Red Tsonia & The Witch In The Dark

The voice tsk'd. Long, taloned fingers found his eyelids and drew them shut, then they dabbed his tears away.

"You didn't soil yourself. You have rare self control," the voice purred.

"Who... are you?" Joras muttered, irritated by the flattery.

A throaty chuckle. "Me? I was the one who pushed you off your feet. For someone bold enough to enter the warrens, you were rather easy to overwhelm." A short pause followed, filled with the rustling of cloth. "I've shaded the light."

Joras carefully opened his eyes. A bright green glow filled the space he and his captor shared, a narrow gash between two large blocks of the ever-present black stone. A fist-sized crystal sat near his hip. The emaciated creature sitting on his chest had draped his tattered cloak over it, dimming the radiance somewhat. Beyond his feet, Joras saw movement. More ghouls hovering nearby, reducing the odds of escape to nothing, even if he were able to overpower the scrawny thing using his chest as a stool.

"Thank you for that kindness. I... I meant do you have a name? I'm Joras."

"Call me Kural," the flesh-eater said, watching Joras's every move intently.

The gaunt thing cocked its head in a strangely bird-like manner. Underneath its cloak, it wore only a rag around its hips. Tufts of fur grew erratically from its body, forming dark patches on its chest, neck and around the elbows of its gangly arms. The head was bald, like a vulture's. The eyes were large and dark, reflecting the crystal's glow in sharp pinpricks of green. A smirk tugged at the thin lips, revealing sharp teeth.

"You... You're from Thelyria then?" Joras asked, struggling for any conversational gambit which might prolong his life. As long as the ghoul was talking, he wasn't eating. "How long have you been away?"

"Time cannot be reckoned here as it is above," his captor explained with a bitter scowl, looking away as if into his own past. "I have been here long enough that the evil of this place has soaked my flesh and seeped into my bones. Long enough to be twisted and mutated and degenerated into... into what you see before you."

"Eloquently put," Joras replied. His instinct was to pat the man's hand in sympathy, but both of his arms were pinned to his chest. "Your tongue at least retains its civility."

"Someone has to speak for these... people." He hesitated before settling on the word, then pointed a long, thin talon at his own chest. "I was chosen."

"Chosen?" Joras asked, hoping to extend the conversation in a direction other than food. "Really? By who?"

"The witch, Amalthra of course. Those sentenced to these damned tunnels are but ore in her vile foundry. It is she who twists our flesh and our bones into horrendous effigies of her demonic master. Some of us are born like this," Kural said, talons going through the fur on his chest, "Others are made this way. And others still never come back when called to her, instead ending up as candles or sculptures. This has to end."

One of the flesh-eaters hovering behind them snarled something which prompted the others to erupt in harsh laughter.

"You are not supposed to talk to your food, I suppose?" Joras wondered aloud, swallowing his fear.

The mutant shook his head. "They are mocking me, yes." His shoulders slumped forward. "They think I've grown soft since the witch chose me."

"I thank you for your hesitation," Joras said. "If it is food you need... I... have a bag of dates in my pack... It's not much, but you're welcome to it." He squirmed to one side under Kural's weight, to expose the traveling pack that was squashed beneath him. "Sort of an... appetizer, I suppose."

Kural clucked something at the chittering horde and their voices fell quiet. He hopped off of Joras with surprising agility and with strength belying his withered frame, pulled him up to his knees. "Give them to me," Kural urged, "The dates, quickly."

Joras fumbled the pack off his shoulders and dug through his clothes and packages and supplies until he found the sack of dried fruits Petruch had gifted him, perhaps three pounds worth. "I know it's not much," he apologized. "They're from B'rillia, I'm told. Though I don't suppose that matters."

Kural snatched the bag from Joras's hand, reached in and withdrew a plump fruit. He turned, showing it to the ghouls kept slavering just out of reach by his waning authority and barked something in their crude tongue, then tossed the bag into their midst. There was a fierce scuffle for the bag, but Joras thought the sounds of their clucking, glottal speech took on a somewhat cheerier tone.

Grinning fiendishly, Kural tore into the meat of the date, biting it in half with his triangular, razor-sharp fangs. His vigilant eyes drooped closed and his whole posture relaxed as he chomped with obvious relish.

"You've bought yourself a mercifully quick death at the very least, friend," Kural said and popped the other half of his date into his mouth, pit and all. "And a little more time that we may talk in peace."

***

Amalthra felt as if her brain was whirling and tumbling through a wild, savage dance to strange, alien music she couldn't quite perceive. Her body, their body, the body she had offered up to share with her master Xelathu, was awash in uncanny sensations that hurled her from one trembling orgasm to another.

She knew what it was to love Xelathu; when the stars aligned and an appropriate sacrifice was prepared, she could give her master his own form in this world and yield her willing body to his depredations. Their passion was beyond the copulation of mere mortals, but even such delights paled to this awesome new debauchery. Sharing Xelathu's body as he shared hers, reveling in the carnal sensation of both at once, was an experience more intense than any mortal was meant to endure.

For years she had practiced the forbidden arts of transmogrification. She had reshaped the warren's denizens to suit her needs, even mastered the art of changing her own flesh, but never once had it occurred to her to be anything other than female, other than a distaff being receiving from others. As her first phallus sprouted from her loins, Amalthra could feel the potency, the surge of masculine energy that filled the powerful organ. It was like nothing she had ever known, and it consumed her.

DuFrain's plaything did things to that cock that drove Amalthra wild with desire. Her warm, moist flesh encasing their shaft, stroking their rigid length with such a slick-tight grip, was a novel and vivid thrill. Amalthra could practically feel each individual muscle contract within Tsonia as they bucked their hips beneath her, clutching her waist tight to their groin. As Tsonia wailed in ecstasy, it was all Amalthra could do to form coherent words to express her rapture.

"Such power," she gasped. "Such power, my master... How.. how it ravages me!"

It was only the iron-clad will of her master that stalled Amalthra's sanity from boiling away in a delirious effervescence that would have left her babbling in incoherent hysteria. Yet even the demonic endurance from beyond the veil was incapable of staying their body's desperate need for release. Even as her crumbling psyche was wracked by incessant orgasm, the indomitable ejaculations of Xelathu's cock flung her into an infinite void where every nerve crackled with manic delirium.

"I would have you from behind," Xelathu growled to Tsonia, as Amalthra's senses returned. "Like a rabid animal."

The body they shared was mortal, but the will that fueled it was demonic, and through the haze of delight Amalthra began to worry that she lacked the strength to sustain her master's desire. Could their domination of this prize of chaos succeed if her mortal body failed them? Amalthra clung to her sanity by the tips of her fingers as the mighty cock of Xelathu skewered the red-haired warrior-slut.

They clasped her hips and drove their shaft deeper and deeper still and Tsonia arched her back, moaning with desire for every thick inch. Then Xelathu withdrew. Though disappointed, Amalthra admired their stalwart erection as it swayed above the twin hemispheres of Tsonia's ass, dripping her own sweet nectar and demonic seed. Amalthra and Tsonia gasped in unison as the swollen cock was pressed to Tsonia's puckered asshole.

"Yes, master, take her ass!" Amalthra cheered with a titering laugh. "So many pleasures you have shown me, I would know this as well."

"Be gentle," Tsonia smirked, tossing her bedraggled hair and looking back over her shoulder. "Or don't... I can take it."

Xelathu sheathed his sword, an inch at a time as Tsonia wiggled her hips and moaned with satisfaction under the slow penetration. But then Xelathu withdrew again, and Amalthra watched in awe as the mighty cock bifurcated down its length, dividing into a pair of twin phalluses, over and under, protruding from the witch's cunt.

Amalthra felt the potency of both as keenly as the first.

With one brutal thrust, the demon-witch hilted both swords in Tsonia's cunt and ass simultaneously. Under its driving onslaught, Tsonia screamed with tortured ecstacy and Amalthra swooned. Her sanity was finally swept away by a storm of impossible sensation, carnal rapture that no mortal could hope to weather. Her last coherent thought was a desperate apology for failing her master.

On and on they fucked, the demon-witch and the warrior, filling her relentlessly, slaking demonic thirst on mortal flesh. Through the endless tide of orgasm, Amalthra lost count of the dizzying crests when Xelathu's own climax sent her hurtling back into the abyss. Over and over they came, their bodies slick with perspiration, contorted into positions undreamed of by the most depraved humanity. Amalthra was adrift in insatiable lust, unable to find any hand-hold to claw back her sanity.

As the sweat dripped from their skin, the painted sigils that bound the ritual cracked and flaked. Bit by bit they fell away. As the blood-paste that adorned Amalthra's body merging her form with her master's eroded, the dominance of Xelathu waned. The mighty cocks began to withdraw and Amalthra found herself once again a woman, once again in sole possession of her body.

She sprawled naked across the damp, twisted gown, legs splayed and obsidian hair a wet tangle across the cool stone floor. When Amalthra opened her eyes, she could see Red Tsonia kneeling next to her, hair also soaked in sweat, with deep welts in her bare flesh and a flush on her cheeks and chest. The wound on Tsonia's shoulder had closed, leaving no scar or trace that it had ever been.

***

"By all means, let us talk," Joras agreed, rooting through his pack for any additional morsel of food that may have been forgotten down in the deepest corners. He came up empty. "Don't the guards feed you at all?"

"Every few weeks, they dump loaves of moldy bread at the gates, then laugh and cheer as we fight over it." Kural explained, the bitterness thick in his rich, mellow voice. "There is no honor among starving men, no patience or thoughts of tomorrow... When the last crumbs are gone, we must eat our own to survive. Your dates are a treat that will be talked about for a very long time."

"I only wish I had brought more," Joras said, now actually taking Kural's hand in sympathy. "If Amalthra rules down here, why does she not use her power to secure better food?"

Kural gnashed his teeth and growled, a vicious sound so ill-fitting his emaciated frame, the other flesh-eaters stopped their squabbling for a heartbeat and shrank back into the darkness. "Amalthra wants us at each other's throats. She wants the weak culled from her herd."

He shook his head and sighed with disgust before turning back to Joras. "But do not speak of food to hungry men when you are already on the platter, my friend. Let us talk about something else while we can. You were with Shaskar when we dragged you off the bridge. Which leaves few reasons why you are down here. Do you wish to deal with Amalthra? Or have you been banished here by the Overseer?"

"Well, um... My companion, the red-haired warrior, seeks Amalthra's wisdom," Joras confessed. "I merely tagged along. If I had any say in the matter, we would be halfway to Thelyria by now. Finding demon-kissers there is as easy as stepping on cobblestones." He sighed. "But she insisted it had to be done here and now."

Kural's eyes lit up. "A warrior, you say? I might offer you a bargain. Amalthra is in league with a demon and wields mighty magic, but her rituals leave her drained and weak for a time. A lone warrior seeking her counsel might take advantage of such an opportunity. Help us get rid of the witch and I can make sure you escape this pit unharmed."

"Pray tell, do I look like a warrior to you? Or an assassin?" Joras asked. "How am I supposed to slay a mighty witch such as Amalthra, even at her weakest?" He cast a glance to the exit where scores of ghouls hovered, the dates gone and their clucking speech growing impatiently menacing again. "Why not gather your... tribe and attack her en masse?"

"If we could face her together, we might, but the witch is too crafty and too secure in her haven for such an assault. By her magics she knows when we approach and she'll bar the way if she suspects treachery. She beckons us to her individually, and alone no one of us is a match for her enchantment."

"Is there but one way in and out of her stronghold?" Joras asked. A glimmer of an idea was beginning to take shape. He thought he might yet live to see the sun again.

Kural clucked something to the horde of ghouls inching forward. A low murmur wandered through their number and back down the passage before Kural answered. "If there is another door, none has ever found it."

"Well then, my friend Tsonia is probably inside with Amalthra right now. If we hurry, your tribe can storm in when Tsonia comes out."

"Amalthra would never open her door as long as she knows we are waiting without. She would hold your friend prisoner rather than risk an attack."

"Oh no, Kural," Joras chuckled. "Tsonia won't be held a prisoner. Not by might or magic. And if you're lucky, Amalthra might try it, and Tsonia will kill her for you—she's slain witches before. I mean, what have you got to lose?"

Kural's not-quite-human expression was difficult to read, but Joras could see there was still hesitation in his countenance.

"Look." Joras pushed himself to his feet. Kural snatched his wrist, but Joras didn't resist. He held his hands out in supplication and switched to the local trade tongue. It might not be as suited to lofty rhetoric as his native Thelyrian, but perhaps more of his captors would understand him.

"My friend Tsonia went to Amalthra for magic. When Tsonia is ready to leave, Amalthra will be weakened and Tsonia will fight her way out if she must. Amalthra's door will open and that is your time to strike, to slay the witch who toys with your desperate lives. With Amalthra gone, this place is yours to rule as you wish. You can find a way to negotiate with your wardens from a position of unity and strength.

"Now you can all sit down here in this hole and eat me right here, right now and absolutely nothing will change in your wretched little lives. You'll creep in the dark with your gnawing hunger, until finally it's your turn on the supper plate, or until the witch decides to snuff you out for her own amusement. Or! Or you can take me to Amalthra's lair and..."

Joras's mouth suddenly went dry at the offer he was about to make, and he had to swallow hard before he could make it. "...and you can eat me there if my plan fails and all you'll have lost is time. But to have any hope at all, we must go now. Now, before Tsonia leaves. If Amalthra's door opens and you are not ready to strike, the chance may not come again! Seize this opportunity, my friends! Summon your courage, throw down the witch, and dine on her flesh tonight!"

***

Tsonia tried with middling success to refashion a sort of skirt from the scraps of chainmail and leather she found on the floor. She wasn't entirely sure why she was bothering with modesty at all. It would take a nun's robe and habit to keep even a casual observer from knowing at a glance that she'd just been fucked to Hell and back. But, she thought, pulling her battle-worn chain shirt over the welts and bite marks, some armor was better than none.

She considered taking the heavy plate gorget and pauldrons Amalthra had worn, but the idea of Joras's ghost smirking at her from beyond the veil perturbed her, and so she settled for her own tattered mail.

Amalthra wouldn't have objected. The witch hadn't moved or uttered a word since her last mewling orgasm left her wasted, splayed on the floor like a horse ridden beyond its endurance. Her vacant eyes stared at nothing in the dim candle light and her bare chest rose and fell slightly with her shallow breath. Tsonia wasn't sure if the woman would regain her senses or not, and she decided not to care.

With Shaskar's charred corpse decorating Amalthra's doorstep, Tsonia would have to find her own way back to the outside world. She took a handful of candles from a box before shouldering her pack and drawing her sword. Whatever waited beyond the door, Tsonia would face it alone.

"Wait," croaked Amalthra at last, rolling onto her stomach and looking up at Tsonia with a longing expression.

"Oh, don't make this awkward," Tsonia admonished. "Last night was fun, but we both know I'm leaving now."

"No, it's not that," Amalthra continued, pushing herself up to her feet. "Not just that," she amended, pulling the discarded white robe around her shoulders. "You're debt-marked now. Didn't you notice? Come, look at your reflection in the pool."

The witch gestured to a shallow pan of dark, still water looming in the shadow of the sarcophagus' far side.

Tsonia did not trust the witch, but her bargain with the demon had seemed somehow too easy. With trepidation in her step, she leaned over the basin and peered into the waters. Her own face peered back at her, flushed from her recent exertion, hair bedraggled and clumped with drying crust. But there was something unexpected as well.

She touched her left cheek where a ghastly sigil appeared like ink upon her skin. The uncanny shape of it sent a shiver of loathing down her spine. Tsonia could not feel the mark beneath her fingers, and it would not yield to her increasingly frantic attempts to rub it away.

Amalthra's face appeared then in the reflecting pool alongside Tsonia's own.

"You owe a debt to Xelathu," the witch said, eyes bright with maniacal glee. "His mark will not vanish until the debt is fulfilled. Until then all who meet you will know you to be in a demon's thrall," she cackled.

Tsonia turned on her, forcing the laughing woman back against the near wall, one arm braced against her chest, sword point held below her chin. "This was never part of the bargain!" Tsonia snarled.

"But it is!" Amalthra retorted, showing fear of neither Tsonia's fury nor her blade. "It always is! All who meddle with forces from beyond the veil know of the debt-marks. Did no one tell you, my darling? How unfortunate. You could have negotiated to have the mark somewhere... less obvious." Her words were lost in another bout of deranged laughter.

"You bear no such markings yourself, and I've seen all of you there is to see," Tsonia seethed through clenched teeth. She pressed the witch harder into the stone wall.

"You think this my true form? No. I bear Xelathu's debt-marks, but they are hidden away. With just a bit of flesh-craft, I can hide yours as well."

Tsonia lowered her blade and released the witch. "Get on with it then."

"Come, my sweet Tsonia," Amalthra beckoned. The witch erased the remains of the ritual circle in front of the sarcophagus.