Daughter of Wreath, ch.1

Author's Note: New story, whole new world! I've been working on this for quite a while, and finally got the first installment completed -- hope you guys enjoy your first steps into Wreath!

[story/action] [futa solo] [mention of futa/futa]

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On Wreath, everything is someone’s domain. The gods – four unknowable things, rulers of that which they choose, Those – are strict in what they consider to be beneath their purview. Those that are alive, remembered, forgotten, even that which has yet to be created or discovered, all are Theirs.

I always considered these lessons to be very strange, when I was a young girl, listening to tales of the gods, of Those, from my mother. So strange that each and every thing, no matter how insignificant, belonged to someone. Not someone you could meet, of course, nor someone you could understand. All we knew about Those – all we know– are Their names, and that which They own.

Tales of the gods were not like other stories, really. It was difficult to tell a story about characters one knew nothing about – and in that way, it was also quite easy. Tales of the gods were often told through, and about, their followers, men and women who had in some way dedicated themselves to one of Them, then dedicated their deeds (or misdeeds) in Their name. Such worshippers, whether noble heroes, dangerous zealots, or even just simple folk, haven’t diminished in number or vigor – not in Paraven, at least – but they have shown remarkable talent for not learning the lessons of those old stories, at least the way my mother told them.

The gods don’t care about us. I don’t think so, at least. So many stories about those who put all their faith in Their will, carrying out monumental tasks, or unspeakable atrocities, rarely with any noteworthy reward. I’m not sure I see the appeal.

“Fetch anything else for ya, luv?”

I look up from my bowl of soup, shaken from quiet contemplation by the voice of a barmaid. She’s nice-looking, wide-hipped and thick-waisted, though clearly a good bit older than I am, a leather bustier squishing her sizable breasts a bit higher than they were meant to go. Endless ringlets of red hair, a beauty mark just below her lip.

My travels have brought me to a two-story roadside inn called the Pig and Candle, part of a settlement so small it could barely be called a town. The aromas of simmering stew and pipe-smoke find an unexpected synergy, and the dim lights of many underfed lanterns give the place a moody, firelit glow. Not a bad spot to stop, all things considered.

“Oh– oh! Uh, sorry, yeah,” I stammer as I’m brought back to the present, scooting an empty ale-mug towards her. “Another one of these, please? And… I wanted to ask you something, if that’s alright.”

“Well it’ll be two more nickel bits for the ale,” she responds, and I quickly start fishing through my pockets for my last few coins as she continues, “and I’ll hear your question, but give no promise to answer it, yeah?”

“Right,” I nod, sliding the two five-sided nickel coins towards her, each crudely stamped with the image of a well-hatted elven man riding a horse. “I, uh… have you seen a woman cross through town recently? It’s important I find her, and, uh–”

“Slow down, darlin’,” the barmaid says with a hint of a smile on scarlet-painted lips, matching the bright red of her hair. “Can’t say if I’ve seen anyone without hearin’ what they look like, first… and maybe seen a few more pieces of nickel. Lemme get you that ale while ya think it over, so.”

I watch as she takes my empty mug and leaves me alone at my table. My meal today, as they have been lately, is a somewhat modest one: a heel of bread flavored with bitter seeds, and a red, oily soup, packed with coldweather onions and hearty tubers, but only trace amounts of a nearly-unidentifiable meat. Traveling across the western bluffs of Paraven hasn’t been as enriching as I’d hoped, in experience or money, so most nights have been like this. Stopping by a little inn, in a little town, ordering whatever the special is, calling it a night, and doing it all again the next day. When I find a larger town I’ll stop and work for a few weeks, something menial like chopping firewood, digging graves, or working as a scribe – save up just enough to start traveling again. The few clues I’ve gotten have led me to the edge of Graicea, a vast archduchy that takes up the majority of Paraven’s northeastern region, and a place I know precious little about. I’m gonna have to learn soon enough, though.

The barmaid returns a few moments later with a filled flagon of ale, setting it down in front of me. It’s not the best I’ve had, but not the worst, and at least it’s cold – there’s a hint of citrus I can’t place, and overall it’s well-balanced, if sort of weak. Before she can speak, I slide over three more nickel ambits (or ‘bits,’ as they’re often called), and try to give an adequate description. “The woman I’m looking for is human, but tall like an elf. Dark auburn hair, light skin, deep blue eyes. She’d be beautiful and confident, but perhaps weary from the road. Older, but… almost ageless.”

“Hrmmm…” the barmaid coos to herself, folding her arms beneath her breasts and accentuating already-excessive cleavage. “Come to think of it, I do recall a woman by that description, though it’s some time since she’s passed through the Pig and Candle. Definitely heading into Graicea, though, not out of it; I remember that.”

I take a swig of my ale, frantically trying to think of any more useful questions. It’s unusual that I get a lead this clean-cut. “Can you remember anything else about her? What she was doing, anyone she talked to?”

“Wasn’t too talkative, nah,” she muses, “she ate, drank, left. Asked if we had any magic-users in town, though wouldn’t say what her business was. Definitely looked like she’d been having a rough go at things – tired, twitchy. Even paranoid, one could say.”

“Wait, you said she was looking for magic-users… are there any? Who would she have found?” I feel my heart leap in my chest. Someone who might have talked to her for more than a few seconds. A real way forward.

“No good company, like. Only wizardly sort she’d have found near here is that witch past the cemetery.” The barmaid’s face, now, turns somewhat suspicious, as if mere mention of this unsavory character has made her less trusting of me, somehow. “Wouldn’t go that way if I were you, little thing like ya are. Not a thing but trouble to be found, seekin’ out folk like that – especially not with the Order sniffin’ about.”

I’m hesitant to pry, but find the courage, sliding another nickel bit across the table towards her. “Order?”

She lets out a sigh, glancing back over her shoulder towards the rest of the decidedly un-crowded inn. “I do have other customers I should be tendin’ to….” Another ambit makes the journey across the ashwood table, finding itself quickly inserted into that tightly-packed corset. “Suppose you may not know ‘em, if you’re as new to Graicea as ya seem. The Order of the Holy Vessel’s who I mean. Priests of Rul, but not the kindest sort. Steer clear of them just the same as you steer clear of that witch, luv.” With a twirl and swish of her hips, the barmaid leaves my table, leaves me alone with my thoughts and… well, a few new pieces of information, certainly.

I spend some time alone with my thoughts. Despite the barmaid’s urging, it seems that speaking with this witch is the first thing I should do, but it’s something that can wait until tomorrow. It’s late, the trail’s pretty cold anyway, and I’ve already bought a room key with what little nickel wasn’t just gouged out of me, so a bath and a good night’s sleep seems like a perfectly reasonable way to finish off an unexpectedly fruitful evening.

Weary from the road and equally dirty, I put in a request for hot water with the innkeeper – a ruddy-skinned human man, more hair on his arms than his head, but a perfectly winning smile – and head up the stairs to where the Pig and Candle’s bedrooms are. The room itself is… let’s say ‘modest,’ but no better or worse than I expected for the price, consisting of a single room with a bed, chair, washtub, and little else. Good enough for what I need.

I wait the few minutes for hot water to be brought to my room, offer a nod of thanks for it, and promptly begin to shed dusty, road-bitten clothes. A dark brown poncho, the light gray vest beneath that, and snugly-fit trousers of a deep, dull green, along with boots and vambraces a shade darker than the poncho, and assorted underthings. Tossed onto the bed along with them is my only legitimate means of defense: a dagger, almost large enough to qualify as a small sword, perhaps twenty inches from tip to pommel.

It’s a beautiful piece of weaponry, a gift from my sister before I left home, and undoubtedly the nicest thing I own. The handle is carved from smooth, warm-colored beeknut, neatly concealing a solid metal tang, and the fittings of its crescent-shaped quillion and short, round pommel are fashioned from cast brass, leaving it lightweight but plenty sturdy. Its blade, though, is what sets it apart: it’s double-edged and leaf-shaped, giving it a variety of excellent cutting angles, fashioned from many-layered, acid-etched steel that’s left it with a pattern unlike any other blade I’ve seen, veins of softer, darkened metal crawling towards the tip like ivy.

I stand naked in the center of the room for a moment, rubbing the blade down with a soft, oiled cloth as I wait for my bathwater to cool down. The ivy-like pattern on that folded steel matches, vaguely, the mark on my own left hand, ivy crawling from my fingertips, all the way toward my elbow. Not a tattoo, but a mark, something I was born with. The only real thing, I think, that makes me special, though I don’t yet understand how. Without the mark, without the dagger, all I am is Nowa Jarren, not quite twenty years of age – a girl without remarkable talent or potential, not even the best suited to wandering across Paraven among my own immediate family.

“Except that I’m the one who actually decided to do it,” I whisper to myself, sheathing the dagger and setting it down amongst my other clothes. Shaking my head after a moment, I turn back towards the washtub, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror near it. In honesty, I could have described my target more meaningfully in how she was alike, and how she differed, from myself. I, too, have red hair, though neither the dark auburn of my quarry’s, nor the fiery scarlet of the barmaid’s; mine is very much the color of blood, a deep, sincere shade of red uncommon to all but bluffsiders like myself, cut just above the shoulders and only lazily styled, framing an oval face. My skin is a light tan, offsetting the crimson hair; brows are sharp, nose short and slightly upturned, jaw narrow. From the neck down, I’m enough of a late bloomer to suggest I may never bloom at all – barely cresting five feet in height, slim-hipped, small-breasted, though with a backside I can take some sincere pride in.

What we – the woman I seek, and myself – share without comment, are our eyes. Dark, wild blue, like the deepest reaches of the Teshan Sea, only a few shades away from midnight. I miss hers. I take some small comfort in the knowledge that mine are the same.

I let out a breath and crawl into the tub, hissing softly as sore bones are finally met with hot, clean water, scouring away miles of road in an instant. Proper baths have proven to be something of a rarity, with only the occasional inn or tavern supplying them, so I’ve grown to really… cherish… these moments. This total relaxation and comfort, one of the few genuine pleasures I have the luxury of stopping to enjoy.

I wiggle my toes back and forth, eyes drifting shut completely as I lose myself in the hot water. One hand lazily drags across my opposite arm, a haphazard attempt to clean myself that only serves to incite a spark of unexpected arousal, even that light a touch reminding me of how lonely the road has been. I could, of course, take care of my own needs, and it’s only a moment after the thought enters my mind that it becomes quite tempting. My fingers move from my arm, up to my shoulder, then down the center of my chest – I keep my eyes closed, try to lose myself in the sensation. Exploring fingers find one perky nipple, pinch it gently, feel it grow firm under my touch, and I begin to rub it gently between thumb and forefinger. “Mmnh…” I coo softly, my back arching a little, causing the warm water to shift and ripple around me.

I cross my legs, squishing slim, soft thighs against each other, trapping them around the sleek, stiffening member that’s gradually rising to life, its tip managing to barely peek up out of the water as it finds its way towards full hardness. Now that I consider it, there is another part of me I can take some pride in, and that’s my dick – nearly seven inches, suitably thick while remaining well-proportioned, with just the slightest hint of an upward curve, veins subtly visible enough to give it an appearance of virility and elegance. Still teasing my nipple with one hand, I bring the other to my risen girlcock, wrapping my fingers around it and starting to slowly stroke it up and down, up and down, not rushing, just enjoying the sensation of my own hand against the most responsive part of my body.

My focus drifts, scanning through my mind in search of a fantasy to indulge in, though ultimately deciding that none seem necessary. The simple pleasure of my own touch feels like enough, right now, and I take the time to simply enjoy it, squirming in the bathtub as my hand strokes up and down along my shaft, teasing myself with a practiced patience, knowing I have until the water goes cold to get the job done.

It does occur to me that it’s been too long since I’ve actually had sex, a few months at least – not since I spent a week helping that small farming family with their harvest, and ended up having some fun with the youngest daughter, only a year younger than me. By the gods, she was cute, freckles and blonde braids, a hint of an overbite adding a touch of uniqueness to an otherwise grain-fed, girl-next-door beauty. She’d found me after I was done with the final day of work, resting in the loft of the family’s barn, pinned me, kissed me. Clothes came off, and we pushed our cocks against each other as we made out, heating each other up for what felt like an hour until I’d finally pushed her down and crawled into her lap, taking her deep inside of me, riding her until she pumped me full of her warm, sticky seed. A roll in the hay in the most literal sense, and an incredibly pleasant memory. Estelle was her name, I think. Ugh, what I’d give to have her here again right now.

My hand moves faster and faster along my cock as I submit myself to the memory, but my other hand changes course, moving from my breast to dip lower, carefully stuffing a single finger into my ass before slipping a second in alongside it. I grit my teeth, hissing with excitement and barely biting back a little squeal, pumping my fingers back and forth inside myself while my other hand eagerly jerks off my throbbing girldick. “Hahh… nn… ahn, fuck… pphh…” I gasp and groan to myself, remembering the way Estelle’s cock had felt as it had pushed into me, relishing that echo of the past as my fingers help me relive it.

A low moan rises in my chest as I feel myself coming closer to orgasm, mind blanking almost completely as I surrender myself to wildly stroking and fingering, overwhelming myself with pleasure from both ends. I open my eyes when I feel like final explosion coming, and am greeted with the sight of my own throbbing girldick cresting the surface of the water – one, two, then three long, sticky pumps of hot cum shooting out of it and directly onto my own face, forcing me to close one eye and accidentally taking a strand of my own seed into my open, panting mouth.

“Uhn… d-damn,” I murmur as I catch my breath, swallowing the errant strand of seed that made its way into my mouth, then slumping even deeper into the washtub. “I really needed that.” I can feel a surprising amount of my earlier weariness and stress melt away after my ‘release,’ and make a note to relieve myself more frequently in the absence of a partner.

I take some time to wash up properly before the water goes cold, and finally crawl into the room’s single, modest bed, the sheets a bit on the rough side, but better than I’m used to. Sleep finds me with uncommon swiftness and much-needed restfulness, preparing me for the day ahead. I need to find that witch, whoever she is, and find out what sort of conversation she had, if she had any at all, with the woman I’m searching for. The only woman with answers to the questions burning inside me.

My mother.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o

I rouse early the next morning, and take only a light breakfast of milk, tart yellow birchberries, and toasted oats, enough to give me some energy without weighing me down. The barmaid I spoke with said the witch was just past the graveyard, but this town – whatever its name even is – isn’t large enough for that to be much of a journey. I beat the dust off my clothes, change my underthings, slide the dagger into its sheath, and head out into the cool open air of western Graicea.

As the inviting scents of the inn are replaced by those of dust, hay, and horses, I take better stock of the little town around me. It’s a bit larger than I’d thought in the dimness of dusk, though not much so, its center clogged by tiny business, and ramshackle houses radiating out from there, everything seeming to be built strategically around the Pig and Candle. Not much in the way of people, either – there aren’t enough travelers for merchants to bother actively hawking their wares, and the cool air of Sast’owain have most civilians remaining close to the comfort of their fireplaces.

“Excuse me, sir,” I hold up a hand to catch the attention of a human man, fair-skinned and blond-bearded, escorting a wheelbarrow of dark, rich earth (or perhaps well-seasoned manure) somewhere or another. “I’m looking for the town’s cemetery, which direction should I go?”

“Came this far west just to see the gravestones of peasant folk?” he arches a suspicious brow, while I’m just tickled by his assumption that I’m headed west, when I’ve been heading east for months. “That way, then,” he jerks a thumb toward the road he’s making his way from, out of town and toward one of Graicea’s many forests.

“Thank you, friend; stay remembered,” I nod toward him, then head off in the direction he pointed me, past the last few small, square houses and into the embrace of endless birch trees, their leaves faded to a rich golden orange – those that don’t yet litter the ground beneath them, anyway.

The road doesn’t bring me far before I spot the first thing I’m looking for: the town’s graveyard. I move toward it, taking a moment to admire the rustic, serene beauty of the place – the gravestones don’t even number fifty, I’d wager, and many of them are quite old, many of them inscribed with prayers to Those, specifically Sast, the goddess over things that are gone, but still remembered. Pleas to the goddess that their loved ones remain in the hearts and minds of those still living, that their souls not pass on to the domain of Kou. That they not be forgotten forever.

I get a strange quiver in my gut, that odd sensation of being someplace sad and sacred, but eventually bring my thoughts back to my original goal: finding that witch. The barmaid said she was somewhere ‘past the cemetery,’ but not how far or in which direction, so I’m going to have to–

I’m jarred from my thoughts by the sound of a shout, then a grunt of some sort, their source not visible but neither terribly far away. Unsheathing my little sword, I quickly make my way in that direction, hoping at least to get a closer look – I’m not exactly a warrior, but the last thing I want is to lose this ‘witch’ before I actually get a chance to talk to her, and considering where we are….

It’s a few moments of jogging deeper into the white-and-gold thicket that I find exactly what I’m looking for, though I’m gripped with dread once I see it. The forest opens up into a great meadow, at the far side of which is a small, ramshackle home, more a shack than a proper house, its rough wooden walls and doors inscribed with strange runes and symbols, though starkly undecorated otherwise, as if its inhabitant had never really planned to stay. That inhabitant, though – and likely the witch I seek – isn’t inside, but rather trapped in a large cage of blackened metal, long fingers gripping the bars as she snarls at her captors. She’s an elf of some sort, very tall and very pale, though I don’t yet have time to get a good look at her.

I’m more immediately with who – and what – is surrounding her. Two humans, a man and a woman, wind-beaten skin and errant blond locks marking them as distinctly Graicean, and possibly related. Along with them is a male goblin, heavily scarred even at a glance, with lank white hair running from his scalp to his upper back like a lion’s mane. Despite his short stature and terrible posture, it’s immediately clear that the goblin is the leader of this small outfit, and from their piecemeal ensemble of tattered armor, leather, and clothing, free of any identifying symbols or banners, that these are some manner of brigands… or worse, bounty hunters.

“Now I’m gonna ask ye again – an’ ye ain’t gotsa say anythin’, I just gotsa ask you, but I recommend ye do – is you, or anyone ye know, conspiring to create art-iff-ish-al life by means of magickin’?” The goblin leers up at the witch, snarling malformed words through thick green lips and crooked yellow teeth. “You confess, I can haul ye in and get ye a proper work-about, might even see another turn of the sun if ye repent. Keep on tellin’ us lies, though, and we’ll see just how hungry Big Petunia’s feelin’ today, an’ if she has a taste for skinny li’l elves.”

Big Petunia, standing on all fours alongside the witch’s captors, is something I’m really struggling to acknowledge is in front of me right now. We have stories, on the bluffs, of the Grazzoth – hulking, semi-humanoid monstrosities with knobby green hides, thick wrists and clawed fingers, hair like knives, jaws so powerful they could tear through a reinforced barn door. Stories of how they came to be varied: some said they were goblins who’d grown so fat and greedy that they’d somehow transformed, or that they were the offspring of a goblin and one of the ferocious bogge, making a hybrid more fearsome than either. Others yet said they were the creations of wizards, a forgotten stepping stone toward proper golemcraft, a few such experiments having escaped their masters to live out the rest of their long lives in torment, terrorizing the countryside of Paraven. I don’t know which story I believe… but I do know that’s what I’m looking at right now. Nearly eight feet at the shoulder and moss-green, this has nothing in common with any of the mortal races. This is a monster.

“Hold it, Pinzak, we have company,” the blonde woman says, and I feel my heart skip several beats as I realize that she’s noticed me. Our eye contact is brief but awful, and I take a few awkward steps backward as all three brigands – and Big Petunia – turn to face me. “Want us to deal with her? Or do you want to give Petunia some exercise?”

The goblin – Pinzak, I assume – flashes a lopsided smirk in my direction, his eyes the deep, solid red of a white rat. “Boy-oh-boy, did ye pick a fuck-ass of a day to be losin’ yeself among the woodies,” he clucks, taking a few slow steps towards me, though seemingly just to get a better look, as I get a better one of him. He’s clearly quite old, at least by goblin standards, and barely four feet in height, but a life wickedly spent has left him as grotesque on the outside as he surely is within. “Aye, let Petunia get a stretch in.” He reaches out for the Grazzoth, gently stroking his knobby fingers along a smoother section of its treacherous flesh, then points at me with his other hand, letting out a sharp whistle.

My eyes go wide, and I nearly lose my grip on my dagger as the creature begins to charge towards me, loping on all fours like some grotesque cross between a hound and a great ape. I stumble back, half-turning as if to sprint away, but quickly realizing that there is no running from this thing. Its speed, however clumsy it may appear, exceeds mine so dramatically as to make fleeing an absurd notion. I backpedal another step regardless, lashing out with a horizontal swipe of my dagger, one that actually makes contact, though even the weapon’s exquisite steel leaves no more than a bothersome scratch. It was the only attack I had a chance to make, and it’s done nothing – the creature is upon me.

It attacks not with a claw, or the devilish maze of tusk-like fangs interlocked within its wrinkled green face, but with a fist, knocking me backward and immediately prone, beating the wind from my lungs in a single blow. I fall to my back, clumsily pulling myself up to one elbow and gritting my teeth, reaching for my fallen dagger… but once again, Big Petunia is upon me before I’m able to form a plan or launch any sort of feeble attack against it. It crawls overtop of me, one great hand pinning my shoulder down to the leaf-strewn ground beneath as it brings its great, horrible face close to mine, a strand of foul-smelling saliva streaming down from its lips, creeping ever nearer to my own.

My heart pounds wildly in my chest, fear and excitement bubbling inside me as I try to push against the impossible weight and strength of the Grazzoth, though now with a different plan. I don’t need the dagger… just one free hand. Specifically my left hand. “Nngh… nGAHh…!” With some squirming and twisting, I manage to get it free as the creature rears its head back to bite, and slam my marked palm upward against its chest. This thing is neither folk nor beast, but a monster, so its power, whether the creature wills it or not… is my power.

The ivy mark on my arm begins to glow, and my hand stretches and expands, muscles bulging, claws sprouting from my fingertips as my skin takes on a greenish hue. Before Big Petunia can bite, I shove the thing off of me with renewed strength, toppling it sideways and following through with a series of brutal, downward hammer-strikes to its body, pummeling the thing as it scrambles back to its feet. My transformation is complete in instants, leaving me something not quite myself, nor entirely the Grazzoth I’ve ‘borrowed’ from, but a hybrid of the two. Hulking and powerful, yet… within myself, still human.

“What in Kou’s fiery arsehole–!” Pinzak squawks, not so content now that the tables appear to be turning. “The Order ain’t pay us enough for this sorta muck, keep the sword-eared hag if ye want her so bad!” The goblin snaps his fingers and lets out another whistle, causing Big Petunia to roll over onto her feet and hustle back to his side. An instant later, Pinzak, the two humans, and their horrific creature were fleeing into the forest, back the way I’d come from, leaving me alone in the meadow with the caged witch.

It’s good, too, that they chose so quickly to flee from a fair fight – an instant later, the Grazzoth’s power leaves me, and I revert to human form, my clothes a bit tattered but leaving me otherwise none the worse for wear. Well… maybe a bit out of breath. I can steal the power of something unnatural, but only for a moment. It’s taxing, exhausting, like holding my breath and trying not to pass out, and that creature was by far the strongest thing I’ve ever tried doing it to. This is the power I need so badly to understand, and I’m just glad it lasted long enough for me to scare off a fight I undoubtedly would have lost.

“Fun trick!” comes the voice of the woman inside the black metal cell, leaning idly against the bars as she watches me spook away her captors. “Think you could get me outta this gods-fucked cage?”