Tales of Krond and Cyrilla Ch. 01

"Cyrilla, have you seen a place this beautiful?"

Krond stood on the piled rocks that made up the west bank of the Sapphire River, gazing up at the Northern Mountains. From here, high in the valley, the frigid mountains seemed all-encompassing, cold but quiet, safe. They had climbed as high as they could -- to the edges of the forest, where the river was still full of fish. Everything -- water, air, earth -- was chilled here, and Cyrilla wrapped herself in Krond's fur-lined cloak, hunched close to the small morning fire. She couldn't share his enthusiasm for the scenery.

"I haven't... not ever, Krond. I was in the Tower my whole..."

"Yes! Damn... I am sorry, my love. I was not thinking; I had the mountains in my head." Krond sighed, and his broad shoulders slumped. The chill wind blowing down the valley swept through his flowing hair, and his bare chest rippled as he pulled his net from the river, two large fish twitching in shock. His body seemed perfectly suited to this climate, the cold not bothering him in the slightest. He was happy here, in a place similar to his homeland, and his spirits were high.

"This river gives fish like a king gives coin!" Krond was smiling, his stern, strong face breaking with a boyish delight that warmed Cyrilla's heart, if not her fingers and toes. They had made camp here a fortnight ago, to wait for the mountain pass to thaw. A terrible storm had closed it unexpectedly, and now that they were here, there was no way to turn back without passing through lands controlled by Zarth.

The thought of descending the valley terrified Cyrilla; they had fought hard to escape the Riders, to throw them off their tails, and risking their paths crossing again seemed suicidal. They had waded through rivers, snuck past paddy farms and villages, and avoided the Kingsways as much as possible. It had been nearly two months since they had fled the castle of Zarth.

Two months since Cyrilla had last faced Bastigar, her former master, and escaped. Two months since the wizard had used his black magic to transform his slave boy Cyril into the raven-haired Cyrilla, his would-be assassin. It was long enough that Cyrilla felt comfortable with her body now, acquainted with its new shapes and surfaces. Now that they had stopped running, she had had time to think about her circumstances and the quick choices she had made in her rush for freedom.

Cyril's pitiful life in the Bloodbrick Tower had never given him much opportunity to be sexual, or to consider his desires in relation to other humans. He had felt desire, had pleasured his body, but it had always felt strange, and unfulfilling. His penis had been small, and would often barely stiffen before dribbling out its semen. Orgasm would bring a small measure of relief, but also an emptiness that left Cyril convinced that sex would never bring him happiness. He was trapped: trapped in the Tower, trapped in a body that could never give him what he needed.

The idea made Cyrilla laugh, but the fact was that when she had slid down onto Krond's pulsing erection for the first time, on the morning they ran, it had finally become clear to her what had always been missing. Their first coupling had opened a door in her mind to a pleasure and joy that cleared away the fog of confusion and self-doubt that Cyril had always suffered under. Cyril had never thought about penetrating a woman; even the act of masturbating had only been an awkward prerequisite for temporary relief. Being filled by Krond, made whole by his throbbing member and sharing an exquisite pleasure in his powerful arms -- that was different. That felt natural. The body she wore now felt right to Cyrilla, and she had quickly adapted to its use like a lost traveler returning home, their mind conjuring a map from nearly-buried memories. It was as if Bastigar's spell had inadvertently corrected an error made at Cyril's birth, and now, as Cyrilla, she was truly herself.

Not all of her problems were immediately solved, however. She had not told Krond about her life before the day they had met, and she was terrified of how he'd react if he knew the truth. And, of course, Bastigar's parting curse still echoed in her head.

They had raced out the Northern Gates of Zarth, and Krond had lowered the great iron portcullis, sabotaging the mechanism to prevent the castle guards' pursuit. Bastigar had called out to them from the other side of the barrier, enraged, and used Cyrilla's first name.

"Cyril, you pathetic worm! You think this is how you can be free? Never! No magic lasts forever! I lied to you! You'll be back; the magic will fade and you'll be back, you worthless slut!"

Cyrilla had glanced back, had seen his sweaty, angry face through the bars, and those words burned themselves into her mind: no magic lasts forever. When the old wizard had pulled and contorted Cyril's body into femininity, he had explained that another man's seed would make the transformation permanent. Cyrilla had certainly had her share of that particular elixir over the past weeks, but, if the original threat was a lie...

She shuddered. In the weeks of their escape, Cyrilla had alternated between fear of being caught by the Riders of Zarth, and fear of her body returning to its former state, and what that would mean for her and her relationship with Krond. She had scoured her body daily for signs of the magic's fading, grimacing at the slow regrowth of her leg and pubic hair, wondering if her breasts were smaller or her voice deeper than the day before, never quite sure if her body was "normal". She hadn't occupied it long enough to know what normal was. Her paranoia grew over the passage of days, the intervals between their brief but intense lovemaking.

When they fucked, Cyrilla would be reassured -- by his desire and his passion -- that she hadn't changed, was still the woman he had met in the castle. She would finish feeling sane again, stable in her sense of self. And she would swallow Krond's semen, every time, just to be sure. Perhaps it would bolster the effects of the original spell, and keep her this way, as if dosing herself with a tincture to keep away the chronic effects of some unfortunate disease. Krond certainly didn't complain, although he was sometimes confused by her urgent thirst for his seed. She claimed she simply enjoyed the taste and the act, which was true -- she loved it, in fact -- but hadn't yet explained her fear of losing her body itself.

She would have to tell him. At some point. Maybe soon, when they were truly safe.

"Beautiful Cyrilla, my queen, I give you breakfast!"

Krond's playful tone shook her from her thoughts, and brought her into the present. Krond had scaled the fish, gutted and roasted them beside the fire while she had been staring into the river's steady current, lost in dark thoughts. This morning's bounty was presented on a flat rock beside her: hot, steaming fish, a handful of berries they had foraged the day prior, and shoots from an evergreen tree that Krond insisted would keep them protected from illness. Not exactly a feast, but a far cry from the buckets of brown slop Cyril had doled out in the Tower, and Cyrilla could not deny that she felt stronger and more energetic than she ever had under Bastigar's oppressive control. Sleek muscles were making themselves known in Cyrilla's long, brown legs and arms, and her lungs no longer ached after their foraging treks. She felt alive, truly alive, for a myriad of reasons.

"It smells wonderful, Krond, thank you. Thank you, my knight," Cyrilla said with a wry smile, and snatched up a piece of fish into her mouth, and savoured it. Smoky and tender, as always. With cooking, as with love-making, Krond always paid close attention to what he was doing. Cyrilla sighed in pleasure, her insides warmed by the meal.

Krond poured a small handful of berries into his mouth, and chewed. He stared into the forest, thinking out loud, "We should go up the path again today. I saw peppergrass there, I think. You can eat the root; it is very good. We could also look for rabbit."

"Rabbit?"

"I will make a pot with the peppergrass root. Very good." Krond nodded to himself, still staring blankly into the forest, chewing his breakfast.

"This is something you eat in your homeland?"

Krond smiled, tilting his head in thought, "Yes, and no. It is food for the hunter tribes. In my tribe, some would call it food for animals. For the pigs."

"What is a pig?" Cyrilla asked, brows wrinkled.

Krond looked up, "You have no pigs down there? What a terrible place, Zarth."

Cyrilla simply nodded in agreement; it was beyond dispute.

A moment passed, before Cyrilla spoke, "Tell me of your land, Krond -- the place we're going. It's better?"

"Our people have strong spirits. Zarth may hold some power over us now, but it will not have us forever." He seemed so confident, as if this fact was self-evident. "We will keep our ways; and when we can, we will be free again."

"I believe you."

Krond touched his talisman, then waved his hand into the wind, as if scattering invisible seed. Cyrilla had seen him do this before.

"The land is bountiful, with much fruit and game. We will eat like the gods in the hills of my people. I promise you."

"It's not this cold, is it?" Cyrilla frowned.

"Oh, it is very cold," Krond laughed. "But only for winter. Winter, you will not love."

Cyrilla sulked, "No place should be this cold."

Krond nodded silently, before looking back up the mountain. "We should check the pass for snow again."

Cyrilla thought of the arduous climb and winced, "It takes hours to get to the pass. Could it have melted by..."

"You have something else you want to do?" Krond's head turned and he fixed his eyes on hers, a half-smile on his lips, his broad jaw working the last of the shoots.

Cyrilla knew that look now; her insides flushed with heat, and her groin ached. She locked eyes with him, and held up a berry in her fingers. "Sorry, I'm still eating."

Krond smiled, his teeth showing, and laughed. "I have finished, my love... but still I am hungry."

He rose to his knees and inched towards her, while she watched him, smiling, holding his gaze. He drew back her cloak and let it fall on the soft earth. Underneath, Cyrilla was wearing one of Krond's tunics, unbelted, so large it covered her knees.

She popped the berry into her mouth, chewed and squinted in mock seriousness. "You can't have mine. You'll have to find something else."

Krond leaned towards her, his face close to hers. She angled her jaw up, lips parted, expecting his kiss. Instead, he placed his hand softly against her breastbone and gently pushed her backwards onto her elbows, the fur cloak between her and the cool earth. With his other hand, he reached behind her and pulled the tunic up past her waist as she raised her hips to allow its rise. He loomed over her, all broad shoulders and long hair and muscles. Her heart beat faster and her cunt flushed with heat as she glanced down at his growing erection already filling his loincloth.

She reached to untie it, to release his beautiful, powerful cock. She wanted it in her small, delicate hands, to feel it stiffen, to pull it into her, but he pushed her hand aside and grunted, "No, not yet."

He firmly pressed her down onto her back and grasped her waist with both hands as her hips writhed, long legs opened wide, her wet cunt aching for him. He lowered his mouth to her exposed belly and kissed, inhaling her brown skin's fragrance. His lips were cool, and sent shivers up her spine, her nipples tightening under her tunic. He kissed around her belly button, and on her hips, leaving wet, cool marks with his mouth.

He moved his face between her thighs, his falling hair tickling the tender skin there, and inhaled deeply, sighing, "Ahh, the sweetest of all fruits."

Cyrilla raised her head in time to watch Krond descend on her -- his hot, wet mouth wide, enveloping her entire sex. His hands wrapped around her thighs and gripped her, holding her pelvis down. Blinding white light filled her vision as Krond's tongue firmly slid over and then pushed into the slick folds of her cunt, parting them, his breath warming her groin in the chill air. She gasped; Krond had never done this to her before, and the sensation was new and unbelievably intense. Cyrilla cried out into the forest, her yelp of pleasure muffled by the sound of the rushing river.

Krond slowly pushed his tongue against her, massaging into her labia, his hungry mouth salivating over her cunt. Cyrilla instinctively rolled her hips, pressing against his mouth's wet muscle, gritting her teeth and whimpering in exquisite pleasure. She reached behind her and clutched the fur of the cloak, arching her back and breathing in ragged gasps. The sensation overwhelmed her, passing over her in an unbroken wave, rising and falling in intensity but never ceasing; an endless river of pleasure pouring over her swollen, throbbing clitoris, her labia, her deep, burning sex.

His tongue was wide and flat and wet against her opening, his jaw working methodically up and down, from the bottom of her vulva up to her clit. Her cunt was completely alive with furious excitement, her toes curling, muscles tightening as the heat and raw sexual energy radiated from her pelvis through her entire body. She squeezed her eyes shut and squealed out, "Yessssss, yes yes yes! Fuck me, Krond! Fuck me, I'm so close! Please!"

"Not yet," he breathed into her cunt, before burying his tongue back into her. Faster now, his jaw muscles flexing rhythmically, his powerful tongue sweeping across her clit, over and over and over again. It was nearly unbearable, and all Cyrilla could do to was hold on tightly and ride the waves as they grew ever larger.

Krond repositioned his arms, freeing an arm while holding her hips down with the other. He shifted his weight, and Cyrilla felt his fingers at her vulva, just below his mouth. They probed her folds briefly, wetting themselves on their mingled fluids, before she felt two of those huge fingers press slowly into her cunt as Krond's tongue began shorter, slower laps against her clit. This pushed her to the edge, and she half-cried and half-moaned, dragging out her sounds of pleasure until her voice caught, as Krond's fingers began to slowly fuck her in time with his tongue.

Her breath came out in huffs and winces, as her orgasm grew closer. "Ohhhhh, fuck... fuck, fuck!" she rasped out, clinging desperately to the cloak and squeezing her legs around Krond's massive shoulders. "Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop!"

Krond's pace sped up, his tongue and fingers in unison, his grip tightening around her hips. Their bodies were joined this way, when Cyrilla reached her orgasm, her hips quivering against his open mouth, his tongue pressing into her clit as it tightened, her cunt clenching around his fingers. The wave overtook her and she gave in to it, her mind and body exploding in a shower of intense pleasure. Her hips bucked and spasmed in his firm grip, and she arched her head back and cried out wordlessly, lost in ecstasy.

The heavy pulse of her orgasm continued, bursting with white sparks of pleasure every time Krond leaned his face into her groin, amplifying every spasm. It was too much for her, and she whispered, "Stop, stop... oh gods, Krond. It's too good."

Cyrilla shuddered, and raised herself to her elbows, looking down at her handsome warrior. Her orgasm was still subsiding, her body still hot and alive, as Krond withdrew his fingers, and rose to his knees, stretching his neck and shoulder muscles. He smiled down on her, his mouth glistening with her juices.

"Delicious," he whispered, as he sucked one finger clean. Cyrilla's heart was still pounding, and her body craved more. Her eyes roamed his body from his sinewy neck, past his smooth, defined pectorals, and down to his rippling abdomen. His loincloth was taut with his huge erection, the peak of the mountain darkened by a damp circle. Her desire in that moment eclipsed any she had known before; she needed to be joined to him, to pull him by the cock, impossibly, inside her and be one forever. She loved him, this gentle giant of a man.

A form, gray and indistinct, rose behind Krond. There was movement and sound, and Cyrilla barely registered it through the haze of her fading orgasm. A swing, a bony thudding. Krond's eyes, wide with surprise as he fell sideways with a mumbled word of protest. His body crumpled at her feet and revealed the threat.

The Rider stood above Krond's slumped form. Its cloak was a stony gray, draped over polished black leather armour, studded with metal. A banded cudgel was in one gloved hand, the other reaching for a set of manacles at its belt. Cyrilla looked up and into its face -- a blackened steel mask shaped into serpentine monstrosity. The eyes were dark and empty; Cyrilla could detect no other face behind the fanged shell.

From inside the mask came a deep, muffled laugh and a voice like a grindstone, "They said you were running, yet here you are, on your back."

The Rider snapped open its manacles and stepped towards Cyrilla. "Make this easy, slut. It'll be hard enough for you when Lord Bastigar gets his hands on you."

Cyrilla still couldn't understand how her nightmares had come to life, but at the mention of Bastigar, her mind recoiled in fear. Bastigar would take everything away from her: her freedom, her rebirth, her life. Wild-eyed, she mutely struggled backwards, on her elbows, away from the Rider's reaching hand.

The Rider placed a boot on the shin of her left leg and twisted downward, the heel grinding against bone, shredding skin. Cyrilla screamed in pain, twisting her body away from the masked snake.

"I warned you!" The Rider grated, and raised its cudgel to strike. Cyrilla raised her hands to defend the blow, but it never came as the Rider was spun off her by its feet; Krond had twisted its ankle and thrown it off its balance. With blood running through his hair and down his face, Krond rose with a skull-sized rock in his hands.

"Never touch her!" Krond screamed as he raised the rock over his head and hurled it into the Rider's back with a heavy, hollow crack. The Rider lay prone and soundless for only a moment, then began to rise to its knees, the rock sliding to the ground.

Krond reached for the rock again, but the Rider spun around quickly, catching him with a backhand slap, its studded gloves opening Krond's cheek, and knocking him aside. The masked thing stood between Krond and Cyrilla now, preparing a defensive stance as Krond quickly recovered.

Cyrilla saw the blood on Krond's face and her mind went white-hot with fear and rage. She climbed to her feet and threw herself at the Rider's back, wrapping her arms around its metal neck, her legs around its midsection. The Rider swung its cudgel quickly behind its head, catching Cyrilla's shoulder with a bruising blow.

She had been beaten before, had endured so much pain. Her back still bore the scars. Cyrilla was not afraid of pain -- at least not her own pain. She grunted from the strike, but kept her grip tight. She hissed at the mask, "I'm going to kill you! You hurt him; I'll fucking kill you!"

The Rider clamped its fingers into Cyrilla's forearm to pry her off. Her hand spasmed in pain, which caused the other to slip. She flailed wildly, catching two fingers in the eye socket of the thing's mask, pulling its head sideways as she fell. The Rider twisted into a hunch, with Cyrilla's hand clinging to its metal face.

The fanged visage of black steel was above her face now, the eyes still black. From deep inside, the voice barked, "Death is a gift, but your barbarian will be the first to receive it!"

"You'll never have him!" Cyrilla shouted, and jabbed her other hand into the matching eye socket, gripping the helmet with both hands. Her anger exploded inside her, every muscle flexing in unison, her eyes wide and wild with pure hatred.