chamber below the great hall. The other two elders, Condor and Death Inevitable, were chanting. Thick smoke poured from a strange vessel, tearing up his eyes and insulting his sensitive nostrils with its cloying sweetness. Each breath he took caused him to relax more and more. Death Inevitable, his hand disappearing in the grotesque maw of a statue hewn from the wall, ordered him to step forward and kneel by the hatch in the floor. Awestruck by the great honor bestowed upon him, the most senior hunter of the tribe, he complied. The hatch ground open and more sweet-smelling vapors poured forth, blinding him completely. There was a sickening, slurping and smacking noise and something viscous slithered around his neck.

The pain that followed was worse than anything he'd ever have to endure. His skin burned. His flesh dissolved. And something snaked under his skull. He howled and screamed, baring his fangs, trying to claw at the slithering intrusion, but the elders held him firmly to the ground. There was no escape, only merciful unconsciousness.

When he awoke some time later, the village was celebrating the arrival of its newest elder. His head throbbed with unfamiliar palpitations. Gingerly, he touched his neck, sensing a small lump bulging from his spine. When his fingers brushed it, a soothing sensation oozed from it, assuring him everything would be all right. The Sleeper would see to that. The others had found him then and presented him with the golden mask of the fang-toothed Serpent. From now on, he was no longer a hunter. He had been chosen. The Sleeper had accepted him. He now was an elder, serving the village and its unseen master both until the day he died.