Winter's Fury - Volume Two of The Saga of the Twelves

by Richard M. Heredia

  She drank his blood.

  He died, confused and bewildered, uncertain what had happened to him or why. To him, his way of life had flipped on its’ head. Nothing of what he had known for so long was truth. In a flash, all that was crucial to what he had been was gone.

  If he could have heard the thoughts of his long-time master he might have known.

  If he could have heard her thoughts in those final seconds of his life, they might have soothed him. Maybe he would have accepted whatever fate was to befall him. Maybe he would have remembered his devoted Nixy and master.

  …I will avenge you, Jätung! And they will know it is I, Inghëldir, who does so in your name…!

  Alas, he did not.

  He died alone and encapsulated, cut off from the only creature he had adored. He was unaware it was she who sucked the life from him.

  All the while, she wept, bitter and rank with thoughts of revenge.

  ~~~~~~~<<< ᴥ >>>~~~~~~~

  ~ 49 ~

  Pixy

  Day Five, Monday, At The Same Time…

  He watched her, through the torrent of snow and ice, as she leaped over the hulking Isighünd yet again. He felt himself enlarge, gorge, at the sight of her powerful, fluid movements. Her strength and vitality amazed him, for she was beautiful to behold. He relished the thought that soon he would reduce her to nothing. Just the thought of her sheer size and vigor excited him. It made him stand upon the balls of his feet like a child anticipating its’ first bite of a sweet cake.

  He waited, though, for the right opportunity to strike, in spite of the fact he was on the verge of madness by her mere presence. Already, he lost himself in wondrous thoughts of sinking himself into something as stalwart as her. He would feel her strong inner folds attempt to keep his mighty tool at bay, only to have them forced aside by his...

  He made himself alter his train of thought, knowing full well what he would do if he indeed lost control. He did not want that to happen just yet. They told him she was naught but a Nixy, but she seemed a much larger one than any of her kind he had overpowered in the past.

  He decided to error on the side of caution. He would approach her slower than he would under normal circumstances. He was not typically cautious when it came to his targets. But, caution seemed practical with her.

  Yes, he would assay the situation first, before he ran headlong into the fray. After all, his superiors deemed her to have been the best tracker of flesh to walk upon Storm in all its’ long, sordid history. Her size and reputation gave him pause, slight pause. It was, after all, prudent to be mindful of her and her vaulted history.

  For now, he would wait and watch.

  There was plenty of time for play. There was always ample time for amusement.

  After a few minutes, he knew he had done the right thing as he neared the entrance of the cave. The moment he had seen her great pet lunge from the confines of the cave, run into blizzard in abject fear, he knew what he must do. He would close the beast’s mind from its’ master.

  It was an ability all Pixae had bred into their genes. It was a failsafe instilled to keep Prēosts at bay when their Nixae slaves were about to come under attack. More often than not, a Prēost would try and save his Nixy from a fateful encounter with a Pixy. They often tried to intervene. The ensuing battle usually resulted in the slaying of the Fleshmaster as well as his creation.

  It was well known, never come between a Pixy and his intended lover – Never!

  Thus, many years ago, those of the Wezzeinate, the great council of Fleshmasters over which resided the Mheto-Prēost, made a decision. They insisted that Pixae have the ability to sunder the bond between Prēost their child-like concubines. They did this to protect the ranks of the Prēosts from themselves. In their minds, a Prēost was much more valuable than a Nixy, by far.

  So it was within minutes of the beasts exit from the cave, he had severed the bond between the Nixy and her pet. He had left the Isighünd frightened and lost amidst the onslaught of the storm. He had let the creature wonder, aimless, for a few minutes, content to let it stumble and trip its’ way about the landscape.

  By then, it was lost without the guidance of its’ master’s mind, without hope and misguided. The shining beacon that had always been there was no more. Without it, the beast had become bewildered, shut-off, rendered helpless.

  Abilities and ancient magic aside, he had done the severing for another reason as well. As his impressions of her infused with greater detail, he sensed something else. It was something he had not felt in the tiny frame of a Nixy before. There was change, great change, where there never should have been – in her body. Her scent was no longer that of the young. Hers was richer, more succulent, rank with hormones a Nixy was not supposed to possess.

  He knew the fact she had a Petling made her formidable. But after he detected her metamorphosis first hand, he had come to wonder if he could take on both her and the Isighünd at the same time.

  The beasts’ emergence had given him an opportunity.

  He had severed the bond between them, let the Isighünd traipse about in confusion and then turned the odds back in his favor. It was only a matter of sending images and scents, tastes and feelings to the creature. It was a deluge of sensory information he fed the beast until, in its' mind, its’ master became naught but the enemy.

  The Isighünd had responded in kind, its senses long honed to seek out prey once given direct instructions.

  All he had to do was watch.

  She will make the most magnificent host, indeed, he thought as he continued his vigil. He knew a Pixy of great power would emerge from the fundament of Nixy before him. It would be one of the most robust to have ever lived. The Nixy’s power and ability would make it so. He could not wait. He pushed more blood to his rigid organ. He would make certain he would have capability to penetrate her with the greatest of force. He would ensure his seed would take root as deep as possible within her unwilling womb.

  Of that, he had to make certain. She was a formidable adversary. He had yet to see a Nixy of her size and abilities. She was an enemy unlike he had yet to see in his accomplished life under the auspices of his master, the Mheto-Prēost.

  He was, though, taken aback by the dishelved look of her. All Nixae were known for their fastidiousness when it came to their appearance. It was part of their allure. Every time he had taken one, they had always been prefect little creatures. They had wiggled and struggled deliciously beneath him.

  This one, though, did not seem to hold herself to the same standard for some reason. This was strange to him, because it was what they used to disarm the unwary and the ignorant just before they ripped them apart.

  This one is different, he pondered as he continued to stare. Very different.

  She was two feet taller than most of her ilk with long, cord-like limbs and gaunt muscles. To him, she looked like she comprised more metallic properties than those of flesh. She appeared too hard, too dense to be only muscle and bone.

  And, she was fast. Almost too fast, he though.

  He watched her execute a brilliant mid-air, change-of-direction over her pet, using its’ momentum to arrest her own. As adroit as any creature he had ever seen, she landed upon the beast’s hindquarters.

  A second later, shocked took him again. The Nixy began to rend incredible chunks of flesh from her one-time pet. She sending great hunks of meat in all directions as she clung to its’ haunches and made a ruin of everything she bit into.

  He had yet to see a Nixy move as efficient as she. She was an economy of motion, nothing wasted. Her uncanny ability to dig into the hardest flesh as if it were no more than thick porridge astounded him.

  In fact, it stopped him cold.

  He stood, rooted. He was unable to control his curiosity. He continued to stare.

  She jumped free of the beast, lightning fast, and faced it on equal ground as if she respected the creature.

  His beatific brow creased, uncertain what to make of what he was
witnessing.

  Then he heard her yell at the top of her ability, “Jätung… I am sorry!”

  Were Nixae supposed to act this way?

  With blinding speed, she streaked to the neck of the great Isighünd. Before he knew what was happening, she tore out his throat and began to drink of its’ lifeblood with incredible swallows. Her throat bulged farther out than the base of her chin.

  He stood there in the grip of the storm, poised. For a few moments, he did not breathe.

  She pulled the life from her pet, one giant gulp after another giant gulp until the ancient beast twitched and fell to the ground.

  Still, she drank and drank and drank.

  Finally, after almost a minute, she stopped and stood.

  But then, she did something the Pixy could not begin to understand.

  She was erect, her shoulders hunched, her face away from him so he was uncertain what she was feeling or thinking.

  She began to shake.

  His mouth gaped.

  At first, she did so with slow, methodic bobs of her shoulders – up and down. But they changed into something fiercer, spasmodic. Moments later, long sequences of breath she could not control wracked her. Then, she let out a shrieking cry. It was unlike anything ever heard on Storm.

  It did not belong.

  He almost took a step back in retreat.

  No, Nixae were not supposed to act this way!

  His huge member twitched and he knew at once this was the time. Without another thought, he launched himself at her with every bit of speed he could muster from his gangly legs. His monumentous phallus engorged, bouncing before him as he went.

  He would savor every moment he had with her, with every push inside. The thought of desecrating already desecrated flesh was mind-blowing drug. It drove him to the brink insanity with desire.

  *****

  She drank Jätung into herself, one great draught after another. Almost immediately, she felt the heat of her Petling infuse her entire body. Each steaming hot drink seemed to pump a new sort of warmth throughout her. It made her heart pound in her chest, her mind race in all directions at once. She could feel it fortifying her body even more than her anguishing transformations had. It nourished what she craved, replenishing the energy and strength her body had used when it had broken and melted her form. It was a radiating wellspring of fire that went from her throat to her belly and then to the ends of her body. It left her satisfied - truly satisfied - for the first time in her long, tortured life. She knew what this meant. She knew it was never supposed to happen. She knew it would make her an outcast, a renegade. They would hunt for her for the rest of her life.

  She did not care.

  She had found the cure.

  They had pushed her – her master and his vile overlords. They had pushed her too far, for too long. They had let slip the restraints of her bondage and in the process they had lost dominion over her.

  Now, the essence of Jätung healed her. His blood had mended her flesh and closed her wounds. It burned away many of the scars that had crisscrossed her body for so many years. Though she did not look like a true Nixy any longer, she was still new - brand new. It was like she had just come from her mother's womb, though she had no mother and did not come from any womb.

  She would make them pay for doing this to her. They should not have let this happen.

  She sucked at her Petling until he fell to the ground and still she pulled forth his blood. She continued until no more than a trickle of his sanguine lifeblood passed her lips. She released the once great Isighünd and she pushed herself to her feet, standing above him, looking down. The torrent of emotion and energy, the ride, the current of rejuvenation ebbed and then faded away. It left behind a new feeling, one she had not felt before and was helpless before it – grief.

  Her longest lived companion and… friend? was dead, slain by her own hand, though it was forced upon her.

  She could not help it, though she had never done so in the past and knew not how she had learned. She wept. She mourned the loss of her Jätung. She cried for him. She let the gratitude wash over her at the countless times he had saved her life or had been there to keep her warm and make her feel safe. He was gone now.

  An unseen enemy had turned him against her, made her slay him like some misbegotten enemy.

  I am alone…

  NO!

  I am Inghëldir! I am what I choose to be!

  Without regard, she reared back her head and screamed as loud as she could. It was a horrid ululation of sorrow and anger, her rage at the passing of her friend too profound, too raw and genuine to go unexpressed. She wailed over the terrible loss, but realized something miraculous too.

  For the first time, she knew she had a soul, though her forging had been so far from the Light. It mattered little. She knew for certain, because some it of died in those moments she yelled for her Petling.

  She had found the cure.

  If she had not been so thoroughly consumed by her emotions, she would have wondered how this could have been possible. She was Nixy, a tracker of flesh, a twisted and tormented creature of Storm. Things of this nature should be abhorrent to her, and yet -.

  She smelled him then.

  A sort of musky tartness registered in her nostrils. It made her turn her head to gaze at him, open her wide jaws, her serpentine tongue dancing before her chin.

  He was small compared to her, but was beatific and male, though a mere child when she looked closer. She peered over his face, her eyes dancing over the thin ridge of a nose that ended in a blushing bulb. She saw his arched cheekbones, prominent and rosy as if susceptible to the cold. And, his squarish chin made him appear though stone-craved and not living flesh at all. He had hair the color of slate and wore it with bangs about his eyebrows. It went to the length of his shoulders elsewhere. He wore only a black robe of some unknown material and appeared to be nude beneath it. She could see his knees and feet were bear with each stride he took. He was attractive in a boyish sort of way, a way she might have succumbed to before she had matured, before her body had altered.

  Now, though, he appeared too child-like to her. It was almost like he looked that way on purpose. She found it unappealing in the most profound sense of the word.

  He reminded her of her. He was a forged being just like she, a creature made upon the whims of others.

  Her brow creased. She saw the great bulge at the front of him, bobbing and bouncing as he strode forth. She frowned in disgust, knowing his intentions in an instant.

  Vallüm had often worn the same look upon his face, more times than she cared to remember.

  Whatever this little cherub looked like, she knew him for what he was. Yet another rapist. And from the size of his engorged prick, he was no doubt a master at it.

  You will NOT have me little boy!

  She spun on her heel to face this new threat. She focused all her attention upon the angelic child with violation and murder in his black as coal eyes. She waited. She balanced upon the balls of her feet. Her legs were wider than the width of her shoulders. Her hands were at her sides, palms forward, her biting and barbed nails unsheathed to the fullest.

  “I will have you now!” howled the boy in a musical, singsong voice that was as much of a lie as was the rest of him. He leaped for her just as the ridge of his nose burst open and the tiny filaments within spewed forth a wide swath of a mist, tinged with pink.

  To Inghëldir, smelled…

  …Wonderful!

  Wait! she thought in the next instant.

  That was all the time the evil cherub needed, no more than a moments’ hesitation.

  As she pondered the smell emanating from his nose, he slammed into her with more force than he should have been capable of producing. He was too small.

  Inghëldir felt herself fall backward.

  The deranged boy was already ravaging the remnants of her dress even as they flew through the air. In less than a second, he opened her nakedness to the cold air about
the cave. She looked down just as they hit the stony ground. Small rocks and pebbles tore into her back and shoulders. She saw his massive manhood come forth from beneath his robes. It was ready, fierce, rigid and drooling from the tip.

  “You are mine, Nixy,” he said from deep in his throat. His tones were hoarse with lust and ardor. His words he framed around rapacious intent. It was an aim that should not have come from something looking as young and innocent as the demented cherub.

  Before she could react, he pinned her down faster than she could move. Her arms were stuck at her sides. She could not comprehend how he accomplished this. The boy was pulling his robe over his head. His arms were not around her. What was holding her in place? She knew his small body was not heavy enough to immobilize her all by itself. She glanced around, frantic now, trying to assess her plight.

  Then she saw the little boy was much more than he had first appeared.

  To her horror, the middle part of the boy’s body had erupted in row after row of strange looking, flesh-covered limbs. She felt her eyes widen as her mind tried to comprehend what she was seeing.

  Somehow, his ribs had become malleable and had bent back upon themselves. It was these fantastical limbs that held her fast to the floor. These horrid ribs were cocooning her arms at her sides. She resisted as much as she could, but she could not dislodge the awful limbs from her body.

  Above her, the cherub had shed his only clothing. He was nude and upon her.

  No! she thought, crazed by the thought of another fucking against her will.

  I am Inghëldir!

  I am no one’s plaything!

  I am Inghëldir!!!

  She peered up at him.

  Once more, the twitching tendrils inside of his nose shot forth and a cloud of fragrant pink mist blossomed.

  On instinct alone, the Nixy withdrew to the newly constructed center part of herself, where she was safe. She willed herself not to fight back. She made herself lay motionless, even as his thick phallus pulsated against her thigh. There, it dripping and left a trail of thick spooge behind. She pulled all herself within, evading the distracting cloud coming from the boy, ignoring all. Even as her legs were roughly shoved open, exposing her womanhood, she stayed unmoving. Even as she felt the evil cherub’s hips draw back in the beginnings of his initial thrust, she remained still. Breathing steady, she let the physical draw within as her mind reached… and reached… and reached!