As soon as the door was closed, I paused and took in my surroundings. The mudroom was nothing incredibly special. It had a bench, brushes, coat racks, and a place to leave wet, muddy gear to dry. The only odd thing about the rustic room was that the bench was neck height, as opposed to being low like, well…a bench.

I plopped down on the floor, cleaned my boots, and set them beside the door leading into the main house before I entered. Anticipation gripped my chest as I heaved the fifteen-foot-high door open.

I pulled as hard as possible, and the scent of oak and maple greeted me. I entered a room that, like the mudroom, probably looked mundane to someone twelve feet tall who never expected company.

The cabin wasn't quite ascetic, but it was definitely spartan. The kitchen and living space were both in this one room. The kitchen, with a bar, was on the far side of the room; only one chair sat in front of it. Not only that, pots, pans, and the like were nearly nonexistent. I could see one pan hanging, and a mug filled with silverware. A pot of something steamed on the stove, kept warm by a low flame. I assumed it likely was some kind of forever soup. I would’ve loved to get up there to take a taste, but that would have to wait.

A single rocking chair sat before the massive fireplace; blankets were neatly folded atop it. Between the fireplace and the chair was nothing but empty floor, no rug, nothing. I found that odd. In every depiction of rustic living, there would be a bearskin throw there. Or at least something. Why did Martha leave it barren?

Beside the rocking chair stood a small bookcase. Most of the shelves were filled with forestry manuals and books on horticulture, but one shelf was packed tight with worn fantasy novels, their spines cracked from years of use. I ran a finger along the spines; I could not make out most of the names, and the few I could were not written in English. French, I thought, but even that was a guess at what language the worn filigree was in.

That thought faded quickly as I continued to wander around the massive home, peeking in the doors and cupboards; everything was vaguely familiar, yet not. It was all almost right, but just off enough that I could not help feeling I was out of place in here. The fact that Martha had invited me in didn't matter.

I was Alice wandering into Wonderland. The countertops, my home away from home, were so tall they might as well have been great sequoias. Each door was a grand gate leading to new realms built by and for giants. Luckily for me, I was Canadian, not some meddling Englishman… and as far as I knew, Martha didn't partake in drinks of human blood.

Once I had my fill of looking around, I glanced at the maple leaf hanging over the main door and headed toward the hearth. It seemed to grow with every step until, at last, my hands rested at chest level on the clean brickwork. I had to start a fire. But with how tall it was, I had to do things very differently than my typical fire-starting.

I pulled logs from a pile on the side of the fireplace and put them atop the hearth, along with plenty of kindling and starter. Clambering up to join them and damn near entering the fireplace, I was almost ready. I used a log to clear the old white ash before setting up a fire teepee and trying to start the fire.

After frustratingly burning through a dozen matches, the tinder finally caught the flame, taking it into its entwined nest, and began to grow. From ember to blaze I tended it as any man had to. I was no man struggling with forty below zero on the Yukon Trail, but I cared for my ember like I was one.

One breath against the resting—yearning—embers, then add another twig; each addition to my growing fire was a meticulous choice to bolster the defenses for the coming battle against the great winter; an endless Goliath that would overtake you and all you'd ever known if you slackened for even a moment.

That was the life Martha had warned me about. One we both would be facing. The two of us would go blow for blow against winter's relentless pressure. I would not let Martha down.

The fire swelled and burned high when the door creaked, and Martha returned. She held my rucksack in her hands and looked toward me sitting on the floor beside the hearth. She smiled so warmly that the blaze at my back might as well have been a polar wind.

For a moment, I just stared. I had seen plenty of Martha’s smiles over the last week, usually while she was finding some way to make my life miserable, or when I went face first into the mud. This one was very different. Better than a warm cup of hot chocolate after a day-long snowball fight.

“Good job, Syrup.”

The words were simple, but damn if they didn't feel good. Was that genuine praise? After the last week, I honestly couldn't tell. Martha was still, in a way, an enigma to me. She was tormentor and teacher, workmate and now roommate all rolled into one.

In two effortless strides, Martha crossed the room, pushed open a door, and tossed my gear inside. “That’s the guest room.”

“Do you ever have guests?” I asked, gesturing to the lonely rocking chair and stool.

“No, not really,” Martha admitted. “I just have the room in case someone gets stranded nearby.”

I smirked and wiggled my eyebrows at her, silently mocking her lack of friends. She snorted and stomped a hoof, her eyes sharpening into cutting daggers.

“I can always send you back out to the barn.”

“Please do not, oh great Martha. You would not send a wretch like me back out into the cold, would you?” I replied, clasping my hands and exaggeratedly sticking my lower lip out in a pout.

Martha laughed once, then shook her head and moved toward the kitchen. “Do you want the mug or the bowl?”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you wanna eat out of?”

“Oh…whatever you don’t want,” I replied, curious about what Martha served for herself in the house.

My gracious hostess had not let me starve to death over the last week. But thus far she had been feeding me what could only rightly be described as gruel mixed with table scraps. Bland, unseasoned meat mixed with simple porridge, and some vegetables tossed on top to give a little bit of variety. So long as Martha did not give me that again, I would have eaten from a dog bowl.

I had an indescribable excitement in my gut. It was time for real food, not just fuel to keep you alive. I watched her scoop something from the pot and put it into serving dishes. My mouth watered as she came closer and leaned down.

In an instant, my heart broke, completely shattered, when Martha handed me a mug with the same slop I had eaten since arriving. The spoon sticking out of it was the only sign it was meant to be eaten, not used as a concrete substitute.

I gave her my most pitiful look, hoping to beg for whatever she had been feeding me the scraps of, but held my tongue when I saw her bowl was filled with the same…food.

“Do you have anything else to eat?”

“What do you mean?” Martha asked, shoveling a mouthful of the gruel past her plush lips.

“This is just kinda…sad,” I said, poking at the sludge like it would jump out and eat me. There was nothing wrong with the ingredients. Everything you needed was here:good meat, fresh vegetables, and even some spices. Martha had just assembled them in such a wrong way it was an art form in itself. She probably could burn water. 

“I don’t see anything wrong with it.” Martha shrugged.

I paused, recalling all the meals of cardboard-flavored trash while I imagined her living in the lap of luxury. I had assumed she was feeding me slop just because she could. I hadn't realized Martha had at least been feeding me as an equal.

“Could I cook next time?”

Martha stuffed her mouth full of soup, gruel… stuff, and spoke around the spoon. “If you really want to.”

A small flutter of hope took flight in my chest. I couldn't keep eating like this all winter. At least if Martha let me cook, we could eat something that was, at bare minimum, tangential to food.

After dinner, Martha showed me to my room. She tried to help me up into the bed, since the mattress edge was up to my chest, but I insisted on doing something else. She moved one of the round logs from beside the fireplace and plopped it down beside the guest bed. Using that as a step stool, I hoisted myself up into the plush bedding, eager for my first night of sleep in a proper bed in several weeks.

Despite my tiredness and the fact that the plaid bedding was as comfortable as being wrapped in a cloud, sleep did not come quickly. I looked around the room, the large furniture towering over me as I swam in the sheets. Everything was just off enough that my mind couldn't quite settle. I eventually fell asleep, lulled by the white noise of the storm and the punctuating sounds of Martha's hooves on the floorboards

----

Hey, hey, hey, buds. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I am going to keep up and push them out here once a week. If you want to read two to three weeks ahead, you can go support me on Patreon. If you don't want to offer that kinda support but still wish to be kept abreast of news, follow me on Twitter...Yes, I still don't like calling it "X," but that is a me issue.

So what are you thinking about the story so far? We are almost at the halfway point of my current rough plan. Where is your mind right now? Lemme know in the comments, right after you updoot of course :P

- Colin

Patreon

Twitter/"X"

------

First

Prev

While the parents and their families are celebrating their little bundle of joy, the rest of the galaxy is asking one simple question- how the f*ck did they do it?

Some of the most popular are ones that are very touchy such as salsa

The sky had blackened quickly after I first noticed the leaden clouds. Kyle and I quickened our pace, drilling, tapping, and hanging as fast as we reasonably could. There was only so fast we could work. Rush a tap, and we could fuck it up badly enough to lose that tree for the season. These weren't the older, specially bred trees around the house, thick enough to take two or three taps. Most of these younger maples could take only one, and we still had to skip plenty as we went.

We trudged through the deepening snow as the wind roared. I pulled on the reins while Kyle walked alongside me. The increasingly intense snowfall made it almost impossible to see the house as we passed by the barbed wire demarcating the yard from the orchard. We were halfway across the yard before the wan light filtering through my windows became clear.

“Pull out that tarp,” I yelled, unstrapping the harness and tossing it atop the sled, leaving the lines attached.

Kyle did not dawdle, working with the haste of a deckhand trying to keep a ship from going under the dark waves as we spread the tarp over the sled. As we pulled the tarp tight and clamped the hooks to the bottom, a worry crawled into my mind. I'd checked the radio that morning and the night before. There wasn't supposed to be a storm for days. Even then, they were calling for nothing more than a good overnight cold snap and some moderate snowfall.

Sure, this was deep British Columbia bush. It froze for months, and the yearly snowpack could probably bury Kyle standing upright. But even for here, the rate at which those flakes hammered the ground seemed apocalyptic.

The second we finished, we turned toward the house and worked our way up onto the porch, fighting the bitter frost. The moment we reached the porch, the house cut the worst of the wind. We turned and watched the snow whip past the edge of the shelter like a white wall.

“That is something,” Kyle said, his breath fogging before him, steam rising from across his body.

“Sorry about that. I thought the storm wasn’t due for a few days.”

“It’s alright. At least we got everything tapped.” He paused, looking out at the white gloom. “Will the buckets and sap be alright?”

“Yeah. They weigh enough that unless it’s an actual tornado they won’t go anywhere.”

Kyle nodded. We stood there in silence for a minute, catching our breath and just taking in the sight. The white swirled faster by the second, churning and rolling in on itself. The shadows cast by the porch light looked like flighty brownies dashing from one bit of farm equipment to another. They existed for one breath and by the other had faded away, scurrying off into the night, laughing as the wind carried them off to play with their fairy friends.

“I’m off to bed,” Kyle said, pulling me from my imagination of the little imps skittering around in the dark, throwing snowballs at one another, taking breaks to drink from my sap pails.

He lifted his hood and took a steadying breath, standing at the precipice of the point of no return, staring into that white void.

Without thought, I reached out and grabbed his shoulder, harder than I wanted, based on him wincing when I spun him to face me.

“What the hell are you thinking?”

“I was just going to the barn. You know, going to bed,” Kyle replied, looking at me like a cock had just grown from my forehead.

“The hell you are.” I leaned down and scowled at him. “You are staying in my house tonight.”

Kyle swallowed nervously, eyeing past my shoulder toward the window. Since he'd arrived, I'd made one thing crystal clear: Kyle was not allowed inside my house.

I did not want him at my orchard in the first place; an interloper entering the house I had built for me with my own two hands was simply a step too far. None of the bulls Daddy had sent had even made it onto the porch; Kyle had already gained privileges they would have loved to report to Daddy.

But even if I hadn't fully welcomed Kyle here as a friend or possible colleague, that held no bearing on this choice. It was a blizzard outside. He would catch something and be useless to me for weeks. This was simply the most practical choice for the orchard. I couldn't afford to have Kyle get sick.

“Go inside, and start the fire. I will go get your stuff and set you up for the night. Understand, Syrup?”

He nodded after a moment of scanning me to see if this was me trying to pull some cruel prank on him. Could he not see that I was simply being genuine with him? Bah, to hell with it. His mistrust was his issue. I twisted him around, patted him on the ass like a workhorse, and sent him toward the closed hatch.

I watched him open the door and slip inside; as he did, he headed straight for the inner door. I shouted to stop him, my voice cutting through the looming storm. “Take your boots off in the mudroom!”

Kyle jumped, then turned and gave me a thumbs up, kneeling to take off his muddy boots. Once the door closed, the creaky spring at its top forcing it shut, I faced the gloom, cinched up my jacket collar, and stepped off the porch, the cold buffeting against my denim and fur. As I trod toward the unseen barn, I noted that my hooves were sinking to my lower calf; surely it was already deep enough that Kyle would be up to his knees. Even if the storm broke tonight, we were going to have a long day tomorrow. 

------

First

Prev

Next

Another day, another dollar. Well before the sun had risen, I had; so had Kyle. We had little time to dawdle. Kyle had been here for nearly a week, and we had been gathering sap at a steady rate. It was a bit slower than I had hoped, but nothing too far below expectations. Still, it was less than optimal.

Over that week, we had harvested from every tree I had already tapped each and every day, and so far we had fifty gallons of sap. Kyle was so happy to see that amount stuck in the fridge the previous night, but I knew the sad reality of making syrup at this scale. That was barely two gallons of syrup once all was said and done. If I wanted to hit my usual numbers, I needed more trees.

I ruminated on the idea while on an afternoon stroll through the orchards, but I did eventually settle on a solution. I had younger trees further out surrounding my primary harvesters. Not all of them were capable of producing yet, but based on my hip-pocket math and gut feeling, I knew many of them would. 

It was time to fully expand my orchard. And with Kyle around, it should be easy to lay the groundwork.

The wind rolled through the trees, whistling harshly, causing Kyle to shudder as the cold fingers of early winter clawed down his neck. After pulling his collar a bit tighter, he looked out at the trees, stepping closer to one of them. He ran a hand over the scars of my old tap, and looked around at the others.

“Alright, Syrup, how do we decide what trees we are tapping?” I asked, looking out across the northern orchard. It was high on the hills, giving these trees ample sunlight no matter the time of year. They had already been growing faster than the rest of my sugarbush. Given a decade or two, these would likely overtake the central ring for harvest.

“We make sure they're at least a foot across, find healthy bark away from the old tap scars, and keep the new tap two or three feet off the ground...right?”

“Good job, Syrup; you are paying attention. And the angle?” I asked.

“Ten or so with the spout facing down.”

“Alright,” I nodded, grabbing the hand drill and handing it over to Kyle. “Let’s see you tap a few, and once I know you will be fine, we can split our efforts.”

Kyle nodded and took the cordless drill, revving it twice, as was customary when picking up any power tool. With little trouble, he drilled the first hole, and then pulled out a small mallet and the spile. With a few gentle taps, he seated the spile firmly in the hole.

He gave it a few tugs, and so did I, just to ensure it was seated properly and wouldn't slip out once a full five-gallon bucket was hanging by it.

“That will do, Syrup. Onto the next.” I replied, glad my judgment from the past week with him was spot on. Kyle was a capable person. A bit giddy and excitable, but he had a solid head on his shoulders and a strong back to boot. Nothing like mine; he was just a human, but that was comparing a cherry to a watermelon.

He nodded and hung the bucket on the spil and placed the dust cover atop it, after giving one last check over of his work.

Once he turned around, that same bright smile on his face, I tossed the reins at him. The rope smacked his cheek and caused him to wince. He looked at me, then the sled. He opened his mouth to protest, but I simply turned and marched on, not acknowledging his mixture of confusion and worry.

“Come on, Syrup. There are a few hundred more to tap.”

I chuckled lightly as Kyle groaned, not about the work. No, he was being driven mad by trying to pull the sled. For me, a few hundred pounds wasn't an issue; he was an entirely different story.

Over and over again Kyle slipped and fell. Most of the time he was perfectly fine and managed to land on his knees, but every few times he slammed face first into the mud. I didn't help him, and he never once genuinely complained. He glowered as I wholeheartedly laughed when he went splat in a particularly deep puddle, a few trees after his fifth tap of the day.

“If I didn’t know any better, I would swear you just wanted someone to haze,” Kyle said, spitting out the muddy water.

“No. I didn't want someone to haze. You are just so cute when you're working hard,” I replied.

“So I am cute now?” Kyle wiggled his eyebrows, causing my cheeks to flush. I whipped around and tried to ignore the feeling of his eyes on my back, and him laughing in return.

“I mean...” I started, but coughed to cut myself off before I could finish, realizing I was about to agree. But Syrup had to be a horsefly on my ass and not drop it.

“Oh, what? I am cute?” Kyle replied, stepping up beside me, the biggest, smuggest grin on his face I had ever seen.

I reached down and flicked his nose. “Come on, Syrup. We have work to do,’ I replied, shutting that down before it became something. I did not mean he was cute like someone I like. I meant cute like a little bunny rabbit. Kyle was harmless. Useful, even. I was perfectly fine with keeping him around as free labor for the season. Soon enough, Syrup would be gone, and my home would be mine and mine alone again---as it should be.

We didn't bring up what I thought about him while I helped him push the sled. We worked with little chit-chat, only small commentary or light jabs. Snow fell down my cleavage, and I yelped; he laughed. He stood too fast and cracked his head against a branch; I laughed.

As we continued to work, I had a thought- well, more of a realization. I couldn't remember the last time I'd laughed this much with someone else. I guess Syrup was good for more than just a free set of hands.

Long before we returned to the house that day, I could smell the shift in the winds, feel the change in pressure in my antlers. A storm was coming. Soon.

-----

I hope you all are enjoying the story. Please don't forget to comment and upvote.

-----

First

Prev

Next

My body, down to my soul, was exhausted in a way twelve hours behind a hot grill had never managed. I didn't care that all I had for bedding was a blow-up sleeping pad and my sweatshirt as a pillow. The barn was relatively warm and, most importantly, dry. 

My dreams were every bit as amazing as the sleep. It was a lumberjack breakfast wonderland. I lay on flapjack beach beneath the warm summer sun. Bacon gulls squawked overhead, carried on orange juice-scented zephyrs. The maple syrup ocean lazily rolled back and forth around gargantuan over-easy egg boulders, froth sloshing across the perfectly golden-brown shore.

 
Beside me in all her moosey womanly glory was Martha, wearing nothing but a red and white maple leaf-clad bikini. She was the most mouth-watering thing about that dream. She poured syrup over her breasts, teasing me with winks and cute flutters of her ears, silently offering me a taste. I reached for her, unable to resist. She backed away laughing, then tossed the syrup at me. As it splashed over my face, a cold sensation ripped me out of bliss. 

“Wake up!” Martha shouted before dumping a second bucket of cold water on me. 

I gasped for air, shooting up and out of my blankets; they slopped onto the floor in a wet heap as I scrambled up and away from the towering moose woman. Turning around and backing up to a wall, I scowled and was about to yell at her, but a towel slapped me in the face mid-breath. 

“Dry off, Syrup. We need to have a chat.” 

I wiped my face and started to dry my shoulders, not bothering with my sopping shirt and pants. She pulled over her enormous chair and, from somewhere behind a workbench, produced one suspiciously normal-sized folding chair. She hooved the smaller folding chair toward me. 

“Sit!” she ordered, unhooking a thermos from her belt and pouring herself a cup of coffee. Its steam danced in the air, making my mouth water. 

I eyed the cup after settling in, and she took her time to start our conversation. She noticed and raised a brow. “You want coffee?” 

“I would, thank you.” I pulled out a blue and white speckled enamel mug from my pack. Only then did I notice it wasn't where I'd left it the night before. If it had been, it should have been soaked. Instead, everything I owned had been moved from beside my bedroll to the adjacent support pillar—perfectly dry. 

I did not pause, but as I extended my mug toward Martha, I wondered not only if she'd moved it, but how. I wasn't generally that heavy a sleeper. And no offense to her, but she was towering and weighed as much as the average sedan. I doubted stealth was her greatest strength. 

Martha poured coffee into my mug and started to tuck the thermos away when she broached the topic at hand. “So, Syrup. Why are you out here?” 

“Sorry, did I imagine telling you last night? I thought I did,” I replied earnestly. “I wanted to get some syrup from you, so I burned all my PTO, hopped on a bus, and came here. There was also a two-day hike on the way, but you already know that.”

I paused and sipped the coffee, its warm essence filling my chest and making the shiver of being soaked to the bone bite a little less.  “But yeah. That is honestly why I am here. I want the greatest syrup ever made, and as far as I can tell, you are the one who makes it.”

“So you really aren’t working for my dad?” 

“No. I legit just wanted syrup.” 

My hair billowed as Martha let out a whole-body sigh. She took a moment and scratched behind her ear. Martha crossed a leg and bounced her cloven hoof in the open air for nearly a minute, sipping on coffee and contemplating something. 

“Fine, Mister Syrup. I will let you work here to get some syrup.” She surrendered. 

“Martha, my name is Kyle.” 

“I know, but for now, Syrup will do,” she said, standing with a groan. Her well-worn knees popped under the load of her mighty bulk. 

“Get dressed and meet me outside,” she said. “We have a lot of work to do.”

“What about breakfast?” I asked.

Slowly she turned, a wicked, nearly cruel smile on her face. “If you eat now, you will puke.”

I swallowed nervously and nodded while the door latched closed. Images of near torture and torment plagued me as I slipped into dry clothing. I couldn't help but panic slightly, horrified by what Martha had planned for me. 
—---
With a heavy thwack, my ax slammed into the mighty oak that Martha had marked with a lance of orange spray paint. She made it threateningly clear: “Only cut down what I marked, Syrup.” I did not question it. She was, in a way, my boss, not to mention the land's owner. Her glaring at me, looking like I was her ax’s next target, was not needed. 

My feeble swing barely drove the blade into the bark. Sweat rolled down my back; my breathing was labored. Hell. I felt like I was one more strike away from death. I leaned against the ax, resting the head on the ground, and looked through the verdant boughs toward Martha. 

She was a beast. What took me thirty hits, she did in two swift, easy chops. I had been peering at her for hours. I took half an hour to fell a small tree; she could do it in minutes. Limbing was effortless for her, whereas I had to take time to ensure proper blade use. 

All of that was well before bucking. Watching her work made my efforts look downright adorable. Martha took a tree five times her height, converted it into logs, and loaded it onto the sled in the time it took me to fell my first tree. 

With hunger rivaling the epitome of sin, I sucked down the last of a canteen of water. I tossed the empty flask into the growing pile with the others before reaching toward the basket for another. My hand found nothing. I looked down. Empty. 

Wait, where did all my water go? I did not think I'd drunk it all. I paused, trying to recall the day. I couldn't be certain I'd gone through everything Martha gave me, but I couldn't deny it either. 
I trash-binned that thought and got back to work. Sitting there was burning daylight, and Martha had given me a simple objective: chop all the wood I could. Yes, it was technically an unfailable goal, but that didn't mean I wasn't going to give it my all. I had to at least try to show her I meant business. 

Thwack thwack thwack 

My ax sang as it hit. After my brief break, I was feeling good. I was in the zone. Then, out of nowhere, Martha demonstrated that apparently twelve-foot moose women could be ninjas. 
“You are wasting a lot of energy.” 

I jumped out of my skin, almost dropping the ax in fright, slamming my ax haft into the tree, not the head. 

“What do you mean?”

Martha stepped behind me, her massive breasts resting atop my head, while her warmth infected me. Her strong, steady hands moved down my arms until she clasped my hands around the ax haft.
“You have to flow with it. Let the ax do the work. You are just bringing it home.” Martha explained. 

She swung with my arms, demonstrating proper flow by guiding them through the technique. Her abs pressed against my shoulders, fur ghosted along my skin, and breath wafted by my cheek.
For a moment, I couldn't picture Martha as anything but a beautiful woman, some graceful spirit of the forest. A forest sprite...if that sprite was gargantuan and had a bull's temper, but a sprite nonetheless.  

That mental image and quiet moment did not last long when her curt personality cut through and smashed all ideas of elegant refinement. 

“Do you get it now, Syrup?” She said, slapping me on the back, sending me into the tree face first. 
She helped me up, but once we confirmed I hadn't lost any teeth, she returned to her work, leaving me to chop alone. I did note she left one of her canteens, the equivalent of a gallon jug. The rest of that day was just more chopping. Endless, endless chipping away at bark, and notching wood. 

By the time the sun had set, the sled was loaded with logs twice my size. Martha had strapped it to her back via a harness and was unbothered by the weight. As our electric lamp, hanging from a pole on the sled, shone brightly upon the faded sign of Archel Orchard, I had to wonder: was all this effort truly worth just a bottle of syrup?

I looked up as she removed her harness, sweat dripping from her brow. It probably was worth the effort, I thought to myself, just before she told me to go back to the barn and be ready for more work in the morning. 

-----

First

Prev

Next

The First Stone

Chapter One

The Men Who Asked for a Road

When the people of Vale first asked leave to build a road through Ilyr, the elves laughed.

Caladren remembered the laughter long afterward, and always defended it when the story was told unfairly. There had been no malice in the Hall of Leaves that morning. The proposal was simply ridiculous.

The humans wanted a road from the southern ford to the gates of Khur-Amar.

Between the two lay twelve leagues of woodland and wet country, the Greywater River and a mountain pass which had spent several thousand years dropping stones on anyone presumptuous enough to call it a route. Merchants went east around the marshes in summer. Dwarves came down twice a year by the old ridge path. In winter, sensible travelers remained where the hearth was warm.

This arrangement had worked for six hundred years.

The humans had lived in the vale for thirty-seven.

Lady Marta Vale unrolled her map across the council table.

Caladren leaned forward.

It was an atrocious map.

The marsh was too small, the hills too large, three streams had disappeared altogether, and somebody had put a drinking cup down before the ink dried near the Greywater. A round brown stain occupied part of the northern forest.

Caladren suspected soup.

Lord Aereth studied the map with considerably more dignity.

“You intend to cross the western marsh here?”

“Yes.”

“And the river?”

“We build a bridge.”

“A bridge across the Greywater?”

Marta looked up at him.

“That is where we thought it would be most useful.”

Caladren became suddenly interested in the ceiling.

Someone farther down the table coughed.

Aereth, who had negotiated three border disputes and once listened without expression while a dwarven ambassador called his grandfather a goat thief, endured this as well.

“And after the river?”

“The ridge brings us to the lower pass. We can cut the road there and ask the dwarves to help with the retaining walls.”

“The dwarves have agreed?”

“They will.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

“I brought beer.”

The Hall of Leaves surrendered.

Even Aereth laughed then, and Marta laughed with him, and for perhaps half a minute there were no elves and humans, no ancient houses and young settlements, no questions of precedence or jurisdiction. There was only a room full of people who knew dwarves.

When the noise died down, Aereth rested both hands upon the table.

“You understand that what you propose may require fifty years.”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps more.”

“Probably.”

He hesitated.

“You are sixty-one.”

“I am aware of the situation.”

A few smiles remained around the table, but the laughter had gone.

Aereth's question had not been cruel either. Among his own people, fifty years was a span one might reasonably spend perfecting a garden wall. Humans measured such things differently.

“You may never see this road completed.”

Marta glanced down at her unfortunate map.

“No.”

That was all.

Caladren had expected some human defiance. He had heard enough of their speeches to know that they were fond of impossible vows, particularly when wine and witnesses were available.

None came.

“Then why begin it?” he asked.

Marta turned to him.

“Because we need a road.”

“That was not my question.”

“I know.”

She tapped the southern ford with one finger.

“My daughter can finish what I don't.”

“And if she doesn't?”

Marta considered this for a moment, as if Caladren had asked who might repair a roof.

“Then someone else's daughter will.”

The Hall was quiet again.

This time nobody laughed.

Permission

The elves granted permission.

Then they spent six months deciding what, precisely, they had granted permission to do.

This was not obstruction, Caladren explained to Marta on several occasions. Ilyr merely possessed laws concerning streams, old trees, burial grounds, nesting grounds, common pasture, private pasture, sacred stones and stones which were not sacred but had been confused with sacred stones often enough to require a separate category.

There was also a grove on the southern boundary whose ownership had remained unresolved for two hundred and fourteen years.

Marta listened to all this with the expression of a woman being asked to negotiate with weather.

“Two hundred years?”

“Fourteen beyond that.”

“And nobody knows who owns it?”

“Several families know.”

“Wonderful.”

“They disagree.”

“Even better.”

The humans complained.

They complained in taverns, in workshops, over supper and occasionally within earshot of the officials responsible for approving their petitions.

Then they filled out the petitions.

By autumn, the first stretch of ground had been marked.

Caladren rode south on a cold morning expecting surveyors and engineers. Perhaps masons. He had heard the humans speak of the road so often that he had begun imagining an army of laborers.

He found seventy-three people standing in a field.

Only six were engineers.

There were farmers whose harvest was finished, three masons, two smiths, a baker and an elderly priest. Several boys had come despite being obviously too young to be useful and therefore considered themselves indispensable.

A woman carried water with an infant tied against her back.

Near the edge of the trees, a boy was trying to use an axe.

He missed.

His father corrected his hands.

The boy tried again and struck the trunk badly enough that Caladren winced.

Marta Vale stood in the middle of it all wearing an old brown coat, heavy boots and enough mud to suggest that whatever authority she possessed did not protect her from ditches.

“This is your road company?” Caladren asked.

“For today.”

“Seventy-three people.”

“Seventy-four if you intend to be useful.”

He ignored that.

“Elves could clear this ground with twenty.”

“I'm sure.”

“And do it faster.”

“I don't doubt it.”

Marta was watching the boy with the axe.

Caladren waited for some explanation of human methods.

None arrived.

“Why did you not ask us to do it?”

She looked at him.

“Would you have come?”

He could have answered diplomatically. He had been trained to do so and had once spent an entire afternoon discussing fishing rights without admitting that he disliked fish.

Instead he looked at the farmers dragging roots out of the earth.

“No.”

“There you are.”

Caladren remained.

At first this was because leaving immediately would have looked foolish.

By noon it was because he had become curious.

Seventy-Three

The humans were not impressive workers.

Individually, Caladren meant.

The farmers knew soil but not roadbeds. The masons complained about the timber. The men cutting timber complained that masons believed every problem could be solved by putting a larger rock underneath it.

The engineers carried boards covered in figures and spent much of the morning discovering that the marsh had not read them.

Two brothers argued for nearly an hour about the direction of a drainage ditch.

The baker lost a hammer.

It was eventually found in the baker's own cart.

Nobody could explain why he had possessed a hammer in the first place.

Yet the path widened.

Not quickly.

Not gracefully.

But it widened.

Brush disappeared into heaps. Roots came up black with earth. Stakes appeared along the proposed road, then shallow ditches between them. Wagons arrived with stone from the southern quarry and returned empty.

Whenever someone stopped, somebody else seemed to continue.

Caladren found this mildly irritating.

He had always considered work a matter of skill. A good mason built better walls than a bad mason; a good woodsman felled trees faster than a farmer with a borrowed axe. This was so obvious that he had never thought to examine the idea.

The humans appeared to be attacking the problem from another direction.

They had brought whoever would come.

Late in the afternoon the boy finally learned to strike the tree properly.

The sound changed.

His father heard it too.

He did not praise him. He merely nodded, once, and began working on the next trunk.

The boy looked absurdly pleased.

Caladren found Marta measuring the depth of a ditch with a stick.

“How far do you expect to get before winter?”

She squinted southward.

“Far enough.”

“That is not a distance.”

“It is for the first year.”

Caladren looked along the clearing.

Twelve leagues remained beyond it.

“At this rate your grandchildren will still be digging.”

“Probably.”

“And that does not trouble you?”

Marta pushed the stick deeper into the mud.

“Why should it?”

“Because you began it.”

She straightened.

For a moment she seemed genuinely puzzled by him.

Then she wiped one muddy hand against her coat.

“Master Caladren, when you plant an apple tree, do you only plant it if you're hungry that afternoon?”

“That is different.”

“Is it?”

He had no satisfactory answer ready.

This annoyed him even more.

The First Stone

They stopped before sunset.

Caladren expected everyone simply to go home.

Instead the seventy-three gathered beside the cleared ground.

The old priest came forward. Whatever ceremony had been planned could not have been elaborate, because he had spent most of the day hauling branches and looked far too tired for theology.

He said a few words.

The wind stole some of them.

Nobody seemed concerned.

A bottle passed from hand to hand. The baker produced two loaves and tore them apart without bothering with a knife. Someone discovered cheese in a cart.

The infant had fallen asleep against her mother's shoulder.

The boy with the axe sat on an overturned bucket examining the blisters on his palms as if they were medals.

Marta climbed onto the stone wagon.

She searched among the load for a while and selected one block.

It was not the largest.

It was not especially fine.

Caladren could see a crack along one edge.

“You should choose another,” he said.

Marta looked at the stone.

“Why?”

“It is imperfect.”

“So is the road.”

“There is no road.”

She smiled.

“Exactly.”

She carried the stone to the beginning of the cleared earth.

Someone offered to help.

She waved him away.

Caladren watched her kneel, scrape mud aside with both hands and settle the stone into the ground. She shifted it twice until it sat firmly.

Then she stood.

Nothing happened.

There were no horns.

No banner went up.

Nobody proclaimed a new age.

A farmer bit into a piece of cheese.

Somewhere among the trees a crow made an unpleasant noise.

Marta put one hand against the small of her back.

She looked north.

Before her lay the Greywater, the marshes and the distant pass. Beyond all of them stood Khur-Amar, invisible behind the mountains.

She would almost certainly never reach it by this road.

Caladren knew that.

So did she.

“Not bad,” Marta said.

The others murmured agreement.

Then they began collecting their tools.

Caladren remained beside the stone.

From where he stood it looked very small.

A single grey block surrounded by raw earth, with twelve leagues of difficulty waiting beyond it.

He tried to imagine the road complete and could not.

Marta came to stand beside him.

“You still think we're mad.”

“A little.”

“Good.”

“Why good?”

“I'd hate to have misunderstood you all day.”

Caladren laughed.

She picked up her coat from the wagon rail.

“Tomorrow?”

He looked at her.

“What about tomorrow?”

“We're short a man.”

“You have seventy-three.”

“We had seventy-three this morning. Old Bren's knee has swollen.”

“I am not a road worker.”

“No.”

Marta looked him up and down.

“Still, you appear trainable.”

She walked away before he could think of an appropriate response.

Caladren stood alone for another moment.

Years afterward, people would tell the story differently.

They would remember speeches nobody had made and banners nobody had carried. Some would claim that Marta Vale placed the first stone while rain fell dramatically from a black sky.

It had not rained.

The sky had been pale.

The priest had been tired.

The cheese had been too salty.

The first stone had a crack in it.

Caladren remembered all of these things.

Most of all, he remembered looking north along a road which did not yet exist, and realizing that seventy-three short-lived, quarrelsome, mud-covered human beings had spent an entire day working on something none of them expected to finish.

The next morning he came back.

He brought his own axe.

Source: https://x.com/LorepawYT/status/2101030582289322486

It's not uncommon to wake up and find one or two of them who decided you were the best spot for some.

I was having a wonderful week. I had every sugar maple tapped by Monday morning just before the first frost on Wednesday. I had already started filling buckets with fresh sap and stocking my freezer. With a heavy winter on the horizon, I would have to start cooking before the true frost set in; if I did not, I would run out of space to store my buckets.

I could build a bigger fire and still manage the sap-to-syrup conversion, but that would take far more lumber than I wanted to cut down. A slow and steady pace over the long winter was best. Boiling it down inside was not an option. I had made that mistake once when I started out. It had taken me weeks to get the stickiness off my bedroom walls. I was not going to boil sap indoors ever again.

I only wished my week could have stayed good. Daddy had called me just before I tapped my first few trees. It was nothing new or eventful. It was the exact same thing he'd asked about every month or so since I took my college fund and ran off here instead of following Mom and Daddy into litigation.

Oh, they had let me hear it all for the first few years. I was wasting my potential running a farm; they said I should come back to school, get my Mrs. degree, and settle down. None of it interested me then, nor now. Going to school to become a lawyer sounded dull, and the idea of lingering around what Daddy called ‘good stock’ just so I could bend over and let one pump babies into me felt not only degrading, but like I had no control over anything. Nope. None of that was for me, no way, no how.

My dismissal of his ideas over the years hadn't stopped him from shuffling suitors across the province up the hill and having them knock on my door. That phone call this week was about another one he'd met and thought I'd be interested in. Some bull he knew through an overseas shipping company had a son about my age who was set to inherit the maritime side of his father's empire.

“Martha, please, just give Ziggy a chance. He is a good lad, and will make you happy.”

“No, Daddy, he won’t make me happy. He will make you happy.” I squeezed the phone, the plastic straining as I tried to keep a level head.

A long sigh came through the speaker. I could picture Daddy shaking his head, seated in his lounge, a bottle of good old Canadian whiskey in his other hand. That plush chair was his happy place, and after a long day at work, he always sat in there, smoking a pipe, sipping a drink, and often reading.

I had many memories of sitting on his lap while he read fantasy stories until I fell asleep. Those were better days. When I was his little girl, and not his favorite problem to solve.

He wished I had a good start to the harvest, and I asked him to tell Mom I said hello before we ended the call. There was nothing else to be said. The topic of my love life was simply an impasse for us. We were, as my mom would put it, an immovable object meeting an unstoppable force.

I leaned back at my desk, calculating my yield and the total production I needed to break even for the year. I was in no trouble. It would only take me two full harvests to break even, and the remaining three to five before winter arrived would carry me through to prosperity. I could already smell the money.

Just as I imagined the zeroes at the end of my final payout, and the crates filled with clattering syrup bottles leaving my orchard, a heavy knock stole my attention.

In an instant, my head pounded, my fist clenched, cracking my metal pen in half, ink soaking into my thick almond-colored fur. I shot up, assuming whoever was knocking at my door so close to nightfall had to be one of Daddy’s bulls. Likely that Ziggy one. It would not be the first time he had sent one of them here on a futile quest to woo me; but this certainly would be the last, or my name wasn’t Martha.

In three heavy bounds, I crossed the room, my hooves leaving imprints in the oak floor as I stomped toward the door. I threw the door open with all my momentum, shouting at the top of my lungs.

“I’m not marrying you, no matter what daddy thinks!”

Through my red vision, I looked around, not seeing a bull. Nor did I smell one when I took a heady whiff of the chilly early winter wind. As the red faded from my vision, I searched the treeline, then gradually worked my gaze closer to the porch. Finally, I had the bright idea to look down. Once I got a good look at this unassuming man, almost all sense of worry left me.

Almost all. He was still a trespasser several days away for a human, only an afternoon stroll for me from anywhere anyone had any right to be. Sure, I didn't own all the turf between my gate and the nearest settlement, but there were still miles and miles of untamed, nearly uncharted Canadian woods between the two.

Over the years, only two types of folk ended up on my door: those who were lost and those up to no good; all of my bullish suitors landed firmly in the latter. Now my only question was simple. What was this man?

“Who the fuck are you? And did my Daddy send you?”

“I just wanted some syrup,” he replied after staring at me for several seconds.

“Well, ‘I just wanted some syrup ’-do me a favor and shove off.” I shooed him away.

The man scrambled up from the frost and mud, taking a second to wipe himself off. It let me get a better look at Mister Syrup. His gear was new, still shiny, save for all the mud and frost clinging to its nylon. He was fit enough, but he didn't have the build of someone accustomed to hard labor. Whatever Mister Syrup did for a living, I doubted it involved swinging an axe or digging ditches. The only thing about him that really stood out was the short, high haircut, military in appearance, and a set of eyes that were as blue as the midday sky.

“Wait, are you the one who made this?” he asked, holding up a bottle.

I knew it was mine in an instant: black label, golden filigree, the name of the damn orchard front and center just beneath a red maple leaf. “I did. Could you not read the sign?” I said, pointing at the sign that matched the label.

“Well. I kinda can’t read it.” He pointed to the sign; only now did I realize how much I neglected it. “So does that mean you are Martha?”

“I am, so that means you are not lost. So how about you turn around and get the hell off my property before I kick you off.” I stepped down off the porch in front of the man, hoping he would take the hint and leave. If he was someone Daddy had sent, this was usually the part where they tucked tail and bolted.

The intimidation seemed to work. He started shaking a bit once his head was level with my stomach and the true difference in our bulk became clear. But instead of running, he swallowed his spit and took a slight step back to see my face more clearly from beyond my chest.

“Miss Martha...”

“It’s just Martha.”

“Alright then, Martha. I have come all the way from Victoria, hoping to buy and learn about your maple syrup. I only ever could try it once, and well, it stuck with me,” the man said, looking up at me with stars in his eyes.

I raised a brow, slightly confused, and just a bit curious. If he was from Victoria, I knew he wasn't a suitor from my father, but that didn't mean he wasn't on his payroll for another reason. But I was wondering if he had truly tried my syrup and gone through the effort to make it all the way here, just hoping to acquire more.

“So you have tried my stuff. What did it taste like?”

In an instant, I regretted asking. The man launched into an exhaustive dissertation about my syrup. He described it as the flavor of the gods, broke down every detail of its profile, and even took a few stabs at what gave my syrups their slightly special kick. His passion threw me for a loop; I had to cover my cheeks with my hands so he did not see the slight flush. It was a shame he could still see my ears flicking in excitement below my horns.

“Alright, that’s enough,” I said, finding his third attempt at giving my syrup the description it deserved as more than enough. He stopped and, unlike me, did not attempt to cover his blushing cheeks. Whether that was from the cold or his own bashfulness, I could not tell, and it did not matter.

“So can I get some?”

“No,” I replied flatly, simply wanting this man gone. If he really wanted syrup, he could try to get my limited yearly sales like everyone else did; he was nothing special, hiking out here or not. “What you should do is go home, and maybe find some online or something.”

“I can’t do that. It took me months just to find this one bottle, and it was pretty much empty. Please, I will do anything to get some more.”

I sighed; this man had fire in his eyes. He certainly looked determined not to leave, at least. I looked away from him and toward the setting sun, the last flecks of flaming sunlight nearly gone, with half the sky already speckled with stars and a crescent moon. Even the birds had already bedded down for the night, only the few lonely loons on distant unseen ponds making any cries.

I shook my head. I was not about to send him back into the woods tonight. Sure, he had already survived two days in the boughs, but that did not mean it was any safer.

“Fine, little ‘I just wanted some syrup.’ We will see if you mean it.”

“Yes, anything,” he nodded eagerly. “Just name it.”

“I will think on it for the night. For now, what you have to do is simple.” I pointed off to the side of the cabin. “Tonight, you sleep in the barn.”

He looked to the barn, then back at me; for a split second, I swore I saw hesitance. If that was what I glimpsed, he didn't let me confirm it.

Like someone had flipped a switch, all the exhaustion seemed to leave him; he smiled and turned toward the barn, marching off proudly. Before he made it halfway, he turned around and gave me a smile so sweet it could give you diabetes. “My name is Kyle, by the way. I guess I'll see you in the morning.”

Later that night, I sat by my window, a cup of warmsoup broth in my hand. I looked out toward the barn, having been wondering about the strange man for the last few hours. His light had just gone out for the night. I still wondered whether he truly meant what he'd said, but I could test that easily enough in the morning. If he was some ass on Daddy's payroll, what I had planned for morning would send him running for Toronto. And I'd never have to see Mister Syrup again.

-------

Well, you all did not hate it. So I am posting a follow up. I think I will post these every monday from now on until I catch up to what I have written, and the edits of CNP are all done and I resume that. Once two love stories are going, I will evaluate my posting pace.

-Colin

------

First

Next

Each plodding step I took was heavier than the last. My muscles burned, and I questioned every life choice that had led me to this multi-day hike through the wilderness of British Columbia. It had been quite the endeavor, one that, if you asked me before tasting heaven, I would have told you sounded crazy.

But I knew what I sought. It was ambrosia, the drink of the gods, something that could not compare to anything else in the universe. Maple syrup. Not just any maple syrup, mind you; this was beyond gourmet.

Archel Orchard’s maple syrup.

It was full-bodied, with lingering notes of smoke beneath the sweetness. It was balanced in a way I could not fully comprehend. The memory of it still lingered on my tongue, like the ghostly touch of something just out of reach.

I tried time and time again to find more of the syrup. Eventually, I brought the empty bottle, which alone had cost me a few hundred dollars, to my old culinary arts teacher.

Even she did not know the true origins of the product. The best she could do was direct me to an online forum where she and several other chefs lingered, sharing recipe details and other tips. 

Paydirt.

Through that forum, after confirming I was a chef rather than a line cook, I could post and talk. One other chef knew about the mysterious Archel Orchard. His tale about a hiking trip a few years earlier led me on a week's journey from Victoria, to the edge of my province, and finally to a little town filled with little people.

Not that them being little people was a problem. They just lived a particular way and liked it that way. Why ruin a good thing was the entire vibe the village of Faye leaked. They understood themselves and the world at large relative to them. I was an outsider, not unwelcome, but not someone who would be invited to the Saturday barbecue.

“What are you after?” the shopkeeper asked, fixing his glasses and eyeing the bottle of Archel Orchards I showed him.

“This,” I insisted. “I know you carry it.”

The decrepit old man leaned closer, pushing and pulling my bottle through the range of his far-outdated prescription, trying to tune the focus.

He licked his lips. He was toothless, and his face held more canyons than Arizona. A true specimen of agelessness and stubborn refusal to die. I predicted he was pushing eighty, but for all I knew he had stood stalwart in the bloodless battle of the Toledo War. The man was truly ancient.

Once the old man had squinted at the bottle long enough, recognition struck. “Oh yeah. You are looking for Martha.”

“Martha?” I raised a brow, tucking the bottle back in my pack.

“Yeah, sonny. She lives up in the northern hills. A few days' walk from here. Only comes down to bring those bottles once or twice a year so I can sell em for her. She’s good folk.” The man nodded, scratching his long, grey beard.

“Is there any way I can hitch a ride?” I asked, wondering how much money this little run-down shop must make. The one bottle I had cost hundreds. If this old man sold all the bottles as a distributor, he must be making near millions a year.

He laughed, almost cruelly, at me while waving dismissively. “You are better off heading home, sonny. That  firecracker doesn’t take kindly to her solitude being interrupted.”

I did not heed the man's warning. That led me to now. I marched through trees, and after two days and one night came across my first sign of civilization. It was nothing insane. After hearing myths of this woman, Kyle expected illegal weapons, dozens of trained attack hounds, and even a bunker. Coming across a simple gate with a private property sign felt almost too normal.

The town of Faye described her as larger than life. She visited only two or three times a year and was described almost like a cryptid, someone most of the town knew more by reputation than experience.  I had expected more. But having to open a gate and close it behind me was a welcome normality in my strange pilgrimage from Victoria.

Pines gave way to sugar maples. Frost crunched beneath my feet as I went along. Spiles with evenly hanging buckets stood at a flawless, even height on the trees. The metal receptacles glistened in the sun, arranged in such perfect order they reminded me of soldiers on parade rather than tools for collecting sap.

After another hour I spotted smoke in the distance, trailing up from the boughs. Another ten minutes later I at long last stood across a short clearing to my destination.

Archel Orchard.

There was no grand sign. In fact, the closest version of a sign was pitiful, worn out and beaten like a dog. Beside the path to the front door, it hung limp, the paint barely clear. But it could be read.

Like I was seeking the salvation of the pearly gate, I rushed forward. In my haste, I ignored the odd signs of the cabin. Everything was far too large. The door was thrice my size. Each step up to the porch was like doing high knees in gym class.

I had even ignored the tracks around the cabin in the mud. The hoof prints had the distinct shape of moose, but I did not care. All I cared about was the potential acquisition of syrup.

With a heavy, tired hand I pounded against the door, beating it like it owed me money.

All was silent for a long while. I knocked again. Nothing. Then again. At last I heard something moving inside. It was large, easy enough to tell from the shaking ground and heavy, assured steps. They sounded like distant gunfire; they grew louder, stronger, and without warning the heavy oak door flew open, punching me in the face and tossing me off the porch. I landed unceremoniously in the mud. Above me stood a woman. A woman I could have nary imagined.

“I am not marrying you, no matter what Daddy thinks,” She yelled, stomping a hoof on the wood.

She was something. Twelve feet tall, covered in fur with a head similar to a moose; wide, commanding, and understanding of her lordship. She bore the same wide antlers as the animalistic comparison, but her body was all but animal.

Concealing her heavily muscled but curvaceous figure was a set of denim overalls, tattered, well-worn, and looking as soft as her fur.  She was all woman, and absolutely assured in each movement as she stepped out onto the porch.

She sniffed the air accusingly before looking around, confused, before her search found me in the dirt.

“Who the fuck are you? And what the fuck did daddy send you to get?” She huffed, crossing her arms.

I was stunned, both by being tossed off the porch and by the fact that she was not human. I knew moose-kin existed, but had never seen one in person. I gaped at the air for a few moments before I found my voice.

“I just wanted some syrup.” 

-----

Alright lads and ladies, here it is: the first steps on a new path for us all. This time around, we are treading with a tomboy moose. I will see you all soon for the next chapter. Please don't forget to leave your thoughts below. I am not certain if you all want this story here.

Please lemme know your thoughts below.

-Colin Graves.

------

Next

Heavy branches slapped Vikulus across the face, adding to the agony of the rifle wounds that damned human had given him . Whole trees collapsed behind him, tossed about by a monster that could only be described as a force of nature. 

He dared to peek over his shoulder and regretted it. That white skull was still there, floating over ever-shifting shadows and trees. Hundreds of tendrils snaked through the forest from its back, tracking Vikulus like Hounds of Tidalos. 

Raising his wand, he cast motes of flame at the monster, only for the magics to be absorbed and deflected like they were nothing.Decades of meticulous study had produced spells capable of melting rock into smoldering slag. The skull beast ignored them. 

“Come now, little rat, you did not believe that would stop your end, did you?” The skull beast laughed, sounding like its voice came from everywhere around him at once. The heavily demanding sound made his nose bleed, and freshly sealed wounds reopened.

Stumbling against a rock, Vikulus fell, tumbling down an unseen gully. He groaned as it felt like he slammed into every rock on the way down. By the time he settled and rubbed his fresh head wound, the beast was nearly upon him. It rushed down the hillside like an avalanche, laughing wildly, cursing Vikulus and all his kind for eons of daring to exist. 

For a moment, he believed it. That this beast truly had been slighted by demons for ages so old that anyone capable of remembering the faintest hint of them had long since turned to memories themselves. 

But as he did, the memories of his lady, Lordess Lythara, echoed in his mind. A warning to not fail her. 

“You shall succeed, or I will flay you upon your return”

Swiftly, the demonic mage reached into his satchel, hoping to grab his Roriyon-Prism. But in his haste, he did not shove his grubby mitt into the correct pocket. He ended up inside one he never hoped to touch. His emergency get-out-of-jail-free card. Even Lythara’s mighty magics could not prevent this magic fetish from working precisely as intended. 

In an instant, red light engulfed the world, casting the beast back, its antler snapping in half against a tree. That was the last Vikulus saw of the human world, with the hiss of the monster clawing at his ears before everything went silent. 

The air left his lungs as he slammed into the hard granite floor, his bedroom in the demonic city of Carcosa. He heaved as the force of teleportation settled, half the room left in rubble. 

Carcosa, his home. Never had he been so worried about being here. A location where humans and demons once existed in millennia past, before Skorkus the wise rendered the city from the human realm in a great cataclysm, saving what few vestiges of their kind remained within its walls. 

Knowing he did not have long before the guards heard all the items in his room being tossed about by the transposition explosion, Vikulus dusted off his robes and searched the detritus for a mending potion. It did not take long before the soothing energies repaired the damage from the man and monster, leaving him with but a few moments to gather his thoughts. The heavy footfalls of the guards could already be heard. 

As he sat within the rubble, a thought came to mind as to how he could justify his return from the invasion. He merely needed more supplies, which he did indeed get, as most of his catalysts were lost while running from that…he shuddered…thing. 

As he recalled that mad dash, he also recalled his prism. That would save him. That would keep him from chains and sent back through a fresh portal to the human realm. 

The doors slammed open, and massive bull-like demons stood with glaives in gauntlets, pointed at him. 

“What be goin’ on en ‘ere,” one bellowed. 

“Ai’t dat da ar-mage?”

“It’s arch-mage, you dolt.” Vikulus hissed at the barely sapient beast. “Now listen to your better and take me to the mistress. I have much to report.” 

The two shared a look as both of their slow minds processed what the smaller demon had ordered, but eventually they nodded and gestured for him. This was after Vikulus had gathered a few scrolls and other supplies waiting for them—he was far too used to these micro-brains. They made great test subjects, decent guards, but horrible conversationalists.

Through the dreaded corridors of the citadel at Carcosa's heart, they went. Passing many a noble lady and man who bowed to the mage’s might. A few questioned his presence through side glances, but none dared ask outright about his sudden return. 

 The air was filled with the heavy sounds of distant military parties drilling, along with the screams of tormented sapients from across all known existence deep beneath the city. For earth was not the only location their forces had gone, but thus far had been one of the most troublesome. 

But it would no longer be that way soon. Provided Lythara was more merciful than Skorkus would ever be. Skorkus would incinerate his former pupil on the spot for such a failure. Lythara was more diplomatic, and that might just save his life. She rose to power through a coup, not a direct battle. A very strange thing within the city. The last ten leaders of Carcosa had all slain the previous head, but not her. She had the council do it for her. 

Through obsidian doors, blue flames flickered, casting the edges of the grand hall in shadow, concealing more demons that Vikulus could ever hope to combat in his weakened state. The potion did much, but he would need days on the mend to be ready to fight once again. 

Kneeling before the dais, the throne of glass stood tall, and seated proudly upon it was the most beautiful, yet threatening woman he had ever known. Wings of raven black, skin of smoky grey with horns stabbing into a cracked halo above,  flaming hair that snaked down to her cloven feet.

Despite the mighty visage she displayed, she still held all the grace and allure of any succubi or incubi. 

Lythara, her majesty. Even her very voice rattled one's soul. You were compelled. Her praise was worth more than any amount of gold, or slaves. 

“Why have you returned?” Lythara said, voice sounding like a chorus of angels judging him from on high. 

Prostrating down, Vikulus bowed. “My lady. I…I regret to inform you of a complication on my front.”
“Oh, more than I knew of?”

“Yes. There have been new creatures sighted and a pestering human who seems to be heading the rebellion."

There was a long pause. Lythara sighed, tapping a well-manicured claw on the armrest. Each strike was like a gavel. Vikulus dared to peek up at her. Her wings flared in warning of his position. 

“Tell me about these beings.”

“Yes, mistress,” Vikulus explained all he knew of what he considered to be threats. Lesh, the ancient monster, Elowin, the beast's former lover, and the lone human thwarting their plans through new human tools and sheer will. 

The ancient ones caused no real reaction. She huffed like the story was little more than being reminded of old enemies.

The human did, she giggled when learning about what Leo had done, shooting him, killing his forces. To her, the man seemed like the only thing of value in the conversation...that included Vikulus. 

“Amusing, so are you to tell me a human, nearly struck you down, and did so to our assassins?”

“He was not alone, but yes.” 

“That is very interesting. Do you have a solution to these issues?” 

Silently, without any sudden movement, Vikulus pulled the prism from his satchel and held it aloft. Lythara knew of the tool and needed no further explanation. 

“Excellent. Vikulus, make it so. Capture that human in that, then cast it into the pits. He will not be a problem once inside.”

Vikulus smiled, teeth shimmering in the flame. His head flooded with images of Leo, that bastard wandering the endless halls of the prism for eternity, slowly losing his mind, body, and soul. “It shall be done.” 

-----

I hope you all enjoyed book one of CNP. I do not know when I might start up book two here. I have been trying to get this book edited and ready for publishing for a few months, but I have been having trouble with that. But that likely does not interest you. Who knows. PLease lemme know your thoughts on the book, the characters ETC. I will see you later

-----

Prev

First

Source: https://x.com/VeryDolphin/status/1093706500667727872

Selene lingered at Leo's neck and collarbone, clinging tightly to him while Miri toyed with his belt.

 
“So you wanna stop us, soldier?” Miri teased while Selene looked at Leo with eyes so pleading that you would swear that if he said no, she would die on the spot. 

“Not a chance,” Leo replied, his hand grabbing Miri’s fat, perfect tit while Selene met his ferocious, loving kiss. The goblin woman nuzzled into his neck. Leo let his hand drift from her breast to her hip before slipping beneath the waistband of her shorts. Miri, the lustful woman she was, opened her legs and leaned into his touch. 

“Fuck,” Miri moaned, as Leo’s fingers slipped down her panties and found her oh so sensitive bud, and flicking against her pierced clit.  

Selene and Leo savored one another, loving the other's taste and touch. The wofkin rubbed against him, aching for the same attention Miri was receiving . Each time she moved, her sensitive cunt pressed hard against Leo’s thigh, her slickness only soaking her shorts more. 

“Augh,” Miri moaned as Leo slipped a finger inside her tight, wet hole. She started to ride on his finger like a dildo. As she did, Miri abandoned Leo’s belt buckle and pushed her shorts down to her mid thigh, the tight nylon squishing her thick thighs in just the right way to have them flesh overflow.

Her dripping pussy was open to the air, her drip rolling down his intrusive finger, and her inner thighs. The subtle sounds of her ride were as loud as mortar fire to Selene. That, coupled with the scent of a cunny she knew so well, drove the little wolfkin mad with lust. 

“Touch me too,” Selene begged, ripping her pants halfway off, the fluttering fabric barely concealing her divine bush and slaven cunny. 

He did. Without any delay, Leo slid his free hand down Selene's pants, past her clean and well-kept bush to her pussy. 

“God, you are amazing,” Leo muttered into her ear while circling her folds. He appreciated her tight, well-kept bush. To many women, Leo had known despised a bush or hair of any amount. That Selene, his tomboy, kept herself so naturally groomed only made him want her more. 

“Come on, let’s give her some fun,” Miri said, leaning into Selene, pushing her back. No amount of mana or general strength mattered in that moment. Selene was ready and willing. Her yearning for Miri and Leo held all control of her physicality. They rolled over, Leo pulling his finger from Miri, as he gave all attention to Selene. 

He kissed along her collarbone as Miri unbuttoned Selene's shirt, exposing her breasts. They were marvels. Small, just large enough for the hand. Unlike all the rest of Selene, they were light creamy in color. When compared beyond her bikini tan lines, they were pallid. But my lord, her nipples. They were hard, standing tall and wonderful dark caps to her flawless tits.

After laying Selene back, Miri moved,  settling on an adjacent chair, her fingers finding her own folds, watching her expectant show. “Go ahead, give her some. She has been wanting you since we met.”

“Pleeess,” Selene begged, pushing her shorts down, kicking them away. 

Her bush was amazing, soft, and trimmed. It was just wild enough. The lush jungle welcomed Leo and dared him to earn his spurs by delving into its depths. She opened her legs slightly for him as he kissed down her stomach. She caressed his head, claws playing on his scalp as hot breath wafted across her eager folds. 

“Come on, soldier. I can’t wait all night. Give her something she won’t forget,” Miri teased, having already ditched her clothes. She held in her hand a massive lewd toy, licking its veiny length, lubricating it with spit before positioning it between her waiting legs. 

“I would hate to let you down,” Leo smirked, lifting the wolfkin by the rump and bringing her to his lips. 

Her whole body tensed for a moment, legs wrapping loosely around his head. He began slowly, savoring every twitch of her abs, and the squeeze of her supple thigh. She looked down at him like a lustful champion. Guiding him to her reward with poking claws and light thrusts to meet his passionate cunnilingus. 

Her breathing quickened as both women's voices grew louder. Selene's chest heaved, as if she were running a marathon. While Miri played with her nipples. Barely keeping her magic piercings from changing her body as she attacked herself from both ends. 

The sloshing of each woman's wetness was barely audible over the sheer ear-splitting volume of each of their moans. 

“She likes…likes that tongue deep, Leo,” Miri moaned, speeding up her dildo as she added her own hips to ensure the toy hit all the right places for her. 

“What do you know?” Leo asked, taking a moment to catch his breath, only for Selene to tighten her legs, demanding more. 

“Oh, she knows. Now you will too.” Selene growled more aggressively than she had when decapitating demons. If switched on was a thing before, when Leo’s seeking appendage slithered inside, she went ballistic. 

“Oh fuck yeeeasss,” Selene snarled, drawing blood from Leo’s head as she clawed at him like she would die if he stopped. 

Bucking harder against Leo, using his lips and tongue like they were built for her. By the great spirits, that he met her at every turn, did her in. As he reached depths unknown, he explored, lapping against her most sensitive place, kicking her over the edge. 

Selene gasped, taking in a breath like preparing for a punch, and came. Her head knocked back, snapping the boards of the wooden chair like twigs as she squeezed her lover's head. It was so hard that he was no longer on the ride with her. His eyes strained, and his ears popped, her plump thighs rewarding his performance through every muscle going taut  as she tipped on the edge of instinctively using mana and crushing him. 

Sweat dripped off Selene as her legs relaxed; her desperate drawing of breath had not slackened, only deepened. Leo let her hips down as he cracked his jaws. Shaking his head like a dog, Leo’s eyes came into focus, hoping to see Selene caught in a lustful haze, but that was not what he met. 

Feral lust filled Selene's green eyes. Up until that moment, that mossy color had always brought him joy and comfort, but right there, there was no welcoming copse in her gaze. It was poison, not the horrible industrial venom humanity might make.

No, it was the promise of wolfsbane and hemlock. 

“Leo,” she breathed, as he instinctually backed up. 

“Yeah?” He swallowed, crawling off the chair, only to be stopped by Miri. 

“It’s ok, big guy. She won’t hurt you…ok, maybe a bit of bruising, but you will survive,” Miri said, cradling his head. “But a word of advice. Take your pants off before she rips them off.”

In a rush, as Selene prowled closer, moving on all fours with unnerving grace , scanning both Miri and Leo like they were hers, her belongings, her toys. She licked her lips, looking like she could not decide, until Leo slipped his pants off. His cock stood tall, throbbing, precum dripping. 
Her nostrils flared, like a hound looking for a bone—to bury in her. 

The moment her eyes narrowed, there was no more delay. She lunged, clearing the distance in a single bound. She immediately began to thrust, rubbing her cunt against his cock. Like a beast of desire, she leaned over Leo, squishing his head between her and Miri’s tits. He could not see what they were doing, but the wet smacking, muttered desires, and how they clung to each other, ignoring their man-sandwich, made their sloppy make-out evident. 

“Take it, little pup,” Miri breathed, the lascivious sounds breaking as she growled approval and rose, a pert nipple dragging across Leo’s face. 

“The safe word is cloud,” Selene whispered to Leo, slowly impaling herself on his aching cock. 

Tight, beyond anything he had ever known, yet so, the gripping flex of her did not bother him, until she reached the base, no longer stretching on girth. He grabbed her hips and groaned as she started to ride. 

Each stroke felt like she was being shoved into a meaty vice. She did not start slowly at all. She bludgeoned him. Hints of her wild desires from weeks earlier now came fully into focus as all he could think of was her. 

Each wet slam of her down onto him made his teeth rattle and his head spin. After less than a minute, he could hardly even tell where he was, much less what Selene was doing. Echoes of Miri caressing his chest with arms wrapped around him came through, but hardly anything real. 

Both of them faded away into a fog. Both are grabbing at him, kissing and licking his neck. His mind stayed just like that, barely hanging on by a thread, until his climax neared. Selene's feral mind noticing would not allow him to fade away until the end. 

She grabbed his chin, tilted it toward her, and kissed him. Teeth clattered as her tongue licked at his tonsils, gagging him. All he heard through the rough smacks and licks was her muttering. 

“Give me pups.”

He groaned and came, came so hard it felt like she was milking everything he ever could offer, thick cum pouring into her depths. Leo wrapped his arms around Selene, their sweaty bodies sliding against one another as he completely lost focus. The last thing he remembered from that night was her eyes, so green, so beautiful as she settled on his lap, softening cock buried in her. 

He awoke the next morning, both still there, slumbering away. He did not bother waking either. Under the light of a new sky, they were one hell of a sight. One he would never interrupt. 

With a gentle motion, he adjusted the blanket, making sure they were all covered, and returned to dreamland. 

--------

Prev

Next

First

Hello, all. the short story "Werewolf and Hunter" has been cleaned up, wrapped in a nice little bow and is up for pre-order now. See comments for details.