Author's Note : So this is the big conclusion to part two, complete with a major change at the end.
Part II(d) -
No plan survived contact with the enemy. It was truism which every warrior learned by heart. One must wait for the ideal time to unleash one’s plan.
And so Brunhilde waited. She waited, and she continued to prepare, refining the plan which had been germinated that night between herself and the servant girls.
Not to say that in preparing this plan she had begun to neglect her warrior’s duties in the least.
And a good thing too, she surmised.
Maintaining her lifestyle within the wizard’s keep was proving more difficult by the day.
The winter weather seemed to be having a deleterious effect on her prized equipment. She spent more time each day fighting the speckles of rust developing on her master crafted armor, oiling rusting chain and leather that felt aged and cracked before its time.
Even her weapons showed mysterious signs of deterioration, chips in her broadsword’s blade and fraying of its wrapped hilt, streaks of rust upon the ornate filigree of Tower Breaker. She was restringing Far Reacher almost every other day to the point she was beginning to wonder “why bother?”
No!
That was a stupid way of thinking. A soft way of thinking that would invite ruin. She banished the thought from her mind.
Even so . . . As the days stretched on she found herself more impatient for the chance to arrive. It was even beginning to interfere in her training.
Despite having learned their every move to the point of boredom, that day, the knight’s were having their way with her.
“Are yer a warrior or a peasant!” Fyrd had guffawed from the edge of the ring as Brunhilde clashed with the castle Armor’s in her daily sparring session. “Go on the attack!”
“I am trying.” Brune grunted under her breath as she parried sword strikes and deflected spears across her armor. Her every move felt out of step, an uncertain foot, a sword thrust without conviction.
Damn the Wizard Gaits! She thought as she was pushed back and back until at last her animal anger flared. The She Beast grabbed the shaft of the spear tormenting her, breaking it in her hands and running the metal head through the chest of the remaining swords-knight, ducking a blind swing, she thrust her broadsword into the spear carrier and twisted, snapping straps and causing the suit to seize up and collapse.
She stood there, breathing heavily as she savored a moment feeling like her old self. But it did not last, it never lasted in these strange days.
Brunhilde pulled off her helm and threw back her head, sweat soaked hair flying free in the crisp air. The warrior woman fingered a long pink lock that dared to fall into her eyes. The stuff seemed to be growing faster with each passing day and she hardly had time to keep it close cropped any longer. She’d considered taking a razor to her head but Ester had urged her to let it grow.
Sighing, Brune turned to the mock clapping and hoarse laughter as Fyrd approached.
“Good. Very good!” The wolf-man growled. “But not as good as I’ve come to be expecting.”
Brune grimaced at the appraisal. “I have been . . . distracted.”
“Aye?” Fyrd stroked his long jaw. “Well best don’t be come tomorrow. We’ve thinned the trolls down and narrowed the range. We should surely find the female by midday and I be expectin every warrior to be bringin their best!” A furred hand slammed into Brune’s breastplate. “That be especially including you!” Brune merely grunted and gave a nod before returning to the armory and then retiring to the tower to prepare for dinner.
Wait for the ideal time to strike . . .
Brune’s mood improved some when she arrived back at her apartments to find Ester and Astrea hard at work.
“What do you think, Milady?” Astrea asked as her nimble hands worked with thread and needle to fix in place some final adjustments.
“I do not know.” Brunehilde admitted, fingering the fine silks with some niggling doubt. “Will this really make Gaits see me as a woman?”
“Well . . . It’ll at least cover enough of you for him to have time to notice anything other than the fact that you’re a woman.” Ester replied.
It had taken days, but eventually they had discovered a segment of the castle’s vast wardrobe that would suit their purposes. The gown had been commissioned for and once been worn by the Arch Duchess de Pastre. The Portrait of her hanging in the castle halls had shown a woman working on her sixth decade and her fourth chin. But what the Archduchess had once filled with blubber now provided ample volume for Brunhilde’s infinitely more admirable physique. At least after several days of modifications.
“I do not understand why you did not think of this in the first place.” Brune wondered aloud as she seated herself in a washing tub repurposed as a hip bath.
Astrea went to work on her scrubbing the grime from her body and shampooing her hair with strange floral scented oils of bewildering purpose. There were bottles to clean her hair and to make it fuller and shiny. As well as bottles to soften and scent her skin. And not just to make her smell nice, some were specifically intended to mask the body’s natural odor.
“If I may answer a question with a question, Milady.” Ester said without looking up from her work. “Would you have sat still long enough for me to take your measurements when we first met? Now worry about your part in all of this.” Ester went on. “We can make you look the part, but you must show him that there’s more to you than a grunting, farting, drinking sword arm”
“Hmmm.” Brune grunted reluctantly and returned her attention to the tiny leather tome in the palm of her hand.
Two weeks ago, Brunhilde could have counted the books she’d read on the hand of a blind man with a fondness for knife games. Now, she lacked the combined fingers and toes.
What had started haltingly, with a finger held to the lines and much sounding out of words had accelerated at a pace that had left Ester awestruck. Brune had not seen anything strange about it, she had never before had any trouble with a task once she determined its value and that had not taken much longer than reaching the writings of General Marcus Augustus Stratigus. There was more than a little flowery language to cut through, but Brune found much of what the general had to say to be sound advice on war. And from there, she had accepted his citations on philosophy and statecraft as simple extensions of her profession.
Every night since she and the servants had hatched this plan she had trained the neglected academic aspect of her mind much as each day she had trained her body. Knowledge had poured from the pages through her eyes until her skull felt pregnant with burgeoning intellectual power she had not realized she wielded.
But now that she had these new organs she could see their value. When this winter was over she intended to use the Wizard’s treasure to purchase a knighthood. She would require a knowledge of courtly matters if only to evade their frivolity. Perhaps even the knowledge of the arcane would not be out of her reach.
If she were to fusion the might of magic with her own supreme physical prowess she could cement herself as the greatest warrior to have ever lived.
“Brains and brawn.” Ester said aloud. “You’d be the complete package.”
“I did not . . . “ Brune scowled.
“No . . . But you thought it.” The Servant Girl purred. “Don’t tell me you didn’t. Just remember, this boy probably will like you more for your big throbbing brain than your big throbbing muscles.”
“I wonder if Gaits would turn you back into a cat if I requested it?” Brunhilde threatened idly as she climbed from the bath and was dried by Astrea.
“Oh, I would never irritate you so much that you’d have me changed back into a cat.” Ester replied. “I know my place and exactly how far I can step out of line.”
“Hmm. See that it stays that way.” Brune said. She gave the servant girls much leeway, but she didn’t care for them getting into her thoughts. Maybe if their brains were shrunken back to the size of walnuts they’d lack the wits to try it.
Soon there was no more time for such thoughts as the girls went about dressing her. The garment came in layers starting with fine underwear. White floral panties and long suspender stockings. The Duchess had been so enormously fat that even Brune’s muscle girdled stomach was practically dainty, requiring the garter belt to be let in greatly. The corset was likewise more decoration futilely attempting to narrow her already tight waist line and lift her bosom from beneath.
Next had come the dress propper, hoops hung from the corset followed by the under dress, blouse, mid vest, over dress, detached collar, ribbons, gloves, jewelry, necklaces, rings, bangles . . . It went on and on, building in layers until at last Brunhilde stood resplendent in a glittering garment of checkered black and gold silk encrusted with yellow diamonds.
“Just one more thing.” Ester handed her mistress a diamond encrusted fan while Astrea used a step ladder to place a matching tiara atop the warrior woman’s expertly dressed hair.
“What does the Lady Brunhilde de la Kodiak have to say for her tailor?” Ester asked sweetly.
The dress accentuated the narrowness of her waist, the wideness of her hips, expertly emphasizing her bust and cleavage so that even her broad muscled shoulders seemed almost charming.
Brune stared into the mirrors as if seeing the woman inside the reflection for the first time. Not seeing the she beast stretching some garment to obscenity or the warrior Brunhilde replete in her armor or even her relentless female form raw and nude. But a mature and queenly visage at the very height of her power . . . a woman . . . carved and polished from the living stone of Brunhilde’s flesh and put into garment and place that fitted her like a glove.
‘That’s right . . . I am . . . A woman.’ Brunhilde blinked quickly as if startled by this fact that she had of course from the first time she had bled . . . but had not known as she knew now in this place, with evidence she had already accepted without realizing . . . Her flesh trembled on the cusp of a powerful awakening. Her heart beating faster and faster. It was wrong and yet it was right . . . Two paths were intersecting . . .
For a moment the world spun away from her and there was feeling, unsettling, of both resistance and of yielding, as if inside of her a lock was beginning to turn . . .
But not yet . . . not . . . quite . . .yet . . . Her flesh reeling away instinctively as from a danger to its very existence.
“Milady?” Ester asked, concern evidenced in her voice.
“It was . . . nothing.” Brunhilde breathed as the moment passed, looking at herself a brief flush had crossed her cheeks and spread down the plump curves of her breasts. She fanned herself in the lady like motion Ester had shown her, her face settling back into a taciturn calm.
“Let us be off.” Brune stated calmly. The flash of strangeness banished from her mind as she returned to matters at hand.
_______________________________________________________________
No plan survived contact with the enemy. But this enemy was very . . . very predictable . . . Brunhilde had discovered. And rather like his magical suits of armor the Wizard Gaits tended to return to his original shape given enough time.
If her propositioning him for sex still impinged upon his mind, Gaits did not show it anymore than he still seemed troubled by their shared brush with death. In fact he chattered on endlessly that night about every subject that passed through his mind, almost as if the curious day that had set Brune on this path had never happened.
She began to wonder if this really was a plan that would survive contact with the enemy . . .
“So you see, this castle provides a truly extraordinary location to study the Northern aurora’s. If not for the needs of my campaign against Fortuna I would be studying them around the clock!”
“Hmmm.” Brune nodded thoughtfully while trying hard to keep her eyes open. She had never known that feigning interest could be so fatiguing. She just needed to wait. Wait until the opportunity presented itself. In the meantime the first course came, a thin fish soup served with a white wine.
At first Brunhilde made to take the bowl in her gloved hands, but evenings of training with Ester stopped her. Sitting straight, she reached for the outermost spoon and gently dipped it away from herself.
Practices, smooth motions, just like her swordwork, the broth wobbled under tension but never spilled from her spoon as she carried it from her bowl to her lips and after several spoons washed it down with a sip of wine.
“I hope the selection tonight meets with your approval.” Gaits said suddenly.
“The wine has . . . a very refined bouquet.” Brune answered carefully. “The label says it was from the Southern Lowlands.”
“Oh yes! A fine vintage . . . “
Brune saw her opening. “I am curious how you come across such luxuries so far from civilization.”
Gaits smiled. “Ah, well . . . There a number of villages in the foothills of these mountains who afford me access to the wider world.”
“Is that not dangerous for them?” Brune mused.
“Dangerous?”
“You are still the sworn enemy of the Kingdom of Fortuna. If the King knew you were alive he would probably start by killing anyone who he suspected of giving you comfort.”
“Ah . . . yes.” The Wizard Gaits nodded sagely. “Well, I supposed you could say . . . in for a shilling in for a crown.”
“Meaning that they already provide you wish much more substantial aid of their own volition.” Brune reasoned. “Enough to be executed for anyways.”
“I do not think you realize how much the people despise their King.” Gaits growled in a voice that was all at once bitter and wretched. “There are many who would do anything to be rid of him.”
“Then why are they not rid of him?” Brune asked.
A chuckle laden with even more bitterness passed the Wizards lips. “It is one thing to trade your life for a cause and quite another to trade it for nothing.”
“Then they believe they have no chance of victory.” Brune frowned. “They would not lack for numbers and they would have you as an ally . . . It is because War is Politics by other means . . . isn’t it?”
“Pardon?”
“War.” Brunhilde said. “It is . . . politics by other means.”
“Where did you learn that?!”
“It is something I read . . . once.” Not a lie, she had read it just last night. “The people do not lack for numbers, a reasonable to rebel, or even impoverished as they are the material to do so, they do not because they lack a clear goal.”
“A rallying point.” Gaits agreed. “Getting rid of the king is one thing. Not much point if he’s replaced by one of his cronies, Humans are surprisingly practical creatures in that way, as if by instinct, they will be moved to action without all of the pieces being in place.”
“If only a member of the old ruling family was alive . . .” Brunhilde mused.
Suddenly the Wizard’s expression twisted through several emotions, surprise, panic, then agitation. “Why do you say that?”
“Because a royal heir would have instant legitimacy.” Brune answered simply. “They could deal in that coin to unite the disparate factions against the King using their claim as a proxy for legitimacy. Any easy claim to make with a hated ruler.”
Gaits leaned back in his chair as the next course was brought. “I had never guessed you for a political commentator.”
Brunhilde shrugged as she began on the next course with the next spoon. “You gave me the freedom to move about this castle. You have a library.”
“Even so . . . Tell me what else you have been reading.”
“I find myself attracted to General Stratigus.”
“Of course.” Gaits rolled his eyes.
“He is an insightful commentator on matters of war.” Brunehilde replied shortly, and realized that his dismissal was almost . . . irritating . . . to her.
“Oh don’t get me wrong, Stratigus is fine if you are concerned mainly with the points bits and how they relate to politics. But if you want to get to the real MEAT of the matters” Gaits emphasized with a clenching of his hands “Then you simply must read Cordione’s the Duke!”
“I have in fact read the Duke.” Brune said while wiping a bit of sauce away with a napkin. Two nights ago, it had not been long at all. “And you realize Cordione was clearly trying to sabotage his reader.”
“The Galvani’s were the leading rulers of the free cities!” Gaits protested.
“They fired him from his post. And they broke his legs.” She answered simply. “And much of his military advice is unsound. Given that, I assume the same for at least some of his political advice. Stratigus does speak highly of his earlier writings though. But the Duke is hardly his best work . . .”
A month ago, even two weeks before, Brunhilde could not have imagined being pulled into a talk . . . no . . . this was . . . conversation. She corrected herself. She had talked often enough, if sparingly, but always about practical matters. The closest she had come before to this was the solemnity of a warrior’s funeral.
Brune was pulled into a new language, alien and yet familiar, cool yet filled with a fiery passion. A battle was taking place across the table she realized, invisible yet almost tangible, complex and subtle, ebbing and flowing with the courses of their meal until at last Brune realized that they had eaten dessert almost without noticing. Her face was hot and her throat was tight and sore from talking. Her lungs, that had fueled wild charges and bellowed orders across battlefields, were gasping for breath.
Somehow, she felt like they had said nothing while speaking almost everything. It was frustrating, and maddening, and glorious.
And now she was left silent, robbed of the power of speech as the last of their meal was cleared away and the excuse to keep talking was suddenly gone. She felt, confused, then as if something had been lost. She looked across the table to Gaits. The wizards eyes their normal watery darkness, sparkled like a deep calm lake beneath a starry sky.
This was the moment. The moment she had waited for the. The moment to decisively strike . . .
“Well, Lady Brunehilde, you have surprised me this night.” Gaits said. ”I hope we can have more of these talks but for now I must retire to my study. My work demands my full attention you see . . .”
“Indeed.” Was all Brune managed to say as she felt success brushing the tips of her fingers only to be taken away at the last vital instant.
“Good night, Lady Brunhilde.”
“Good night . . . Wizard Gaits.”
No plan survived contact with the enemy. But sometimes, the enemy was yourself.
_____________________________________________________________
Of all the books Brune had absorbed only most of them had been on the subjects of war, philosophy, and statecraft. The very first, which had inspired the plan, had been none of those things.
Brune sat upon a sofa, legs apart, hunched over a book cupped in the palm of her left hand.
“Yes my love. A thousand times yes!” Mister Darby proclaimed to the Orc Queen Gerta.
“Oh Mister Darby!” Gerta cried out as she took him in her arms . . .
Brune realized after several pages that a haze had overtaken her thoughts and that her right hand had found its way blindly to the crotch of her panties. The taut white cotton already turning dark and translucent with her arousal.
Brune threw the book down in frustration, the gold leaf title glittering ‘The Taming of the Orc Queen.’ She leaned back, spreading herself out on the sofa, the wood creaking beneath her weight. Behind closed eyes the mistakes of the evening played out once more.
She’d nearly had him . . . but something about it had stayed her hand at the vital moment.
She could not have expected it to go this way.
She could not have expected to feel this way.
What was . . . wrong . . . with her?
Brune’s lips peeled back in animal snarl that passed with the coming of her maid servants.
“So . . . it didn’t work out quite as well as hoped.” Ester surmised from the ballgown waded up in a pile in the corner.
“I had him.” Brune growled. “I had him in my hands . . . and then I didn’t seize him by the throat.”
“I noticed.” The servant touched her mistress gently on the shoulder, a kindly look on her face. “Still, he seemed taken with you tonight. A little further and you’ll surely coax him from his shell.”
“Hmmm.” Brune turned her head aside defiantly. She did not care for this, any of this. But she felt driven to continue. Some foreign compulsion had taken root.
She wanted the Wizard Gaits.
She wanted to form the twined the beast with him. To draw him deep . . . deep . . . into her own body until they became as one . . . and then encircle and crush his spearhead against her own unyielding walls.
And she wanted it all the more for having not attained it.
Why she did not simply take him by force she did not know. The same compulsion that had stilled her that night made her shy away from the thought. She wanted this, but she wanted more than this, some more subtle desire had awakened within her and she did not entirely understand what it was . . .
“We are as always here to serve you in any way, Milady.” Ester assured her. “Is that not right Astrea? Astrea?”
Ester and Brune turned their eyes to the second maid servant who had become fixed on her mistresses panties and the small . . . bump . . . that now tented their crotch.
It took a moment for what had been said to register with Brune but when it did, the feeling that washed over her was one of amusement. A welcome diversion from the thoughts troubling her mind. “I see . . . Then you two really do not know much more about such matters than this.” She gestured to the book on the table.
The maids looked nervous. “I don’t . . .” Astrea began.
But Brune was already in the process of demonstrating, climbing to her feet, she rolled down her underwear to reveal the livid nub of her clit emerging from its hood and rising from the thick untamed jungle of her pubic bush.
“You see . . . Women have one too.” To emphasize, she closed her eyes and concentrated, feeling a small surge of pressure as she coaxed herself to swell larger still until the citadel of her womanhood had grown as large as Ester’s thumb. She gave a satisfied sigh feeling a not insubstantial amount of pride in showing herself off.
Ester and Astrea’s eyes grew round at the site. It was an expression Brune had seen on the faces of whores and wenches across the land over the seasons of campaign if only by necessity. Not many female warriors, not many male prostitutes.
The thought lingered with her as she idly stroked her lower stomach, the pale skin beneath her navel was growing dark with a flush.
She couldn't wait any longer. Not for Gaits, not for anything. She NEEDED it.
Astrea stood paralyzed as she was fixed in place by Brune’s poisonous green eyes. The She Beast loomed over the serving girl, sizing her up wordlessly. Then, in an easy motion, she tore open the front of the girl’s blouse.
“M-Milady!” Astrea’s protest was cut off by a startled mewl as Brune seized a small pert breast, perfectly formed, and gently squeezed the tender girl-flesh.
“You’re well shaped.” Brune observed as her thumb ran over the hard bud of nipple protruding from the fur so short and fine that it felt like silk. Other than the tawny markings of her feline heritage, her body seemed almost perfectly alike to a young human woman. “I shall teach you.” Brune decided.
“Teach, Milady?” Astrea panted, a flush coming to her face. There was no denying that she liked it.
“All about a woman’s body.” Brune explained. It would not be the first time. She’d become accustomed to conveying her desires and explaining exactly what she liked to inexperienced wenches and whores. It was amazing the things other women didn’t know about their own bodies.
“Your first lesson.” She gently took Astrea by the back of the head and pressed the girl to kneel. With her other hand, Brune reached down and framed her clit between her index and middle finger, tweeking it gently, she sank the digits between the folds of her engorging labia so the girl was given an full view of her powerful pussy. “This,” she emphasized, “Gives pleasure.”
Astrea leaned closer without coaxing, curiosity evident in the girls feline eyes. Her nostrils flared as she inhaled the scent of her mistress, a heady aroma, both musky and sweet. Then, without prompting, her tongue licked out. A small noise escaped Brune’s lips, part gasp and part sigh as the rough texture sent sparks of pleasure worming through her loins and across the inner walls of her vagina.
“That’s right.” Brunehilda purred, a broad smile spreading across her ruby lips as Astrea slipped easily into submission. “Just like that. Good girl.” She stroked the maid’s hair as she went at it with growing enthusiasm.
Eyeing Ester, the second maid looked from her companion to her mistress as if caught between the instincts of fight or flight. Her nose twitched, she fidgeted with her bow. At last, she approached while beginning to remove her blouse.
Perhaps out of necessity born of her own awesome strength, sex with women had always awakened something almost nurturing within Brune. This time was no different as she took the two girls together, exploring their petite bodies, like a pair of fine dolls, perfect down to the smallest detail. She treated them like dolls as well, tenderly, as if made of porcelain. The task was made easy by their utter submission to Brunehilde's dominance.
"That's right." She cooed to them. "You are my creatures now and I shall protect you."
In short order they had moved to the bed, stripping themselves fully nude. Soft silks and fine cottons caressing Brune’s sensitized skin as she rested on wide set knees.
Astrea hung upside down, her breasts pressed into the unyielding wall of Brune’s lower stomach and her legs hooked under the warrior woman's arms. Brune pleasured the girl by feel, slipping her fingers into her tender pink blindly as her own face was buried in Ester’s virgin pussy, the second girl seated upon the deck of her breasts, thighs squeezing tight against the tendons and corded muscles of her neck.
Brunehilda’s tongue slipped inside of her, wet and thick, tasting tender flesh before withdrawing again and again, probing tickling the tip of the girl’s barely expressed clit until her juices flowed freely, a sweet milky syrup dribbling down Brune’s chin as if she had bitten into a peach. She molded her lips to Ester’s own, drinking her as she was guided by the flashes of heat against her neck and the squirming of the girl’s smooth slender thighs.
She hadn’t realized how much she needed this. There was a subtle unreality to the castle that had left Brune feeling one and then two steps too slow no matter what she did. But here and now, this at least made sense. She was in control, dominant and all powerful.
As she should be.
A purging of emotion was taking place. Frustration, confusion, helplessness . . . Brune made a melange of those feelings, tossing them into the cauldron brewing deep within her belly. The shapeless taking shape, potential condensing, swirling, growing smaller and denser inside of her until it began its final collapse . . .
“Astrea.” Brune pulled out of Ester with an indignant mewl of protest. “Astrea you need to get out of me.” She tried to warn.
“Mmm?” The girl seemed unable to hear her. Locked between Brune’s legs and locked within some personal bliss.
The brewing turned turbulent, a tempest which Brune tried to hold back. “Astrea . . . I’m . . . going to . . . “ But there was no holding back for long. Nor did she wish to. Brune felt the dam within herself burst.
For a moment it was as if her whole being was struck through by lighting. Brunhilda was locked in a rictus, toes curling, back arching, jaw clenched, her eyes rolling back in their sockets. Then the trembling began, a violent, volcanic shaking between her thighs joined by a release of growing pressure and a flash of heat that all tipped her over the edge into sublime bliss.
Distantly, she felt her vagina flooding, Astrea taking the brunt of her erupting ejaculate full in the face as she gushed. Tottering backwards, Brune crashed onto the bed. startled cat girls mewling as they tumbled off of her and were caught totally by surprise by the deep rumbling laughter that sent their mistresses breasts jiggling like great heaps of custard.
“Yes.” The Warrior woman moaned, her hands moving sensually up and down her magnificent torso, fingers following the clefts of her muscles, and probing the pillowed mass of her breasts before settling back atop the furnace heat still radiating from the pit of her stomach, sending out waves of toe curling pleasure. “Oh yesssssss.”
In that moment, all was right within herself. That night, Brunehilde had fallen into a deep slumber, untroubled by dreams.
___________________________________________________________________
No plan survived contact with the enemy. But some plans died more violently than others.
The day had started with ill omens before they had even set out. Brune had woken haggard and exhausted, as if the past nights exaltation had been not but a dream. Her body had felt heavy, sluggish, her muscles and joints stiff with the memory of injuries she had thought to be healed.
She felt as if she had been battling for days on end without rest. She looked it as well, despite her best efforts, her arms and armor were pitted and streaked with rust as if from a long campaign without time for care.
But more than that was the disquiet, the sum of the unease that had been percolating for weeks and now had reached the very root of her.
She did not have a name for this feeling, only knew that she despised it, and wished to banish it from herself forever.
Call it instinct, or intuition, it proved an omen of what was in store.
Now, staggering through blood drenched snow, Brune sucked in icy breath as she surveyed the devastation. Dimly, through the ringing in her ears, she heard Fyrd bellowing orders as he rallied the packs before his voice was lost in the cracking of icy and the grinding of stone.
Just as Fyrd had promised, they had found the Female Troll before midday. Or rather, she had found them. They hadn’t even see the female before she dislodged herself from her hiding place on the valley wall, ambushing the force that had come to slay her.
Brune watched as the heap of ice and stone rolled forward, less a creature, and more of an ambulatory avalanche.Here an arm as thick as an oak tree, there, jaws that could swallow a man. Tiny eyes, like diamonds, caught the sunlight and glittered a dazzling blue.
It swallowed up a squad of beastmen, trampling them flat before they could even scream, and then set its sights on Brunehilde with a roar like a storm echoing off the walls of a mountain pass.
Brune gathered herself, legs coiling as she wound up for a leap, taking aim at the mother troll’s brow. If she could just split the skull . . .
The She-Beast loosed herself, catapulting through the air. With an expert swing, she brought tower break across the side of the She-Troll’s skull with a -CLANG- that rang across the valley floor. All at once, the living avalanche was staggered, diverted.
Yes! Brune thought as she landed and stumbled, ignoring her own shaking legs, treacherous feeling attempting to seize her up, the wrongness that was growing more insistent by the moment.
She leaped again. -CLANG-
And again. -CLANG- -CLANG- -CLANG-.
Her assault bringing the female to her knees and opening her to the final fatal strike.
Girding herself, Brune broke into a run, gathering speed until her pounding feet were exploding guyers of snow and shattering the frozen earth. She leaped, bringing her warhammed back of her head in a two armed swing that concentrated every urg of her strength . . .
-CLAAAAAAANNNNNKKKKK-
Time came to a near standstill as Brunhilde tried to understand what had just happened. She swung Tower Breaker true and yet her eyes were met with a glittering cloud of metal shards flying away from the broken handle of the supreme war hammer, fragments of the steel weapons ornate filigree tumbling past her stained with streaks of rust.
A shudder passed through Brune, an aching echoed up her arms to her shoulders and then seized at her heart. She hit the ground, staggering and unbalanced, the impact met with a metallic clanking as leather thongs snapped and rusted metal rupture from her calves and thighs. Piece of her armored shell breaking apart.
Move! She had to move! Brune thought, every instinct screaming to evade, but surprise and the alien sensation afflicting her left her sluggish, easy pray for the great clawed hand that seized her around the middle and lifted her up.
She was brought face to face with the female’s glittering diamond gaze, hatred glowed in those blue eyes. Pinned within a stony hand, the She-Beast gave a defiant roar.
The Troll roared back, the sound like a shockwaves, swallowed up Brunhilde’s voice and threw it back at her with a putrid chemical stink of rotting meat and silicone based biology. The assault smothered Brune’s defiance, setting her eyes and nose burning, and the feeling she did not have a name for welling in her breast until it overwhelmed every sense.
When it ended, Brune’s vision was a blur. She felt tracks of what must surely be blood burning down her cheeks and from her nose, dripping from her mouth. Her whole body was trembling. She felt a red hot wetness spreading from her crotch.
Through watered vision she saw the Troll open’s it bucket jaw wide, raising her to consumer. Brune felt helpless, powerless . . . weak . . .
I am not strong.
I am NOT strong.
I am NOT!
The thought pounded at the periphery of her mind, beating down the walls of her consciousness, invading to the center of her being. It would no longer be ignored.
A wimper escaped Brunehilda's lips.
Then, suddenly, she felt herself falling, plummeting from the trolls open hand as the sound of horns filled the air. It was Fyrd, his troops rallied in their totality. Armed with balista and grapples their first wave of fire nearly overwhelmed the She-Troll.
But Brune was not there to join them come the second wave.
Hitting the ground flat on her back, Brunhilde felt her once immaculate plates shattering into rusted ruin, the glittering chain mail rupturing into so many broken rings. She was on her feet quickly, blind instinct driving her, an instinct . . . to flee . . .
She finally knew the word for the feeling that had been assaulting her, wearing away her warrior’s resolve, her determination, her will to power.
Fear. Raw undiluted fear. It invaded her mind and stole her reason. She could not fight it for it came from a place deeper within herself than she had ever known. Beneath the pinnacle warrior Brunhilde, beneath the instinctive rage of the She-Beast. Revealing these selves to be not but hollow shells.
Brune ran, every muscle in her supreme body concentrated toward a task inimical to its very reason to exist, trying to outrun a terror that threatened to consume her. She was a mouse within the body of a lioness.
Pieces of ruined armor broke and fell in her wake, falling victim to a quickening corrosion that was now visibly advancing, leather cracked and smoked, woven fabric began to fray. One shoulder strap of her battle leotard snapped, her massive left breast bouncing free in the icy cold air, then the other gave way, the leather cups falling apart. Her bosom bouncing and smashing glacially against itself with each bound.
Laces snapped one by one. A leather legging, turned aged and brittle, exploded over a bulging thigh, the front of her disintegrating leotard split down her hard stomach, it's last rotting scraps falling away between her legs soaked in now ice cold urine. A hot trickle still escaped her as she ran.
Pumping arms tore apart what was left over her long leather gloves until only the hands remained and even those soon fell apart in tatters as the threading rotted away.
A steel shod boot came apart, Brune staggered on half barefoot.
She made it to the tree line before the inevitable caught up with her. Brunhilde staggered as if struck through, her muscles locking like chains of iron. A throbbing began to build within her, accompanied by waves of raw undiluted heat. Veins rose and darkened, throbbing in time with the pounding of her heart as they began to leach from the flesh they had previouslsy nourished.
NO!
A defiant cry was driven from deep within her as her chest began to constrict, her breasts thrusting upwards against gravity, ribs groaning under some impossible inner stress. Brune could only move her eyes, their venomous glow flickering and finally fading as she watched her body twist and flex as if she were a doll on invisible strings.
A simple truth occurred to her in the midst of her terror and it shook her to the core. A mouse could not live long as a lioness, inevitably, the mouse must die, or the lioness so afflicted must become a mouse. In some indescribable way she knew she had betrayed herself.
The heat within her grew greater still until her flesh felt like red hot steel, annealing within the furnace blaze. Liberated from the form it had been quenched into, her body of steel began to flow, to change, to yield and soften into a lesser form. She was powerless to stop it.
Long serpentine muscles of the back flowed into one another, their lines fading. Broad bunched shoulders shrank and narrowed. The taut stiching of the ribs groaned as they girdled inward, bone strained and then yielded. The pitch of Brune’s roar began to rise higher as her cavernous chest caved in on itself.
Glutes puckered tightly, trembling as they softened subtly into femininity, developing a faint sag of womanly fat, thighs and calves crawled as muscles relentlessly consumed themselves becoming slimmer and sleeker by the moment.
The bones of her hands and feet cracked and popped as fingers and toes wriggled, growing smaller and more slender, their lines softer.
Abdominals twitched and strained defiantly, bellies bulging one by one and then collapsing, bulging and collapsing, an oscillation traveling ever downard, eroding the chiseled lines of her stomach, like a craggy bluff subjected to aeons of wind and wave until what was left was only a faded impression of their formally harsh and jagged definition.
Dark webs of veins revealed themselves beneath the skin of her breasts, nipple swelling and softening as if in pregnancy, at last it became too much to resist, the seeking pressure found release in a spray of thin milky fluid, first squirting, and then dribbling urgently as breasts slowly deflated.
Brune regaind enough control of herself to flex her arms, straining her biceps into mountains the size of goards only to watch in dismay as they too began to shrink, their strength slipping through her grasp as they become smaller and smaller still finally ending up a bit more than half their initial size.
Finally, the pressure reached her head, and it was like a spike was driven into her brain. Brune clasped her hands to her brow as if to stop her skull from splitting. She felt her face changing in her palms, its features softening, hard lines fading, cheeks, lips, the shape of the nose and of brow . . . From between her fingers, hair began to fountain, spilling long and lustrous first to her shoulders and racing further down her back.
At last, the changes began to slow, though by no effort on Brunehilde’s part. The heat had simply been spent, what was left of her diminished flesh hardening once again, obstinate against further change.
Brune collapsed, trembling as the ragged tatters of her chain mail shirt clung around her hips like a loincloth, she was almost blind, both from the tears burning in her eyes and the long luxurious pink hair that now spilled past her waist, seemingly a full half of which had fallen into her face.
“Lady Brunhilde! Lady Brunhilde!” Fyrd was the first to find her, and when he did, even the old Beast-Man was given pause and had to resort to scenting the air to recognize her. Even then, her scent had changed, the strong musk of giving way to milder odors.
What was left within a crater of melted snow was a woman of utter and stunning amazonian beauty, easily standing over six feet tall, her body conditioned to olympian perfection was possessed of a powerful sleekness that spoke of every muscle and sinew trained to work as one.
Yet she possessed a feminine softness, a gentle curve to her buttocks, a faint sag and softness to her breasts, their plump soft nipples turning to tender buds in the clutch of icy air. The smooth pale skin creamy and devoid of defect or deformity.
As magnificent as she was, she was unrecognizable diminished from the She-Beast of the North.
“Milady?” Fyrd panted as more of the pack caught up with them. In the far distance the death cries of the female troll could still be heard, a victory for the pack. One which Brunhilde had not been a part of.
“Fyrd?” Brunehilde rubbed her throat, voice raw and pitched an octave higher, it was the voice of a stranger, of a woman. She stared at her own hands, stunned at their softness and near femininity, then turning, her hair parting to reveal a face . . . still matured past the cusp of womanhood . . . but softened as if years of hard living had never been. Full peach colored lips, bright green eyes, small straight nose, smooth pale brow.
“Fyrd?” Brune repeated, a tremble in her voice. “What has happened to me?!”