The Spellcaster's Heiress -- Chapter 17

 By Christopher Leeson




Epilogue 

FROM DYAN'S JOURNAL

Triumphs pass, songs fade, good friends go their separate ways. 

It was with heavy heart that I parted from my family on the wharf of Nawcant in the kingdom of Sulidir.  Ceann, Gannon, and I had already agreed to journey inland, to a villa within a ride of three hours from the city of Tyary Graig and rejoined Lady Elekta.  Ceann had previously let me know of her desire to leave the Fyana; I supposed that this was her first half-step in that direction.

Of the months since then there is little to tell.

Late spring yields to summer, and summer ultimately assumes the golden crown of autumn.  Cefen M'Glywess, the Lady's husband, had established his family at a comfortable country house.  Here his wife Elekta has been busy for months creating a household out of an empty hall.  Understandably, she has not afforded me a great deal of time for the teaching of magic.  I have books, but their turgid discourses have left me stultified and uninformed.  I have more time in idleness than in study.  And idleness, alas, allows one to contemplate the depth and breadth of  his regrets.

When I think about Harouck, I seethe.  Is he the disease, or is he only the outward sign of a much deeper affliction?  Cawdour had been frank in his observation that the landed lords have been dwindling in both wealth and influence since well before the rise of the usurper.  Likewise, the patriotic yeoman have lost their own status and become debt-ridden, dispossessed, and -- in many cases -- shiftless.
  
It is to the energetic merchants and the burgers that a ruler looks to for support in these decadent days.  At the heart of the old warrior class is tradition, but among these new men tradition is oftentimes a very bad fit.  The old social order relegated them to the rear of the room, and they, perhaps, do not remember their former status kindly.

Those whom Cawdour called “new men” are not all bad, of course.  The M'Glywesses and the Oc'Raighnes, in fact, number among them.  Had I been brought up in the old days I never could have won my knightly spurs.  But where the old aristocracy was dedicated to the commonweal with an intensity that was akin to religion, these new-made men too often look at government as means to a personal end.  They flatter and bribe to win support for their, oftentimes, selfish aims, and those in power do their best to please them. 

The world is in a flux of change, some say, but change has assailed the warrior class like a brutal giant.  There was a time when the soldier quested far and made new discoveries; today it is the merchant, the trader, the sea captain.  The old aristocracy, though they bear the same titles, are not like their ancestors.  What has the scions of old nobility done lately to give credit to their progenitors?  I think of our king, Cathmor, and recognize how far the demoralization has spread. 

I, too, have passed my first summer of my new life in slothful melancholy.  If Chancellor Harouck typifies our future, I will live and I will die in opposition to such man and such a future.  Is there hope?  Sometimes a bush that is sheared off by the axe can return from its deep roots.  Can it be that way, too, with the stout oak which is men's traditions?  If men of worthy motives return to the fight, the battle, ultimately, may still be lost, but is not the worth of a man found in what he attempts, not in what Fate allows him to accomplish?  Failure is the most usual result of all endeavors.  It is easy to do evil; to attain a worthy cause and win immortal fame is difficult.
 
These thoughts are not light to bear and they wear me down.  I will speak of other matters.

The Spellcaster's Heiress -- Chapter 16

 By Christopher Leeson

FROM DYAN'S JOURNAL
 
There was so much to think about, so much to regret. I lay awake though the long night, suffering the remorse of the damned, until the break of dawn took away even the hope of sleep.

Gannon, who had risen before the sun, joined me at first light, carrying a borrowed harp under his arm.

"Dyan," my friend said jauntily, "I've been thinking."

"About what?"

"That if this rebellion is ever going to catch fire, it has to have a hero."

"Cemion is the hero," I said indifferently.

Gannon shook his head. "No. Cemion isn't ready to inspire people yet."

“So what kind of hero do they expect?” I asked.

"A hero who can never be captured, never defeated, and never outwitted. A hero who only laughs at the worst threats of the enemy."

I frowned. "There is no such hero!"

"I'm talking about a dead hero."

"A dead hero?"

“Real heroes never die; they live in legend,” he clarified.

Thinking it over, I realized what Gannon was saying. Only the champions of saga never failed, and they died the sort of death that only served to put the seal of greatness on their triumphs. It was always the dead, never the living, who the generations looked up to.

"We have a hero," Gannon went on blandly, "if only we only give him what thing that every hero needs."

"What's that?"

"A good song."

I scowled.

"Yes," my friend persisted, "a song, like the one that I've just composed. Do you want to hear it?"

"Do I have a choice?"

With a grin, Gannon put the harp to his shoulder. “I call it 'Rodin's Men.'


"Sing a song of Rodin brave,
Too elusive for the grave.
His arm so strong, his heart so good,
He made his foemen dread the wood.

"When assessors seized their tax
Rod gave their shoulders forty whacks.
When e'er a sellsword deighed to slay,
He made the rascal rue the day!

"Rod gave his life to save a mate,
Was struck by wounds that sealed his fate.
His soul flew to the Isles Blessed,
But the hero true refused to rest.

"The mage Harouck found out too late
Rod was back from Heaven's gate!
Again he ruled the hills and dell,
From the eye of God to the jaws of Hell!

"Saluted by those left behind
Rod helped them keep the mage in line.
They made their realm the woods and fen;
The gods protected Rodin's men!"

"Rod took a task with much to do,
With trouble great and helpers few.
But never daunted by a fight,
He lent our men his spirit bright!”

Gannon put down his instrument and grinned. “It's not quite finished yet.”

I frowned. “Write any more of that silly sing-song and I'll kick Rodin back to the Western Islands myself.”

But the words were hardly out before I heard cheers and clapping coming from behind us.

* * * *

Chapter Sixteen

From the Eye of God to the Jaws of Hell

Being Carla: A Story of Pleasure Island

By Christopher Leeson

Version 090614

 
Carl Boelke was a problem kid and he was getting worse.  In junior high, he ran a protection racket and punched out the smaller boys who didn’t pay.  In the senior grades, the police put him on a watch list.  Once, when a girl wouldn’t go out with him, he beat on her brother until she said _yes.    When their parents pressed charges, Carl juvenile court only sentenced him to community service.  When not under direct supervision, his behavior went unimproved.

His mother, Mrs. Boelke, a hospital employee, met a woman who came in frequently to visit a patient.  They occasionally talked and one day the visitor dropped a bomb.  She told Mrs. Boelke about Pleasure Island, and how the resort was more than just a resort.  It was the place that helped to solve the problems that their boy Roy was having with the law.  She hinted, in an odd way, that Pleasure Island could change the bad attitudes of troubled boys. 

Mrs. Boelke kept nagging her friend to explain how anyone could accomplish so much, but the lady kept saying that she wasn't the right one to explain it.  But relenting at last, she gave Mrs. Boelke a phone number, saying, “This man at the Pleasure Island Resort office can explain it much better than ever I could.”

The New Reservation Advice division at Pleasure Island were skilled at convincing people, even about the existence of magic.  A representative met with Mr. and Mrs. Boelke and demonstrated with videos and case studies how they could solve the problems they were having with Carl.  The Boelkes were finally convinced and signed a contract, after which Pleasure Island sent Carl a registered letter saying that he had won a free two-week luxury vacation at the island resort.  Actually, his parents had made the reservation, but if they had admitted that they wanted him to go somewhere, he might have grown suspicious.   Carl had been getting cozy with criminals.  It was his nature to trust strangers making flashy promises than to trust his own parents.

Pleasure Island was indeed magical, and its magic started to transform Carl, using the energy created by his bad thoughts and deeds.  Before he realized it, Carl had metamorphosed into a pretty blonde, just as the resort had promised his parents that he would.   When he – she – had calmed down enough, the Pleasure Island staff provided her with a traveling outfit that fit her smaller and slimmer stature and, also, convincingly forged documents that called her “Carla Boelke.  Then she was sent her back to her California home.




The first thing that Carla realized after the daze wore off was that she had a spell on her, one that made everyone she knew, except her own parents, forget that Carl had ever existed.  Her folks had also removed every picture of Carl from the home and had given all his clothes to charity, just as if there had never been such a person.  Her room had gone all yellow and fru fru, and her closets were full of girly things.  That was too much; she threw a wild tantrum, accusing her parents of having “ruined her life.”  Over the next few weeks, she absolutely refused to restart her life as a teenaged girl.  The Boelke's grew increasingly worried.  School was going to start soon and they needed to have their daughter on good behavior before that happened. 

The Pleasure Island customer service representative had given them some contact literature that presented some frequently asked questions.  The anxious parents finally decided to choose the option of securing a special teacher, one who was registered with, and certified by, the resort company.

The Boelkes had Carla picked up by her “Aunt Maud,” who wasn’t really her aunt.  She was an independent contractor whose job it was to work with hard-case former boys.  Maud had rented a house in Oakdale and island-associated technicians had prepared a bedroom for Carla.  Although it look innocent, it was wired for sound and subliminal messages from recorded lessons could be piped in without the occupant of the room knowing that she was receiving unconscious lessons that would help to adjust her bad attitudes.  

Maud tried to be non-threatening but firm with Carla.  She had rules that she insisted upon, such as those about curfews.  School was about to start and it was best that Carla attend school in Oakdale, among people who hadn't known Carl.  Consequently, there were rules about school attendance and homework.
 
Carla balked at everything, refusing to wear anything but old jackets, sneakers, tee-shirts, and dungarees.  She hated to be seen in daylight and mostly skulked around the dark streets at night.

  Hers was a difficult case, admittedly, but the teacher had long experience with transformed juveniles and many options.  The resort had provided her with  subliminal attitude discs to help her, one of which offered subliminal programming to make the listener enjoy school.  

It was important to get her mixing with her peers as soon as possible.  Once an ex-boy became part of a normal community, Maud knew, she normally stopped rebelling and went with the flow.  Though her pupil was soon attending school without kicking up a lot of fuss, Maud knew that Carla's real  “learning” would not come in class, but from the subliminal lessons she was receiving every night.  These lessons were intended to help transformed boys to open their eyes to the interesting and exciting possibilities of their new place in the world.

The Spellcaster's Heiress -- Chapter 15

By Christopher Leeson

 
FROM DYAN'S JOURNAL

All my life I had been hearing stories about the Formoru, told in a way meant to frighten children. These bogies of nightmare were sometimes called the Dark Gods.  But except for the certainty that they were dangerous and exceptionally evil, no one had described in very much detail.  Going faithfully to ritual did not illuminate a child on the subject; the parish druids said not a word about these ancient ones. Yet, it was said that our gods, the Daanan, had defeated them, thereby giving their tribe its greatest victory.

Since those days that are lost to me, and which I cannot now claim as my own, I have learned much that only the high wizards and druids are permitted to know.  It is the kind of knowledge that I would cheerfully forget -- if only it were safe to do so.

“What are these Dark Gods?  Are they truly dead and gone?” Those were the inquiries that I once put to Cawdour when I was about seventeen.

He looked at me in an odd way.  I wondered if he was taking stock of me, trying to decide whether I was ready to receive an answer to the questions that I had asked.

“The Dark Gods are ancient creatures of immense power,” he said.

“So the stories tell us. But are they true gods, or are they monsters?” I asked.

“Both. Or neither. It is a matter of definitions.”

“How would you define those terms, Sire?”

The old wizard shrugged, as if I were being irrelevant.

“Most are colossal in size,” he stated. “Their memory lingers, though they were gone from the world before Mankind walked it.”

“How can that be?”

“Because they refuse to be forgotten. They mind-touch certain mad and half-mad persons in dreamtime.  From the visions reported by these mad savants, they Dark Ones continue to be worshiped by the most depraved of human cults. And not only human cults.”

“Sire?”

Some believe that those which lurk at the edges worship them also.”

“Edges?” I echoed.

“The edges of human habitation, the edges of the seasons, the edges of Time and Forever, the edges of dark and light, the edges of dreaming and wakefulness. The edges of life and death. A few of these are found in our folklore -- the undead, the lycanthropes, the beings of the sea. Others have been forgotten, or, in their remoteness, have never become known.”

I blinked. I knew of such creatures from hero stories, but was the wizard implying that they were real?  How could one so wise hold such an idea?  For myself, belief in monsters had slipped away from me along with with childhood.

“The Dark Gods are held in abeyance by forces even greater than they are,” my foster father continued. “But this power is not immense enough to snuff them out of existence, so they abide like prisoners awaiting their release. The stars say that their day shall come again, but this is not their day. No one can prognosticate the hour when they will rise again; let us hope that it shall not be ere Mankind has withered and turned to dust.

“Is it the Daanan who hold these demons in check?”

Cawdour shrugged. “Most believe that the Formaru were routed by the gods. Others hold that their banishment came about gradually, part of the natural progression of the Cycles.”

I could not help but frown. What were the cycles that he referred to?

“According to the first theory,” Cawdour pressed, “the Dark Gods held sway in realms where our gods hold sway now. There was a great war between the gods of the natual world, led by Nudens, and the Dark Ones. It is said that nearly all of the Formoru and gods were slain.

"But the Daanan, legend tells us, held a secret. They knew the way back from the Pit of Death, and so sacrificed themselves in wild attacks, so that the enemy could be driven into the deep darkness along with them. The Daanan returned by virtue of their secret wisdom, but Death's Hall still holds the Dark Gods captive in its bowels.”  He shrugged.  “This tale is only a metaphor, the truth, we must assume, was something that our ancestors could not conceivably understand.

“Be that as it may, the Dark Gods are not truly dead; instead, they await the time of their release, eager for revenge against those who discomforted them.”

This was, in the main, the same story that parents had been telling their children for centuries.

Now Cawdour frowned pensively. “The second supposition holds that the Old Gods are dormant only due to the effects of cycles, the universal order to which even the mightiest of gods must yield. To understand this, look at the seasons of the earth. Just as some animals hibernate through inclement winter, so too must the Old Gods slumber so long as the prevailing cosmic cycle endures.

"These cycles are like the magical clock in the famous story, the one which made a sound to awaken its master whenever the time came for him to rise. While the Dark Gods sleep, life as we know it go on.  But when they wake.....”

“When they wake, what happens?” I asked.

Cawdour drew a deep breath through grim lips. “By the time they rise, their thirst for destruction shall surely have grown as bottomless as the pit that had imprisoned them.”

I suddenly wondered if the savant was only trying to test me, to assess my canniness when told a false tale, even if by one whom I had always placed at the highest level of trust.  “Wherever they presently lay,” I began carefully, trying not to sound naive, “will the world of man be left in peace for the next thousand thousand years, or should we fear?”

Again he regarded me, his glance challenging.  Was it intended to admonish me -- not for my gullibility, but for my skeptical tone?

“We should fear,” he finally declared.

* * * * *

Chapter Fifteen

The Dark Ones

Revenge: A Story of Pleasure Island

  

By Christopher Leeson

Version date 01-03-15

Dean Fontain was too wild for his sedate parents to control. But their neighbors, the Boelkes, recognized what their friends were going through and told them about the secret that had changed their lives: the secret of Pleasure Island. What the Fontains learned that night astonished them and they couldn't help but think that their neighbors were playing a bad joke. They were actually saying that their pretty and well-behaved daughter Carla used to be a very bad boy, Carl.

"That's ridiculous," said Mrs. Fontain. "I remember when you brought that precious little girl home from the hospital eighteen years ago."

Mrs. Boelke shook her head and almost smiled. "There's magic involved. The first time you saw Carl as a girl, the enchantment he brought from Pleasure Island put false memories into your mind. We remember what really happened because the island people give parents a protective charm, but everyone else sees no change when a boy comes back different. Because of the spell you can't remember how badly Carl behaved, and even that you complained that he was tempting your Dean into so much trouble.”

“No,” replied Mr. Fontain curtly, “we certainly don't remember anything like that.”

"It's all true," said Mr. Boelke. The neighbors then offered to let the Fontains wear their charms overnight, telling them that the enchanted metal would take away all their false memories. Dean’s parents thought the idea was silly, but still something made them both go along with the joke. But by morning they knew that it was no joke. The charms had worked like, well, like a charm. They had awakened up knowing everything about Carl Boelke. The pair immediately went over to their friends’ home.

Carla was there with them, finishing the breakfast dishes. She was a pretty, upbeat teen who usually dressed in a way that would catch the attention of the neighborhood boys. It was hard for the Fontains not to stare, now remembering what a sour loudmouth Carl Boelke had been.

To get some privacy for her visitors, Carla's mother gave the girl some money to spend at the ice cream shop. A minute later, Carla had gone out the door and the four adults were left free to confer.

"How did you find out about Pleasure Island?" Mrs. Fontain asked.

"A friend at the hospital told me," replied her neighbor. "She had a boy who was hooked up with drug dealers and she had found out about Pleasure Island just in time to save him. Now he's a cheerleader who's doing well in school."

Mr. Fontain reached into his pocket and handed back the charms. "These things took the wool away from our eyes. We'd give almost anything if Dean were just as well behaved as your Carla is, even if it means that we have to exchange a son for a daughter. But can't the Island people fix a boy's bad personality without changing his sex, too?"

"All I'm sure of is that there's a good reason why they don’t want to do it that way. A sexual reversal gives off an energy that they call mana and they're able to capture and store it for use later. A gender change is actually not what they're after; it’s just a by-product of the mana-harvesting."

Mr. Fontain frowned. "What exactly is mana?"

Mr. Boelke looked at him very seriously. "All we know is what we've been told. Mana is what magic is made of, and it's also the energy that makes some babies develop into males in the womb. Developing infants who don't have the mana-absorbing gene are born female. Have you see films about how a boy and girl fetus look exactly the same until after a period of development? They develop into different sexes because the baby with the mana-gene is drawing in mana that enables its development into a male. 

"Remove that energy from a male, even when he is fully grown, and he will go to the human default form, female. Younger males have the most potent mana, so the wizards do all they can to recruit mana donors at a young age. But not at too young an age, because exploiting children is against another one of their rules. With parental consent, they can take the mana from an older child, because Pleasure Island has a law that says that a child is not a legal adult until twenty-one. If on Pleasure Island, a contract with the parents or legal guardian is makes donation without the boy's consent legal to to that age of maturity. They are not very much interested in taking mana from males over twenty-one for some reason."

"Hiring wizards must be expensive," Mr. Fontain suggested.

“Not very,” said Mr. Boelke.

This surprised the other couple. “Are you saying that they don’t care about money because because what they are really after is the mana?" asked Mrs. Fontain.

“It seems so. In fact, I've heard that they can make gold out of lead; money means little to them. They want mana."

"You're lucky that Carla turned out to be so pretty," Mrs. Fontain said. "I felt so sorry for the homely girls at my old school. They always seemed either angry or sad. A lot of the angry ones became feminists."

 

Going Native by Perspikay and Friend!

Hi all, this is a collaborative story I wrote with my friend Perspikay! If you like it and wanna read more work like it, check out her DA at http://perspikay.deviantart.com
---
Going Native

The room was charged with joviality as the guests mingled and mixed with each other, cocktail glasses clenched tightly as the champagne popped and flowed, the dulcet sound of the harpist playing a lullaby to the museum’s newest acquisition. But even as the bodies milled around him, all Professor Sienkiewicz could do was gently adjust his glasses as he gazed up in astonishment at the enormous totem that loomed above them. He’d never dreamed he’d be able to see it in the flesh. 12 feet of magnificent, polished obsidian shone and glimmered in the gallery’s soft lighting, every angle and corner designed to guide the eye across the ivory relief figures that embedded themselves on it’s surface. He blushed as he gawked at multitudes of sculpted women, their exaggerated impossible forms exhibiting massive hips and bulbous breasts - and occasionally - gravid pregnant bellies, clearly denoting some sort of hyper fertility. They were all frozen in some sort of dance, a ritual, around a ferocious male figure at the centre of the totem, his enormous member towering over a woman who was kneeling low in supplication, his own groin tingling slightly..

    “Wow.” a voice next to him gasped. “It’s so… expressive.”

    He’d been so absorbed he hadn’t noticed Janice’s presence. He whipped around to find his favourite student gawking up at the totem with the same look of hushed reverence on her face, absently twisting her ponytail around her finger. When he’d been invited to help the museum curate the Kerezala Totem for the gala, he couldn’t help but bring her along as well. She’d spent years researching her thesis on the Mutabwe people, their sudden flourishing golden age and mysterious collapse.

    “I still can’t believe it’s real.” Janice said. “I mean I’ve seen the pictures, but to actually see it face to face.. a totem from the Mutabwe high period this well preserved.. Just look at the details on the figures! The poses feel like they’re leaping out at me, they look so realistic despite all the exaggerations.”

     “Yes. it’s breathtaking.” The Professor answered. “I didn’t think any still existed.”

    “What do those characters around the base of the totem say..?”

    “It was some sort of proverb, I think. “The strong will grow stronger while the lesser will quench their hunger” His eyes darted back to the central figure and his lips tightened into a barely hidden smirk. “I have a few guesses as to what it means.”

    “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” Hannah giggled as she butted in between the two of them and sipped on her glass of champagne. “Honey, you need to tear your eyes off that statue for more than a minute. This is a party, remember? You two look like zombies standing there!”

    For a moment Professor Sienkiewicz was stunned at the contrast between his wife and the student, her t-shirt and jeans making a night and day difference with Hannah’s dignified little black dress. Yet, she was always so alive and perky at these sorts of events, she even looked younger, the glow of excitement evident in her face, her own enjoyment of events like these shining through her. They’d met on a dig site years ago, back when he’d still been active in the field himself - the bright, attractive girl asking him question after question about whatever relics he’d had to hand, showing genuine interest in his work. Together they’d made a perfect match - his knowledge and research, allied to her own interest and growing knowledge as well as her enjoyment of social events like this, had been the main reason he’d managed to get this appointment in the first place, and create the collection that he had. It was as much her baby as his.

     She deftly hooked her lithe arm around her husband’s and tugged insistently. “C’mon honey.”  She grinned. “There’s some people I want you to meet.” With a gentle look of resignation the Professor stumbled along attached to his wife, looking back at his student glibly waving at the two of them and chuckling to herself. “Have fun, sir” she smiled, before turning back and circling the totem to inspect it closer, her breath fogging the glass as she leaned in.

    There was a large mix of academia and upper crust society populating the gala, even though it had been intended to be a small function, the guest list had unwittingly ballooned out of control. But it was the first guest on the list that Hannah beelined for, the man who the totem was on loan from and who had originally acquired it for his private collection. Barrel chested and tall, he cut a strong figure for a man in his late 50’s, his silvery hair well matched to his dark olive complexion. His hands gesturing extravagantly as he expounded to the small group of guests trying to hide their boredom, Basil Kinnock (or “sir” Kinnock - the professor could never remember how those titles worked ) the old familiar story drifted through the room to the Professor’s ears. He, of course, had been intimately involved in every step of the process, finding, cataloguing, researching; there had been no step of the totem’s journey from desert sands to its position at rest on the high podium which hadn’t involved him to some degree. Inwardly he scoffed. Oh, in appearance he was everything the public might think of when asked to imagine an elder statesman of archaeology, still active in the field, but if his actual work was anything like the time he’d put in with the Professor the only time he had dust on his boots was when he’d left them to rest stored away in a cupboard somewhere. Not that he would risk a blemish on those expensive Italian loafers.

    “Ahh! Kieran!” Basil shouted to the professor as he reluctantly drifted to the front of the crowd. “And Hannah. It’s truly an honour to be blessed with not one, but two of the most preeminent experts in the Mutabwe culture. Besides myself, of course.”

    “Mmhmm, we’re very grateful you invited us, Sir Kinnock. The only reason my husband hasn’t had the time to thank you already is because he was so busy studying the artefact.” Hannah groaned. “I practically had to drag him away from the thing.”

    “Now now, it’s not every day one gets to be exposed to a fully preserved Mutabwe Totem!” Basil exclaimed bombastically. “Though with such a fine creature on his arm it’s quite curious how Kieran could find the time to tear himself away.”

    Hannah tittered nervously at his compliment, butterflies forming in her stomach as she took another long sip of the cool red wine. She’d been feeling the usual giddiness that heralded any evening like this, even before she’d entered the room, but after she saw the totem she’d been feeling truly ecstatic. The totem was going to revolutionize her field of study and she had Basil to thank for it, even if he would take all the credit. She shifted on her high heels slightly as he leaned in to take her tiny hand in his own, before shaking Kieran’s forcefully.

    “Well then, now that you’ve had your inspection, what do you two think the totem was meant to symbolize?”

    “Well..” Hannah said. “It seems that it’s clearly used in some sort of fertility ritual, most likely entailing a, well, orgy of some sort.” She blushed. “The inscription at the bottom seems to imply that the central figure is divinely powerful, holding command over and providing nourishment to the women that please him.”
   
    Basil seemed pleased with this explanation, when the Professor began to speak. “An alternative theory we’ve also been working on is that the inscription is a warning, the central male being some sort of demonic figure, a spirit of unchained lust who feeds off the souls of the weak. Only by being appeased is the demon sated, keeping him at bay.”

    Kinnock rubbed his chin and went silent for a moment, before breaking into a beaming grin. “Both of these interpretations would answer so many of the questions we have about the Mutabwe culture! I do hope you’ll stay on and continue studying the totem. It really is quite fascinating, isn’t it?”

“Truthfully, I know I haven’t been able to take my eyes off of it!” Laughing softly, Hannah tossed her head back towards the display, at the younger girl still studying it. “It’s just so interesting!” The Professor chuckled inwardly, his wife’s curiosity and interest still so strong even after all these years.

    “Well, I don’t want to tie up either of you too much! Please, go and enjoy yourselves! The totem and all of the study it entails will still be here when the party finishes!” The man grinned, slapping Kieran on the shoulder with his thick hand. The two of them looked at each other and smiled dreamily as they wandered back off into the crowd, Basil turning back to speak to some other dilettante who’d bother to listen to his story.   

******************************************************

As the night went on, the alcohol began to flow more generously and freely. The pale cheeks of the attendants turned rosy and bright in the sterile air of the gallery, the wine increasing both in volume and quantity. Kieran was himself nursing a half drunk martini glass in his hand as his wife slumped her head on his shoulder, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist. He could catch a glimpse of his favourite pupil giggling into her drink at the bar, her ponytail somewhat messy and yet neatly curled around her neck. It seemed like the atmosphere of the entire party had been slowing down into a calm and drunken stupor. Even the harpist was beginning to haphazardly miss notes as she tugged at the stringed instrument, her bemused face giving her a tipsy air.

In the centre of the room, Basil stood, his raised voice still continuing on his favourite theme, interrupted now and then by the giggles of the small group that stood around him, listening intently.

As the Professor and his Wife slow danced to the sound of the harp stringing them along, they both waltzed past the totem, the obsidian looking for all the world as if it was sparkling. Hannah’s lidded eyes perked up as she gazed across the slutty figures playing with each other on the totem, smirking as her eyes drifted to the appalling ivory cock poking out so rudely. Suddenly she felt...really thirsty. She lazily twirled her fingers in circles on the back of Kieran’s neck as she giggled.

“Kieerraannn.. Get me a drink.”

“Get it yourself.”

“Poo, you’re no fun!” Hannah chuckled as she pushed Kieran away, her tipsy husband almost losing his balance for a moment as she tried to make her way over to the bar. It was just that her heels were so high and her dress was clinging so tightly to her sweaty body, forcing her to mince and strut with every step she took. It didn’t help that her dress was also so very short, letting everyone see the exposed camel toe on her panties as she swished and swayed across the room.

Janice waved a lazy hand as the other woman stepped up to the bar next to her. “Hi! This is such a great party, i’m having so much fun!” Hannah slumped on the bartop, grinning over at the girl. Suddenly she just felt so top-heavy… maybe she had had too much to drink after all. “I’m so glad you’re enjoying it!” Her hand drifted slowly over to hold the other girl’s. “My husband always said you were his best student, so of course we had to invite you to come!” Behind the bar, the young bartender slid two more glasses over, Hannah greedily grabbing hers to poor the cool liquid down her throat. Beside her she heard the choking sound change to a giggle, Janice’s strained t-shirt dribbling with red wine that has missed her mouth. “Oopsie.”


    Hannah smiled. “Oh, don’t worry. You know, in ancient cultures, being so eager that you spill some food or drink was a sign of how much you were enjoying yourself.” Under her eyes, one drip of the crimson liquid rolled across the small dark stain, on the crest of the round chest beneath it. “If you want, you could always go in the back somewhere, i’m sure I have some old clothes you could change into if you wanted lying around here somewhere!”

    “No, it’s ok.” Her finger dipping to collect the drop, all three women’s eyes followed it as it became an unconscious little caress, a stiff peak rising to poke out of the material. “It’s only a cultural thing, right? I mean, so are clothes, too. I could be completely naked if I really wanted!” The new wine glass quickly placed served just right to salve Hannah’s dry throat. “Has anyone ever told you how.. how young you look? I mean, for your age. You could probably pass as my sister!”

Hannah almost choked into her drink as well, but managed to gracefully down the wine in a fluid gulp. “Oh hush, don’t tease me like that. I’m old enough to be your mother.” Janice just grinned and twirled her lengthening ponytail around her fingers. “I’m serious! You look amazinngg~. Hee hee, this whole conversation is reminding me about all those weird anomalies about Mutabwe culture.” Hannah pursed her lips and ordered another drink. “You mean like how after the high period the Mutabwe seemed to just abandon clothes?”

Janice nodded eagerly as if her head was on a swivel. “Yeah! Or how after a while the only remains that are found are just breeding age females. It’s like, where did all the men go? Or the older women and stuff? Spooky right?” Hannah just rolled her eyes and arched her back, her dress barely straining to encapsulate her swelling bust. “Those are just myths Jan, they wouldn’t stand up to any academic rigour. We just haven’t found enough samples yet.”

“I know, right, I mean, how could a culture get by without any men? It just wouldn’t work.” Eyes glazed slightly as she put her glass back on the bartop. “They couldn’t go without… I mean, it makes no sense.”

Rebecca Molay's Retirement

If you haven't heard....Rebecca Molay, a prolific authoress of the genre, retired suddenly yesterday.  Her site is down and her captions scratched.  Apparently someone was threatening to expose who she was to people she knew.