For all that Razia's year in the Deepmarch felt like paradise, it was not fully without its toils. Through a series of hilarious events she managed to briefly land among the ranks of the Blades of the Hollow Court: The elite unit tasked with upholding the queen's will. Fast, silent, and singularly deadly, their presence, on the rare occasion it's detected, signifies imminent death for Her enemies.

Here Razia flaunts the Blades' ceremonial garb; an ensemble that sports significantly more finery and bulk, sacrificing a bit of maneuverability for showmanship.

Incredible art by  PGM300

The following sensitive themes are explored in this chapter:
Violence
Death
Rape

Viewer discretion is advised.

Razia: A Vivarium Tale

Part Five: The River

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But of course, an obvious piece of the puzzle yet remains untouched: Void magic. The catalyst for so much of this wondrous romp. Nature, or at least Lorn’s nature, seeks a balance. Light and darkness, fire and water, earth and air. But what of nature itself? The magic of life itself seems to lack an opposite. Some philosophers claim this is where the Void comes in.

Nearly every being on the planet knows of that evil that so briefly united us, but so few know what lies beyond the silvery rips in the sky. The veil that seems to refract the world in impossible hues. And indeed, refraction is the crux of its effect upon the world. Light, matter, thoughts, even space itself, Void magic operates on the basis of distortion; of taking a thing and changing it fundamentally. For its place of origin, this resulted in a nightmarish gray hellscape of twisted flora and fauna. At some point in its history, an entity was created with the sole purpose of merging with all other entities, creating a sort of hive mind. Thralls of the collective, twisted alien creatures with a litany of random body parts, seem mindless and feral, but their overall actions betray a shrewd puppetmaster. Those who venture through the breach walk a perilous path: A smarter enemy with a far more intimate knowledge of the battlefield. Still, the defense is far from lacking in volunteers. spearheaded by the Nova Knights, the force guarding the gateway stands thousands strong, hoping to prevent another catastrophe with their blood and sweat.
The magic of the Void is one of perversion.

...Sorry, poor choice words given the nature of this tale. Corruption, mutation, refraction; these are the nature of the unnatural. I touched on several of its proboscises in a previous musing.[/i]

Verden and Razia reunited in the local inn. The dragon was too bruised, bloated, and bleary for much conversation. They simply lay in one another’s arms. The soothing, electrifying contact of skin against scales, the warmth of her body, and the soft pulse of her heartbeat so close to his own allayed his worries. If he concentrated, he thought he could hear the tiny buzzing of her fragmented gemheart setting a beat to its rhythm. Each breath tickled the magenta locks splayed across his chin and neck. He absently stroked the mane running down her back.

In the moonless night, the room was pitch black save for the occasional glint of green of his mate’s eyes, peeking down to make sure she wasn’t crushing him. Her weight settled comfortably across his chest, one claw cupping his cheek.

He lay silently for several minutes, simply basking in the sound of Razia’s breathing, before finally uttering the question that weighted his mind. “Do you think it worked?”

“We’ll know soon enough,” she whispered.


He awoke to find himself immured once more in the hot silken confines of the dragoness’s mouth. Her teasing tongue and succulent suction drew him from the deep slumber.

She smiled as she felt him stirring, shifting one hand to cup his balls while the other played in reassuring circles across his abdomen. Gradually, her efforts intensified.

In their year together, they’d become experts in one another’s needs. She effortlessly found the perfect rhythm, reading his body language like an open book. It didn’t take long for her expert claws and maw to draw him over the edge.

She clambered up him until her hips straddled his own, still swallowing down the last vestiges of his seed. She ground her hips against his still-tender member as she leaned over him. “Now that you’re properly warmed up, let’s answer last night’s question.”

Razia’s tongue curled its forked tip closed against his skin, showering his cheeks and chin with tiny kisses before slipping between his parted lips. She sank deeper to share an intimate kiss. As she explored him, she mischievously snuck a few residual strands of his own sperm down his throat. Her rolling hips maneuvered his cock between her folds before sinking against him, sending it into her warm sinuous depths.

Their lovemaking was slow, tantric, exquisit; their entwined bodies the closest two souls could hope to be. It sufused Verden with soft, heady, aching pleasure.

As always, Razia seemed almost supernaturally attuned to his body, for as he approached apotheosis once more, she broke from her soft moans to whisper in his ear.

“You’re going to make a great father.”

Her legs threaded tightly through his would accept no other outcome. And so, by the orgasm-induced milking of her silken tunnel, he came in her.

It wasn’t his strongest climax, nor his hardest. Rather, it felt warm, almost comforting. The sight of home after a long journey. The first rays of dawn after a winter night. And indeed, an air of finality seemed to hang over it. Though it seemed ridiculous given his limited knowledge of biology, he felt he could sense their essences coming to union within her.

When at last they uncoupled to lay happily side by side, he glanced down at her abdomen. The curse mark stood out starkly against the pale scales, so black it almost seemed to warp the light around it.

“Do you think…?”

She took his hand in hers and squeezed it. “Yes, yes I do.”


The changes over the next month were subtle yet undeniable. Razia gained several pounds, much to her displeasure. She began craving unusual foods. Mostly exotic meats, some he wasn’t sure were even edible. Horseshoe crab, magma snails, bear meat, and at least a dozen types of Rotisserie chicken basted in various flavors joined the list.

The preparations seemed daunting. What would their child, or children, look like? How would they be born? He imagined solemn little elves hatching from eggs, using their chins as chisels. It took all his considerable willpower to stifle a laugh as they considered different swaddling blanket options.


Amidst the happy chaos, summons arrived once more from Shiza's Peak. There was talk of setting up a formal, permanent embassy for Deepmarch within the mountain. Pyrroth's forces moved ever closer to Trinity, the heartlands of the Agglo. Their fall would establish the Peak as the greatest power in the north, and it seemed the queen wished to further cement their relations in preparation.

Despite Razia's condition, or perhaps because of it, she decided to accompany him.

Summer cast off its final waves of heat as they set out. A cooler breeze blew at their backs for the first leg of the journey, seeming to urge them onwards towards the fringe of the Deepmarch. They angled slightly north of their previous crossing, giving Verden a chance to show off a few more unexplored natural wonders.


On the fifth day, as they trekked along the river Jinsoko, a tributary of the Ronhallahan, Razia heard a noise.

She'd grown fond of water, despite its inferiority to magma-- you could hardly float on it properly!-- and the sound of rushing water was a soothing symphony. At first she mistook the low rumblings for a precariously balanced boulder somewhere in the flow, its rockings producing deep rumblings as they sometimes did. But they persisted, growing louder with each passing moment.

She halted her juicy boytoy with a raised hand and knelt to press her ear to the ground. The bluestem grass tickled maddeningly but she shouldered through, focusing on the rumbling. The vibrations traveled more strongly through the silty earth, and she could pick out individual beats.
Not rocks, she realized. Hooves.

"Did you smell a rabbit again?" Verden asked.

"I wish. No. Riders. Sounds like quite a few of them, coming from behind. What do you want to do?"

"We're still in the homeland, if barely. We should be fine. Unless…" he raised his hand, making an L with thumb and index finger as a makeshift scope. He pointed it behind them, then angled it slightly northeast. The color drained from his face.

"What's wrong?" inquired Razia, sensing his fear.

"We should hide." He took her hand and urged her into a run towards the treeline. "It's just a hunch, but the logistics make too much sense. This was the fastest discreet route from the Roan Wastes to the Peak.

The realization struck hard. "Not riders. Runners." Razia wracked her brain for history knowledge. The enormous prairie dominated much of the eastern northlands. Since time immemorial, it was ruled by the equid clans. She'd seen a few of them in Cambium. Most were hulking, musclebound nomads sporting hooves in place of feet or talons.

Roan had officially abstained from the war, but it was a fractured and factionous territory.

"Mercenaries?"

"Aye," Verden replied. "Likely trying to raid Pyrroth's supply lines."

"And if they're on the payroll of the enemy…." With the influx of Agglomeration refugees, hatred of Pyrroth and his kind ran high in Silis'Cambium. Razia was no stranger to discrimination. But they were far from the safety of the city now.

Another sound broke the rising thunder of hoofbeats. A sharp, excited braying.

Hounds.

"Voidblight," Verden swore. "We have to break our scent trail. There should be a crossing a few klicks up." He managed a grin, though his heart clearly wasn't in it. "Think you're still up for sprinting?"

"Are you calling me fat?"

"No, but--"

"We dragons were built for speed. You don't stand a chance, pretty boy." With that, Razia broke into a full run. Verden stayed hot on her heels.

The Jinsoku twisted and turned through low hills, the foliage thick enough to obscure vision beyond thirty meters. Their pursuers remained out of sight, their presence marked only by the terrifying pounding of hooves, growing louder with each passing minute. Razia dodged through nettles and fallen trees, channeling as much as she dared through her gemheart to augment her speed. Puffs of flame flared beneath her heels with every step, propelling her forward.

It began to rain as they wove among the trees. A light, mean rain that dampened spirits more than earth. The unpleasant chafing damp did little for her nerves. Damned sky water, showing up at the most inopportune moments as usual.

They broke from the woods, coming upon a small field marking a sharp bend in the river.

"Alright we should be able to--" Verden skidded to a stop. "No," he said, mortified. "No!!!"

A large boulder sat in the center of the channel. Its presence altered the eddies around it, creating a wide, deep furrow in the gravel downstream, making crossing impossible without swimming.

"Maybe we can…" the words died Razia's throat as she looked behind them.

Too late.

A horde emerged from the trees behind them. Sunlight glinted off steely axes and buckles. Razia counted at least thirty warriors. Most stood well over six feet tall, bare-chested save for straps and bits of armor crisscrossing them, muscles glistening from their prolonged run and the rain. They sported heads reminiscent of bulls and horses, many with uncut gems woven into their manes. Each of them bore the same armband: A silver demonic skull set on black. Though she’d never seen it in the flesh, its description was whispered in fearful tones all through Cambium. They spoke of the endless legions of undead that sacked Gavantret. The crest of Nightfall.

A particularly tall one, his build and dappled hair reminiscent of a clydesdale, gave a small hand signal. They began to fan out.

They don't seem to be from any one particular clan. Verden was likely right about then being mercenaries.

Verden drew Glyphslinger. They spared him a glance, but they seemed far more focused on her.

"Gentlemen, ladies," Verden said, trying to sound casual. "A fine morning, isn't it?"

"Sure is, now that we've found you," the mercenary who gave the signal said. "They said you elves were traitors, and I guess seeing is believing."

"We're just diplomats passing through. We don't want any trouble."

"Oh I think we're well passed the point of diplomacy. 'Sides, my folks here could use a little warmup. Don't go dying on us too quick now." He turned to the other warriors. "Try to take Red alive. They're worth more that way."

The Roanians finished their half-circle, pinning them with their backs to the riverbend.

"Stay behind me," Verden commanded. "You shouldn't fight in your condition."

"Like Hells. We don't have a choice here."

They moved in languidly, some chuckling or hissing threats. They seemed casual, confident, though they tensed each time Razia moved.

They're worried I'm a full fledged dragon. How can I use this? Her own twinned blades, gifts of Hollow Court, dangled loose in each hand. Many Peak dwellers thought swordplay a pointless hobby outside of penis fencing. Claws could be shaped to be stronger, sharper, and far more conveniently on hand than iron sticks. Fortunately, Eris had shown her the basic forms.

She raised one, channeling enough fire to ignite the blade for an instant. Though she used a different foci, the fragments of amethyst in her chest buzzed in warning, still close enough to pick up stray mana.

Several of the mercenaries paused, raising their weapons in alarm.

"Back the fuck off," Razia shouted. "Or I'll turn the lot of you to dust."

"Remember your training, y'all," their leader replied from his position in the center of the arc.

They closed the gap. The lead two bore down on Verden, their axes swinging in wide arcs. He narrowly sidestepped the first and slashed forward with a two-handed form at the other. His swing shifted at the last possible instant, dipping down to catch the axe where the handle met the blade. With a sharp crack, the head sheared free and went spinning past, grazing his hair as it flew into the river.

He stepped into the swing, pressing the attack before the horse could recover. But his first foe had already rebounded from his missed swing. He hacked at Verden's exposed flank, forcing the elf to dance backwards.

Verden let out a low growl of effort. The olivine stone on his forehead glowed a sharp green. His hand contorted into a twisted hook as it guided the magic.

The kneehigh grass around his attackers wove to mimic his movements, tying themselves around their ankles. The axe-wielding bull's momentum carried him forward and he fell with a bellow. Glyphslinger rose to meet him. The blade sheared into his neck muscles. Razia winced as she heard it strike a vertebrae. Verden yanked it free and spun towards his other incapacitated assailant, who had managed to draw a knife.

Before he could engage, a blast of sand struck and sent him staggering back.
Razia cast about, searching for the source. Most of the remaining mercenaries had ignored Verde
n, instead trying to close around her. Over their shoulder, she caught a glimpse of a black stallion in the back, holding a large pouch in one palm, trails of sand rising from it to swirl around him.

Wills. They have channelers too.

The Roanians that approached closest wielded shields alongside clubs and hammers; weapons better suited to break and incapacitate rather than cut. [i]Better against my scales, too. They can turn away a blade no problem, but blunt trauma….

Behind them trailed several warriors wielding chains.

Getting a bit ahead of themselves.

She foined forward at one, causing her to skip back a pace. As she did, the others sidestepped, trying to fully surround her.

Razia backed up towards the low cliff bordering the river, swinging a blade in lazy arcs to keep them somewhat at bay. They seemed intent on corralling more than attacking, wanting to gain every possible advantage before making their move. She spared a glance to Verden.

Her lover had rubbed the worst of the grit from his eyes and was furiously parrying two mercenaries. His bound foe had extricated himself from the grass and retrieved his fallen companion's axe. The troupe leader himself fought alongside him, wielding a pair of handaxes. Glyphsinger spun in a constant flurry, its wielder using its superior reach to keep them at bay. As she watched, the leader managed to catch the blade in his axe head's groove and lunge in to deliver a powerful kick to his side. Verden tumbled back with a cry, narrowly regaining his footing before the two horses re-engaged.

A club swung at her leg. Razia crouched, just enough to deflect the weapon. Her leg still numbed from its impact. She leapt forward towards her surprised assailant. A chain flew in from the side, but its trajectory was wide, aimed at where she stood a moment before. Her sword opened a deep slit across the tan bull's belly; large enough to be fatal, though not immediately.

She twisted towards her next nearest opponent, her sword held horizontal over her head in anticipation of a downward swing.

Her prediction proved accurate, but the blow still sent her staggering back, her arm ringing from the blow's force. Another chain snaked for her ankles. She channeled again, sending agony through her chest, and leapt with explosive force.

Her jump took her momentarily above the hulking mercenaries. She saw Verden again. He fought one on one against their leader, sparks dancing from their clashing weapons. He limped with each step, a red stain marring his left hip where her hoof broke the skin. Both fighters sported half a dozen small nicks and bruises.

With a primal yell, Verden caught his swinging axe with his hilt. Glyphslinger spun in his hands down towards her exposed side. The stallion was off-balance, his other axe too far to block.

A flash of sunlight caught Razia's eye as she seemed to hang suspended in the air. The mare dropped to the ground. Verden staggered back, looking confused. He looked down. Crimson blossomed in his chest around the metal spike embedded there. He grasped feebly at it before looking at Razia.
Both lovers struck the ground at the same time.

Razia sat in a heap, staring numbly at Verden's body between a forest of legs. She willed him with every fiber of her being to get up. But he lay, unmoving. In her heat sight, he had already begun to cool.

Verden was dead. Her world was dead.

Slowly she looked up at her attackers. No, she thought. His murderers.

Her vision reddened until it matched the pool on her husband's chest. Her gemheart vibrated a clear, harsh tone. Its peal lingered in the air, growing sharper and sharper until it cut silent without warning.

A swallowtail alighted on her trembling hand.

Something took over. It was raw and primal, seething with a rage she couldn't express. Her body acted almost of its own accord.

Her arm shot out. A small explosion beneath Glyphslinger launched it into her waiting palm, fully severing a pair of legs at the knee as it passed. In her fugue state, she barely felt the pain in her chest.

She leapt to her feet. Wind swirled about her, lending force to her movements. She dove headfirst at a mottled gray mare. The mercenary moved to block with her shield, too slow. Razia's jump carried her high, and she spun the greatsword over the barrier to ram its pommel into the woman's skull. Bone cracked beneath steel. The weapon's weight barely registered, the magic coursing through her veins making it feel feather-light to her enhanced muscles.

Vents, dormant since before the accident, flared wide to connect her gem sack to her stomach. She felt the gases within ignite. A gout of fire erupted from her maw towards a pair of hammer wielders. Her leap placed her at an unexpected angle, and the flames licked around their shields to ignite fur and hair. They screamed. The further one's hand worked frantically and a lense of sand began to coalesce before him, but it was a pointless effort. A bucket of water before a firestorm. The hungry flames consumed their cries before engulfing them completely, leaving a pair of charred corpses in their wake.
A chain looped around her ankle. The piece of Razia that fought concentrated her magic on the scales there. The iron melted, turning white before dissolving. Her toes curled around the liquid as it fell to the ground and she kicked out her leg to send it spraying into another approaching foe. He cursed as it fell across his chest to smoke and sizzle like branding irons.

Another trio dared enter her range. One of them danced behind her, trusting his allies to keep her busy.

She bit him.

Her fangs sank into shoulder meat. Warm, coppery blood flooded her senses. He tasted exactly like undercooked steak.

She felt her chops curl into a savage rictus. Not warriors, she thought. Prey.

A giddy need to feast overwhelmed her. Her lips pulled back in a savage grin even as she pulled back from the stallion, ripping flesh and muscle free in her wake. Streamers of blood cascaded from her maw as she spun away from the reeling foe back to his two companions.

The air around her grew hotter with each passing moment. Finally, it ignited, wreathing her in a halo of flame and destroying most of her untreated clothing. From within the maelstrom, the entire world appeared conflagrated. She would make that a reality.

As she prepared to leap, a bolt whizzed towards her leg. She caught the unmistakable glint of amber at its tip.

Whatever rational part of her mind that remained recoiled in horror. Dragonsbane.

The troupes' casual confidence suddenly made sense.

She ducked past a swinging axe and dropped into a defensive crouch, searching for the source. No twang of a bowstring had registered over the din of battle, which meant….

Her eyes locked with the mage's. The despicable creature that had dealt the killing blow seconds earlier. The source of her rage.

Too late.

The second bolt took her in the thigh.

Scales magically tempered to turn aside all but the strongest blade seemed to shred like paper. The impact registered before the pain. A sharp force driving her back, the sharp ringing jolt of rock on bone, and the sudden horrific cold of shrapnel burrowing through flesh overtook her. The agony followed an instant later, along with something far worse. Crippling weakness sucked the life from her limbs. The fire died from her skin and lungs as a deep chill rippled through her scales. Her gem heart, abuzz with the fuel of her fury, halted as if clotheslined. Its shards dug hard into their casing, producing fresh agony in tandem with her tattered leg. She felt several of the shards further splinter from the strain.

She fell limp in the thick grass. Her body tried to spasm, tried to constrict her lungs with a groan. Even that felt an insurmountable task beneath the crippling disruption of the amorphous fragments coursing through her body.

Terror replaced rage. She was back in the red room, helpless beneath Tiburia’s sadistic claws.

But reality was far more terrifying than nightmare.

A shadow fell over her. A hoof landed on her back, driving the wind for her. Hands seized her arms as she struggled to regain it, yanking them behind her back. Cold biting chains encircled her forearms, pinning them tightly in place. The same powerful grip bent each leg back and tied them ankle to thigh. Her leg screamed anew at the movement. Her own attempted scream only earned a mouthful of weeds.

They trussed her like a hog for slaughter, leaving little leeway for movement. One final length of chain wrapped twice about her snout to lock her jaw firmly closed.

Finally, the hand tangled in her hair and hoisted her skyward by the scalp. She writhed against the grip.

“Woo! Feisty one!” the mercenary leader’s voice boomed out beside her ear. “What did I say about that warmup, huh?” His voice dropped to a husky menace. The same tone Tiburia had used months before. “A shame about Husk, Marly, Laura, and Gale. A damn, damn shame.” His voice resumed its normal roar. “This hot piece should fetch a nice little sum, but first, how ‘bout show her some good old fashioned Waste hospitality.”

Razia heard the drawing of a knife.

Little remained of her clothing after the fighting and flames. The charred cloth came free easily, leaving her fully bare, dangling in the clearing like a piece of meat.

The sound of opening buckles and creaking leather rang loud in the sudden ominous silence. She felt something flop against her dangling tail before it was unceremoniously shoved aside. A moment later, a rapidly hardening schlong sprang to attention, slapping against her slit. It was massive, curling down between her thighs, its slightly flared head spanning to her navel. Razia thrashed again to no avail.

The Clydesdale roughly hoisted her still higher to line up his waving cock with its target. There was none of Molokai’s dominant inevitability, nor Verden’s tender brushes, nor Tiburia’s predatory teasing. The horse treated her like a sack of grain, each casual movement seemed designed to cause as much discomfort as possible.

The inconceivably large cockhead pressed hard against her dry folds. The mercenary leader shifted her grip on Razia’s legs, pulling her down as much as supporting her. A terrible pressure built against her entrance. She tensed her muscles to their limit, tried to draw her legs closed, tried to wriggle away. The pain was unbearable. She had to get away. Had to--

Squelch.

Stars flashed across her vision. Her toes flexed and curled. The horse was inside her. The medial ring nudged at her entrance, a full 6 inches of the massive rod already passed. It filled her to the brim and beyond. Muscles not meant to stretch sounded their protest as they strained around the girth.
The clydesdale bucked hard against her, sending his shaft jolting against Razia’s cervix. She gasped in pain once again, the field vanishing beneath a film of tears.

"Tight little bitch," the mercenary said approvingly, patting her rump. He lifted Razia again and let her bounce down hard on his cock. Her vaginal walls, already strained taught, dragged painfully against the shaft with each motion.

The horse bucked again; hard, short bursts that sent pain lancing through Razia's cunt. The grip held her thighs wide on display for the troupe, and she could hear a few hungry chuckles over her own muffled cries.

"Alright, that should be enough warmup. Donahue, I'd say the honor's all yours. Get on up here."

The channeler approached, his black coat shining from exertion. An insufferably confident, knowing smile plastered his long face. "'Preciate it, chief," he muttered. "How you wanna do this?"

"I reckon she's all wet and raring to go now. Lord knows she slicked me up real good." To accent his point, she lifted Razia high once more, letting his phallus flop free. It glistened wetly with Razia's juices. Her face burned with rage and humiliation. "You go on and hold her for a minute. Me--"

Razia's heart leapt into her throat, her eyes bulged and rolled madly, as she felt the flared head trail up her slit to press firm and true against her tailhole.

"I reckon I'll have a bit more fun 'round back." His hand massaged at Razia's sphincter, lubricating it with her own stolen juices.

The war dragon fought for her life. She snarled, she thrashed, she strained until the chains cut bloody furrows into her scales. But nothing slowed the equines. Her husband's killer pressed up against her naked body and gripped her firmly around the buttocks. He leaned back to thrust his long, slender member into her entrance, parted slightly yet from its previous filling. At the same time the pressure began to mount in her rear. She clenched as hard as she could, desperately trying to rebut the veritable battering ram of a cock. Its wide head spread against the bud, its edges tickling the inner borders of her cheeks. She could feel each bump adorning its flat top as it pressed insistently against her. Second by second she could feel herself caving inwards, her sphincter no match for the four powerful arms dragging her down upon it. She spread painfully, then agonizingly, her behind fighting for all its worth even as it unwillingly began to swallow the tip. It deformed and stretched until she hardly recognized the sensations emerging from it. It bowed inwards until she was certain it would tear. Finally, with a sickening lurch, the head slipped past her ring.

"Got damn, her pooper's even tighter," the clydesdale crowed, releasing his prey momentarily to wipe her brow. Razia's toes spasmed and curled as she slipped a few inches lower, driving both shafts deeper.

In Tiburia's bedroom, she thought she learned what it was to be completely and utterly filled. That experience seemed a warm gentle fingering in comparison. The twin shafts became her, leaving no room physically or mentally; Her body little more than a stretched sleeve for their amusement. Each tiny jolt threatened to split her in two. Her torso seemed wrapped by invisible iron bands. Her legs hung leaden and useless.

Bile rose in her throat as the chief's grip returned and began to ease her down further. "Ahhhhh, that's the way," he crooned. She felt the telltale bump of the median ring slide past her entrance. Up and up he went, contorting Razia's rectum to fit his member, plumbing depths never before explored. A deep, nauseating ache grew from the unnatural penetration, rising over the drone of her agonized entrances and leg. Finally, she felt the man''s rocky abdomen bump against the base of her tail. The chieftain gave a few sharp shallow bucks to make sure he was well seated. “Just like training fillies back home.”

Her mind was so consumed by the horror unleashed behind her that Donahue's actions barely registered. The stallion idly groped at her breast, his huge hands kneading it roughly, as he continued his own assault. What he lacked in the Clydesdales girth, he made up for in length, and each cautious thrust pushed worryingly at her cervix.

"She ain't much one for depth," he complained.

"Some girls get deeper when they're proper riled up. Just gotta hit it right is all," the chief replied. "Let's you and me get a good rhythm going. That should help." The aching receded, sent off by a painful tugging, as the clydesdale withdrew all but the head of his cock. "Just try not to break her just yet. The others have earned a go at her as well."

The chief slammed home.

There was nothing left to scream with. The crushing tightness of two massive cocks had driven the last vestiges of fight from her, compressing her organs until it was all she could do to remain conscious. She fell limp as the fleshy obelisk crashed deep into her rectum.

As the chief entered, the channeler withdrew. Just as he bottomed Razia out and began to retreat, Donahue slammed back once more, matching his leader’s heartless vigor. Her stomach seemed to bow inward from the power of it.

They plowed into her. Hard, deep, pistoning thrusts, alternating like a team of skilled rowers. The chieftain’s balls slapped against her ass with each impact. Their huge bodies squeezed close, threatening to crush her between them. Her head lulled helplessly to the side as she fought to stay lucid. Beneath the grunting, braying beasts mutilating her innards, beneath the litany of pain sensors crowding her brain, beneath even the horror at losing everything, lurked something she could not confront: Her body was enjoying it. The explosive sensations against her tingling tunnels coupled with the feeling of complete and utter helplessness left her all but salivating as only one thing could.

Just as they'd taken everything else from her, the horses dragged her unwillingly to orgasm.

It was weak, little more than a shudder passing through her abused body; an extra film of incoherence on her oily mind. But against her taut pussy, even the slightest tremor felt amplified, and Donahue took careful note of the sudden flood of juices. "Dang," he panted. "She really is warming up. You weren't kidding about dragons being freaks."

Please… just let me die.

“I’m getting mighty close myself. You good with wrapping this up?” Donahue’s breath fell hot and putrid across her face.

“Sure. On three?”

“Reckon so.”

Their assault became a frenzy. They besieged with a speed and fervor that should’ve been impossible. Her lower half grew terrifyingly numb. On and on it went, until with a last gut-wrenching thrust, both horses slammed home.

Finally, the pain caught up. She scarcely noticed the accompanying tight hot stretching of the clydesdale flooding her rear, nor the pair whooping and hollering in victory. A new fire swathed her body, one of boundless affliction. Its source lay somewhere in her lower belly: A deep, profound ache that seemed to radiate agony, branding heat, and the cold of decay all at once. The ubiquitous chill deepened and set into her bones. Her fatigued muscles tried to shake.

A dog barked somewhere in the distance.

The dicks withdrew, relieving some of the pressure on her lungs. “Well, I reckon it’s someone else’s go. Elijah, get on up-- hey, what’s that?”

A pulsing, first of air, then something far deeper. A crawling on the skin, a twisting of the abdomen: Void magic.

The horses discarded Razia’s broken body on the ground. Her sprawl left her head angled back towards the forest. Her hazy sideways gaze picked out a figure swathed in a gray traveling cloak. Its deep hood failed to fully hide the red and silver glow leaking forth. It had the shape of a man, yet the proportions were off from any creature she’d seen even from this distance. It stalked forth, and mercenaries died, their bodies twisting and breaking from within.

The sudden bizarre chaos left Razia momentarily forgotten. Her fading gaze alit on a distant mound. Verden’s hair buffeted around his waxy skin in the tempest.

Razia had long since resigned herself to death. Passing in her husband’s arms seemed the last small gift the world could offer. She sucked in a shuddering breath, gritted her teeth, and began to move. The chains remained locked around her arms and legs. All she could do was writhe forward shoulder over shoulder. Her body fought her at every turn, her leg never ceasing its throbbing, but she doggedly coaxed forth nonexistent reserves, dragging herself across the coarse grass.

Screams, metal, and blood fell around her. Ten strides separated them, then five, then three. She could almost touch him.

The grass hid the riverbank cliff quite well. Her only warning was a sudden crumbling of earth beneath her. She pitched forward. Her shoulder slipped over the edge. Suddenly she was tumbling down slick silt. Icy water enveloped her, dragging her into its depths. The bank and the sounds of battle were lost to the tumbling water.


For all that Razia's year in the Deepmarch felt like paradise, it was not fully without its toils. Through a series of hilarious events she managed to briefly land among the ranks of the Blades of the Hollow Court: The elite unit tasked with upholding the queen's will. Fast, silent, and singularly deadly, their presence, on the rare occasion it's detected, signifies imminent death for Her enemies.

Here Razia flaunts the Blades' ceremonial garb; an ensemble that sports significantly more finery and bulk, sacrificing a bit of maneuverability for showmanship.

Incredible art by  PGM300. I still can't get over how good it is. It's been days. Send help.