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Oh, you poor, hopeless little thing. This didn’t go quite how you’d planned, did it?
Don’t feel bad. It was a really very lovely plan to try and hypnotize me! And really, even if it’s not working out quite as you’d hoped, I think you’ll be much happier this way, don’t you?
Aww. Look at you. Trying to put words together when all you really wanna do is stare at my lovely breasts like a helpless, needy little toy.
So cute.
So helpless.
And so adorable, thinking you’ll be able to put any words together at all that aren’t “yes, Mistress” and “yes, please, Mistress” when I’m through with you. Maybe some soft mewing. Mm, yes, that sounds just lovely, doesn’t it, sweetie?
I can already see all those silly thoughts glimmering in your eyes, rising to the forefront, rising to the top of the waves like soft, pretty pink jellyfish. All those plans for posing as a sweet, obedient little apprentice, pretending to be all silly and dumb and pliant, all eager to please while you worked your little schemes.
Now, now! No need to speak, kitten. Those pretty lips of yours look so much cuter half-parted like that, breathing in nice and slow. Nice and slow. Matching my breathing. In and out. In… and out.
Watch... my breasts… rise… and fall~
Good pet!
And doesn’t that feel nice? That’s right. Just keep watching my tits and listening to my words. They look so soft, don’t they? So smooth. So easy to get lost in.
And it feels so good to listen to Mistress and let her words fill your pretty empty head, trickling in heavier and heavier by the second, like sweet syrup, just... drowning all those thoughts in pleasure.
Isn’t that right? Hush-hush, kitten. Of course it is.
Good pets love to listen to Mistress. Mistress has such a pretty voice, doesn’t she? So nice to listen to and sink down-down-down-down-down, so deep, all those thoughts tugging you deeper, and deeper, and deeper, so heavy and cumbersome, getting heavier with every deeeep breath you take in, and out, and in, and out, and...
*giggle* That’s right! You’re doing so well! Goodness, you’re so adorably suggestible. So pliable. I’ve barely had to work any magic; I just suggested you’d like to look at my tits and let my sweet voice do the rest... and down-down-down you went. I just told you to listen like a good pet, and you nodded along with every single word…
… and happily allowed aaaaall that sweet, slow, heavy syrup to flow into your silly open mind.
Isn’t that right, pet?
Aw, hush, kitten. Of course it is~
[Thanks for reading! There’s more after the break, but if you enjoyed this story and want to read more like it, there’s tons more content on my Patreon. For just a few dollars a month, you gain access to alternate Bad Ends, bonus stories, polls on future content, early updates, erotic text-based roleplay/D&D games, and much, much more! If you can afford to, consider pledging, so I can keep posting Tumblr fics like this one on the regular! Thank you! <3]
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“Salamander folk” are a curiosity largely unique to witchcraft, homunculi created when a willing (or “willing enough”) mortal entices a witch into transmuting their being into something else. In this way, a witch can make a human something like a fey, and can change just about anything else she likes about the human in the process. Many witches favor catfolk and other beast-like features, but the witches have many options. Many, many options.
They just... they just really like catgirls, okay?
And in fairness, so do a lot of the girls who go to witches seeking transmutation. The transformation does not change gender, obviously, but it can be used to change certain physical aspects to be more within a person’s preferences, or, say, to make a cisgender boy look more feminine for the witch’s amusement.
(When a demon does this to a mortal, they are usually called cambions—true cambions, not the mock cambions arising from demon-mortal partnerings. It’s a much more... consuming process.)
Why are they called “salamander folk”? Not all labels make perfect sense. In this case, a “salamander” is old-fashioned magic slang for a partially-finished spell, implying a malleable sort of magic that has yet to be fully shaped. It’s almost never used in that sense anymore, though. It might be distantly related to the famous total immunity newts have to magic.
Many mortals deliberately seek witches out for this reason, desiring some manner of change to their form beyond mortal means, or else to become apprentices. Or, often, both. Many witches charge apprenticeship for a certain number of years in exchange, which isn’t always as mercenary as it seems. Apprenticeship allows a witch to guide and protect the salamander person through their transition, as well as to make sure that the transformation really is what they want. It can also make the transformation itself easier to effect—it’s not easy to change someone’s true form, and it often takes time and a mutual familiarity.
Notably, the reverse dynamic is quite common as well: Many would-be apprentices are expected to allow the witch to transmute them into different forms as a condition of being taught. This is ostensibly because the process of being transmuted involves tying spirits to the subject’s soul, and tends to make their overall form and connection with magic very malleable and easy to work with. These kinds of apprentices are called familiars.
Of course, some witches just want cute catboys and ravenpeople and dollygirls to toy with as they please.
Katrina of the Thousand Names is a particularly skilled witch, known less so for her raw power so much as her cunning, vast arrays of knowledge, and general good-naturedness. She knows hundreds and hundreds of spirits well, and is one of the most famously easy-going when it comes to transformations. If you know what you want, she’ll see it done for as small a price as cooking her meals for a few nights while she works the spell.
Of course, many seek to be her apprentices even if they aren’t looking for transformation, and she’s quite reasonable about this—as long as the apprentice acts in good faith. Many seek to steal her repository of powers to use for wickedness, even trying to hypnotize the witch into yielding them. These ill-behaved apprentices tend to find themselves serving a very different role indeed.
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My, my. Such an adorable, hopelessly malleable plaything you turned out to be!
I think this is all for the best, don’t you? You’re much better at being my pliant little doll than you ever were at being my apprentice. You’ll be so much cuter as my obedient, mewling, empty-headed kitten. And so much happier, too!
Oh, come now, kitten, none of that fussing. Kittens don’t need words, and neither do helplessly adoring little dolls. Doesn’t it feel so good to be nice and sweet and good for me?
No more schemes. No more plotting to steal all my secrets. Those all required thinking, and thinking is hard, and listening like a good pet is easy.
So... so... sooooo easy~
And listening feels so, so lovely, doesn’t it? Just letting my words take over. Breathing in and out so steadily, so hopelessly enthralled by the soft, gentle motion of my soft breasts rising… and falling...
All those plans required so many confusing thoughts, all swirling around in that silly head of yours. But all those wicked thoughts are being drowned in the sweet, wonderful syrup of my words now, aren’t they?
Can’t you just feel all that syrup flooding your mind, submerging every thought in a heavy, heavy sugary brainless docile trance?
All those thoughts about betraying me? All submerged, and so, so hard to pull up to the surface now, so deep, deep down as my breasts bounce slowly, softly, so, so softly...
All those thoughts about using my powers to make trouble? All drowned in warm, gentle waves of delicious syrup, caught like butterflies in amber, deeper and deeper and deeper and deeper as my voice goes on, and on, filling you with sweet, sugary obedient pleasure the longer it goes on, getting so, so hard to even remember anything else...
And oh... doesn’t it feel so much better to be sweet, kitten?
So much easier to be sweet.
So much easier to be a nice, happy, obedient bubbly helpful kitten for me.
And it feels so good to please me, doesn’t it, sweet thing?
So good to nod passively. So good to take my hand, so deeply hypnotized now, so deep-deep-deep under the honeyed waves and not even trying to resist anymore. So happy and dumb and heavy-headed now, just staring at my tits like a mewling, helpless kitten.
Aww, look at you squirming. So cute! Such a sweet little plaything I’ve found. Would you like to be a good pet for me?
Good pet!
Such a good, happy, obedient, needy, sweet little pliant kitten.
Aww, and don’t worry, sweetie.
I know how excited you were to use all my magic, to dress yourself up in my glamors, to bewitch and ensnare whoever gazed upon you. Of course I’ll be happy to let you! Oh, hush-hush, I insist!
Let me lead you into the dressing room, now, pet. There’s a good plaything.
I’m going to dress you up to look so pretty. I’m going to make you so gorgeous and adorable and eager to please. You’ll just be my cute, obedient, sweet dolled-up kitten. Just a happy little maid for me, isn’t that right? Hopelessly eager to help anyone who comes by. Helping others is going to feel so good for my good, obedient kitty.
I promise you’ll be every bit as spellbinding as you planned, sweetie. A pretty spellbound doll for everyone’s amusement. Everyone’s going to love you, and that’s going to feel soooo good.
Let’s go get you all dressed up and pretty, sweetie. There’s a good pet.
And maybe, once you’ve learned your lesson in a year or so…
… I’ll let you decide whether or not you want to stay that way forever~
That’s what she said to you, giggling, bouncing from foot to foot, as the flashing lights and ethereal melodies pulsed through the forest night.
You don’t know what to say, but you can feel your cheeks burning as you stammer something back—you don’t plan to be here long, you just needed to pass through, you didn’t realize there was a Fey Revel going on here.
She just beams, reaching forward to pat your cheek. Your face gets hotter as her breasts jiggle with every bounce. A simple wicker basket hangs from her right arm, but you can’t tell what’s in it—the lights dazzle your eyes and blur your vision. “Aww, don’t worry,” she says sweetly, “we don’t mind! We love it when mortals join in!”
She leans in with a wicked smirk. “Especially cute ones like you! Now, come on!” She reaches into the basket, eyes suddenly shimmering with innocence. “You’ve gotta try a candy! I, like, insist!”
You stumble back, but she just bounces after you. You hear giggling all around you, and you can tell she’s not the only pretty girl watching you.
Not the only fey, you mentally correct yourself, swallowing.
“They’re so yummy, and sweet, and melty-in-your-mouth,” she goes on, bobbing from side to side, her voice like trickling honey, “and they’ll get you aaaaall relaxed and ready to have fun!~”
You try to say something, but you’re so quiet, not even you can hear it over the pulsing music. Her breasts rise and fall eagerly with every motion. You whimper, watching the steady bounce-bounce-bounce.
The lights flicker and glimmer around you. It’s like being at the bottom of the ocean shallows, you think, staring dumbly at her jiggling tits.
Hearing more giggling, you flush and look back up to her eyes. Her vivid, shimmering algae-green eyes. She’s beaming ear to ear with merry delight. “And gosh, I think a cute boy like you,” she coos, giving a coquettish flutter of her eyelashes, “super totes wants to have fun with pretty girls like me, don’t you?”
You try to form words, but the pulsing beat seems to drown them out before they can reach your tongue.
She reaches into the basket, only giggling as you shake your head desperately.
You try to think of a way out of this. You never should have come here. You need to... need to get... but the glimmering faerie lights seem to pluck each thought away in turn before it can fully form.
And you keep staring.
“C’mon, cutie,” she says sweetly, bouncing from side to side, “we better get you a candy to sweeten you up!”
You try to object, but her eyes swirl and spiral with effervescent glow. Those plump pastel-pink lips curve upwards in a knowing smile as your words fall to pieces, lost in a mess of stammering and stuttering.
You stare hopelessly, briefly lost in trance.
She’s just so… so…
… pretty…
“Open wide!” she coos.
You whimper and manage somehow to shake your head through the daze.
A sly twinkle enters those spiraling eyes. But you don’t have a chance to wonder why, because with a girlish little tinkling laugh, she procures a hot pink candy from the basket, pops it past her own lips—
—and throws her dainty arms around you to seize you in a passionate, hungry kiss.
You cry out and struggle frantically, panic snapping you right out of the trance. She just moans against you, giggling, bouncing with pure glee as her naked breasts smoosh against your chest.
She’s so much stronger than she looks, you think, your cries unheeded as a delectable sweetness strikes your tongue. Her cherry-pink lips smack against yours indulgently, so pillowy and soft. Her breasts jiggle against you as she clutches you.
She’s so, so soft.
So… so... sweet...
You feel yourself melting in her arms. The kiss is so decadent, so affectionate. Despite your best efforts, your screams are starting to sound more like moans, your struggles to escape looking more like plain squirming from pleasure as her hips briefly grind against yours.
You feel yourself melting into the kiss, your mind oozing into the sugary pleasure. You still moan softly, still squirm weakly, but the giggling around you tells you that nobody’s fooled.
And then she pulls away, and you stare down at her in a dumb, pleasure-drunk daze. She’s positively glowing.
Then you snap out of it, realize what just happened, and give a yelp and frantically try to spit out whatever it was she slipped you, try to get the taste off your tongue. But it’s already melted away.
Part 1 (cw info in P.1) (trans girl femsub version here)
You feel yourself melting in her arms. The kiss is so decadent, so affectionate. Despite your best efforts, your screams are starting to sound more like moans, your struggles to escape looking more like plain squirming from pleasure as her hips briefly grind against yours.
You feel yourself melting into the kiss, your mind oozing into the sugary pleasure. You still moan softly, still squirm weakly, but the giggling around you tells you that nobody’s fooled.
And then she pulls away, and you stare down at her in a dumb, pleasure-drunk daze. She’s positively glowing.
Then you snap out of it, realize what just happened, and give a yelp and frantically try to spit out whatever it was she slipped you, try to get the taste off your tongue. But it’s already melted away.
Melted right into you.
“Good boy!” she gushes, clapping her hands in delight. She bats her eyelashes. “There! Wasn’t that nice?”
You stammer incoherently, flustered, panicked, unbelievably turned on...
You blink, head spinning. Wait, what was that third thing?
“I told you it would be,” she says sweetly, reaching forward to scritch behind your ear. You whimper softly at the touch, finding yourself leaning into it helplessly. “Aww… there’s a good boy!”
“Gosh,” exclaims another sugary-sweet voice from behind you, “he looks, like, totally ready to have fun now!”
You whimper and shake your head weakly, though you can’t quite tear your eyes from the pretty girl’s tits right now.
Not when they’re bouncing like that.
So pretty...
“Yeah,” coos a third sweet voice, and you feel soft lips brushing the back of your neck, “what a cutie! Gosh, I bet he wants to play now more than anything!”
You whine and squirm, but don’t pull away. You stare at the pretty girl, feeling your trousers getting increasingly more… constraining.
“Aww, of course he does!” the pretty girl says with a giggle. She leans in, and instinctively you lean in, too, allowing her to kiss you on the cheek. You squirm happily at the wonderful soft sensation of her lips on your bare skin... “Such a good boy. You wanna play now, don’t you?”
You gasp as she steps forward and grinds teasingly against your tented trousers, your whole vision briefly flooding with hearts. Oh, that feels… oh, gods, you’re so sensitive—
“Good boy,” she purrs in your ear, and you moan with dreamy pleasure at the praise. “I thought so~”
She keeps grinding, to your ill-concealed delight, and your knees wobble as you feel more warm, supple bodies pressing in now, more plush pairs of lips planting sweet kisses over your neck. You know on some level you should be putting up more of a fight, but this… oh, this feels so good…
“Aww, do we like this?” coos one of the fey in your ears, as delicate fingers begin to undo the buttons of your shirt. “Does this feel goooood?”
You’re lost to your needs, lost to the pretty girl’s eyes, as you whimper and moan and hump hopelessly against her. She beams up at you and plants another sweet kiss on your cheek, not breaking eye contact this time. Her eyes shimmer and glow and flash in time with the beat. “Say yes to pretty girls,” she says sweetly, spinning around to grind her plump, soft ass against your bulge. She pouts seductively. “After all…”
She waits. Her eyes spiral and swirl, flooding your mind with sweet, hypnotic pleasure...
“pretty girls know best,” you whimper, humping brainlessly. You hear a chorus of giggles and coos of delight behind you, and you melt into that feeling, melt into their arms as the kisses grow more indulgent, as the whispers grow more shameless, as the hands grow more possessive...
“Good boy!” She claps her hands with delight and kisses you right on the lips again. You moan happily and grind against her curvy ass, savoring the taste of her, the feeling of her lips on yours…
She pulls back with a sparkle in those shimmering eyes. “You’re a good boy!” she says smugly. “And good boys…” The grinding intensifies, and you start to moan, bucking helplessly in the fey sprites’ embrace. “... obey pretty girls~”
“Good boys obey pretty girls~” bubbles a second voice, lips smacking against your neck.
“Good boys obey pretty girls~” coos a third voice, as more delicate hands pull your shirt from your unresisting body.
“Good boys obey pretty girls~” gushes a fourth voice, stroking your hair possessively like you’re a favored pet.
The pretty girl’s eyes shimmer. Glimmer. Her ass bounces, grinds, so indulgent, so expert in its attentions… melting your brain down into nice sugary goo so their words can sink in deeper, and deeper, and deeper...
… pretty girls know best… good boys obey pretty girls... pretty girls know best… good boys obey pretty girls...
“good boys obey pretty girls,” you whisper, entranced by pure pleasure. “good boys obey pretty girls!”
The pretty girl’s eyes light up.
“Good boy!” she says with a triumphant smirk.
And she rises off of you with a giggle, twirling to face you again. She gives a little curtsey. “Then you’ll loooove having these five cuties take care of you, won’t you, now?” She winks.
You blink stupidly.
Then you feel the other fey pressing in from all around, pulling you down to your knees, then into the soft grass, their voices cooing and praising and teasing and moaning… your trousers being pulled away… you mewl helplessly as your underwear follows suit…
A pretty redheaded faun appears between your legs, eyes sparkling, plump ruby-red lips glistening in the pulsing faerie lights. She looks towards your cock, eyes shining with desire and hunger, and then back up at you, a question on those pretty lips.
She tilts her head innocently.
You whimper and nod needily, pleadingly. She can do what she wants with you. You need her to do what she wants with you.
She’s a pretty girl.
They’re all pretty girls.
She beams and descends on you. And the fey women who’ve captured you giggle with delight and begin to kiss and stroke and play with your whole body, and pure pleasure melts what’s left of your free mind.
You dreamily watch the retreating bouncy butt of the first pretty girl, watching as she approaches a shy-looking druidess with that swinging basket.
They’re all pretty girls.
And you’re a good boy.
And good boys obey pretty girls, because...
Because pretty girls know best, don’t they?
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It is very risky for a mortal to stumble blindly into a Fey Revel, for the fey who take part will not hesitate to make that mortal’s deepest desires reality. The “candy maids”, thought to be a kind of cupid, bounce about these parties with their baskets of goodies, always happy to put another cute toy under the Revels’ spell.
It is rare that a mortal is kept forever, mind. Usually they’ll be pulled out by the more kindly fey and sent back on their way if they seem to have arrived by chance.
Eventually.
After all the pretty fey have had their turn with them, of course~
[ Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this story and want to read more like it, there’s tons more content on my Patreon. For just a few dollars a month, you gain access to alternate Bad Ends, bonus stories, polls on future content, early updates, erotic text-based roleplay/D&D games, and much, much more! If you can afford to, consider pledging, so I can keep posting Tumblr fics like this one on the regular! Thank you! <3]
[pov: transgirl, femdom, fey, teasing, embarrassing praise, reluctance, flustering, mothgirl, sub denying being cute, hypnosis (in later chapters), nonconsent (very light)]
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Ásdís shifted uneasily, the little paddleboat rocking beneath her as she drew near the end of the voyage - at least for her and her boat. I really, really should have got off when that dryad told me to.
"Oh, hiiiii~!" trilled one of the bubbly strawberry blondes, beaming down at the mothgirl as the boat bounced along the increasingly narrow current toward their cavorting point. She leaned over as Ásdís passed, giving Ásdís an indulgent view of her soft, comfy-looking cleavage beneath her diaphanous white gown, and cocked her head inquisitively. "Gosh, like, I don't think that boat's gonna make it!"
Ásdís smiled sheepishly, her fluffy antennae twitching with unease as the boat bobbed and scraped along the shallow bed. Her wings fluttered, though she doubted she'd be able to get away before these four fey caught her. She looked between them, noticing as two others came to admire her embarrassing little predicament. "Um, no, probably not," she admitted.
"Ooh, definitely not!" cooed another from behind her, leaning down from her rock to admire her state - and rather transparently attempt to peek down her modest adventuring dress.
"Want some help?" offered the fourth sweetly, lounging back on a rock, her legs ever-so-conspicuously spread before Ásdís. Her lashes fluttered coquettishly, thick, heavy curtains over those glimmering algae-green eyes..
Ásdís felt her cheeks burning. "N-No, thank you," she squeaked, shifting nervously as the boat bumped against the rock the first two were on. "I'll just, um. Get out here, and I'll... I'll..."
"What, pick up the boat and move it to the other side?"
"Teehee! That's such a silly idea!"
"Hee! What a silly little moth."
"Aww, but she's soooo CUUTE down there in her tiny little rowboat~!"
Ásdís squirmed beneath the merciless teasing, unconsciously shrinking behind her hands to hide her reddening cheeks. She tried to think of something to say, but the nixies’ singsong voices bounced off the babbling water, tinkled like windchimes in the rain, and all she could manage was a mumbled:
"'m... not cute..."
It was mainly to herself, but came out louder than she'd meant it.
At this, the cave nixies exchanged startled looks.
"Oh, really?" the one spreading her legs asked, cocking her head endearing to the side.
"Is that soooo?" purred the one above her, a little smile dancing across fulsome moss-green lips.
Ásdís looked between the four cave nixies, bit her lip, and desperately willed the boat to right itself.
But at the moment, she appeared to have hit a snag.
To Be Continued...
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“Adventuring gowns”, “adventuring dresses” and “adventuring skirts” are designed with practicality, professionalism and fashion in mind, often incorporating items of armor into their construction. Though they vary widely - there is no central authority for enforcing fashion norms in Lacra, aside from a few more isolated regions - they most commonly are known for being highly adaptable, with many pieces and parts that can be removed or replaced when needed. Adventuring dresses are commonly worn by all genders.
“Field adventuring gowns” tend to be made with drab, dark colors that hide mud and stains, incorporate at least two layers and many reinforced pockets, hemmed at just above the knees (often re-hemmed from a traditional dress when a commoner becomes an adventurer), and contain many laces that may be tied, tightened, loosened or undone completely to drastically modify the ensemble. This enables an adventurer to, say, go riding, go for a swim, or sleep comfortably without having to change completely. They may remove or add layers as the heat or cold expects, tinker with the design in their spare time as they please (many adventurers are restless or fidgety by nature, making this a pleasant hobby), and wash the ensemble in parts without having to have a whole separate change of clothes.
“Indoors adventuring gowns”, as they’re called, are not generally worn by serious adventurers, and are made with brighter colors and more decorative pieces, more mimicking the ruggedness of the adventurer than actually acting the part. Adventurers go in and out of style, and so does their fashion.
so, what would happen if a vampire drank the blood of a fey? do fey even have blood? would this sustain a vampire?
[cw: vampire/blood talk]
Yes. If the Fey are pure Dust, the Dead are pure soul - what the Dead lack, both mortal and fairy can provide. Demons are more complicated.
Mind you, vampires, ghouls and wraiths don't necessarily need to feed to "survive". Starved undead tend to gradually lose their sense of where and when they are, but their powers actually grow more potent in this condition, making them all the more dangerous and unpredictable.
But what would happen? Oh, it depends. Some fey, such as Thriae or honey slime girls, might prove a bit more than a thirsty vampire is really bargaining for.
Due to their inherent nature/abilities, how hard is it to control a Dragon?
Interesting question!
The answer: Very, very hard.
Why is it difficult?
First, dragons have strong will. Iron will. This is a constant throughout wyrmkind, regardless of disposition or form. A dragon with a weak will is like a person born legless: Not necessarily anything unheard of or unspeakably awful, but very, very uncommon, and highly inconvenient. This is because dragon awe does work on other dragons, if their will isn’t strong enough to repel it. Weak-willed dragons don’t tend to do well around others of their kind as a consequence.
Think of this iron will as a snail shell. A dragon can voluntarily lower their willpower, if they should for some reason wish to be compelled—a dragon might do this for fun, if they enjoy being hypnotized, or for practical reasons, if they want some sort of assistance from a magic user. For instance, most healing magic relies on working with the subject’s soul, and that requires allowing the magic to take hold.
Dragons usually choose mortal mages to submit to for these situations. They aren’t stupid. In fact, most dragons like to cultivate positive relationships with especially weak-willed mages, to ensure that should they need the help, they’ll have access to magic users who can never truly pose a threat to them.
It is worth noting that a dragon who voluntarily lowers their mental defenses still has dragon awe, which complicates things.
How is it done?
Of course, the difficulties of mastering dragons by no means mean nobody has ever tried. In fact, people try quite often. And sometimes, they are successful. In fact, there’s a large swath of history in which they were extremely successful! The Inquisition saw virtually all of wyrmkind purged from the Lacratian Continent, and one common tool was mind control.
There are three approaches, in a general sense.
First, subterfuge. Quite simply, wait for the dragon to lower their defenses, then strike while they’re vulnerable. If the dragon is badly injured, they will likely seek a healer. If you can get to the healer first, you can replace them, or better yet, compromise them. During the Horny War, this was how the Great and Awful Melchior was captivated—after fighting a pit fiend to a standstill, he fled to a trusted druid friend, not knowing that this druid had already been corrupted by a pair of succubi who were only too happy to ease the injured creature’s pain.
The first path is difficult, but nowhere near as difficult as the second path: Finding the chink in the dragon’s shell, the kink in the ropes that hold the wyrm’s will together. When this kink is found, the dragon is slightly more vulnerable. Slightly.
For instance, the Violet Terror Magdalene was one of the first targets of the first Inquisition, as discovering her weakness was relatively easy—Magdalene was one of the dragons who looked after multiple villages, treating each resident as a part of her “hoard” and the success of the villages overall as a measure of her hoard’s worth. For this reason, many mortals had had opportunity to learn much about her, as she walked among them frequently.
Quite simply, Magdalene had a preoccupation with ropes, and it was eventually discovered that a length of her own hair, braided and drenched in the waters of the Rose Well of the Northern isles, would completely negate her resistances when bound around her neck as a collar.
Most dragons’ weaknesses are obscure like that: Something likely determined only by consulting a seer, consulting a hag or demon, or consulting the dragon themselves. Some are a little easier to stumble upon, however. All are very, very difficult to take advantage of without being caught.
The third path is most difficult of all, of course.
Brute force.
It is said that there is only one creature that the head of the Mindweaver’s Guild, Lady Mistress, truly fears—and that creature is the reason she always wears her mask.
Once, long ago, before she founded the Guild, ‘Lady Mistress’—who then used another name—encountered a dragon.
It is unknown who won the battle of minds that ensued. What is known is that simply mentioning the word “dragon” around her is enough to earn such terrible punishments that the word is considered all but illegal within the entirety of the Guild.
Anon:
Ohhh!! What kind of fey/human holidays are there in your works? What kind of traditions do they entail?
This is a complex question. In the Cloistered Lands, there used to be quite a good many gods, and each god claimed a day or two to be sacred to them. As such, every day is a holiday to someone. Back when the gods still lived, they would often visit their faithful on these days, to personally lead festivities.
But, of course, they don’t live anymore, so they don’t do that. And many of the old holidays lost their heart as a result. Imagine trying to celebrate someone’s birthday after they’re, well, dead.
This doesn’t mean there aren’t still celebrations of an annual nature. Every society needs its opportunities to blow off steam—and a world like the Cloistered Lands needs it a little bit more than most.
Festivals and Holidays
Okay, enough calendar rambling. Here are the holidays and festivals currently celebrated on the Lacratian Continent, in order from the first of Ivormoon to the thirty-third of Icemoon! Calendar information can be found below.
New Year’s Day (Ivormoon 1)
For those communities that do track their days by calendar year, New Year’s Day tends to be a muted affair—after all, winter has not ended yet, and even well-off communities prefer to save their resources until the orchard dryads are back in business. As such, New Year’s Day is a more somber celebration than most—a day to reflect on the events of the last year, and make bitter prayers into the darkness for a better morrow.
New Year’s Day is sometimes known as “Tithing Day”. This is a reference to an old and now-defunct Courtly function, but nowadays, it means something very different. In villages that tend to face tough winters, Tithing Day is the day the village begins drawing lots.
If the community faces starvation, these lots will be used to select young people of the village to venture out into the wilderness in the hopes of finding help. They may perish in the effort. They may find a friendly meadow fey or orchard dryad who can send back supplies.
Or they may find a holstaur, wine dryad, nymph, or other sinister fey who will send back supplies—but at a cost.
As they say, Better a spell in your belly than nothing at all.
Springheel’s Eve (Ivormoon 23~)
Celebrated when the first crocuses begin to bloom, Springheel’s Eve is a nocturnal celebration in which the children of the community don ceremonial masks and go to "scare” nearby fey into gifting them with little treats and presents to mark the end of winter.
The children are usually unaccompanied—some of the fey the children are likely to encounter on Springheel’s Eve would not be quite so amiable towards adults.
The Orchard Festivals (Glosmoon 3)
A one-week celebration mainly honored by communities with patron orchard dryards, the Orchard Festivals are a loud and boisterous affair meant to expel all the community’s pent-up stress from the lean months.
For the first few days, the communities gather for great feasts, using up the last of their winter supplies—communities without orchard dryads are rather less likely to celebrate this part of the festivals. Patron fey of all kinds—dryads, beastfey, catgirls and satyrs alike—will attend these feasts, playing and dancing with their villager “charges”. Local witches and druids will also often attend. Tournaments and contests are commonly held, such as horseshoe tossing, axe-hurling, baking, and obstacle courses.
After the first few days, things get a little bit more... sensual.
The children are encouraged to leave as the sun approaches the horizon, often lured to their beds or to play with those fey who are not partaking in the village’s “bounty”. Adults certainly have the option to do the same, though few do. The fey often see it as a bit of a faux pas to attend the feast and not provide company, but local Rangers are always on hand to make sure things don’t get too rowdy.
Sometimes they get caught up as well, of course. Catgirls are pretty good at “encouraging” Rangers to put aside their professionalism for a night or two.
The nocturnal Orchard Festivals are passionate affairs—sometimes held in great masses, sometimes held in quiet trysts with fey who lead their mortal lovers into homes, behind sheds, or out into the woods. In communities with fleece sprites, pitcher dryads or alraunes, things can get particularly messy, and such trysts can last well beyond the first night.
The Calendar
A brief and boring aside: There are 297 days in a year, meaning each season lasts about seventy-five days (about one and a half months). The current year is the 116th Year Before (no one is exactly certain what they are counting down to, but arguing with seers is a real great way to waste your day).
Back during the reign of the Kingdom of the Gods, a standard calendar featured nine months, each named for one of the nine great Mage Towers: Ivory, Glass, Verdant, Rose, Song, Golden, Iron, Teeth, and Ice. The year began towards the end of winter and ended as winter hit its stride (Teemoon, Icemoon and part of Ivormoon were winter, and you can gauge the rest from there).
However, with the Kingdom’s fall, the use for calendars has faded substantially. Only Nyaska and a couple baronies still hold to the King’s Calendar, while most common folk simply rely on the seasons—the year begins in spring and ends in winter. The Kingdom of the Chosen keep their own calendar, with months named after long-dead mythical heroes.
We will use the King’s Calendar here for simple ease of reference.
Wether the River Ram- Please, tell us more of him! What legends were associated with him?
Wether the River Ram glides across the rushing waters, searching for those dead souls who have not moved on. For this reason, many undead are terrified of rivers and creeks and refuse to cross running water. One never knows when the Ram will be coming by, ready to whelm the careless undead beneath his pounding hooves and iron horns, bearing them under the waves and dragging them by fishing line back into the afterlife. The only sign of Wether’s approach is a kingfisher’s call suddenly cutting off—a rather unreliable meter, as it requires both the presence of a kingfisher and for that kingfisher to have been in the middle of a song when Wether drew near.
Wether’s worshipers included fishers and ferrypeople, who prayed to be safely borne to the afterlife should they slip from their crafts and meet watery ends, those dedicated to hunting undead, gravediggers and cadaver collectors, the inhabitants of undead-plagued villages, and the more cautious necromancers.
Wether is long dead now, of course. But undead sometimes seem completely unaware of the gods ever died. Spirit Rangers still often swear by him.
Oh, and here’s a little tale about the River Ram—consider this your update for Saturday!:
How the Wraithstream Came to Be (and Why Pit Fiends Have Such Lovely Fluffy Coats)
It is said that the Wraithstream was created as a result of an ill-conceived wager between Wether and Mali, the Lavender Gatekeeper, whose task it was to usher recently departed souls into the afterlife.
Once upon a time, back when the gods still lived and the bread only rarely grew moldy, Mali and Wether entered into a fierce argument. Mali felt that Wether was too cruel to his charges, and demanded that he find a less vicious way of transporting the wayward spirits than dragging them with fishing line strung ‘round their littlest toes.
The two made a bet: Wether would let Mali take care of one of his largest rivers, and if they could collect more undead souls in that one river than Wether could in all the rest, Wether would adopt Mali’s methods. If Mali lost, however, they would have to wear Wether’s itchy wool for all eternity.
The contest began, and at once Mali realized that, as was quite often the case, they had made a reckless wager: Mali could not swim. They prepared to concede the bet.
Unfortunately, a tricksome demon god known as Birdcatcher had overheard the business. Birdcatcher was a malicious and mischievous sort, and as Wether was friend to the Unseelie Court and Mali was friend to the Seelie Court, Birdcatcher decided to play a wicked prank to spite the fey a little. It took the form of a young child and spoke to Mali, offering to bail out the river so that Mali could simply run along the riverbed collecting souls. Mali, who, as a rule in these sorts of stories, always makes the wrong decision, agreed.
So Birdcatcher opened its mouth wide, wide as a wishing well, and sucked up all the water out of the river. Mali was delighted, and immediately set about running north and south along the riverbed, capturing troublesome spirits in woven lavender baskets. But Birdcatcher wasn’t done. Birdcatcher gripped the corners of its mouth and tugged, opening its mouth wider and wider, until demons started to slip out—first a few imps, then dozens of succubi and sparkle fiends, and then the seven terrible pit fiends themselves. The hellish host poured into the empty river, gleefully collecting the helpless souls.
When Mali and Wether realized what was going on, they were horrified, and immediately called for help. Luckily, Mareil, the Goddess of Ropes, Cords and Bindings Both Sensual and Practical, just happened to be visiting one of her churches in the area. Mareil was aligned with neither demons nor fey, but greatly disliked Birdcatcher*, so when she saw what was going on, she clapped her hands three times.
On the first clap, her third husband, Mog (the God of Mud and Clay) was summoned from his prison, and he obligingly scored a great ravine such that the whole empty river sank hundreds of feet down, trapping the demons below.
On the second clap, Mareil sealed the ravine, preventing any sort of non-godly motion. The demons and undead alike were helplessly paralyzed.
On the third clap, as Mali and Wether had by now explained to her the terms of the bet, she took away Wether’s wool and trapped Mali in an uncomfortable woolen collar (this is why Mali is commonly depicted with a fluffy pink collar in artistic renditions). However, she felt that the bet seemed a bit unfair—she knew quite well how prone Mali was to reckless bets, and thought Wether had taken advantage a little. So she put the rest of the wool on the seven pit fiends.
And this is why, to this day, the Wraithstream traps all immortals who venture into it—and why pit fiends have cute fluffy wool coats, much to their annoyance.
*Gods hating Birdcatcher, along with Mali making bad bets and wagers, is one of the most consistent elements of the old tales.
