The Body Mage Chronicles Ch. 01-03

For those following my other stories, I would very much love to return to continue them. This story is merely me exploring other ideas I've had in my head, and is loosely set far in the future from the events of Night's Storm. If you're into epic fantasy intersecting with sci-fi (and with sex forming the basis of magic), I hope you enjoy this one.

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The Body Mage Chronicles

Chapter 1 - A call into the void

Thunder echoes in the cloudless night as the screams of men reverberate across the walls of Brea. In the scarred plains outside the gates of the crippled city, an amorphous, intangible mass of darkness emerges. Occluding, choking mists spew forth from scars ripped within the air itself and from it the enemy arrives.

Their soldiers, wearing armor smelted from metal and bones, enchanted with runes and augmented with forium, glow a sickly green. And following them, steamstructs - their pilots welded into the insect-like machines - bellow and whine, creak and groan, as they crawl out to begin their siege. The bells ring. Conscripts are called to arms.

And Freycia realizes that she is out of time.

"Crasta!" she whispers harshly into the ears of the sleeping woman who clutches tightly her quiver of crossbolts. She stirs a little, though Freycia has to repeat herself several times. "They are here!" she says, prodding the slumbering ranger to the point that even the bed she sleeps on shudders.

"What?" she answers, her eyes still closed as she turns around.

"The Agrestal are here!" hisses Freycia.

The village that they are in is somewhat of a distance away from Brea proper, with the city and its walls providing a brief breakwater from the incursion. Yet it is only a matter of time before the armies sweep past the walls like a raging torrent against a lone rock, and overwhelm all the surrounding farming towns that have been built alongside the great river that flows next to Brea. Even now, as the bells ring, the gates of the city prepare to close - and shut out the defenseless tenants working the land.

"Goddess' cunt!" Crasta swears with full realization as the peals slowly worm their way into her ears. Then, three thumps. The door of their hut is knocked, and Freycia asks them to come in. It is Syre and Mosaca, the two warriors who round off the party of four.

"My lady mage," Syre says, "are you heading to the garrison?"

"No. Not yet," Freycia says. She stands up and puts on her fale-skin cloak. It covers the entire length of her back, though it leaves her front exposed to the mercenaries who are escorting her. Mosaca's eyes leer at her small though pert breasts, though Freycia wraps a thin band around her waist and unfurls a cloth that barely covers the lips of her slit before his hungry eyes are able to take in anymore of her body.

She did not mind stares, having long been used to both the looks that came from her constant need to expose her body. Covering up only hinders her connection to the Flow, the source of her powers as a bodymage.

"What are your orders?" Syre says in an assured manner that speaks to his professionalism as a former Cerathi commando. He is the only one with military experience among the three, and the one who is taking his duties the most seriously. Crasta, while in it only for the money, still seems to be nonchalant despite the danger they are now facing. Mosaca, constantly ranting about his assignment, wears a look of perpetual disgust.

"You can take orders from a Rethraci whore, but I'm going to sit this one out. As far as I care, the only thing I'm paid for is to bring her to Brea," he says.

"Which you haven't, not yet," Syre says.

"The fuck I care, we're practically here!" he yells as he points to the city behind him.

"Freycia told me she has a plan," Crasta says, strapping on her bracers.

"I intend to perform a summoning," Freycia explains, "I have been studying the tome of Reari, and I believe I can replicate her spell to summon a Star Warrior."

Mosaca snorted. "Star Warrior? You have got to be fucking kidding me."

Crasta shrugs as she checks her crossbow. "We could use whatever help we can get."

"And-and you're a mage whore, not a Selantran summoner. What makes you think you can even pull it off?" Mosaca protests.

"We have to try. I have Sighted the army, and the city stands no chance. We stand no chance," Freycia says as she walks past them and out the door.

"You heard her," Syre says and Crasta follows along with Mosaca who swears in disagreement but inevitably continues with them. Coin is still the greatest motivator for even the hardened skeptics.

"The anchor stones on that hill over there will amplify my link to the Flow," Freycia explains to them as her pace quickens. She taps into the tiniest sum of her flow reservoirs to strengthen her legs. To herself she merely is walking briskly, to the others behind her she is at a running speed, and they fall behind as their stamina runs out.

"Lady Freycia!" Syre pants.

"I will go ahead and begin the calling, do not worry," Freycia assures. She glides up the hill, up the staircase that has been worn smooth with centuries of pilgrims' feet, and arrives at the summit that is around the height of a Brean turret. From here she has a commanding sight of the flat plains below. Loud pops and deep booms reach her eyes, indicating the defenses have begun using their artillery. It will only buy them a little time.

In a circle around her are the anchor stones, pinnacles the height of two or three men hewn ages past, enchanted with runes that allow mages to communicate across vast distances to other circles across the lands and up, far up into the sky - even to the stars themselves.

She throws off her cloak, exposing her nude body to the nip of spring's night. Goosebumps raise along her body, winding down her arms and legs, flowing across her tattooed back. Her nipples harden. Positioning herself in the center of the anchor stones, she lies down. The grass are icy blades that lacerate her back, though she ignores the discomfort and spreads her legs. Then she begins to pleasure herself.

"Cor-Rethra," she prays as her fingers make her way between her legs and split open her pierced lips, "guide me through the Flow."

The three reach the top of the hill, and Mosaca laughs at the sight.

"Look...look at that," he says between pants, "she went all the way up here to play with herself like some drunk harlot!"

"Hush!" Syre says as Crasta leans against one of the stones to observe the rather uncommon sight of a body mage performing a summoning. She has seen them perform elemental manipulation beyond just that of the physical body, of which their specialism is known for. Yet here she is performing a calling only capable of being performed by high-summoners. This, Crasta knows, she has to see.

With one hand, Freycia traces gentle circles around her clit. As soon as her cunt begins to moisten, her fingers enter her cunt.

"Ungh!" she moans as she unlocks her reservoir and enters the flowstate, with her pleasure being the trigger that will launch her mind into the Flow itself. Her vision begins to blur, and her body begins to lose control, though with practice her muscle memory allows her to continue pleasuring herself and keeping her link to the Flow intact and strong.

Entering the Flow is not something done with a snap of the finger, but rather a gentle and eventual merging of one's consciousness to that of the source of power from which all mages drew. As Freycia transitions to the Flow, she can see herself leaving her own body - writhing in pleasure as her hands continue to strum her pussy - and entering into the void above, amplified by the anchor stones surrounding her.

Darkness. Then pinpricks of light begin to appear, distant echoes from across the universe. The spell, she remembers. An ancient language no longer used, but which still retains its power to focus a mage's cast towards its intended destination. She speaks it, though the words do not appear on her lips but rather are echoed from her mind. They reverberate through the void, then disappear into the nothingness. She waits, as her mind floats in the endless dark sea. She turns around, and sees the blue orb from which she has left, and she realizes how small and insignificant she is and yet she realizes such a precious and fragile thing should not be allowed to destroy itself. That is her calling and her responsibility as a mage.

Then she is pulled back. Her arms reach out to the stars, attempting to grasp them but it is in vain. She falls through the clouds, and back to the ground before awaking in a jolt.

"Freycia!" Crasta says as she grips Freycia's sweaty arm, her fingers slick with the juices from her sex. Still in the flowstate, Freycia looks at her wide eyed, in both anger and shock at being torn from the Flow proper, though she quickly realizes why Crasta has done so. In the distance, the green radiance of the Agrestal rings the city and distributaries of scouts and forward troops snake away towards the surrounding villages. Towards them.

"They can sense your magic, Lady Freycia," Syre says, his face tight with worry. "We must leave."

"Fucking whore led them right to us!" Mosaca says, drawing his sword and pacing about like a caged maslik.

"I'm sorry," Crasta says. "But did it work?"

"I made the call. But I did not hear an answer," she says, her face downcast.

"We can worry about that later," Syre says. The blade of his halberd reflects the moonlights into his eyes, making them shine silver as if like a revenant. In truth, he can pass for one if they could see his scars and his thalateum plated arms - scale like patches of silver that replaced his shredded skin torn away in conflicts past. He turns to the plains below them and studies an arm of wraiths that have broken away from the horde now surrounding the city.

Crasta helps the struggling Freycia up. The bodymage looks at the advancing army and prepares to release the last of her reservoir. She will need all she can to heal and to enhance the garrison - or what is left of them - in the city. First though, she has to find a way to enter it. This, she trusts, Syre will figure out.

"We go down that way," he says in his calmest whisper, which he reserves for the most dire of situations.

"Through the woods?" Mosaca asks, skeptical and almost seeming ready to abandon the group.

"Yes. The Agrestal are targeting the villages first. That will buy us time. Then," he lifts his finger and traces an imaginary line towards Brea, following the canals. "Through there, and to their gates."

"Good idea," Mosaca scoffs, "except the city is surrounded. How are we going to get in?"

"The tunnels," Crasta realizes.

"The fuck? No way I'm wading through their shit!" Mosaca says.

"I can leava an aura here to distract them," Freycia says.

"Do it, Lady Freycia. And Mosaca, you're free to stay here if you don't feel like it."

Freycia closes her eyes, and redirects the flow into an anchor stone, chaining them to one another until they reverberate in resonance. A bright pink glow emanates from them, the spectrum of the magic she has casted.

"Something is wrong," she says.

"What?" Crasta asks. Syre pauses to look at her.

"I felt...something. Magic. Energy. I don't-I don't know. Wait - there!" Freycia says as she runs down the hill.

"My Lady!" Syre says, and chases after her. Freycia runs towards the woods, her legs carrying her swifter than the fastest Drym. Then a bright purple flash erupts from inside, turning the trees into silhouettes and sends frightened birds into the sky. Herds of Kula, sheltering within, gallop out. The males, with antlers twisted like the branches of the trees above them, easily stand twice the height of the party running towards them.

Mosaca shrieks and breaks away. Crasta readies her crossbow, though Syre continues his pursuit of Freycia unabated. The mage herself seems to be ignored by them, though she has casted a thin repelling barrier that gently nudges the fleeing animals away. Her coattails billow at the speed of her run, as her nude torso, glistening with sweat, feels the brunt of the wind.

She sees a figure, enveloped in a haze of energy, standing in the middle of the trees that have been spaced into even rows by their planters. Flaring her magic, she advances step by step. Cautious, yet hopeful.

It walks to her, and she reaches out to it. She feels nothing at first, but as if seemingly allowing her entry, her Sight then permeates him - for it is a male - and she feels his beating heart, his nauseous stomach and labored breaths.

He speaks to her in words she does not understand, but she feels his meaning. He reaches out his hand - encased in a black armor that seems to enclose his entire body, gapless and formless. Devoid of grooves and ridges, almost as if it is his skin. Then it flows back like a liquid, revealing a hand that looks distinctly human.

He repeats the words, offering his hand, palms turned upwards towards her. She hesitates, then reaches out to him. Their fingers interlace. She feels his calloused fingers, and then a stream of information floods into her - and out from her. He is reading her, she realizes. A hurricane of voices and images sweep through her mind, though she sifts through them with the precision of her Sight, and finds him on the other side.

"You called me?" he asks her without words, but within her mind. His voice is clear and distinct, as if the storm mutes itself when he speaks.

"Yes," she answers, "are you the warrior from the stars?"

"Is that what you call us?"

"That is what Lady Reari calls you."

"I have not heard of her, but she is correct, in a way."

"Will you help us?"

He is silent for awhile, seemingly reading her every thought though she has no way of knowing so.

"Yes," he says.

"What should I call you?"

"I am Kaelian."

"Freycia, I am a Mage of the Body."

"I...I see what you mean," he says.

Then she realizes that he has spoken to her. His accent is identical to hers, and the masculine intonation of her Isle Rethracian syllables remind her of her father.

"You have learned our language?"

"Yes. From your mind. It helps with the transition process," he says, though he then kneels down and takes more deep breaths.

"Are you alright?" she asks.

"The Insertion is always rough," he says.

"Do you mean your journey here?"

"Yes."

"Where are you from?"

He stands up and she could sense a smile underneath his dark armor.

"Universes away."

"Yet you heard my call?"

"Yes. Though by the time we received it, a long time had passed. Your world was long dead by then."

Freycia gasps at that.

"You are from a future time then?"

"In a manner."

"I-I hope you will be able to help us."

"Helping you is the easy part," he says as his head turns a little to look at Syre and Crasta running towards Freycia. "The hard part is ensuring the peace remains. This isn't the first time we have been summoned here, after all."

"That is true," Freycia acknowledges. "Did you read my memories as well? Are you familiar with the situation - our history?"

He shakes his head.

"No, that will take too long and is not encouraged," he says as he taps his temple, "cerebral overload. Are those your companions as well?"

Freycia turns and signals that it is safe. Syre lowers his halberd, though Crasta's suspicions of everyone are always perpetual - her crossbow is still aimed directly at him.

"Yes. Warrior - Master Kaelian - there is a city over there. Do you see it? It is being besieged by a powerful enemy."

He nods. "I can see them."

"We plan to sneak into the city, and reinforce the garrison there. With your help, I believe we can hold them back until reinforcements from the Capital arrive."

Kaelian taps his arm, and a black disk forms on his arm.

"What the fuck is that?" Crasta murmurs.

"Scout," Kaelian says as it launches into the air with an angry buzzing hum which recedes the higher it went, hovering right above them like a dark star.

"It lets you see around you?" Freycia asks.

"Yes. Much like your magic," he explains as he lifts his arm into the air and catches it back. The disk folds itself into his arm, melting back into his armor. He freezes, as if to process the information. Then his armor comes to life - bright blue lines that flow from his chest to the sides, zigzagging and turning in right angles as it traces its way throughout his body.

"There will be no siege," Kaelian says with a resoluteness in his voice that takes Freycia aback. "I will end this tonight."

Chapter 2 - The end of the beginning

The waters of the canal are shallow, though it creeps up their breeches like a leech, until it reaches their stomachs, draining the warmth from their body. Syre and Crasta tail Freycia closely as her flow formed field allows her to part the waters in an effortless silence. Mosaca trails, leaving curses along the way.

Besides the gentle rippling of the waters as they make their way through the main artery that feeds the fertile farmland around them, there is silence. The hordes retreated almost as soon as the warrior leapt into the air and did not return.

"Meet me at the city," he said, before leaving them to make their way there. Freycia remembers his armor thrumming with an energy she has not seen or felt before, before he took to the sky like a darkpowder missile. So this was the true power of the warrior - they were able to defy the very pull of Ea herself, like the birds that fly or the serpents that once ruled the skies above. She has not seen such immense power, and a part of her fears if people like him were not on her side.

"Can we trust him?" Syre asks.

"If that is really a Star Warrior," Crasta says, her voice shaking from the cold but perhaps also something else, "then whether we trust him or not is irrelevant. He has the power to end entire kingdoms!"

"Exactly. Lady Freycia, I hope we do not regret summoning him."

"I saw his heart, Syre. He is good. Deeply so."

"It's too quiet!" Mosaca calls out from the back.

"Feel free to do something about that," Crasta replies.

"We shouldn't be here! There could still be Agres-"

Mosaca is proven right, when a scrimling with its pike wielding rider leaps into the canal, landing with a splash and letting out a shrill shriek to alert the others. It lunges at Mosaca, who barely dodges it and then continues onwards towards Syre and Crasta.

Crasta replies with a quarrel from her crossbow, though it glances off the scales of the scrimling. Its tails, sharp and barbed, whip about, eager to find a target. Syre roars, lunges with a thrust. The Agrestal rider turns its mount to the side. It leaps onto the sloped embankment of the canal and bypasses the two mercenaries.

Freycia flares her magic as she forms a dense barrier that slows down the striking tail of the scrimling until it moves as if in slow motion. Crasta runs to the side, climbs up the sloping canal walls and fires down at the rider. This time, the bolts connect - knocking it off the wild creature it rides.

"Now!" Crasta yells, and Syre's halberd turns into a streak of white as he assaults the fallen rider from above. It cleaves cleanly in two, black bile gushing forth, turning the waters dark with its effluent. The scrimling, however, remains the bigger problem and Freycia knew her magic was limited against creatures. Still, she sents forth an invisible tendril that snakes deep into it, winding through its blood vessels and nervous systems, until she reaches its heart and brain - both located in its center. Then she sends a surge straight into it, driving the creature into agony.

It flops around and flails wildly, its tail nearly slicing Syre and Freycia. "My Lady!" Syre calls as he leaps past its swinging tail and picks up Freycia by her waist, the towering Cerathi carrying her like a doll by his side.