c-e-c-e-r-o

[c-e-c-e-r-o]

On Love's Tail 19

A mighty fwoosh rings throughout the courtyard, and Priscilla and Sær are formed from the smoke of the nearby bonfire, propelled forward by Priscilla's power. She clings to him as they roll along the ground, skidding to a stop at the foot of roughly hewn stone stairs.

 The two look up, only to witness the startled faces of Vengarl and the tattered woman holding him.

"Hullo," Sær chirps.

"Are you well, mister Vin-gral?" Priscilla asks. Vengarl never had the heart to correct her.

"I am faring well enough, lady Priscilla, though I lack favorable company."

"Hey!" The ragged woman says.

"This poorly dressed girl is known as Rosabeth of Melfia. I unwittingly freed her from a curse of stone, and she is now indebted to me. I would have her pay with her body, but seeing as neither of us have one...

Rosabeth smacks his helm against the stairs, setting his ears to ringing. "Of course I would get stuck with this lout," she complains. "I had expected someone like you to rescue me," she says to Sær, blushing. Priscilla growls, her tail curling protectively around Sær and yanking him to her chest. Rosabeth's eyes widen, frightened by this massive woman intent on protecting her mate.

Priscilla turns around, clutching Sær and sulking. "Damn you for being so handsome," she mutters. The both of the turn beet red, not meeting each other's gaze. Sær hugs her tail reassuringly, stroking it. Despite how close they are, anything related to sexual desire sets their faces aflame.

Now, Sær is no maiden, or the whatever the male equivalent of a maiden is, but there's something about his bride-to-be that sets his heart racing like no other. The thought of laying with her had an allure far beyond mere physical pleasure. In the theater of his mind, when he is inside of her, the whole world is warm and pleasant, and the past and future cease to exist. He wants for nothing, and all of existance disappears with the first thrust. Priscilla's sighs of pleasure fill him with ecstasy, and her tail writhes and squeezes him as they reach their peak.

He snaps out of his fantasy, turning to look up at Priscilla. He loves her with all his heart, and when she holds him against her chest the both of them grow warmer than bed of chaos. The cool breeze coming off of the Majula coast disappears as she hugs him tighter, enveloping him between her breasts. Sær sighs happily. He truly has the most beautiful, comfortable wife- er, wife-to-be, in all of Lordran, and she would be all the more so once her fur grows back.

"A-hem," Vengarl interrupts. "There will be time enough for that and more once you are married. Do we not have a quest to complete?"

"Mister Vin-gral is right, Sær," Priscilla agrees. It has been at least a decade since we set out, judging by how long your hair was when you saved me from darkroot garden. Poor aunt- um, uncle Gwyndolin, must be suffering greatly."

"We should hurry, then," Sær says, gently untangling himself from Priscilla's tail and falling to the ground from between her breasts. "But while we're here, we should get Priscilla more... Suitable attire."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Majula, despite looking like a ruin, teems with shops to provide various undead with whatever they may need. Swords, armor, female company, and skin cream (for the humanity-starved walking pieces of bacon.)

Priscilla walks out from behind a large building, the only place large enough for her to change. The sight of her drew a loud wolf whistle from Sær, while the rest of the town's occupants looked on in amazement.

Her top is a black gown of shining silk, swooping along her form, accentuating it.

The skirt portion parts to either side, forming an A shape, allowing freedom of movement, even more than her fur. The rims are trimmed with gold. Her sleeves are long, as well as wide at the cuff, with a slit along the forearm for her fluffy "wings." Draped around her shoulders is a short cape of dark, thick cloth whitch comes around to her front in another A shape, leaving her scales and the area between her neck and chest bare, save fore the diamond ribbon Sær gave her. Gold trim rings the cloak as well. She wears a pair of flat, black, flexible shoes that leave the top of her feet bare.

Sær melts. Paying for the custom-made garb may have left his soul vessel empty, but the sight of his fiance in her magnificent garb makes his

heart- among other things- feel full.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Rarely does Sær ever dislike Priscilla's size. That is one of his favorite things about her appearance, after all. It allowed them to overcome many obstacles thus far. It also means that she is much stonger than him, and a much better warrior, a boon at almost all times.

This is not one of those times.

Sær splutters and coughs as Priscilla dunks him in a vat of soapy water, scrubbing him raw with a large brush. It couldn't be helped; he had tried to run the moment Priscilla suggested he clean up to be fitted for new clothes.

He hisses as she scrubs his neck and upper back. "You vile vixen," he huffs.

"Whatever do you mean?" Priscilla coos sweetly, knowing full well that his neck and back are the second most sensitive places on his body. He only grits his teeth in response, grunting as she caresses the area with her large fingers. Sær fights back a groan, and he loses when Priscilla rubs his shoulders and back with her thumbs, pressing deep into the weary muscle. Her hands are warm from the hot water they are in, a small pool fed by a nearby hot spring.

She adds her tail to the fray, wrapping it around his torso. Sær jumps and gasps loudly as Priscilla leans forward, nuzzling the back of his neck. She hums a random tune, and Sær joins in after listening for a minute. The two soak in the steaming water, humming as they press together.

Priscilla nudges him with her nose. "Sær?"

Sær's ears perk up. She rarely calls him by his name, instead usually opting for 'Darling.' This is pleasant in it's own way, though...

"What shall we... Well, do? Once we're wed, I mean." The idea of officially being Sær's wife sets her heart aflutter, and she blushes.

"I'm not sure. The world is a big place, even for you."

"How big is it, really?"

"Who knows? I'm sure we will, eventually. Time doesn't exist for us, being immortal."

"Do you really want to see the whole world?"

"Do you?"

"Yes."

"Then yes. We've only been at this quest for a short while, and we've already made so many friends, and we still have yet to find a single person who curses your existence. Either Gwyn was lying, or you are truly something special, Priscilla Filia Gwynevere."

The two are silent for a time, before Priscilla speaks up again.

"You know, one must be wed to claim the throne... Mother has no plans to marry, and uncle Gwyndolin prefers the company of his many male consor- Ahem, Darkmoon Knights. So, if you should wish it..."

"We could be Queen Priscilla and King Sær?

As temping as that is, Anor Londo would need quite a bit of work to be a true city again, and neither of us have any experience in politics."

"I suppose so. We are already King and Queen of Darkroot Garden in our own right, thanks to your efforts, darling."

The two silently soak, only leaving once Priscilla sneezes and accidentally freezes the hot springs.

"Darling, you're taking an awfully long time to change. Perhaps you need assistance?"

Behind the curtain, Sær grins. "I would be delighted," he says, his heartbeat quickening. Suddenly, a large red wolf's head is flung over the curtain, rolling to a stop at Sær's bare feet.

"AAAGH!" Vengarl cries in mental anguish. "COVER THINE SCRAWNY FORM, THOU NAKED BUFFOON!"

"I'm not scrawny! I'm wiry!" Sær protests, tripping as he hastily tries to cover himself.

"BY THE GODS!"

The changing room becomes a hotbed of clanging, cursing, and thumping until finally Sær pulls down the cutain, ripping it from it's place and falling face first onto the ground. Vengarl hits the ground with a thud, slowly rolling and coming to a stop at Rosabeth's feet. Sær stands, cursing and brushing himself off.

Priscilla gasps.

He wears black trousers made of breathable fabric, the knees reinforced with boiled black leather pads, fastened with gold thread. He wears a short black sleeveless surcoat, his upper back, shoulders, and upper chest covered by a short black leather cloak trimmed with gold, much like Priscilla's. The cloak's collar is high, coming halfway up his neck and framing it loosely.

Priscilla begins to feel an odd heat in the pit of her stomach.

Sær tugs at the cloth, unused to being so covered. "Mnnnrgh," he whines. "Priscilla, do I have to wear thi-"

"YES!" Priscilla interrupts. "Don't you dare take it off." She stares at Sær predatorily, drooling. He steps back, worried.

"Well, if we are all finished with our errands, I believe we have a wolf to slay," Vengarl reminds them.

The group encircles the bonfire. The undead holding the dragon crossbreed princess, who holds the hand of a centuries old stoned woman, who holds the severed head of a man who was once one of the most dangerous mercenaries in existence. Sær pities the sorry sods whose party merely consists of a warrior, mage, theif and cleric.

With a deep breath, they all touch the hilt of the coiled sword, Priscilla's power dragging the two non-undead along with them through the void.

[c-e-c-e-r-o]

Is and continues to be my favorite dance video. Dude’s so unexpectedly fluid.

> High score! What happened? Did i break it?

> You don’t see too many YouTube videos from 2005..

Weird to think that was almost a 10 years ago.

[c-e-c-e-r-o]

On Love's Tail Part 18

Priscilla's world is awash in flame.

The fire has spread, and her fur is aflame, the unbearable heat sending her into a panic. The soft strands wick ever closer to her pristine white skin, barely fazed by Priscilla's frantic rolling.

"PRISCILLA!" Sær emits a strangled cry, frantically slapping at her in a vain attemp to quench the flames. "Frost breath! Frost Breath!" She draws in a deep breath, only to have her lungs filled with smoke, her nose filled with the smell of singed fur. She coughs and splutters, fighting the urge to retch.

Finally, with a painful gasp, she draws a breath deep enough, drawing small crystals from her salivary glands. The crystals swirl within her mouth, cooling the air inside, releasing a torrential gust of frost as she frantically exhales. The chill wind and snow covers her skin with a snapping, sizzling sound, quenching the fire just as it consumes the last of her fur.

Priscilla lays back, panting, her skin pink, raw, and itchy from the heat.

Sær lets out a choked sob, rushing over to his dragon bride-to-be and frantically checking her for injury. His eyes come to rest on her neck, where a large, delicate hand clasps over it. Priscilla slowly moves her hand, letting out a whimper of relief as she sees that Sær's gift, the beautiful diamond ribbon, is untouched. Her hand is blistered, burned from protecting the precious gift. She sees Sær's face and gives a weak smile. "What kind of wife would I be... If I let your gift burn?"

Tears slowly drip down onto her burned hand, rolling off into the frost covered ground.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Priscilla shivers as Sær rubs ointment on her back.

Though barely even touched by flame, her frantic rolling on the hard ground had given her tremendous bruises. She bites back a moan as Sær spreads more across the nape of her neck.

Most of her fur is gone, save for the odd tuft here and there. Her tail is still covered, only singed in places, and a light dusting covers her lower back and spine. The fur of her face had been singed clean off, and her hair now rests just past her neck.

Finished with the ointment, Sær rubs his cheek against Priscilla's chest, his skin tingling from the pleasant softness. She stirs, cracking one eyelid and smiling as she nuzzles him with her nose. Supporting him with her arms, Priscilla turns to lay on her side, drawing her knees up and enveloping Sær with the soft, toned flesh of her smooth thighs. He gives an audible moan, a jolt of electricity shooting down his back, goosebumps quickly following. Sær lifts his head to give her a quick smooch, and the two lovers lock lips, enjoying the heat of each other's mouths. Reluctantly, they separate, a thick strand of drool still connecting them. Priscilla's tail curls around her lover's chest, just tight enough to constrict his breathing a little.

Just the way he likes it.

Priscilla has collected a vast knowledge of Sær's weak points, far exceeding his knowledge of hers. She knows his ears, neck and upper back are unbelievably sensitive to her touch, possibly more that that place. She isn't sure, as they haven't ventured that far yet. She knows he likes to be licked and squeezed. She knows he likes it when she nuzzles her cheek against his. She knows that he loves it when she purrs. And she knows that if she does all of that at once, Sær will writhe in ecstasy, begging her to stop before he faints from the pleasure. He is putty in her hands.

Sær's breathing evens out, indicating that he has fallen asleep once more. His peaceful face moves with the rising and falling of Priscilla's chest, and she strokes his hair gently as she drifts off to join him.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Priscilla hates her clothes.

A patchwork of old tents from Darkroot City create a makeshift cloak, the dark, multicolored squares clashing horribly with her white hair and skin.

Having never worn any clothes before besides panties, ( a fact that had made Sær grow red) Having the foreign substance rub against her skin was maddening. More than once she had disrobed in frustration, prompting Sær to cover his eyes, fighting hard not to peek. He didn't always win; Priscilla is the most beautiful creature he has ever seen. Her skin is pale, yet still healthy-looking, and her somach is toned yet smooth, gentle sloping curves leading down into her hips. Sær never thought a mere midriff could be sexy, but it barely suprised him that Priscilla's is.

"Your stomach is beautiful," he had said while she was hastily pulling on her dress.

Priscilla had flushed scarlet. "I-It-It's just a tummy!"

Her new appearance and ability to flit betwixt the bonfires is an opportunity that shant be ignored. While crossbreeds may be shunned throughout Lordran, giants and giantesses are much more common. Indeed, they are revered, especially in these dark times. Their size makes them excel in all maner of tasks, from woodcutting to construction, though none are anywhere near as fair as the lovely Priscilla. Nor are any other maidens, come to think of it.

"Darling, can we visit the city first? I want to see all the little people!" She exclaims.

"Ah, Priscilla..."

"They must look so funny, hundreds bustling about in such a small place! Silly little humans."

"Priscilla."

"Hm?"

Sær crosses his arms clearly miffed at the demeaning comments toward his species.

Priscilla sucks in a breath. "Ahh, s-save for my darling, of course!" She giggles nervously. Sær rolls his eyes, tugging her towards the bonfire by her tail.

The two touch the bonfire, and smoke billows around them, shifting time and space as they are whisked off to a city as yet unknown. For when the might of a crossbreed is introduced to the bonfire, there is no telling where one might end up...

For commission raffles, sneak peeks and early access, check out my Patreon at https://www.patreon.com/Cecero

[c-e-c-e-r-o]

I’ve been drawing Noctis Lucis Caelum for almost two (2) years now and I still don’t understand how to draw his stupid emo hedgehog hair

[c-e-c-e-r-o]

On Love's Tail- Part 17

Vengarl's world is a tumbling view of a dim forest.

He rolls and bounces, often at odd angles due to the snout of his helm. Grass and twigs scratch at the small part of his face that is exposed. As he passes through a pile of branches, a sweet smell overcomes him, the scent piercing his mind and sharpening the world around him. Several get caught in the teeth of his helm, overwhelming his senses and sending him into a caughing fit.

The journey down the slope steepens, suddenly giving way to a sheer cliff. Suddenly, Vengarl feels the ground give way, and he falls, twigs and leaves raining down after him. The trip is short, but long; what felt like an eternity couldn't have been more than a few seconds. He comes crashing down, hitting a statue and rolling on the ground at it's feet. The fragrant branches stuck to Vengarl's helm gave way upon impact, and they litter the statue, their scent filling the air. All is quiet, and Vengarl lays silent, wishing the ache in his head would go away.

After a few long moments, the statue begins to twitch, making small puffing noises. Suddenly, the statue jerks and twitches violently, going into a coughing fit.

Small chunks of rock fall off of it-or her, rather, since it is shaped like a female- and the coughing intensifies. The chunks of rock shift and slough off, revealing smooth white skin clad in tattered rags. The woman doubles over, hacking, as Vengarl watches. After a time, her coughing finally subsides, and she kneels, catching her breath. Vengarl clears his throat.

Her head shoots up, looking for the source of the noise. Her eyes finally come to rest on Vengarl. "Hello," he says gruffly. She screeches, falling back on her modest rump and scurrying until her back hits the wall. "W-w-wha-what manner of beast are you?" She stutters.

"The kind that just freed your flat, stony behind, you ungrateful wench," he growls.

She picks a fragrant branch out of her hair, realization dawning on her. "I-I... I thank you, brave... Knight..?"

"Piss to your Knights," Vengarl mutters. "Bunch of sodding fools high on their own fumes. I am- was, rather- a mercenary."

"And now...?"

"Is it not obvious?"

"...You're head of a group of mercenaries?"

Vengarl sighs. "You would get along wonderfully with a Macrophiliac friend of mine."

[c-e-c-e-r-o]

On Love's Tail, Part 16

The journey through Darkroot Basin is an unpleasant one, but no more difficult for it.

As usual, Priscilla charged through enemies and obstacles that would have taken Sær days to pass. He would stand by in awe as she would charge ahead, cleaving through enemies like butter. Over her time trapped in the forest, her hair had grown to her mid thigh, fanning out in a brilliant display when she twirls. Her coat had grown slightly thicker as well, with the fur on her forearm wings and tail just long enough to sway in the wind. She really does look like and angel.

Priscilla finishes her sweeping attack, her hair fluttering to a stop as the last gnarled tree-person falls to the ground in a shower of splinters. She pants slightly, her large chest rising and falling. Sær finally catches up to her, panting heavily. "What am I even here for if you don't leave any enemies for me?" He complains.

Priscilla gives him a haughty smirk. "You are my most esteemed bed warmer, stuffed animal, and groomer."

"Fine way to adress your husband."

"Not married yet, dear." She leans down, putting her face up to his and poking his chest with a small, nail-like claw. "And don't expect much to change."

"I should hope not," he replies. "What exactly does matrimony do in Lordran?"

Priscilla pushes against her chin with her tail, thinking. Vengarl chimes in from his place on Sær's shoulder. "Quarter ownership of each other's land and coffers, dowry, changing of titles, and so on. But none of those really apply to either of you, I should think."

"Well, I make out like a bandit. Quarter ownership of the archives, Ariamis, and the title of Crossbreed Sær." He smiles.

"You are not a crossbreed," Priscilla points out.

Sær snorts. "I could be. I have a wolfish appetite, and behold these canines!"

Priscilla leans closer. "They are not that big. With all the time we've spent kissing, I should think that I know how-OW!"

Sær nips her on the nose, then dashes for safety. Regaining her senses quickly, Priscilla's tail whips out faster than a snake's strike, coiling around his ankle and yanking him into the air. "Turnabout..."

She stretches her jaw, clamping it under his chin, her top row of teeth reaching his brow. "Ifh Fhawa pway," she says unintelligibly. Sær flails around, but Priscilla's bite is just tight enough to keep him from escaping. She licks his face, her long tongue giving him goosebumps as he sputters. She smells like cold winter air, along with a mineral-like scent.

She pulls Sær away with a 'POP!' and he hangs by his ankle, dazed. Priscilla pokes him with a claw, setting him swinging like a pendulum. "I'm not food," he says nonchalantly.

Priscilla titters. "That is what all humans say, yet they still taste divine."

"You're not serious? Y-you didn't eat any humans in Ariamis, right? Right!?"

Priscilla skips off, giggling while Sær dangles behind her, nervously wiping his face.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The mismatched group pad through the dense wood, weapons at the ready. Vengarl keeps a lookout to the southwest, while Priscilla and Sær cover the north and southeast, respectively. Enemy encounters have been increasing steadily as they near the center of the forest.

"Halt," Vengarl whispers. "Do you smell that?"

"What?" Sær and Priscilla say in unison.

"It smells of... Cat."

"Cat?" Sær snorts. "Here? Unlikely. If Priscilla can't smell it, then it probably isn't there. Her sense of smell is powerful."

"As is mine," replies Vengarl. "A century since I had a body last, and my senses are sharper than anyone's."

"Such a long time underground would sharpen your smell and hearing," Priscilla chimes.

"Nana's kitten disappeared..."

The trio look at each other, silently confirming they all heard the deep, gravelly voice. They drop low, ears straining to hear more.

"So her grandson carries a cage..."

The trees rustle, groaning and bending. The ground thuds gently underfoot, and Sær exchanges worried glances with Priscilla.

"He ever has his cage..."

The rumbling stops. The voice echoes out once more, barely more than a whisper.

"And now they're never coming back."

The trees explode in a shower of wooden shards, part of a trunk flying forth and hitting Sær. The breath is driven from him as he is flung into another tree, trapped. With effort, he is able to lift his head to scan his assailant. The creature is massive, easily twice Priscilla's size and terrifyingly disproportionate. It's head is misshapen, the extent of the disfigurement obscured by a tattered cap of fur. Large hands hang down to it's knees, each one dragging a cage attached to a long chain.

It is clothed in a patchwork of untreated catskin, too large to be a normal feline.

"SO COME INTO THE CAAAAAAAAAAAAGE!!!" A scream emits from the cage, and it is now clear that it is filled with emaciated bodies. A chill runs down Priscilla's spine.

The creature gives a roar of pure bass, lifting it's massive arm and yanking the cage into the air. Time seems to stand still as the cage reaches the peak of its arc, shifting momentum as it slows. With a flick of his wrist, the creature sends the cage hurtling towards Priscilla. She lifts up her scythe, catching the large cage in the crook of the weapon. Her bare feet dig through the dirt, and her tail pushes back to support her. The bodies in the cage writhe frantically, grabbing at the blade.

"Aaaaah!" Priscilla gives a terrified shriek, and with all her strength she heaves her scythe forward, launching the cage away from her. No sooner than she does so, the other cage comes flying towards her from the side. She quickly shifts her scythe to the side, supporting it with her forearm as it crashes into her. She blocks the brunt of the blow, but the force of the impact sends her flying. Priscilla twists on midair, tailspringing off the ground to get some distance from the massive monster.

"My lady!" Vengarl's voice echoes across the clearing. "Our weapons are ill fitted to deal with this monstrosity! We must retreat, NOW!" Sær moans groggily, stirred by the commotion. Priscilla looks to the creature, then Sær. Her mind made up, she dashes to him, using her scythe to pry the fallen tree off of him. Heavy footfalls shake the ground behind them, and chains rattle as the giant lines up for another swipe.

Her face red with exertion, Priscilla gives a mighty heave, pushing the log off of Sær and snatching him up, holding him in the crook of her arm. No sooner than she does so, both cages come down, slamming into the ground as Priscilla dodges one and blocks the other.

The impact rattles her bones, loosening her grip on her scythe. The emaciated bodies in the cage latch on to it, and the giant rips the cage away, pulling Priscilla's precious Lifehunt Scythe away with it.

Not even taking time to retrieve it, she dashes through the forest, weaving through the trees only for them to be toppled by her pursuer. The forest thins, and a cliff looms in front of them. Suddenly, a cage comes flying towards Priscilla, striking her back and sending Sær tumbling from her arms. The cage rolls and smacks into the cliff, and the rock shimmers. "Priscilla..." Sær croaks. "Illusory... Wall... Safe for us."

Priscilla nods, picking him back up. The strap fastening Vengarl to Sær is tattered and scuffed, and snaps from the movement. "Grab him!" Sær yells.

"No!" Vengarl is rolling down the slope, and his voice echoes up to the two. "Find me later! JUST RUN!"

Priscilla tightens her grip on her lover, dashing towards the newly discovered passage. Inside, a bonfire crackles, it's smoke of bone and ash warding off the monstrous gaoler. The two cross the threshold, seemingly safe.

While the giant cannot pass, his captives are still mere humans, unaffected by the repellant. The cage is flung forward, striking Priscilla's back once more and sending her tumbling into the bonfire. Priscilla shreiks, her long fur set alight. The tattered rags of the prisoners in the cage light as well, and the giant gives a roar, dropping the chain and fleeing the fire.

Priscilla's entire body is now wreathed in flames, and she flails on the ground as the smell of burning fur fills the air.

In the distance, a far off howl echoes through the forest.

[c-e-c-e-r-o]

On Love's Tail, Part 15

The usually quiet wood is filled with the sound of shifting dirt, clacking rocks, and frenzied grunts of exertion. Sær digs furiously, using the remaining broken half of his sword. After so long underground, it's become rusted and brittle, snapping in half soon after Sær started digging. A large mound of earth lies next to him, rising as the sun lowers. Sweat pours off his face in rivulets, dropping down into the loose earth as he works.

He is close to unearthing the buried man, so, tossing his sword away, he begins to shift the soft dirt with his hands. The going is slow, and by the time the few beams of light that can be seen are shining straight down, he is only just unearthing the man's helm. With renewed strength, Sær picks up his broken sword, using it to scrape away the earth, revealing a tangle of pulsing roots. They shift and writhe upon being uncovered, and one with draws itself from the man's chest, lunging forth. Sær's eyes glint, and he lets it peirce his shoulder, wrapping his arm around it and heaving, ripping it out of the ground as it emits an eerie screech. The root falls to the floor in a spray of blood, writhing and wriggling before going still.

Sær sets to work, mercilessly grabbing and chopping the parasitic plants. In a cascade of earth, the knight tumbles from the dirt, gasping his first breath in an impossibly long time.

"HO HO!" The man belts out, causing Sær to jump back, startled. The knight stands on shaky legs, then clasps his shoulders. "My friend! I cannot express my gratitude sufficiently! For so long I was trapped in this ghastly wood..." He shudders. "I, Solaire of Astora, pledge my leal service to you!"

"That's alright," Sær says, put off by the man's boisterousness. Optimism is the last thing he wants; it feels like a crime for happiness to exist while Priscilla still sleeps. He disentangles himself from Solaire. "Truth be told, my reasons are selfish. I need aid."

Solaire chortles. "Whatever you ask of me, you shall have it. I am at your whims!"

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The sun sets on the third day of Sær's awakening as the group gathers for supper. The company had grown exponentially quite quickly; dig up one person, and they dig up another, and the manpower is doubled. Within the few days since they first began, they had unearthed hundreds of trapped travelers, each with their own skills and an unrelenting eagerness to aid the man responsible for freeing them; Sær.

The group gathers around a small clearing, each eating while they chatter about their respective duties. Andre the blacksmith forges shovels and axes to aid in the rescue effort, Cale maps the forest as it's cleared, Rosabeth would light fires and burn paths with her pyromancy, and Vengarl educated the group on battle tactics and stories of old. Vengarl and Sær had become fast friends; Sær brazenly told him not to get 'a head' of himself, and that gave him the hardest laugh of his life. The entirety of the company would avoid mentioning the fact that he was naught but a head and helm, and he respected Sær for being so straightforward.

Vengarl takes a deep breath, free from the smell of earth, a scent he had to suffer for decades. The only company to be had in that miserable dirt was the occasional mole or burrowing snake; many an argument had ended with a hiss and a bite. He's happy just to talk to someone with thumbs.

"Not long now," Sær ponders beside him.

"'til we unearth your wife?"

"Not married just yet," he replies.

"If she is as fair as you claim, then you would do well to keep a close eye on her. To hear you speak, one would think that she is a veritable goddess."

"Well, she is half goddess."

"Truly?" Vengarl raises an eyebrow. "Big lass, is she?"

"You could say that. Tall, long fair hair, pristine white fur..." Sær sighs.

"White fur? Such opulence is only afforded to royalty."

"Her father's a Duke."

"A Duke?!" Vengarl's eyebrows raise even higher. "What dark sacrifice did you have to make to marry a goddess and a noble's daughter!? I call bull-shite. No man- Especially a lowly undead vagrant- could be so lucky."

"You would eat your words upon meeting her, if you had a stomach." Sær sighs, saddened by the thought of Priscilla in her earthen prison.

"Cease your incessant suspiring, Sigh-ær." Vengarl growls.

"So long as you cease your incessant barking, Ven-growl."

The two are silent, then burst into laughter, the sound echoing through the wood as the rescued company work to aid their savior.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

On the night of the first moon since Sær's awakening, the group gathers in a large clearing by Priscilla's tree. The company is five hundred strong now, with another hundred sent into the depths of the forest to rescue more unlucky souls.

The forest teems with light now, lanterns lining the bridges that run through the trees. Houses, kitchens, and even staircases have been carved into the massive trees, making massive, interconnected towers that are lit up like a starry sky. The dozen or so children that had been rescued run fearlessly along the bridges, swinging on vines and carving slides into the stairs.

Below, the pavillion is abuzz with chatter as axes and shovels are dispensed among the crowd. Solaire, sporting his typical flair for theatrics, climbs the carved steps overlooking the crowd.

"My friends! Before we begin, I bid thee all to rise your arms and praise the-" Several apples, two gauntlets and a book are promptly thrown, the apples hitting their mark and splattering against Solaire's tunic.

"Get on wif' it!"

"Stick your praise where your sun don't shine!"

"If you were my sun, you'd get a right wallopin'!"

Solaire sweeps the chunks of apple off of his shirt, used to their disdain of his obsession. "Yes, well... The time has come to free the lady Priscilla from her earthen prison! Take it a day or a year, we shall not rest until Master Sær's betrothed is free!"

A roar erupts from the crowd as they all hurry to grab their tools, eager to repay their savior. Solaire walks over to Sær, who had stood against the wall listening quietly. He claps his hand upon Sær's shoulder, only for it to emit a growl. "SUN ABOVE!" He jumps back in fright.

"Watch yourself, sun," Vengarl says, for indeed it is him. His helm (and head, for they are one) is fastened to Sær's left shoulder like a pauldron, glaring at Solaire through the mouth of his helm.

Solaire composes himself and turns to Sær. "You must be quite thrilled, eh? To see your lovely lady once again, after such a tragic parting! How romantic!" His arms swing in exaggerated motions. Sær cringes. "I cannot wait to meet her!"

"I, as well," Vengarl adds. "I have seen many things, but never a perfect woman, which she is, if you are to be believed."

Sær chuckles. "I think you two will be suprised, regardless..."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

A day into the rescue effort, and significant progress has been made. It is made slow going by the precautions taken so that Priscilla may not be harmed, however. holes must be carefully chisled to make sure it is safe to swing an axe, while the tunnels beneath have to be perfectly supported so as not to collapse the great tree. Sær had attempted to aid in the rescue, but could not bring himself to sink an axe into the tree, convinced it would hit Priscilla. Instead he would pace about the treetop villa, nearly wearing a hole in the floorboards.

On the eve of the second day, Sær is snapped out of his reverie by numerous shouts. Flying down the slide the children had carved, he jumps off and hits the ground running. As he approaches the tree, he sees it. A tuft of white fur.

With a yell and a teary smile, he snatches up a chisel and starts furiously chipping the wood away, wood flying. The rest of the villagers join him, careful to leave support for the tree. Soon, the forest floor is littered with wood shavings, and Priscilla tumbles out of the great tree. Sær quickly hacks at the writhing roots as the rest of the company stare in stunned silence. They all gather around the giant beauty, bewitched.

Priscilla's tail twitches and her eyes slowly open. Her slit pupils dilate, exposed to light for the first time in decades. Sær gently stokes the thin fur on her cheek. "Priscilla? Darling? Can you hear me?"

"Mmmmh... Tired..." She wraps her arms around him, nuzzling his chest. Vengarl lets out a suprised shout and Priscilla flings Sær away, scuttling back against the tree, now wide awake. "Wh-what is that monstrous growth upon your shoulder?!"

"I'm monstrous?!" Vengarl says incredulously. He drops his voice to an angry whisper, muttering to Sær. "You failed to mention that your fiancé is thrice your size," he hisses. "A little warning might have been useful!"

"Two and a half times my size," Sær corrects him. "Isn't she great?!" He beams.

Vengarl would shake his head in disbelief, if he could. And they say I have lost my head.

Once the village recovers from their initial shock, They quickly take to Priscilla like wrinkles on a hollow. They watch on in awe an no small amount of embarrassment as the two lovers cuddle, feeding each other. It takes some getting used to; it's difficult for the men to fathom having such a large partner. It becomes a strange fascination to the village, and Sær and Priscilla quickly gain celebrity status due to their pairing and Sær's rescue of most everyone there.

Priscilla isn't coping to well. This is the first time in her life she has had to interact, or even be around a group. Sær has to shoo away the crowds at least twice a day while Priscilla cowers adorably behind her tail.

"Darling." Priscilla speaks softly to him on the last day of their first week together again. She lays on a large pillow, sewn by a team of seamstresses and filled with down feathers by a team of hunters. They lay warm and comfortable inside the great tree, it's now-hollowed trunk serving as a luxurious tower for the two. The walls are covered in ornate carvings, courtesy of admiring sculptors in the village. The pair had become de facto royalty, if only in name. Grateful villagers would come bearing gifts at all times of day, and they scarcely had room to store them.

"Hm?" Sær hums.

"When shall we continue our quest?" I understand the need to rest after this ordeal, but my aunt- I mean, uncle Gwyndolin will be even weaker now. After so much time trapped, we can't afford to be as lazy as you are." She pokes his forehead admonishingly. "I begin to grow worried about my future husband's idleness. I won't be shouldered with all the housework will you sleep," she says, vigorously poking his head.

Sær winces, burrowing into her chest to evade her assault. "As soon as the scouts return," he yawns. "Your mother said we can't have help, but a little information doesn't count, right?"

"I won't tell if you won't."

Said information was not long off. The next morning, the two are visited by a courier hauling a comically large scroll, so made so Priscilla can read it. She scans it as Sær stretches, still groggy. "Darling, about the artifact we need to obtain..."

"The sword?"

"Yes. The wolf gaurding it-"

"Are you really that worried about one wolf? Art thou turning craven, milady? One kick and he'll be sent across the-"

Priscilla reaches out a hand and clamps his jaw shut. "The wolf's name is Sif, the very same wolf from the legends. One he may be, but that poses a problem when he is as big as me." Sær's eyes widen.

"Oh," she says, releasing his jaw. "And he doesn't guard the sword. He uses it." She smirks. "But since I am a craven, I shall leave him to you."

[c-e-c-e-r-o]

On Love's Tail, Part 14

The trees of Darkroot Garden are so thickly clustered that they block even the wind.

It's midday, and the forest canopy blocks out the light of the sun, only small patches flowing through to give it an eerie glow. Luminous light blue mushrooms glow on the trunks of the large trees, illuminating specks of dust. There are no woodland animals to be found, nor monsters, nor demons. The thick forest blocks out all sound, and the only thing to be heard is the footsteps of a couple walking on the soft grass and loose dirt.

Sær frowns. "How do we know where to go? There are no landmarks, and the trees shift the sun. I don't even know if we're still heading east."

Priscilla absently fiddles with her tail, her eyes hazy after walking for so long in the monotonous wood. "I don't know..." She sighs.

"Priscilla, are you quite alright? You look worn."

"I am worn." She gives him a weak smile. "I feel as if I have been awake for days..."

"Let us rest 'til the night has come and passed, then," Sær replies, a hint of worry in his voice.

Priscilla shakes her head. "I can keep going," she says tiredly.

"Well I can't," he says, flopping down on a patch of moss. "My legs are shorter than yours, and I hunger." Truthfully, he could travel a while yet, but Priscilla is a tough girl who would not stop until she was asleep on her pretty feet. She sighs, but yields, laying against the massive trunk of a tree.

Darkroot Garden has always been famous for it's enormous trees; people would flock from all over the land to profit off of the abundant lumber and ore-rich caves, only to be slain by the monsters in the forest. Eventually, humans and monsters alike were all slain, their corpses allowing the empty forest to grow thick and wild. The forest has been silent since, save for the groaning of the trees as they shift and grow.

Priscilla is a sight to behold, a pure white angel walking through a sea of green and brown. Her fur catches the few rays that pierce the canopy, giving her a glowing outline against the darker forest.

A rare gust of wind breaks through the trees for the first time since the two entered. It kicks up the loose dirt on the forest floor, quickly turning into a veritable storm. Priscilla quickly fades from view, her heavy-lidded slit pupils the last part of her to dissappear.

Sær stands up slowly, groggily walking towards where she disappeared. Suddenly, a blue glow cuts through the storm, and the last thing he sees is a patch of blue spores floating towards his face.

His eyes grow heavy, and he falls to the forest floor.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Sær's eyes blink open, struggling to see in the darkness. It is quiet, the wind no longer audible. He tries to move his arm, only for intense pain to flare up in it before being gripped by a rough tendril, buried in his arm. Squirming, he flexes and stretches, snapping it like a branch.

Or a root.

Sær thrashes more strongly, and dirt shifts and falls on his face from above. More struggling, more dirt, more tendrils. He is fighting wildly now, the root-tendrils coming at him in full force. He begins to slow, the roots poking at him, trying to pierce his skin.

A flash goes through his mind. All the laughs he shared, the food, the kisses, the happiness. Who was it with? He couldn't remember. Not her face not her name, just a color. White. Another root peirces his skin. What color was that again? Sær had forgotten. His mind fades, his muscles slacken, and he starts to drift off into unconsciousness, a thousand voices lulling him back to sleep.

But through the din, one voice cuts through, light and loving as the sun.

"Darling."

With a final great tug, Sær bursts through the forest floor, red faced and panting, his face a mess of dirt, rage, and passion. He stands, spitting on the broken wood. No mere tree would keep him from Priscilla.

Looking around, he sees little has changed. The forest is thicker, darker, but elsewise as quiet as it was before. A feather touch spreads across his entire back, and he whips around, drawing his blade, now rusty and brittle.

The forest is still empty. The touch trails across his back once more, and once more he whirls around with and angry shout. As he comes to a halt, a darkness covers his left eye. He grabs it, pulling, only to feel a sharp pain on his scalp. Is this...

His hair?

Sær runs his hands along his back, confirming his suspicion. Oddly enough, the white band of Priscilla's hair tied to the back of his head has grown as well, covering is entire head, mixing with his own black hair to make strands that are half white and half black, giving it an eerie look.

Sær looks around him, turning slowly and taking in the forest. Upon closer inspection, it has changed. The leaves beneath the canopy are impossibly large, the largest being even bigger than Priscilla, spiraling around the trunks. Since the canopy is more dense, the trees must have adapted to gather water. His suspicions are confirmed when he spots a large stream pouring down the giant leaves, cascading onto the ground to soak into the ground or run downhill.

Just before Sær makes a full rotation, he spots it.

There, a short distance away, is what has to be the largest tree in anyplace, at anytime, so massive that it can't fit in Sær's field of view. The trunks of previous trees that once encircled it swirl around it, jutting out from the trunk. Then it hits him.

That's where Priscilla was. Sær takes deep breaths to calm himself. Charging in and mindlessly hacking at the tree would take ages, and would likely end up hurting them both. He can't burn it, he can't cut it, so how could he save her?

"DAMMIT!" Sær punches the tree, his stiff bones cracking and popping all over his body after being still for so long. He starts pacing the tree, his body continuing to pop, crack, and stretch.

His mind wanders to the event of his wakening. Those voices... Thousands of voices, Priscilla's among them. "I could hear her voice when the roots were inside me," he ponders aloud. "But other's as... Well..." A thought clicks in his mind. There were never any bodies recovered. If any of them were to sleep or fall in battle, the branches would pierce their skin.

It all makes sense to him now. It would normally be impossible for the forest to exist; water and sun could barely pass the canopy, the trees were to close to draw enough nourishment from the soil, and there are no creatures to die and nourish the soil.

Sær walks over to a small tree. Gritting his teeth, he draws his sword, and with a might heave, he buries it into the trunk. A spray of crimson fills the air, bringing along with the smell of salt and iron. Every single person to fall in this forest is still alive, feeding the trees with their own souls and blood.

Including Priscilla.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

With a crazed grunt, Sær once more struck the rock into the earth. A mound of dirt stands beside him, filled with roots and clumps of dirt and blood. Over and over he strikes the rock into the soil, digging furiously. Suddenly, a cascade of dirt falls from the ridge he had dug, and when the dust settles, a hand, peach and still pulsing with life, hangs from the dirt.

It twitches, and the iron bracelet on it's wrist glints in the sunlight.

[c-e-c-e-r-o]

On Love's Tail, Part 13

Priscilla shakes her arms, awakening the man resting in them. Sær groans in protest, rolling over and cuddling up against her chest. The two had been traveling all day, and keeping up with Priscilla's gait was exhausting. Nevertheless, he had pressed on, not wanting to seem weak in front of her. Rather pointless, seeing as now he was cradled in her arms.

Priscilla sighs fondly, pushing open the heavy door to the Anor Londo castle. The moment she lays eyes upon the inside, she loves it. The giant hall, tall doorways, wide open rooms... It was the size of a castle even for a crossbreed! She pads down the hall, her bare feet on the cool stone. She knows not how, but she knows exactly where she needs to go.

Priscilla pushes open the door to the central throne room, quickly crossing it and taking the large lift. Stepping off on the second floor, she gently blows ice breath across Sær, waking him up with a shiver. He gives her a look of indignation, which quickly withers into bliss as Priscilla breathes on him normally, warming him and sending a shiver along his skin.

"You still haven't told me what we're here for," Sær says.

"I will once you get down."

He clutches to her with a vice grip. "No way."

"Yes, way," Priscilla replies, attempting to pry him off with her tail. No use; when it comes to embraces, Sær is like a leech. As the two struggle, they fail to notice the large doors in front of them swing open. It is only when they hear a gentle breathing from within that they swivel towards it, jaws agape.

There, reclining on a massive chaise, is a woman thrice Priscilla's size. Walking up to her slowly, Priscilla speaks in a reverent tone. "H-hello, mother."

"Mother?!" Sær squeaks. "Lady Gwynevere is your mother?!"

Priscilla continues, not addressing his suprise. "This is Sær, the man who freed me from Ariamis, and who was so kind as to take me as his lover."

"Don't say it like tha-"

"It has been many a year, dearest daughter," the giant woman interrupts. Her voice is deep, yet soft a silk with a motherly tone. "But while I am grateful to this one for rescuing you, I think you should reconsider. Apologies for addressing courtship so soon after our first meeting, but a mother worries." She smiles before focusing on Sær and frowning. "You... Do you really think I will approve of a man who is so weak as to cling to my daughter's breast? I could smite you with but a glance."

Sær hops out of Priscilla's arms, landing on the floor with a SPLAT before scurrying under her skirts. "See? He is a simpering coward," her mother remarks.

"Any man would be frightened of his lover's mother; what if she were to persuade her daughter to find another? And when said mother is seven times his size and wields powerful magic-"

"That does not change the fact that-"

"But!" Priscilla protests.

"Let me speak!"

"But-"

"Daughter..."

"I love-"

"Priscilla!"

"I want to marry him!"

Gwynevere freezes, a look of shock upon her face. Priscilla continues.

"I want to ask for your blessing." Sær (currently clinging to Priscilla's leg) tightens his grip, mouth hanging open in shock. Slowly, he crawls out from the skirt of her fur, looking at her in awe. "Is... Is that alright?" She asks Sær.

He walks towards her slowly, his mouth still hanging open. "Sær?" Priscilla says in a small, worried voice.

Using as much force as he can, Sær leaps into the air, wrapping his arms around Priscilla's neck and kissing her, hard. He pulls back, laughing joyfully and peppering her with kisses.

"YES!" He cries. He tightens his grip. "Priscilla! Priscilla! Priscilla Priscilla Priscilla Priscilla!" He shouts, kissing her each time he says her name. "I love you. So much," he whispers, touching his forehead to the space between her brows, staring into her eyes. The green slit pupils stare back at him, half concealed behind her eyelids as tears well up behind them.

She nuzzles her head against his, speaking softly. "I love you too, my tiny shiny knight."

"I love you more, my furry flurry maker," Sær replies.

Gwynevere stifles a gag. "I BEG pardon," she begins. "But I don't recall giving you my blessing."

"We don't need it," Sær says, Priscilla gently setting him down. She wraps her tail around his arm, spiraling all the way down to curl around his ring finger.

"And how shall you find one to wed you in these dark times?"

The couple are silent. "Before I shall pass judgement..." She points at Sær. "Come hither, child." He looks at Priscilla, who gives him a nod of encouragement. Reluctantly slipping free of her tail, he climbs up on the dais to stand at the foot of the massive chaise. The massive goddess reaches down. Sær flinches, but remains steadfast. Gwynevere brings him up to eye level, then gasps.

"Oh, MY, Priscilla. He's so handsome!" She gushes.

"Isn't he, though?" Priscilla says, beaming.

"I certainly see why you are so enamored with him. So handsome and Bra~ve," she coos sensually. "I've half a mind to steal him for myself. A man of his size would make quite a pleasurably unique consort."

"Mother!"

"Oh, don't get your fur ruffled, I was merely teasing!" Gwynevere says. "Or am I?" She whispers, giving Sær a kiss that moistens his whole face. Priscilla stomps angrily, her fists upturned at her hips.

"Give him back!" She demands. "You're frightening him!" 'Twas true. Sær cowers in Gwynevere's palm. He has fought dragons, lamia, minotaur, and a host of other nasties, but an amorous, building-sized future mother-in-law brought a new kind of terror. Gathering his courage, he leaps down, and Priscilla catches him in her arms where he quickly burrows in her fur, pulling her tail up so only his eyes are visible.

Gwynevere sighs. "Regardless of my blessing, you cannot be wed. Do you recall my sist- erm, brother?"

"Uncle Gwyndolin?"

"Quite. Only through his blessing may citizens of Lordran be wed, and he has been missing for many a year. I dream of him, choked by smoke and darkness, surrounded by horrors. There is only one place he could be."

"The Abyss," Sær says.

"Well, I don't care!" Priscilla pouts. "We'll get him back!"

"Very well," Gwynevere sighs, knowing better than to oppose her stubborn little dragon. "But to traverse the Abyss, you must aquire a sacred artifact, used by the hero Artorias to drive away the rot it brings. You must defeat his loyal wolf, and take the sword of it and the sword of the wolf knight." She turns to Sær, who only has his head exposed and blows him a kiss, winking. "Good luck, you fertile little stud."

Sær vanishes behind Priscilla's arms like a groundhog in winter.

[c-e-c-e-r-o]

On Love's Tail, Part 12

Priscilla stands outside of her home, her hands on her ample hips. Having finished the first floor, she had decided to take a break and admire her handiwork. Sitting down with a THUD, she twirls the diamond-studded ribbon Sær gave her. A saccharine smile spreads across her face as she thinks of what his reaction might be when he sees her progress. He would be so proud of her!

The undead in question was returning through a stroll in the woods. Truthfully, he had been scouting for game, as he had all but hunted every creature in the nearby forest. Priscilla did have quite the ravenous appetite, though it should wane some once she finishes the house. Thankfully with Sær's ability to flit betwixt the bonfires, he could hunt through all of Lordran and beyond, yet still be back in time to give Priscilla her nightly tail-rub. He's quite good at it, and can have her purring and mewling in seconds.

"Hey, friend! Come!" A voice emnates from a dark corner of the shrine. Patches had returned. He speaks as Sær walks towards him. "You will call me a liar, but I saw a she-dragon! Right here! In our own Firelink Shrine!"

"Yes, she's-"

"-Got marvelously large breasts. Quite a buxom figure, too. Ahh, if only she weren't a freak. No offense, friend, but she would certainly pick the great Patches over-" His sentence is cut off by a bare foot slamming his head into the stone. Patches' vision flashes white, the ground spinning.

As his vision focuses, he sees Sær glaring at him, fury in his soul. The hairs on the back of Patches' neck stand up, and his whole body is seized by a paralyzing primal fear. Sær has the look of a tiger who has just been kicked in the snout.

"That 'freak' is who I love more than anyone or anything. Certainly more than you, or your skull." He slams Patches' head into the stone once more. "She is the sweetest, most adorable, and most caring girl I have ever met, and if you open your filthy mouth to slander her again, I'll stuff it full of steel."

There is a gasp from behind him, and he is lifted into the air by his foot. Priscilla brings him to eye level, frowning. No, smiling! Leaning forward, she kisses him hard, rotating and hugging him whilst doing so. "Oh darling!" She says, pulling back. "Dost thou- Do you really mean it?!"

"My do-eth." Sær replies.

She giggles. "Will he be alright?" She asks, pointing to Patches with her tail.

Sær shrugs. "Sure. Would you like me to make dinner? You must be starving after all your hard work."

"I finished the first floor hours ago," she replies. "And I finished making dinner just now."

"You did?" Sær exclaims. "You're amazing!" He wraps his arms around her neck, nuzzling his cheek against hers. "Just another reason I love you."

"How many reasons are there?"

"Can't count that high," Sær replies, his voice muffled. He had pressed his face into her fur and proceeds to cuddle her viciously. Priscilla sighs happily and turns around, her tail smacking a very dazed Patches.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Back in their newly finished home, having just finished dinner, the couple is embroiled in a fierce display of affection.

Sær and Priscilla are making out.

Priscilla- shy, inexperienced and strong- tentatively puts her hand on his chest, caressing it. Sær- unsure, caring, and brave- gently urges her on, cuddling up to her whenever she grows nervous. Her heart is beating so fast that it vibrates Sær.

Pulling back, he caresses her cheek, planting kisses along her scaled neck. "You don't have to do that," she mumbles. "Normal girls don't have them."

"So?"

"So they're odd."

"...So?"

"So, they're not pretty. If a human girl had four eyes, o-or scales, you would be repulsed."

"I love your scales," Sær says. "They're bright, colorful, cool, smooth to the touch, and they make you like me."

Priscilla cocks her head, puzzled. "Like you? how?"

"Immortal," Sær replies. the whole reason your fa- why Seath captured you was to gain immortality from your scales."

"I'm... Immortal?" She whispers. "But... I age. I came to Ariamis as a young girl."

"When did you get your scales?"

Priscilla closes her eyes in thought. "I grew a few when I was one-and-five... But my whole neck was covered when I was finished growing, at one-and-eight."

"See? The scales of dragons are only complete at adulthood. Other wise, they would stay young and vulnerable forever."

"Immortal..." She whispers, stunned. She puts her head in her hands, blushing furiously. "We can be together, always..." She whispers.

"Hey, hey, focus on the present, please!"

"Huh?" Priscilla lifts her head, allowing Sær to steal a kiss, smiling against her lips. Gently repositioning himself, he pulls her head forward so that he can kiss her harder. Moaning, Priscilla lets out a frigid breath... Literally. One of her most powerful magic abilities she is granted by her dragon blood, Frost Breath, spews from her mouth as she exhales. Her eyes are unfocused, her magic abilities temporarily forgotten in a haze of pleasure.

The frozen mist washes over Sær, traveling over his skin and into his lungs, chilling him to the core. Priscilla focuses her eyes, confused. "Darling? Why did you stop?"

He doesn't answer, instead opting to bury himself under Priscilla's sizeable chest, covering himself with her tail to warm up and thaw.

Sær sighs. Most men have to deal with their woman occasionally being frigid, but this is ridiculous.

[c-e-c-e-r-o]

On Love's Tail, Part 11

Sunlight streams onto the winding path through the woods as the two lovers make their way through it. Priscilla pants heavily, not suited to such warm weather on account of her luscious fur.

"Darling, is it much farther? It is so dreadfully hot out, and my tail is beginning to itch."

Sær reaches over and skritches her tail.

"Not long now, love. It shall be well worth the wait."

"Ehhhhh~? But how much longer?" She scratches her chest while Sær watches out of the corner of his eye, his sweat having nothing to do with the heat. "Aaaahhh~!!! Itchy!" She moans. Sær gulps, helping her scratch her back with trembling hands.

The pair reach the crest of the hill, and a gust of wind blows through their hair and fur, respectively. Priscilla gasps. Small rivers flow through the steep mountains, tumbling over rocks and steep drops, forming a maze of glistening waterfalls. They all come down to a single point, a deep pool surrounded by rock overhangs, water cascading down into it. Smaller pools form at each of the higher waterfalls, and Priscilla catches glimpses of brightly lit caves behind them. The many patches of water spray from the falls throws out dozens of rainbows.

"Oh," Priscilla breathes. The wind carries the spray of droplets, lightly frosting her fur with shimmering orbs. A cloud blows away from the sun, and all of a sudden she is aglow, a dazzling mass of silver and gold.

"This... Aah, I..." She struggles to speak. "Oh, my... I-it's so beautiful," she breathes as she slowly sinks to her knees. "I never thought such a place could exist. It's... Oh, Sær, thank you. Thank you so much... I... I love you so much," she sobs, tears flowing freely. "If not for you, I would still be stuck in Ariamis. I never would have seen a heaven such as this."

Sær smiles warmly, walking up and embracing her, nuzzling his cheek against the damp fur of her tummy. She purrs, hugging him with her tail. "You know," Sær whispers. "That pool is deep enough that even a large, lascivious crossbreed could dive into it."

"l-l-lascivious? Me?" She covers her face with her hands, her heart doubling it's pace. She had never even thought of someone seeing her that way... To her, it feels frightening, arousing, stressful, and embarrassing all at once. "I'm...You think...? Oh, u-u-um..."

Unable to stand it anymore, Priscilla dashes to the pool, jumping down clumsily, hitting the water with a splooooosh. A massive cascade of water splashes onto Sær, soaking him. Shrugging, he casts off all of his clothes save for his long shorts, jumping in with a shout. He hits the water with a splash, the pool pleasantly cool in the warm weather. He floats, waiting for Priscilla to emerge.

When she doesn't, he starts to worry, frantically looking around to try to find her.

Suddenly, something grabs him, pulling him, lifting him out of the water. A massive cone rises out of the water, a mass of silver strands with small horns poking through it. A groan pierces through it, low and menacing. "SÆEEEERRRR... I LOOOOOVE YOUUUUU..."

Sær screams, frantically reaching for his blade, only to realize he had left it on the cliff. He struggles, panting, before he realizes what the creature had said. "What? Pris-Priscilla?!" A giggle emenates from the creature as it shakes it's head to part it's hair, revealing one very mischievous crossbreed.

"You screamed like a wee babe," she titters. Sær breathes a sigh of relief.

"It's not my fault you're frightening."

"Hey!"

Sær wriggles from her grasp, flopping about like a fish as he splashes into the water. He doesn't get far. Quick as a flashsword, her tail wraps around his waist, lifting him out of the water. She launches herself through the water, effortlessly gliding through it while Sær trails in the air behind her. "How did you get so good at swimming?" Sær asks.

"Dragons are natural swimmers," Priscilla replies. "'Tis just like flying, except with more resistance. Oooh, darling, look! Salmon!" She energetically swims towards a small waterfall at the end of the pool.

There were in salmon there; dozens of them leaping up the cascading water, the sun glinting off of their reddish-pink scales.

"Your scales are prettier. You're a better swimmer, too."

"Many thanks, darling. Good to know I am superior to a salmon." Sær cringes, until she smiles to show she was merely jesting.

The two stay there, watching the fish continue their arduous trek up the falls.

Until a salmon leaps out of the water and smacks Sær in the face.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

A large salmon is speared on a stick, Sær angrily cooking it with pyromancy. Priscilla is rolling on the bank, her laughter so loud that it reverberates in Sær's chest. Sær sulks. "If you keep laughing then you're not getting any," he says, moving his hand around to cook the fish evenly.

Before he can even blink, Priscilla launches herself toward him, opening her mouth and swallowing the fish whole. "Wha- Hey!" Sær cries. By the time he catches his bearings, Priscilla has sprinted off, weaving between the trees like a giant furry snake. Sær sighs defeatedly, then goes to catch another fish, hopefully not with his face this time.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

An hour later, it is early evening, and Sær's stomach is rumbling. he sits roasting his fith fish, warily glancing this way and that. The moment he would finish cooking, Priscilla, having turned invisible, would snatch it from him and gobble it whole.

Sær has to admit, he rather likes her demeanor this way (aside from the fish thievery, of course.) Her fluid, purposeful movement, the glint in her eyes when she would turn visible and snatch the fish, and the way she would slither off into the forest were all quite alluring. Not alluring enough to keep him from getting aggravated, though.

Suddenly, an idea pops into Sær's head, and he smiles wickedly. Reaching to grab a fish from the small pile he caught, he moves his pyromancy flame around it. However, he uses no mana, so the fire does not grow enough to cook the salmon.

He makes a show of keeping a lookout, all while pretending to cook the fish.

Predictably, Priscilla turns visible and takes it in her mouth. This time, she doesn't swallow it. She holds it in her mouth, eyes wide with suprise. She struggles to keep from swallowing it, but it is already halfway down her throat. With watery eyes and a loud gulp, she swallows it, her eyes crossing. "Blegh... It's all slimy and salty... Icky. Sær, why did you make me swallow it?!" She cries.

"That's what you get for swallowing my meat without permission," Sær replies coolly. Priscilla smacks her mouth, trying to rid herself of the taste. She is unsuccessful; it sticks to her mouth and the back of her throat.

Suddenly, Priscilla gets an idea of her own. She quickly snatches up Sær, and wasting no time, presses her lips against his, curling her tongue around his. Pulling away, she smiles devilishly as he sputters and coughs. "Do you like the taste of your own medicine?" She says sensually.

"No. But I think I need another dose," he replies, leaning in. "Or perhaps the whole vial."

[c-e-c-e-r-o]

On Love's Tail, Part 10

A fortnight has passed since the lovers' arrival at Firelink Shrine, and their house is already coming along splendidly. Down the stairs by the bonfire, they had leveled the ground, laying down a stone foundation. The pair were torn on wether to use stone or wood, and in the end they settled on a mixture of both. Stone corners, window and door frames, and half the floors, with wood for the rest. Many of the walls and windows were partially in place; such was the benefit of building in a ruin.

Truthfully, Priscilla had done the bulk of the construction, since her immense size allowed her to build it with ease. Their new home had to be quite large, as well, to house Priscilla. Sær spent most of his time gathering supplies; nails, mortar, rope, fur and leather for furniture, barrels of luxurious food for Priscilla, and books taken from Seath's archives. He even found a regal silk ribbon with large pale blue diamonds at each end, likely misplaced by a wealthy family fleeing the city. Priscilla had squealed in delight upon receiving it, commenting on how the diamonds looked like icicles. Indeed, that was what had drawn Sær to it.

Already they had built most of the first floor, as well as a bed of feathers and fur. Though, the bed is really only for Priscilla; Sær already has his bed. A large, sexy, fluffy bed with a dragon-tail blanket.

Sær walks into their unfinished home, back from his hunting trip. He sets down a pack of honey, rabbits, pheasant and berries before running up to Priscilla, jumping up and hugging her tail.

"EEP!" She cries, a shiver of pleasure running up her tail from where he touches it. "Goodness! Don't scare me so, darling!"

Sær chuckles, clambering up to her shoulders and burying his face into the nape of her neck, kissing it fiercely. Priscilla purrs, her tail twitching.

"If you keep spoiling me, then we shall never get any work done." Sær groans in protest, continuing to lick and nip at her neck and ears. "Stoooo~p," Priscilla whines, twitching. He does no such thing, instead kissing her neck while stroking her ears with both hands.

Another wave of pleasure shoots through Her, and she involuntarily bucks, sending Sær flying onto Priscilla's giant bed, bouncing around it. She shivers, and her legs give out from underneath her. Stumbling back, her calves hit the bed, and she falls towards it.

For the second time, the last thing Sær sees before dying is a beautiful fluffy tail.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Thankfully, the bonfire is a stone's throw from Sær and Priscilla's new home (a quarter of a stone's throw if thrown by Priscilla.) Sær walks in to the familiar sight of Priscilla in tears, knees together and legs apart. Sær walks up to her quietly, no longer wearing his armor. His leggings are naught but shorts and tattered strips of cloth wrapped around his legs, bits of his muscular lower legs showing through. He is fond of the look; Priscilla hates it. She says it makes him look like a dirty vagabond. "A sexy vagabond," Sær would reply, to which Priscilla would scoff and turn away to hide the blush on her cheeks.

His shirt is long sleeved, with the hems tapering to a long triangle, currently pinned up to his shoulders. His manchettes are made of fresh bandages, wrapped around his forearms and the back of his hands, hooking it between thumb and forefinger. They are intended to be used on minor wounds, so as not to waste estus.

His only head ornament is several strands of Priscilla's long silver hair, woven with his own to form a pale ponytail.

Sær had been overjoyed upon receiving it, placed in the middle of their favorite book, The Night's Regalia. Once he reached the middle of the story, the hair fluttered out, held together by a silver-blue ribbon (Sær's favorite color!) He looked to Priscilla, and she gave him a brilliant smile. He had sprinted to her, springboarding off of a wooden crate and onto her stomach, where he remained until morning; They had cuddled all night long.

Sær walks up to the crying crossbreed, patting her leg. She looks up and grabs him, hugging him tightly. Sær figures that he, more than anyone, knows what it's like to be a stuffed animal. Fortunately, she doesn't hug him tight enough to break anything, so at least she's learning.

"I-I can't d-do anything riiiiiiiiight!" She wails, curling up into a ball around Sær.

To his great suprise, she envelopes him completely, blocking out all light and sound. The only sound to be heard was her breathing and her muffled sobs. Sær could certainly understand her distress; if their situations were reversed and she perished under him, he would never forgive himself. But, as much as he hates seeing Priscilla cry, he has to admit that she is excruciatingly adorable when she does.

Sær shifts awkwardly, wrapping his arms around her and squeezing. "It's okay. It's to be expected, after all, given our size."

Priscilla sniffles. "That doesn't help."

"Alright, then. How about..." He wriggles up, popping out between her drawn-up knees and her chin. "This." He kisses her cheek, slowly stroking the scales on her neck with the tips of his fingers. She curls up more, her tail squeezing Sær's shoulder. He smiles, moving his lips down to hers, both of them smiling now. Priscilla giggles, pulling away.

"Well," she whispers. "Now I know I shan't get any work done." She runs her longue tongue along his face, humming all the while. She quickly returns to his lips, their tongues dancing a waltz. Priscilla moans periodically as Sær kisses her, the sound telling him what feels best.

Priscilla slowly pulls away once more. "I cannot believe this," she whispers.

"How so?"

She smiles. "I am free of Ariamis. I have a lovely, if unfinished, home. And I have my darling." She beams, hugging him tightly.

"I had given up all hope of even seeing another person, let alone..." She blushes.

"A pretty boy." Sær scratches his head awkwardly. "Oh, I'm sorry! Is that the wrong word? I meant... Um, H-H-H-Handsome." Her face is practically steaming now. Sær chuckles. He loves the rather childish diction she uses sometimes, but it did raise a question.

"Priscilla," he asks. "How old are you?"

She tilts her head, pondering. "I do not know if time works the same in Ariamis, as the days did seem shorter; perhaps due to the everlasting winter. However, if I had to guess, then mayhaps nine-and-ten?"

"Nineteen!?" Sær gasps, startled. She does have a youthful face, but her figure and mannerisms suggest someone twenty-five, at least.

"Yes," Priscilla says. "Is that... Too old...?" She taps her index fingers together nervously.

"No!" He replies quickly. "It's just... You're so pretty, and you act so mature. I figured you would be older."

She smiles shyly. "How about you?"

"I remember little of my life before I became undead, save for that I have yet to pass my thirtieth year. I am likely twenty-three, or thereabouts."

Priscilla smiles. "T-thats good... That means that in Lordran, we are old enough to do... Naughty things..." Her face turns red once more.

Sær does a double take. "N-n-naughty things!?"

Priscilla looks at him shyly. "W-when the time is right, of course. Do you... Not want to?"

"YES! I mean, no! I-I-I mean, I want to more than anything! I mean, not anything, that makes it seem as if that is all I care about... I, no, I would like to, yes, but-"

His blathering is interrupted by Priscilla squeezing the breath out of him. "Thank goodness. I thought you might be put off by... well, by my size."

"Never."

She snuggles up to him. "Yay," she exclaims quietly. "But, darling?"

"Yes?"

"Let us finish the house first."

[c-e-c-e-r-o]

On Love's Tail, Part 9

Sær is frozen.

Priscilla lays bound, a scaling knife at her neck. Upon flinging open the doors and seeing Seath ready to descale her, time had slowed, and Sær's thoughts stopped. Priscilla had been shunned her whole life, told she was an abomination, locked away to hide her from those who would harm her out of fear. And now her own father was trying to rob her of what few scales she had.

Sær snaps. He casts a wind spell and hurls his scythe-staff, the gale propelling it forward into Seath's chest. He roars, reeling back and clutching his chest as the scaling knife falls from his grasp. Sær snatches up Priscilla's Lifehunt scythe and with four deft swings, he severs her shackles.

"Priscilla! Magic!"

She nods, and with a flourish she sends a gust of damaging magic powder from her mouth. Sær puts the Lifehunt scythe in her hand, and with no hesitation, pushes the blade into himself. The life flows from him to Priscilla, turning her already impressive magic storm into a hurricane. Sær chugs estus to replenish his life essence, only to give it to Priscilla.

Once he is sure she has enough, he darts away. Seath has recovered, pushing his way forward towards Priscilla. With a roar, Sær dashes up his arm, grasping his twin broadswords and flowing his magic into them to restart their lightning enchantment. The bolts spark to life, wreathing both him and Seath in electricity.

Sær plummets towards the ground, but Priscilla catches him easily. Their eyes meet, and without a word they both put a plan into action. Sær grasps her scythe, putting his feet on the blade. With a shout, Priscilla heaves and swings the scythe round and round, her tail flailing around with her. She lets go, and Sær, now airborne, grasps the scythe normally. With a vengeful scream, he swings the scythe downward, straight through the scale-less monstrosity.

Seath roars. His body, now mortally wounded, starts to dissapate into a mass of souls. "No... My knowledge...I made her... Those scales are mine... Mine... Miiiiiiiine!"

His final word stretches out into an mournful wail. Souls flow en masse into Priscilla, Saer subtly nudging his portion into her in his stead.

She dashes to him and envelopes him in a great big dragon-hug. "Thank you," she whispers. Sær responds by nuzzling into her chest, sighing contentedly.

Suddenly, Sær feels a warm, viscous liquid plop down on his head. He feels it with his hand, then looks up. Priscilla is drooling on him, staring at his bare chest. "Priscilla..." He chides. She doesn't seem to hear him.

"Priscilla!" He reaches up to poke her on the chin. She flinches, appearing to snap out of her daze. "Y-Yes, my l- darling?" She sets him down. "You were being a little obvious there," he scolds. He hastily puts on the raggedy shirt of a fallen adventurer.

"I- Um, I'm sorry, it's just, I've n-never seen a boy, l-like that, and you're always covered up and you looked good andilikeyouandmyheartbeatsreallyfast-"

"Okay, okay!" Sær stops her before she starts hyperventilating. "We're... T-together, so, it's okay to, um... look..." He pauses. Was it? He barely remembered his own name, so knowing the courting customs of Lordran was beyond his grasp. "Anyway, l-lets go," he stammers, hastily changing the subject.

"Go? Go where?" Priscilla tilts her head as her tail presses against her cheek.

"Home, you silly dragon," Sær replies. "Our home."

"Ours?" Priscilla inquires.

"Yes, ours. Unless you would rather sleep here."

"Oh please," Priscilla scoffs. "We both know you could never sleep without clinging to me." Sær grits his teeth, knowing that she's right. Already he cannot imagine life without the crossbreed. The thought of sleeping on the ground, alone, cold, with no one to hold, no gentle breathing under him... He shudders. How horrible! How can anyone live without a Priscilla?

Said beauty scoops him up and breaks into a run. Despite himself, Sær bites back his protests and cuddles up to her chest, the Lifedrain from earlier taken his wakefulness right out of him.

The last sound Sær hears before sleep takes him is the rapid heartbeat of his darling crossbreed.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Before Sær had gained the ability to flit between the bonfires, traveling through Lordran would take days at a brisk pace.

With a fluffy carriage like Priscilla, it took hours. She dashed through groups of enemies, jumped roadblocks, and took routes inaccessible to any normal person. At first, Sær was worried she was exhausting herself, carrying him and taking no breaks. Priscilla put his mind at ease, though; dragons have incredibly powerful and efficient lungs. They must, as the air is thinner in the sky.

"Besides," she says, "I am much stronger than you.

"Thats not true!"

"Oh?" She smirks, tossing him up and away as hard as she can. Sær trails off into the sky, and Priscilla dashes forth to catch him. He lands in her arms with a THUD, panting and clutching to Priscilla's chest in fear and shock. Despite herself, she giggles at how cute Sær is when he's scared. Perhaps she would do this more often...

Firelink shrine looms in the distance, It's mass of crumbling arches brightly lit in the midday sun. Priscilla sucks in a breath.

Sær rubs his head sheepishly. "It's not much, but-"

"It's perfect," Priscilla breathes, turning to face him. "Oh darling, it's perfect!" She squeals, hugging him tightly.

Sær blushes. "Well, save your excitement for a bit. I don't-"

"Then we'll make one," Priscilla interrupts. "With my help, we can make a home in days."

"How did you-"

"Know that you don't have a house? Please, darling. You are so painfully simple that it's a wonder you could snag a beauty like me."

"Yes, I know," Sær says sadly. He was well aware of how fortunate he was to have her.

"Come, cheer up! I was only jesting!" She kisses him on the cheek, pausing to lightly lick his ear. Before Sær can comment, She skips down the hill to their new home, singing all the while.

"Darling, darling

Smaller than a starling

Darling, darling

Won't you press close?

Darling, darling

For your love I'm starving

Darling, darling

Oh, how our love grows.

Though I may be taller

Our love is no smaller

Darling, darling

Darling, darling

To you this joy I owe.

Though I may be stronger

Our love will last longer

Darling, darling

It will never fade, no.And I know you love me

From the way you look-see

But from your lips I'll hear it,

To my ear, go near it

Darling, darling

Do you~ Love~ Me?"

Sær leans in close, hips lips barely grazing Priscilla's ear.

"Lovely, lovely

Your fur white as a dove to me

Lovely, lovely

Without you I'm a mess.

Lovely, lovely

You've ensnared me so wholeheartedly

Lovely, lovely

The answer's always yes.

Lovely, lovely

Like a bird, you sing so prettily

Lovely, lovely

I~ Love~ You."

[c-e-c-e-r-o]

On Love's Tail, Part 8

Sær holds his creation aloft, concentrating his magic into it. The bones of fallen clerics have been joined so that they may fight once more. He points the bone staff at the cell door, focusing completely on taking knowledge from his brain and fueling magic with it.

"HAAH!"

A great bolt of blue light streaks from the hand bones at the tip of the staff. The spell homes in on the lock, diving into it. The door gives a loud CRACK, then another, and yet another, rattling and shaking each time.

All of a sudden, the bolts on the door shoot out, propelled by the magic filling the door. Sær dashes and swipes like a madman, evading and blocking the makeshift arrows. The door creaks and blows off it's hinges, rocketing towards him. He dodges out of the way, the door clipping his foot and sending him spinning. He handsprings, landing on his feet and right hand as he skids to a stop. Dust and debris swirls throughout the cell.

Sær is running through the dungeons before the door even falls. He has a dragon to rescue.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Seath lays out a bladed grate, a knife, and a prying tool and sets to work dousing them in growth fluid. The concoction will speed up the healing process of whatever is cut, and ensures it grows back completely.

"Come hither, child." Seath reaches through the bars with his fingers, plucking Priscilla's Lifehunt Scythe from her back.

While it couldn't kill him, it could still drain his limitless life force, something he would prefer to avoid.

The icy prison crumbles, and Priscilla shivers from fear.

"Fear not, child," Seath growls. "I merely want your scales."

"N-no," she says quietly. "Sær loves my scales..."

Seath snorts. "The undead? A pitiful creature. Though mostly useless you may be, you are still my blood, and still my daughter." He says the word as if it were something unpleasant he stepped on. "You shan't be courting such a worthless creature. No, we must keep our blood pure."

Priscilla stops shivering, and her eyes go cold. "Sær is not worthless," she says, voice dripping with rage.

"Fool girl. What would you have me call a creature so easily killed? Now come hither."

Priscilla clutches the scales on her neck once again. Grunting angrily, Seath grabs her, and she yells in suprise. Now, Priscilla understands how she must appear to Sær. She is as tall as Seath's mid-thigh, the same way Sær reaches her mid-thigh. For how frighteningly large her father is, she couldn't imagine courting someone that much larger then her. Sær was truly brave, indeed.

Seath roughly places her on the ground in front of him, binding her legs and arms with ice.

Her head is pulled back, and the scaling knife slowly lowers to her neck.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Sær dashes through the archive dungeons, viciously cutting through hollows with a sword he procured from the armory. A skeleton blocks the stairs, red eyes gleaming as he holds up a falchion.

Sær runs to the side and approaches the stairs at an angle. He vaults off of the stone handrail, hitting the wall by the stairs and sticking for a moment from his momentum. Quick as a flash, he darts his foot out, bashing the skeleton on its exposed skull. It spins, slumping over the stone handrail. Sær jumps down, bending it's sword arm until it breaks and snatching the falchion. With a single strike, the monster is bisected at the waist.

Sær grabs the creature's curved spare dagger, quickly fastning it between the arm bones of his bone staff. It makes a decent scythe, and having an extra hand free is invaluable.

The following minutes are a blur of flashing steel and flying books. Sær is a tattered dervish, Flowing up and over toppled bookshelves, climbing moldings, and jumping off walls over enemies to stab them in the back. Despite the severity of the situation, Sær finds himself joyously screaming, a sense of freedom and fluidity he hasn't felt for a long time enveloping his mind. From the start of his journey, he had donned plate and mail, unwilling to slow his journey by perishing in a single strike.

But now...

Sær had forgotten that battle was fun. He had forgotten the exhilaration, the triumph, the pure bliss of conquering his enemies with such ease.

As he reaches the final staircase, he hears a scream.

Priscilla.

Sær's eyes are aglow with rage as he whispers to himself.

"Just wait, Darling. It's my turn to save you."

[c-e-c-e-r-o]

On Love's Tail, Part 7

The duo finally reach the final floor, pausing at the door leading to the Duke's chambers. Priscilla turns to face him.

"Good luck, darling!" She pumps her fist.

Sær nods, his face flushed. While her pet name for him made his heart soar, it's also incredibly embarrassing. Sær draws his twin broadswords, connected at the pommel by a three foot chain. He had these specially infused just for Seath. The two blades are permanently lit aflame, serving the dual purpose of heating Sær and melting Seath's icy projectiles. The chain is imbued with crackling bolts of energy, a staple in dragon hunts.

Taking a deep breath, Sær walks past the oak doors while Priscilla peeks out from behind the door, only her eyes and horns showing. The Duke's chambers reverberate with the sounds of heavy footsteps and clanking chain links.

Priscilla wrings her tail nervously.

A great rush of icy air comes sweeping in from the left, and Sær struggles to keep his footing. Another gale reaches his ears, and he deftly dodges forward, an invisible impact cracking the floor and sending him tumbling. Dust and debris flies through the air, and through the haze Sær sees a swath being cut in the shape of a massive claw. Quickly standing up, he baits it, jumping away at the last second as it slams into the ground. He flings a broadsword under the large unseen arm, climbing atop it and catching his sword.

With a savage grunt, Sær stabs the two blades into the invisible beasts upper arm, the electrified chain wrapped around it's arm and sending yellow bolts across the outline of a massive, winged creature. With a gut-wrenching howl, the edges of the beast begin to solidify. It slowly gains form, revealing a scale-less hide and great wings enshrouded in ice. A loud gasp comes from the doorway.

"Father?!"

Sær whips his head around to face Priscilla. "What?!! Father?!"

A great cracking sound comes from Seath the scale-less, and Sær looks down to see an ice crystal sprouting from his chest. He falls to the ground, gasping, a a thunderous voice booms from Seath.

"Thou wert truly confident in thine ability to best me? A mere human who has lived not a third of mine lifetimes?" Sær does not reply, still paralyzed with pain.

"SÆR!" Priscilla rushes forward with an expression of rage greater than any seen throughout the land.

"STAY BACK!" Sær cries. Priscilla hesitates for but a moment, but that is all Seath needs. With a great rumble, he shrieks and sends a cascade of massive icicles down towards Priscilla. The enormous pillars fall around her, trapping her in an icy prison as Sær slowly fades away.

"Well," Seath rumbles. "It would seem mine research shan't stagnate, after all." He bears his fangs in a vile grin. "Mayhaps now you may finally be of some use, dearest daughter."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Sær awoke to the feeling of rough, inhuman hands dragging him along a cold stone floor. A gate opens on rusty hinges, and he is flung bodily into a cold, damp cell, his bare skin scraping against the floor.

looking around to get his bearings, Sær groans upon realizing that his equipment- Estus, armor, blades, and smallclothes- are gone. He is wearing naught but tattered trousers and a tattered robe. The upper part of the robe has degraded to mere strips of cloth, hanging down to his legs and leaving his torso bare.

"DAMN IT!" Sær bashes the ground with his fist. He looks around the cage, his face contorted with fury. To let himself get distracted and put priscilla in danger...

Crunch.

Sær looks down. Bones litter the ground, clad in robes, smallclothes, and leather, all as degraded as his. A fair few of them seem to be clerics... An idea starts to form in Sær's mind. He quickly sets to work.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"I am not one of your experiments, you freak! Release me!"

Priscilla's command is ignored by her father, who shuffles about his study, muttering under his breath. "Regrowth occurs at twice the normal rate in crossbreeds... With a regrowth formula, harvesting time could be cut down to a decade..."

Priscilla's heart sinks down into her stomach, and her hands instinctively cover the patch of scales on her neck. "You're witherimg," she says, realization dawning on her. Seath turns to her.

"You're withering!" She repeats, shouting now. She smirks. "For a dragon without scales to be immortal... Your body is exposed to the flow of time, yet it cannot die. You-"

"ENOUGH! You will show me the respect I am due. I created you, I am immortal, and I possess the largest collection of knowledge in history! YOU WILL SHOW RESPECT TO SEATH, DUKE OF LORDRAN!

Priscilla sticks her tongue out at him.

[c-e-c-e-r-o]

On Love's Tail Part 6

The newly formed couple walks down the quiet halls, padding over books covered in a thick layer of dust. Sær sits on Priscilla's shoulder, facing behind her so that he may deal with any enemies from the rear with his bow. Priscilla's tail has snaked up her back and curled around his waist, caressing his back.

The little resistance they encounter throughout the archives is dealt with quickly. Sær never even has time to loose an arrow; Priscilla cleaves their foes in half faster than he can blink. Sær shudders, glad she hadn't fought him back in Ariamis. He would have stood no chance.

Each time Priscilla cleaves through another foe, Sær rewards her with a kiss on the neck. By the time they reach the fourth floor, her face is flushed and her tail is beating a staccato rhythm on his back. He reaches back and strokes it, paying close attention to where she likes to be touched.

She gives a satisfied sigh, nuzzling her cheek into Sær's ribs.

The odd pair slowly make their way through floor after floor, steadily climbing towards the Duke's chambers. Sær clears his throat.

"So, Priscilla..."

"Yes, darling?"

Sær starts. "D-D-Darling?!"

She gives him a puzzled look. "That is what couples call each other, is it not? That is what is told in the books I read. Do you not wish for me to call you as such?"

Sær gulps. "N-no, that's not it. I was just taken by suprise, is all. Anyway, I just wanted to ask what you would do for fun in Ariamis. I figure we could learn more about each other, since we have time."

Priscilla blinks in suprise. "Fun... Well, I did rather enjoy vanishing and scaring mister Jeremiah. He would fall and struggle to get up because of the ridiculous crown of his!" She giggles. "I would spend all day cleaning and grooming my fur... Hmm, let's see..." She pauses, lost in thought.

"Though I suppose I never had any real fun," she says sadly. "The inhabitants of the painting were barely lucid... And The Painted Land is a dreadfully dreary place, even if it is beautiful. Aunt Velka would occasionally visit and bring me things, but she stopped coming after my four-and-tenth birthday," She sighs.

Sær listens quietly, horrified. He knew that living in such a place wouldn't be riveting, but to think she had been this lonely...

He slides down her back to stand on the base of her tail and wraps his arms around her middle. "I'm sorry that this is all I can do," he whispers. "We'll have all the fun in the world, you'll see. I promise."

Priscilla chuckles. "You stole that from The Night's Regalia, you liar."

Sær chuckles sheepishly. "It's the only book you brought from Ariamis, so it must be your favorite. Of course I'm going to read it! After all you're my..."

Priscilla cocks her head. "Your?"

Sær's face turns scarlet as he sinks into her fur to hide his embarrassment.

"My... My... Darling," he mutters. His face feels like it's about to erupt into flames.

RRRRRR.

Sær's ears perk up.

MMMMRRRRRRRR~

Was she... Purring?!

Her back rumbles, lightly vibrating his face.

She wriggles from head to tail, her hips shaking back and forth as it wags happily. Sær clings tightly to her so he isn't thrown off. Her tail curls around his waist and pries him off her back. She gives a mighty heave and tosses him up and over her head, effortlessly catching him in her arms. She stares down at him, beaming with a giddy, serene smile.

Sær's heartbeat skyrockets. Priscilla is staring at him lovingly, her face getting closer and closer. Her lips part, glistening as they inch closer to Sær's. Their eyes lock on to each other. Her vertical pupils are hypnotizing, causing everything else to fall away. The light catches the scales on her neck, framing her face with a shimmering light.

Their lips touch, and they kiss clumsily, neither one caring about their difference in size. Her breath hits his face, bringing with it the scent of cold mountain air. They stay that way for what feels like an eternity, moaning slightly as they deepen the kiss.

Finally Sær, who has the smaller lungs, pulls away, trails of saliva still connecting the two. After catching her breath, Priscilla playfully licks his face. Her large tongue is rough with numerous small bumps, yet each one is smooth, causing a unique sensation that sends a shiver through Sær's body. To anyone else in the world, this act, and their very relationship would seem mad. But to them, it's the most natural thing in the world. The things that would drive most every other man away from Priscilla are what Sær adores. Her size, her fur, her tail, her eyes, all different from any human woman, but all irresistible to him.

For the one person in the world who would love her to find her in a remote, hidden land? It's nothing short of a miracle.

Priscilla's purring returns with a vengeance, rattling Sær in his fluffy perch. Dragons do have a deep, rumbling roar, so it shouldn't be much of a suprise that Priscilla can make such an adorable noise. Suddenly, Sær feels her large hand grasp his head, bringing it to her face as she rubs the furry side of her face against his.

A deep rumbling shakes the very building. surely even Priscilla couldn't...

"What was that?!" She shrieks.

"The Duke," Sær says grimly. "I must defeat him if we are to proceed."

"We must defeat him."

Sær glares at her. "No, Priscilla. We don't know how powerful he is. One misstep and I lose you forever. There is no reason for you to risk your life when mine is unending."

Priscilla huffs frustratedly. Despite her anger, she understands the truth in his words. Besides, she has no desire to fade away so quickly after uniting with Sær.

"Very well," she sighs. "At the very least, I shall have books to read while you die a few times."

Sær sighs. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, sweetheart."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

[c-e-c-e-r-o]