Where dark rejects light from within the village, at this great rim of the island floating within Ysanne do the roots of the trees thicken in their depths. The weight slowly collecting onto a heroine sloughs off.
Isolation is sadly fulfilling when poking around. It’s easier to move, too, racing over knotted, tangled roots where scales can grab on more easily than with moss, grass, and brush.
“You still haven’t… said what, hoh!” A powerful man leaps from behind while huffing, carrying a large five-pointed leaf in one hand and a black cross in the other. Dark, too, are the bags under his eyes that haven’t existed in her memory until now… “You’re looking for, yes? How else can I know to aid you?” He wipes sweat off his cheek with his arm, then sweeps the leaf over the tangle around them. “This is… three times at least going around the village’s edge. Once clockwise, then counter, then again back. What do you think should change?”
A valid question comes from her emperor; compared to his tongue, hers isn’t cleverer. Making the circles is a part of the spell. You can only show the result when words have flown away!
So, the heroine rushes to one spot where the roots now form an exposed elvish letter to wave her hand fore then back to draw out mists from it; after, in a moment she’s to two more clumps to swipe to her left as if grasping the air, then yanks with all her might toward the last corner of the triangle that her lengthy tail has formed to unseal the protections.
(Môrmasto, share with me your great work!)
With a mighty gasp, then long sigh, the unseen blanket of illusion pulls away the enormous rug over the roots below to reveal the spells of kin! Up through her body’s triangle the surroundings draw!
“What is…!?”
“This was here!?”
Two others shout at the rising column of fey beguilement that is the false sheet of roots whipping upward. It drapes around a thick root that lowers itself to hold it.
“‘From where we began, to where we’re going, then back again.’ The mythal core protects and sustains, but the village is, itself, a growing existence. And the tip of the tree, what should be growing, is here, protected by kins’ illusions…”
“We’ve never come down here.” Mython sighs, a heavy rapture with an unsoothing voice. “To think, the village’s very existence is spelled out by its roots?”
(… They know nothing about something so simple …)
It’s something she must bite her tongue over, because to complain is meaningless by now with everything else proved.
Adris told her to be open. To comprehend, not gripe.
(Talking does nothing… action!)
Though she wants to explain further to the emperor and the tailor, she can only keep tracing with her finger to rough surface along the root system. It circles, sweeps, and curls into the long, fluid elvish script that makes its poem of creation from the chaotic mass.
The wind stirs, and she glances up to see Adris trip over a lifted root! “‘To endure…’?” The emperor reads it first, the thing she’s seeking!
(Lucky!)
It’s at this enormous section of the poem by him that she rushes past the rest of the nouveau, somewhat bland enchantment of the village. The two onlookers leap from her path when she notices a wavering of the roots here. Once noticed, it fills up the entire area around it, spreading further even then!
“It’s a ward, Ave?” Clever he is, but not so right.
[To endure, good sake’s concealing us.
To grow, from within-to-out we must.]
The promise is spelled correctly, but the feeling drifting off is mockery.
As if a flame is lit, and smoke obscures, then fumes make the roots dance in place before her eyes, for the roots to be truthful but also lying is…
(No… that’s not possible, but!)
A cruel joke has been played if, by hands of kin, she comes to physically grapple with the words!
Subtler, it pretends not to be caught like a serpent playing dead; but, when finally budging with all a heroine’s might yanking, the elvish spell of roots that was blanketed shreds now into tearing cloth of iridescent light!
“A second illusion!?” Mython cries out, then cowers when the crackling rainbow erupts into green flames that are colder than winter!
(Nothing can harm that isn’t real.)
Great gouts of smoky fire burn up through the illusory false wrapping that a branch once held. This beguiling covering kin made long ago burns upward!
A rush of disgust, then amusement is felt when unmasked and suddenly coldly afire!
(What game are you playing…!?)
A black cross held level parts the lance of green that strikes toward it like a breaking rock; its ringing bell strike banishes the roiling, raw energies that resemble the gathering storm which beset them at the fairy play ring a day before!
(A hero will never lose!)
“That… was not elvish.” An emperor’s intellect is boundless, and his figure heroic when slapping with his cross at the few floating fairy embers that pester them. They shriek with many unseen voices and glass breaking, then are snuffed.
“It was fey.” The heroine shifts her body to lower herself to the roots whose true form reveals shining disfigurements of this poem now everywhere. Crystallized of rainbow and stealing the whiteness of the core from far away, these nearly-impossible-to-differentiate changes spread everywhere from where their unveilers stand watching.
“Very powerful.” She traces the living roots to the rainbow moonstone artifices that resemble living wood. “Rainbow moonstone has no use for communing with plants, so this cannot be an aid or boon to the village. It’s… only utilized for the dreaming realm’s magics. A dangerous bordering of Zennia and the wilds beyond.” Many veins grafted to the poem in a way that no words are changed leave her unable to even imagine how the whole intent has been altered by a substance.
(Not even Rouvenor ever saw, or spoke, of this.)
“Altered how, Ave? Nothing about this village’s pseudo-Art seems weakened.”
“… The village’s enchantments should conceal us, while still allowing the core’s life-giving powers to spread, then grow the forest. That’s what myths do at a minimum.”
Over the long tendrils of solid rainbow she traces her finger to feel the unknown chill from outside nipping at the growing numbness within herself.
“But… someone reversed it. Instead of concealing us, the village hides what’s outside. The core’s life-giving white radiance condenses instead of purifying Ysanne.
Who? Why? When, was this done?”
Adris kneels beside the large scripted roots that Mython dares not even approach. Where the kin huddles while shivering at the rainbow gloom, an emperor smirks.
“Was it not made this way on purpose?”
“Who would make a prison!?”
“A prison? Is that how you interpret this reversal?”
(A place where danger lurks unseen outside, and no kin may leave without losing the source of their happiness, whatever hates us has full mastery of our realm and can… watch us! How is that not a prison to kin!? It’s… just like…!)
A very familiar, but always ever-more distant hell deep below!
So much is wrong with the similarity that she can only rub her cheeks, then her forehead, all while ruffling her hair!
“There’s… so many alterations.”
“Hah, so what? There’s a new set of tricks we’ve found, and…?” The emperor rises, then shifts to his left while extending his leaf.
(Tricks? This… is more than just a trick, this is a—aaaaaaAAAHH!?)
An unsuitable heroine shivers, then jumps in place when a tickling sensation moves down her tail! She gapes at the man who without interest in anything else rubs the big leaf along her emerald scales, then pats… pats stronger, and then slaps her serpent rump with the heavy, leathery leaf!
“Adris!?”
“As if I’d be worried about some fey illusions. Now that you know the problem, I’m sure you can eliminate it swiftly.”
(I don’t even know how any of this works! It… it shouldn’t work.)
Rainbow moonstone cannot alter the sigils of elvish script that make the poem, and even if they could, they shouldn’t reverse a spell without changing the letters.
It’s inconceivable…!
(There’s nothing to fix. It can’t be real, shouldn’t alter anything, but the meaning is made wrong. Ahhh, why, I don’t get any of this…!)
When glancing at Mython, the tailor’s head swiftly shakes left and right!
(How can I do what even nobody else can!? Maybe… Neesiette could if…?)
Confusion is worse than being afraid, because even if you can’t feel fear, you can still be addled by its presence.
And confusion is the true curse of inaction! All she can think to do is memorize everything, then draw it for the doll…
“Haah, all that walking… just to have you resolve something easy later.” The not-prince fans himself without worry, believing in her, something that hurts worse than everything else!
(… Why do you believe so much in me, Adris …?)
“No, don’t move.”
Rather than rising to apologize, she halts in obedience!
“Enjoy your rest.”
Trying to change… is hard, especially when you’re told to rest!
Especially when… it’s to relieve danger, and to please another person!
“Even though it’s practically night by my reckoning, it got hot instead of cold.” The heat upon him makes him almost glow to the heroine’s sharp sight. Still exposing all but one part of himself, when she notices what’s not seen…
“I look… ridiculous, down low like ‘Neesitte’s skink’.” Her whimper as she lays her arms upon the mangled roots is also ridiculous; but, she can’t stop remembering how her prince had been served by another in such a similar position.
(Hessalian was so… happy to be picked… but, why didn’t she stay that way?)
Why, also, did Hessalian go wild after declaring it “not special”?
“If… I was… different… graceful, you wouldn’t have to jump when I flop about. I wouldn’t… knock over everything.”
“You’d also get me to carry you like I do Neesiette, too?” When he jokes like that, and she blanches at the idea, he laughs and grins.
“Before you, I wouldn’t have thought that… that having so much woman gives me many more ways to appreciate her.” What sounds like a joke, though, is only a lewd inspection that captures from her tail tip to where her human half meets.
(Appreciate…!? He’s so distracted… by my body?)
Licking her dry lips doesn’t quench the fire that was started earlier today. She stares harder at the burning part of her friend that has a unique scent, then pulls closer when the loincloth wrapped loosely to contain it shifts on its own…
“Hnnn!?” The not-prince jolts when she moves without rising, then stares at her hand coming up to paw at the fire.
Both are shocked, in a stand off!
Her hand falls a bit… but, then the not-prince swallows hard…
Then nods!
When she’s permitted to free it, to smother it anew with her wetness as the half-turgid serpent spills out, she asks…!
(Can I fix your pains… everything, by doing this for you, in order for you to be my…!?)
“Did… you like Hessalian better?”
Inner and outer thoughts are like heaven and earth never meeting. When the pinkness of their surroundings is fluffy and tight and warm, it’s always the best when her not-prince opens his mouth to speak; but, he finds no answer to share!
It’s when the heroine’s mouth opens, drips saliva from her top lip to the bottom when closing on him, that he then gasps.
“She…!?” Maybe a heroine is confused, but he isn’t when he looks sheepish for only a second, then deeply frowns while tensing his strong pectorals! “… better than who? No, that’s obvious.” Cockily, he twists his head to study her, his hand lifting to stroke his chin.
“My needy chosen elf is worried?”
“… Maybe… she’s way better than…?”
“Jealousy? Ave, that’s new… but not disappointing.” After a chuckle that makes her shiver, his cheeky face turns sourer. “Being… ‘good’, though, isn’t something so ‘transitory’ as her care!” Throwing away his leaf, Adris then grins widely, a contrary attitude coming! “My vessel’s physical release she barely earned, but, I felt nothing… lasting. A waste of my time trying to punish someone who won’t learn.”
Instead of a leaf, his mighty hand grasps around a long ponytail’s base!?
“Nyaahh!?”
When she moans with a lewdness she should never show, for no kin… really should…!?
“How many times she has, how few times you have. The quantity doesn’t matter for who I want more.” Though saying that, the dark scowl that he bares speaks of hidden anger!
(Express—ive!?)
“Observe.”
His waist jabs toward her!
A solid rod glances off her cheek, then settles over her eyes as she stares cross-ways!
“Waah…!?”
The musky smell that even the lake didn’t clean away assaults her tongue that flicks out!
“Ooohhh.” The loincloth slips off completely when rubbing that smelly sight against her nose. Past this delicious treat, the heroine watches this boy’s rough face curl impishly when she betrays her wanton thoughts!
“I like your tongue that wants kisses too. My glans should be loved, not just sucked.” The not-prince who is never so emotional with his wants, maybe now is opening up.
“But… if you learned how to, Ave, then…?”
(How to!? Yes! Um, “glans” are the… when the, umm, skin pulls back, the…?)
A fey lord’s very words paint an image of vibrant colors within her mind, a masterpiece that thunders and whispers with advice!
It’s her mouth and tongue instead of Hessalian’s upon what is explained, eager to slurp, and suck so that HER cheeks pull in, then her lips draw awkwardly like a duck’s bill when refusing to let go!
(Do it… too! No, BETTER I can!)
That whitish, purple-and-red staff thickens fully on its own to meet her lips! She pecks a kiss at it to make him jump, so unexpectedly that he hisses! What opens most about him is the flap of skin peeling to give her a revealed taste.
“You… really can’t wait to try…?”
But, there’s no chastisement awaiting except for him to rush the head past her slick lips before she can respond!
“AAHhmmmmpph!”
Musky, bitter a bit…!
Though every problem with Ysanne is nebulous, she can at least help by adoring him!
(Ave hates this taste… but LOVES IT!)
“Ohh, oooh!?” The same noises he made before come out again, making her suck harder!
Such an enormous rod that feels like magma on her tongue sears it; but, she endures, then welcomes the sinful pain that spreads through her body to make her groin weep again when she sucks super hard on the head and… “glans” that he told her to serve!
“Fuck!? Being… good…”
A tongue with its own mind encircles his rod, flexing as it drops down into her throat! Her head angles with a strong hand ripping at her ponytail to force this submission!
“… gods-and-ascendants! It’s not just… the motions, the suction… it’s more, like thissss, it’s the…!”
(Being yours, being yours, BEING YOURS, I need, want, more, MORE…!)
Choking on it just makes the sinful slurpings louder, and each disgusting noise her lips make brings lower this elf who longs for the vile-tasting, blessed gift of her one, true…!
“Aaah, how you flail like a sand eel… sets me off, you know…!?” He’s moaning loudly with this rushed assault that she squirms at hearing about being lewd herself! “… A long-tailed, sweet girl who becomes uninhibited and thirsty when I tease her… is…!”
Like a beast when positioning before him, she unconsciously begged; and, he did see her revealed as one by this throat of hers that has never once gagged with his full might taken! “… way better than an already bored slut… that, guuuh, acts like a toy to be cast away after! Making me chase your behind, turning your… sweet, silent, soft looks at me constantly… that’s way better than a horse’s sheathe’s yapping!”
(Prison… elves… sluts… me, good…!?)
The rainbow moonstone flares around them with the beats of her thoughts and the gurgling of a man’s strength filling and stretching her jaw! She keeps her fangs folded. Nothing can harm this precious treasure!
“Your mouth soaks only for MY cock… right?” His question is actually a claim; she can never deny it, only slightly nod with his cock following along!
He grins scarily wide when her long tongue obediently slurps out to lick even the base of his dick. “Good girl.”
Hypnotizing as the flashes of corrupting stone are, they’re nothing compared to the scent entering her nostrils. Its choking pressure suffocates even when the thick oak clears her esophagus to let air in. He so worryingly lengthens his plunges to crawls when she gasps… daring her to fail to take him slowly, and when he pets her head when obeying her tears are pure!
(Better… I can be better, too, like Hessalian is…!)
So many questions; so few answers!
This joining might provide one, though. The singing joy through her loins, and even her skin tingling hotly, makes her worship the pungent flavor of what leaks from his tip to soak into her tongue!
(… I want…!)
If a man, no, THIS MAN is happy, her tail seems to also crinkle and accept his satisfaction as its own!
The questions fly away…
“More than myth, way more than lie; the pleasure had once, you now can’t deny?”
Over the liquidity of Ave’s tight lips leaking saliva, and more striking than her chin being slapped by the precious orbs of the man she’s longed for, a strangely content tailor singsongs to these two souls given to friendship’s peak. So close, watching from mere inches away their meeting of organs, Mython’s smile is lighter than the earlier fear.
(Don’t… nngghaa, watch, meeeee!)
Even if begging, it’s all she can suffer to accept, for the satisfaction peaks greater each moment of being watched!
“This, oh false god, is a pleasure none other can grant?” Looking upwards at the boy with daring muscles who shakes his hips strongly, an intruder inquires without shaming. “Our emerald bloom pleases, when from all others that’s scant?” Mython cares not for the scene except to dreamily inquire further of a boy who leans over with his growing repetition of slow thrusting!
“… Haha, are… you jealous now, Mython!? Of this long tongue I stole? Since you can’t have it? Oooh, hoooh…!”
“Jealous!?” Mython’s dreamy smile dips, and the squatting kin tilts to watch with more fascination the invasion!
Only the coming overflow of love ready to enter her stomach makes a heroine idly realize crashes a storybook prose; poems don’t talk about this great lump that stings, but also pleases for hours deep down after, when, from a man’s fountain it flows!
Not romantic, but raw, trying to reconcile this sends another shudder through her!
“… sneakily so, maybe.” Canny, intense and sounding unhappy Mython does!?
Jealousy, envy, words that no kin shall know, much less feel!
(Can’t be!)
“But, the truth of that word is quite different for us; and so…!” Mython doesn’t finish the thought, because nobody is listening.
Grabbing onto Adris’ legs now, a heroine can only surrender to the godly fey that’s made her swell with equal longing and worry.
She stares up at the towering giant framed by shadow!
(Forceful, but… kind, so… hhnggh, different… from kin, a fey’s needs!?)
With an aura of domination sweeping over her, despite sisters saying not to be used, she surrenders entirely as she must; loving her with hard touches, despite none of his cruel words matching what his inner song sings is true!
“The Ave who lives, oooh, hoh, to smile for me, haah…”
Praise makes her soft, wet lips tighter! When he stays deep because her throat starts clenching uncontrollably, she doesn’t care about breathing. Only her heart skips, pain panging with the following beats for not being able to properly help him find the truth.
“… should be shown off. A ‘shining’ example… of having fun, being useful to me, and…”
A need to flee resists the order!
“Don’t fret! Your… gaahka! ‘Smiles’ are what I’ll share with them… but your tongue belongs there! Faster, curl it and…!” But, the gentlest tug on her ponytail to pull her back, “Let’s… hhaaah, meet them again, Ave.” Sends further sliding into oblivion her thoughts.
(Everyone… will see me like… this!?)
The very idea makes her want to perish, but also causes the tingling below to become stabbing throbs without even touching! It’s his voice, a tormenting magic…!
“Let them feel some shame. Only you two have worth.”
Every cruel syllable almost makes her fly again!
The heavy leaf holder fanning them circulates the wind here where it has stayed dead throughout their journey, and is therefore beloved by this lord. A tailor doesn’t intrude, shares but doesn’t harm; but, the words last heard of that tailor are different from usual when nearly choked out by their “play”.
“… all quick kin must adjust.”
The timekeeper finishes the rhyme, forced to wait for completion, and sighs when a not-prince’s throaty groans might travel quite far above.