I have no idea what I’m doing and you can’t stop me.

Author, Trans Woman, Hypno Domme, Hopeless Romantic, Sadist, newly out system.

Pronouns are She/It, perpetually happy HRT gave me titties and sad it didn’t give me tentacles.

I had shame once.

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Dating: @lunasorcery

18+ only


caffeinatedOtter
@caffeinatedOtter

The Northern idiot on his wizard-despoiled cow points something at the elf, hoots more My wizard has the biggest, swingingest dick, tadpoles! rubbish, and does something.

The thing he has is clearly more wizard shit, and just seeing it in his hands makes the elf itch with the memory of the res carnelian; the urge to stab. It's a piece of wood, the thickness of a staff, perhaps the length from a man's outstretched fingertips up to mid-bicep; like some kind of mechanically elaborate woodwind instrument, it is covered in tiny mechanical linkages and keys. The muscular fool fumbles with it, a half-trained monkey with a precision device.

And then he points it and depresses his handful of chosen keys, and a terrible immensity of feeling collides with the elf like a sea wave, threatening to kick her legs from under her, spin her ears-over-toes and cram her lungs full of water. Fear, pure and heartbeat-racing, squeezing the taste of bile up from her guts to her tongue with a fist formed of her own muscles' tension.

The idiot on the cow keeps his stick pointed, handful of keys depressed, and clearly expects that to be the end of things, a boot ground down on the face of a peasant who will never again dare to sound unhappy about his own compliance.

"Oh," the elf says, in a cold, clear, empty way. "It's one of those. Do you know those, Ryssa? The Ríastrad have them, for training; can you complete this series of tasks within a set time if you are compelled to unnatural terror, or anger, or euphoria. Sometimes they will have two instructors play a little game where they both have one, and they make you pick a lock, say, or decipher a coded message, while they duel with your inner workings. Fear, say, and lust. Alternating, simultaneous, pulsed at random...you think you'll die from it, from the extremes your own feelings can produce in you. But you don't."

Slowly enough to impress on even an idiot what the motion is, she draws her arma insidiosa from her sleeve, blade twinkling in the snow-bleak light.

The fool on the cow shakes the stick a little as if it might not be working, and he can dislodge proper operation with a jiggle. He looks blankly confused, which morphs abruptly into fear as the elf takes a predatory step toward him.

"Shkarpetky z lampasamy!" he exclaims, and wildly mashes at the magic stick's controls. It avails him nothing; the elf strides over the snow to him, silent and implacable. He starts to cringe away, babbling, even before she gets to him.

"Elf," the paladin says, in a conversational sort of way, simply watching.

Lev, panicked, tries to kick her in the face; the elf grabs his foot and hurls it upward with astonishing force, sending him tumbling off the other side of the aurochs-thing. His scream is cut off by impact with the snowy ground, and then a shrill aftershock of noise is driven from him when, slick and sly as an eel, she ducks underneath the mount and kicks him sharply in his testicles.

"Probably," the elf says, still as cold and empty as the sky, "the Ríastrad gets them from this man's Czar," and she bends, then, to loom over Lev's gasping face. "Does your cow know how to get itself home?"

"Madness!" Hro says, in thin and despairing outrage.

Lev calculates, frantically; the same terrible calculus of dreadful powers he's always made, and comes up with a comfortingly familiar answer: fawn.

"No!" he croaks, collapsed in the snow and curled into a ball of painful misery. "The aurochs only goes where it's pointed!" (This is a lie, but why would you give anyone a truth that renders you superfluous?) "I can — I can take you! I can show you a way into Rubinova Vezha!"

Lev recognises the look of murder in someone's eyes; he works for an Iron Czar. He sees it now, in the elf.

They are foreign assassins; clearly too mighty for him to deal with. He will deliver them to the wizard's tower, grovel and snivel over their corpses, and say that he led them directly into the teeth of death as an act of loyalty. If he is very lucky, he will be spared.

The elf turns her head to look at her foreign companion.

"I'm of a mind to register my opinion of the wizard's devices," she says, and the other nods easily, with her warrior's stance and her total lack of concern, either for the elf's safety as she lunged for Lev, or for what she might do to Lev upon arrival.

"Aye," the unscrupulous brute says easily. "I'm glad for you to develop opinions of your own, on the aims of our travels. The Ríastrad's suppliers, then?"

"This one," the elf says. "And then we'll see." She returns cold eyes to Lev, in silent threat that she'll kill him in a heartbeat, should he give her any excuse. "Get up and turn your awful cow around."


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