Littlest Nymph Collaborative Smut Fic: part 11

[I propose the following: subsequent writers be allowed to make edits of their predecessors' work if they need to make something work better in their section, as long as it isn't too extreme. Changing the name of the main character is fine (since I couldn't come up with a good one), as would retroactively adding some foreshadowing, but making him -not- be a fairly bumbling necromantic aspirant would be less appropriate. Just a thought.]

    Mordhal the Black was starting to deeply regret his choice of adopted attire. Stalking through the deep woods and marching across half a mountain in the summer heat while wearing a heavy black robe had left him sweating in moments, but now he felt as though he would be joining his minions in undeath any moment now. That is, if he actually had any minions. Which he didn't. But that was the purpose of this little expedition in the first place. Somewhere out in this infernal green was a tomb, ancient beyond imagination, where he could harness the power of the centuries and finally defeat death itself.

    Or it was another dead end, he thought bitterly.

    The aspiring necromancer took a moment to lean against a shady tree, wincing at the squelching sound of his sweat soaked robes hitting the bark. With a sigh he raised his waterskin to his mouth and gave it a shake. And another.  A single drop evaporated against his tongue and he threw it to the ground and trampled it underfoot, barking inarticulate curses in a fever of annoyed rage.

    After the lengthy tirade, which left him panting and sweating even more than he was before, Mordhal reached down to pick up the waterskin and gingerly inspected it for holes. "Idiot," he muttered as he poked his finger through a large gash near the bottom. But he stopped himself from sighing this time. He was a man of action. Well, he was in the process of becoming one, at least. For now, though, he still needed a rest.

    Again leaning against the tree he waited, letting his body catch back up with his breath. Fifteen minutes later, or so he guessed, the sounds of nature began to drown out his quieting panting. Birds chirping, thin tree limbs swaying as happy little squirrels jumped from branch to branch, a bee buzzing lazily by and past his ear, the trickling of a stream, a frog belching out a matting call and-

    A stream.

    Water.

    "Well that's a spot of luck," he said, forcing himself to smile. While the rest of the noise droning from the trees around him served little more than to annoy Mordhal, the prospect of fresh water was a welcome one.  He marched ahead slowly, trying to keep his ears focused on the sound of running water.  The trickling grew louder as he moved and he picked up his pace accordingly.  In moments he was all but running and, just as the glittering stream came into view, his foot snagged on a root and sent him sprawling headlong into the shallows.

    His momentum carried him crashing over rocks and bushes and trees down the hill once more until he was stopped by a very large, very hard boulder.

    The repeated blows left him stunned for a good half hour, and his body ached like never before as he finally raised his head and forced himself into a sitting position. Nothing felt broken, but he cursed his luck, nature, and whoever the hell decided to invent either he massaged life back into his stinging limbs. Opening his eyes to inspect the damage, he found himself staring into the eyeless sockets of a jet black skull.


    Part two by CB:
    [No changes made to smutomancer's introduction except a typo fix. Mordhal is a fine enough name in my opinion. I added a bit to his character here, later authors can feel free to pick it up and run with it or drop it and never bring it up again. Also, as a side note, since this is summer, Fernweh's hair should be auburn.]

    Mordhal was by no means frightened by it – he was quite familiar with the remnants of human bodies. Rather, his exhaustion, pain, and thirst were promptly forgotten, and he leapt to his feet as his eyes scanned what lay before him. “Bloody good!” he laughed out loud, recognizing the arrangement of rocks before him as that of an entrance to a man-made cavern, just like the books claimed. Writings carved into the stone pillars, worn away with time, spoke of the purpose of the cavern – it was a tomb, for the great heroes of old who perished in the War of Volgertha against the veteran half-giant regiments of the despotic tyrant archmage, Mannheim.

    There was but one giant boulder standing between him and the valuable corpses within, countless heroes whose names had been lost to the sands of time. Once reanimated to serve as his minions, he would be able to finally prove to his old, crotchety master that he had what it took to succeed him, and be granted the highest secrets of their craft.

    Unfortunately, the young man was no hero himself, nor was he an earth mage. Moving the boulder was a daunting prospect. He stepped forth and wrapped his arms around the rock, only covering a quarter of its circumference. He cursed and stepped back, wise enough not to even bother trying to lift or push it away. His myriad pains and annoyances resurfaced in his mind, and he sighed and opted to first climb back up to the stream and acquire a drink before he attempted to think of a way to budge the enormous stone.

    He climbed up the hill that he had tumbled down, retracing his painful fall and finding himself grateful towards the various plants that had slowed his descent and in so doing, saved his life. While he was attempting to master the magics of death, he was by no means bitter towards the living. It was for the living that he was learning to undo death. And his sister…

    Mordhal finally reached the stream and cupped his hands to lift some of the clear water up and drink deeply from it. He slaked his thirst and took a deep breath as energy slowly returned to his limbs and mind. After filling his waterskin and capping it, he looked up to see the most beautiful woman he had ever seen before standing in the stream, smiling down at him, and in his gaping surprise, lost his balance and fell backwards, crashing back down the same way as before.

    Thud, thump, crack. This time the flora that had saved him was already broken, and far worse pain shot through his body as he rolled, his skull cracking against jutting rocks dangerously. His consciousness faded rapidly, only able to hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. “Dying like this is such a waste…” was the only thing he was able to think before he blacked out.


    Part three by Belgianon:

    When Mordhal came to, his world was one of pain. His body had taken quite a battering during both his falls. “Stay still…” the gentle, feminine voice he’d heard earlier told him. “I intend you no harm and it will only hurt all the more if you move or struggle.”
     His vision still swimming, he tried to focus on the speaker, squirming on the ground. He could feel the woman using some form of magic unfamiliar to him, healing magic. That meant some sort of priest. Grunting, he willed his battered body to answer and attempted to rise.

    “Why do you resist me?” the woman asked, puzzled. “I’m only trying to heal you, honest…”

    Mordhal didn’t want her help. He’d lost his faith in the gods long ago, when his parents died from the plague and the priests had refused to help (or been powerless to do so.) Finding a way to protect those dear to him had been the driving force that had lead him toward magic and necromancy, to find a way to look Death in the eye and spit in its face.

    Snarling, his vision spinning and his guts heaving, he managed to reach a sitting position, and get a good look at his ‘rescuer’. His angry words died on his lips as he got a good look of her, however. The woman… was it really a woman? facing him, didn’t look like any he’d ever met. She looked young, about his own age. Tall and fair, with pale, flawless skin and a rich auburn mane that reached down to her shoulders. Her figure was that of a curvy hourglass with delicate legs. But despite her beautiful allure, Mordhal shivered. Her ears were pointy, and tapering to a point behind her head. She was too beautiful, too symmetrically perfect. She was only wearing what appeared to be a skirt made of leaves and a simple band of cloth to bind her chest. Despite being lost somewhere in the wilderness her hair and skin were perfectly clean, and despite the thorny wild growth her naked skin remained perfectly unmarred by the nicks and bruises one would naturally get trekking through.

    She isn’t human… Mordhal thought, warily. “Who… or what… are you?” he asked.

    “I’m Fernweh, a nymph.” She answered, smiling and holding out her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

    Mordhal took her proffered hand and briefly shook it. “Mordhal.” He limited himself to. To his knowledge, nymphs were mostly harmless, but, being at least somewhat familiar with magic, he was instinctively wary of supernatural creatures.

    “You should really let me heal you, Mordhal.” she continued, “You took a nasty fall back there, you’re lucky you didn’t break your head.”


    Part Four by Francisco_De_Stiges

    “What happens to me is none of your concern,” he said, the action of speaking sending aching pains through his jaw. It creaked when he opened it too wide, causing him to shut his eyes in pain.

    “I need to do this on my own anyways. If my master knew someone held my hand through this, that it wasn’t my own efforts…” he trailed off, leaving Fernweh looking perplexed.

    “Is there something wrong with me holding your hand?” She said, cocking her head to the side and furrowing her smooth flawless brow.

    Mordhal sighed and shut his eyes, the pain of his injuries making explosions of red light appear behind his eyelids. He leaned back, trying to find a more comfortable position, and finding none, slumped against the ground with a groan.

    “It was a figure of speech. I meant that I shouldn’t get help, or else this whole rotten trip is ruined.”

    Fernweh sighed and blew a strand of hair out of her face. She’d seen this before; men too proud or stubborn to accept a helping hand, even if it meant their own demise. It was frustrating, to say the least, and bordered on insulting.

    “Well, I think you need to weigh your priorities,” she said, lying down next to him. Her perky breasts were within reach, scant centimeters from his aching sides. She leaned on an elbow and rested her head on a hand, looking down at Mordhal.

    “Mordhal, you’re miles from home without any provisions  Whatever you’re out here to do, you’re not going to be able to do it in your current state. Let me fix you up, get you back on your feet. Whoever you’re afraid of wont find out; you’re safe with me, and I wont let anything or anyone hurt you, I swear it.”

    Mordhal groaned again, rolling his head back and forth.

    “The alternative,” she said, “I don’t think either of us want to think about that.”

    “Death?” Spat Mordhal, suddenly alert and aware.

    “I can beat death. Death is just an obstacle to me, I can master death. I just need to get in that crypt over there, and it’ll all be…be….”

    “Easy?” Chimed in the nymph.

    “Yeah, something like that”

    “And you’re going to push over that boulder, march in there, do whatever it is you need to do, get out and all the way back home in that shape?”

    “Um, well, I hadn’t really thought that far ahead. But I’m sure that with the cada-err, the artifacts in there I will be able to work up something.”

    Fernweh smiled, her face warm and honest. The little black-clothed human was cute. Overconfident, stubborn, but cute. He had nice green eyes, and a small brown mole above his upper lip. And in his heart, beneath all the blackness and malice that dark magic had filled it with, Fernweh could sense something pure, something noble. Almost childishly innocent in its stubborn determination, it’s desire to do something truly good.

    “How about this Mordhal,” she said.

    “We’ll make a deal. I’ll help you get in that burrow over there, and you can get whatever it is you’re looking for. If it’s something that can heal you, then fine, I’ll leave and you can go home just fine. But if there’s nothing that’ll help you, I fix you up. It’s a win-win situation for you.”

    “I told you, I need to do this myself. Without your, or anyone’s help.”


    ==JustAnotherWritefag's contribution==

    Despite the Necromancer's protestations, Fernweh found it easy enough to trail along, as he limped towards the dark, menacing burrow entrance, an ancient stone door set into a large, round earthen hill, thin creepers of ivy worming through the worn and chipped stone.

    His head seemed to spin, and he staggered a little, only to find the Nymph at his side, helping him walk. Her hands felt soft and motherly as she touched him, and he couldn't help but feel his heart race a little. He had to concede that despite everything she was quite...sweet. And it was hard for his body to deny that she was very...womanly, despite her seemingly immature mien and slender body.

    "Agh, alright, you helped me to the burrow. Now you can bugger off." he grumbled, though his words carried less invective than before.

    She shook her head firmly. "You can barely walk. And I sdaid I'm not leaving till your healed, remember?" she reminded him. Her hand caressed his shoulder soothingly, and he snapped at her.

    "Watch it! I don't need any of your help. Not yet. Keep to your bargain." He reminded her. He was Mordhal the Black, damnit!

    A thought occurred to him – a possibility in how to move the boulder that he had not considered. He hobbled forward, resting his shaking, weathered hand on the old stone, searching for a secret switch. He found a slight indentation, and pushed his hand all the way in, ancient blocks groaning as they began to slide open, a sudden gust of old air sweeping outwards, the stench of age and rot assaulting their nostrils.

    "Eurgh! What a horrible place, Mordhal. Are you sure what you need is in there? All I can smell is...death." she shivered. She didn't fear death, but it was an unpleasant reality, and she couldn't understand why anyone would want to immerse themselves in it like that.

    "Yes, now shut up." he said, but secretly he found her voice calming. Despite the throbbing pain throughout his broken body and head, her presence seemed to keep his nerves steady. A tiny part of himself admitted that he was glad he didnt have to face this alone.

    "Can you...make light?" he asked grudgingly. She shook her head, and he sighed. "Then hold on to me. It will get quite dark." He said, reluctantly.

    He felt her arms wrap around his waist, in a protective hug, and felt her warmth against him. He blushed furiously. "Not that close! Just, hold on to my shoulder or something..." he mumbled. She reluctantly disentangled. This foolish man was going to seriously hurt himself or worse. Why wouldn't he just let her heal him?

    He placed his weight on his least injured foot, and, wincing, he leaned against the left wall, cold, damp stone and rotting ivy. He hobbled inwards, darkness ahead, and dim daylight behind them. Yet, though he had no light, he felt as if there was a torch right behind him, Fernweh's warmth and life a comforting beacon.

    He descended into the Burrow.


    Part Six by Not Another Shitposter

    The young necromancer delved deep into the abyss before him, following the wall carefully. The silence around him was interrupted only by the sound of his footsteps. He could barely hear the gentle footfalls of the nymph behind him, traipsing along, as light as a feather. Though her breasts were unceremoniously pressed against his arm, he tried to focus on what was in front of him. Soon, the tunnel widened and opened up, and with the dim light from the entrance, they were able to barely make out a large chamber with holes carved out in the walls.

    Mordhal looked around, squinting to try to see more clearly, and moved his hand up on the wall until he felt his fingertips brush over something cool and hard – metal. He examined the thing that he had touched and, to his surprise, the steel orb embedded in the stone began to lightly glow, casting a small amount of light across the room. At the same time, his fingers grew extremely cold, and he pulled them away to rub the life back into them.

    “Fascinating! Some sort of antiquated magical light source! It must run off of body heat!” he said, rubbing his hand over the orb over and over to build up a charge. The orb brightened little by little until it was finally possible to see properly in the room, and the necromancer trotted over to the other orb and activated it as well.

    Fernweh giggled at his excitement, then took a better look at the room. “A crypt? So you’re a graverobber?” she asked out of innocent curiosity.

    Mordhal winced and clicked his tongue. “Not quite, but sort of.”

    “What are you then?” she asked. He ignored the question and yanked his arm out of her grasp.  He limped to one of the holes in the wall, his eyes locked firmly on the now-visible caskets all around them. He reached out and brushed the dust and cobwebs off of the old, cracked wooden boxes, appreciating the hard and coarse sensation until a splinter broke off in his index finger.

    “Owch!” he said, yanking the splinter out and nursing his finger, which had joined the rest of the aches and pains in his frame. He took a deep breath and slowly lifted the lid of the casket off, tossing it aside. Beneath it was his goal, the bones of one of the legendary heroes of yore, yellow and stained. It was still wearing some sort of gilded, jewel-encrusted armor, presumably enchanted and worth an unimaginable price. His hand moved forward to touch the skeleton in awe, his mouth hanging open ever-so-slightly.

    And it crumbled to dust under the slightest pressure, the entire structure collapsing from the cascade. “No… no!” he shouted, scooping up the remnant dust in his hands, but the breeze from the entrance swept through the tomb and it was blown away. He tried to seize it from the air itself, but it slipped between his fingers, leaving him with nothing. “This can’t be! The preservation spells wore off?! How?!” he cried, running over to another casket and opening it to find that the bones inside had already turned into dust even without his interference.

    He ran back and forth, tearing the caskets open in a frantic fever, throwing the bone dust around the room as he grew increasingly desperate. Eventually, he grabbed the final casket and, with strength granted by anger and despair, lifted the whole thing up over his head and threw it down onto the ground. The ancient wood shattered from the force, and the dust of what had been inside blew away with the loud, warm wind of the summer outside.

    Mordhal collapsed to his hands and knees, staring at the pale stone beneath him, panting with wide eyes. He had no words. Eventually he remembered that he was not alone, and glanced up to see Fernweh. She stood over him, her otherworldly beautiful eyes glaring down at him, not in fury, but in pity. “You’re a necromancer, aren’t you?” she asked, her voice soft, but sharp.

    Part McMotherfucking Seven By ????????

    Without waiting for an answer, Mordhal’s face stung red as a backhand sent him sprawling to the side; splayed wide even as he had to look up at Fernweh’s soft eyes – the pity had gradually made its way free in exchange for a mixture of fury and sorrow. “A necromancer, lost and devoid of his ever-so-precious corpses. Why is it that all of you make your residence in a crypt? Why not somewhere nice, like a cabin – the forest is ripe with charnel for you to craft flesh from.”

    Her stride was quick as she pinned the man down onto the ground with the ball of her foot, pressing it into his shoulder as she crossed her arms, tilting her head. “A necromancer has no need for the cold and the damp areas of the world – he can work in the sunlight, because just like the winter, there are cycles to things. You can always let your cycle work in the spring; let your fleshy balloons of blood and viscera gather pollen and leave them to till fields for poor townsfolk. Just because the power of evil is suffused in necromancy does not mean death is evil. It’s a wondrous and beautiful thing…”

    Fernweh’s foot slowly worked its way downward, pressing into his stomach, then his groin. “Think of how many children you’ve sent to your death just because you did something like that. Is it bad? Of course not. But wouldn’t you prefer to bury yourself deeper into a woman…” She leaned forwards at that, putting pressure on what she felt beneath her foot as she began to rock her leg back and forth. A look of bemused disgust appeared on her face after a moment as she posed the question; “You’re not one of those weird ass necromancers that makes sex toys out of cadavers are you?”

    Part Eight, by Xiombarg's Storyteller

    “PLEASE tell me you're NOT going to molest him in MY crypt, you dumb bunnyfluffer.”

    The new voice was very similar to Fernweh's, except that it had erupted from the darkness on the other side of the crypt.  Fernweh's jaw dropped, and Mordhal cautiously sat up and looked towards the source of the interruption.  He did not try to dislodge the nymph's foot from where it rested – one, she might decide to press, and that would be more than a little uncomfortable, and two, if he did anything at all, he would be in danger of embarrassing himself.

    A hand slipped out of the darkness, picking up the shining ball of metal to reveal a  statuesque young woman with coils of black hair that reached well past her derrière.  She held out the orb and the light increased in its intensity until the crypt was illuminated by the cool blue-white light.  The surprisingly lovely woman was wearing nothing more than a ragged shift, that somehow seemed to accentuate her curves rather than detract from them.  Silvery streaks of tearstains gleamed along her cheeks, though she wasn't crying at the moment.

    Also, her skin was blue.

    “Uh....sorry?”  Fernweh's brilliant rejoinder was polite and slightly confused.  Mordhal started to back away but the angry nymph – who looked strangely more beautiful when she was angry – pressed firmly.  “Hey!  I'm not done with you!”  The would-be necromancer yelped and froze, sweating bullets.  Turning her attention back to the other woman, who looked disturbing like herself, she asked politely, “Is this your crypt?”

    “Well, it is NOW, since the stupid mortal lit my LAMP.  Duh!”  She flounced over to the shattered casket, the lifting of her dress as she did so demonstrating that she lacked any other personal accouterments at all, and sighed.  “So sorry, Mr. Corpse, these RUDE PEOPLE didn't know any better.”  Twirling her finger she rose on her tip toes and drew her hand up.  The shattered casket slowly rebuilt itself and the dust slithered along the floor and back into the box.

    Licking his lips and wishing that the feel of the angry nymph's foot wasn't quite so pleasant despite the threat it was meant to be, Mordhal spoke softly.  “Miss, I really think we should leave the nice young lady's crypt now....”

    “Yes, PLEASE leave the nice young lady's crypt now!” the blue skinned woman turned and held out the glowing lamp.  “I'm not even supposed to be AWAKE right now, it's DAYTIME, and it's all HOT and BRIGHT outside!  Stupid necromancer, breaking into a crypt in the DAYTIME!  What are you THINKING?!”

    “Uh....terribly sorry, miss.”  He scrambled up, Fernweh grinning and grabbing his arm and starting to drag him outside, giggling at the weird whiny nymph.

    “AND STAY OUT!” she shouted, just before the metal sphere struck the back of Mordhal's head and sent him sprawling, once more unconscious.

    Part Nine by ThatAnonWhoWritesTG

    Mordhal laughed as he perched upon the bone-encrusted throne overlooking the dark valley. The sky was blood-red and dotted with ash grey clouds from the smoke rising up from numerous pyres scattered across the wasteland. Trees, farms and towns burned as hordes of skeletal horrors marched forth brandishing torches and rusty weapons. Mordhal laughed as his minions reached out to conquer all that he could survey, and slaughter any resistance.

    "A drink to your victory, m'lord" said an enticing female voice at his side.

    The necromancer turned his head to see a lovely naked nymph standing there, holding a large goblet made from a bleached skull set in an ornate gold mounting. Mordhal grinned and extended his black-gloved hand to take the drink, when the naked beauty's expression changed. Suddenly she frowned at him in a most dismissive manner, and then she snatched the goblet up before he could grab it, and summarily smacked him upside the head with it.

    Again.

    And again.

    And again.

    Mordhal's eyes opened to a world of pain once more. At first he didn't know where he was, as all he could see in front of his eyes were a blue sky with a shining mid-day sun. Then he felt another bump on the back of his head and painfully raised his head a little. He was on his back being dragged through the forest by the feet by Fernweh like a sack of black-robed potatoes.

    "What happened?" Mordhal mumbled and immediately regretted it as sharp pain lanced through his skull.

    Fernweh turned stopped and turned around, giving him an ugly glare.

    "You disturbed something you shouldn't have and you were knocked out. I should have left you there," she replied.

    Mordhal was surprised that such a small and soft frame could drag his weight so effortlessly, but another thought immediately bubbled to the forefront of his pain-wracked mind.

    "Why didn't you leave me there?"

    Fernweh rolled her eyes and turned around again, starting to drag the necromancer adept along down the forest path once more.

    "Because I'm making a statement. I care about life, even when it's someone as misguided as you," the dryad said with a slight huff.

    Mordhal's head hit another bump in the dirt and he felt another jab of pain slice through his skull. He was vaguely aware of Fernweh making some odd chittering noises as she walked, and then saw a squirrel scurry up the bark of a nearby tree. Turning his head he saw that the path they were going down was getting rocky, leading down to a crossing over a small stream.

    "Whoa whoa whoa! Wait a moment! Hey, stop!" he shouted.

    Fernweh stopped and turned around again.

    "What is it this time?"

    "Well, it's not that I don't appreciate you 'rescuing' me and all, but I'm pretty sure I can walk on my own now," Mordhal said and began climbing to his feet.

    Fernweh studied him closely as he wobbled and almost fell over, spots dancing in his field of vision and his head still very sore. The necromancer stretched his aching body and found that all limbs seemed to still be properly attached, and that he could walk, albeit slowly.

    "Fine," said the nymph with the same flat tone. "Then you can make your way back to a human town on your own. Don't try this again, or next time I will not-"

    The nymph broke off at the sound of approaching hoofbeats. Below them in the valley with the small stream a number of riders were approaching, spurring their mounts on as they crossed the water. The hooves of the horses whipped up flurries of cold water as the riders started up the path where Fernweh and Mordhal stood. Suddenly the necromancer felt a sinking feeling as he saw the face of the lead rider.

    "Oh no," he mumbled.

    "Huh?" asked Fernweh.

    "I know them. This is bad," Mordhal said.



Part ten, by Deathleaper's Fangirl.
-------
The nymph blinked, glancing back and forth between Mordhal and the circling horsemen with a mixture of fear and curiosity. All of them were armed and armoured, looking down at the man with open revulsion. She knew the cruelties humans were capable of inflicting upon one another, and while she didn't exactly fear death - it was as natural as birth, after all - being cut down in her prime held little appeal.

"They're..." Morhal started, tripping over his words. "I mean, I...took a job as a gravekeeper a few towns back. I needed the money, and it gave me a chance to practice some of the more, uh, some of the simpler aspects of necromancy. The guards weren't happy when they found out." He shrugged helplessly. "They've been chasing me ever since. I thought I'd lost them, but..."

He trailed off, staring glumly at the riders. "...I guess not."

"Lady!" The lead rider barked. His face was ruddy and weatherworn, with a mustache like a floorbrush crawling out from under his nose. "This man is a known practicer of the dark arts, and a desectrator of the dead. I must ask you step away and allow us to take him into custody."

Fernweh chewed her lip, her soft eyes flicking back to Mordhal. The Necromancer's shoulders were slumped, like a great weight had been heaped upon them, and he stared miserably into the stream the pair of them were standing in. A small, sad smile crept over the nymph's face at the sight. He wasn't evil. Not really. Just sad, and lonely, someone who'd been hurt too much, who'd lost too much and been given too little in return.

"What will happen to him if I do?" She asked, her voice bright and innocent, though she made no move to step away.

"He'll be hung." The rider replied. "Befouling the dead with his magics is taken very seriously in Geherschakt. Those he meddled with will never move on to the next life now."

"That's rediculous!" Mordhal snapped, a brief flicker of stubborn energy bubbling out of the misery that had descended upon him. "It's just - religious nonsence, I didn't even try animating them, just-"

The snap-twang of a crossbow bolt embedding itself in the riderbed between his feet shut him up. Fernweh winced. It didn't seem...it wasn't fair. Was it? Human laws never seemed terribly important to her. They seemed restrictive and arbitary at the best of times, and hanging poor Mordhal seemed...excessive, to say the least.

"I say again, ma'am." The lead rider said, his voice growing hard. "Step aside, or you shall be detained as an accessory."

"No." Fernweh replied. "I'm afraid I won't."

It was the slightest of movements - a bare twitch of her finger - but the results were impressive. Dormant, long-buried seeds exploded out of the ground, long, green tendrils writhing in short-lived life as they grappled with rearing, panicing horses, ensnaring limbs and knocking weapons from the riders' hands as they struggled to control their mounts. Mordhal stared at the sight, slack-jawed, before Fernweh grabbed the collar of his sodden, mangy robe and desperately tugged him towards the trees.

"Hurry! Now-now-now!" She cried, leading him on as the human broke from his fuegue and stumbled after her. "The magic won't last, I didn't have enough left -"

And true enough, the vines were already turning brown and wilting, their life-force expended in a few seconds of brief, beautiful life. As the pair of figures fled into the forests, Fernweh flitting through the tangled undergrown as if it were an open field, Mordhal struggling in the slipstream of bowing vegetation behind her, the nymph murmered a short thank you to the plants which had spent their lives saving her new partner. They ran together through the green maze of the forest until the sounds of men and horses had faded to nothing, then collapsed into the hollow of an old, dead tree.

Mordhal let out a heavy sigh, staring up at the Nymph.

"You saved me. Again." He said, his voice weary.

Fernweh looked down, her face breaking into a smile of delight. "Yes! I suppose I did." She said. "Though it took the last drops of magic I had to do so. Speaking of which..." She cocked her head, gazing down at him. "I think that means you owe me a debt. Yes? That's how humans do things, right?"

"I...suppose so." Mordhal said warily. "What do you want from me."

"Oh, don't sound so glum," she chirped. "It's nothing. You'll enjoy it, I'm sure! You're just going to help me recover my energy, that's all. And, we're going to do it now." The last few words weren't phrased as a threat, but there was a very slight edge to the nymphs voice as she said it. Mordhal swallowed anxiously.

"Oh, uh, okay. What do I need to do?"

==========================================================================================================
Part 11 by Smutomancer

	"There's no reason to be nervous, Mordhal," she said soothingly. "I said you'll enjoy it, didn't I?" The nymph's delicate delicate hand began to stroke the aspiring mage's leg as she spoke.

	Mordhal flinched involuntarily then forced his himself to sit still, causing his feminine company to smile. Tension radiated from his body and Fernweh could feel the adrenaline from his fearful run coursing through him. In the stillness of their hideaway, she could almost feel his rapidly beating heart thumping in her own chest it was so loud.  She smiled. Adrenaline was something she could work with.

	Moving with exaggerated slowness, Fernweh repositioned herself so that the single beam of sunlight pouring into their alcove would play across her skin. The leafy bindings around her chest fell aside as she moved, willing them with a word of thanks to rest and timing it just right so her pert breasts were illuminated before her eyes just as she reached the sun. A little bead of pride welled inside her to see the young necromancer, enthralled but gulping nervously again, failed to notice her hand had remained on his leg and had pulled a hefty length of fabric up his leg.

	With a seductive fluttering of her eyelashes she leaned in. "Leave everything to me," she told him with a light peck on the cheek.  She touched her fingertips to his bare thigh and he nearly jumped out of his skin.

	“What are you-“ he began, scrambling to rise before the young looking woman grabbed his shoulders and pinned him to the ground with surprising strength.

	“This is happening,” she said. “Deal with it.”  Fernweh made to pull his robes from over his head.  Confused and alarmed, the necromancer did his best to keep clothed, protesting loudly.  Why he was being so childish, the nymph didn’t know, but by now he had far crossed her threshold for tolerance.  Resting on her knees before him, Fernweh gave him her best glare.  However, her not exactly being one for glares, the young man was hardly intimidated.

	“Take it off,” she commanded.

	“What? No!”

	“Just do it.”

	“Why? What could this possibly have to do with anything!”

	“I’m a nymph!”  Fernweh was surprised at herself.  She tried to remember the last time she’d shouted at someone and failed. She took a second to compose herself.  “So you’re not taking it off?” she asked with feigned delicacy.

	“No.”

	“Fine.”  Without waiting for another reply, she grabbed the hem of his robe and threw it up over her head.  She dived forward and slid forward until her head popped out from the neck, bursting the laced ties keeping it closed in the process.  The swift attack took Mordhal by surprise and Fernweh pressed her advantage to the fullest, slipping her arms around his back and holding him tight while straddling him with her legs.

	Mordhal’s face was scant inches from the nymph’s, but even his frantic panic wasn’t enough to toss her off.  As small as she was, the alluring woman was deceptively strong.  Only as Fernweh shimmied his undershorts off and started to grind her bare flesh against his groin did he begin to wonder why he was fighting back in the first place.

	The would-be necromancer stilled and Fernweh took advantage of his submission to press her body even closer to his. Mordhal’s thumping heart hadn’t slowed a beat, but now he was focusing all his attention on the smooth-skinned beauty and the closeness between them.  Her whole front was rubbing across his and the vaguely sweet and flowery scent of her washed over him as he lost himself in the sensation of her soft breasts squishing against his chest, her legs wrapping around his, and the intoxicating thrill he got each time a hint of her warm wetness slicked across his stiffening erection.

	She smiled down at his reaction, keeping their eyes locked despite the motion of her body.  In moments he was starting to press back against her.  His arms, still sleeved, wrapped around her and pulled the nymph close.  With an embarrassed smile he admitted to himself that she was right, he was enjoying this.  He chuckled and drew in for a kiss.

	Fernweh pulled back and left him puckering at the air.

	“No,” she said. “No, you had your chance. We’re not doing it like that anymore.”  One of her hands slithered between them and gathered up his erection, positioning just right so her vulva rubbed messily against the tip.  “This isn’t making love and this isn’t sex,” her voice barely trembled even as she slid herself towards his shaft, “this is fucking.”