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Archive name: elijah.txt (Mdom/F, fantasy, caution)
Authors name: WZB (writerzblocked@aol.com)
Story title : Elijah

--------------------------------------------------------
Copyright by Writerzblocked, 2001. All rights, well, you 
know. Repost and archive to your heart's content, just 
don't charge anyone for it or I'll have to send Harry 
Long after you. You all know the rest of the drill by 
now. 
--------------------------------------------------------

Elijah (Mdom/F, fantasy, caution)
By WZB (writerzblocked@aol.com)

***

(Authors Note: It ain't pretty. It ain't graphic, but it 
ain't pretty. You have been warned.)


"Dance," Elijah commanded, softly.

At once, silence fell about the huge tent. The serving 
girl dropped her tray to the floor, and even the hard 
dirt seemed to honor the moment as the pottery shards 
shattered and rolled and bounced across it but refused to 
break the silence. She immediately fell to her knees in 
front of him, her eyes shut and her arms shaking. "But, 
Lord, I..."

"You will dance for me," he repeated, his right hand 
moving slowly to his face to brush away an insect. He 
muttered a guttural juuj under his breath and the dozen 
buzzing flies around him suddenly caught fire and burned 
like ember gnats for a half second before falling 
lifeless and smoldering to the ground. Then the dirt 
moved to cover them and the silence returned. He lowered 
his head slowly and his flickering shadow grew to fill 
the entire space between his feet and where she knelt on 
trembling knees. Her hands covered her face.

"Lord, if I may," came a voice to his left, "she wears 
the holt of Arnuul." The elderly puusan fingered his own 
holt nervously. "There are certainly others here..."

Elijah squinted as he leaned forward on his throne to 
better observe the small amulet about her neck, white 
bone in the shape of a four-point star. He snorted and 
turned to stare at a small man sitting several tables 
away.

Again, all eyes turned to follow those of their master...

"Keriivan, how comes a virgin to a whorehouse?!"

The man shuffled quickly across the room until he stood 
beside the girl. "A trifle difficult to explain, Lord," 
he began. "Her father owed me a debt he could not pay and 
she is working for me until we can come to a better 
agreement." Keriivan put his hand gently on her head. "I 
was...unaware of her cuusint until she actually came to 
my door."

"Yet another sign Shwaam has fallen to her knees, 
Naastle, when she allows white within these walls," 
Elijah turned again to his left with a cruel smile. "This 
is indeed the time for those of power to rise."

"If it gives you pleasure, Lord," the older man bowed.

"Oh, no doubt of that, old puusan," Elijah laughed, "but 
now I am in search of other pleasures." He turned his 
attention back to the girl as he chuckled at his own 
humor. Not alone, as nervous laughter filled the room. 
The Lord of the Outlands adjusted himself on his throne 
again and fixed his gaze on Keriivan and the girl. "Who 
is her father and how much does he owe?"

"Well, my Lord, it is...well...it really is nothing that 
need concern you." Keriivan answered with eyes down and 
an obvious quiver in his tone.

Elijah smiled cruelly. "Is that NOBILITY I hear in you 
voice, old whoremaster? Is this the same voice that once 
laughed of procuring girls ten cycles young from the mud-
plowers for the price of a week's worth of water? Or 
buying and daring to work his own cousin?"

The Lord raised a finger and traced a glowing glyph in 
the air and watched with glee as it drifted towards 
Keriivan. "Is the same voice that owes its livelihood, if 
not its very existence, to me and my fathers and 
grandfathers now telling me that I need not be concerned 
by an ill-conceived contract between two parties on my 
land under my watch?"

Keriivan slowly backed away from the fiery symbol dancing 
in the air as it twisted and reshaped itself several 
times. From every corner of the massive tent, none dared 
speak, but all watched.

"Or could it be that perhaps, just perhaps, your voice 
speaks not for you, but for itself?" Elijah laughed long 
and deeply as the symbol shaped itself one last time, 
blazed brightly for a second, then vanished as quickly as 
it appeared. The room erupted in laughter, as Keriivan 
hid his face with his arm.

"Love?!!" Elijah leaned back on his throne and put his 
hand on his forehead and his entire body shook. "The 
great symbol of Batuul? Yet another sign Shwaam is 
sleeping! When whoremasters lose mastery of their own 
hearts! Come, now, Keriivan, please share with us all the 
day and time you actually discovered a beating within 
that old weathered chest, much less the ears to hear it 
or the key to open it!"

The laughing eyes watched Keriivan, master of the tent of 
whores, as he made his way quickly through the doorway 
and out into the night, leaving behind only scattered 
spots on the ground as he fled. And, again, the dirt of 
the floor moved to reclaim its own.

Elijah lifted his arms and raised his palms to the 
heavens as he watched the man flee. "And there you are, 
fellows - proof indeed that hearts and voices DO have 
legs and can make swift when they must!" he mocked, and 
his laughter was slow to fade.

But fade it did, finally, and the large man turned his 
attention back to the girl who was still kneeling on the 
floor in front of him. Her long black hair masked her 
face as it cascaded down past her shoulders until it 
almost reached the ground. Her arms were wrapped tightly 
across her chest.

"Now," he said firmly as he bent forward on his throne, 
"let us see what manner of woman could possibly find a 
heart in a heartless man and cause a voice to sprout 
legs."

"My Lord, if I might..." Naastle had not risen from his 
seat during the earlier ritual of seeing, but was now 
standing next to Elijah.

"Yes, yes, puusan, what is it?" his Lord replied, not 
bothering to divert his gaze from the woman in front of 
him.

"I do not think it would be wise to press this one into 
doing more than what would be expected of a serving 
girl."

Elijah grinned mysteriously and shook his head. "No, dear 
Naastle, I would not dream of forcing this poor girl to 
do anything she was not willing to do."

"I am very happy to hear that, my Lord."

"Because I expect YOU to do that." The grin grew wider, 
but still his eyes were on the girl, unmoving in front of 
him.

Naastle took a step back, and his jaws clenched and his 
eyes grew dim as he quickly struggled to gauge the 
seriousness in his Master's voice. "I...I mean, I don't 
think..."

"Yes, you do, my dear puusan." Elijah stretched his right 
leg out casually and scratched at his knee. "It is what 
you DO, is it not?"

"But...my Lord... Arnuul!" Naastle's fingers nipped 
nervously at his chin as he continued. "Guuntal sleeps 
not far away."

"Wine and song and silly ritual felled him not long past 
the rising of Chaasm, Naastle, you know this." Elijah 
turned to face his subject, the grin melting from his 
face. "Tell me you fear an old drunkard to the Lord of 
the Outlands. Or shall your newfound voice lead you also 
screaming from my presence."

"Never Lord," Naastle said reverently as he bowed and 
shied away from the large man's eyes, looking instead to 
the serving girl not five feet away. "I simply think 
there are laws that bind even the mighty Elijah."

"Yes, I suppose there are two or three," Elijah chuckled, 
"yet I do not count this among them." He turned and cast 
his gaze at the women lounging in the earthen chairs and 
about the tables in the large tent. "And I have had the 
rest of them so many times I know the names of every hair 
on their worthless scalps and can count them in my 
sleep."

He slowly bent down and extended his right hand to the 
girl. "But this one..."

She sensed his approaching hand and bowed her head more 
deeply and her hair swept gently across the dirt of the 
floor.

"This one is different," he mused as he watched closely 
as the patterns formed in the dirt. "I've not seen hair 
of that length on an Issuul in many cycles."

"If I were to guess, my Lord, I would say Taabul. Or 
Meecha. A caravan from that area passed through here not 
long ago."

"Hmm, possibly, but the patterns suggest to me a half-
breed." Elijah said, as he watched the very earth itself 
flee from her hair, ripples of dirt flowing outwardly 
from its touch like the surface of a pond disturbed by a 
stone, and dust took lightly to the air on its own, 
drifting off lazily in all directions before finally 
forming several smoky columns and settling back to earth.

"It seems Shwaam herself refuses to kiss this one."

At his words, the girl gave a muffled cry and buried her 
head in her hands. Naastle turned from the scene and 
frowned while he scratched at his nose, again fingering 
the holt buried in his wrinkled chest.

"Now, now, girl, no need to feel shame for the sins of 
your parents," Elijah reached out to her head, his 
enormous hand casting purple shadows over her dark hair 
in the light of the torches. And as he waved, unseen 
winds tickled the flickering torch light as they moved 
through the room and took hold of individual strands, 
then more, more, until finally the whole of her hair was 
dancing above the ground, weaving in and out of itself, 
the winds finally fashioning it into a dark and soft 
structure reaching high into the air above her head. "And 
Shwaam is sometimes not the best judge in such matters."

She gasped in surprise and her hands suddenly jumped from 
her face to her head to examine his work. Freed, wetness 
fell from her still downcast eyes and fell to the floor 
and lay there. Unmoving.

"For Shwaam does not have open eyes to see you have a 
most beautiful face," Elijah continued with a smile. "I 
should rule it a crime to hide such a thing from the Lord 
of the Outlands."

At that, she let out another soft cry and her hands 
immediately fell back to cover her face and her body fell 
forward, bent from her knees, until she lay prostrate 
before him. Her legs shivered and her small feet moved 
back and forth uncontrollably, digging jagged paths into 
the ever-moving earth beneath her.

Elijah frowned as he fell from his thrown to his own 
knees in front of her. "Would that you should hold your 
cries until you hear the sentence for such an imaginary 
crime, child woman," he whispered, as he cupped a hand 
around her face, rubbing his thumb softly across her ear. 
"It might mean wetness of value so far beyond tears, that 
even rich-blooded women would gladly wear veils."

But his words did not appear to move her, save that her 
feet stilled, and the dirt moved slowly to smooth over 
the paths. Elijah shook his head and stood to full 
height, and his torch-lit shadow seemed to grow and 
stretch so far in all directions as to blend with the 
more benign darkness in all the corners of the large 
tent.

"The wine is beginning to take my words, girl!" he said, 
firmly. "And I find I am using some of the ones I do have 
left far too often for my liking. I know the name of 
every stone, tree, and worm under my protection, but I do 
not know yours."

"Is there not a name to go with that beautiful face?"

The soft, continuous sobbing from somewhere between her 
smooth, pale hands, remained her only reply.

Finally, Elijah let out a long, deep sigh, and the room 
suddenly became quiet as he once again raised his arm and 
traced a fiery outline with a finger. "What a night it 
is," he muttered to himself as he continued, "when dead 
hearts have voices, but living faces do not."

As the glyph began to slowly twist and wind its way down 
through the air towards her, it seemed to grow larger and 
larger until it settled in the air just above her hair. 
And, when finally it was still, in a voice both foreign 
and familiar, it spoke.

"Meintir, my Lord."

At the sound of the voice, the girl at once jumped 
backwards and let out a cry of surprise, one hand to her 
mouth, the other to her throat. Her face was without 
color, and her eyes wide with fear. "My voice," she cried 
softly through her fingers, as if to herself.

"No, my little woman-child. MY voice," Elijah stared down 
at her. "Do you not know who I am?"

"You are Elijah, Lord of the Outlands," replied the 
voice.

She tightened her fingers around her throat and shook her 
head back and forth violently now, her hair slowly 
tumbling back down around her shoulders. "No," she 
gasped, and her eyes moved up to the still smoldering 
symbol hanging in the air. "No."

"Yes!" he spoke, his brows raising and his lips curling 
with a menace honed from decades of practice. "Elijah, 
Lord of the Outlands! Son of Dargund, grandson of 
Farhund, protector of Undaal, and master of every spirit 
in my domain!" He was waving his arms wildly now.

"All spirits save one, it seems, my Lord," interrupted a 
voice from his left.

The large man suddenly turned towards the puusan, and his 
raised arm began a quick, downward arc towards the old 
man...

And stopped to rest on his shoulder.

"All save one," Elijah laughed a hearty laugh. "The 
spirit of the vine, the one cursed son of Shwaam no man 
can master, not even the mighty Elijah." He smiled wryly. 
"But MUST you interrupt my entertainment with such old 
news, ancient one?"

"Only if such entertainment is more for the benefit of 
that cursed spirit than for my Lord." Naastle gently 
grasped the hand on his shoulder and turned his eyes to 
Meintir, who was shivering on the ground now, hands still 
firmly about her neck and mouth. "And the girl is 
frightened far past the point of knowing or caring WHICH 
master she is supposed to be entertaining."

"Ah, perhaps you are right, old man," Elijah sighed as he 
turned his eyes to the girl, "but I have tried every 
spirit - fire, dust, wind, and even whisper - and still 
she refuses to calm." He grinned. "And I am losing 
patience. I think maybe it is time for the young to give 
way to the old."

The puusan sighed in turn as he went back to caressing 
his holt with one hand. "And what is it you would want 
from your servant?"

Elijah's eyes grew narrow as he focused on the girl. "She 
will dance for me."

"Is that all?"

"Now, that would depend on her dance, puusan." Elijah 
smiled, his eyes unmoving, cast over the whole of her 
body. "Will you not dance for the Lord of the Outlands?"

"I have never danced, my Lord," it replied, still fiery 
in the air.

Again, she let out a small cry and crawled back, falling 
from her voice.

"My Lord..."

"Yes, yes," Elijah sighed, as he slapped a hand softly 
against his hairless head. The symbol twisted twice, then 
tore into a thousand sparks, each wandering erratically 
to and fro throughout the night air within the tent, 
finally rejoining their brethren in the torch light, each 
to its own time. A few of his men stomped their feet 
lightly at the display, joined by the drunken giggling of 
whores.

And in the center of the tent, a lone woman-child again 
covered her eyes and draped an arm across her body.

"Never danced?" The Lord of the Outlands mused quietly. 
"Never have I been one to pry too deeply into the affairs 
of the virgins of Arnuul, but this seems strange even for 
them..."

"Well, my Lord, all you might do is look to her hair..."

The large man paused to put his hands to his head as if 
to steady himself, then let out with slow laughter. "The 
music. Indeed, Naastle, that damned spirit is fast taking 
me where I do not want to go. The singing of birds and 
insects and wind, and occasional words spoken as one may 
not be enough to have touched one so young."

"Certainly not as the songs of Shwaam, my Lord," Naastle 
caressed his holt now, and it began to glow with a bluish 
light. "And the priests of Arnuul are fairly strict when 
it comes to forms of artificial pleasure."

Elijah cocked his head slightly and lowered a brow 
towards the old man.

"Or so I was told long ago," Naastle smiled, "when I 
cared about such things." His holt was now bright blue-
green in the torch light.

"Well," sniffed Elijah, turning his attention back to 
Meintir. " I am not so old yet, though the night is 
quickly getting there. And I think maybe it is time she 
learned. As protector and nurturer of all within my 
reach, I think it is my...obligation."

"As you wish, my Lord," came the reply, as Naastle turned 
his attention to the girl. "The music of Shwaam can even 
grace the ears of half-breeds if given a proper 
introduction."

"Indeed," replied Elijah with a smile, as he began to sit 
down, his earthen throne growing and shifting to meet the 
needs of the Lord of the Outlands. "And, as with many 
things, let her first be her best."

The old man took a deep breath, tugged at one ear, then 
exhaled - audibly, visually, his breath becoming 
seemingly solid things as it streamed slowly out in front 
of him. First a bird, a large, smoky winged thing which 
quickened and then swept through the air of the tent, 
circling about Meintir twice before coming to rest a few 
feet above her head as she continued to shake and shiver 
and see nothing outside the palm of her tiny hand. Then a 
cloud of crickets, chirping, crawling, then bouncing, 
then jumping to each its own rhythm, scattering wildly 
about the tent. Then a chorus of frogs, ungainly and 
without measure, croaking and writhing about in the dirt, 
hopping in all directions.

"Oh, good one!" Smiled Elijah as he kicked dirt at a frog 
near his throne, chuckling as it passed without incident 
through the green hollow of its skin. "This be almost 
entertainment enough!"

Meintir suddenly let out a small cry as she shook her 
foot to dislodge a frog, then the hand covering her face 
went abruptly to her hair to shake off a cricket, her 
fear of the previous moment apparently replaced by the 
growing awareness of the chaos of nature surrounding her. 
Above her, she could feel the vibrations of wings and the 
night air was pierced by a shrill cry, suitably out of 
tune with the growing cacophony inside the tent of 
whores. Then, as if commanded by Shwaam herself, it all 
ceased.

Save for a soft, rapid, but steady beating which she only 
vaguely recognized, but which grew louder and louder and 
louder until her hands covering eyes and breasts moved to 
her ears seemingly of their own accord.

But, it did not stop. All around her now it pounded and 
echoed through the tent and, indeed, through her body as 
well. Her arms and legs felt it now, her chest heaving in 
step with the heart within it, her lips and brows shaking 
slightly with every pulse. She felt her feet move on air 
beneath her, rising, rising, legs following, swaying 
unsteadily at first, then gaining composure as the heat 
from her pulsing heart filled them with the energy of the 
music of Shwaam. Sensing it fully for the first time in 
her life, she let out a small cry and opened her eyes.

Her feet were nearly invisible to her, enveloped in the 
eruudi, the breath clouds of the puusan, a full five feet 
above the ground. She gasped as her mind took it in, but 
the heat flowing within her would not let her lose her 
hold. The beating was now steady again, and lower, but 
she felt it in every hair on her brow and in every nail 
on her fingers, a heavenly warmness which kept her eyes 
open and her mind calm. Her hands extended slowly out in 
front of her as if to somehow keep and hold an unearthly 
balance in the air, only to be rewarded with two more 
vaporous extensions from the puusan - they grasped each a 
wrist and gently pulled them in opposite directions, all 
keeping with the beating of her heart and the music of 
Shwaam.

Then, smoothly and solemnly, the chorus of crickets began 
to hum. And, one by one, the frogs ceased their 
wanderings and began to moan in tones both low and high. 
And, from its perch on another floating eruudi five feet 
from her head, the diisti spread its wings and began to 
cry.

And Meintir began her dance.

In the early moments, it seemed her limbs moved of their 
own accord as she watched the clouds take them high and 
low, back and forth, with wide eyes and mouth open; she 
felt her blood warm and her heart whisper and her ears 
speak, but still a part of her was watching from outside. 
Her hair flew in waves of black beside her face as she 
turned her head, and her hips swayed slightly, following 
the lead of her legs, which, in turn, were driven by the 
rush of air which moved her feet in small circles, high 
above the dirt and sand. The heat within her body reached 
outward, reddening her chest, hardening her nipples, and 
she felt a warm wind whip softly and gently around the 
hollows of her neck, rising about and caressing her ears, 
then moving between each and every strand of hair as it 
made its way back from whence it came.

And the diisti swept down towards her, hovering within 
arms reach, cocking its head to and fro as it warbled a 
particularly somber melody. And the part of her that was 
watching from the outside, stopped, and looked, and 
listened to the clouds and the crickets and the frogs and 
the bird and the majesty of the music of Shwaam. And the 
beating of her heart. And it reached out.

And she smiled.

And as she reached out to it, the diisti seemed to smile 
as only diisti can, and the eruudi about her hands slowly 
dispersed, forming smaller clouds which danced and 
mingled with each other, all to the beating of her heart. 
She looked down, but the clouds which had captured her 
feet had likewise retreated into their own camps, darting 
and zipping about the tent, but always in rhythm. And she 
smiled down at the barren dirt, now twice again as far 
from her head as her feet. But she did not fall.

Indeed, she could not fall. She was one with Shwaam now, 
for the very first time in her life. She felt her arms 
move and her legs move and knew. She felt her breasts 
heave and her lips and tongue moisten and knew. She took 
a deep breath, and felt the fire as the air filled her 
lungs and KNEW. This was the touch her mother never felt, 
the kiss infants know in the womb, the caress given upon 
dying and rejoining. This was the dance of Shwaam.

HER dance.

All these things she felt as she closed her eyes and 
tried to focus on the sounds and the feelings. Slowly she 
started, bending her waist, lifting one leg, then the 
other, running one hand up her side, the other down her 
back, tilting forward, backward, all with the certainty 
of one who KNEW. She laughed loudly as she kicked both 
legs up and bent backward, twirling her body in the air 
until she straightened flat out on an unseen bed. Her 
hands covered her body, her right moving up her bent leg 
from her ankle to thigh, her left throwing her hair above 
her head, where it continued to move about in the air, a 
thousand different dark dancers sharing one foot. She 
giggled as a hand moved across her breasts, stopping to 
tickle a nipple on its way across her belly. Her 
heartbeat quickened aloud as she arched her back, lifted 
her legs at the knees, and passed a hand between her 
legs. Then again, she rolled, and came to rest facing the 
ground. With eyes closed, she continued to caress her 
body, wrapping an arm under one leg and dragging a hand 
across her breech and down between.

And so she danced, for seeming hours without end, lost in 
Shwaam's first kiss. During that time, her ears noticed 
subtle changes in the music, but her heart and mind did 
not care. The cry of the diisti became more urgent, and 
closer also, but rarely did she open her eyes, so 
immersed was she in the dance. But, finally, she did and 
saw that the bird was very close now, and smiling again. 
She returned the smile and did yet another twirl in the 
air, laughing as the bird did likewise. Then as she came 
to a stop, it again mimicked her movements and smiled, 
interrupting its song just long enough to fly even 
closer, a mere breath away now, and a drop a purple 
feather. She laughed again as it drifted there in the 
air, until finally it brushed up against her cheek, 
leaving behind a wetness not unlike tears.

Immediately, she felt a horrible burning against her 
chest and the dance was at an end.

"Naastle!" Elijah looked to the older man, exasperated, 
as Meintir's eyes shot open and she quickly pulled back 
away from him, startled, his seed still wet upon her 
face. "Just a few moments longer!"

"My apologies, my Lord, I do not know..." The old puusan 
was still fingering his glowing holt nervously. 
"...perhaps Arnuul. Or the hair."

"Oh, that cursed vine spirit has taken my patience for 
excuses, old man," The Lord of the Outlands glanced 
downward. "Among other things."

"Again, a hundred apologies, Elijah..." Naastle had one 
eye on his master and the other on Meintir, who was 
clutching at her still-burning holt with one hand and 
furiously wiping at her face with the other.

"I do not want a hundred apologies, Naastle, nor a 
thousand." He was attempting to peer through the roof of 
the tent to plead with the heavens now. "I want to 
FINISH!"

"And finish, you will, death bane of Shwaam!!!"

The voice was cold and unwavering as death, and brought 
all talk to a halt, as all heads; guards, soldiers, 
whores, priests and Lords, turned to the center of the 
tent. Meintir again fell forward on her face, away from 
the smell of decay, away from the thing which had 
seemingly risen from the dirt beside her. It was thin and 
gaunt and resembled a man in most ways, except it had no 
eyes, nor ears, nor nose, nor mouth, and a large rune 
glowed beige and brown in its chest where its holt might 
be. At once, five guards jumped from their seats across 
the tent, the ground itself moving at their feet, rising 
up around their legs, past their waists and further 
enveloped them as they moved, until where there was once 
flesh and blood, now walked five deadly shrouds of rock 
and stone.

Elijah put one hand to his forehead and waved at them 
dismissively with the other. "Yes, yes, that WOULD 
explain it."

Naastle sighed deeply and threw up his hands.

"You can not continue to abuse Shwaam in this way, 
corrupt one!" The figure continued, even as the five 
living statues surrounded it. "The time of awakening is 
close at hand!"

"As you told my father, and his father before him, foul 
one." Elijah leaned to rest his head in one hand, an arm 
of his throne rising to allow him to prop his elbow upon 
it. "A thousand times you come and a thousand times we 
send you back."

"And a thousand times more shall I come if there is even 
the slightest chance your sons and grandsons will listen 
to the voice of Shwaam." The figure turned towards 
Meintir, who was unmoving now, and its rune throbbed in 
earthen tones. "This one is a chosen of Arnuul. She has 
cuusint and her holt is strong."

"Ah, but the lust of the Lord of the Outlands is 
stronger," Elijah smiled, his head still in his hand, 
"and you are interrupting my entertainment." He gestured 
nonchalantly with his free hand and barked out a harsh 
juuj. Immediately, the ground beneath the decrepit figure 
began to open.

"Be warned, cursed one!" It yelled as it slowly began to 
sink into the earth. "This one will not be forgotten!"

"That will probably be decided by the spirit of the 
vine," The Lord of the Outland muttered to himself as he 
scratched at the back of his head.

"This one knows a purpose and will demand justice!" Then 
the ground closed above its head, and all was silent.

"Yes, yes, now go back to sleep with Shwaam for another 
thousand years," Elijah yawned as he rubbed at his eyes. 
"Or frighten the few children who might still believe 
your words have any meaning at all."

"As for me," he continued as he stretched his arms wide, 
"I have unfinished work." And his legs straightened, then 
fell firmly to the ground with a force that managed an 
earthly echo as his feet sank ankle deep into the dirt 
floor, and slivers and sparks of brown and red and yellow 
erupted from the pits about them.

As the Lord of the Outlands stood again to his full 
height, the puusan next to him stared at the spot where 
the reenq had appeared and then vanished at his master's 
command. "I knew it could not have been me," he muttered 
quietly as he continued to finger his holt. Then he 
turned to the girl who lay unmoving nearby, and his voice 
raised. "I could make another attempt, my Lord. It would 
be a challenge, for her holt IS stronger now."

"What holt is that, puusan?" Elijah's throne crumbled 
behind him as he moved forward, bits and pieces of stone 
and mud peeling from the top and sides and falling and 
sliding to the floor as it collapsed inwards upon itself, 
abruptly and without order, but silently, so as not to 
interrupt its Lord.

"The holt of the virgins of Arnuul?" He asked aloud to 
himself, not waiting for an answer, his eyes turning from 
brown to red, and his feet burning blazing furrows in the 
ground as they slid through the earth. Dust rose and dirt 
flew and turned to smoke and ash as he moved.

"Was there indeed such a holt?" He cocked his head as he 
approached, and the ground beneath Mientir groaned as it 
twisted and reshaped itself into brown and blackened 
fingers which grasped and clawed at her struggling body, 
lifting her up and pinning her arms to her sides as the 
Lord of the Outlands approached.

"Really, my dear puusan, I think the wine has taken YOUR 
memory," Elijah laughed low as he bent down to examine 
the amulet around her neck, which was burning white with 
a light which matched the color of her skin. Her eyes 
went wide and her head shook violently as he reached out 
a finger...

Mientir sealed her eyes and opened her mouth, but no 
sound came from it, as the white light turned deep blue, 
then red, then yellow and the four points of the star 
melted together and twisted as it flared one final time, 
searing itself into the very flesh between her breasts.

Elijah grinned sideways at Naastle, whose own eyes were 
wide and whose mouth was similarly open and had seemingly 
managed to turn his own peculiar shade of white. His 
hands were like iron one on top of the other across his 
own chest.

"I see no holt." His master beamed as he turned back to 
Mientir, who was shaking even within the firm grasp of 
stony fingers as she dared to open her eyes and look down 
at her chest...

And screamed a scream that no ears could hear. Not even 
her own.

"Certainly not of Arnuul, who is not likely to grant 
cuusint to those bearing the mark of the Lord of the 
Outlands..." Elijah spoke through lips of fire as he bent 
closer to watch the symbol begin to take shape.

"...for I know none of hers and she will never know one 
of mine," he whispered softly, smiling as he lowered his 
tongue to kiss the brown burning serpent between her 
breasts, and a fiery finger slipped between her legs.

And Naastle forced his eyes to close, but he could not do 
the same for his ears.

"Yes, dear puusan, sometimes the old ways ARE the best."

A foul smoke rose through the air and out of the tent of 
whores that night and drifted off to the north and east, 
a smoke which seemed to mask the stars themselves, save 
for the one which would be seen and felt by Shwaam 
herself. At that very moment, it appeared in the night 
sky just below the Great Bear and neither clouds of water 
nor fire would darken its path as it made its way across 
the heavens to find rest in the Northern Reaches.

Countless sets of eyes watched its journey that night and 
each has its own story to be told. But had any been 
outside that tent on that night they might have noted one 
with no eyes, but witnessed.

And with no mouth, but smiled.

End

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Please keep this story, and all erotic stories out of
the hands of children. They should be outside playing
in the sunshine, not thinking about adult situations.

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Kristen's collection - Directory 20