#Ser James of Martom

[midgardsormr-and-me]

Me trying to figure out a face

[the-writhing-mist]

HV Serial Obidiah Part 3

Word Count: 1407 Themes: 18+, medieval, dark fantasy, demon/edritch being x human, general sexual content, D/s, relatively vanilla, m/m, trans character, trans male, piv sex

General Info: This is a side story not continuous with the main plot revolving around a character named Obidiah. It’s rather loose in form, please excuse the unpolished writing.

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It was a small space. Filled with junk and blankets and clothes. Moreover, it was clear he slept here, from the small cushion tucked in between wooden slats that held his things. Some of it was cleared out, the space where the cases inside had been taken from, and other items were loose, lost under cloth and trinkets. An ox slept in the yard outside, fast asleep at that moment, and Obidiah hung a peculiarly shaped oil lantern up on the inside to find the statue.

The space was much too small. And, between the low light and the humidity of the night, the both of them found their thoughts drifting elsewhere. James watched Obidiah dig through his items, pulling out a long, thin case, his mind lingering on what the bulky coat revealed of his shoulders, of his back, how his elbows moved as he opened the case, those long fingers holding a delicate silver statue of a strange serpentine dragon with antlers atop its head.

“It has a curse set upon it,” Nyn said in his head.

Obie set it in James’ hands, saying apologetically, “I’m sorry I assumed.”

“What do I owe you?” James asked.

“You. Would you like it as a bribe?” Obie said with a smile. “You’re an appreciative gentleman, aren’t you? And I’ve got secrets to keep. I promise, I do well enough for myself. Why this, though?”

“She said a demon put a curse upon it,” James said. “We may be able to identify the source.”

“Is that a good thing?” Obie said with a scowl.

“We are trying to find the others of the old gods who have survived. But. Um,” he said and set the statue aside, putting it on the top shelf. “I did not come here solely for this.”

Obidiah shifted on his feet, suddenly too close to the other man, noticing the sweat sticking to his neck, the dark body hair peeking out of his gambeson, the knots in his hands. He looked back up as though nothing in him had expected the subject to come up again.

“I,” James started, cracking a smile as he went. “Am a man who desperately wants to spear you. And I barely know what to do with myself.”

“Me either,” Obie murmured as he looked back over James, unable to put much voice through his throat as his head suddenly felt light.

“I guess,” James said between breaths. “I. Well. It is up to you.”

Swallowing as though it would do anything to ease his quickening breath, Obie uttered a weak, “I,” but then put his hand on the other man’s chest, overtaken by the sheer dismay over the fact he was able to do so at all.

“Well,” James said with a scoff, giving him sarcastic look. “I would take off my armor, you know.”

“I. Uh,” Obie said, setting his temple against the armor. The witch-knight’s heartbeat was barely audible from beneath, a weighty rumbling, and a hint of the warmth of his body soaking through. “I don’t even know your name,” he said after another swallow, closing his eyes to add a wispy, “But I.”

“Oh, I forgot about that part, did I?” James said with a self-effacing smile, reaching back to undo the straps holding his armor up. “It’s James. Ser James of Martom.”

“Ser James,” Obie said to himself in a rush of breath, leaning back against the shelving as he watched the knight set aside the breastplate.

“What do you think?” James said, still with more straps to loosen.

“I think,” Obie said, grasping at the fur lining his coat, unsure whether he was ready to take it off. “You are. A very dangerous man, Ser James.”

Free of the protective shell and one layer of padding, he twisted his wrists, stepping forward towards Obie. “Well, I am a heathen witch,” he said with a grin.

Standing back up on his feet, Obie put both hands against James’ collarbone, feeling it through the basic shirt that remained. He removed them briefly to toss aside the coat, then set back to feeling the reality on his fingertips. The musculature beneath. The warmth. The thick, jet black hair that fell over his shoulders in waves. He looked up, feeling a set of calloused hands set on his hips, the word, “James,” falling from his lips before he licked them and gripped the tufts of wavy hair to bring the witch’s own lips towards him.

Set loose, he pinched those lips between his own, feeling the stubble scratch his face, their breath against each other’s skin and the low purr in James throat as he rifled through the still many layers the merchant wore until he found skin.

Obie put his head against James’ chest, feeling seconds away from fainting. He needed to catch his breath. The knight’s hands ran over his back and his flesh trapped between them. He bit down, saying woefully, “My body reveals too much of me.”

James minded little, nipping at his neck with rapid breaths punctuated with the occasional sighing whimper.

“Stop. Ser Wandering Hands, here. I. Hm. I,” he said, but then pulled himself away.

“Yes?” James said, though he had been drowning and suddenly found air again.

“It. Is. I. I want to remain dressed.”

“Ah.”

“Like I said. My body. Is. Oh, but I do want you. God. James. I just,” Obidiah said between gasps. “Here. I can’t. I just. I want,” he stuttered, turning around and fitting his torso between the shelves where he normally slept. “Just. Like this.”

Fully turned around, Obie pulled up his layers, revealing the line of his breeches, which he tugged at till the full view of the skin was exposed, the tangle of hair and fluids exposed. James put his hand over the left cheek, letting the warmth seep into his skin.

“Are you saying. To,” the knight only barely got out.

“Yes.”

“But I would so like to kiss you more.”

“For God’s sake, witch. A man offers you honey and you balk about the dew? Don’t be so picky. You offered your spear, did you not?”

“Oh,” James said with a heavy sigh, taking a step forward. “Oh, give me strength,” he muttered with rushed breath, placing his other hand against Obie’s hips.

“Was that an actual request?” Nyn cut in.

“Nyn,” he thought in response, but barely had focus enough left for it. “Do what you will.”

“You are lucky I am so charmed by the sight of my servant in the throes of carnal ecstasy.”

With his thumb, he gripped into the skin, pulling back on the folds. They were stuck together, but the tension saw them break free from the sweat and honey, showing clearer the viscera waiting for him.

“I,” Obie said, his breath escaping from him further as the anticipation hit, “I don’t want to think about it. I just want to feel it. Please.”

James bit his lip as the warmth sunk in his fingers and the musk brushed past his nose. With the thumb, he reached in further, pressing into the rim and eliciting a sharp gasp from his partner. Sucking on his own bottom lip, he pressed his hand in further, twisting it to cup the flesh and then rub into the gash. He seized the other hand, grasping at his trappings to free himself as he ran his fingers along the folds.

Obidiah was quickly adrift, gripping at the quilted blanket with his long fingers. He shifted back, trying to push himself further into the palm of the witch. James shook his head, letting out a heavy sigh at the sight. With the butt of his hand, he pressed into the rim, mashing flesh of the head together with his fingers. It was the way his Master had taught him, to tease so lightly the organ matching his own in all but size.

“Ah!” shrieked Obie at the sensation. “Oh!”

“Heh,” James exhaled, saying, “Like that?”

“Ohh,” Obie groaned with a low growl. “Just fuck me. Please.”

“Really?” he teased with a grin.

“I said I don’t want to think too much about it,” Obie pleaded.

“Right. Sorry,” James said, taking back his hand to pull down his trousers.

“Master,” he thought idly, standing poised with his cock hanging so heavy in his hand.

“The man said to fuck him, James. Are you not going to oblige him?”

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[midgardsormr-and-me]

More couples (and poly group) from Harvester.

[midgardsormr-and-me]

me trying very hard to decide what my character’s face looks like and not really succeeding but hey I got a drawing out of it idk

[midgardsormr-and-me]

[midgardsormr-and-me]

The Witch and The Sacrifice

[midgardsormr-and-me]

a soft

Nyn and James

[midgardsormr-and-me]

(Also from a little bit ago.)

[midgardsormr-and-me]

I don’t know what I’m doing lol

[the-writhing-mist]

HV Serial Obidiah Part 2

Word Count: 2523 Themes: 18+, medieval, dark fantasy, demon/edritch being x human, general sexual content, D/s, relatively vanilla, m/m, trans character, trans male, talking about dysphoria and bad trans feelings like insecurity

General Info: This is a side story not continuous with the main plot revolving around a character named Obidiah. It’s rather loose in form, please excuse the unpolished writing.

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The summer sun was slow to set, the light lingering long after the oranges and yellows had given way to a luminous twilight in indigo. At the end of an old cobbled road leading down from the building that used to be the silversmith’s guild before they found a place in the more prosperous sectors of the city, the stones began to break up, sprouts of grass finding their way in the gaps, until, at last, the last house marked the edge of the town. There was a lantern set out, the merchant himself leaned up against the outside.

He had his arms crossed, head down. His hat left in the house, he had made some effort to gather back up his hair but it always seemed to slip from the knot. The coat he wore had quilted padding and numerous pockets, hiding his relatively slim figure, and he wore yet more numerous layers underneath. It made sure his shoulders were pointed, exaggerated the length of his arms, and well hid the curve of his hips.

Obie hardly noticed when the knight approached, catching only movement in his periphery, then turned fully to look up. “Oh. You came,” he said. “Ah,” but was slow to find his footing. “Good, good. I’m glad for your enthusiasm.”

“You did not attend the service either it seems,” said James with a sly look about him.

“Ah?”

“It is not yet over.”

“Oh. Oh, yes. You are right. No. No, I am,” he then pushed a gulp of air through his lips and turned back up to the man. “Not quite the sort for it, I admit. Let’s go inside, shall we?”

The knight raised his brow and nodded to the door.

“Tell me,” Obie said, taking them inside. “You are a noble knight, my friend. Have you been east to Timpan?”

“Yes,” James said, taking a look around the room. It was well-lit with several oil lanterns and a couple of cases were laid out on a table, facing away from them. A door at the back opened up to the rest of the house. The wood was warped, in poor condition, and the door barely fit in the frame. “I was there with the forces the Count of Martom sent to aid in the crusade.”

“Oh, you are a crusader? You should know, then. The demons of Timpan are far fiercer than any here in the west.”

James let out a laugh, “So they say.”

Obie took a place besides the cases, “I have just the thing to show you. You may even recognize them. After all, in such a land beset by forces most demonic, there yet remains good, God-fearing people who have survived only through the most stalwart of protections.”

He procured a set of copper bowls, setting them out on the table. Along their inside rims was an inscription, a spell of protection, and James watched him as he did so, focusing more on the man’s hands, his wrists, the way his fingers grasped them so gingerly. Stepping closer, he saw in the cases items of the like he had never witnessed: red-dyed scrolls tied with string made of reeds, strange cylindrical metal chimes set with a small mallet, numerous small bottles of powders and gels, and a square of embroidered silk.

James listened to the merchant’s stories and tales, at one point making his greetings to the owner of the house—the old lady Weirol who brought each a sip of wine—but quickly their discussion fell from trinkets and coin to more personal matters.

“Have you been to Timpan?” James asked, holding up one of the bowls to the light.

“Ah. Yes. I am. Well, actually, I am from there originally,” Obie said, feeling the late hour grow on him. But then he sat up, realizing quickly such a fact could cast doubt upon him. “I mean. My. Uh. Well. I’m not a heathen like the most of them, I’ll have you know. But it does lend itself to certain connections, I’m sure you understand.”

James put it back down on the table, turning to him and saying with a smile, “My father was from Timpan. And he was quite the heathen.”

“You,” Obie said, his brow knotting, taking note of James’ long, dark hair that curved around the left side of his face. “How did a son of Timpan find placement in the Count’s army?”

James gave him a smile, “My mother was the Count’s sister.”

“Oh. Oh!” Obie stood up with a start. “My lord! I-I did not realize.”

“Ah,” James sighed. “Like I said, I have not been back there in many years.”

Obie’s face fell back into a scowl.

“James,” the demon whispered into his head from places unknown.

“Yes, Nyn?”

“It appears I do, in fact, have an interest in him,” she said. “There is a small, silver statue within his care, of the kind found even further to the east. It is not with this set. Ask about it.”

“Do you, uh. Have any items from further east?” James asked.

“Well! Funny you ask! This fabric—”

“More than that?”

“Uh. Yes, I do. They are with my wagon.”

“May I see them?”

“Yes, of course,” Obie said, but was forced to sort out his thoughts again. “Yes. Okay,” he said again, then exited out the side door and James followed behind.

The moment they turned the corner, Obidiah whipped himself around, a piercing dagger hidden in his robes pointed at James stomach. “What is your game, knight?” he hissed.

“I, uh,” James stammered, raising his hands. “I mean no harm.”

“No harm? When we both know you’ve seen so clearly through me? You seem so barely interested in a purchase. You just mean to make small talk? Ply me with wine then lead me out into the dark to take advantage of me?”

“I don’t—”

“I know your like. And I’ll have none of it. The moment men like you realize the truth of me, it always turns like this.”

“The. I’m.”

“James,” said the demon.

“Are you just going to let me be accosted, Nyn?” he thought back.

“You’ve gotten yourself into a predicament. Take care to get yourself out of it.”

“The. Truth of you?” James stuttered, feeling the bite of the blade dig under his armor with a winch. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, don’t play dumb!” Obie hissed in a whisper.

“I admit, I find you attractive but—”

“That is exactly what I mean!”

“You were. Cute,” he stuttered, biting down into a grimace as he felt the tip in his gut.

“Oh, of course,” Obie hissed. “The cute little woman pretending she’s a proper merchant.”

“Wo—” James started with dismay.

“Don’t say it,” Nyn chided him. “Don’t make me waste my magic on keeping you alive when you’ve so insisted on playing a fool. We’ve talked about this before and still you learn nothing.”

“What are you talking about?” he said instead. “I believed us. Both men. Of the same cut. Admittedly—well—you know. Given to certain. Indiscretions.”

The grip on the dagger relaxed and he could feel it loosen its hold on his stomach. Obie stepped back, staring at him with a scowl. “You’re matri.”

“Yes,” he said, holding onto his wince. “You aren’t?”

Barely lit by the light from inside the house, Obidiah turned his head to the side, looking into the darkness of the treeline, the pale light only grazing the outline of his head. “I’m something worse,” he said.

James let out a small, self-effacing laugh, finally letting his joints relax, “Being matri is not even the half of it. I’m a witch too. No need for protection from demons when I’ve already pledged myself to one.”

Obie turned back, his face catching the light again and making his scowl clear. He then let out a small laugh as well, saying, “Heh. I guess we both ought to be burned at the stake.”

James chuckled again.

But then he saw Obidiah collapse onto his knees, the coat billowing around him as he fell and put his hands over his face to claw into his hair.

“Obie. I’m sorry,” said James, taking a step forward.

“I’m so tired,” he said, his voice shaking.

The knight found himself taking a knee by Obidiah, struggling to think of what to say.

“Nyn?” he thought to the demon.

But there was no reply from her. And he looked up to Obidiah, breathing shallow as he took in the sight of the man’s naked anguish. His shoulders were tensed, bunching up the heavy coat around his neck, back heaving though he was trying not to cry.

“I try so hard to play a man and still, they always find out,” he said, letting his hands fall to his lap. “I always fail. It’s a fool’s errand, but I’m the fool. I don’t know why I do it. People assume and then. It suits me. But it never lasts. Because it’s a lie.”

“I could really use your help, Nyn,” the witch pleaded in his mind.

“James,” her voice came back. “Have I not said that Harrah is cruel?”

“So, you have. But am I just to tell him that his god is cruel?”

“But James. You know very well why he is distraught,” she said.

“You must think me such the charlatan,” Obidiah said, setting his palms out in front of him. “And here I am, wailing like the girl I am. What’s the point, when it all comes unravelled in the end?”

“I,” stammered James. “The demon my fate is cast in with is the god of secrets. Those of us that serve her,” he said, waiting to see if she would object to his reveal. But she said nothing, so he continued, “We all have secrets.”

“I’m sure it does you good,” Obidiah said, a tear clearly falling down his face where it was caught in the light.

“But they’re. I was the Count’s nephew, I spent so many years in a life of piety and repentance. In part just because of the nature of my ancestry. But.”

“I have no mind to sell my soul. If it is an offer you are preparing to make, witch,” he said, a glower upon his face.

“No. Of course not,” James said, his gaze falling to the grass and clovers beneath them. “I just meant that your secret is safe with me.”

He could see Obie’s hands rubbing at each other, turning to look up at the stars. His voice came back, still despondent, “You know what the worst part is? I. I know I am a liar. Because I knew what you were doing, yet something in me wanted it. And I let myself think of it without thinking of the consequences. And that fact is a splinter in my heart. Because I know it comes from the part of me that makes me into a liar.”

“Heh,” James scoffed, suddenly reminded of his earlier thoughts. “If something like that makes you into a liar, then it makes me into a liar too. The men of Matrea are not famous for taking each other to bed because of any love for womanhood. It is quite the opposite.”

“No,” Obie said quietly. “You don’t understand.”

“What don’t I understand?” James asked.

“My flesh is a betrayer. It knows what it wants and what it is despite my best efforts to deny it.”

James raised his brow, “I am no stranger to that, either. And neither am I a woman.”

“It’s not the same,” Obie protested.

“I am consort to a demon. She is capable of much beyond most mortals’ imaginations. There is little I am a stranger to.”

Obidiah fell silent, staring pointedly at the witch of a man sitting next to him. His rugged face, the braids tied into his temple, the dark eyebrows and soulful eyes. “Why have interest in mortal men if she can grant you anything you wish?” he asked.

“Ah,” he said, a bashful smile crossing his face. “She is a thing far beyond me. Sometimes I. Hm. It is complicated. But suffice to say, she is not a man, no matter how convincingly she plays one for my sake. It’s not quite the antidote for my particular brand of poison.”

“Why would I be any different?” Obie said.

“I. Ah—”

“I believe you should stop, James,” the demon said to him. “As much as I appreciate you speaking good of my name and deeds. He gives voice to the doubts because he has need to hear himself say it and for someone to listen. It is not on you to convince him of something he already knows well enough. Though you are of the same sex and similar inclination, he is right. It is not the same. And trying to force your perspective will do nothing to ease his misery.”

Looking back up to Obie, James said aloud, “I believe you. That you are more man than woman.”

“You do?” Obidiah said, holding his hands in fists against his thighs now.

“It is not so strange,” James said. “That is all I meant to say. I have even met others like you in the past.”

“You have?”

“On occasion.”

“I just hate it,” Obie said, turning his face into the darkness again. “I don’t even know if. If something like your demon could change me. Would I do it? I don’t know. I’ve thought about it before. There are legends of tinctures. And magic. And pacts with spirits and fairies. But. It’s. I’m fine before people found out. It’s nice coming to a new place, where no one knows. Where it doesn’t matter. But, then, I can never get close to anyone. I can never. And then I find myself wanting so desperately to be speared by men like you. There is such a fire in me sometimes. And I don’t know what to do with myself.”

Night had fully set, leaving them in darkness with only the lanterns from inside to light their forms. The crickets and frogs of the distant brush sang in the sinking humidity, blanketing them in a warm summer night. James breathed in deeply, content to let the silence between them pass as though it said more than he ever could. Obidiah sat on his shins, rubbing at his knuckles. After moments passed, a shadow crossed through the light.

“Are you boys okay out there?”

It was the old woman.

“Yes, everything is fine,” Obidiah shouted back.

“Alright. Don’t stay up too late, Obie. You’ll miss your chance to claim your spot at the markets,” she said.

“I know,” Obidiah said, his head falling as he tried to stop himself from smiling. He then looked back up to James, saying, “You wanted to see the far eastern items?”

“Well,” he said, lifting himself to standing. “My Master did.”

“Oh,” Obie said, losing his expression though it had just dawned on him. “I think I know what it is, too.”

“She said there was a statue.”

“Yes. Yes, I know it.”

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[the-writhing-mist]

HV Serial Obidiah Part 1

Word Count: 1723 Themes: 18+, medieval, dark fantasy, demon/edritch being x human, general sexual content, D/s, relatively vanilla, m/m, trans character, trans male

General Info: This is a side story not continuous with the main plot revolving around a character named Obidiah. It’s rather loose in form, please excuse the unpolished writing.

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He wore a blue coat of generous size and color and a hat topped with a wispy plumed feather. Under the hat was coarse, greying hair tied that he had tied back at his shoulders. Long strands hung loose, falling over his face, a curtain to hide the marks of his lies as he leaned forward to answer a customer’s question.

This potion will soothe the nerves.

An ointment to make rashes disappear.

Willow bark. Incense. A miracle powder. Dragon’s blood and copper spoons.

A sigil. A talisman. An ancient prayer.

Teas and glass beads and symbols of the evil eye.

Two distinct lines were carved besides his mouth, once cherubic dimples, now like a cut in marble. They twitched as he spoke, as he told stories and weaved fantastic tales of his wares. His face was otherwise remarkably smooth.

He was set up in the markets of the sister city to the famed capital of Vivencia known as Cordalys. It was a bustling town by the coast, north from James’ native Martom. The sun was setting, casting Cordalys in tones of fire and honey, the shadows from the stone buildings and the passersby fingering over the cobblestone roads and reaching back up walls.

James stopped at the booth. He wore his armor and braids in his dark hair, with red marks in his skin and stubble on his face. His master and familiar in the form of a black saw-wing swallow landed not far away, keeping a watchful eye over her servant.

The glint of the armor caught the eye of the merchant, who leaned forward and asked, “Good ser. Now, aren’t you a strapping figure. Have you heard of silver mugwort? One of the seven herbs of fortune cited by Saint Obras, protection from disease and demonic influence alike. Good for righteous men such as you.”

A smile cracked on James’ lips, knowing he was nothing righteous nor a stranger to the influence of demons. From the shadows, he heard the demons’ voice in his head, “Curious.”

As the merchant in the large blue coat pulled out some of the aforementioned herb, James returned her thought, saying aloud, “Is there truth to it?”

The leaves had a gleam to them, caught by the fading rays.

The demon responded via their link, “No. It is an unpleasant smell, that is all.”

But the merchant responded, “Of course! It was used by the venerable Obras himself when beset by the terrible fiends of the demon known as Siv!”

“That is a lie. Xiv never encountered Obras,” said the demon.

James gave the merchant an apologetic smile, looking to the other items set out on the table.

But the act did not go unnoticed, as the man moved on to the necklaces, small pieces of glass bound in small pieces of leather, “Oh, I see you are a man of much wisdom. These carry the very symbol of Saint Obras that rests deep in the woods of Yorl: his eyes! They channel the essence of his sainthood and his protection wherever the wearer may go! Do you know the story of Saint Obras the demonslayer?”

“I’ve been to Yorl,” James said, smiling to himself over the fact that his master made her home in Yorl.

“Ah! I can see you are much traveled, good ser. Surely, you, above anyone here, know that danger lurks around every bend. It would be bereft of me to let you leave without some extra protection. Especially for such a striking and handsome figure as you are, ser.”

“He’s not lying there, at least,” the demon said.

James scowled, silently conveying his thoughts back, “Are you calling me handsome?”

“No,” it said plainly. “But it is a genuine sentiment from our friend.”

James took a moment to take a closer look at the man. His skin was like butterscotch, hair cold by comparison to its warmth, and his almond eyes gleamed from under dark and distinctive eyebrows. “What is your name, my friend?” James asked.

“Ah,” it seemed to catch him off-guard. His dimples twitched to give him a smile, showing two pearly incisors only slightly crooked. “Obidiah, good ser. My friends call me Obie!”

“Where are you from, Obidiah?” he asked.

Obie leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table, “Oh, everywhere! Here and there, there and here! Are you from these parts, good ser?”

“James,” the demon chided. “I recommend caution.”

“You said yourself,” he thought back, letting a smile cross his lips. “The sentiment was genuine.”

“I fear you have become reckless as of late,” it said in return. “Do not forget that he sells protections against beings such as I.”

“I was born in Martom,” James said, picking up one of the charms.

“Martom? Oh, Martom! Good, good! I’ve been there once or twice myself. Lovely little fief. Oh. You know,” he said, his voice dropping as he leaned forward, the thin red-dyed linen spread over the table pulling as he did. “I’ll soon be heading south myself. You wouldn’t happen to be able to put in a good word with the local lords, would you?”

“Probably not,” James said, holding the charm up to the light. The eye was painted on a piece of glass with a heavy black paint. “I have been away for many years.”

“Ah, a traveler of the same cut as mine own, I see,” Obie said with a fox-like grin. “Hmm. I’m sure your discerning eye has crossed many wonders. Perhaps, I can interest you in a viewing of my more,” he paused to give a glance in either direction, “select wares. Imported from the east. If you’d like to come by after the evening service.”

“I believe I may have been mistaken,” said the demon.

“Mistaken? You?” thought James in response.

“Do not get cocky, James. I simply meant he may not be as entirely antagonistic as I first assumed. It is the nature of his trade to convince even himself, after all,” she said.

The small, black bird looming on a tent post took flight, circling around them in the air.

James set down the talisman back on the table, leaning into the table and looking Obie directly in the eyes. They were soft, brown eyes, obscured by a fan of brittle hair. With a slight tilt of his head, James lent him a suggestive smirk.

The merchant seemed taken aback by the gesture, his tone breaking as he said, “If you want, that is. I have. Um.”

“James,” the demon chided. “Your game is clear, yet you have not said a word to clear it with me.”

“Well? Master? Do you dissuade me from my efforts?” he thought to the demon.

“Just know that for this man, it is not such a simple effort.”

“But do you permit it, Master?”

“Very well,” the demon said in response. “I may have some interest as well.”

“I think I would very much like to see your collection,” James said.

Obie looked down, the blush on his face barely visible from behind his hair. “Yes, of course,” his voice picked back up. “Are you planning to attend service?”

James smirked. “No. I’m a stranger to the parish here.”

“Ah. You—? Ah. Understandable. It seems. Very well, ser. Um. I,” Obie stuttered. A rush of blood had clouded his mind to be so pointedly under the gaze of the knight. He caught himself, though he had momentarily forgotten where he was, and looked back over the items laid out on the table. “I will. I will soon be—hum—I must collect my things.”

“Where should I meet you?” James asked.

“Ah,” said the merchant, still looking over his things though he had need to quickly collect his thoughts. “Down the old silversmith’s street. There is an old house by the outskirts. The old woman, Weirol, lives there and I am a guest of hers. The bulk of my things remain with her.”

“How generous of her.”

“Yes. Yes, she is a kind woman. And,” he said, looking back up at the knight, then again over the charms and glass bottles lined up before him. “A generous customer. But we can discuss that later. We. Can discuss things later? We’ll discuss things later?”

The knight gave him a knowing smile, charmed by how bashful the man had shown himself to be. “Sounds good to me.”

“Well,” Obie said, tapping on the table with his fingers, fully intent on finishing a thought.

But James cut in, saying, “See you then.”

“Yes. Yes, of course,” he said.

As he walked away, the small black bird landed on his shoulder and he heard in his head, “You are certainly pleased with yourself, James.”

“It was not so long ago it was beyond me to pursue such things without fear of reprisal. Do you blame me for the fact that through your graces I am now free?” he thought back to her with a smile.

“I do not. After all, such was the terms of our agreement. However, I have need to make sure you know your place in that agreement at a later occasion.”

“I'll be looking forward to it.”

“Such a perverse thing you are, James.”

He looked to the small black bird and let out a heavy sigh. “You wouldn’t have me any other way.”

“Such is a plain and obvious fact,” it said in response. “But do not get ahead of yourself.”

On the other end of the market, Obie put his face in his hands. “God. What am I going to do?” he muttered through his fingers.

The old cobbler with the stand next to him gave a cackling laugh, “Seems he saw right through you, Obie.”

“Oh, shut up, Staldwell,” Obie hissed into his palms.

“That armor, though,” the old man said with a whistle, coming up to Obidiah and leaning against the table. His hair was sparse, with dirt lining his pores, and he was dressed only aged, sweat-stained linens. “Bet he’d make a right pretty husband. Maybe it’s time ye took up the life God set out for ye.”

“Staldwell,” Obie said with a groan, pulling his nose up from his fingers. “Am I really that obvious?”

The old man just shrugged, saying, “Sure he has a pretty coin to part with too.”

Obie let out a sigh, looking back over his collection.

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[the-writhing-mist]

HV Chapter 3 Part 1

Word Count: 1124 Themes: 18+, medieval, dark fantasy, crusaders, demon/edritch being x human, general sexual content, D/s, m/m, gay longing, murder

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Chapter 3: Castille di Oflael

They found Sigurd.

It was Merric that found him first.

But none had conclusions to draw about his demise.

The girl was gone, but certainly she could not have severed a man’s head from his body.

Merric, who had always been so fast to jump to Sigurd’s defense, was visibly upset. Pacing about, clawing at his bleached hair, grimacing in such a way that the only thing visible of him was his strangely contorted jaw. His canines were positioned nearly on a row above the others, one incisor so bent it protruded from his lips even when they were closed, and the entire bottom row a barrier broken through and patched back together.

Castille stood, shoulders broad, one hand crooked over his lips as he stared at the body deep in thought.

“Perhaps backtracking was the right of it,” he said.

“But what about the sinkhole,” the nervous Simon pleaded.

“And where is Evelyn?!” Merric howled, kicking the ground as he went.

It was true. The older, wiser man of them was nowhere to be seen.

“I haven’t seen him since yesterday morning,” James said, staring at Sigurd’s corpse, with thoughts dwelling on Zatín and the pagan couple.

“Hmmmm,” heartily bellowed Castille, pulling at strands in his beard.

“We could ask about town,” Simon said, a tremble in his voice. “The locals may want to know there’s been a murder.”

“And of a holy man, no less!” Merric added with a wail.

“Holy?” James said with a scoff.

“A good soldier in the service of Our Lord,” Merric said, turning a glare upon James. He then paced to Sigurd’s body, kneeling down in front of it. “Oh. Oh, surely angels swept him in their arms as he passed. Oh. Poor Sigurd.”

“Angels?” James said, finding the notion incredulous. “For him?”

“You are sickening,” Merric said, twisting back around to strangle James with his eyes. “A man, a dear friend, has had his life robbed from him and still you put on your airs of superiority!”

James bit down, reminding himself of the need to be cautious. But, surely, the Mist would warn him if he were in danger. Tell him to be quiet. Mock him for being so callous. He assumed it was a part of her plan. Whatever it was she was planning.

“What do we do, Castille?” Simon asked, clutching at his longbow.

“I will talk to Cleric Paust,” he said, putting his hands over his hips. “We can ask around. But I believe, if anything, this should only embolden our efforts. It is beyond me to imagine this unrelated to our quest.”

“I’m going back to the clearing. Where we saw the vultures,” Merric said. “There has to be something.”

“Ah,” Castille started, dismayed by the declaration.

“W-we should focus on the pit,” Simon said, trying to back up Castille.

“There was much more to be discovered,” Castille said in agreement. “We do not know how deep that cavern stretched.”

“I don’t fucking care about your pit!” Merric said, storming off to gather his things.

With a frown, Castille looked down to the body and said, “He deserves a proper burial at least.”

Simon, too, began to wander off, saying, “I will get the Cleric.”

They were left with just the two of them.

“James,” the demon whispered. “Look at him.”

James tried to catch the sight from his periphery but when it became clear that Castille’s attention was focused entirely on examining the scuffles in the dirt, he let his head turn in full.

“You did well to play along yesterday. It was only just a moment before he was summoned by Merric that he was busy entertaining himself with thoughts of you,” it said.

“What kind of thoughts?” James replied with a thought, reticent to admit he was eager for the answer.

“Mainly, just the shape of your ass. And a desire to wrap his hands around it. Suffice to say, he’s an easy man to please.”

James stared, a heat rising in his cheeks as he dwelled on the idea. Even if it was a simple thought, to be so entangled with a man was a sin still. But in his mind, he said to her, “Surely Sigurd’s death has turned him off of such thoughts.”

“Did I not say that he has no shame?”

Castille knelt by the body, carefully pulling back on the collar to examine the wound. It was sticky by now, with gnats and ants gathered over it. “Looks like a sword cut to me,” he said.

It was difficult for James to look away from him. From the girth of his arms. The way his lips moved when he spoke. The rush of breath when Castille gave a sigh, catching on his vocal chords with a deep rumble. But it was a different feat entirely to accept the reality that such a lust between men was possible.

It was a horrifying thought in a way. It felt dangerous. Though if the wrong move or word was said, all his guards would all so easily slip and he would find himself in a state he could barely contemplate for the ferocity of the shame it cast upon him to picture. It would surely be the death of him should it come to pass.

But, then, Castille turned his head.

And James was still staring.

The point of the blade never felt so sharp.

His demise so imminent.

Because Castille didn’t immediately look away.

Those dark eyes, so slightly blue, caught by his own.

“James?” he said.

James quickly buried his gaze into the dirt, feeling his diaphragm beg his breath to falter, but he tried to remain stable. Had Castille noticed? Had it been obvious for what it was? But, surely, his demon was having her laugh at his expense. For she had so easily pulled at his strings.

Castille rose to standing, shifting his weight back and forth with a stretch, and said with a gesture back to the body and the scrapes in the dirt, “Well. Hm. What do you think of it?”

Putting on a scowl, James answered, “Did you particularly care for Sigurd?”

“Careful with that attitude,” he said with a hearty chuckle. “I might accuse you of doing the deed.”

“You don’t seem particularly bothered by it.”

“Ah,” Castille said, turning back to the body. “Death never bothered me. Most things die. Animals. People. Dragons and demons, too, for that matter.”

“Are you going to go back to the crevasse?” James asked.

“That is the plan. Although, I suppose it may be delayed. You wish to continue your accompaniment?”

“Can I join you this time?” he said.

“Did you—Is that not the plan?”

“Instead of just standing guard. I would like to see for myself.”

“Oh! Surely. We can give Simon a turn. Hah,” he then added a groan, “If only Merric would come around. And where is Evelyn, for that matter? It might just end up being the two of us down there.”

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[the-writhing-mist]

HV Chapter 2 Part 5

Word Count: 2456 Themes: 18+, medieval, dark fantasy, crusaders, demon/edritch being x human, general sexual content, D/s, murder, physical abuse and violence, pagans

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Despite himself, he followed her lead. Putting himself together, buckling his armor over his chest, turning down the owner of the house’s offer of a meal, and setting back out again among the town.

Listening intently to his own boots as they clapped against the sparsely laid stone, the humid air pulling sweat from his nape, his gaze fingered through the people of Yorl. Homely sorts. An old woman with a cart full of gourds. Children playing in the street. The father scolding his wife and pulling her into the home. They’d lived here generations upon generations. Tending to small plots of personally owned land and paying tithe to the church.

She had told him to walk, but not where she was taking him.

The discontentment that had seized him so erroneously kept him quiet until he came upon the stable again. The warped wooden structure, repaired over the years, belonging to the townspeople and visitors in common. He could spy no figures in sight, the barn standing solitary at the edge of town amidst a lawn of mud, grass, and clover.

“Business unfinished?” he said under his breath.

It wasn’t her voice that came to him, but instead a gentle sensation. A nudge at his shoulders and knees. A pull. By a force invisible and sinister. In a simple direction with little sense of where she was leading him. He didn’t fight against it, lead along like a steed by its reigns.

But he stopped when heard a voice he swore belonged to Sigurd.

“Temptress!”

It came from the other side.

“You speak of having no love in you,” he heard the demon whisper in his ear.

“Make a fool of me will you!” Sigurd’s voice called out.

There was such anger in the voice. And there was sobbing buried somewhere further beneath.

It brought back visions of war.

“Turn the corner, James,” the demon said.

Taking a moment to swallow back his reservations, James followed the direction.

“Where is your swarm of demonic vultures now?! Go on! Summon them!”

Sigurd was standing over her. The prisoner. Blood coating his knuckles. Strands of hair stuck to his face with lips drawn back, revealing his barred teeth with several gaps in the line-up. His body was twisted, muscles tensed and ready to strike, while she had her hands up to guard her face. A face already cut and swollen, turned away in fear and bleeding.

Sigurd flung his hand out, pointing back to the town, “I’m sure these people would love to see a witch burn! In good Saint Obras’ name, no less!”

The girl sputtered something in a language of Timpan, clearly pleading for her life.

“Don’t pretend like you don’t understand me! I know sorceresses have knowledge beyond human tongues!”

But when he pointed,  finger landed directly in the direction James stood. And Sigurd collected his stance as he caught sight of his fellow crusader, finding his feet centered again and back upright.

“James,” he said with no pleasure in his voice, clenching down into a scowl.

“Sigurd,” James said in return, his face contorted, heart quickened, trying desperately to find his footing.

“Why look at me like that? You heard of what happened,” Sigurd  said, raising a hand to wipe saliva from his lips. “If it wasn’t her, something protected her. There is no doubt in my mind. Just ask Merric. He saw it too.”

“I do not doubt you,” James said vacantly, then looked to the girl.

Thin, dirty, with sun-kissed skin and long, brown hair that clung over her face. Her wrists were bruised from the ties. A tremble obvious in her hands as she held them in front of her.

“Draw your sword, James,” the demon whispered to him.

He had often imagined taking a blade to Sigurd. Back in Timpan, the man concerns had only been for what treasure he could grab for himself and hide among his pack. Built in layers of heartlessness disguised as nonchalance, only giving up a grin and the shrug of his shoulders whenever he was asked of his captive. Neither was she the first time he had laid claim to the fairer sex as spoils of war and James knew it too.

It was clear what the demon meant for him to do. He put his hand on the hilt, gripping firmly. 

“What are you doing?” Sigurd said with a groan. “Don’t kill her. She may be able to lead us to a monster yet. Castille is so assured of his hole in the ground. He said he found some flowers. Flowers? What a load of shit. Hey. I heard you went with them. What do you think of it?”

James took the sword, high-pitched ring of metal against metal as he pulled it from the scabbard, and took a step forward. The grip felt good, the weight of the weapon his hands, and it was an act so practiced and effortless to think of his further actions.

“James? What are you doing?” Sigurd said, staring warily at the point of the blade as it came closer.

“Do you wish for my assistance?” the demon whispered.

“Do what you will,” James muttered under his breath.

“Very well,” it said in response.

“Ser?” Sigurd took a step backwards, searching in James some sign of intention, a panic taking over him as the threat became clear. “Do you—What—”

But then he tried to take another step. The feet wouldn’t lift, a swirling mist barely visible along the ground pinning him down. And he fell backwards, splattering the mud as he hit the ground with a heavy thud.

Pulling at his feet, he sputtered, “What? Is this about her? You can have her. What is this? Is it.”

Sigurd slowly looked up, catching sight of the fire in James’ eyes, and said, “It’s you.”

James stood over him, his nerves cooling as he looked down upon the disgusting man. Smaller in frame, oily hair that hung straight from his brow, he tried in vain to make it to his feet. To scoot himself away. Best he accomplished was a drag, pulling himself through the mud and saying, “It is from Timpan, isn’t it! You so suddenly changed! I should’ve known!”

“You may give voice to it,” the demon said.

With a heavy heave of air, James pulled back his lips, saying, “It knew I was corrupted by death and the truth in my blood. And promised me peace.”

“And you listened?!” he said, continuing to try to pull himself away.

“I did,” he said, taking further steps closer, feeling his fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sword.

“What does it want? Look. James. We both know I’m no saint, either. It wants us to leave, I will give up the chase. We can move on, leave it alone. It’s just Castille who gives a shit about this stuff anyway. I. I’m a reasonable man!”

“It only wants me,” he said.

“I always knew you were a spineless, self-important brat!”

“Perhaps,” James said, his breathing turning nearly to syrup as he watched the man continue to try to desperately grasp at his ankles.

There was little honorable about the position or the act. But James knew if the demon let him  up, Sigurd’s thoughts would only be to flee, forgoing any chance at proper retribution for his crimes. With steady pace, he strode forward with ease, catching Sigurd’s elbow under his foot in a stomp. He held the blade ready. Sigurd, whose fate was bearing down over him, grasped at straws, saying, “No, no, no, no,” and tried again to twist around.

But, with his back slightly turned, James thrust the sword forward, catching him squarely at the neck and severing it part ways. It was only enough for the man to shudder and try to scream, blood squirting and pouring and running in such a dark color, with such purpose. James lifted and brought the blade down again, hacking back into the wound, the muscle on the vertebrae come loose, bones clearly protruding from the flesh. It was quickly muddy with blood that there was no sense of the anatomy any longer. The limbs jerked in the throes of death, but then eventually grew still.

James’ breath thickened staring down at his handiwork. He raised an arm to wipe his forehead. There were drops coating his face, but he was otherwise miraculously clean. Without a second thought, he sheathed the sword again, watching closely to make sure the life had fully faded from the body.

“Dear knight,” the demon whispered in his ear. “Are you satisfied?”

“No,” he said, then looking up to the prisoner.

She remained huddled in the same spot, staring at the body with eyes as wide despite the swelling around her left temple. At first, she seemed vacant, in disbelief of the events, but when she met James’ gaze, a fear took over her again.

“Can you explain to her that she will be safe now?” he said.

A  small, black bird swooped down and  landed near her. A swallow. The icon of The Mist.

“I already have.”

With a scowl, he gripped the hilt still, and took himself to sit next to her with the wood of the stable at their backs.

“The situation, though, is not ideal.”

“What do you mean?” he said, looking at the small bird. The girl leaned forward, her arm shaking as she stretched it towards the swallow. To James’ surprise, it had substance to it, and let her place her fingers on its head, ruffling those delicate feathers lightly.

“James. Do not be so brazen to assume you have saved her. You have destroyed and pillaged her homeland, murdered her family, allowed her to be raped and dragged to a place so foreign that she knows not a word any have spoken. Worse, she is faithful and will listen very little to me if I say much more.”

“Faithful?”

“To Harrah.”

“The. The people from Timpan were heretics,” he said in confusion.

“Yet, they pray to the same god. Who was it, I wonder, that decided they were heretics? By what means did they weigh the scales? Your god allows such things to continue unabated, though. It must serve his purposes well to keep his flock so divided over his supposed favor.”

He grew quiet, staring again the body so unceremoniously robbed of its faculties. The morning sun was coming in full now, the heat rising from the ground, bringing with it the songs of frogs from the nearby pond.

“It is better than letting Sigurd continue to abuse her,” he said.

“Certainly. But her only true wish is to go home. A home that no longer exists as she knew it. Worse, if she did, somehow, make it back to her remaining family, it is possible they will kill her to wipe the stain of her plight from their name. One thing can be certain, she will not survive without care.”

“Would you have done anything had I not drawn attention to her?”

“You’re the one who held the blade.”

“Would you even have noticed?”

“Of course. And it would have pained me. But it is not my prerogative to right all the wrongs of man. Your kind are only a proper reflection of your maker, after all, and every sin committed is only an echo of his own.”

The girl held out her hand and the swallow hopped onto her finger. It seemed doting, somehow, and she brought it up to her face to stare at it. He watched her, absorbing the reality of the scene. The two of them. Sitting, propped up against the back of the barn. Participants in an act so intense, yet so suddenly over. While the day continued on regardless.

“What is your name?” James said out loud, hoping the demon would relay the information.

The girl’s expression again grew wary as she took note of his presence. But, with a hoarse voice, she offered her response, “Zatín.”

He put his hand against his chest and said, “James”

Looking over her injuries, the bruising and the bleeding, catching the dark brown of her eyes, he felt himself sink. It was a gravity. A gravity he had not felt in years. It anchored him firmly to the ground, feeling finally there had been an action worthy to ascribe meaning to. Something purposeful. He felt he could nearly feel it within him, a tangled splinter lodged in his heart, and welcomed the sting of it.

With it, came a wish. He wanted her to be safe. And he could think of nothing he ever wanted more.

“Here’s what we are going to do, James,” the demon said in his mind. “I have made my arrangements. You will take her to the house of Theophania and Nicholas Wake.”

“Here?”

“Yes. I will direct you.”

“You have followers among the townspeople?” he thought in response.

“I trust them to look after her.”

“What about the body?” he said, glancing up to the mess of blood and flesh that used to be Sigurd’s neck. The body twitched, but it was only a momentary rattle as the soul left the body.

“Do not worry over it.”

As they walked together, his thoughts drifted. 

It was undeniable that it had been the demon that had led him to the action. 

Justice was a need, she said. And then she had told him to draw his blade. 

Was it all just an elaborate machination to break through his guard?

She had said so many things that he struggled to match up to his expectations.

He was taken to a house at the southern edge of the town. It was meager, a small structure with moss covering the roof and sides, surrounded by overgrown grass that hid the old remnants of a fence.

Theophania and Nicholas were waiting for them when they arrived. The husband was a short man with copper hair and a modest beard, unusually gaunt for his age. The wife was tall by comparison, with a wide frame and a distinct mole on her right cheek. Theophania’s dark hair fell in curls and she chuckled nervously to punctuation to her sentences. They invited the strangers in, offering honey and biscuits while the wife set herself immediately to tend to Zatín’s wounds.

“Do not tarry, James. We must catch up to your companions before they depart,” The Mist whispered in his head.

James spied talismans hung on the walls. Symbols carved into the wood. Strange, wooden statues lined up against a wall. Peculiar herbs growing in their garden.

They were pagans. With signs of magic use about their house.

And he felt outside himself to be leaving the house, having made the discovery without a thought of violence begging him to his blade.

She said Zatín would be safe with them. And he hoped it was true.

It was at that moment the thought came to him, finally, after days and weeks and months and years skirting around only an indulgent cynicism, that perhaps there were things about which he had been wrong.

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[the-writhing-mist]

HV Chapter 2 Part 3

Word Count: 3623 Themes: 18+, medieval, dark fantasy, crusaders, demonxhuman, shame, religious guilt, general sexual content, D/s, m/m, a lot of fantasizing, I’m extraordinarily bisexual

(Chapter 2 of the primary Harvester story) previous——navigation——next

Midday sunlight streamed through the stables, catching light of Luvisi’s mane and wisps of the straw under the hooves of the other horses belonging to the rest of their party. Castille and Sigurd stood not far from the beasts, making discussion on their route of action. Castille held a map of parchment. It was a shoddy thing, imprecise and indeterminate, and was marked up with charcoal in some areas by Castille himself.

“They just appeared out of nowhere!” Sigurd was saying, still disturbed by the demon’s magic. “It has to be that area!”

“I still say the northern hills are the best place to start,” Castille said, pointing on the map at some crude indicator of hills.

“There’s nothing up there!”

“Ah, but Cleric Paust said—”

“Of course no one goes there! There’s nothing there!”

Castille shook his head with a scowl. “I saw nothing of suspect to the east, a second pass accomplishes little. Backtrack if you wish, Simon and I will head north regardless.”

“Fine. We’ll see who finds sign of monsters first, then,” Sigurd said indignantly and stormed off.

James was standing at the other end of the stable, only intending to tend to Luvisi at first. He kept his distance, finding his state vulnerable to the thoughts that the demon had suggested of him upon seeing Castille. When Sigurd left, he attempted to persuade himself to approach.

Giving Luvisi another pat on his snout, he turned towards Castille.

“Oh, James,” Castille said in greeting, raising his hand. “How fares you?”

Losing his words as he caught sight of Castille’s eyes upon him and was carried away to thoughts abhorrent, he quickly swallowed and said, “How goes the search?”

“You appear ill,” Castille said, furrowing his brow at the way James held himself.

James scowled, raising his hand to wipe his hair out of his face. “Do not mind me,” he said.

“Ah,” Castille said hesitantly, still wearing an expression of concern. “I have heard many a tale from the locals. Cursed roads, looming spirits, such of the like. Simon and I—”

“Yes, I overheard.”

“We will return before nightfall.”

“Ah.” James shuffled his feet, staring at the large, black stallion that belonged to Castille. The horse was temperamental around others, being of a wild breed, but minded Castille himself none. 

Castille turned towards his horse, adjusting his reins, and said to James, “You are always free to move on without us. I do not know why you chose our company to begin with.”

James watched him. “I had no reason to linger in Orsen with the rest.”

“You are in a hurry to get home?”

“I simply had no love for their celebrations.”

Castille dropped his head and scowled at the notion.

Swallowing again, James attempted to speak, “Would I be welcome to accompany you in your survey?”

Taking back his arms and turning, Castille took a moment to look James over curiously, then said, “I thought you believed it a waste of time.”

“It appears I have time to waste.”

Raising his eyebrows, he shrugged and turned back to his preparations. “I suppose it won't hurt to have another along in case things go sour.”

James intended to follow the motion with Luvisi, but found himself staring at Castille instead. He was a much larger man, both in height and girth, and his long, matted hair was drawn back and tied behind his head in a loose knot. Muscular and capable, James was stuck on the notion of how easy it would be for a man like Castille to overpower him. It was an idea that quickly ran wild, interlaced with a sweetened note that it was what the demon asked him to think on.

The wild hunter, uncaring of the ways of civilization and dignity, who supposedly dwelled on thoughts of seducing and conquering the bodies of men. Should he, in that moment, have turned to James and acted on his desires—perhaps cornering him, pressing himself up against him, holding his wrists at bay—James knew he would be powerless both in body and spirit to resist, and that weakness sat in his mind. He followed those thoughts downstream, finding ideas of sensations and disgust, memory of the morning and the previous night whispering in his ear.

In the stable. With the horses. And the dirt and hay and refuse. Like beasts. Unbridled with so little care for their surroundings. And the musk of the place smelled good in that instant. The way the sun lit the wood and straw with incandescence felt so warm. On such an otherwise normal day. To be seized and found willing by another man so overwhelmingly virile.

It wasn’t the first time such ideas had taken him, either.

But that was a very long time ago. 

Castille put away his map, glancing back and catching himself as he saw that James was staring with a knitted brow and too tight a grip on the wood post beside him. To Castille, it was a strange look, but only strange and little more. “I was just about to depart, if that is your concern. You are sure you wish to follow along?”

“It seems an agreeable venture,” James said, hiding himself behind a simple shrug of his shoulders.

“Go ahead and ready your things, then.”

It was just the three of them heading north. Castille, Simon, and James. James strayed behind the two, watching the bob of their shoulders as the gait of their horses stumbled over the terrain. Castille with wide shoulders and a heavy cloak, his knotted hair sprawling all around his head, crinkled and unkempt, made clear by the glint of the noontime sun. Simon, on the other hand, was completely bald, with only a hint of stubble, skin otherwise scarred and callus. He walked with a limp when on plain ground and never let his longbow far from his sight. He seemed a nervous man, clutching the bow in his lap though it held some force beyond its natural implementation to bring him solace. Rarely did he raise his voice and James had often forgotten of his presence altogether.

“I heard that tale where I grew up as well,” Simon said in reply to a point Castille was musing on.

“I’d like to go there to see for myself someday,” Castille said.

James watched as Simon’s horse strode, thinking it a poor creature. It was clear in its muddy coat and chipped hooves that Simon cared little for the beast. She was small, too, and tired quickly. It would not be long before they stopped.

“I wonder if it is still possible to join the forces in Morande,” said Castille. “The land to the east sweeps north, supposedly the kingdom of Virencia is not far from those mountains.”

It was an inane topic of conversation. An old tale. Of mountains where voices could be heard whispering, disembodied and illusory.

James thought back to a day from his youth. In his uncle’s court, with stone tiles and weighted curtains to keep the cold out. They had visitors from abroad. From Morande. Dressed with crimson sashes, gold baubles around their belts, and black cloaks coated in beeswax. James had not been invited, but was curious still to catch sight of them. The foreign duke had his son with him, not much older than James at the time. The hair upon the boy’s head was bright red and James had thought it such a strange color for hair to be that he set to spying on them through the curtains. They had wreaths of plants on their heads as though they were crowns. Holly, with bright red berries, nearly as red as his hair.

From that memory, of what he had overheard the foreign royalty discussing with his uncle, James interjected himself into their conversation, “It is the voice of God.”

Castille twisted himself around, looking though he had forgotten James entirely, and said, “What do you say now?”

“The people of Morande know those mountains to be holy. It is no place for demons,” he said, remembering the foreign duke explain to his uncle.

“But you know the people of Morande are demon worshippers, right?” Simon said, similarly confused by the sudden intrusion.

“Yes,” James said, trailing off, but then picked back up to add, “But this is what I have heard from the lips of Duke Weturius himself. And he is among those who first pleaded with us to send aid to Morande. It is part of the reason swift response was needed: to protect such sacred places.”

“He may be mistaken,” Castille mused. “Or a willing fool.”

“Strange,” said Simon. “I wonder what is the truth of it.”

James, however, was thinking back to the red-haired adolescent who wore holly in his hair. The Prince, Iulius, had caught James peeking and had confronted him, mistaking him for a simple servant of the house. His uncle was forced to intercede, explaining and apologizing for James’ intrusion.

“He was making eyes at me!” Iulius had complained.

James, amidst his companions, said idly, “It is true demons are known to be deceitful,” his eyes falling to Luvisi’s mane, watching his hands clutching the reigns, with gloves worn and leather cracked. Thoughts from earlier appeared quieted, whisked away by the pleasant day. The sun streamed through the canopy, lighting the underbrush like the patterns of stained glass. All around, distant sounds of birds and the smell of freshly wetted dirt filled the air.

“James,” Castille said, the word catching on his tongue.

But the darkness was still there, as his first thought was a vision of the man, in darkness, repeating the name over and over, interlaced with grunts and whimpers. How it might sound from his lips in such a state, sweat dripping from his chin, eyes held shut.

In the same vein as James had when he was an adolescent, stuck on the pretty prince with the red hair, whose skin was smooth and delicate, who seemed so offended by the gaze of the boy only slightly older.

Castille finished his thought, “Have you come around on our dragon?”

James wrinkled his forehead, “If there is truly a monster in these woods, should we not be quiet?”

“Ah, but he seems willing to believe,” Castille then said to Simon with a grin.

James bit down into a frown, taken again by impulse to think ill of them, though he could little place what truly separated him from men of their kind.

They fell into silence. But the woods themselves were given to conversation. Bird calls, in sweetened, segmented notes. The brief rustling of leaves as the wind fingered through them. Horse hooves stepping over brush along the trail, sinking into mud, making an audible wet, squelching sound. The trail was barely visible, a meager footpath stretching northwards, and Castille took to consulting his map on occasion. However crude its craftsmanship, he seemed confident in his direction.

In the silence, James set his thoughts back again on Castille, interwoven with a memory of the demon speaking to him. Telling him of his own arrogance. Of what he deserved. Of his nature. And, though he quickly dashed the thought from existence, imagined his companions turning on him, mocking him, forcing him down till he was choking on mud and kicking him till he felt the pain in his sides like daggers. He knew not how to place the thought. But, in its place was conjured the face of Iulius. Though, his father had taken the Count’s apology with a light heart, James still caught Iulius glaring at him. It was a smoldering glare, full of intent and the sort of disdain only an adolescent of noble blood could muster at so small an offense.

But it had stayed with him for a time. Poisoning his blood whenever it ran. Driving his childish whims forward to risks and slights in hopes that such disdain could be cast on him again. He has found himself so wanting of admonishment, the fact that he was so taken aback by his current predicament felt a guilty indulgence, to assume he ever had any dignity of character in the first.

They soon came to a great chasm in the earth, where the ground itself was pulled apart to reveal a sudden depth, all covered in moss though it were nothing but an old scar. The tree line stopped past it, sweeping down into a whistling plains covered in clovers, grasses, and beset by rolling hills.

“There it is,” Castille said, halting his steed at its rim.

“That’s a strange sight,” Simon said, his hands clutching tighter around his bow.

“It’s on a leyline, I am sure of it,” said Castille. “Cleric Paust said it is a place one of the demons felled by Saint Obras first crawled up out of the ground itself.”

To James, it appeared natural. A symptom of earthquakes and sinkholes, the natural rumblings of the earth with no sign of the supernatural. Boulders and pebbles of white limestone lined the field and the chasm walls, all covered in mosses and lichens. As they came closer to it, it further became clear it’s depth was far from infinite, easily scalable with a simple rope. Standing over the edge, the three men peered down. James, a modest build with hair of pitch and oil cut at his shoulders. Castille a mountain of his own, his wild mane and short-cut beard marking his peak. Then the bald Simon, shrunken by age and nerves, holding close his bow.

“Ah! There!” Castille exclaimed, pointing them to the lowest point of the chasm.

There was a leafy brush, with blooming flowers of a kind known as hellebore. Saucer-like blooms in a dark maroon, with stamen like fringe adorning their centers. They lined the inside of the closest wall, far down in the shadows.

“Flowers?” James said, a scowl clear on his face again.

“A favorite of witches,” Castille said, finding his way back to his horse to grab a rope.

“Witches? I thought we were looking for a dragon,” he said.

“Ah, my friend,” Castille said, returning with a grin. “The two are never far apart.”

“We are going to go down there?” Simon said, a waiver of hesitation in his voice. “How do we get back up?”

But Castille was already setting up the rope.

“Our dear James will stay up here and keep watch,” he said, flashing James a grin. “Right?”

James swallowed, realizing he had been taken by the thought of getting trapped down there with the man, but with a quick glance back down, he gave a sigh and said, “Fine.”

As the two descended down into their pit, he watched them from above. Castile Inspected the flowers, digging his feet into the ground and feeling along the edges of the rock. But then he exchanged some words with Simon and the two kept walking south, disappearing entirely below the rock through a cavern.

 James sat himself down in the grass, setting aside his scabbard and letting the wind rifle through his hair to pluck the sweat from his neck. It did not seem to him there were signs of monsters. But the only sign he knew was of birds and mist. Scanning the horizon, it seemed only a pleasant day. The sky, a welcoming blue that reminded him of mother’s favorite dress, dotted with puffs of white like dollops of freshly whipped cream. Across the valley, the trees picked back up, rising in height and leaving no trace of the landscape beyond, save for a lonely peak at a much greater distance.

Glancing back down the chasm, he saw no sign of his companions. With a grumble of resignation, he lay back over the grass, staring up into the infinite sky.

Was it his demon they were set to find?

What if they found her?

But he did not even know if she had a physical body to find.

The sun rolled around in its sphere, starting to fall from its peak, and he felt his consciousness slip in the warmth of the afternoon rays.

There was a rustling through the grasses.

A shadow cast over him.

And he pulled his eyelids up, catching hint of a figure of which he was wholly unfamiliar. With a start and a pointed intake of breath, he sat up, looking up at her with wide eyes.

Looking out over the pit was a woman with long, dark hair. It was clung close around her skull, yet billowed behind her in the breeze. There were marks on her pale skin, patterns of curves and arrows in red, snaking over her exterior so gracefully and intentional, the likes of which he had never seen. And the entirety of her skin was bare. There was a flutter in his heart at the sight. In the presence of naked thighs and chest with supple skin wrapped so tight around her frame, he felt something terrifying in himself. He was a stranger to it, watching from a distance a growing wildfire, knowing not where it came from or where it would go to see a woman so exposed. So vulnerable. So ominous.

But, then, he noticed, slung over her arm was a wicker basket, filled with plucked hellebore flowers.

“W-who are you?” he said.

She turned to him slowly, her face only so lightly contorted as though she were merely perturbed by his presence. “The witch of these woods,” she said, her full lips giving emphasis to the word.

He reached for his scabbard, drawing it close to his body and readying a draw. But he stopped short of the action. A vision of a James from the past taunted his memory, smelling blood though it still clung to his sword, but he could find no love in him for the determination. Not in light of the damnation he had cast himself under. Not with the heat rising in his cheeks at the sight of her.

The woman made no move. She was but an apparition looming over his fractured spirit.

He followed her gaze to the pit, letting his grip relax again. “We look for the dragon of these woods,” he said, though he meant to apologize. “Have you heard of such a thing?”

“A dragon?” she said, a coldness about her voice. “I pity you should you find it.”

A breeze swept up, setting her hair to wild dance while she remained entirely unphased. She twisted on her ankles, taking a better look at the knight. “Though. It seems it has already found you.”

In a reflexive gesture, he looked down at himself, placing his hands over his armor as he wondered what symptom of his entanglement had so easily given him away. Nothing about him was amiss aside from his pulsing nerves. And then she was walking away. Her backside impossibly shaped, though it had been sculpted of marble by a master.

“Wait!” he shouted after her, scrambling to his feet.

She stopped. Holding her place with her back to him.

“You are familiar with her?” he asked, his throat feeling weak to give voice to it.

The stranger turned her head, the outline of her lips and nose visible behind the twirls of her hair. “What do you think makes a witch?” she said, then picked up her feet again.

A shout came from behind him, hushed by distance and ricocheted off of limestone walls, “James!”

The witch disappearing into the forest, he was caught in a tangle, trying his best to push down impulse to chase after her. But the voice of Castille brought him back.

“James! Are you there?!”

He let her go. Taunted by a fearful vision of what might happen should he catch her.

“The cavern stretched deep into the earth!” Castille boasted, practically salivating over the discovery. The trotting of horses dotted his voice as they made their return. “There must be more to it. I know it.”

“We must tell Sigurd and Evelyn” Simon muttered, markedly less enthusiastic in his tone. “And bring torches.”

James had not left the sight of the witch.

To be a witch meant to give oneself over to demonic forces. To make a pact, sealed with abhorrent acts. A surrender to the enemies of God who had such tools and tricks of seduction. And his mind begged him to imagine that that skin, that perfect shape, was, in fact, stained. That such pristine legs may have been parted. That those swollen lips may have let slip lascivious utterances. That her hair, when it danced over her face, could be damp with sweat, clinging to the marble of her cheeks and back. That she had let it fill her, embrace her, claim her, body and soul, marked by its stain.

It meant damnation.

And he raised his eyes again to Castille, trying his best to hide evidence of the look from all in his company. Catching sight of the knots of his knuckles. The power in his grip. The weight of his shoulders. The hair on his chest. His legs spread over the saddle. The muscles of his backside clear through his trappings. It was what the demon had asked him to think on.

To think of the witch in such ways was as though her presence was ordained. 

A beautiful woman. A temptation. A promise of things to come. Many a man would find themselves begging for mercy at the sight. And many a deacon or cleric would so easily give forgiveness if forgiveness was properly sought.

But then there was Castille.

And that was a weakness in which James knew his suffering to be extraordinary.

Because he imagined those knuckles, that grip, those shoulders, holding him down. And it was his legs that were parted and his lips given to blasphemy and his skin covered in sweat. And it was him that was taken. And it was him that was filled.

They were impulses he never dared give voice to, even to seek forgiveness.

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[midgardsormr-and-me]

A long time ago I did this set of drawings with all my ocs who are in relationships.

I decided to revisit it and add some newer ones. So here’s the two main boys and the demons they serve from my Harvester project.

I’ll do more later.

[midgardsormr-and-me]

Just messing with brushes like usual And the idea of giant mouths