Tales from a Lewd Fantasy World – Tale 1 – The Witch, the Hunter, and the Baron (Patreon)

Tales from a Lewd Fantasy World – Tale 1 – The Witch, the Hunter, and the Baron

When I was a child, my grandmother told me the world was made of stories.

‘Anna, look around you: everybody you see in the village, every traveler you see passing by, has their own life, their own tale to tell. The secret is knowing how they all fit. The mages in the Royal College can pontificate all they want about the nature of the world, but we know better, don’t we?’

I don’t think we knew better, Gran, I just think we knew different. But, then again, I am the one who learned to read. You never thought it was worth your time.

‘Words in books are captured, like butterflies pinned down beneath glass, and, like the butterflies, the magic dies in them when you stop them from leaving.’

And that was it for you. Books may have knowledge, fanciful stories from other times and places, but they don’t have magic. And to the village’s witch, that was all that mattered. If it wasn’t magic, it wasn’t important.

But, to be fair, almost everything was magic to you.

‘What they don’t understand when they lose their heads in those magic circles and many-pointed stars is that magic is alive, like everything else in this world. It can be bound, like an ox to a plow, but it is far stronger when allowed to be a raging river. Do you know why that is, little Anna?’ you asked me as you bounced me on your knees, sitting next to a table full of dry herbs I can now identify blindfolded.

‘Why, Gran?’ I asked in turn, far too young to resist the lure of that accursed syllable. “Why,” indeed.

‘Because it’s more interesting that way. Because the world is full of stories, but the spectators are quite a select bunch. Gods, little Anna. We are all stories made to entertain gods, because there’s nothing more dangerous than a bored god.’

And that may be true or it may not, because I have never met a god, bored or otherwise. But what is true is that we are all stories. Take me, for instance.

The beautiful grandchild of the last witch of the forest, exotically distinguished by the streak of silver hair running through my black locks that marks me as a moon-touched. My parents died of mysterious causes when I was young, and I was raised amid magic and superstition on the edges of a village where few children my age had been born that year, making all of us a tight-knit group, even if I was always the outsider among them. A character with enough distinguishing traits to set off on an adventure to defeat an ancient evil without raising any eyebrows.

But… But that’s not my story. I am not Anna, the mysterious hero, nor even the shadowy advisor to the plucky band of actual heroes. No, I am Anna, the granddaughter of the village’s healer set to inherit her role after she died of old age three years ago. I am Anna, the young girl already working who has no time for nonsense even if she enjoys reading fanciful books far too much for her late Gran’s tastes.

I am Anna, a maiden in love.

“Now that you are older, I should tell you about the kinds of stories the gods enjoy. You see, each one tends to favor a role, and someone who acts according to them is likely to be favored in some small measure. Maybe the carefree thief will find a door unlocked when he tries to get into the princess’s bedchambers, maybe the steadfast knight will find his sword sharper when defending his sworn lady… Or maybe not. Some tales are more interesting than others, and only those who hold a god’s attention can count on their favor.”

It’s… A common tale, as Gran would put it. We were all close to one another, grew up together, and in some cases friendship turned to something more. Claire and Jack are already engaged, and I…

Peter and I have been dancing around the issue for years without taking that final step that (I really, really hope) we both yearn for.

Peter is nothing special, not really. Just the son of the village’s hunter, with a body that cannot withstand quiet unless it’s to stalk a prey (but would always rather chase it), skin kissed by the sun and hair fair like a dandelion, and a smile that always tells me he knows how to enjoy the moment far more than someone like me, who is either thinking about the past or pondering the future (and how he likes to rub it in as he tells me to unwind for once in my life…).

It’s a common tale, of a boy and a girl growing up together to become a man and a woman. But it’s so common that I don’t think many gods would care for it.

That is, till I hear people screaming for my help.

***

Peter will lose his leg.

I am not a mage from the Royal College, whose miracles are only rivaled by those found in legends. I am just a witch from a remote village good only for hunting and grain, who learned to read too late and still has trouble with long words. I am a good healer, the best in the barony, but… But I am not good enough.

An accident. A bad fall. Bone sticking through skin for hours until someone found Peter and dragged him back to me, so that I could mend him. So that I could fail him.

Gran would tell me this is when the story gets interesting. ‘Interesting’ doesn’t mean ‘nice.’

No, in this case, it means having Peter lying on the cot I reserve for long-term patients, losing a bit more of his cheer with each day of infirmity. His fever has gone down, and his pain is managed with something he always complains about being too bitter and making his head too muddled, but his skin is too pale under the kiss of the sun, and his golden hair now lies as flat and lifeless as he does. There’s the memory of Peter in him, but not his boundless energy, his thirst for the present.

And then, the Baron comes by.

Every time he visits the village, he asks me to come with him to his manor, to enter his service. At first, I was flattered, then Gran sat me down and told me another tale. One not fit for children.

“The Corrupter has many names, but this one is short enough and does the job. He enjoys not the destruction of purity, but its withering, and he loves nothing more than the tale of an innocent, beautiful girl made to serve a powerful man, making a new concession each time she gets used to the last one. Think about the Baron, child, and tell me: does he praise your skill or your beauty?”

The Baron knows little about witchcraft or healing, and certainly not enough to praise me about them.

“Anna, I was sorry to hear the news. I know how fond you are of the boy.”

‘Then you should at least call him by his name,’ I don’t say.

“Peter and I have always been close, that’s true. I will send him your well-wishes.” And I don’t mean for my dismissal to sound so harsh, but I also can’t find it in myself to regret it.

“You could send something far more… substantial,” he replies, with a smile that I suppose he thinks jovial, but that only makes my skin crawl after I feel his eyes roam over my body.

“What do you mean?” I am forced to reply, because I cannot afford to ignore him.

And so, his smile turning viciously triumphant for a single moment, he withdraws something from his vest, the piece of clothing stretched to contain his bulk.

It’s… a vial.

A vial that glitters to my eyes, and that burns to my other sight.

“How…”

“A family heirloom. It’s meant to be used in case of emergencies, yet, unfortunately, it’s never been available in time to help those who would have needed it most. So I was wondering… well, I could keep holding onto a marvelous, life-saving vial, or I could have a skilled healer under my employ. And you seemed like the more practical option in the long-term, even if some matters are… beyond your current skills.”

Of course. Of course that’s the story set out for me.

“This is far more expensive than I could pay in a decade.”

“Then, after a decade, I may ask you to keep working under me. Does that sound…” and he licks his lips as his eyes momentarily lower from my own, “fair to you?”

No. No, it doesn’t. It isn’t fair, it never will be, to offer me the means to save my childhood crush, only to take me away from him.

“It’s… a generous offer, your Lordship.” It is. It just isn’t fair.

“I know, yet I bide you to take advantage.” And he smirks. Because he’s already picturing who will be the one taking advantage in the end.

“Could I think about it for a few days? At the very least, I will need to make arrangements for my usual patients.”

“But of course! Far be it from me to deprive my own subjects of your tender care!”

And he’s exuberantly satisfied, in a way I’ve never seen him be.

Because I’ve never seen him victorious until today.

***

‘So, remember, we are all in a story, and the spectators have their own tastes.’

Yes, Gran. I know. I can feel it crawling under my skin, I can feel it when I try to brew a new potion for Peter’s fever and I can’t find mugwort anywhere, even though I should have enough of it to last me the season. I can feel it when the magic comes sluggishly to my fingers as I weave a spell to feel bone under skin that I’ve known since before my first moon’s blood. I can feel it when…

When Peter, despite all my care, all my dedication, worsens.

‘But there’s more than one spectator.’ And, currently, that’s my only hope.

So I ready myself for what must be done.

***

It’s a full moon. Not the solstice nor the equinox, but I don’t need them for this. I just need the light of the full moon on a cloudless night.

So I blow out my candle and leave my bedroom, a suitcase full of books, herbs, and (few) clothes with me.

I take a deep breath, and enter the room where my current patient lies.

“Peter,” I whisper. Because I need him awake, but I don’t want to disturb him. And, once again, what I want and what I need seem to be at odds with each other.

“Anna?” he whispers, his eyes opening with undue effort, all his vitality focused on that mere act.

My fingers clasp around my silver locket until I can see, even in the faint light that comes through the window, that they have turned white.

And I force myself to speak.

“Peter, I need to leave.”

“Wha… where are you going?”

He’s still only half-awake, but something in my face, in my voice, has already warned him there’s something wrong. And I so dearly want to calm him, to tell him there’s nothing to fear…

But that’s not what I need.

“To the Baron’s manor.”

And now his eyes shot open, a bit of brusqueness back into his body. But it’s not the energy of health, but of fear.

“Anna… Why?”

He could elaborate. He could ask me what do I intend to do, why such a simple thing would cause me to behave as if I’m marching to my death, why I’m speaking to him as if I’m saying goodbye for the last time.

He doesn’t have to.

“He has a potion, Peter. One strong enough to save your leg. I’m sorry, it’s the only way.” And I want to hide my treasonous tear so badly…

“Anna… Anna, no, it’s not worth it…” I resent him a bit for saying that. Because if he hadn’t, if he was the kind of man who would just accept what I’m saying, then I wouldn’t be in this predicament.

I wouldn’t ever consider sacrificing myself for such a man.

“I have to,” I whisper. And I lean down, my lips meeting his for the first time.

The fever has dried them. They’ve always been thin, easily stretched in a careless smile, yet now I fear that smile would break the skin and tint them red.

It doesn’t matter. It’s my first kiss, and I always wanted it to be with him.

When I open my eyes, at least one of my fears is laid to rest. Because there isn’t repulsion, anger, nor gentle rejection in Peter’s eyes.

Not. There’s just pain. The pain of loss.

“Don’t,” he asks, almost orders.

“I have to,” I repeat.

And I stand up.

“Anna.”

I don’t answer; I just take my things and turn around.

Then I pause.

“A messenger will come tomorrow. They will bring the potion.”

And I take a step forward.

“Anna!” he yells, even as his voice breaks and a coughing fit cuts off my name.

I lay a hand on the door handle, the other still clutching my locket.

And an errant beam of moonlight hits the silver.

There’s a rustling of sheets behind me, yet I don’t turn around.

I open the door and take a step outside as I hear a body dragging on the floor, and I try not to smile at his foolish stubbornness, the same that will make him stalk a deer for hours on end until he’s lined up the perfect shot. Because he’s a hunter, yet he’s always hated bringing pain, so he will never loose an arrow that is not an assured kill.

Foolish. Dangerous. Self-indulgent.

And I could’ve kissed him for it so many times that I didn’t…

So I take a step outside.

“Anna!” The voice is steadier, firmer, and there’s not a cough. And it’s getting harder not to smile.

So I run.

Gran’s house is at the edge of the forest, so a few steps take me from the beaten path to woods alive with glints of silver. The serrated leaves of oaks flash by me as I force my legs faster than they’ve been since Peter and I were kids who played tag by their shadow.

He always won.

The rustling of disturbed leaves and the thumping of heavy steps at my back quietens, yet I still feel the thrill of the chase. So I open my locket.

A white hare’s paw falls on my open hand.

And I run faster than I ever have, my luggage gladly discarded.

I can smell the forest like never before, the dark soil offering me its perfume as herbs of all kinds jump at my senses. Through it all, a path of silver falls through the spaces between glittering leaves, the wind rustling a song of hound and hare to me.

I am the Moon Touched.

Beneath a Hunter’s Moon, I’m prey.

And the prey always entices the Hunter.

I finally reach a clearing I’ve known for years, one near a spring where the grass is lush and thick.

I manage to take three steps inside it before I’m thrown to the ground.

“Stop ignoring me,” Peter growls into my ear. And I shiver.

But I don’t turn around, not yet, because I’m euphoric, my heart beating in a continuous rush, my breathing coming out in joyous gusts.

And I don’t want it to end. To wake up.

So I don’t turn my head to look at him. I don’t answer his words. Instead, I claw at the ground, trying to get further ahead, to reach the tree at the opposite side of the clearing.

And Peter bites down on my neck.

And I scream in pleasure.

Its… Intense. Far more than I’ve ever felt by myself, so I guess Gran was right once again.

Though I really don’t want to think about her right now, given what’s going to happen.

Peter’s hands rip my dress, and I should be angry at him, because it’s not like I have much of a wardrobe, but the cold night’s breeze caressing my exposed skin makes me writhe in pleasure, my whole body tuned to feel any and everything he does to me as the greatest rush of sensation I could ever withstand.

So, as he tears away the last strips of my clothes, as my back and behind are exposed to him, I can only pant and try to crawl forward even as my strength deserts me, and all I can do is to keep holding the hare’s paw.

And then he slides his hands under my body, and he grabs my breasts, and my vision goes white.

I… I can’t believe I just came just from him grabbing my—Hmm!

“Still trying to ignore me?” His voice comes accompanied by scorching breath on my wet neck that makes me let out yet another moan. “Fine, I guess I’ll just have to make you scream.”

Is he…?

And I feel it.

Something hard and hot, something prodding at my sex that makes a ball of yearning inside me clench with wet heat.

I could… I could do a lot of things. Spells to bring weakness, of body or mind, others to bring protection, or strength, or a thousand things that now, more than ever, feel at my fingertips, the magic of the Moon never having been stronger in my grasp.

Because it’s not an oxen tied to a plow. No, it’s a river. A raging river.

But I don’t need it. Not now.

Because if I wanted to, the only thing I would need for Peter to stop would be to say no.

So I bite my lip as a moan tears through my throat and lean my head down, burying it on my arms and soft grass as I arch my back and lift my hips.

Then I sway my ass from side to side, as enticing as prey should ever be, and maybe a bit extra.

And Peter sinks himself inside me.

I scream. He howls.

“Anna!” My name on his lips is another rush of lightning up my back, another burst of sparks behind my eyelids.

And I crawl forward.

He bites down on my nape, and my whole back trembles, his heat over me pushing me down.

Yet, the next time he thrusts, with strength I knew he didn’t have even before his injury, I advance a bit more.

And so we proceed. He stops me with mind-searing pleasure, clawing at my waist, my thighs, my ass, my breasts, layering my whole back, neck, and ears with kisses, bites, and scorching licks.

But each time he tries to take his pleasure out of me, each time I feel his member sawing in and out, his heat and shape taking away the strength from my legs as I only wish to melt under him and allow him to take everything he wants from my body…

I crawl forward.

And, this time, he fills me.

Searing seed rushes inside me, far more than there should be, and I cry out in bliss, feeling myself full of him, a feverish mind almost begging for him to give me all of it so I can give him as many kids as he wants, the part of me that wants to just give up, to allow myself to be completely claimed, to allow him to mount me until my mind quietens and there’s only the otherworldly pleasure of being filled by my childhood love again, and again, and again…

And I crawl forward.

I stop, far more often than I thought I would, because the pleasure rises and rises ever higher until It crests, and when it does, when I feel my mind burning with ecstasy and my body spasm with a storm of feeling, when I hear his victorious growls and howls, then I need to stop and just let the pleasure wash over me, taking away my worry, my anxiety, my fear of the Baron with each new crashing wave.

Still, I crawl forward, following the path of silver that still glows in my other sight.

And, after so long that I marvel the night could still last, I finally reach the tree.

Peter is no longer stopping me, he’s just… Rutting, mating, breeding. The animal has taken over, and I absolutely love and adore each and every second of it.

Yet this time, there’s something I both need and want.

So my hands claw at rough bark and I climb up it until my arms are embracing the thick trunk even as my breasts are being intermittently pressed against it by Peter’s vigorous thrusts that make my knees weak each time they hit deep inside me, the pleasure drumming through my whole body at the beat he imposes on me.

Yet I’ve reached the goal. The end of the path.

And so, as moonlight glitters away from the forest floor, I let go of the white hare’s paw.

“Peter… stop.” The two words are the hardest I’ve ever said, and I feel a new flush at the realization.

But he does.

He still grabs my waist, his member is still beating his scorching heat inside me.

I pull myself closer to the tree, and I feel him slip away, and I yearn to be filled once again.

But first I turn around.

Peter has grown. His body is filled out, his muscle still leans yet in a way that suggests a sharp knife more than mere litheness. His face is now more angular, a bit broader, and I can see stubble he didn’t have when I left my home.

He’s still Peter. I still love him.

The thing that’s changed the most is his leg, bursts of silver light barely visible to those not trained still settling on it, still molding new pathways for argent to flow through. He will have marks from today on, something that will show whose favor restored and elevated him.

But… The most important thing.

His eyes.

They are silver now, but that’s not what worries me, because I want and need—

“Anna?” he asks. And my heart melts at my name on the lips of man, rather than the growls of beast.

I hug him, almost crying in relief, almost coming undone after everything I’ve endured to bring him along with me, to weave a tale worth paying attention to, and have this be a satisfactory ending.

But I can feel him hesitate, the memory of these past few hours settling on his mind now that the wolf that now lives in him has been laid to rest.

So, I lean back, my skin once more resting on rough bark, and I drag him with me.

“More,” I whisper into his ear.

And I turn my head and take his lips for the second time in our lives.

And his hunger tells me it won’t be the last. It won’t for as long as we draw breath and the Moon smiles down on two fools who fled from one god through the use of another.

***

Dawn catches us sleeping beneath an oak, naked and plastered with each other’s fluids.

I am sticky with saliva, semen, and my own lubrication. I should have the beginnings of a cold and the endings of the worst flush of my life.

I’ve never felt better.

Giggling and poking one another, we wash in the spring near the clearing, the cold water delightfully soothing on skin that has spent a night crawling through grass and weeds.

At one point, we have to stop, because it looks like we have a few years worth of frustration with one another to work through.

Yet everything has to come to an end, and our growling stomachs signal that it is, indeed, the time for such an ending.

Or, at the very least, a pause to rest and recover.

So, making use of every trick a hunter learns to go unnoticed through the forest, we reach my home without making a spectacle out of ourselves. I even manage to recover my discarded luggage.

And so, for the first time in our adult lives, Peter and I take our breakfast together after having slept in each other’s arms.

Everything tastes better this morning, which I guess is a mix of the Moon’s blessing and simple, pure euphoria and relief.

Still, I must say nothing tastes as sweet as the piece of toast covered with orange jam that I swallow as I open my door to find the downcast features of the Baron.

I should ask Claire for the recipe.

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Here it is, the second Chef’s choice for October. The idea behind this came from the everpresent Hentai World setting. It’s often ridiculous, and quite disturbing when played to its extremes or emphasizing certain genres, but there was a story on QQ that I liked quite a bit with the way it approached the idea in a fantasy world, with magic justifying most of the hyperbole we see in the genre.

I thought about it from time to time, and one day I had the idea for my own setting, with different magical traditions explaining the world in different ways, a set of short stories with an overarching plot, and a loose novel threaded through them.

I don’t even know how it came to this.

Still, I think I could try something different with this. If you all agree this shows some promise, I could offer this as a Patreon exclusive and publish the individual chapters on Amazon as short stories with continuity… I don’t know, my last attempt at self-publishing didn’t work that well, but then again, I’m given to understand sexual stories need far less promotion, which has always been my Achilles heel.