There was a doorway ahead, cut into the otherwise featureless rock of the cave wall. Wind blew from it hard enough that the howling assaulted his ears all the way here. The soldier leading their procession seemed unphased, only pausing to light a torch outside before stepping in.

“On with it, Silas,” ordered another soldier, somewhere behind. He twisted his wrists—the metal shackle was still cold, thanks to the wind on their journey here—and clanked forward. Walking so long with his hands at his back was irritating, but it had an upside: the crude chainlinks that hung from his bonds did their swinging back there, around his less-sensitive exposed parts.

He'd be better off staying clueless about how rust felt in certain areas. Silas ducked on entering, more from instinct than any real need, and glanced around the new space to get his bearings. A narrow staircase to the right, better visible thanks to the torch flickering a few steps above him. The lead had been waiting, it seemed, with how motionless their shadowed armor was. His attention turned next to the walls, which looked like they were covered in endless scratches—except this didn't fit the bill of beasts or wear-and-tear. The man resumed his shuffle, hoping to to get a closer look whenever the light would allow.

As he ascended, it turned out that these scratches were more like patterns: almost-drawings, entirely unfamiliar to his eyes. The shadows morphed too much for the criminal to make much sense of it. The people who wrote this here were probably long gone, and they were maybe just as long away from civilization at the moment. Isolated. The feelings attached to that train of thought were promptly shelved away in hopes they'd return at a better time.

The welts crossing his skin were familiar, a degree of punishment he partially predicted. Everything else? Being here? Odd. Their situation, and the entire town who'd brought them to it. Just what did the word 'punishment' mean to the people of this region? Damn territory had more trouble than it was worth. The boots ahead of him stopped ascending, at least, so he'd at least get to know very soon.

Silas emerged into...a great view, he begrudgingly admitted to himself.

The sun had dipped well into evening height, falling behind distant clouds just so positioned to cast shadow into the rock shelter that he now stood in. The sea—the roiling, eastern sea—raced to meet the yellowing sky at the horizon, but where it met land below was hidden behind a bare edge of rock. An edge that narrowed to the left as he traced it, going to an odd construct behind an iron grating. To his farthest right stood more rock wall, the stone scratched similarly to what he'd seen in the stairwell. It, too, narrowed right toward the same grating, giving him no more excuses to delay in figuring out what lay there.

It must've been hand-made—the rock wall curved more inward at a midpoint between the floor and ceiling, until the distant wall where this cliff simply ran deeper inland resembled one of those masoned columns. There was a simple terrace following the curvature at its base, about as high as his knees, and seemingly just barely enough for a man to sit without dangling his legs in the air. Unfortunately, the ledge surrounding the two meant it could easily be the case regardless: dangerously narrow, for what was probably some glorified ancient sightseeing spot.

The last sounds of shuffling metal reminded Silas that he wasn't their sole captive. He glanced back at the group of bound men behind him—his comrades—who, while seemingly going through the same processing he did, seemed none the worse for wear besides their new skin treatment.

To his disappointment, the grate had a door, which was now being opened by the lead guard in a very leisurely manner. Silas felt his gaze before he saw it.

“Those suited to living like beasts should be judged by the land. Come.”

The lead's speech was aimed at no one in particular, reeking of a mere expectation that they'd each volunteer to their death trap. Silas exhaled. So this was their angle. He met a raised palm when he tried going first.

“Hold it, Serpent,”—the guard turned to point at the tallest in chains—”he’ll go first. You second. Thumb and golden locks after.”

Silas clicked his tongue and put his annoyance on full display, which did nothing to intimidate the other soldiers. The giant of their group—Dwyte—was shoved forward. Truthfully, it was the worst choice they could've made. Dwyte shivered as he stood, handling the cold no better than he was, but Silas looked knowingly at their tallest member: a large part of that shivering had switched to fear.

It was ironic. For all the reach he could wield in their raids, Dwyte fought with heights—or at least falling from them—and the path ahead of them would very readily do. It was also jab at his pride. They'd only tolerate that kind of mockery from one of their own.

“Ol’ rust-head likes em tall, does he?” a boisterous tone mocked—Wells. “I could go first, shit-wi—”

A guard's fist slammed into the stout man before he could finish, sending him spinning onto the floor. A chorus of unsheathing metal followed. Swords against unarmed men.

Cowards.

“Don’t get any more ideas,” the torch-bearer warned.

Grinding his teeth, Silas straightened himself. Dwyte glanced at the downed man, giving a small nod of thanks before moving to the gate. Silas jingled his cuffs to catch the taller man's attention as he passed.

“Ain’t no rocky tightrope breaking one o’ mine,” Silas boasted—to Dwyte, and to the room. Their wardens gave no response, but Dwyte stood a bit taller before he had to duck under the doorway and set out onto this…balcony.

The lead soldier tapped the bars. “Leave space for the other men before you sit.”

As if to drive the point home, he flashed a set of throwing knives—there at least 3 for each prisoner there. Fortunately, Dwyte was absorbed with survival, so the threatening display went unnoticed. Silas could get angry in his place, though, and glared daggers from where he stood. The ledge was barely wide enough to fit both Dwyte’s feet held together, but he had to make it, for his sake and theirs. It'd be too soon to lose another now.

Dwyte neared the bend Silas couldn't see around, and a hard gust blew. Dwyte's larger frame spasmed, fighting to tip himself toward the safe side of stone, but his lean was looking more and more doomed as moments crawled by. In a last-ditch effort, the man dropped to a knee, slamming the stone and twisting his chest toward the edge. His sideways tilt simply became more forward—there was too little purchase for legs to help, even if it could've made him more stable. With growing dread, he watched Dwyte's struggling freeze—his eyes were fixated over the edge.

"MOVE!" Silas bellowed.

Dwyte's arms shot back, slamming his palms into the square corner of the stone terrace. One hand skidded and the other held firm. As Dwyte ecovered, the last cloud passed, bathing him in setting sunlight. The whites of those knuckles—that single, straining hand—had been all Silas could see in that moment. Their tallest member was gasping, watching the crags below with wild eyes.

Slowly, the other palm found purchase, and he was able to pull himself upright. The guards said nothing throughout the ordeal, watching his back round the column.

Silas forcefully released a breath. If they'd lost another, not even their swords would've kept him at bay. Instead, he rode the line between rage and adrenaline, and approached the door.

“Are you as good as ‘one of yours’?” the same guard quipped.

The serpent now comfortably stood in rage, using it to set onto the ledge, before they could stiff him with any more orders. To his left, jagged rocks and deceptive pools previously hidden glinted far below, as Dyte would have seen—but the sunlight was rapidly fleeing, so he couldn't take the pace of his predecessor. The treacherous breeze did not return, seemingly stayed by his rage, so Silas found himself seated exactly on the border of rock he couldn't spy around, which left one of his legs in view from the entrance, and the other hidden. Dwyte was busy staring off into the horizon, which was as fine as a man could be after nearly dying in such a way. Probably had a few more hours more to stew before he clocked that the stone on his nutsack was rough.

Silas had no such luck. The best you could hope for these surfaces would be smoothness, but his own were decidedly dashed here. All his cooling in the air had eased the throbbing that crisscrossed near every part of his skin, but the soreness remained. As did the cold, restarting shivers and tremors that scraped, but didn't open, these bruises.

The more he sat, the more it felt like he could draw every detail in this stone he sat against. And with no choice but to lean against his bound wrists, the sea wind still had a window to sap warmth from his back. The medley of pain he arrived on was already maddening.

The guards started filtering out, likely intending to leave them here for the night. Or week. The last slivers were dipping below the horizon. Or longer. A large clang broke his thoughts.

“Locking us in.” A distant voice—James—explained. They were all seated now.

“Bastards,” Wells slurred, then fell silent. A period of time passed with nothing but the elements and the occasional spit from the short man making any noise. Silas’s head rolled in his direction.

“How bad?”

“It’ll heal. Jus’ got me good, boss.” Wells replied.

“Does it…matter?”

The voice seemed so hollow that the wind threatened to blow it away. Silas rolled his head left, peering where he thought Dwyte would be.

“The fuck was that?”

“…half the men now," Dwyte muttered, "less than.”

Whether it was shock or bitterness talking, Silas couldn't tell, so he held his tongue. Either way, getting up to slap sense into the man would be a death sentence.

As the dark of night properly set in, Silas' world was reduced to what he could touch, which was now drenched with agony. By comparison, air was a wonderful thing, but it lead very easily to death. Seeking a distraction, his mind dredged up memories to float along his sea of pain.

Banditry wasn’t ‘good’, depending on who one asked, but it was profitable. Especially for a boy who’d only known bread. In what became a life of moving around, running and stowing away, he’d found others like himself, and eventually, ‘Serpent’ Silas became a small name ofl infamy in the area between a few towns.

James swore in the distance. “If I’d ever seen a hint of a key on those rust buckets, I’d…”

Silas knew all too well why that thought had died. The men of this land hid more brutality than they could've expected.

“Now that wer’ stuck here,”—Wells’ mouth finally recovered—”the fuck ‘d you choose her’ for, boss?”

First Dwyte, now Wells. Two-on-one now.

“Like Is’ ta’ know that 'lord' Salome guy hires demons for men. Come off it.”

James cut in. “You lugs plannin’ to die before sunrise?”

The two men reflexively looked for the golden hair attached to the man spouting those words, but it was too dark.

“Fightin words like wenches. Get through tonight, sock it out tomorrow. If we got one,” He finished.

Begrudgingly, Silas took the advice, resettling against the column. The wounds of that slaughter were still fresh. And then not too long after was 'the dousing', a tame term for being stripped, then whipped and soaked in quick one after the other in this region's accursed wind. Iscandria. A massive cape, mostly ignored for its harsh winds and tall plateaus. Perfect for waiting out the attention.

“The hell’d they give us the bowl for?” Silas wondered aloud.

They'd been given a bowl during the whippings to protect the groin. He'd chalked it to being a small mercy.

Wells guffawed next to him. “Boss, you wanted yer sac’ split by those things?”

“Think, dwarf. All this for an ecce–exeic...to KILL US?” Silas strained himself over the wind. No response came from Wells amid the howling. Perhaps he was deep in thought, for once.

“How’s sir tree doin’?” came his reply.

“Fine,” —Silas looked back in Dwyte's direction—”Hey! Your buddy’s askin’ for y—”

At that moment, lightning flashed, showing only stone where a man had once sat.

“...Boss?”

When did it happen? He'd been too busy bickering with Wells to check on him. Too cocky to come here without a plan. Guilt started to bubble, easing past previously imperceptible cracks in his hardened exterior. Was Dwyte at least himself, when he…

“You hear that?”

His spiraling slowed from the reminder that James still lived. There were still three present.

“...Hear waht?” Silas replied, then swore internally.

The rasp wasn’t intentional, and was an obvious sign of his fraying emotions were fraying. Now his skin also felt wrong beneath all the discomfort and pain. The wind never truly died here either—a crumbling noise echoed somewhere distant. Silas snapped his head up, on edge. His toes gripped the ledge, and his hands jolted closer to his back.

“Dwyte ain’t there, ain’t he?” Wells hadn't missed his voice crack.

Silas grunted.

“…No.”

Silas trusted that Wells wouldn’t throw himself at that news—he was a bit stronger than that. They might fight to the death after, but that came later—for now they just had to survive.

“Bos–s.”

Three sets of chains clinked. That voice rode the wind, seeming to come from everywhere before crawling onto their platform.

“Bosss.”

Stronger this time, like it was testing a new toy. Or nearer. It matched Dwyte's—the wrong one, the shaken man. The others hadn’t heard that version before he...disappeared.

“S-Silas.” James tone had an air of finality, but the Serpent was already too distracted by not-Dwyte distorting his name over the cliffs to care. All this wind, but he could scarcely find any to breathe.

“When…when I wer’ a boy. Ma’ gave me a tale.” The wind's howling rose against the blonde’s voice, as if it knew. “A…folk, like. Don’t eat like we do.”

Silas’ ears warned of an impending storm, but the air lacked the smell, and the wind carried no greater chill. Why did his senses not agree?

“D-Didn’t say—”

A pair of glowing orbs dipped into view above the bandit leader.

“Why?” Sharp. Loud. The eyes looked straight at him.

Silas recoiled at the speech, pressing one side of his face as far into the rock as he could in hopes it'd protect him. His eardrums ached, which also meant he was still alive, though that was in real threat of changing. There was something loud beneath the ringing in his ears—short, like it came between breaths. Four more orbs rushed onto the ceiling, pairs of smaller, similarly glowing lights trailing beneath their orbs.

James screamed.

One of the newer pairs shot downward, and for a second, the light reflecting off his chest silhouetted part of something that was in no way human, before an audible thud shook his ears, and the stone. Amid the sounds of scuffle, the other pair floated along the roof to his right, having made Wells its target. Odd whistling started to join the furious scratching coming from his far right.

Silas glanced back to where the first pair of eyes had appeared, only to find nothing there. He didn't get much time to process that fact before his something landed, sending impacts through the stone on either side of his hips. Death by something he couldn't even grasp. Silas clenched his eyes, trying once again to make his own insert in the rock behind. Moments dragged on as he tired his muscles, ignoring the fiery pain surging across his skin.

A noise like points scoring on stone started above him, slowly dragging all the way to his ears. His breath came in strangled gasps, forced to wait out whatever ploy it had in mind. Then suddenly, a marbled, warm expanse firmly pressed itself into the exposed side of his face, and started sliding in slow, deliberate motions against his skin. The texture was like armor, but at a much finer...scale.

Scales.

Silas' discovery was matched equally by fear. He'd never encountered anything this large with scales before, let alone heard of it. Worse yet, it seemed to be in no rush, and it was everything he could do not to ask himself why.

Now there was a tune starting—barely perceptible above the wind, except for the parts where a note was off. Whatever this was, it was warm. Alive. And undecided about his survival. Silas shuddered. A soft tip slipped behind his back, pushing into the gap left there to accommodate his hands, then feeding thickening mass through there until he was peeled off the column. The scales there did nothing to alleviate the heightened sensitivity of his newly re-aggravated skin. Silas spasmed, groaning in pain. The pressure on his cheek increased, its song pausing for an ambient-sounding exhale.

This shape rubbing his face ranged from a thick, heavy section to a lighter, narrow section, with a firmness that could only come from hard bone. If it was a snout, it was missing its nose in the usual place—another pass confirmed the absence of breath where he'd expect it to be. The closest thing would be the passing sensation of hot air on his chest, but it didn't add up. Did they breathe?

A blunt mass started pressing insistently at his cheek, pulling downward as if to pry open an eyelid. He resolved to do exactly the opposite, scrunching his eyelids tighter, and the efforts paused. Then three sharp points scraped along his back. Silas gasped, opening watery eyes on reflex, and froze at the blue pupil glowing at the end white-scaled snout. The light from its eyes faded out at the base of two growths on its head, which could have been horns, except the darkness gave him no impression of their shape.

Though its head stretched itself away from him, its weight settled evenly onto his lap, resurrecting the welts he'd managed to ignore there. A human torso would've practically been leaning off of him, but they were stabled, and very comfortably facing him over here.
It trilled, snout moving to claim the side of his face that'd previously been pressed into the stone column.

“Hello.”

The words seemed unusually clear against the weather—was he really hearing them? There was wind, chain clinks and stone scrapes coming out when the wind died down—

A three-fingered prong pressed down his side, smooth instead of sharp, yet stoking pain all the same. Silas lurched sideways, his firing nerves glossing over the fact that he'd also inadvertently leaned toward the strange creature. The snout steadily spun his head away from the wall to face forward, before an opposing set of three fingers clamped the side of his head—hands. The tail behind him tightened slightly, pressing him forward a little, and an image of the pools lurking below flashed in Silas' mind. Their head now floated a distance above him, the paw that ran his side having since relocated to his shoulder.

“Ahh…all are filling, but it rushes from you in droves.”

The voice was soft and heady, like a tavern girl from his dreams, but its—her?—head didn’t move with the words it spoke.

No mouths. James didn’t say that with any joy.

His stomach twisted. Her head swung back, another chord of tunes playing from the lights below, which were on her body. The other lights he’d seen were actually holes, four pairs of which watched him during her episode. From memory, the other two differed to her four.

A low whistle came from next to him—Wells. There had been one for each.

“You. mourn–annnnother.” Rasped his creature, hag-voice distinct, even while surrounded by a chorus that ached the mind. Its head faced the wall, maybe rested atop his, but aside from her own light, he couldn't be sure. Light reflecting off the stone caught the abrupt, jagged ends growing from her head. Silas felt trapped in a tale—at the whims of greater things, with little hope for escape.

“Doooo you. Wish. Join-him?” Words for Wells. Not him. They were all damned.

Silas' own seemed to take advantage of the hag-voice's question anyways—her white snout returned, the chords in his ears reverberating until all sound fell into a meld. Arms encroached on his back, and the tail pressed him forward into scales that were, unexpectedly, softer.

“Yesss,” slurred his own.

The weight inched further into his lap, then pressed more firmly. A warm string dripped onto his cock. He jerked against her, hissing at the friction, but found an iron embrace. A snort tousled his hair, and the pressure on his lap began to rock in open dry–humps. A column of fluid connected them now, making the waiting cunt very hard to ignore. Blood was already moving—this wouldn’t be ‘dry’ for much longer.

It was then that distant slapping reached his ears—a noise he’d been too consumed to notice over the scuffle. Had James been the first?

Two fingers held his girth, and tight heat bunched down the length of his cock. It felt like he was being forced to fit, with how the walls clamped. On the last inch, the scales against him sagged, tipping the pair back against the stone, the bulge from Silas’ own cock in her depths getting squeezed between the two.

He groaned—pleasure now accompanied pain. The notes reached a feverish pace. Her hand grasped his cheek, leading it up to meet her gaze.

“I need my fill here, too.”

Hand still on his cheek, her hips raised, then fell. And raised again, her motions carried away by the cycle between emptiness and bursting, and the final gift waiting from the tip of this fleshy girth. As time continued, her hips freed less and less of his girth while the motions grew faster—she’d fully clench at each hilt, starting a wave of contractions up her torso. At this pace, it was like the roiling sea beneath was trapped against his entire length. And it just so happened that one of the rings aligned with the tip of his cock.

Silas couldn’t even remember what parts of him ached—she was going to drain his balls. Nearing climax, he arched, and her return thrust shoved him back onto his seat, frenzied hips tilting back and forth to coax cum into her deepest parts. The shock of landing had actually knocked him back from cumming, but his rider didn’t seem to realize—pressure squeezed his cock from outside, then rapidly stroked the entire length while her hips convulsed.
The first jet of cum felt heavy. She sat harder, inching the next jet to start a little deeper in her walls. He feared a tooth might crack. Pressure squeezed him again—she stroked him more, coaxing a few extra pulses out.

Her hips stayed put. A long limb of scales slid behind his neck—with her torso in front, it must’ve been hers—glowing eyes sliding onto his chest from appearing on the other side.

“We worried only the tall one had potential.”

What.