The Sunward Sporestalks

Every practitioner, every scholar of the arts should be aware of the power of the seasons. Wintersweet, bottled at the solstice: auguries and misty steps. Spring and The Mender's gifts: blessed founts chilled by molten ice; verdant herbs, fresh or dried.

Earth and sky in confluence. Fool's moon in autumn. Leashstar and Voidmoon above all. The oldest tabulations of the later predate the Republic's founding, and the finest lenses are ground to track the former. The Sporestalks need neither. And if their date for High Summer were to differ from ours I would assume an impurity of glass or a mistake in writing.

Their sect hails from the boreal wilds. The woods surrounding the Gash's source are said to house their sanctum, but I have not seen that fabled grove. Communities all along the river do welcome them, as healers and as priests. (For the role of Druidic sects in folk religion, see al-Thowou's Mellorsinic Cults and the spirit world .)

Verruca, my primary informant, had roamed all the way down to Auster. Like the seasons, they move with the stars. As moons and planets follow their orbits, they bring these seers with them – though not usually all the way down to the river's sugach.

Lacking as the Sporestalks are in a formal conception of the unmooring, their practices nonetheless should be considered as the missing link between the wild sorceries of the primitives and the advanced arts. In the view I am hoping to advance, they are not merely vessels for quasi-divine powers, like for example the shamans of the steppe orcish and boreal human tribes, but instead utilize a unique approach to high magic through celestial ritual.

It is in the celebrations surrounding High Summer we find an explanation of both components necessary for the arts. First, it should be noted that the importance of the day of High Summer itself tends to be overstated in most accounts. While the confluent zeniths of Leashstar and Voidmoon produce the aforementioned spike in arcane potential, this peak extends for multiple days before and after the actual astronomical event. Furthermore, the folk religious demands surrounding the day often make complicated preparations and techniques impossible to perform during the date itself.

Secondly, a reliance on the absolute maximum implies an amount of intent the sect actively shuns. They envision themselves not primarily as wilful actors on the natural order, but rather as the agents of its will. This is in part a clear act of self-deception; their subdivine spirits may express feelings, or even something approaching appetites, but the world itself is, of course, fundamentally empty, a vessel to be acted on by gods and ensouled mortals.

My third point is then their paradoxical self-creation. They may deny their own will, but they do manifest it. Change is a tool for the trained practitioner. We are and are not what we will, and the self, the knowledge of the self, are the necessary origin and the absolute limit of the art. Sporestalks, on the other hand, are who they believe to be.

Neither dragon, nor fey, but the bestial is their source. And as such they are changed. Not human, not dragon, not demon, not fey – not even orc – but beast. Whether or not our conceptions of bloodline and lineage even hold for them is a question unsettled by the literature, and my own observations do not suggest an easy answer, one way or the other.

Most are eager to follow. Blood may or may not command them, but they obey. In the weeks before High Summer they venture deep into the wild and – and by decree of the administration the details will be omitted.

Others, more similar to us than some might wish to admit, seek mastery. "Has it worked for you," I asked my informant, "ever?"

She lodged in the hospitality room of The Ferryman, where I had taken the roofside suite. From courtesies shared at breakfast, over common choices in entertainment, to entertaining conversation, we had grown closer over two weeks. The beliefs and practices of her sect proved an intriguing filed of study, and she was willing – eager even – to share her insights. We had even begun to share our food during the meals, with her feeding me meat dishes and her deserts, asking only bread in return.

"Not yet," Verruca said. (I never asked a clan name.) "Last year, I experimented with blightroot. That made it worse. Cold sweats, racing heart, and I got so fucking wet. As a swamp.

It was like a downpour after summer heat, like the raging sea. And I fled. Then came the loss of control: growth of fur and claws, a tail even. And you know the properties of untreated orcish healroot. I don't remember everything, but..."

Following the publishing guides of the Library Commission and the Student's Bureau's decision concerning teaching material, I will continue to withhold the salacious details.

Suffice it to say, her story made its impression on me. Scandalized but laughing and – I am not ashamed to admit – somewhat aroused, I offered well-considered praise:

"A stunning tale – I'd have given up after that." And after a pause: "What are you doing for this year?" High Summer was a week away, and I sensed that I had stumbled onto a veritable experiment.

"On the season before that I had some initial success with fasting and meditation," she said. "I still ended up fucking my way through Ingveer, of course. It started out innocent enough: I'd meet a likely lad, and we'd spent the night together. Might not've been the season at all. Soon, however, any offered drink or a single sweet laugh were enough to get me into bed. Or into an alley. Or on my knees right by the counter. One wouldn't be enough, and I'd have two or three each night. Then two or three at once. During days as well. I missed the festival and spent the day on my back instead.

I am no longer welcome there. Even in my haze, I saw the bloodied knife. He had murdered one rival already, and seeing me like that – it broke him. There was a howl; inhuman and wild – I think I enjoyed it. Then he attacked. Ten against one, but his weapon did cruel work. They beat him to death.

I am a skilled healer – usually. However, I hadn't brought any herbs, and I could not rightly see. One was fucking me all the while – I think. The blade had missed his heart by inches. It was lodged under a rib, and they had gotten him before he could pull it out again. I staunched the bleeding – somehow. It got removed later and the bone did heal, maybe.

There is always a price. Even for us; especially for us. Power taken from nature, from herbs. Or from the song of the spheres, this close to High Summer. Even from blood, from life's flow. I do not remember what I did. I probably came on some mule driver's cock and smeared his injury with our discharge. It might've been the spirits. Fur started to grow, and his eyes turned bestial. Or maybe 'twas wood. Bark scabbing over the bleed and knobby branches sprouting along the rib. The others preferred to bind their own wounds and to go see an alchemist.

One was found poisoned the next day. They hanged his betrothed, but hurled stones at me as they chased me away."

"Dragon's Mercy!"

"Yeah. Live and grow. Live and grow."

"And now?"

She laughed. The shadow of her palm fell over our empty plates and the pitcher of water we shared. "I keep clean. And I have studied, and I have travelled; all the way to the Shears – if you can believe it. Mother, Father and Child keep jealous guard over the ports on the big islands, over Schwarzscharf and Helgeland. On the small isles, however, on the lonely rocks where five families and a hundred sheep share an orchard, the Moonshadows still hold sway."

"They are another sect?" I produced notebook and coal pen from my robe.

"Yes. They are watchers of tide, and they follow the call of the sea. Shoals of ice float past the islands in winter, but they cloak themselves in seal skin. They taught me much, and I collected salt grass and sinner's sponge. The lynchweed grows better here, and I got it while in bloom. The mash doesn't taste half bad, mixed with milk. I meditate, in the morning and at night, and the spirits whisper in my sleep."

"You meditate?" I asked and made another note.

She gave me a knowing smile. "Not like you people. We don't do weird breathing and nonsense syllables. I find a quiet spot instead. Somewhere surrounded by bushes and roots. And then I'll fill my cunt with my a wooden fuck-stick."

"Gramercy," said I.

Distant thunder roared. The air brimmed with aetherized energy. Lightning flashed and rain fell in heavy drops on the window sill. She stretched. Wiry muscles rippled under her tight shirt and her small breasts pushed against the buckskin. "Speaking of," she said, "I should get going."

"Do you need help?"

"No. Thank you."

We both watched the floor, or our cups. The thunder rolled closer.

"It's raining."

She rose. "I'll manage." She may have smiled.

"See you tomorrow, then?"

"See you tomorrow."

Auster is not famed for its wines, but The Ferryman did import some decent vintages. I drank away my embarrassment and began to compile my notes. Tried to. When I motioned the serving girl for another jug, the rain had stopped.

The puddles outside glowed with the golden-orange sunset. A soft breeze cooled my skin, and on the back porch the hubbub of the teeming, steaming masses felt far away. I sipped from my cup, and did not think about anything.

Bloodpeepers flitted above the already stagnant rainwater. The first moonbeam convinced me. A snap of my fingers, and their corpses disgorged the stolen fluids. Not without a pang of guilt, I murmured the incantation. The pool rippled, but my contrition proved needless.

I saw a tree instead. Knotholes and weathered bark formed a withered face. It laughed at me. The twigs and leaves quavered; stronger than the weak wind. They moaned in my ears; harmonious and mirthful.

I did not sleep well that night. My sheets were filthy from sweat, and the dreams came in dreadful fits. No spirit whispered to me; instead my mind, boiling and licentious, formed delirious promises. The flies took their revenge on my drowsing form, and I could barely breathe in the stale air.

Someone had brought cold water for my morning ablutions. As ordered. The rooster had not yet crowed, and I felt like I had not slept at all. I washed away sweat and dirty visions. The unseen servant had prepared my toiletries. I shaved my face and, after a moment's hesitation, my crotch. The perfume burned on the fresh cuts. The smell of ambergris and yrsun oil. Massaging the slackening skin, I willed back beauty into the dying loam.

Dressed in my best robes, yet tired still, I shuffled downstairs to get an early breakfast. Verruca was waiting at our table. "Don't you ever sleep?" I asked.

She did not answer. A strange paleness had griped her usually youthful face. Beads of cold sweat ran from her temple. The heat had not bothered her before.

"Are you alright?" I sat down beside her and extended a helping hand.

"It's time," she said. Her breathing was ragged, and when she grabbed my arm I noticed the wet film along her fingertips.

"Dragon's Mercy!"

"Yeah. I fear there isn't much more to be done. I won't run – and my thoughts are slipping. It's begun." She licked her lips. "I need your help."

"But of course. Anything."

She laughed mirthlessly. "We'll need a room. You choose – I can't – not anymore... Let me just – first..." She had moved her right hand back under the table and now she shuddered. Even more dew clung to her fingers when she offered me her hand. "Now."

She stumbled after me until we reached my room. On the threshold, she threw herself into my arms and yielded her half parted lips to my kisses. "I need to be fucked," she panted.

I had gathered as much.

The room door closed shut behind us, and I tore open my robes. Loll-tongued, she dropped to her knees and eagerly accepted my girth. She sucked and slurped and sucked, until I was close to bursting.

"By the Dragon, I am close!"

"No! Fuck! No! Fuck my cunt!" Panting, she led me to the bed. "I need it."

The green linen and soft leather of her shirt gave easily, and I revealed her spread and readied legs. She squealed as I thrust into her warmth; once, twice, thrice – and I could hold back no longer. The first spurt into entered her depths, and the second hit her belly. Jerking, groaning, I rose, and the rest disappeared between her strawberry lips.

"More."

The antler buttons on her jacket had come undone, and I stripped it away. Sweat covered her body, dripped from her pert tits and clung to stiff nipples. The wild taste of pine and rutting beasts.

"Fuck!" She only stopped her obscene pleas when I stuffed her mouth. Sucking and gargling, she returned the blood to my cock.

"I want your ass!" The cruel edge in my voice surprised us both.

For a moment, disgust and hesitation flashed on her cum streaked face. Shame even. "I've never, not even..."

But I saw her fingers. She had filled the void the moment I had withdrawn. It had not been enough. Fast and manic she had plunged into herself, but she had been unable to overcome the celestial pull. She gobbled down my prick, and, cock-drunken, she convinced herself.

"Anything."

The smell of fire and thyme filled the air. Her fingers moved like snakes. Spurts of golden grease bubbled, like molten butter, from the tips. She spread her cheeks and opened herself to me.

Cooling spit lingered, connected me to her luscious lips for a moment longer. As I touched her hips, I felt a furious calm. Carefully, I prepared myself. I probed the ring with my fingers and poised myself for entry. The need to rut, to dominate, to take, to fuck had come and gone and I would be gentle. But she bucked against me and impaled herself.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuuck!"

"Quite." Seizing her hair, I forced a kiss on her lips. The need had returned. "You're amazing. You're a slut. You're an amazing slut." I re-entered her in a single thrust. Her sides caught between my vise-like grip, I mounted her. Fluid gushed from her cunt, and her curses and moans became incoherent.

I did not last long.

"Fuck! More! Fuuck!" Fire burned between half-lidded eyes, and her only movement was to finger at her overflowing holes. "More."

I fed my spent, filthy member to her ravenous lips, but I had given her my all. "I need a break."

"Get someone else! Anyone!" She seized my neck. "You don't get to play jealous. I need to be fucked! Find me a cock! Cocks! Anyone with a tongue! Some girl to lick me clean! Anything with a tongue or a cock!" Her begging descended into untranscribable obscenities, into incoherent howls.

Vowing help, I dressed myself. My steps were unsteady, and I must have looked odd and dishevelled. Hot, humid air filled the dark corridor, and quiet the lonely staircase. It was early yet, even though I felt in dream – or in the Second Circle.

The common room was empty, but two of the staff took their breakfast in the kitchens. The stoves and ovens had not yet been lit, but the heat was rising already. He had removed the heavy dress jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt. She wore a starched apron and a short skirt, and little else.

"Magister!" She curtsied, buttered roll in hand. "Is everything to your satisfaction? Do you need more water? I swear it was deep-cold when I fetched it, but with the heat there is only so much we can do."

"Everything has been delightful. Thank you," I assured her. I have trafficked with the denizens of all seven hells, but pimping out the lust-crazed Sporestalk was a new experience. "Actually, I was wondering if I could get some help with – with a heavy load."

"Certainly," she said.

"Actually, this might take a man's doing. You there..."

"Andy, Sir." He gulped down a piece of roll and hastened to his feet.

"Excellent. Andy, if you'd please..."

"Certainly, Sir."

On our way up the stairs, I vainly searched for the words to forewarn him.

"Fucking Chains!" He had opened the door, and explanations had become unnecessary.

"Gimme your cock!"

"I am sorry, mi'Lady, I cannot." Andy had paled. "Junia and I – we are in love. I could never do her dirty. Treat her like that. I should – I need to – I beg your leave."

The early bright is augur's light. The alignment so close, for once the energies aligned. I saw. Verruca might have as well, if she was not writhing on the bed, begging each of us in turn to take her. Motes of daybreak danced on mind's stairs and heralded her arrival, or I might have heard her footfalls instead.

His soul was clear to read, however. Desire, the kind they price on the Tatters. I do not judge. And liar's guilt, the kind only the most leal domestic can experience. His face may have betrayed him anyway, or the deep shade of red might have been caused by him watching the frenzied druid.

And I, I waited. These are the rare moments when the real unmooring happens, uncontrolled and uncontrollable. I conducted the events, and I was conducted in turn. For moments of bliss, I was numb to his stammered explanations and insensate to Verruca's begging. Then I ripped open the door.

"Eep!" she said.

"Junia!" said her 'lover'.

"Welcome," said I.

The blessed light darkened, but I could read Junia's being for a few precious heartbeats more. Tatters' desire consumed, annihilated embarrassment. A similar lie, shared often and with practised ease. The bucket and clean – mostly – wash-cloth in her hand must have been The Fox's will.

A shuddering Verruca whimpered, and I did not even need to point.

Water dripped from the soft rag, and with a wet squelch the maid began to cleanse the gaping holes. A last flicker of hesitation, and, shuddering, the maid extended her tongue. "Fuck. Fuck! Fuuck!" Verruca complained, moaned, begged, commanded.

"Mhm," I mumbled – but I was still spent. Sunlight hit the room, hot and bright, and new magic rooted me on parted lower lips. Junia had cupped the druid's breasts and teased her nipples. A last inspiration befell me, carnal and needful: "There is another. The groom. Get him."

"Bart?" Andy asked, relieved.

"Sure," said I and shrugged.

"I'll go get him," he said and scurried away. The door banged shut behind him, and he rushed down the stairs with hurried steps.

Junia lifted her head. Disgust had overwhelmed lust. "Bart is an ugly man. He's got an ugly body; corpse-like and white like wax. And he's got cruel dreams, cruel and ugly. I don't like him."

She would say that, though she did not seem to mind me. "Best hurry, then," I said.

Junia paled, reddened and paled again. But she stood, and hiked up her skirt. Wet splotches covered her panties and darkened the resplendent green dye of the fabric. She tore them off and threw them away. I caught the token, and by her wink she may have intended it. "Watch," she mouthed and crawled onto the larger woman.

"Fu...!" Verruca's complaint disappeared between the servant's thighs. She continued her muffled protests, but moved her tongue. Sweat beaded both women, and their moans filled the air. The servants high-pitched and fevered; Verruca's low and rumbling.

The smell of sweltering sex filled the room. I closed the blinds. The rising sun no longer burned, but humid heat remained.

"Thank you!" Junia screamed; whether she meant me or the druid, I could not tell.

I sat down by their side. Verruca was overflowing, even before I placed my hand between her legs. A forest stream, clean but wild. Pine and Warder, honey and spice. The servant tasted human, and a curious expression replaced sheer lust when my tongue touched the stained fabric.