“My name is Setrick Anthony Dracon Dracone, and I am alone. Yet it was not always this way. I ride, upon a black steed named Swathe and I come, for what I do not yet know, but I come…”
Alone.
The horse, had a mane the color coal, and liken to its namesake the beast’s massive breast sliced into the cold. Swathe snorted in agreement to the unspoken words from its master. Its hooves bore down on the earth with a massive clap, crushing twigs, grass, mold and any creature unlucky enough to cross its path. “We will be there soon my old friend,” the softness in its master’s voice soothed Swathes’ restlessness.
Swathe was tired, hungry and ready to bed down for the night, but its loyalty to the one that rode him quenched any need for sleep. Nodding its head as if in understanding the beast bore on with a misty snort from its flared nostrils. The cold and solitude of the night was comforting to them. No sound, only the steady jingle of the rains and rhythmic clap of the hooves. The night was dark, almost black with a slight hint of fog rolling in from the cliffs high above them. There was an occasional flash of lightning far to the east, to guide their way. The rider was on the hunt, for what he did not know, he just knew by some strange fate he must come this way and that this was his path. Closing his eyes Setrick nodded off to the hypnotizing sway of the old friend beneath him.
A vixen bold,
Embolden by,
Those sullen things,
Which make her cry.
A vixen soft,
As soft as silk,
As sweet as cane,
Or mother's milk.
A vixen frail,
As frail as glass,
As short as time,
Which does not last.
A vixen,
A vixen,
Ah, A VIXEN.
Damn, she is,
Bewitching'
-Setrick Dracone
In the far reaches of Dracone, a small woman, was preparing a spell. Her shoulder length hair was pulled back into a ponytail. It was the color of a ravens back with a slight hint of mother earth entwined. Only her bangs rode down her forehead to hide the light in her eyes. Her fingers were slender and short and sometimes working with them was hard especially when she was skinning frogs for the potions she would combine for the locals. Her skin was an ivory white like the tusks of a great elephant and her smile could charm the most venomous of snakes. Her eyes sparkled with a hidden knowledge, and some said that the moon came from them. Some went as far as to even say that she created the moon, with her small hands forging it, like the well skilled craftsmen that she was, until she hung it, high in the sky, with a sweet song from her lips. Her age was unknown to any, but it was said that she graced this world far before time began. Though she was small she possessed long legs that served her well. The robe she wore was of one piece, gently flowing down the form of her hips and as she moved it whispering upon the ground. Her face was round, and in her eyes you could see the scares of things that were, things that are and things that still must be.
"Zin Forta, Hin Fornay....", the incantation was like the sound of music, a sweet melody that rolled off her tongue and leaped from her lips, the steam from the pot danced to her every word, slowly lifting and shifting to her ever sound. As she moved, the folds of her robe opened to reveal her well-developed breasts, where the steam gently lingered over them, caressing her. She was the master of magic. Only her mother had surpassed her, but of course only in the beginning. As she grew older so did her magic and even now her magic was like that of no other before her or yet to come. It was rumored throughout the lands of Dracone, that she was born the daughter of Seth, the God of death and her mother the Great Sorceress of Dracone who was given her power from his hand.
She had decided to live alone. After the Great Wars, she took up residence in a small cottage where she could be alone with her magic. Alone, in her solitude, occasionally she would take the company of a man for her pleasures but none could bring her the pleasure she sought after. So, luring them to her lair with a sweet calling, so as not to bring an uprising from the local town, like a Black Widow she would devour their essence for her own. Therefore she lived alone except for her magic and of course her dogs.
The dogs were two giant Great Danes. Their huge heads were filled with oversized canines that drooled as they watched her every movement with what some would call lust. They loved her, and you could see it in their fiery red eyes, this was more then just a dog’s loyal love for their master. No, for she created them, conjured them up to protect her in the night. The nights. When she thought of all the sleepless nights that hunted her, a fowl taste would bubble to her lips. The ghosts that haunted her sleep, never allowing for a peaceful one. That’s what the dogs were created for, to keep her safe and warm, as they lay besides her in the dark, ever vigilant, ever watchful.
"Hetforna, Heyna Forta...", the pot was bubbling, as if reaching for her words. She would make her money for the provisions she needed by giving lesser magic to the townsfolk that lay two days ride to the north. They would come to her, for potions of healing, mixtures for luck, and elixirs of love…
“Love, always for love they come….”, she muttered under her breath. She knew not the meaning of this word and she could name a thousand other words that meant a thousand times more to her, like:
“Dete, Gutna, Fotana, Jaktie …”
His presence disrupted her thoughts before he even dismounted his horse. ‘There is one that comes. One that comes for you.’ She could hear the whisper in her ears, like a fading echo behind her. Every instinct in her senses told her to run, her muscles tensed prepared for the flight. To flee! To scurry away into a hole, like a rat being chased by a hawk. “He is here!”, her whispered breathe like thunder in her ears.
When he entered her layer, the dogs moved first, ready to rear at this strange presence that had entered their domain silently, even to their ears, for they were the masters here and no one disturbed their rest. As he entered the room he removed the massive helm that was given to him after slaying the Great Tith, whom tried to bend his will to that of its own, only to find his blade firmly planted in its backside. Just as he entered a flash of lighting broke the night sky to reveal his eyes. Light eyes, soft browns and greens with a hint of blue. The dogs gathered their strength for they knew that this one did not fear them, nay, this one fears no man or beast. The bitch of the lot moved first, lowering her head in an evil snarl.
“Yavo, buskin. Yavo.”, the Knight whispered, in a ruggedly sweet, almost angelic voice. The bitch stopped at the words, sniffed the air around him and sat before him her ears attentive, eyes searching for some sign that its instinct was wrong about this one, and his use of the ancient language of dogs. ‘I come for no harm.’ Upon sensing the change in his bitch and hearing the words from this man, the male curled back up before the cauldrons fire watching. The bitch moved closer, unsure of the stranger’s intent and sat before him watching.
Wearing a suit of shimmering armor as black as the night that he rode through, shimmering except in the places from the battles of recent and past. Zoë could see from the marks on his face that some of those battles were not so wittingly fought. Yet he stood before her, boldly, like a statue in a park. Yielding a massive blade on his side, and she could tell that he could bare it in his hand as if it were as light feather. She could hear it softly hum. It was humming a name, faintly, softly, but as he moved closer to her Zoë could make out what it was signing, it was signing his name, ‘Dracone, Dracone, Dracone!’ The chant was mesmerizing even to her. It was said that the blade drew you in, begging you to come, to fall upon it, no matter the warnings of the danger in coming too close to the one that bore it. But that is another tale.
Stepping closer into her layer, he could smell the sickly sweet smell of ‘Mead’ filling the air. Gazing around her cottage he could see that this was his resting place. Finally, at the end of his long journey that had taken him so far from home and to this God forsaken place. He spoke:
“I am Sir Anthony, King of Kings, though I rule no land, Lord of Lords, though I hold no court. Slayer of the Great Tith, betrayer of none, holder of the Sword of Souls, and bringer of death to all whom oppose me! I come, retched one. I come, and grace thou with mine presence!"
Her eyes followed him as he moved past her bitch and closer, ever closer. She knew not what to do. Should she bow before this man whom she knew could take her life with a flick of his blade? Or…
She bowed to no man! Nay, she will choose to defy him! For she is Zoë The Great! User of all magic, great and small, conjurer of the great divide, she has walked places not even he would dare to go, in the recesses of hell, and yet she returned to tell the tale. She would defy this ‘man’ that dares to defy her solitude with his very existence. How dare he!
He walks to her, his eyes upon her, glaring at her, looking through her as if she were glass, studying her, as a lion before the final dance of death with its pray. This stare was mesmerizing; she had to look away, if only for a moment to summon the strength from the soles of her feet to speak, "What has brought you here? Leave me at once! You are not welcome he..."
His gaze cut the words in her throat as if he had placed his hands upon her neck and choked them back down from whence they came. "Silence women! You do not speak, unless I have spoken to you."
Her heart skipped, her robes snapped as she extended her arms towards him, fingers apart, reaching down into the depths of her sole for the power. No man has ever spoken to her thus! Who does this man think he is? He is but a man. She felt the anger serge in her veins. Her power was forming; she could feel it rushing to her head like a raging river, from the bowls of the very earth she stood on. The colors were dancing around her, rising from the earth to be mastered by her lips. Now to say the words that would turn this, this beast into stone and harden his flesh, as his head was obviously already stone for disturbing her. How dare he! But the words could not come, they could not be set loose, as soon as they would form on her tongue they would die on her lips. They remained unspoken, unreleased. This man, he is only a man, or is he?
Eying her he raised his gloved covered hands and removed the gauntlets from them. Massive hands etched with the scares of many battles and gently pat the Great Dane bitch on her head. Proud to have had the touch from this stranger, the bitch curls up next to her mate. He points to the floor before Zoë. As if the wind has been taken from her legs she kneels, she tries to resist, her soul cries out to resist! The words, the words! She must say the words. But she knows that it is futile, she fears him, she loathes him, she wants him to go back to the wilderness from whence he came, and leave her to her dogs and magic. Yet somehow she knew that this man was meant to be here. To have her, NO! To command her.
In a gentle voice he whispers her name, "Zoë… Zoë, I have come for you…"
"Come for me?” She asks cutting his words short, "Nay, this couldn't be, I did not send for you...” in a quivering voice that is silenced once again.
"Silence!” the growl resounds off the walls. The dogs raised their heads in wonderment but soon settled back to the business of sleep. "You have been chosen! Gather your self women, and come with me!"
Jumping to her feet in utter astonishment she tries to fight the urge to run to him, to be entwined in him. To be embraced by him. Her robe gently traces the curves of her shoulders to reveal her breasts, "By the Gods! Whatever makes you think that I, Zoë The Great would be enslaved to the likes of you? I could turn you to stone in an instant! You, You! Whom ever you are!" Ah she has broken him, she can tell from the grimace on his battle scared face. She has won! This battle of wills has been won, and oh how he will pay for his utter disregard for her solitude! ‘He will make a good statue for the garden, he will’. But there is something in his glance, his dreaded glance that tells her that it’s not over. Not quite, not yet!
He senses the fire in her. The life, an essence that has all but been drawn from him, the countless battles, the in healable wounds, bled from his very soul, from every fiber of his being. The life that, he has searched for. The life, that for so many years has eluded him on every turn. He grins in an unmistakable smile, she is sure could only belong to a demon, as he removes his sword from its sheath. The hum from it fills the room. The hum is the very souls that he has slain! The chant becomes defining as the signing of his name resounds from all corners of the room. She becomes terrified! Her last moment on earth will be with this, this creature, this devil from the bowls of hell that will now send her there before him? He has come, this Angle of Death, but it was not supposed to be thus! ‘I was to live to an old age. I have seen it!’ Her knees grew weak, on the verge of forsaking her for the first and final time in this life. He moves closer, the great blade in hand. This Knight in black armor, this one that knows no magic. This one, that makes her loins tremble with his very presence, but could not start a fire with his fingers, or move mountains from one place on mother earth to another.
He is taken back by her beauty. Her eyes shine as bright as the sun. This one fears me not, ‘Tis the magic that protects her. Blasted magic! There is no use for such things in a world where battles are fought and won on the field!’ The field of battle, he knows that field well. Many battles has he fought on that field as well as the one that rages on in his heart.
He draws only inches from her quivering body her mind racing with the thought of death. Closing her eyes she wanders back to her childhood in her mothers arms, wishing the comfort to take hold of her, when the blow comes, the blow that, will kill her, it would will come inevitably one day, but not from him.
"Woman, you woman! Called Zoë the Great! On this day I have come for you! And from this day forward you will obey no man but me! You will follow no order less it was given from mine lips. You will have no instruction less it was from mine hand! Your duty will be to me and to me alone! Your thoughts will be filled with only my pleasure. You will work your magic only in mine name! You will place yourself at my feet, and bow to only me! Your will, will become mine, and my bidding your only desire!
"I will only say this once women, so listen, and listen well, for I shall not repeat it! And I bow before you only this once. Here and now, but never again! From this moment forward you will bow to me! Every thought, every movement will be for mine pleasure, no longer your own!”
Opening her eyes she feels her body go numb. Staring down at the form on one knee, head lowered toward her feet, before her he continues in the soft rhythmic voice…
“For this I lay my sword down before you. You will sleep knowing that no matter the state of things all is well in the world, for your world will be mine to mold as I may see fit, for whatever purpose I may wish. All will bow before you. Your command will be like my command. It will hold the weight I carry with me. All who oppose you will oppose me and will be cut down, like trees and burned before you until the stench of it reaches heaven! To any who speak ill of you, I will cut the language out of their mouths and pole their heads in rows as far as the eye can see. Any who reach to harm you will be dismembered and beaten with their own limbs to their death. By the Gods I swear this creed!”
Laying his sword at her feet, and bowing lower to her, placing his head between her uncovered feet, he slowly stands. Until this moment she did not notice that he was not much taller then her but his presence towered over her all the same. Bending her head and lowering her gaze she clamped down on her lip to stop it from quivering. He reaches up and grabs a hold of the robes she is wearing at the neckline. With one swift harsh movement he rips the clothes from her body and she can feel the last remaining ounce of resistance drain from her. She feels a breeze hit her nipples and harden them the words to have him permanently placed in the gardens lost forever!
He steps back from her, “Kneel before me, woman!” his voice the sound of thunder in her ears. Scanning her as if she were a piece of cattle he was about to purchase, as a predator looks over its kill before he completely devours it. He removes two pieces of leather holding his armor into place. Handing her one of them he commands, “Bind your self, women!” With shaking fingers she takes the piece of leather from his hands, and begins to bind her own together. He takes the other piece and approaches her. Tying it to her neck, he whispers, “With this I bind thee, forever. My will is your will, my thoughts your thoughts, my pleasure your pleasure.”
He gently cups her breast, and with the speed of lightning, from a blade he pulls from his armor he cuts her under the nipple. She looks down at herself, and she feels nauseated at the sight of her own blood, but her body is numb. As if she were drunk from his very existence. He raises his hand, and she squints, pulls back slightly from him, prepared for the blow. The blow that she is sure will come from his hand, but she never stops staring into his eyes. She watches as he cuts his own hand, with the tip of his blade and she wonders how many before her he has done thus? How many have you commanded thus? How many? And then what becomes of them? Do you cast them aside? Leave them waylaid on the road to Dracone, like a piece of rotten meat? As if he heard her, he answers her, in that ungodly soft rhythmic voice, “None like this”. Stroking her head with one hand, he takes the one he just drawn his own blood from and cups the breast he took some of her life from. Their blood mingles, entwines itself together. He can feel it rushing towards his heart.
“My blood…” he closes his eyes, “Your blood…”, leaning back as if in a trance, “Our blood!”
With this he grabs her by the roots of her hair and drags her over his knee. With a resounding “slap” the blow comes. But this is not what she expected, not what she expected at all. “You will obey me!” “You will obey me!” “You will serve me!” “You will honor me!” The pain in his hands was numbing his unusually strong appendages, but this one must be taught who is Master and who is slave! “You will refer to me as Master!” “Daddy” “and sometimes God” Her screams for mercy fill his ears but he is not done! “You will refer to yourself in the third person in my presence!” “Because you are my property!” “to do with as I please!” He can feel the tears from the blows flow from her eyes and onto his thighs, between the solid shards of his armor. And her answer comes, “Yes! Yes! YESSSS Master!”
The answer he has wanted. The answer he has traveled so very far for delays the next blow; he knows what he has done. What he has taken upon his shoulders, the endless nights of worry and preparing her. She is his, completely. Smiling to himself his soul becomes released from the prison it has been bound in. He can feel his torment wash away with her tears, across the floor and into the earth. Draining away… His armors weight is nothing now. He has been released.
He brings her to her knees in front of him. “Undress me!” he commands her. She slowly reaches up and unclips his armor plates from his legs. Placing them next to the sword that now seems to glow in glee in the candlelight, she looks up at him meeting his eyes as his conquest for the first time.
“Yes Master. May I st…,” the blow comes from his hands and strikes her with blinding speed.
“You will never refer to yourself in the first person women! Never before me! For there is NO you! There is only me! In mine presence you will be ‘this one’ and nothing more. You are a worthless wench, I see that I have my work here.” The sting of the blow across her side was sharp, and meant to punish. But she could feel her legs getting wet. She rephrased: “Master, may this one stand and remove your breast plate?”
Glaring down upon her, he grins in his devilish smirk and stares into her, her eyes. Those eyes, there is defiance there. She obeys, but she obeys by her will. Not his. He stares into her eyes and remembers…
