This book contains graphic sexual content, including the following:

Brief asphyxiation strangling

Female dominance

Femdom footjob

Slow lapdancing sex

Bareback cowgirl & reverse cowgirl sex

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Dusk

An arid sun hung low in a cloudless sky across the endless expanse of the Zo’qeth desert, illuminating the land in its baking heat. That blazing light crossed the sands and filled into the isolated city of Calisdan.

Today was a special day, for on the outskirts, beyond the walls of the city, the commoners had gathered to witness Mir’et’s will be done. Stood beyond a gigantic groove in the sand as though a river had dried up, the crowds stared up at the raised docking platform that spanned the length of the Palace behind its walls. A number of containers rested on that dock, but that was not what took their interest.

Prisoners – men shackled at the wrist, wearing tattered grey cloaks and sacs over their heads – stood on that dock, accompanied by a much taller, heavy-set figure hidden in robes of purest white. Only an emotionless block of a face, seemingly chiselled from obsidian was visible within the hood.

The way he held his posture before the crowd – hand rested seemingly lazily upon the hilt of his blade as his eyes skimmed the horizon – spoke volumes to those who could read it. Despite the distance between the dock and people gathered beyond the groove, there was nothing peaceful about him.

Beneath the robes that almost glowed in the sun, he stood coiled to point of pressure. If anything were to happen during this procession, be it a rescue, riot or attempt on Her Highness’ life, he would move in an instance of brutal force and reckoning.

The Itu’zah were a testament to power, hands taller than what the people were used to, taller even than their Queen, yet unfalteringly loyal. Rumour held that they were mythical creations born of stone and given life by the same touch of divinity that had given them Her Highness. None truly knew, and to question them was punishable sacrilege. Most did not dare to try garnering their attention for any reason.

With the prisoners and people alike gathered, the stage was set. Waiting for the crowd to simmer and quiet under the watchful gaze of the Itu’zah flanking the prisoners, she finally made her appearance. Slow, deliberate footfalls crunched the sand leading up to her platform akin to breaking glass as she approached. Flanked by the robed honour guard onto her platform above the prisoners, the sound of cracking clay followed her, yet left no debris in her barefooted wake.

Bandages covered her ankles, and seemed to coil up her legs before disappearing into the confines of her shimmering white leggings. Reamed with gold at both ankle, waist and overlaid with a transparent film of red, they billowed and shone with a brilliance that the dry wind only accentuated for all grandeur.

To complement the leggings and stature of their owner, an elegant cinch representing a golden sun fixed with a brilliant orange crystal rested below her bared navel. Boasting a rich tone of dark vanilla, her skin stood as a stark contrast to the brighter slashes of silk that covered it.

A fine, loose petticoat and undershirt covered more bandages. Her chest stood full and proud in those garments, adorned with several jewelled necklaces of blues and reds. Behind them all, a fine golden mantle covered from her collar to the jawline in solid gold, all but forcing her head to remain stoically upright, and stare down on the people below.

Stood upon a stage above where the prisoners were held, the picture of divinity was out of the reach of all but her personal guard, but visible to all, who murmured and talked amongst themselves on the sands beneath her. Striking rubies for eyes scanned the crowd approvingly as her jewellery glittered in the harsh sunlight. Had her very presence not touched them, intricately contorted gold rested carefully on her long, dusk-black hair would have. Emblazoned with beautiful white feathers and a luminous centrepiece that seemed to glow as the sun, there was no mistaking the Crown of Heavens. They stood before divinity given flesh, Kassopeia, the Pharaoh of Mir’et, the Goddess of Truth, Order and Justice.

“You are gathered here today to bear witness to the fate of those who would question your peace, your very way of life! They who would threaten the foundation of our fair world share the one fate – judgement under Mir’et under the sands in exile!” Her voice carried with a strength and power that reverberated across the gathered crowd and beyond easily from her perch. Murmurs of placid agreement and disdain for the criminals rippled through the gathering.

“As to that which will deliver them, behold! The backbone of our civilisation, that which binds all across the sands!” Kassopeia called out, raising a sceptre emblazoned with a golden snake to the sky before her. What had been all but a faint rumble grew in intensity as a gigantic creature slithered up from the sands, occupying the river-like valley that separated the people from the dock.

The crowd were as awed as ever, talking and pointing excitedly amongst themselves. The thing was truly huge, but simple in design, earning it one name amongst many as a sandworm. Thick scales, near as big as any of the people in the crowd lined its shell, its body extending far beyond the dock.

With it in place, sturdy planks lowered onto its pack, the crates grating over them and onto it. The beast did not seem to notice or care for the additional weight pressing into it, nor the chains hooping under its scales to hold them in place. To one of those crates, larger than the rest and comprised only of bars, were the prisoners guided across and into the holding cell.

“Though Behemoth, your tributes to Mir’et are carried on to Al’vara, that our dreams of progression in a new dawn may be realised!” The Pharaoh declared, her sceptre held high in a clenched fist as the people roused and cheered to her words. With the handful of prisoners secured, the metal cage slammed shut as the boards pulled away.

The brief event was as much to bolster the morale of the people and improve the Pharaoh’s presence as make an example of exiled prisoners. To invoke the Behemoth was no easy feat either, and so it was an event capitalized upon for effect. Itu’zah walked across the monolithic creature’s back, checking all the clasps and moving ahead to where the beast was controlled and driven from to push the monstrous train into motion.

Behemoth shook and slithered through the sands, effortlessly carrying its cargo out into the seemingly endless ocean of sand that made the Zo’qeth desert as the crowd watched in amazement. From her pavilion above the dock, the Pharaoh watched with her own sense of satisfaction as the gigantic worm beast shifted into the heat-haze of the distance. Lingering upon her stage acted as a show of presence, but was all Kassopeia could do to steady and steel herself. It was as well that none could see her close enough to know how tense her body was, and how much she rested upon the serpentine sceptre. Waiting until the clouds of sand had all but settled in Behemoth’s wake, the Pharaoh silently took her leave under shadow of the Itu’zah, leaving the crowds to calm and dissipate in high spirits, full of gossip and mirth amongst themselves.

Just as Kassopeia wished it.

Hours passed as the grand beast worked its way through the desert, so far as to see the sun dip from overhead into the afternoon skies. Nikolas squinted and raised his shackled hands to cover his eyes, wobbling uneasily as the cage he sat in shook and rattled above the sands. The sun glared across the horizon, causing the distant salt flats to shine with blazing heat.

It was an unusually hard glare as he had seen but once before, and cared not to see again. It had been in the dawn from whence they came that it had seared so harshly. The dawn that rained bolts of fire and judgement from the sky unto the city that raised arms, refusing to bow in fealty to some distant kingdom.

The cage rattled again, a monstrous growl coming from the beast under it. There was shouting from up ahead, but Nikolas paid it no mind. His time had come, sent out in exile to die by judgement of that supposed divinity, just as all who had stood for the belief in the simpler, honest life, unclaimed by Gods and Kings. The troubles of the sand-worm train did not concern him, and nothing within the desert would halt the gigantic beast whose back bore the prisoners cage between carriages of stock and tribute to the distant capital city of Al’vara, whence from the dawn rose, so it was said.

Beyond the bounds of the cage, the sands shifted and churned, pushed aside by the chitinous plates of the monolith that swam as if water. It had come with the Pharaoh and her army of conquest, and did more damage to morale with shock and awe than any siege damage to buildings, for all it was entirely capable. Those who took up arms had never stood a chance against it, like trying to fight the sun itself. The great ball in the sky did not care, and would rise over the walls regardless.

Nikolas spat through a gap in the hood. Conquest of the city had gone almost bloodless, if only for how the slain left no trace. It was not natural at all, and yet left an ill feeling within him. If a man should die on his feet in defence of his land, it should be in combat with those would stand against him, not against sorceries from afar. There was no honour, or even man to stand against. Only flame and destruction met those men, with the Pharaoh’s forces rounding up the survivors like cattle as they took the city with offers of sanctuary to all who pledged to serve.

Her rule was to be one of order and peace, and all who refused to vow their immortal heart in acceptance earned baptism in fire. Those whom had stood in defence, yet came to repent were branded as slaves in judgement, put to work in service of the Pharaoh’s rule. It was all a farce, a show of piety and compassion to the conquered people – whom did not feel at all conquered, but led to imagine themselves freed from squalor and uplifted by divine benevolence.

That piety and servitude had proven to be all but lies. After a time, those slaves disappeared from the city, from the fields, mines and any post. At first, none thought anything of it, for all kept their heads down, but before long, it became all too clear to those whom remained. Those marked were being systematically removed, replaced with criminals found and brought to justice after what had been called Dawn Conquest.

The monolithic sandworm shook again as it traversed the sands. Exiled, banished to the judgement of Mir’et under the guise of criminals brought to justice. Looking at the others who shared his fate, perhaps some were. Those who had stood against the Dawn were to be forgotten, swept away into the sands of time with no name, lest people remember a time when men fought for their lives. It was an honourable enough death for the defeated – quiet and without parade or shaming – but death nonetheless.

The great train stopped with a sudden lurch, the massive creature practically buried under the sands, leaving the cage level with the harsh world beyond its bars. The others around him – hooded and chained in kind – made no expression of interest for the sudden halt. They knew their fate, and solemnly awaited it with heads bowed.

“Out, move.” The voice to bark command was deep and strong, belonging to a hulking square of man robed in white to contrast and shroud the sheer black of his body. He would have died faster than any under the harsh sun without that cowl, yet was one closest to the Pharaoh, whom embodied Mir’et’s light.

“Single file, hold.” Rising as the rest did, Nikolas knew better than to fight it, now. The white-robed man saw to them one at a time, removing the hood and shackles before giving a small leather pouch. Inside was one day’s rations, so that they might disperse from the trade route, perhaps even chose where and how they die – another twisted sense of mercy. Some would not move from the spot, whilst others would push their bodies to exhaustion in a final show of resistance to the elements.

Finally, his turn came to be rid of the smothering bag of a hood that hid his face, exposing ragged black hair, deep blue eyes and an unkempt beard that traced along his sharp jawline. The harsh light and dry wind made him squint and wrinkle his nose, glad to be free of the damned thing, for what good it would do him.

The shackles off his wrists revealed a thick branding scar around his right wrist that trailed up into the palm to take the shape of a hieroglyphic symbol – one that marked him as it did the others, in what had been conquered servitude to the Pharaoh Kassopeia. One that needed to be forgotten. The allotted rations placed into his hands covered the mark as the Itu’zah to handle him intoned a final prayer.

“May judgement be merciful and path to the afterlife swift for your service, go in the light of Mir’et.” The stoic, towering man intoned, patting Nikolas’ shoulder and pushing him past. Were it not for the weight on his fate, he would have laughed as he staggered past, walking a few steps across the barren sand before turning to watch the rest filter out.

With most of it under the sand, the gigantic worm looked as if a strange road of scales rather than a monolithic beast, spanning a good distance in both directions. At the head, a much smaller boxcar sat for controlling the tamed monster.

Its head and tip lay under the sand, but he’d seen it before. A massive jaw of jagged teeth and bold, red eyes bigger than a man’s head along the side formed the ‘front’, and all but a tapered tail at the rear. Exactly how it sifted through the sands, swimming like a snake, he did not know, but that no longer mattered. Nothing truly mattered, now.

Back by the beast, one of the last of the prisoners out thought to fight his situation, shouting and struggling with the darker man a good few hands taller than him. A single strike saw him fall to the ground, forgotten and ignored immediately. If he were not already dead, he would not see the day through, now, if left unconscious on the sands. Perhaps that was mercy.

Moments later, the gigantic beast was moving once more, the train carts on its back shaking and wobbling as it took on motion, rising from under the sand and continuing east. Those dumped to the desert were abandoned, free to go their own ways. None were expected to survive the exile. Looking back at the man left on the ground, Nikolas sighed and walked over to nudge his shoulder.

“Hey, you alive?” Someone who fought against something like the Itu’zah deserved better, deserved some company in the end. Turned out he was still conscious, and not nearly as bad off as he looked, practically just lazing in the sand – a good way to burn. Groaning, he rolled over to push himself up onto his knees.

“Ugh, of course I’m not flaming alive, we’re in the uncharted bleeding waste under the dead sun!” Spitting blood, he grunted and wiped his mouth off on the sleeve of his greyed cloak before glancing to the man who’d approached him warily.

“What do you want, anyway?” He asked, his footing firm and prepared as he came to stand. Nikolas just shook his head and raised a hand to block out the sun, skimming the horizon.

“Want? Nothing we could gain here, friend. I’ve a feeling about heading for the mountains, wouldn’t turn down the company of a man who fought to the end.” He explained, outstretching the branded hand in a gesture of good will. Looking at it thoughtfully for a long moment, his newfound companion nodded, clapping it to his own scarred palm to it, gripping firmly.

“Suits me, if we’re to die anyway, at least someone to share these moments would do the soul well. Name’s Mihal.” He said, a spark of life and purpose back in his eyes that made the bearded man grin, nodding in return.

“Agreed, brothers in arms to the last.” He replied, the pair setting off on what seemed an infinite horizon towards the towering peaks beyond. The few others had all already gone their separate ways, no spirit left in them for camaraderie or company. Given that there was little purpose to it, neither of the men tried to call out or rally them. They knew their fate, and left the others the peace of theirs. Over the sandworm’s track, the dead men walking headed towards the distant mountains.

They would be lucky to see out the night.

“Aye, I was on shipping duty for that flaming worm, shifting stock to the carriages. Turned out Her Highness had workers that would do the job willingly without the brand. Few good men started disappeared after that. Rest of us got restless, given the rumours. Got into a fight and wound up learning the truth of them, but here we are!” Having had some hours to warm up to Nikolas’s company, Mihal was happy to explain the circumstance that had brought them together, throwing his hands out in exasperation.

‘Here’ was nowhere, for all geography mattered. Only the smooth, rolling hills and salted flats surrounded them. The darkening mountain range expanded across the horizon, yet hardly seemed to be drawing any closer. It did not matter – not even the buzzards followed them. The birds knew better, for the day was dimming, harkening a time of nightmares. Resigned to fate as they may be, none wished to confront creatures that stalked the desert night.

“Well, those who fought to the end will surely be judged in grace, no matter what... fallacy would see us bend in this life. Holding up alright?” Nikolas asked, drinking from his simple leather skin of water as he glanced to the man aside him. Mihal had slowed in the past hour, but only coughed a sharp laugh and waved the concern off.

“Weight of the flaming mountains. I’ll walk with no regret for what I’ve done, but truth of the Holy Mother, to think of those we leave behind.” He spoke, a low, ragged tone that held nothing of defeat in it, but bitter despair. More than the early-evening chill, Nikolas felt sobered and leaden from that presence.

“Family man?” He had to ask, to be the one person to know of the other’s final moments in this world, and share the weight of what he was leaving behind, for all it was worth. Mihal laughed again, shaking his head.

“No, not of my flesh and blood, pray thanks. The city – the people were my own. The men and women who stood aside us especially, they were family. This is family!” His voice grew in intensity until a near shout, raising his branded fist to the dulling skies. Nikolas could sympathise, but barely managed a smile. Mihal’s hand fell limp with a ragged sigh. None of that mattered now, only their death-march in tribute remained, but night was drawing near.

“Well what now? Should we try to find somewhere to hold down for the night? Not that there’s anywhere out... here...” Nikolas mused, his words trailing off as they came to the peak of another dune. Far below the slope down, trees and crumbled ruins littered the valley. With the sun dipping cautiously into the horizon behind them, the area was darker than what lay behind them. Blanketed in that shadow, the valley held an ethereal shimmer akin to fog, as though it weren’t truly there.

“What is this sorcery?” Mihal was already moving ahead, partly sliding down the hill towards the mist as Nikolas questioned its existence. It made little sense, for there was no sun in the sky to create a mirage through heatwaves, and they had not yet descended into madness and desperation of their own minds. Whatever the case, it would make a good place to rest, perhaps find shelter and lay down their last hours.

A good half of the way down the slope, Mihal lost his footing and rolled, but couldn’t find it in him to care. A moment’s sanctuary had to be a blessing of mercy from the Eternal Mother. He was laughing, too, for all it may have been in hysterics of a slipping mind. So long as they had peace and shelter, it no longer mattered.

“Blessing or curse, I no longer care, Nikolas. Doesn’t seem as though anyone was here recently, but we have stone, shelter and dry wood. There’s flaming trees, man! I say we take the night.” Mihal’s optimism and tone was uplifting, so much that Nikolas could almost forget there would be no morrow for hope to find. Setting a small fire in what seemed a secure enough sheltered overhang of what used to be a building, their presence would be hidden from nightmares while comforting them through the night.

Hours into dusk and deathly chill followed before the men agreed on taking turns to watch over the small encampment. Nikolas decided on taking the first shift as twilight set in over them, and for a time, it was thankfully peaceful. He had to admit – looking up through where the roof once was, at the cloudless sky – there was something mesmerising and humbling about the night. Staring into such an endless void, he could feel his soul, and be sure there would be a place for it to rest once all was said and done.

A thunderous clatter broke that peaceful muse, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end as he jolted to his feet. The air smelled of sulphur before lightning even streaked across the valley. One of the leafless deadwood trees burst into flame, setting an eerie white light into the dark. Through the sudden illuminating, Nikolas caught a glimpse of what looked like the rear end of a horse, fleeting into the distance. A high-pitched screech chased after it, wings beating past the building the two men rested within.

“Mihal! Hey!” Nikolas hissed, trying not to draw attention whilst they held the element of surprise. The other man did not rouse when spoken to, nor in reaction to the curdling screech. Was he already dead from exhaustion? No, it couldn’t be, but before he could think of getting closer to check, that boom of lightning seared through the air once again. A scream followed it, a human scream, and a woman, to boot.

“What in the flaming hells is a woman doing out here? Bleeding Eternal’s name we’re all flaming dead anyway.” He growled, picking up the small satchel and rushing into the fray. Whilst not a deadly weapon, it would pack enough punch in a moment of surprise to knock the creature off centre. From there, he’d just have to think of something. A flaming branch from the crackling tree would be good.

Barely ten paces out and into the open did a flutter of wind and whistling streak past his head. Something had nearly struck him that wasn’t lightning, making him instinctively flinch down and look around. The sound of horse hooves was returning – but why hadn’t the beast fled the danger? The nightmare may have followed it, but to stay near the burning tree and circle around made no sense. Animals would always single-mindedly flee danger.

Then he saw.

A long ponytail of fine gold hair shone against the white fire as she came into view, a sturdy composite bow in hand, near-empty quiver across her back, its strap covering an ample chest with the aid of tattered leathers. Fiery emerald eyes glared into the darkness as she notched another arrow, her speed never slowing.

Therein lay the truth of it; the speed, and sound of hooves to come with it were hers alone. Below a toned and covered midriff, the woman’s body melded seamlessly into that of a horse – a centaur huntress. Just how and why she was here made no more sense than anything, but there was no time to be concerned with that, for she was shouting at him and raising her bow.

Not at him in threat, he realised, but her words were in warning. Turning around, he caught sight of the flying beast. Perfect, clashing with a nightmare would certainly be a way to go, and he had come to fight. Raising his pack-padded fist, he swung wide and took the full brunt of its impact into his chest, losing his balance as it crashed into him. The sound of an arrow whistled overhead once more as he collapsed, winded and coughing as the beast screeched and fluttered, a boom of lightning searing the ground nearby. This was no time to lay about.

Rolling over and pushing himself up, the sight of that centaur filled his world – floored, stunned and shaking in shock from the electrical onslaught. The beast circled overhead, peeling a raucous screech. It looked to be all but a black blur from where Nikolas lay, truly a thing of nightmares, but he had heard tale of it.

The Zubbaj, a carrion flier as sure as any buzzard, but far heavier, and only walked the night. Like much of the nightlife, the singe and sulphur of whatever hell it came from heralded its coming. Lashing bolts of blue-white lightning into the skies, the clawed mass of darkness the size of a winged hyena entered a death-plunge for the centaur, who still could not rise.

Given their ferocity and speed, death would have been certain, if not for a small sack colliding with the beast, throwing it off-course. Forced to adjust and flutter wildly to regain balance, it boomed around the burning tree, cycling to assess the situation. Mihal had finally woke, though it had been mere seconds since entering the fray, it felt like hours. Gauging the standing man as the bigger threat, the black-winged beast swivelled and bore down on him to meet a better aimed fist to its twisted, beaked head, clashing and sending him to the ground in a flare of lightning, claws and fists as they fought across the ground in a senseless mess.

Struggling to his feet, Nikolas looked back to the Centaur, barely conscious and still shaking, but staring back at him with a pleading hand outstretched. He knew what had to be done, and bolted forward to her.

“Pardons!” He shouted, shoving her down to get at the quiver on her back and pull the last couple of arrows from it as she blasted a muffled scream of indignation into the sand. There was no time for a better apology or manners. Rushing over to Mihal and the mauling nightmare beast, Nikolas dove in with the arrows clenched in his fist to use as daggers, stabbing at the hefty creature’s side.

Its wail was a thing of horror, talons and lightning flaying at random as it was pin-cushioned by the arrow points and beaten by the concussions of fists. In moments, it was over. The beast’s cries withered from enraged to strained and faint before it finally fell limp. Throwing it off his brother-in-arms, Nikolas panted for air raggedly as he looked down to the bloodied man, struggling to breathe as he grinned back.

“Hey, we’re not dead yet.” He rasped, rolling onto his side and coughing up blood as Nikolas swore to all Heavens, trying to steady the battered man out.

“Well don’t flaming start dying now you bastard, damned if I’m burying you. Come on, let’s get back to the fire and look at you.” Grabbing his friend’s arm and trying to roll him back over proved futile, but soon enough, the battered man was able to accept support and get up, almost crawling the distance back to warmth and sanctuary.

“The... agh, the centaur...” Mihal managed to choke out, laid down on the smooth sands next to the heat of the fire. He looked like death – gouges, scrapes and blood everywhere. There was no telling how much was his own and how much belonged to the bird, but given that he went in with fists alone, it wasn’t promising.

“What? Oh hells, right.” She was still there, not nearly as curled up and beaten by shock, but not much better off. The glow of the yet burning tree illuminated her like some fallen maiden, were she not an armed centaur in the middle of the barren waste, he might have taken her for a fairy princess. Nikolas staggered and stumbled more than once getting down the slope to her, cursing whatever rock and outcrop he was tripping over, but at least the flames were not directly over her.

“Hoi! You alright? Flaming darkspawn thing is dead, it’s alright now.” He called, waving to make his presence as known and unthreatening as possible. Turning to face him, the centaur still gasped and rolled up onto her knees. Nikolas staggered again, stopping and lowering his arms to appear less threatening, if such was her issue. The act seemed to be putting him off balance at any rate.

“It’s alright, I don’t mean to hurt you. Do you speak...?” He had to ask. Living out here, somehow hunting during the night surely made her as fearsome as any darkspawn nightmare, but there was just as much chance she was feral, wild and without language. Centaurs were nomadic from the start, so it would not have surprised him. She pointed to him, but not out of fear or accusation.

“You are wounded! Cease!” She shouted, and Nikolas finally stopped to look at himself. Somehow he hadn’t felt it, but the adrenaline rush was crashing down, now. The whole world was crashing, the boundless sky above him shrinking and slamming into his shoulders.

Pain overtook heat as blood touched to his fingers. Clashing with the bird had earned him several gashes across his chest and arms, and he had carried on unfeeling. Breathing was difficult, now. The cold sands cushioned his fall as the world went black, serenaded into the dark by the centaur’s cries. Well, at least he wouldn’t be burying Mihal.

The huntress would have to pass on the message, he’d be going on ahead.

.  .  .  .  .  .

A Not So Divine Comedy

The cycle of days and nights turn, and with it kingdoms come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the day of birth is lost to sands of time. Some name them Ages, but most do not know the span of history to name them anything. In one Age, called the Third Age by those beyond, an Age both yet to come and long past, a dry wind blew across a barren waste of midnight grey. The wind was not a beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the passage of time, but it was a beginning.

The wind brushed and broke against tall, ruined walls of stone, carrying on into a darkened city of tall towers and ornate, curved bell spires. The wind ran the streets freely, kicking up sand and whimsically fettering the overhanging tapestries. The wind dashed and ran like a carefree spirit through streets with no life, nary a care for the world around it until finally bursting out into a broad, circular marketplace.

Nikolas raised an arm to shield himself against a buffet of sand, all a little too late, and spat at the ground before sighing and rubbing it out of his face. Shadows and spectres of souls he remembered surrounded him, incorporeal and surreal, yet wholly tangible in this place beyond the mortal realm. Here was where he had stood, where they all had stood to hear news from the east, news of the grand city Zestalm falling to unnatural usurpers, to an army that seemed to be borne of sand and sorcery, demolishing and slaughtering its opposition with impunity.

No one knew what was happening, only that they readied to march. The outlying city of Calisdan would not be caught so unawares, and would not be brought to heel under some new terror. So they had said, but only sorrow surrounded the lone man, now. Wiping his face down again, scratching the sand out of his black beard, the beaten man moved, leaving the marketplace and gust of wind that whipped around the shadows behind. There was nothing for him here.

For what seemed like hours, he walked, though the skies never once changed. He knew they would not, knew this was not the natural world, yet still he walked. A wandering soul had no need for rhyme and reason. It was said by many in folktale and fable that whence you died, your life flashed before your eyes. Perhaps this haunting reminder was the truth of it.

Perhaps it was but what came after. More than a flash, but constant visions of what your life was and may have been? Was this what the dead were confronted with in their time of judgement, or simply due to the nature of his death? It was ill omen amongst the living to go unburied without coin in hand to pay Death’s toll, lest the soul so unvalued be left to wander the shores of the underworld.

So the saying went, but there was no shore, here. Nothing but a cold, lifeless reminder surrounded Nikolas. He walked until he came upon the battlefield his people had chosen, the sands where many had made their last stand in defiance of a sun that did not exist in this place. Only their shadows remained, lined up in their formations as though awaiting their distant enemy.

Passing between them, he felt the weight of their lives fall on his back as he walked by. Their cries of battle followed him as he passed through to the desolate sands. There would be no enemy now, nothing for them to confront. There was no longer anything for him to confront, either, but he could not stay. He had failed to protect them, failed to save them, and failed to share their fate.

He did not expect to find salvation or forgiveness amongst them, nor on the butcher’s bill that regaled their last stand. He only walked on. Mihal came to mind as he wandered – the lighter of spirit and complexion alike. Perhaps that man who had fought and laughed until the end was also here, wandering amongst the shadows of death in this desolate purgatory. Knowing the younger man shared his fate and memory did little to soothe the soul, now.

Ashen wind blew, a dry and merciless, scathing tear of nature’s wrath. It was no worse than a sandstorm’s wind in life, but that was exactly it. Here, even the supposed wind carried that pallid haze of death that said nothing of the life that nature commanded. There was nothing natural in the heat or air, nothing to make it feel real. The sensation made Nikolas queasy, raising a hand to wipe off his face as he looked away from the infinite horizon.

As there was no life, and no company, there was no sense in manners or reason for him to not spit at the grey sands and clear his mouth in disgust. Rubbing at his eyes and blinking, Nikolas found himself in a new cityscape. Just how long had he been wandering whilst blinded by the dead sand? It had seemed like mere seconds, but there had been nothing before him, and now this.

Turning around, there was nothing behind but that infinite horizon. The city was not the one he had come from, its walls stood much higher, adorned with unmoving frills and flags. Tall, pointed domes donned the houses that rose beyond the wall every direction. This city filled the horizon as far as the eye could see, and though he had never once laid eyes upon its hallowed walls, he knew it. He knew it all too well, for the creep of hatred to fill his mind came naturally. #C, ‘city of the dawn’, where the unbeknown army had first risen, overthrowing what had stood as the desert’s crown.

The weight of those to fall returned to Nikolas, heavier than before. They made it difficult to move, for the weight was but the only true thing in this realm, and robed him more fully than the tattered robe that adorned his shoulders. It was difficult to think for the voices that invaded his mind.

Find her.

Return it.

Redeem us.

Endlessly they repeated, as if guiding his will. Superstitious of ‘fate’ in life, there could not possibly be such a thing in death. Their guidance was not a ‘hand of fate’, but the endless torment he was to be subject to for his failings. The garb that surrounded him offered no comfort, yet still he drew the ragged cloak closer, walking on into the city as though it were his own.

He had to move, for their weight threatened to sink him into the dead sand and drive him mad if he did not. Every step lightened the burden and dulled the pain. He did not care where he was going, but felt as though he knew where he would end up. Be it fate, torment or just the hellish nature of this place, he could feel it did not matter which way he walked through the narrow streets, shadowed by tall buildings and elegant archways – he would come to but one destination.

Stairs. Countless stairs stood before him, as though some grand trial. This was no such test, but merely the foot of the monolithic Palace. Up that heavy rise he walked, each step passing with a sense of victory that brought him closer to a presence he wanted nothing to do with. A presence he wanted everything from. At the head of those steps, he could hear and feel nothing of the cries beyond. His mind was as clear as the dead skies. He walked inside to venture the empty halls.

No one came to greet nor oppose him within. He did not expect there to be anything but the madness of his own mind that urged him on through the fine marble halls. Even under the pallor of death, the grandeur and finesse of the place was sickening. No living king had basked in such wealth, though no king owned these halls.

No, what had come from the sands, usurped rule and set out a scourge of war to ‘unify through force’ under new rule was something else entirely. Just as the rumours, whispers and messages had said, the figure that had stood at the head of the tide, the one that had sentenced so many to death through exile was something more than any mortal king – her own admission inclusive.

Paying little attention to the fine detail of the corridors he walked and rooms he entered unto, the sudden shift of motion took the wandering soul by surprise. In a swathe of what appeared to be sand, falling from the roof to floor, fanning out as though weightless dust, that mythical monarch appeared before him, her back to him as she walked on ahead.

The screams of the dead filled his mind and body, yet he did not hear them. Only the deathly silence and drumming of a heart that had already stopped filled his world. Before him stood the image of his demise, and Nikolas had no mind to reason out whether this was some trick or trap of tortured damnation. He would not let this moment escape him.

She stood different from whence he had last laid eyes upon her, lacking most of the high adornments that shone so brightly in the midday sun, but it was unmistakeable. Sheer black hair, cut to straight angles across brow and back spilled down to cover the dark vanilla of her tensed shoulder blades completely. She wore only a beautiful red silk nightgown atop the bandages that wove from wrist to underarm and ankle to thigh.

Even had the mythical Queen been fully naked, the posture she held with each step, demanding respect and preference even here, was unmistakeable. She had not seen him behind her as she walked on to a set of tall doors, pushing them open and continuing inside. Beyond was a grand, expansive hall of statues and intricate pillars. Her gaze wandered amongst them with a troubled expression, yet as soon as she found him in her shadow, the Queen snapped into a steeled blade of dominance, as hard as any stone around her. Even here she would look down on him and demand fealty. Even now she would question his right to exist.

“Who are you?! By what right do you stand in the Hall of the Forerunners? Answer for yourself!” Her words came with rage and fury. Rage and fury answered her. Nikolas bolted forward without thought, the motion itself seeming to strike her with fear. There were no guards here, nothing to protect her from the wails of the damned that hounded him. The realisation put a flicker of fear into those deep red eyes, replaced quickly by a lash of indignation.

“What do you– Guards! To Me, Gua–” It fire in her eyes and voice alike were snuffed out before either of the two – alone in this dead world – struck the floor.

For all her posture and power, Kassopeia was light – so much so that the full brunt of the charge sent her off her feet. Sprawled out beneath her assaulter, the floored Queen kicked and dug her heels into the smooth marble floor uselessly. Nikolas’ hands were around her bared neck, squeezing and pressing down with the full force of all whom rested upon his shoulders.

Through gritted teeth, her gasps and groans came strangled as she glared up at him. Her fair hands did nothing to pull his arms away, for all they clawed and beat at him. Nikolas’ body had become the stone itself, and could no longer turn away. The knees in his thighs, nails in his arms and struggling convulsion of the body beneath him did nothing.

He felt nothing but the weight of death over him. Not even exhilaration from how Kassopeia’s eyes turned from indignantly enraged to strained, watery and weak as she gasped for want to scream, writhing and twisting to be free of his hands could touch him.

“I... do not... fear you...” Even then, as her hissing words turned to agonized, squeaking gasps for air, the writhing of her firm body under him slowing and losing its vigour, the pharaoh defied him, as though to defy victory. It did not matter, for the light in her eyes flickered and waned just as the strength in her scuffing, curling legs went limp. Kassopeia bucked and convulsed in a final, reflexive show of resistance before the light left her, a single tear rolling down her cheek, riveting through a reddened crack in the skin.

Nikolas could not move. Could not unlock his hands from the throat they held. He could not breathe, for all that did not matter in this place. The wails of the dead were a storm around him, adrenaline and shock paralyzing his body. Was it done? Had he taken vengeance at the cost of his life?

Before the tear on Kassopeia’s cheek could so much as escaped the crack in her clay-like skin, everything disintegrated into sand. His hands slammed into the marble, covered by what had been a lifeless throat. Now, there was nothing but sand. The voices fell silent, his hands turned and scooped at the sand in wonder, only for it to worthlessly stream through his fingers. What did this mean?

“Well now, aren’t you Conqueror of the Sands. A pity it’s such poor foundation to plant your flag in.” Nikolas staggered, turning and stumbling over the mass of sand that gave him no footing to stand on to sit dumbfounded in the mess that remained, staring wordlessly at the figure behind him. The voice was that of a woman, but distinctly not Kassopeia. This one was much more rattling, tired and aged. With an ivory hand outstretched from within a black robe, the woman chuckled quietly.

“Well now, I didn’t expect you to find me so breath-taking, but gather yourself. There’s no need to get choked up and lose your head over a friendly face now. Rise, King of the sand mound.” The offered hand waved invitingly, seeming little more than bones wrapped in ether when moved before solidifying again. Nikolas stared from the hand and face of the woman within the robe, standing on his own accord.

“What... who are you...?” Finally able to breathe, the shaken man managed to mutter out his words as he locked unsteady legs under him and rose. Her smile was something unworldly, a thin crack in an otherwise stunningly beautiful porcelain face. Hair as stark white as her soft cheeks peaked from within the hood, framing her silvery grey eyes that showed no sign of age. Whatever she was, there was a betraying sharpness to the look in the eyes that narrowed as she spoke.

“The ghost of solstice present, as I see you’ve already met the spirit of past.” She declared, waving the offered hand to the pile of sand now scattered across the marble floor before him in a mess. Ghosts and spirits were not beyond reason in such a place, for what even was he and they upon his back, if not a phantom of the damned. The offered hand retracted, joining the other in wrapping around a tall staff she leant on, for all it did not seem needed.

“What...?” That did not mean the title she had given, with no shortage of flippancy in tone made any sense. She chuckled again – that bottomless rattle of mirth – shaking her head and turning away to walk to the doors at the back of the grand hall, staff clacking with each step as though truly an old woman.

“I am Death, and I have come to collect. Come with me if you don’t want to live in this purgatory.” It didn’t seem much of an offer at all, but then Nikolas had grasped that his assault on what he thought to be the Pharaoh of his demise was but a mirage, a mystical trick to torment him, and cared not to stay in such a place that would play tricks on his mind.

“Ah.” Death paused before the doors, tilting her head to look over her shoulder in such a way that pushed the cowl off her head. Such an angle should have been impossible, done in such a way that said she truly was not of the mortal world. “That was all a lie. I am Charon, and you don’t have a say in the matter, but let’s consider that all water under the bridge.” So Charon – ferryman of the damned, spectre of the underworld – declared, and the towering hall doors burst open.

Every door in the hall opened with a thundering slam, crashing torrents of water flooding in. It took less than seconds to reach and overwhelm Nikolas, crushing and lifting him off the ground to be swept away like nothing more than sand in the wind.

“Yes, let’s consider that all water under the bridge.” That soft, almost husky tone filled his ears where only the disorientating growl of water should have been. Gasping, coughing and grappling onto hard wood, Nikolas realised he was in a small boat, and dry. Focusing on keeping it that way, the disorientated man backed away from the edge quickly, gripping the hard wood and calming his ragged breaths as a soft sloshing of water ebbed through the dark.

“Oh, don’t tell me that little shift rattled your bones, you don’t even have any.” Charon’s stark monotone belied the sardonic humour in the smile that fixed him over a shrouded shoulder as she drove the thin oval of a craft. The helm of her boat curled up and back, holding a simple lantern that complimented her complexion with a ghostly white light that seemed to be immediately swallowed by the void beyond the boat’s edge.

Only an eerie mist and pure black waters that barely rippled as the boat moved surrounded them. He didn’t care for it, and wanted to throw up, but had nothing inside him. Her sharp words were true enough, which only made him groan and turn away from the edge of the boat again, lowering his head to calm it.

“Don’t feel very grounded? Well, you’re on water.” Charon pointed out with droll obliviousness, pulling the long, paddle-topped staff from out of the water to work the other side. “Normally the dead and dying are paid a coin for their lives end, but I take it Her Divinity left you wanting.” She continued, a slight more sincere and thoughtful tone as the pitch black waters rippled with the gentle passing of her oar. The shoreline was far and away on either side, and on it he could only see the vaguest of ruins and nothingness in ashen sand.

“You know her...?” His voice was hoarse, as dry and rattling as her own. He didn’t dare look at his hands for fear of fading to the incorporeal. He didn’t feel firm enough without seeing if the fears were founded. Charon clucked a short chuckle, slowly padding the waters.

“I know she is beyond debt. Perhaps that is why she did not pay you, believing gold will bring stability to sand. It is not my concern, but I cannot very well leave you to harass her image, she may begin harassing mine.” Charon explained in that low, tired voice that cared nothing for the world of the living beyond what frustrations it imposed upon the underworld.

Well, she didn’t matter now – nothing of that world mattered. The sullen silence to follow, the lack of Charon’s dead humour was comforting. It seemed even the cries of the dead had been left on the shore. Perhaps they had merely been ferried on ahead of him. He’d stopped trying to make sense of this place, its bleak river stretching onward as far as he could see in both directions, faded landscapes of ruin and darkness dotting the side line between the opaque drabs of mist.

It was only then that Nikolas saw something of a disturbance in the dark stillness of the world. There was something under the water, something in the dark beyond. Something too large to imagine, like the underworld itself was a writhing, living thing. Backing away from the edge of the simple boat quickly, he slammed into the other side, causing it to shake and splash, earning another dry click of Charon’s tongue as she lazily righted it.

“Now, now, it’ll take more than that to rock my boat, for all you look capable. Sit still, it’ll all be over soon.” She instructed, as limitlessly soft and patient as the tranquil waters around her simple ferry. Nikolas wondered about her quip, the words that seemed to have an edge more heat in them as she glanced back at him. If she had meant to insinuate something, there was naught he could have done about his lack of clothing, and so he decided on silence in retort.

“Ah, well now, aren’t you damned...” It was the low, pensive sigh of a statement that brought Nikolas’ attention reluctantly back to her. For all there was no sound to the crashing cascade of water that ripped in, the banks of the river were now made of something entirely living. A massive, serpentine coil of darkness was shifting and rising, masking all that lay beyond the shore. The river’s path was similarly blocked, damning it up and stopping the boat from proceeding on.

Pulling her oar out of the black waters, Charon spun it around to slam the hilt into the floor of the boat, resting on it as though a walking stick once more. Nikolas was reminded of just how much it made her look the mythical reaper, if tipped by plank instead of scythe. Staring into and over that gigantic, pulsating wall of scale, the ferryman waited silently, a tired grimace on her ivory face.

More a whipping of wind than word filled the air, the contorted breaking of the silence somehow bearing tone and meaning to the cloaked ferryman. Nikolas felt as though he was being watched, stared at and pierced through by something beyond perception. The staggered, speechless man could almost see a pair of slitted ovals, high above the monstrous wall that brought a stop to the river of the dead, yet the dark and mist was much too thick to be certain.

“Really now,” Charon sighed out, turning around and silently plunging her oar back into the dark waters, “given neither toll nor much in company, and now I’m to ferry you back. Must think this quite the divine comedy.” The forsaken ferryman complained, her tone as low, soft and gratingly emotionless as ever. If not for all the sardonic wit of her words, it would have been impossible to see her as but indifferent to the way the river ran as she turned around.

Now at the back of the boat, it gave Charon a much more appealing view – the man she was ferrying laid out before her like some piece of art. It brought a quiet smile to her lips, just how naturally he seemed to make his helpless disposition look handsome. He seemed to be trying to ignore her now, perhaps to look over the far scenery or think on his fate. Truly, that interested her too, but the most the ferryman would be able to glean from this sequence of events was but enough to curry a small payment.

Pursing and biting her under lip, Charon decided that was exactly what she would do. Pulling her oar out of the water, the ethereal usher spun it around, slamming the hilt into the floor of the boat. That certainly got Nikolas’ attention, yet more importantly summoned a torrential gush of water from behind where he sat, forcing him to slide down the boat as it reared up on her wave.

“Woah, what in hells?!” It was all Nikolas could do to try and right himself, taken completely unawares. Tranquil rivers did not do that. As he slid, something firm took hold of his wrist, as though reaching out to save him from falling. There was little that felt supportive in the firm grasp, however. Before he could think to look, both his arms were snapped up and raised above his head.

Charon only clicked her tongue. “Now now, you should know better. We are not in the hells, and nor are we going that direction any longer. Given this miraculous turn of events, I thought this journey could use a little more on-board entertainment.” Was there something resembling temptation in her voice? A sultry curl on the words?

The oar was back in the water, lazily paddling in such a way that as likely meant nothing to the course of the boat. The whole thing was as likely just for show, to occupy Charon’s mind and hands, but now she had something else to keep her attention. Whilst making her declaration, the cloaked spirit had moved forward across the boat, and now stood between Nikolas’ legs. He only then realised that they too were locked into place by what appeared to be shadowy, grasping hands, and could not pull them away or right himself to sit up.

“I don’t think I want to know what your idea of entertainment is...” Held down by unyielding hands, mere slivers of wood separating him from the river of the damned, it was no position for light humour. Charon, of course, the one whom ‘lived’ on such dark humours, seemed to think otherwise, her silvery eyes shining as she smiled down at him.

“Freeloaders don’t have a choice in the matter. You’re going to pay me my service, but you can be as stiff as you want about it.” Now there certainly was warmth in her tone, a dangerous sort of heat. It only confused the floored and bound man at first until he felt it – the soft caress of a foot tracing up his bare leg from under her cloak.

Reflexively he tried to struggle and pull away from the awkward stimulation, but there was no give in any of the clenched grips. Given the sheer length of her robes, he could see nothing of her body below the neck, but could certainly feel the gentle press of each toe slipping under the ragged canvas of his loincloth, pushing it away and treating his cloak-covered crotch to something that had no right being so smooth for the sole of a foot. Charon only smiled innocently, leaning slightly on the oar that split the dark waters.

“That’s a good reaction. What, you didn’t think the soles of souls would be anything to write home about? Well, perhaps I’ll send you in person to recite the truth.” The sardonic smirk about the ferryman’s pristine white lips only widened as she gripped the haft of her oar with both hands, leaning on it as though rooted and perfectly stable in the silent waters. From that support, her foot continued its humiliatingly gentle assault.

Feeling the silken curve of her sole slide up and down that sensitive spot, there was little Nikolas could do to stop his body’s reaction. It seemed improper to be capable of reacting in such a way at all when supposedly dead, but lively his body was. Truthfully, he did not feel all that different in this realm to the living world, it was the foot stroking and impressing on his hardening shaft was all too surreal. That it was done from under a weathered black robe did not help matters.

“My, there’s some life in you yet, hmm?” With an unshifting smile, Charon’s eyes danced across her captive’s body, enjoying the sight of him stretched out for her as the soft flat and hard ball of her foot rolled and slid along the length of his hardening member. Curling and drawing her toes down the throbbing underside forced the first languid moan from Nikolas, who had been trying to hold back any reaction, and a triumphant giggle from Charon.

“See, isn’t it much nicer when you enjoy the ride?” Pleasure rang in her voice as she slid her foot back up, pressuring and squeezing the hard shaft enough under the ball of her foot as it moved with a dextrous curl, fanning and flicking his sensitive tip with the tender bump of each toe. The sensation so unlike finger nor tongue put a guilty tinge on the shudder that ran through Nikolas, leading him to struggle harder and groan in defiance.

“Ahh, nonsense, if you mean to torment me then be clear of it, without such perversion!” It struck him that the whole thing may be an elaborate ruse since their meeting in the Hall – that he was not being ferried in any direction, but merely tormented in death. Neither Charon’s smile nor the pressure of her foot – the singular spot that felt as though it was the only thing holding him down – wavered in their intensity, however.

Rather than concede and relent, the damned ferryman hummed a quiet tone of amusement in the back of her throat, twisting and shifting her foot to slide it back down like an over-sized tongue, digging her firm heel into his balls – softly pinning them to the deck. Oh so softly, for any harder would have had the silenced man more than fearing for his undying soul.

“Oh, I take it you appreciate the weight of your situation a little, hmm?” Charon asked, smiling derisively as she continued to assault him as much with her terrible wit as humiliating pressure. Were he not already dead, he would consider her a deadly foe. That she lay beyond death did little to improve the matter.

“I do hate to break it, seeing you squirm so is a rare pleasure, but no, if torment was the goal, you would have been left to play in the sand. Perhaps I would smile when your sandcastle fell to dust each time it grew. You interest me, and interest other parties much more, it seems. The due I take for your passage is just that.” The soft tone belied the power Charon held over Nikolas as he lay under her, left to shiver as her heel released his balls, the single, rounded digit of her big toe tracing back up the thick vein that ran to tip. The motion pushed her leg forward from between the slips of robe, flashing a long, slender line of perfect white.

Thickest and softest at the thigh, where the just so plush curve of white disappeared into the fold of her robe, the leg seemed to go on forever. Like an ethereal waterfall of luminescence, that curve spilled down to the knee where it finally bent in accentuated and strong lines. For all it was a stark contrast to the softness, it was perfect.

Transfixed by the majesty of her lucent skin, Nikolas could only stare as the robe split and slid back from the craned leg, giving off a full show of her elegant calf, accentuated to a firm line behind the draw of her leg. There was tone of muscle in it without being overt, a taught and trained figure that left him to wonder just what else lay beneath the mythical ferryman’s robe.

At the base of it all was the prime offender of this otherworldly encounter. Nikolas had never thought to consider himself a man for feet, but his body surely entertained the thought, standing quite to attention and poking at the sole of her perfect form. Seeing her roll the tip underfoot in slow, controlled circles, he couldn’t help but appreciate the contour of each toe, the tender curve of her foot and sharp draw of the heel and ankle above it all.

“Oh, lost for words, now? A fear of saying something more embarrassing and ending up foot in mouth over it? Well, at least you’re rising to the occasion where it matters.” Charon chided and teased in that light, passive tone as though none of it interested her at all, for all the acute ministrations required a good deal of focus. It was all Nikolas could do to resist the urge to buck and groan in illicit pleasure as Charon shifted and slid his rigid shaft across the soft contour of her foot.

“You know, it wouldn’t kill you to be a little more honest with yourself, folk usually get far worse treatment down here. Ah, maybe that’s your thing?” She asked, her pace and technique quickening as the soft caress twisted and shifted, from flattening the throbbing length against his crotch to stroke it across the crown of her foot, teasing and prodding his balls beneath.

“Ngh, gods, no...” The one attempt at defiance affirmed why Nikolas was keeping a clenched grip on his words – they did not sound at all as genuine as he’d have liked. Be it the hells or not, her torment was inescapable, perfect and coming to a head whether he resisted it or not.

“Now now, there are no gods here – not now, so you can let it all out. Go on.” If her motions had been impossible to resist, the sudden shift in pace left him beyond hope. Quickened and hardened with a frenzy, there was no resisting arcing his back off the deck, gasping and groaning from the wicked torment so unlike wails of the damned. Her supple press was everywhere at once, gripping between toes, stroking and pressing to finish him in short order.

“Mmhm, that’s more like it, and there’s no harm in shooting your soul out over my foot in payment now, is there? You’re not using it anyway if you get off to something like this.” Charon’s final words held all the hidden weight of doom Nikolas had felt hanging over his head, cutting off all sense from his racing mind. Through ragged breathes and a pounding head, he stared up at her.

“What? Wh-hey, woah, stop! No, st-aah! Hey!” But there was no stopping. Try and tense as he might, that throbbing in his head was everywhere. The velvet slip across his shaft, assaulting it from every possible angle in wholly improper ways was too much to handle. Resist as he might, every muscle tensed and twisted, climax was rolling through him already.

It took only the gentlest curling flick of toes and the underside of that ethereal foot across the tip for it to blow, shuddering in damning bliss to coat them in more viscous white. Nikolas panted in a torrent of pleasure and despair, shaking and trying in vain to pull himself away from that siphon that milked and kneaded more of him out of his body.

Charon’s unerring chuckle was disturbingly sweet for what she had done. The foot came away. “My, just look at you. Really lost your footing there, but that was all a lie, too.” Declaring so as if toying with the man’s pride and soul was no big deal, Charon’s smile showed him the true face of torment in this underworld. Taking two steps forward over him, the fiend knelt down and summarily sat herself on his stomach, reaching out to stroke his cheek.

“You could do with being more honest, but your soul belongs to another, handsome.” Were it not for the nature of her torment, he could have called the tone and touch affectionate. The shift left him dazed and confused all the same. “I am merely borrowing it as payment for ferrying around. Free rides beget more free rides, don’t you think?” Those silvery eyes asked him in a way that said the question was as duplicitous as half of what came from her insidiously beautiful lips.

“I... I don’t think–” Cut off by a slender finger pressing over his lips, Charon’s smile was all too knowing. She enjoyed watching him squirm all too much, and held every power over him to make it possible. The rarest of occasions seemed to be piling up on one-another for the ferryman, and she would indulge the opportunity.

“You don’t need to.” She whispered, that dextrous finger trailing down across his chin, stroking his jaw, neck and trailing down to splay out over his bared chest. It was then, by some unseen magic or manipulation that her robe fully came away. What had been little more than a supple neckline expanded down into a sharp collar, gently curved shoulder and luminous, naked body of ghostly white.

Her figure beneath the bounds was beyond what Nikolas had imagined from the flash of thigh alone. Toned at a glance, the ferryman’s figure did not lack in fair and voluptuous wiles of a woman, yet those in turn were measured by the subtle contour of muscle that marked strong arms and a firm chest. Perky in shape and size enough to fill a hand without spilling out around it, were he able to move his hands.

Her stomach and thighs were much the same, chiselled to a swimmer’s curve, resting contently on his stomach with the little squish of softness they held. Once more, Nikolas’ body reacted, yet this time much more agreeably. For all sacrilege or damning as it may be over a denizen of the underworld, there was no denying the beauty of her form. Appreciating that came much easier than accepting the caress of her foot.

Charon’s eyes flared with a shimmer of surprise – lost in tracing patterns down his chest with her light fingers – her smile broadening out as his feelings reached the tight cheeks of her rump. “Oh, now there’s that honesty I knew you had shored up in there. So quick to sail, it almost seems a shame to dock and anchor it, but...” Her tone, of course, said nothing of remorse as those hips pushed back against the protruding shaft, pressing it up between her cheeks to teasingly rub and torment with the flexing firmness.

“Anything you want to say? One little shift and I’ll have you in my grasp.” Continuing with that mirthful chime, Charon seemed to be fishing for compliments just a little as she shifted and pushed against the shaft at her rear, smiling quietly down at her captive. He couldn’t help but be more honest now, the feel of her slightly chilled body pressing against him a more natural thing to enjoy than the tip of her toes. Getting a full view of her figure was breath-taking in its own right.

“I... I don’t...” Nikolas stammered, searching for words, now that they had been requested. It forced him to think, for all he’d been told not to, and remember once more that the woman atop him was an otherworldly spirit of the dead. This situation was beyond simple swooning, and so his words trailed off into a nothingness of hesitation. Charon only chuckled, her comfortably cold hands stroking up and down the bared sides of his chest as she leant down to fill his gaze with the smoky silver of her eyes.

“Silence speaks clearly enough. I’ll just have your soul speak for you, though a certain intermediary.” So stated, Charon lowered her head, pressing her supple lips to his in a tender kiss that should have put the chill and fear of death into him, given who it was from, yet only filled him with a cooling sense of peace and want for the woman over him. Whatever else she may be, in this moment, she was but a mythically alluring woman.

For all Charon had said it needed but a single shift, the plunge came unexpectedly quick and easy on those toned hips. Pushing herself up off his chest, her body slid straight down around the warmth of his shaft, letting it penetrate, spread and fill her with a burst of agonising pleasure that rewarded his acceptance with a velvety coolness, clinging to and wrapping every inch of his member tightly.

In perhaps her most emotive outcry, Charon gasped a quivering little moan of pleasure as Nikolas reflexively bucked his hips up, lunging and stabbing all the way to the hilt. The feel of it hitting so deep had the ferryman ball her fists for but a moment before smoothing her composure out and smiling down at him. “Haah, that’s what I thought, but it’ll still take more than this to rock my boat.” Charon reminded, smiling and splaying her hands out across the broad firmness of Nikolas’ chest, revelling in her control of the situation.

“Mmh, if you released me I’ll rock your damn boat.” Her poor captive managed to mutter out, shaking and pushing his hips up against her for a reaction and more of that cool pleasure that every little motion and twitch of her around him caused. It earned a quick gasp and breathy snap of a laugh as Charon quickly calmed, resting her hands on his shoulders to lean forward, almost slipping all the way off him.

“Oh, you want to take a hands-on approach to it now, do you? No, who knows what you might try if I let you loose.” Rolling her hips on the tip, leaving only shallow licks of pleasure to kiss and lap at the twitching cock her folds pinched down on, the ethereal ferryman stared down at the tormented soul beneath her with a quirked brow.

“Now, the ride will take a while, so there’s no rush. I’ll be getting my worth out of it.” Struggle as he might, the binds did not give, and stretched out as he was only allowed for so much arcing and pushing up. He was at the forsaken deity’s mercy, which seemed a wholly fleeting thing to rely on. The slow, gentle slide back down wasn’t enough to make the water beyond the boat ripple, but certainly sent another ripple of agonizingly weak pleasure through the man under her.

“Nnh, I swear I won’t strangle you, just let me go!” Struggling and bucking as much as he could – which amounted to little more than squirming around in an entertaining fashion – Nikolas tried to reason it out with his opportunist guide, earning only a soft chuckle and pat of his toned stomach as she sat and shifted her hips slowly, rubbing and rolling her folds against his crotch.

“Hmm, oh, I’m sure you’d be the image of restraint, but luckily for me, you already fit that bill, so no deal.” The soft, sultry tone was infuriatingly knowing, smiling down at him as she gently rolled and twisted at the waist. Were it not so painfully slow, he could have appreciated it as a sort of erotic lap dance, the softly defined contours of her stomach and hips shifting in and out of focus with each subtle sway.

“Aah... fuck your boat, woman, I swear it!” Left with only the softest caress, the chill of that velvet kiss keeping him on edge, Nikolas put a renewed vigour into struggling and bucking up, finding her body only swayed and rose with him as though fighting water. The feel of her wrapped around his shaft changed little, as though only causing the mildest of disturbing ripples in her form.

Charon chuckled softly, leaning back to rest her hands on the side of the boat, flexing and bowing her back. An erotic show that did little to alleviate his desires, but such was her plan. “I could consider you a part of the boat, yes.” Unphased by his tone or promises, Charon pulled her hands away from the sides, cupping her pert breasts to squeeze and push together, closing her eyes and beginning to sway in dance to an unheard rhythm.

The resulting waves of pleasure were a slow, lapping thing that felt as though they would go on forever as the boat slowly drifted through the dead waters. With only thick mist and the ferryman for a view, watching her gentle sway was all Nikolas could do to stop from going mad with restrained and tempered lapping of pleasure.

Pinching the lightly greyed nipples and swaying her hips in each which direction, Charon hummed sweetly as she glanced down to the naked man she had bound to the boat, twisting in her jive so much as to turn around in his lap, splaying out to lay with her breasts upon his knees. The change of angle lashed a sharp pang of pleasure and showed off the perfect heart-shaped peach of her rear below a long, silvery braid down her back.

“Oh, I daren’t imagine what you’d do with free hands now.” Arcing her back to push those firm cheeks back and down into his lap, swallowing up the shaft buried between them into her warming depths, Charon looked back over her shoulder in that unerring angle, raking her fingers up her captive’s legs. Her ghostly hips rolled and danced on the pole of his passion with just a little more power to excite and tempt him on.

“But what if I gave you just a little freedom, I wonder.” She crooned, drawing and lifting her hands, and with them his knees. Whilst the bindings did not relent, they did adjust under her will, and allowed the knees to rise, giving Charon a place to rest her chest as she shook and wiggled her hips from side to side. Tormented and restrained as Nikolas was, it didn’t take much for the man to understand and immediately take action with this newfound leverage.

Nikolas lunged and thrust up hard enough to almost throw the domineering ferryman off his crotch and out of the boat, was her balance and control not perfect. The shocked wail of pleasure as he struck spots so woefully unattended and tested the mettle of her vaunted balance was a sweet, reverberating tone as Charon clenched and buckled down on him. Now, at least, he could pay her back with force.

“Hah! Ooh, that’s more like it!” Charon exclaimed, all but laughing as she clung to Nikolas’ knees, plunging herself back down to meet and negate every hard thrust up he made. The result was loud, visceral slaps that finally looked and felt like sex. The long, silvery braid bounced and swung freely as the ferryman rode the pent up lust and desire that having already cum once did nothing to quench in her paying passenger.

Perhaps it was a thing of being a lost soul, or the lack of meaning time had in this place that allowed it, but all the bound man knew was that he did not have it in him to care for reason to his bottomless lust. Only the desire to slam and fuck the sardonic wit and overbearing confidence out of her remained. His torment would be that it didn’t seem to be possible at all, given the sharp, breathy laughs that followed each hard smack of hip to ass, pushing him back to hitting her walls with another hard rush of pleasure.

“Aah! Yes! Put your back into it, row like you mean it!” She screamed. Perhaps if he had his hands free, he would have strangled her at this point. He’d have liked to at least grab the tightly twitching round of an ass and pull on the elegant braid that swung and bounced off the supple curve of her back. The frustration of straining his arms against the relentless binding only put more vigour into the thrusts, for all the energy had no other outlet.

“Oh, hah, fuck, I don’t want this ride to end!” Charon whined out, squeezing on Nikolas’ knees for support as she bounded and rolled on his hard shaft, quickly twisting back around to face him in the beat between lunges. Losing that connection for all of a moment was near agonizing, but the hard pierce back in, shoving deeper with the angle, made it all the better, and stole the ferryman’s breath.

This way, his legs acted as a backrest for the lust-addled ferryman who was paying no attention to her task. The boat would continue on its path without her guidance well enough, she had much more important things to focus on. Face to face with her once more and left mostly to do the work of it on his own accord, Nikolas could only grit his teeth, straining his muscled form against the bindings and lifting the ethereal woman on top of him up with a force of will alone.

Lust for her had long since clouded reason or moderation, leaving powerful thrusts and lurid slaps of skin on skin as Charon dug her heels into the deck of her boat, grasping at breast and rubbing at crotch to increase her pleasure, as his hands would not be moving so. While no colour entered her body, the ivory woman seemed to all but glow with a radiance of forgotten pleasures, her eyes glistening as she was bucked up and down on him.

Lost and alone in their own little boat-sized world, the pair carried on without a care for how they may look beyond the boat. It was as well that nothing, living or otherwise, resided on the shores where both Charon’s quivering moans and Nikolas’ ragged groans drifted to. For what seemed an eternity of drifting through those dead waters, the captive and tormented man under the ferryman bucked and thrust into the all but translucent softness that rested in his lap, searching for that final edge of release.

It had to have been hell, he thought, yet even that would come to an end, as all things did. Contently mauling and squeezing a supple breast with one hand, the nipple pinched and pressured between fingers whilst the other hand furiously rubbed at the squelching spot between her legs, Charon finally began bucking of her own will once more. Given the flushed look of her pale face, distant sparkle in her silvery eyes and how firmly she bit down on her lip, the cause was clear. She was drawing just as close.

Redoubling his efforts, Nikolas devoted all his energy to pounding the woman’s spot, splitting her in two and pistoning with an unholy force. Arcing her back until her shoulders touched Nikolas’ knees, making a bow of the gap, Charon whined and whimpered in the back of her throat as her toned stomach clenched and spasmed with the blissful, rolling pleasure of climax.

The resulting tension gripped his cock with more than a vice, as though the pull of death itself lay within her. Nikolas was able to slide in to hilt one last time, and then was locked in place, gripped from all sides by an undulating force that dragged him – willing or not – over the edge into a powerful climax, filling the greedy depths with his pulsing release. It felt both a gift of heavens and hells at once.

It was all he could do to nearly groan out death cries of relief, despite the cold reminder of having already died. It seemed strange that something could feel so intense in this afterlife, but the bound man found himself entirely out of breathe. Following suit, the woman atop him was breathlessly whimpering and panting in hazy afterglow, before merely collapsing onto his chest, mewling a soft moan from curled lips.

“Ahh, gods... please, tell me that didn’t rip my soul out...” Nikolas implored, fearful again despite any prior assurance of being a joke. This certainly did not feel a comedy. Charon only chuckled for a long moment, stroking at the broad span of his chest under her and stirring only slightly as she basked in the simple warmth of touch. He was yet lodged within her, as though her body had shrunk a size or two and now refused to release him.

“Mmm, no, as much as I might like to, I’d be in some hot water if I kept you to myself. Up the creek without a paddle, just when I’d need one.” The ferryman crooned, her questionable taste of humours certainly unaffected by the rampant fucking she’d taken to enjoying. He would have liked to know what she meant, but knew better than to try and get more than riddle and rhyme from her, now.

“Nm, still such a long way to go. Well, even the dead should be left to rest, sometimes.” Charon declared, a strangely normal statement for a place such as this. The binds on Nikolas’ ankles and wrists faded as if made of the very mist that surrounded them, letting his limbs relax as Charon pulled her cloak back up over them both.

It seemed she intended to use him as a resting comfort, yet to see the look of peace on her face and feel her almost weightless figure atop him as that cloak was drawn up to shelter him in kind, he could not bring himself to mind it. He could hold nothing but his own body against her, placing his arms around her shoulders as her cheek softly rubbed into him for comfort, and only hoped her ill wit was not becoming infectious.

“Thank you.” The tender whisper as her lips touched to his chest was a soothing caress. With nary a sky above, nor sound beyond the gentle ripples of the boat making its way through the river, a thing Nikolas thought would not be possible came. Peace, rest and even sleep clouded his eyes, leaving him to drift into a weightless slumber, drifting through the water at ease in the most curious of company. Come what may of it, but he would not fight the sweet embrace of the calm. Though that peaceful dark, they drifted on.

Whence he awoke, he was greeted with stone to replace the sky, the dance of flickering flames dull on the innumerable spikes that filled it. He could feel nothing on his chest, nor his body at all. Even simple acts of motion and action were beyond him as he stared into those rigged teeth and dancing shadows.

“Wh-what, where...” His throat and mouth worked, barely. His eyes stung to shift towards any light, or move at all, forcing them back up to squint and close. It had felt nothing like this on the boat.

“Es’velar, remain still and relax your mind. The mortis has not passed, but you are well. Rest, friend.” A foreign, sharp and sultry voice graced his ears. A hand was on his cheek, soothing and caressing it as the lights were blotted out. Her shadow filled his vision as he opened his eyes once more, meeting his unfocused gaze with piercing dark red eyes framed in a skin so dark he could barely make out her face.

“Mort... what are you...” He could feel it. Like tearing every muscle in his limbs and breaking the nerves to boot. His body was there, but heavier than lead, and nothing would react to his will. A phantom within his own body, but his body it was. Yet that made no sense – to feel his body, and the touch of mortis meant he could not be dead, not yet a departed soul. In one defiant burst of energy, he managed to crook his neck and turn his head to the side. The heroic act was more of a natural flop, in retrospect, but he didn’t care. His mind raced through the murky dark of confusion, as though still asleep. He needed answers.

“Get the oils and water! Now!” The woman aside him was moving away with quick strides, gesturing to others beyond sight. In that moment he saw her clearly, however. A fair, slender figure with poise and power in her stride, robed in little more than a short black petticoat and flowing leggings. Most importantly however, the pointed tips poking from within her long black hair said this one was of elven breed.

Beyond her were others, men and women of all sizes going quickly about their business. The chamber was too blurred to make much more out of, and stung to look into the light, but he could not move his head again, and his eyes would adjust to their forms.

Walls of dark stone encircled the flickering lamps, tapestries of various symbols and art hung to liven the stark frame. Wood fires burned in braziers that interceded the tapestries, filling the bustling chamber with light and crackling sound alike. A fine white mist unlike the smoulder to rise from the braziers wafted through the chamber, filled with a sense of comfort and luxury in carpets and cushions that belied the cavernous host to a far more civilized dwelling.

A place unlike hell, and a sensation unlike death. Surrounded by strangers, elf, man and more. Behind them all in the centre of their gathering, all but blurred into the background for his strained eyes, sat something he would never have imagined to exist.

A snake the violet shade of perfect night.

~*~