Weaver Weaves

The sun was beating overhead. Attia lifted a paw, shading her eyes from the light blinding her view of the road. In the distance, a number of shapes were lumbering their way, most likely charr, as was the norm in these parts. Standard caravan?

The bookkeep would have a better idea than her, but it was no threat as far as she cared—especially with no alarms breaking the peace. The tower had a pretty solid vantage point on the entirety of these planes, or at least all the good staging positions, all easily within the reach of their artillery.

She thumped her staff, scanning the land out of habit. Nothing else worth notice. As for the type they could be…warband detachments were all-business, and merchants brought more hassle than she deserved. The shade on the other side needed more guarding than this gate. Were they here yet? Her mottled snout swung to check. Definitely charr…a few packed dolyaks, but one oddity: a cart in front they seemed to be guarding.

“Hm.” Attia shuffled her legs—cooking in armor today might be worth something after all—and rolled her shoulders, adopting a more alert stance while she fished up the rigors of standard protocol in her head.

“Commanding officer!” she called, stepping to the roadside when they came into earshot. The caravan stopped, most of its members eyeing her before one stepped forward. Seemed a lanky sort for a leader, but physique never spoke much about skill—something she stood proof of. More importantly, her eyes caught something beyond the physique of this soldier: his approach only seemed normal. Steadier gait, movements too lithe for the common standard. Those footfalls were only just loud enough to pass for 'walking'. Attia got the sense of distant memories approaching in that fur. It tickled something under her horns. How long had this station been?

Attia kept his full form in view, feeling more self-conscious of her mannerisms than before. He stopped half a spear’s length away with a customary salute. Blue eyes. She might as well be looking in a mirror.

“Legionnaire Silvershot, reporting with detail.” His warband remained at attention around their carts. The tickle grew to an itch.

“You’ll be passing the Rageshot Outpost. State your business,” she replied. He produced a note in claw, offering the folded paper toward her. No seal—her personal judgements would be final.

“Standard supply transport, destination’s Ashford. Got someone we can’t take there, though.”

Attia allowed herself a raised brow before taking the paper. Their outpost certainly had cells, but transfers to their custody for anyone involving a letter usually came with prior notice. Read pretty official though, so it was ultimately her legionnaire’s headache…this parchment felt oddly thick for a single sheet. Silvershot also seemed expectant. Feigning a closer read, she pinched the claw holding it—oh.

Old knowledge knocked all the pieces in place. Ash business. Her black paws made deft work of splitting the two, comfortably drawing the double out of his subordinates’—or so she assumed—eyesight. She turned for the outpost, floating the official paper overhead.

“Alright. Bring ‘em in!”

The shout was more to alert her fellow soldiers than to call in the caravan, but it served well enough for both given the noise behind. Rising sounds of movement also started ahead of her—soldiers who'd receive them while the legionnaire was fetched. Attia hoped whatever official stuff was attached could give her enough downtime to hammer out the cipher.

An orange charr rounded the corner, eyes immediately finding hers. The legionnaire in question—Cethega—had appeared. Her claws slid from Attia's sight, clasping behind her back.

“Left your post to fetch me?” her boss asked, approaching.

Attia’s tail twitched. Her boss had a knack for this, and she couldn’t tell how much of it was deliberate. She lifted the note into view. “We’ve got a surprise prisoner to deal with. Correspondence seems to check out.”

Cethega took it, reading with a vague expression. There was the boss' other half—crypticness. How she came to be that way was the butt of countless jokes among her soldiers, though it only happened during their ventures into the forest for logs. Attia chalked it to some quirk of leadership, but there were better places to ponder her boss. She changed mental topics.

'Possible separatist,' the official letter said. Mice could be seedy enough to pull off spy tactics, shoddy as they were in comparison, but there were systems to try his innocence in Kryta. His presence here was clearly something more.

Cethega hummed at the end of her review, folding the paper away into a pouch. Attia's ears even caught an exhale. Catching her cue, she straightened before her legionnaire, shelving the matter for later.

“Good work then. Have they disembarked him yet?”

“Can’t say by now. The holding cart wasn’t too far off when I called them in.” Attia gestured over her shoulder with a thumb. Cethega’s stare followed it over her shoulder.

“I’ll take it from here. Schedules need to be changed to fit in guarding this one, but it’s nothing we haven’t done before.” Attia caught a hint of mirth in Cethega's voice as she passed. “After all, separatist mice should know to play nice in a charr den.”

Attia, herself, was not interested in finding out what correctional schemes were lurking in Cethega's mind. The ‘sharing’ rule was troublesome enough, and that was before her not-so-golden-furred brand of creativity came into play. After a certain incident, everyone stationed settled on keeping their best behavior, needing no more disciplinary action in their coats. Attia set a brisk pace for the barracks, knowing her end tended to be empty at this hour. Best to start on this missive as soon as she could.

Getting carted through Ascalon’s warm plains for days on end did a number on the body, especially when hard board was the only real bedding option. On one hand, the length of this journey was a natural consequence of being grabbed on the outskirts of these lands, but on the other, what was the benefit in dragging a single man so deep into charr territory?

He looked at a crumpled sac—his makeshift pillow for the journey. Sleep helped to pass the time, but it also meant he couldn’t tell how long he’d been getting jostled along these roads. The shackles didn’t help much for comfort either, though it helped in practicing how to hold still. The lurching stopped, but the man remained slouched. Could’ve happened for any number of reasons on a trip like this, including one seemingly bothersome moa, but it didn't matter if the door didn't budge.

Then came a distinct sensation of rolling off the road, so his ankles rolled from the thought that he may get to stand on them soon. As he'd hoped, footsteps came to the door before it opened with the sound of fiddling metal. He squinted against the light to catch the charr gesturing toward him.

“Come on out. We’ve nabbed ya some new quarters,” they…grumbled? It was difficult to tell. The prisoner gingerly stood using the wall as leverage. A transfer couldn’t be worse than his current conditions. Stepping into the light, and after letting his eyes adjust, he noted the orange-furred charr flanked on either side by two in obscuring armor. From what he knew of their features…

“Deo Cafar.” Orange began. He flinched at his name. They’d gotten him good. “This is your first, and only, welcome to the Rageshot outpost. How you got here doesn’t matter, but how you’ll stay does,”—they let the words hang for a few moments—“you’ll find we’re very equipped for it.”

After speaking, they motioned over their shoulder, dragging his attention to one of the metal monstrosities charr passed for ‘cannons’.

“Don’t try getting crafty either. We’re surrounded by plains, and that river south of us is drake-infested...”—they bared teeth in what could be a charr's grin—“or, you can find out why they call me Doomsmoke.”

Death threats for escape seemed excessive for a prisoner in no-man’s land, but Deo held his tongue. No need to immediately antagonize his new captors. When waiting didn't provide him more bits of monologue, he clanked forward—

“Halt!” ordered orange—Doomsmoke. He paused. Theatrics? The charr stepped closer, wearing an expression he had no hope of placing. The caravan’s eyes on his back suddenly felt more present.

“It seems we’ve forgotten some ground rules. What I say here, goes. I don’t remember ordering you to move.” He had to crane his neck to meet them now. Without breaking eye contact, Doomsmoke called over their shoulder.

“Salute!” Two clanks immediately resounded behind them. After a pause, they also raised an eyebrow at him. Stepping closer, with an unfittingly calm tone, they repeated the command.

More prodding. In theory, he would be livid about this charade. On the other hand, orange probably wanted an excuse. He sifted for faint memories of what charr salutes looked like, but knew the shackles would interfere either way. The eventual attempt seemed to leave Doomsmoke nonplussed, but he caught narrowing eyes as they turned away—like they'd seen a piece of meat.

It was then that a fanned tail swung into view—at least this made it easy. “At ease,”—she began, motioning to the other two—“Take him to the brig.” He let himself be taken. Best-case scenario, this would be the closest he’d ever come to the charr capital.

Introduction to the cell was as uneventful as he’d hoped. There were already no weapons on him, and they’d at least seen fit to leave the clothes on his back. He gingerly laid himself out on the charr-sized bed. Foreign as it was, a net of tensioned leather was still far better than floorboard. Deo stretched as far as he dared, hoping the kinks would work themselves out after a day or two. For now, he settled on the slow burn of relaxing muscles, gradually falling asleep.

Outside the cell, Attia thought the human looked nondescript for an ash POI, but humans did have a whole branch of magic specifically for deception and misdirection. Luckily, this one’s magic was something more familiar to the charr, which meant his odds of escape were miniscule. He likely wouldn’t be forthcoming, either. Human voices were annoying to catch with her ears, but she had to make it work.

“Enjoying yourself? You seem comfortable.” Attia quipped.

Deo sighed. He’d hoped for peace on the first night, at least. “I have your boss to thank. And that wasn’t a complaint.”

“Good. I’ve got first honors tonight, so keep in check and I’ll have a good time.”

Catching the word choice, Deo turned his head from the ceiling to aim a dry look at the new, seated charr. Another fanned tail flicked idly behind, so she was showing teeth like Doomsmoke had hours prior.

“Hey! You’ve got eyes and a stink, and I can only bear one of those coming my way!”

She also had a mouth. A surge of fatigue returned his stare to the ceiling. “I can sit by the bars, if you'd like.”

It was a weak bluff. Deo knew that only Grenth himself barreling through those iron bars could get him off this bed.

“Someone’s enjoying charr ingenuity too much for that.” Unfortunately, Attia seemed to catch as much.

“If that’s what we call wooden boxes for prisoners,” he grumbled. “It’s inhumane.”

“Dunno what that means, but I heard a ‘human’ in there. Just in case you forgot, this,”—she pointed at herself—“ain’t one of em, and you’re not in Kryta.”

Deo left it there, hoping sleep could offer some reprieve from her tongue. Physical aches were about all he cared to deal with for now. Luckily, his new warden didn’t take any more opportunities to bother him before the darkness crept in.

Attia glanced at one of the torches lining the walls. He was stable, sound enough to make retorts. Not likely to get himself killed before she could make another visit. The jail was too accessible for real probing, but he’d probably be too bruised to go anywhere beyond these bars in the next few days. Her options opened up if he could move, with the easiest involving his filthy state.

Underneath Rageshot Outpost was a small cavern that opened to the river south. After sealing the entrance, they’d dug a tunnel in and repurposed it as a bare-bones safe room. Getting there meant passing two doors and a long hallway, so she wouldn’t need to worry about eavesdroppers, and she didn’t see him getting past the thick door on the cave entrance. The showers there would easily accommodate him, and there was plenty of space to sling clothes—he would wash those, for the sake of her nose, at least.

At shift's end, Attia made for the door. The main matter would be securing time to sneak in this wet-mouse duty, and she wasn't in any rush to go maneuvering Cethega for probable cause today. Unfortunately, she found orange fur waiting behind the door.

“Good night so far?”

Cethega stood in less armored wear, seemingly comfortable. There was no telling how long she’d been outside, easily in earshot of anything from the room inside. Her even tone betrayed nothing, but Attia knew otherwise.

“No problems. Not like he could cause any, either.” She patted herself on the back for choosing to keep talk trivial.

Cethega hummed, looking past her. “I wonder. Is it the jail, or,”—she looked back to Attia—“the jailer?”

Attia stymied the rising annoyance, her suspicions confirmed. So the boss had heard. Still, passing up the opportunity now would be foolish. It was time to get herself that bath duty.

“I doubt it. Leave a devourer in that chair and he’d start talking to it faster than me,”—she flicked her tail, feigning impatience—“but now that the first honor’s over, it's not for me to handle.”

Her centurion nodded, starting past. “It wasn’t. But, I remember you wanting some time out of the sun, correct?” Attia turned around to meet her yellow stare. It felt like she was succeeding, but the manner was suspect.

“So, lookout duty?” Attia offered, trying to tease out her thoughts. Cethega grinned, sweeping a paw towards his cell.

“You’ve already started. I’ll have your new schedule ready by tomorrow, so hit the barracks.” Attia didn’t need to be told twice. Playing up her annoyance at the new duty of human-watching, the charr added some sluggishness in her turn away from Cethega, with a few sharp tail flicks for 'irritation' on her way out.

It was Cethega’s turn to look at the prisoner, now that she was left alone. He’d kept the padded chest on, though the cloth would do little to stop claws without the armor it was clearly meant to support. She lifted a paw, trailing the fur up to her own sharp set. This ‘Deo’ was likely stripped of his gear before coming here.

Outside the outpost, she’d been feeling out her newest prisoner.

“...I don’t remember ordering you to move.”

He’d simply stopped. No grimace, no narrowed eyes—no irritated clench of muscle. In the present, she stared at the blonde locks spilling down his skull, pondering. A jab like that should’ve evoked something from a shard of the nuisances fooling themselves over who owned charr land. The amenities on his trip should've left him more volatile. She’d opted for further prodding.

“Salute.”

She expected a reaction there. Rogue behavior, characteristic of those who'd disobey the orders of their betters. Outbursts. Blind rage, ready to suicide against her in honor of ghosts that’d kill him all the same. Instead, there was a laughable salute. This one either had some experience under his belt, or the allegation keeping him here was more relevant than she’d care to assume for a separatist. How fortunate that this ‘Deo’ was chatty with at least one of her soldiers.

He’d awakened during her ponderings at the bars, though the long breaths tried to convince her otherwise. Perhaps it’d work for human ears. Cethega noisily dragged a seat at the warden’s desk, conveniently placed to keep all cell interiors in eyesight, and studied the room. In another light, Attia’s luck could be called ‘convenience’. She lacked enough information to judge yet, but the charr couldn’t help a grin. Some would advise against mixing unknowns together, but that wasn’t Rageshot. She’d feed it, speed the growth, and if it turned out to be a problem, they'd all get something to tackle horns-first. In the meantime, she’d slot in a few others to this schedule.

Rattling on the bars jolted Deo out of his laze, and reminded him of how sore muscles could be. After finally getting some time unbothered, the last thing he needed was more stimulation.

“Hey you!” a familiar voice called, “Grub’s here!”

Deo flopped his head over, spotting last night’s jet black charr by the bars. It could be midday, but no natural sunlight shined here.

“Charr portions, so it’s the only one you’re getting!” One a day? Noon made the most sense, then.

He fought protesting muscles to shamble over to the tray, sitting on the floor in front of it. The cell bars sported a gap with the floor on this side, large enough for the tray sitting before him. Generic bread, bits of meat—mostly fat. Prisoners had no choice. Deo ate in silence.

“You’re a chatty guy, aren’tcha?” came her voice. He focused on finishing the last bits of bread, before shoving the tray unceremoniously back to her side. There was a large sneeze, the paws in his vision taking a few steps back. He forced himself upright.

She hacked. “Burn me—'this magic? My eyes!”

Deo turned lethargically to her. “No shower in here. Or is that not a charr thing?”

She swiped the tray back outside, fanning the metal in his direction. “Aren’t you all supposed to be ‘good’ at magic? Conjure up one!”

“To give you an excuse to punish me?" he replied, returning to the bed. "Find a better fool.”

Blue eyes watched him lay prone. Her assignment was every other day, marking this the third day of custody. He hadn't been roughed by anyone in the caravan, so any damage on him was dealt by the cart—tantamount to sore skin and muscles. By now, at her estimation, the worst of it should've been leaving.

She'd also be hard pressed to think anyone would retroactively rule taking the prisoner for a bath as 'reckless' at this point. The plan could happen sooner, but his state would've been a larger hindrance. Attia tapped the food tray against one of the bars, ensuring the tone caught his attention. “Don’t tell me you expect to heal from just laying there. Deo.”

He managed a roll onto his side, facing the wall. “And what if I do?”

“Then you’re as foolish as a blademaster I once knew. Thought he could sleep off getting gored by a Devourer queen. He died.”

Deo raised an eyebrow, though she wouldn't see. “Are all charr storytellers this riveting?”

“You finally realized?"—he imagined the smirk creeping up her lips—"The time here's finally done you some good. As a reward, you’d better start stretching those legs. I don’t want to have to kick you all the way to the showers.”

Begrudgingly, he took the advice over the next day, saving greater movements for time periods where he wasn’t being watched. His nose had thankfully blocked out the worst, but the increasing sense of a layer on his skin grew difficult to ignore—hopefully she’d make good on that promise.

The sound of raking iron bars snapped him to awareness—the mouthy one had returned for the usual mealtime. Deo made it over to the tray. She watched with an appraising eye. “Finally remembered how to move?”

“Nose finally adjusted?” He countered.

Attia squinted in mirth. “Finally. Was worried I'd be getting stuck down there with a bore.”

He stopped mid-chew. “Down where?”

“Showers,” she stated matter-of-factly. “You seem able enough to go tonight without tripping over yourself.”

“Not worried I’ll make my escape while you faint from walking behind?”

Attia folded her arms, standing to her full height above him. “What’s an elementalist gonna do?” she deadpanned.

Later, he was woken up again, Attia holding a piece of cloth she then tied around his eyes. When she was satisfied with his blindness, he was prodded outside. The jail door softly clicked shut behind them. He didn’t try to plot out their path—any route taken solo would certainly lead to another charr encounter. The one behind him made no sound, the constant pressure on his spine the only reminder of her existence besides the occasional shoulder prod for a turn. Eventually, the route sloped downward, specifically, down a stairwell that stretched for a while.

When they reached the bottom, Attia urged him forward, speaking into his ear. He proceeded, stopping at the sound of an iron door closing, then a bolt sliding shut behind him. Footsteps padded up behind him. She'd apparently found it appropriate to make noise again. Her paw returned to his back. “Go.”

They walked again until her claws pulled his chest, releasing it to unlock yet another door. Deo let himself be ushered through, and the door was once again closed behind. Tension on the cloth pulled the blindfold away—he couldn’t see his own hand, even while touching his nose. Sensing his blindness, Attia resumed guiding him to the shower area of their makeshift bunker.

“Cover your eyes,” she ordered. No sooner had he done it that torches burned to life, illuminating the communal area in yellow light. He gingerly exposed his eyes. To the left, a row of roughly evenly spaced pipes jutted from a long metal wall above a recessed floor. To his right was a natural stone wall, which, coupled with the roof, suggested they were in a cave.

He looked back, finding Attia sitting on a rock formation. She pointed a claw at him. “Spare my nose the theatrics and get to it.”

Deo decided to push his luck. “You got something like a basin around here? Doesn’t make sense leaving the clothes unclean.”

The charr sighed. “You could just wash with them on. We don’t have all night to wait for you to do yourself, each of those, and have them dry.”

“We do,” he replied, starting to disrobe. “I’m an elementalist, after all.”

Attia’s arms crossed. “Why is someone so gifted for tavern work shoved so far up in charr territory?”

The padded chest fell aside, leaving the man in a basic tunic and pants. Deo paused. “I’m sure you’ve already read it all.”

“Hm,” Attia replied. The human stalled on removing his belt. “I’ll rephrase the question, then. What’s a mere messenger on his lonesome doing so far away from home?” The words felt foreign leaving her lips, but the visible relaxation in his shoulders was all the confirmation she needed.

He resumed disrobing. “That could’ve ended badly if you weren’t the one.”

She allowed pride to tinge her words. “Raise your standards. Ash isn’t so sloppy."—she rose from her seat, approaching him—"Now, where is it?”

His tunic flew aside. “Getting to that—” He reached into the side of his undergarment, flipping out a flat pouch that’d been sewn into the material. “Here. A shortlist of recent separatist strongholds and supply routes in the Blazeridge Steppes.”

Attia cut it open with a claw and unfurled the parchment, committing the contents to memory, then met Deo’s gaze. “We’ll get evac for you shortly. You’re only ‘suspected’ on paper, after all. Good work.”

The man nodded. “Alright. Now that this is over, would you mind giving me some privacy?”

“No. I still need to do my ‘job’,” she almost reflexively replied. “Besides, I’ve seen more junk here than I’d really care to. You’re not a charr, but it won't be much different.”

Deo stared at his warden, processing, then gripped both layers at his waist. “You’ll need to explain that one.”

Attia’s shoulders rolled. “Well, you’ve met my boss. She's effective at leading the lot of us, just has…strange ideas about enforcing the values she likes.” At his questioning look, she continued. “Fraternization was a problem, once. She forced everyone to 'carry out all internal-facing duties bare-furred'—herself included—for 3 months.”

“Wh–Bare-furred?” He stepped out of his last articles.

She pointed a claw at him. “Basically what you’re wearing now.”

“Huh,” he grunted, “and for the...external-facing?”

“Loincloth.”

“Hm. No one asked questions?”

“She had—has—a great track record.”

“Oh.” A more familiar reason than he'd expected.

Attia pushed off the wall. “I, for one, would prefer not to be doing bare-fur cannon maintenance ever again.” She approached a compartment on the far wall near where they'd entered.

Deo’s brow furrowed. Surely they didn’t all immediately fall in line. “So what if a couple fucked anyways?”

Cethega’s grin flashed under her eyelids, surrounded by air too hot for an open plain. “Endurance," she mumbled, "and another month was added.” The ‘inventions’ in storage were still functional. Doomsmoke certified them every Meatoberfest.

She stalked over and handed him a bowl of paste, ignoring phantom vibrations in her thighs. “Soap,” she clarified, then gestured to his clothing. “I assume you need another for that pile?”

“If you wouldn’t mind.” He gathered it, dropping them under the pipe next to him. In retrospect, the look Cethega’d given him at their introduction seemed a whole lot more terrifying now. Best to focus on why they were here.

She fetched him another bowl, then returned to her original rocks to monitor, aiming to put her boss—and her warband, and herself—out of mind. Human males apparently had no sheath. He applied the soap quite liberally to himself, and his clothes. Perhaps their society only knew excess—it could benefit from a sample of the high legions’ order.

The warmth was subsiding.

When he finished, she watched the elementalist don everything but his padded chest, all soaking wet.

“You should’ve started with them on,” She chided, unsure of the logic in his brain.

Deo palmed a fist, concentrating. Shortly after, a hot breeze rustled her whiskers. It grew from him until moisture stopped dripping from his garments, after which he hung each from an unused shower pipe.

Though she showed none of it, the display put her on edge. It felt like there was control of at least two elements there, as opposed to the usual single-channel control from these types. Deo was in the middle of draping the padded chest over his nudity.

“Some party trick,” she quipped over the wind, “You pull any, uh, human dams with this thing?”

“That impressed by it?” Deo answered, playing his chuckling along the breeze. ‘Endurance’ could’ve meant a lot of things. Luckily, whatever it was involved charr, which his mind couldn’t really visualize.

“So, no. Must be tough, getting stuck with useless skills!” The breeze died after her outburst.

He crossed his arms in now mostly-dry padding. “A charr can’t speak on what she hasn’t seen.”

Attia got up from her perch. “Big talker, huh?”

He stood his ground. “Lose 'em. I’m not using any ‘party tricks’ for your clothes.”

She snorted, reaching for the clasps on her gear. “Fine.” The padded coat came flying her way, and she batted it unceremoniously to the rock she’d been sitting on. Moments later, her gear joined it.

Deo’s mind had the visuals it needed. A simple, flat torso, narrowing from chest to waist. Sloped shoulders that fed almost continuously into the neck in a near triangle of what must have been muscle. Lean legs that naturally pointed themselves apart—making a natural stance look like an intentional squat displaying her entrance. Admittedly, the only reason he could see it now was thanks to the gloss of her fur, but like the rest of Attia, it looked heavy.

The charr straightened to her full height. “Getting cold feet, mouse?”

He opened the valve behind him, resuming the cold cascade overhead. “Get in.” Turning away from her, he walked along the sloped groove meant to collect water from the entire row, finding a drain at the far end. Conjuring earth, he clogged it, then returned to the increasingly doused charr.

“I’d like a name before we get started.”

“We’ll see if you earn that.”

“Hmm.” The elementalist braced a palm on her chest, lifting the other between her legs to ply around her cunt. Fatter, indeed—it took two fingers to budge either side—but not too foreign from a woman’s, from what touch said. As for tits—there were nipples, regularly spaced and hidden throughout the chest fur. Time for a closer look.

Standing under redirected river water while small digits played between her legs wasn’t planned, but he had yet to use any of that magic of his so far. Ignoring the fact that it now seemed like she’d always planned on fucking him to an outside party—well, assuming they did—she’d still be right when this all happened with none of his special magic. He appeared focused, dropping to his knees in front of her. On a whim, she stepped closer, effectively shielding him from the water with her larger frame.

It took a bit of searching, fingers pulling at flesh at the top of her slit until the bud finally graced his index. He placed a thumb at her entrance, and bid the water cascading down her thighs to join the atmosphere of her slit. Droplets forgot gravity, racing to his fingers until both parts of her sex were properly encased in watery globes, then more strings crawled over the web of his hand to bridge the two. Removing his hand, he watched her closing lips mold around his construct. He expected it to hold, but it was still satisfying to see.

The thighs against him shivered. He leaned back to catch Attia’s eyes. “You might want to lay down for this.”

“I feel nice hands and cold water. Nothing special,” she bit back.

At that, he held her thigh, encasing her feet in liquid to lock them in place. With the other, he pinched the string of water bridging his construct, and forced a jolt of lightning through.

“GNNH!” His warden exclaimed, legs spasming in place thanks to his shackles. Her whole body tensed, then sagged. Deo glanced up, savoring the wide-eyed look on her heaving face. First reactions were always so raw. “Feeling special now?”

He didn’t give her a chance to answer, feeding a stronger shock through the bridge. Attia yelled, snapping upright as every muscle strained against her cemented feet. Her cunt angrily throbbed against itself, forcing more pleasurable aftershocks up her core. Deo found himself exposed to the shower. On a whim, he drew more water into his construct, swelling the bridge until it became a watery half-loop between her clit and cunt. Her hips jostled, and he looked approvingly at how the surrounding flesh slightly pulled with the loop’s swaying. As he’d hoped, she moaned—it was just heavy enough to register. He gripped it, gingerly pulling and pushing the makeshift handle, questing for new lubricant crawling into the shape from her entrance.

Attia was struggling to keep up. There was now a mass behind the cold at her cunt, but it didn’t enter or leave—just sitting at the edge, dragging her sensitive flesh along with it. She needed something up her cunt. Using her trapped feet as leverage, the charr’s matte, glossy hips descended in a powerful thrust aimed at forcing the column into her depths, but met no resistance. She cursed at her denied filling, hunching over.

Deo decided he’d been enticed enough. Pressing a palm up to the half-loop, he fed a series of rapid currents into the water. Her legs jolted again, attempts at thrusts breaking down into reduced to erratic jerks from his frequency, her groans intensifying as he added his arm's weight to be swung around with the loop. Charr cunts were amazingly hardy. Maybe her boss took to this 'endurance', whatever that was, because she knew.

Attia’s breath rose an octave. She’d now taken to angling against the weight on her cunt, humping for any measure of resistance to keep herself intact. Her throbbing reached a feverish pitch—then the charr straightened one final time, punctuating each pulse of climax with an intense gurgling noise.

Deo released her feet. The charr staggered backwards, evidently too lost to catch herself, but he’d clogged the drain for this purpose. A thick spout rose from the pooling liquid to cushion her fall. The man stood, shutting off the pipe to admire his handiwork. Her legs lay spread, left arm in the drain groove at the shower wall, and the right flung over her head, which stared vacantly at the ceiling. Most importantly, she was still breathing, her cunt spasming at irregular intervals.

Attia faintly registered herself being moved. Then warm bands wrapped 3 of her limbs. The restriction felt similar to how her feet had been—where was the human? Adrenaline shunned enough of the afterglow to find him kneeling beside her—she’d been propped up on the shower wall. The far cave wall greeted her in the distance. They’d planned for that side to also be showers, but then the need never arose, so it stayed bare. She glanced at the hand stroking her thigh.

“A…Attia,” she breathed. “It’s Attia.”

“Great,” the man beside her hummed. She heard light sloshing before warmth pooled just outside her cunt. A glance confirmed that his cock was pointing at her side. The elementalist hadn’t used it? Not once? The warmth creeping up her insides forced a moan past. It was like…the water crept in, filling her crevices, but there was also a girth that followed, steadily pressing her walls apart in stages. The unnatural swell of water between her legs was the culprit, and she now knew how this was going to go. Attia turned to Deo.

“C…afar.” The column of water inside her was swelling to a second size, and her toes were already curling in anticipation. “You…won. You don’t…have to…” Speech was exhausting.

He placed a hand on her stomach. “No. I do.” he replied, staring between her legs. The fluid in her cunt swelled to meet his palm. “These bodies, how much can they take? I have to know.” He rubbed over her stomach, dragging the wave around her tunnel. Attia moaned, pulling against her watery bonds. Her mission was a success, but she was fucked. In this moment, she wanted nothing more than to crush the cock next to her until it squirted real cum into her depths, but these bonds wouldn’t allow it. So very fucked.

By the time he finished, her stomach gained a slight bulge, mirroring the pleasant stretch she felt inside. And then over her chest his hands roamed, twisting and teasing her teats. Attia realized she didn’t have words to describe what was about to happen here. The mass retreated, pulling her walls together with greater suction than she could’ve managed herself, then returned, ramming fast enough that she would’ve arched if not for his restraints. Attia watched her skin bulge repeatedly from his magic, stars increasing in her vision. She clenched them shut, striking her horns against the wall, and groaned out another orgasm.

The mass inside gave no purchase to her squeezing flesh, searing her brain with how impossibly full she felt—like a cock had been perfectly grown to fit every part of her, rooted so intricately that it had no chance of ever coming out—she came again, horns scoring lines into the metal behind her. Her single free arm shot across her chest to grab Deo, forcing him across her chest as she rode out the most intense peak of the night.

Water draining from her cunt was an odd feeling—the warmth of cum thanks to him, but none of the consistency. She flexed her core, finding that the water fought her efforts—he still controlled it, and after she’d already released him! Attia rolled her head to his way.

“You can’t...possibly have more!”

Deo met her with a grin. “Stop me if you’ve tried this one before.” A construct resembling a mordrem vine the size of his arm rose out of the pool, and smacked her cunt with its weight.

Attia snarled. “Fuck!”

Dopamine was already flooding in. The angular ridges at its tip already promised entirely new realms of sensation. Irregular nubs rolled into her thighs. Attia knew she should’ve passed out from all this stimulation. "Damn tha—aaah—t—"

Her head flailed at the 'vine' slowly worming its way in—the bulbous triangular head was splitting her 3 ways. Her body couldn't clamp around it fully, forcing the mass to bob where she was stretched most every time her body tried. That movement dug the nubs along its surface into her. Attia's free fist slammed the metal.

"—C-thgaaaaaarrrRRRRR..."

When his next effort in a small list he'd been filling sputtered out before it could take shape, Deo realized he may have gone somewhat overboard. Still, for all that, the only lasting gape she sported was about 2 fingers wide. Charr were extraordinary.

“Or maybe it’s Doomsmoke I should be thanking.” he mused.

“Are you sure?” His neck snapped to see the legionnaire waltz into the light—as bare as they were. She made a show of pondering. “Obstructing Rageshot duties...and to quite an extent with her,”—a wide grin split her features—“this is a serious offense in our lands. Committing it so casually…I can see why you’ve been entrusted to me.”

Deo glanced at Attia. She was...it didn't help his case. “About that…”

Cethega padded over, and casually planted a paw on the kneeling man. “I haven't started yet, prisoner. You get two options."

He fought to stay on her face. The weight of her arm threatened to keep him at cunt level.

"Me, or her?” The dark tinge on the fur in front of him was dampness.

Before he could process it, Attia’s claws yanked his ankles, the charr attached to them flipping him and impaling herself in one fell swoop before he met the ground. Snarling, she crouched over him, starting off a merciless pounding that splashed the water.

“Someone’s decided for you,” Cethega noted, moving over Attia to lean into Deo’s view. “Of course, I’ll need all susceptible Rageshot personnel to be resilient to your tactics. Make sure you’ve got enough for the rest of the warband, soldier!"