Rithwraith
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I've been working on this story on and off for about half a year, now it would appear to be finished. Not sure how it happened truth be told. Anyhow, tis an overly elaborate fantasy yarn.
My ability to make summaries is at an all time low today, sigh.
Ah well, hope you enjoy.
In spite of good intentions…
By Richard Paul
Chapter the first: on a ghastly path through Country Devritil
Rain bore down mercilessly on Tirion’s cloak and thick wet mud clung to his boots with each step as he trudged along the overgrown path to Waryivch city. The weather had remained stubbornly dire since the start of his journey two days ago; and there were still four days travel ahead with not even a cave in all of the surrounding countryside to sleep in.
If nothing else, brother-apothecary Willias’ pills and elixirs should keep him from catching his death of hypothermia or sneezing his way through the Winterhale service once he finally arrived. Of course if he had his way he would have gone the quick way through Mandelboson as per usual, but some new legislation had resulted in beastly embargos being levied for anyone seeking to enter or leave the town which amounted to some hundred crowns more than his masters had been willing to pay.
Tirion despised County Devritil. It was a repulsive, barren swamp of a land ruled over by a council of idiots who forewent such beneficial developments as the restoration of old roads in favour of accumulating gold for prostitutes. One day of course their activities would catch the attention of the royals, they would be arrested, skinned alive and left to drip in gibbets for the delight of the crows and any travellers who had to suffer such roads as this in their time. Unfortunately, that was still a way off.
He contemplated this lovely picture for a few moments, and then he noticed that the land around him was beginning to darken. The sun, which he assumed was lurking somewhere beneath the huge clouds overhead, was calling it a day and it made sense that he do the same. He didn’t fancy his chances of traversing the mud strewn moors in utter darkness.
Reaching beneath the depths of his large black cloak, Tirion retrieved a heavy wooden plaque, upon which was etched on a map of Devritil. He expected to find the area devoid of all civilization, much like yesterday, and spend another night under the feeble cover of a leafless oak tree.
He found his location as best he could along the narrow line representing his path. The closest adjacent feature was something called ‘The Bookkeeper’s Handyman’s Arse’, which he could only assume was a tavern operated by a hermitical buffoon; assuming it hadn’t been washed away.
Gloomily, he was about to put the map away when a small etched square, not far from where he sincerely hoped he was, caught his eye.
Barely legible writing identified it as a temple of the Goddess Zavaitae. That could be a problem. Zavaitae’s following was, as a rule, solely female. Their matron might not take too kindly to a man intruding upon their sacred ground and then there was the small matter of his own chosen deity and resultant associations, which tended to put people off him.
Then again, Zavaitae was reputed to be a kind and generous deity, as were her followers. Odds were they’d be willing to shove him in a broom cupboard for the night and send him on his way in the morning.
It was worth a try at the very least.
Chapter the Second, in which our hero arrives at the warm, dry looking temple
Tirion had half expected to miss the temple completely, spend the night wandering around in the freezing cold and have to waste three hours in the morning trying to find the road he’d so carelessly abandoned.
As luck would have it though, the temple proved hard to miss. After scaling a suitably large hill, he saw it plain as day outstretched along a relatively flat area of grassland. It was built more like a fortress than a holy place. Two large stone walls surrounded a central keep and two smaller buildings. He pitied the poor souls who got stuck with sentry duty on such grisly nights as this, (which was pretty much every night in sunless Devritil.)
Two women, who were buried in white cloaks which in the gloom gave them a somewhat ghostly appearance, were more than a little surprised to see someone approach. One of them reached for a crossbow hanging on the archway wall, she then thought better of it simply watched the traveller approach with her hand hovering over the weapon, just in
case.
“Hold,” shouted the second over the drumming of the rain when Tirion was close enough, “Who goes there?”
“A pilgrim out of Kranadir,” he replied, although ‘pilgrim’ was a bit of an embellishment, “My name is Tirion Halmadar. I was wondering if your temple might have space for the night for a poor fool who thought to walk to Waryivch instead of hiring a cart?”
The two guards stared at each other, with their faces mostly covered by their hoods it was hard to gauge their reaction. Their silence was hardly reassuring though.
“I can earn my keep,” he added, “cooking, sweeping floor, de-fouling chamber pots, whatever needs doing.”
The second guardswoman laughed a little, grateful for a moment’s humour in their otherwise gloomy evening.
“Wait here please,” she said, “I shall inform the matron of your request and see what she has to say.”
“Thank you.”
As the guard moved away, Tirion skulked underneath the archway, out of the rain. He was glad for a moment’s respite from the endless onslaught of water, although droplets were still dripping from his hood and somehow found their way down his tunic.
“Lovely night.” He said to the remaining guard.
“Mmmhmm.” She muttered, her eyes flicking between him and the crossbow. The suspicion and mistrust was so painfully obvious that Tirion couldn’t help but feel a little insulted. Perhaps that was unfair though. After all, these people were probably unused to visitors, and you never really knew with strangers whether or not you could trust them. Still, tact was never a bad thing.
It took a long time for the more-pleasant guard to reappear. She made a quick dash from the central keep to the sanctuary of the archway and looked anything but happy to be back outside.
“You may enter.” She said, “The matron would like to speak to you before she decides whether you’ll be allowed to stay here for the evening or not. If you have any weapons then please leave them with me.”
The only weapon Tirion carried was a single, plain looking dagger. Having only one arm made anything larger more of a hindrance than a help. He unsheathed it, handed it over and then spread his cloak as best he could with his arm as if to say ‘that’s it.’
“Thank you. Just through the main doors of the large building please. We’d prefer that you leave your cloak and shoes in the entrance chamber.”
“Of course.”
With that he bid the two guardswomen farewell and hastily made his way inside.
Chapter the third, in which our hero begs for a respite from the nasty weather
The dripping, shivering dismembered man who all but fell through the temple entrance looked in dire need of a towel and a hot meal thought Tvaises, high priestess of Zavaitae and mistress of the temple. To his credit, despite his obvious discomfort, he made it a point to bow to her when he saw her; and he was courteously staying put on the doormat.
“Welcome,” she said, keeping a safe distance just in case this did turn out to be some manner of duplicity “it’s a rare thing for us to receive visitors at this time of year. Normally people avoid the outside world as much as possible during the rainy season.”
It took Tirion a few moments to answer. Now that he was inside, a little warmer and no longer having to fight against the torrent he felt the overdue exhaustion and aches come to strike at him with a vengeance. The temptation to skulk across to one of the five lit fireplaces was close to overwhelming.
“I’m afraid I’m something of a stranger to these lands.” He said finally, “The rain itself I can manage, but I had expected the road to be in a far better condition, and dotted with inns for wayfarers. Instead all I found were weeds and sludge. I thought it best to take my chances here rather than risk travelling by night in the wastes.”
Tvaises nodded. That was fair enough, if it were true. She resented herself a little for her paranoia but at the same time it was necessary. The temple held secrets, perils and all manner of things that required guarding. Of course that was what the guards were for, and they could probably handle a single one armed wayfarer if need be.
“Warden-sister Tenaer said that you hailed from Kranadir,” she asked, “Where are you bound?”
“Waryivch, for the Winterhale service.” Tirion replied while trying to stem the tide of water loss from his tunic.
“You’re a priest?” Tvaises asked, unable to keep some incredulity from her voice. The man had a distinctly rugged, yet weatherworn look to his darkened features that seemed more befitting of a mariner than a cleric.
“I’m an associate of a Kranadir monastery. Something of a hired hand really.”
“I see, and to which deity is this monastery dedicated?”
“Sztaran.”
He could almost feel the sudden air of suspicion and apprehension that descended upon the room. The faces of the assembled priestesses, which had at first been friendly enough, now looked at him like they half expected him to explode.
Alas, this was to be expected. Sztaran’s reputation was best described as ‘questionable’. He was the Red Prince of Limbo; not exactly evil but he certainly wasn’t good, especially in comparison to such deities as Zavaitae. Vengeance and passion were his creeds. Those that served him on the mortal plain were expected to emulate him in this regard. Followers of the Prince often took it upon themselves to seek out dens of slavers, drug traffickers, smugglers and other such recidivist and dispatch them in the most grisly manner they could envision. Severed heads dangling from rafters, intestinal tubes twisted into murals and burned corpses hanging upside down like prized fishermen’s catches were just some of the hallmarks of Sztaran’s children.
After the impact of his revelation sank in, the darkened mood seemed to abate somewhat. It was always a disconcerting thing to meet someone whose profession involved mass disembowelment, but by the same token Tirion hadn’t exactly done anything untoward in the Temple’s grounds. Nor was he likely to find anyone worthy of disembowelling among her order.
“Very well,” Tvaises said finally, forcing friendliness back into her voice, “we have a few back rooms where you can stay for the evening. If you want to stay an extra day or two on the off chance that the weather might improve by then, we could always use an extra pair of hands in the greenhouses or the...” She cut herself off, noticing the stump where Tirion’s left arm had been, “Sorry.”
“No worries,” he replied, smiling with relief “Thank you milady. I’ll be sure to earn my keep for as long as I’m here.”
Feeling rather more cheery for this welcome, Tirion found himself able to stand more easily, and as he cast a glance around the warm hall he stood in, he couldn’t help but notice the beauty of the dozen or so priestesses assembled. Each of them were dressed in long flowing white gowns which pooled around their bare feet. Tvaises herself, he noticed, had long straight raven hair that stretched down the length of her back. Through the pale fabrics of her dress he noticed the curves of her breasts and the smoothness of her long, lithe legs. For a moment, Tirion could not help but contemplate the ideas that a man stuck in a secluded building with scores of attractive women contemplates.
But no, enough of that. He was a guest in this place for Sztaran’s sake and he would act like one, not like some drunken rascal in a brothel.
Chapter the fourth, in which our hero’s aforementioned conviction goes out the metaphorical window.
The next day, to no one’s surprise, the rain continued without pause. The grounds around the temple became all but flooded. Having no rowboat at hand, Tirion had little choice but to spend the next day at the temple. This didn’t bother him in the slightest. After forty eight hours of monotonous hiking through abysmal weather, he was glad for the company, the warmth and the opportunity to perform some productive tasks. Admittedly he was never a great one for gardening or plucking pheasants, especially after the loss of his arm, but he did his share and for the first time in days he felt a welcome sense of accomplishment when he sat down to dinner that evening.
Most seemed to get over the initial surprise at his occupation quickly enough. A fair few were even quite curious about him, throughout the day he had found himself answering a number of questions about his work, about Sztaran, and what notable brigands he had dispatched in his name, as well as what he had done with the bodies and how exactly had he lost his arm, (the answer to which turned more than a few faces a shade of grey.)
It seemed that even followers of Zavaitae were not completely immune to the charms of battle and gory justice. Whatever else you could say about such things, they made for good stories.
While the priestesses were busy with their evening service, Tirion walked back to his room, paid his respects to Sztaran and was about to collapse gracelessly on the bed when he heard a gentle knocking at the door. Instinctively, he tensed at the sound. Where he came from, knocks at the door normally meant his superiors were summoning him to perform some unpleasant task. One inoffensive sounding knock at the door was what had heralded his jaunt through the rains.
Pushing the memory aside, Tirion opened the door and found himself face to face with a nervous looking blonde haired priestess who must have been no older than eighteen, carrying a half full bottle of wine in one hand. Seeming not to notice Tirion, she slipped through the doorway and closed it behind her.
“Yes?” Tirion asked, perplexed by the scene. His visitor seemed to jump at the sound of his voice. It took her a few seconds to register his question. In short, she was drunk.
Finally getting a good look at her through the darkness, Tirion remembered her as Syvea, one of newer initiates. She had seemed particularly attentive when he was relating the story of him and a few other Sztaran monks barring the doors and windows of a slaver’s den under cover of darkness and then setting the building alight. Pretty tame stuff compared to some of his exploits, but it seemed to amuse.
“Hey there,” she said smiling. She started to say more, than decided against it and simply sat down on the bed.
“Can I help you?” Tirion asked, already envisioning an awkward conversation with the matron in the morning, followed by a rather unfriendly shove out the door.
“I thought you might be lonely.” She said with an inebriated giggle. Leaning back, she extended her right leg and traced her foot up the length of his trousers.
“You’re off your face girl.” He said, pushing her leg aside, grabbing her upper arm and hauling her to her feet, “Get back where you should be before you cause problems for us both.”
“It’s not like I’m not supposed to be here.” She pouted, wrapping her arms behind his neck and fighting against Tirion’s grasp to try and push herself against him. “We’re not sworn to celibacy.”
Neither was he, he couldn’t help but remember. Despite himself the twinges of desire were starting to creep back. He pushed the unhelpful thoughts aside and stepped out of her reach.
“Come on, what’s the problem?”
“You’re drunk. Spare a thought for the fact you’re trying to sleep with a stranger.”
There was a second knock at the door. Tirion’s heart sank at the sound. What in the hells was this going to look like? To that end, why would someone else be knocking at his door?
“I got here first!” Syvea shouted, much to Tirion’s despair, “Wait your turn.”
“Ignore her!” He shouted, wrenching the door open, “This isn’t what it looks like.”
On the other side of the door was Tvaises; even with the light so diminished he could just about make out the amused look on her face.
“I know that,” she said, stepping through towards Syvea who was suddenly wearing a defiant expression, “she does this every time there’s a man in the temple.”
Angry though he was, Tirion couldn’t help but feel relieved.
“I don’t see the problem.” Syvea muttered, slowly edging towards the door. “It’s not like I’m trying to steal things.”
“We’ve been over this! The problem is that not every guest in this place wants you thrusting yourself upon them.” Tvaises was blocking the door and cutting off Syvea’s escape. “And even if they do, what image does that present of the rest of us, do you think? We have a hard enough time discouraging the outside world from thinking of us as a hidden whorehouse without you despoiling our reputation.”
The young drunken priestess, to her credit, looked shamefaced at the floor.
“You’ll have to answer for this.” Tvaises said. At this, Syvea’s look of shame switched to a look of abject horror. She tried to run past the matron and flee but the sober priestess caught her with ease and quickly wrestled her to the floor.
Tirion could only watch this scene in semi-aroused shock.
Tvaises soon had Syvea face down with her arms pinned and was straddling her. She turned to Tirion with a purely businesslike expression and asked:
“Can you pass me the bed sheet?”
Still recovering his wits, Tirion fetched the sheet in an almost comatose state.
“Thanks,” she said, “would you mind holding her wrists for a minute?”
“No!” Syvea screamed, sounding a good deal more sober all of a sudden. She also seemed to be giggling intermittently for some reason, despite her genuine terror. “Don’t listen to her.”
Tirion obliged again, holding the young priestess’ arms still while the matron twisted the sheet into a tight weave and used it to bind them. A bed sheet was hardly the most ideal tool for the job admittedly, but it nevertheless served the purpose well enough, preventing all attempts at escape.
When Syvea’s hands were bound, Tvaises took the long cotton restraint that she had fashioned and moved down to the pair of lithe, flailing legs behind her.
“Ok, can you hold her ankles now?”
“As you wish.”
Whereas her wrists had been held in place when he took them, Tirion found the only way he could hold down the pair of wildly flailing legs was to lay on them. The sudden, familiar pang of regret he felt for his missing arm returned. As he watched Tvaises bind Syvea’s ankles however the feeling quickly faded, being replaced by a less familiar arousal.
Still not sure exactly what was going on, he made it a point to get off of the bound priestess’ legs as soon as they were securely tied. Tvaises stood up to examine her work. The bindings admittedly looked a bit foolish but all the same, the drunken miscreant was going nowhere. She then asked Tirion to help her carry Syvea to the bed, which he did hurriedly.
“We’re a benevolent order,” she said to him, “and as such any punishments for wrongdoers are… nicer, for lack of a better word.”
Syvea moaned in dread. She sounded very much like she was expecting to feel the searing heat of the branding iron.
Instead, Tvaises knelt down again and with no warning, dug her fingers into Syvea’s sensitive sides. As Tirion watched, unable to believe this chaotic sight before his eyes, he instinctively took notice of Syvea’s thrashing legs and chest impacting upon the bed.
“NO! NAAAHAAAHA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! DON’T TIIIEE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE DON’T TICKLE ME HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE! I’M SORREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! HE HE HA AAAAH AH HA HA HA HA HA HA!”
After a few minutes, Tvaises ceased her ministrations and turned back to Tirion, whom she noticed was now perched on the floor with a strategically raised knee blocking his erection. She hadn’t expected such a display of chivalry from a follower of Sztaran, but then she didn’t really know what to expect.
“Would you mind terribly tickling her feet for me while I work on the upper body?” She asked, mischief colouring every word.
“Of course milady.” Tirion said, his voice the same collected calm that it always was, but his face displaying a similar mischievous tint that it hadn’t shown in years, “I’m happy to earn my keep in any way that I can.”
“Don’t touch my feet!” Syvea shouted, the effect of desperation she was hoping for ruined somewhat by the sporadic nervous giggling that followed, “I’m too ticklish there.”
“Sorry,” Tirion replied, “I’m a guest here, and must obey the wishes of your matron.”
He sat himself on the bed, lifting Syvea’s legs, sliding one of his own under them and bringing the second down to lock her ankles in a scissor hold, working in conjunction with the bed-linen bindings to utterly immobilise her legs. As Tvaises began to dig her fingers into the young priestess’ sides once more, he began to scrabble his own fingers over the pretty, smooth soles of her delicate feet.
“NAAAAHAAEEEEHEAAAAAAHAAA HA HA HA HA! NAAAAA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! I’M SOREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HEEEEEEEE! PLEEEEAAAEEEESEEEE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE! LET ME… NAAAAHAAAHAAA NO! NOT THEEEHEEEHEERE! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! LEEAAAEEVE MY TOES ALONE!”
Indeed, Tirion had switched his focus to Syvea’s particularly sensitive toes. For all her scrunching and squirming, he matched her motions expertly, with only one hand no less, and kept her screaming in ticklish agony continually.
At the same time, Tvaises’ long nails were wreaking havoc with Syvea’s smooth underarms and hips. Her victim’s head was thrashing from side to side, sending her hair whizzing back and forth like a flail.
They continued this torment unabated for as long as it took for their arms to get tired. Then they would give Syvea a few minute’s respite in which she would beg and pout, which was followed by even more tickling. Five times before Tvaises had disciplined her in such a way, and not once had she ever seemed to learn anything from it. All the same, she never regretted having to do it. In a way, it looked almost fun, at least for those who didn’t find it so torturous as Syvea evidently did.
After about an hour, she brought the punishment to an end.
“Now,” she said to Syvea’s shaking form, “return to your room, and think about what I told you. If I hear of your bothering Tirion here again I’ll have you put in the stocks and set five girls on you at once for a whole day.”
Syvea squeaked at the thought, or it might possibly have been as a result of the wayward finger that Tirion ‘accidently’ brushed against her sole. With the punishment now over, he couldn’t help but feel slightly disappointed. His arousal was making its presence felt with no small force, but he would have to keep it in check. In spite of this peculiar happenstance, he was still a guest here, and he would maintain a level of courtesy and dignity.
The two untied Syvea and she made her escape with haste. Tvaises shook her head and sat herself upon Tirion’s bed.
“I’m sorry about her,” she said, “Syvea’s always been our problem child.”
“Please, don’t apologise.” He responded, legs crossed, “No harm done.”
The matron of the temple sat back slightly and turned to face her guest.
“I wish we had more visitors like you. The last three weren’t nearly so restrained as yourself when Syvea barged in on them. It made for some rather awkward sights when I had to track her down.”
“Good Lords, I can imagine.” Tirion said, indeed imagining such scenes. Strangely, he found himself placing his own temple’s prelate as the man in question, which made for a rather more disturbing scene.
Tvaises pulled her legs onto the beg and outstretched them slightly towards Tirion. It was an unconscious motion, much like Tirion’s eyes falling downwards to admire her lithe legs and attractive feet. It was a move on his part that did not go unnoticed.
She blushed slightly, and her feet twitched reflexively. Tirion’s eyes shot upwards in fear and he suddenly attempted to feign interest in his own knee caps.
“See anything you like?” She asked, smiling deviously despite herself. She didn’t really mean to tease him, but like Syvea had doubtlessly told him, they weren’t sworn to celibacy here, and it had been so very long since she had last been with a man, and this was the first decent male they’d had under their roof in the last five years.
Here were too consenting adults, she thought, at much the same time as Tirion who was thinking the exact same thing, this was far different from the drunken advances of a teenage wastrel.
“Most certainly” he answered honestly, turning himself around in time to find Tvaises’ right foot pressing into his chest. He took it in his hand, tracing his thumb over the smooth skin as he brought it upwards to his lips.
She moaned contentedly and giggled a little as the Sztaran priest kissed her toes and arch.
Reaching for the small clasp at the back of her gown, Tvaises let the garment fall forward over her breasts. Tirion in turn lowered her foot back onto the mattress, lowering his head with it and continuing to explore it, now mainly with his tongue, he unhooked his belt and rid himself of his trousers. When finally he pulled his head away from Tvaises’ foot, he pulled his shirt over his head and flung it against the far wall.
Tvaises slowly moved her other foot to join the first. Tirion, upon seeing it, immediately flung his torso over the priestess’ ankles, pinning them to the mattress. Withdrawing his mouth for a second, he began to scrabble his fingers over her equally ticklish soles.
“Eeeaaah! He he he staaeeeee, stop that!” She squeaked, artfully pulling her legs out from under Tirion’s grasp. He turned to face her with a bad imitation of repentance on his face.
“My apologies milady, but honestly, how could I resist?”
Tvaises narrowed her eyes at him, but whatever indignation she could muster couldn’t keep the smile from her face.
“Are you trying to make a mockery of our rituals?” She asked playfully, letting her feet creep back towards Tirion, “Are you trying to despoil Zavaitae’s name by tickling one of her high priestesses without just cause?”
“Without just cause? My dear, your beauty chases away all thoughts of chivalry or restraint in me. How could I resist the urge to summon forth that lovely laughter of yours?”
To emphasise the point he thrust his hand forward, catching her left foot and managing to tickle it for a few seconds before Tvaises pulled it back again with a parting scream.
These days, Tirion didn’t bemoan the loss of his arm often. In this situation however, he couldn’t help but think how much easier things would be with a second hand to work with. As it was, Tvaises was escaping far too easily.
As if in answer to his thoughts, the high priestess immediately took the bed sheet in her hands, twisted it back into a tight rope and weaved it around and between her ankles. Her soon to be tormentor watched the scene with mingled surprise and satisfaction. Once she had secured her own legs together, she lent farther forward and tied the excess sheet to one of the protruding bedposts.
With her feet made sufficiently immobile, she sat back and closed her eyes.
“Don’t go easy on me,” she said, already having to fight back the involuntary laughter, “I’ve always wanted to do this.”
Tirion of course was happy to oblige. He struck out with his hand and began to assault Tvaises’ feet with all the vigour he could summon, and, immobilised as they were, the effect was far more noticeable.
“NEEEAAAAAAAAEEHHHAA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HEAAE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE AAAAAH, GAAAHDESSSS HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE!”
Her laughter was no less animated than Syvea’s had been, and her head was flailing back and forth the same way, sending streaks of raven hair flying every whichway. Nevertheless, there was none of the tortured quality to her laughter that had been so present in Syvea’s. She was enjoying this.
Unable to resist, Tirion lowered his head again and began to suck on the toes of Tvaises’ right foot, while continuing to assault her left with his fingers. The result was a peculiar mix of moans, laughs and confused squirming. Part of her felt an instinctive need to get free of the tickling sensations, another wanted very much to stay still and let them come.
Tirion was methodical, he explored every last inch of Tvaises’ slender feet, coaxing out gleeful laughter from her all the while. Finally he moved his ministrations upwards, exploring the sensitive pale skin under her knees, around her hips and about her underarms.
He continued his torturous onslaught for hours, ravaging one area of the high priestess’ slender frame for a few minutes before darting to the next, never giving her a chance to grow accustomed to the sensations in any one area.
She seemed to laugh with particular fervour when his hand tickled her breasts. It took every ounce of self control for her to keep her hands above her head and not swat Tirion’s hand away. His ministrations became much easier to bear however when he followed up his tickling assault there with a very soothing, if highly unconventional massage.
The high priestess’ body soon became bedevilled by remaining tickling sensations left in the wake of Tirion’s assaults, and when he finally stopped to give her time to catch her breath, she wasted no time in scratching away such sensations wherever she found them.
“I’m afraid eeh, he,” Tvaises stopped, inhaled and tried again, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist you stay another day, or even two. The roads will be quite unusable for at least that long.”
Tirion laughed, the apparent promise of more nights spent with Tvaises made him happy beyond reason, and to top it all off, she was telling the truth. The roads would be unusable for a while.
He may be late for the festival, but he’d make it up the Sztaran easily enough. There had to be a criminal worthy of gutting that he could dispatch in Waryivch.
“I bow to your wisdom milady.” He said, giving her feet another quick tickle. It seemed like the appropriate thing to do, he thought.
“Eeeep, hey, I think that’s enough tickling for now?” She said, hurriedly untying her feet. Tirion sighed elaborately.
“If you insist.”
“The night wears on,” she continued, “and there are other matters to attend to.”
To elaborate, she drew her feet up to Tirion’s waist, hooked her toes around the rim of his underwear and pulled downwards. He was forced to intervene quickly, before an ill timed catch could escalate into a true catastrophe, but soon he was rid of the pestiferous garment, and lowered himself down onto the bed next to Tvaises, and the two spent the next several hours locked in a cacophony of passion and requited lust, bidding the night’s festivities the only sufficiently salient farewell they could devise.
In the end, they saw fit to offer their ‘farewells’ three times.
And on that rather questionable note, the story draws to a close.
My ability to make summaries is at an all time low today, sigh.
Ah well, hope you enjoy.
In spite of good intentions…
By Richard Paul
Chapter the first: on a ghastly path through Country Devritil
Rain bore down mercilessly on Tirion’s cloak and thick wet mud clung to his boots with each step as he trudged along the overgrown path to Waryivch city. The weather had remained stubbornly dire since the start of his journey two days ago; and there were still four days travel ahead with not even a cave in all of the surrounding countryside to sleep in.
If nothing else, brother-apothecary Willias’ pills and elixirs should keep him from catching his death of hypothermia or sneezing his way through the Winterhale service once he finally arrived. Of course if he had his way he would have gone the quick way through Mandelboson as per usual, but some new legislation had resulted in beastly embargos being levied for anyone seeking to enter or leave the town which amounted to some hundred crowns more than his masters had been willing to pay.
Tirion despised County Devritil. It was a repulsive, barren swamp of a land ruled over by a council of idiots who forewent such beneficial developments as the restoration of old roads in favour of accumulating gold for prostitutes. One day of course their activities would catch the attention of the royals, they would be arrested, skinned alive and left to drip in gibbets for the delight of the crows and any travellers who had to suffer such roads as this in their time. Unfortunately, that was still a way off.
He contemplated this lovely picture for a few moments, and then he noticed that the land around him was beginning to darken. The sun, which he assumed was lurking somewhere beneath the huge clouds overhead, was calling it a day and it made sense that he do the same. He didn’t fancy his chances of traversing the mud strewn moors in utter darkness.
Reaching beneath the depths of his large black cloak, Tirion retrieved a heavy wooden plaque, upon which was etched on a map of Devritil. He expected to find the area devoid of all civilization, much like yesterday, and spend another night under the feeble cover of a leafless oak tree.
He found his location as best he could along the narrow line representing his path. The closest adjacent feature was something called ‘The Bookkeeper’s Handyman’s Arse’, which he could only assume was a tavern operated by a hermitical buffoon; assuming it hadn’t been washed away.
Gloomily, he was about to put the map away when a small etched square, not far from where he sincerely hoped he was, caught his eye.
Barely legible writing identified it as a temple of the Goddess Zavaitae. That could be a problem. Zavaitae’s following was, as a rule, solely female. Their matron might not take too kindly to a man intruding upon their sacred ground and then there was the small matter of his own chosen deity and resultant associations, which tended to put people off him.
Then again, Zavaitae was reputed to be a kind and generous deity, as were her followers. Odds were they’d be willing to shove him in a broom cupboard for the night and send him on his way in the morning.
It was worth a try at the very least.
Chapter the Second, in which our hero arrives at the warm, dry looking temple
Tirion had half expected to miss the temple completely, spend the night wandering around in the freezing cold and have to waste three hours in the morning trying to find the road he’d so carelessly abandoned.
As luck would have it though, the temple proved hard to miss. After scaling a suitably large hill, he saw it plain as day outstretched along a relatively flat area of grassland. It was built more like a fortress than a holy place. Two large stone walls surrounded a central keep and two smaller buildings. He pitied the poor souls who got stuck with sentry duty on such grisly nights as this, (which was pretty much every night in sunless Devritil.)
Two women, who were buried in white cloaks which in the gloom gave them a somewhat ghostly appearance, were more than a little surprised to see someone approach. One of them reached for a crossbow hanging on the archway wall, she then thought better of it simply watched the traveller approach with her hand hovering over the weapon, just in
case.
“Hold,” shouted the second over the drumming of the rain when Tirion was close enough, “Who goes there?”
“A pilgrim out of Kranadir,” he replied, although ‘pilgrim’ was a bit of an embellishment, “My name is Tirion Halmadar. I was wondering if your temple might have space for the night for a poor fool who thought to walk to Waryivch instead of hiring a cart?”
The two guards stared at each other, with their faces mostly covered by their hoods it was hard to gauge their reaction. Their silence was hardly reassuring though.
“I can earn my keep,” he added, “cooking, sweeping floor, de-fouling chamber pots, whatever needs doing.”
The second guardswoman laughed a little, grateful for a moment’s humour in their otherwise gloomy evening.
“Wait here please,” she said, “I shall inform the matron of your request and see what she has to say.”
“Thank you.”
As the guard moved away, Tirion skulked underneath the archway, out of the rain. He was glad for a moment’s respite from the endless onslaught of water, although droplets were still dripping from his hood and somehow found their way down his tunic.
“Lovely night.” He said to the remaining guard.
“Mmmhmm.” She muttered, her eyes flicking between him and the crossbow. The suspicion and mistrust was so painfully obvious that Tirion couldn’t help but feel a little insulted. Perhaps that was unfair though. After all, these people were probably unused to visitors, and you never really knew with strangers whether or not you could trust them. Still, tact was never a bad thing.
It took a long time for the more-pleasant guard to reappear. She made a quick dash from the central keep to the sanctuary of the archway and looked anything but happy to be back outside.
“You may enter.” She said, “The matron would like to speak to you before she decides whether you’ll be allowed to stay here for the evening or not. If you have any weapons then please leave them with me.”
The only weapon Tirion carried was a single, plain looking dagger. Having only one arm made anything larger more of a hindrance than a help. He unsheathed it, handed it over and then spread his cloak as best he could with his arm as if to say ‘that’s it.’
“Thank you. Just through the main doors of the large building please. We’d prefer that you leave your cloak and shoes in the entrance chamber.”
“Of course.”
With that he bid the two guardswomen farewell and hastily made his way inside.
Chapter the third, in which our hero begs for a respite from the nasty weather
The dripping, shivering dismembered man who all but fell through the temple entrance looked in dire need of a towel and a hot meal thought Tvaises, high priestess of Zavaitae and mistress of the temple. To his credit, despite his obvious discomfort, he made it a point to bow to her when he saw her; and he was courteously staying put on the doormat.
“Welcome,” she said, keeping a safe distance just in case this did turn out to be some manner of duplicity “it’s a rare thing for us to receive visitors at this time of year. Normally people avoid the outside world as much as possible during the rainy season.”
It took Tirion a few moments to answer. Now that he was inside, a little warmer and no longer having to fight against the torrent he felt the overdue exhaustion and aches come to strike at him with a vengeance. The temptation to skulk across to one of the five lit fireplaces was close to overwhelming.
“I’m afraid I’m something of a stranger to these lands.” He said finally, “The rain itself I can manage, but I had expected the road to be in a far better condition, and dotted with inns for wayfarers. Instead all I found were weeds and sludge. I thought it best to take my chances here rather than risk travelling by night in the wastes.”
Tvaises nodded. That was fair enough, if it were true. She resented herself a little for her paranoia but at the same time it was necessary. The temple held secrets, perils and all manner of things that required guarding. Of course that was what the guards were for, and they could probably handle a single one armed wayfarer if need be.
“Warden-sister Tenaer said that you hailed from Kranadir,” she asked, “Where are you bound?”
“Waryivch, for the Winterhale service.” Tirion replied while trying to stem the tide of water loss from his tunic.
“You’re a priest?” Tvaises asked, unable to keep some incredulity from her voice. The man had a distinctly rugged, yet weatherworn look to his darkened features that seemed more befitting of a mariner than a cleric.
“I’m an associate of a Kranadir monastery. Something of a hired hand really.”
“I see, and to which deity is this monastery dedicated?”
“Sztaran.”
He could almost feel the sudden air of suspicion and apprehension that descended upon the room. The faces of the assembled priestesses, which had at first been friendly enough, now looked at him like they half expected him to explode.
Alas, this was to be expected. Sztaran’s reputation was best described as ‘questionable’. He was the Red Prince of Limbo; not exactly evil but he certainly wasn’t good, especially in comparison to such deities as Zavaitae. Vengeance and passion were his creeds. Those that served him on the mortal plain were expected to emulate him in this regard. Followers of the Prince often took it upon themselves to seek out dens of slavers, drug traffickers, smugglers and other such recidivist and dispatch them in the most grisly manner they could envision. Severed heads dangling from rafters, intestinal tubes twisted into murals and burned corpses hanging upside down like prized fishermen’s catches were just some of the hallmarks of Sztaran’s children.
After the impact of his revelation sank in, the darkened mood seemed to abate somewhat. It was always a disconcerting thing to meet someone whose profession involved mass disembowelment, but by the same token Tirion hadn’t exactly done anything untoward in the Temple’s grounds. Nor was he likely to find anyone worthy of disembowelling among her order.
“Very well,” Tvaises said finally, forcing friendliness back into her voice, “we have a few back rooms where you can stay for the evening. If you want to stay an extra day or two on the off chance that the weather might improve by then, we could always use an extra pair of hands in the greenhouses or the...” She cut herself off, noticing the stump where Tirion’s left arm had been, “Sorry.”
“No worries,” he replied, smiling with relief “Thank you milady. I’ll be sure to earn my keep for as long as I’m here.”
Feeling rather more cheery for this welcome, Tirion found himself able to stand more easily, and as he cast a glance around the warm hall he stood in, he couldn’t help but notice the beauty of the dozen or so priestesses assembled. Each of them were dressed in long flowing white gowns which pooled around their bare feet. Tvaises herself, he noticed, had long straight raven hair that stretched down the length of her back. Through the pale fabrics of her dress he noticed the curves of her breasts and the smoothness of her long, lithe legs. For a moment, Tirion could not help but contemplate the ideas that a man stuck in a secluded building with scores of attractive women contemplates.
But no, enough of that. He was a guest in this place for Sztaran’s sake and he would act like one, not like some drunken rascal in a brothel.
Chapter the fourth, in which our hero’s aforementioned conviction goes out the metaphorical window.
The next day, to no one’s surprise, the rain continued without pause. The grounds around the temple became all but flooded. Having no rowboat at hand, Tirion had little choice but to spend the next day at the temple. This didn’t bother him in the slightest. After forty eight hours of monotonous hiking through abysmal weather, he was glad for the company, the warmth and the opportunity to perform some productive tasks. Admittedly he was never a great one for gardening or plucking pheasants, especially after the loss of his arm, but he did his share and for the first time in days he felt a welcome sense of accomplishment when he sat down to dinner that evening.
Most seemed to get over the initial surprise at his occupation quickly enough. A fair few were even quite curious about him, throughout the day he had found himself answering a number of questions about his work, about Sztaran, and what notable brigands he had dispatched in his name, as well as what he had done with the bodies and how exactly had he lost his arm, (the answer to which turned more than a few faces a shade of grey.)
It seemed that even followers of Zavaitae were not completely immune to the charms of battle and gory justice. Whatever else you could say about such things, they made for good stories.
While the priestesses were busy with their evening service, Tirion walked back to his room, paid his respects to Sztaran and was about to collapse gracelessly on the bed when he heard a gentle knocking at the door. Instinctively, he tensed at the sound. Where he came from, knocks at the door normally meant his superiors were summoning him to perform some unpleasant task. One inoffensive sounding knock at the door was what had heralded his jaunt through the rains.
Pushing the memory aside, Tirion opened the door and found himself face to face with a nervous looking blonde haired priestess who must have been no older than eighteen, carrying a half full bottle of wine in one hand. Seeming not to notice Tirion, she slipped through the doorway and closed it behind her.
“Yes?” Tirion asked, perplexed by the scene. His visitor seemed to jump at the sound of his voice. It took her a few seconds to register his question. In short, she was drunk.
Finally getting a good look at her through the darkness, Tirion remembered her as Syvea, one of newer initiates. She had seemed particularly attentive when he was relating the story of him and a few other Sztaran monks barring the doors and windows of a slaver’s den under cover of darkness and then setting the building alight. Pretty tame stuff compared to some of his exploits, but it seemed to amuse.
“Hey there,” she said smiling. She started to say more, than decided against it and simply sat down on the bed.
“Can I help you?” Tirion asked, already envisioning an awkward conversation with the matron in the morning, followed by a rather unfriendly shove out the door.
“I thought you might be lonely.” She said with an inebriated giggle. Leaning back, she extended her right leg and traced her foot up the length of his trousers.
“You’re off your face girl.” He said, pushing her leg aside, grabbing her upper arm and hauling her to her feet, “Get back where you should be before you cause problems for us both.”
“It’s not like I’m not supposed to be here.” She pouted, wrapping her arms behind his neck and fighting against Tirion’s grasp to try and push herself against him. “We’re not sworn to celibacy.”
Neither was he, he couldn’t help but remember. Despite himself the twinges of desire were starting to creep back. He pushed the unhelpful thoughts aside and stepped out of her reach.
“Come on, what’s the problem?”
“You’re drunk. Spare a thought for the fact you’re trying to sleep with a stranger.”
There was a second knock at the door. Tirion’s heart sank at the sound. What in the hells was this going to look like? To that end, why would someone else be knocking at his door?
“I got here first!” Syvea shouted, much to Tirion’s despair, “Wait your turn.”
“Ignore her!” He shouted, wrenching the door open, “This isn’t what it looks like.”
On the other side of the door was Tvaises; even with the light so diminished he could just about make out the amused look on her face.
“I know that,” she said, stepping through towards Syvea who was suddenly wearing a defiant expression, “she does this every time there’s a man in the temple.”
Angry though he was, Tirion couldn’t help but feel relieved.
“I don’t see the problem.” Syvea muttered, slowly edging towards the door. “It’s not like I’m trying to steal things.”
“We’ve been over this! The problem is that not every guest in this place wants you thrusting yourself upon them.” Tvaises was blocking the door and cutting off Syvea’s escape. “And even if they do, what image does that present of the rest of us, do you think? We have a hard enough time discouraging the outside world from thinking of us as a hidden whorehouse without you despoiling our reputation.”
The young drunken priestess, to her credit, looked shamefaced at the floor.
“You’ll have to answer for this.” Tvaises said. At this, Syvea’s look of shame switched to a look of abject horror. She tried to run past the matron and flee but the sober priestess caught her with ease and quickly wrestled her to the floor.
Tirion could only watch this scene in semi-aroused shock.
Tvaises soon had Syvea face down with her arms pinned and was straddling her. She turned to Tirion with a purely businesslike expression and asked:
“Can you pass me the bed sheet?”
Still recovering his wits, Tirion fetched the sheet in an almost comatose state.
“Thanks,” she said, “would you mind holding her wrists for a minute?”
“No!” Syvea screamed, sounding a good deal more sober all of a sudden. She also seemed to be giggling intermittently for some reason, despite her genuine terror. “Don’t listen to her.”
Tirion obliged again, holding the young priestess’ arms still while the matron twisted the sheet into a tight weave and used it to bind them. A bed sheet was hardly the most ideal tool for the job admittedly, but it nevertheless served the purpose well enough, preventing all attempts at escape.
When Syvea’s hands were bound, Tvaises took the long cotton restraint that she had fashioned and moved down to the pair of lithe, flailing legs behind her.
“Ok, can you hold her ankles now?”
“As you wish.”
Whereas her wrists had been held in place when he took them, Tirion found the only way he could hold down the pair of wildly flailing legs was to lay on them. The sudden, familiar pang of regret he felt for his missing arm returned. As he watched Tvaises bind Syvea’s ankles however the feeling quickly faded, being replaced by a less familiar arousal.
Still not sure exactly what was going on, he made it a point to get off of the bound priestess’ legs as soon as they were securely tied. Tvaises stood up to examine her work. The bindings admittedly looked a bit foolish but all the same, the drunken miscreant was going nowhere. She then asked Tirion to help her carry Syvea to the bed, which he did hurriedly.
“We’re a benevolent order,” she said to him, “and as such any punishments for wrongdoers are… nicer, for lack of a better word.”
Syvea moaned in dread. She sounded very much like she was expecting to feel the searing heat of the branding iron.
Instead, Tvaises knelt down again and with no warning, dug her fingers into Syvea’s sensitive sides. As Tirion watched, unable to believe this chaotic sight before his eyes, he instinctively took notice of Syvea’s thrashing legs and chest impacting upon the bed.
“NO! NAAAHAAAHA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! DON’T TIIIEE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE DON’T TICKLE ME HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE! I’M SORREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! HE HE HA AAAAH AH HA HA HA HA HA HA!”
After a few minutes, Tvaises ceased her ministrations and turned back to Tirion, whom she noticed was now perched on the floor with a strategically raised knee blocking his erection. She hadn’t expected such a display of chivalry from a follower of Sztaran, but then she didn’t really know what to expect.
“Would you mind terribly tickling her feet for me while I work on the upper body?” She asked, mischief colouring every word.
“Of course milady.” Tirion said, his voice the same collected calm that it always was, but his face displaying a similar mischievous tint that it hadn’t shown in years, “I’m happy to earn my keep in any way that I can.”
“Don’t touch my feet!” Syvea shouted, the effect of desperation she was hoping for ruined somewhat by the sporadic nervous giggling that followed, “I’m too ticklish there.”
“Sorry,” Tirion replied, “I’m a guest here, and must obey the wishes of your matron.”
He sat himself on the bed, lifting Syvea’s legs, sliding one of his own under them and bringing the second down to lock her ankles in a scissor hold, working in conjunction with the bed-linen bindings to utterly immobilise her legs. As Tvaises began to dig her fingers into the young priestess’ sides once more, he began to scrabble his own fingers over the pretty, smooth soles of her delicate feet.
“NAAAAHAAEEEEHEAAAAAAHAAA HA HA HA HA! NAAAAA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! I’M SOREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HEEEEEEEE! PLEEEEAAAEEEESEEEE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE! LET ME… NAAAAHAAAHAAA NO! NOT THEEEHEEEHEERE! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! LEEAAAEEVE MY TOES ALONE!”
Indeed, Tirion had switched his focus to Syvea’s particularly sensitive toes. For all her scrunching and squirming, he matched her motions expertly, with only one hand no less, and kept her screaming in ticklish agony continually.
At the same time, Tvaises’ long nails were wreaking havoc with Syvea’s smooth underarms and hips. Her victim’s head was thrashing from side to side, sending her hair whizzing back and forth like a flail.
They continued this torment unabated for as long as it took for their arms to get tired. Then they would give Syvea a few minute’s respite in which she would beg and pout, which was followed by even more tickling. Five times before Tvaises had disciplined her in such a way, and not once had she ever seemed to learn anything from it. All the same, she never regretted having to do it. In a way, it looked almost fun, at least for those who didn’t find it so torturous as Syvea evidently did.
After about an hour, she brought the punishment to an end.
“Now,” she said to Syvea’s shaking form, “return to your room, and think about what I told you. If I hear of your bothering Tirion here again I’ll have you put in the stocks and set five girls on you at once for a whole day.”
Syvea squeaked at the thought, or it might possibly have been as a result of the wayward finger that Tirion ‘accidently’ brushed against her sole. With the punishment now over, he couldn’t help but feel slightly disappointed. His arousal was making its presence felt with no small force, but he would have to keep it in check. In spite of this peculiar happenstance, he was still a guest here, and he would maintain a level of courtesy and dignity.
The two untied Syvea and she made her escape with haste. Tvaises shook her head and sat herself upon Tirion’s bed.
“I’m sorry about her,” she said, “Syvea’s always been our problem child.”
“Please, don’t apologise.” He responded, legs crossed, “No harm done.”
The matron of the temple sat back slightly and turned to face her guest.
“I wish we had more visitors like you. The last three weren’t nearly so restrained as yourself when Syvea barged in on them. It made for some rather awkward sights when I had to track her down.”
“Good Lords, I can imagine.” Tirion said, indeed imagining such scenes. Strangely, he found himself placing his own temple’s prelate as the man in question, which made for a rather more disturbing scene.
Tvaises pulled her legs onto the beg and outstretched them slightly towards Tirion. It was an unconscious motion, much like Tirion’s eyes falling downwards to admire her lithe legs and attractive feet. It was a move on his part that did not go unnoticed.
She blushed slightly, and her feet twitched reflexively. Tirion’s eyes shot upwards in fear and he suddenly attempted to feign interest in his own knee caps.
“See anything you like?” She asked, smiling deviously despite herself. She didn’t really mean to tease him, but like Syvea had doubtlessly told him, they weren’t sworn to celibacy here, and it had been so very long since she had last been with a man, and this was the first decent male they’d had under their roof in the last five years.
Here were too consenting adults, she thought, at much the same time as Tirion who was thinking the exact same thing, this was far different from the drunken advances of a teenage wastrel.
“Most certainly” he answered honestly, turning himself around in time to find Tvaises’ right foot pressing into his chest. He took it in his hand, tracing his thumb over the smooth skin as he brought it upwards to his lips.
She moaned contentedly and giggled a little as the Sztaran priest kissed her toes and arch.
Reaching for the small clasp at the back of her gown, Tvaises let the garment fall forward over her breasts. Tirion in turn lowered her foot back onto the mattress, lowering his head with it and continuing to explore it, now mainly with his tongue, he unhooked his belt and rid himself of his trousers. When finally he pulled his head away from Tvaises’ foot, he pulled his shirt over his head and flung it against the far wall.
Tvaises slowly moved her other foot to join the first. Tirion, upon seeing it, immediately flung his torso over the priestess’ ankles, pinning them to the mattress. Withdrawing his mouth for a second, he began to scrabble his fingers over her equally ticklish soles.
“Eeeaaah! He he he staaeeeee, stop that!” She squeaked, artfully pulling her legs out from under Tirion’s grasp. He turned to face her with a bad imitation of repentance on his face.
“My apologies milady, but honestly, how could I resist?”
Tvaises narrowed her eyes at him, but whatever indignation she could muster couldn’t keep the smile from her face.
“Are you trying to make a mockery of our rituals?” She asked playfully, letting her feet creep back towards Tirion, “Are you trying to despoil Zavaitae’s name by tickling one of her high priestesses without just cause?”
“Without just cause? My dear, your beauty chases away all thoughts of chivalry or restraint in me. How could I resist the urge to summon forth that lovely laughter of yours?”
To emphasise the point he thrust his hand forward, catching her left foot and managing to tickle it for a few seconds before Tvaises pulled it back again with a parting scream.
These days, Tirion didn’t bemoan the loss of his arm often. In this situation however, he couldn’t help but think how much easier things would be with a second hand to work with. As it was, Tvaises was escaping far too easily.
As if in answer to his thoughts, the high priestess immediately took the bed sheet in her hands, twisted it back into a tight rope and weaved it around and between her ankles. Her soon to be tormentor watched the scene with mingled surprise and satisfaction. Once she had secured her own legs together, she lent farther forward and tied the excess sheet to one of the protruding bedposts.
With her feet made sufficiently immobile, she sat back and closed her eyes.
“Don’t go easy on me,” she said, already having to fight back the involuntary laughter, “I’ve always wanted to do this.”
Tirion of course was happy to oblige. He struck out with his hand and began to assault Tvaises’ feet with all the vigour he could summon, and, immobilised as they were, the effect was far more noticeable.
“NEEEAAAAAAAAEEHHHAA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HEAAE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE AAAAAH, GAAAHDESSSS HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE!”
Her laughter was no less animated than Syvea’s had been, and her head was flailing back and forth the same way, sending streaks of raven hair flying every whichway. Nevertheless, there was none of the tortured quality to her laughter that had been so present in Syvea’s. She was enjoying this.
Unable to resist, Tirion lowered his head again and began to suck on the toes of Tvaises’ right foot, while continuing to assault her left with his fingers. The result was a peculiar mix of moans, laughs and confused squirming. Part of her felt an instinctive need to get free of the tickling sensations, another wanted very much to stay still and let them come.
Tirion was methodical, he explored every last inch of Tvaises’ slender feet, coaxing out gleeful laughter from her all the while. Finally he moved his ministrations upwards, exploring the sensitive pale skin under her knees, around her hips and about her underarms.
He continued his torturous onslaught for hours, ravaging one area of the high priestess’ slender frame for a few minutes before darting to the next, never giving her a chance to grow accustomed to the sensations in any one area.
She seemed to laugh with particular fervour when his hand tickled her breasts. It took every ounce of self control for her to keep her hands above her head and not swat Tirion’s hand away. His ministrations became much easier to bear however when he followed up his tickling assault there with a very soothing, if highly unconventional massage.
The high priestess’ body soon became bedevilled by remaining tickling sensations left in the wake of Tirion’s assaults, and when he finally stopped to give her time to catch her breath, she wasted no time in scratching away such sensations wherever she found them.
“I’m afraid eeh, he,” Tvaises stopped, inhaled and tried again, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist you stay another day, or even two. The roads will be quite unusable for at least that long.”
Tirion laughed, the apparent promise of more nights spent with Tvaises made him happy beyond reason, and to top it all off, she was telling the truth. The roads would be unusable for a while.
He may be late for the festival, but he’d make it up the Sztaran easily enough. There had to be a criminal worthy of gutting that he could dispatch in Waryivch.
“I bow to your wisdom milady.” He said, giving her feet another quick tickle. It seemed like the appropriate thing to do, he thought.
“Eeeep, hey, I think that’s enough tickling for now?” She said, hurriedly untying her feet. Tirion sighed elaborately.
“If you insist.”
“The night wears on,” she continued, “and there are other matters to attend to.”
To elaborate, she drew her feet up to Tirion’s waist, hooked her toes around the rim of his underwear and pulled downwards. He was forced to intervene quickly, before an ill timed catch could escalate into a true catastrophe, but soon he was rid of the pestiferous garment, and lowered himself down onto the bed next to Tvaises, and the two spent the next several hours locked in a cacophony of passion and requited lust, bidding the night’s festivities the only sufficiently salient farewell they could devise.
In the end, they saw fit to offer their ‘farewells’ three times.
And on that rather questionable note, the story draws to a close.
