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A system to our fantasy madness (for Zaval and Blurugirl)

"One of the trials of Herakles," Morcant agreed. "A mighty beast set upon him by the goddess Hera. No matter how many of the serpent's heads Herakles cut off, two more grew in its place." Morcant frowned - it was a classic enough tale that he learned even as a child in Powyss, but the question seemed oddly...specific. And especially with the rather serious tone of the woman's voice and posture...

"We're not actually fighting a hydra, are we?" Morcant was no coward, but that seemed like a bit much, even to him.
 
"No and yes and no," the brunette answered as the old man brought a saddled horse for Morcant to ride. "I'll explain as we ride," she continued. She paused before asking, "You CAN ride, can't you?"
 
"...not...really?" Morcant winced. He could probably improvise riding a horse, but it was a skill he simply never needed to learn. Now he was regretting that particular oversight rather sorely! "I can learn, but do not expect me to be all that graceful for it."

As if to prove his point, he leaped onto the saddle. He was nimble enough, but Morcant felt all types of awkward as he tried to balance sitting astride the saddle...
 
The brunette grimaced. "Just...well, you only need to stay on the horse long enough to get where we're going. When we get to Lady Rythia's house, if she still thinks you're necessary, we'll start giving you riding lessons. Someone will. Not me. The only ones who need riding lessons in our society are toddlers, and I have no patience with children."

As the brunette slowed her pace, she continued. "The Lady Rythia tells me that some monsters are common to every tribe. That's how I know about the hydra. On the steppes, we have Garintu, who appears as a...what is that word in your language, creature that flies, has scales, breathes fire, looks like a giant lizard, and craves treasure?" she asked.
 
"...dragons," Morcant answered with an emotionless deadpan. "Or drakes." No wonder the steppe tribes seemed to view everything else around them like a soft time, no matter how dangerous things were - if that was what they were dealing with-!

"And I'll do my best to stay mounted, but I make no promises," he sighed. Glaring down at the horse, he muttered, "don't throw me off, and I'll get all the carrots I can feed you. Deal?" Out loud, he said, "Lead on. Just know most folks here learn riding sparsely. Horses cost good amounts of gold here."

And I object to being called a child! he wanted to add, but he knew it would go nowhere.
 
"On the steppes, gold is cheap compared to a good horse. But let me tell you a legend you may have heard. On the steppes, many ages ago, walked a man by the name of Zemja. Or I shoud say Zemja would walk the world as a man. But he could appear as a...dragon, yes, that's a good word," the brunette decided. "He would appear as a many-headed dragon. Lady Rythia tells me that his legend was known even to the Greek philosophers, as each head represented a different fault of humanity. I am not educated, beyond riding and fighting and a few tales of the steppes. But Lady Rythia says a learned Greek...Aristop? Harristok?" the brunette shook her head. "Anyway, this Greek says that each virtue of man is designed to overcome two faults of man, and that this philosophy was inspired by the legends and lore of Zemja. I don't know."

"Anyway, there are different tales of how Zemja was defeated," the brunette continued. "There are even stories that says Zemja is not dead, but still sleeps. But whatever the truth is, there are also tales that there are treasure vaults of Zemja scattered through the steppes, from the Eastern Ocean to the border where the lands of my people and yours meet. Each vault can only be opened by the vice of one of the heads of Zemja. Or one of the virtues that can defeat the vice. The tales differ."

"But whatever the truth, the vaults are rare, and appear and disappear in a manner beyond the understanding of most. We may have found a vault of Zemja, though, just a few hours ride to the east of here," the brunette concluded. "Lady Rytia says it is a minor vault, otherwise she would attend to it herself. But she wouldn't mind its contents, and considers this a sufficient test of your abilities."
 
Zemja. The tale was admittedly one that was known to Morcant but in fragments. The hydra or dragon as a shapeshifter? Walking the lands as a man? The dragon representing man's vices? This all sounded downright fascinating, he wouldn't lie. It certainly was one to add to his own collection!

"So, an uncomfortable three hours wherein I sacrifice my dignity to possibly open a vault with Aristotle's defined vices or virtues?" At least, he thought it was Aristotle - like the woman, he'd heard his name in several different renditions and interpretations. "Fair enough. I can certainly give it my best attempt...but could you at least tell me your name?" Glancing at the powerfully-built woman, he said with a hint of exasperation, "It grows tiresome to label you as 'that woman.'"
 
"Misia," the brunette responded. There was a look of exasperation on her face as she looked over at Morcant. "No, adjust your stance like this," she said, rising up in her saddle a little to give an exaggerated example of a proper riding stance. "Never mind. We'll be there in a handful of hours anyway. If something attacks us between now and then, just try to fall off the horse as gracefully as you can so it has a chance to escape."

The ride, fortunately, was uneventful...at least as far as encountering anyone else was concerned. In fact, the closer the pair got to the supposed minor vault of Zemja, the more scarce life seemed to become. The birds grew silent, and the insects were becoming scarcer and scarcer.

And then the pair arrived at the minor vault of Zemja. It looked as if some underground giant had heft a large jutting rock up from the ground. The rock had the shape of a door on its face, but no sign of hinges or any way to open it. On one side of the door was a human sized depression in the form of an X, while on the other side were letters engraved in what looked to be some type of proto-Greek, with perhaps Phoenician letters and other Mediterranean cultures thrown in.

"There is a science to charting the appearance and disappearance of these vaults," Misia said as she dismounted her horse with ease. "Though it is beyond my reasoning. Even Lady Rythia, whose wisdom is beyond my ken, knows only when they appear and disappear, and perhaps one or two objects that might be found within. She tells me to tell you that the head which this vault protects was named Lagney, but she has no knowledge of the lock or key to the vault will be. She does say there will be something in the vault called the Pipe of Syrinx, which is yours if you can open the vault. The rest of the treasure she lays claim to, and which I will retrieve for her." The last was said in a "No nonsense will be tolerated" sort of tone.

Gesturing at the letters, Misia asked, "So what do you make of those markings, bard?"
 
"Gods forbid that the bard is unharmed, but we move heaven and earth to ensure the horse is safe," Morcant muttered under his breath. The horse snorted beneath him - he was probably imagining it all in his head, but Morcant could have sworn that the horse was laughing at his expense. "Laugh it up while you can," he continued to mutter under his breath. "You're the one who has to carry my unfortunate self across gods know what to fates know where."

Even so, he wondered if these vaults had some sort of aura that actively warded away natural wildlife. Not a flock of birds, no solitary foxes or wolves prowling about for their meals, even the annoying insects that plagued them normally were effectively absent (for which he was thankful, anyhow). But he could at least understand why - he'd heard stories that animals had an instinctive understanding to run from the presence of a dragon's lair. Perhaps Zemja really did qualify.

The vault itself, while grand, did not draw Morcant's attention. Aside from the sweet relief of not having to ride any further (and to that day, he could not understand what was wrong with a chariot?), the letters etched and engraved onto the door - as haphazard and nonuniform as it all was - drew his attention the most. "'Lagney?'" Morcant was at first puzzled - then he recalled the story of the seven vices that Zemja was supposed to represent. "That sounds like 'lagneía.' If they all represent a human vice...lust." Turning his attention back to the words, his fingers began to trace along the engraved words - half of the lines were in Greek, the others in the tongue of the Carthaginians and their kin.

"Too much of it is faded," Morcant decided, "And too many loan words that don't look like they should fit. But I can decipher a few things..." Trailing from left to right, he began to mutter, "'...virgin strings...bared...'" Reaching the end of the verse, he was about to start again - but then saw the Phoenician began where the Greek ended. "'...covered...stone lute...' It starts in Greek again - I dearly hope the engravers understood each other." Muttering again, he then began, "'Tongue...fingers...song...crescendo...'" Realizing much more what this head of Zemja was suggesting, he fought to maintain a straight face as he finished the Phoenician verse, "'strings...unbloodied.'"

Looking at the 'X' to their left, a light seemed to shine in his head. "Stone lute," he muttered. "Haven't seen it myself, but Carthage's temples had them carved into them - shaped like so over there." And people still tried to claim that listening to stories wouldn't get him ahead in life. "It requires two people to play...but the rest of the verses...well..." Red faced, and fighting back a grin, Morcant was still not so unwise as to ask if Risia was a virgin. Was the verse recommending what he thought it was?
 
Misia was almost literally peering over Morcant's shoulder as he read out the writings. Misia herself had no use for writing. Perhaps in fifty summer's time, when she was a revered grandmother, she'd take time to learn how to read all these markings. But there was no need for her to learn them now. Lady Rythia was wise enough for such things, and if need be, well, there were these bards to handle these matters. For Misia, knowing how to ride, swing a sword, shoot an arrow...that was all she needed. There wasn't a man or woman on the steppe who knew her who didn't fear and respect her.

"Stone lute?" she asked, perplexed. "I don't see any such instrument." Misia made the mistake of leaning against the X in a dismissive gesture of the bards translation. She had decided it was going to have to be up to her to get into the vault.

As soon as she laid a hand on the X, it happened. It seemed as if the X sucked Misia up and against the wall, her hands spread above her head, with her legs shoulder's breadth apart.

She cursed and struggled for a few minutes, before giving the bard a baleful stare. "I don't know what you have done, bard," she nearly spat, "But you will release me from this...this enchantment, or your last sight in life will be me forcing your own liver down your gullet."
 
"I didn't do anything!" Morcant protested. He was honestly confused - why had the stone depression sucked her in like so-?

And then it hit him. "...ooh. Oh dear." Suddenly it was making far, far more sense, even if the implications and suggestions were all too apparent before. Misia really was not going to like what he had to say next. "So. A stone lute in Carthage's temples requires two players - one supporting the strings, the other to play them. However..." He sighed - she really wasn't going to like this part. "...Lagney seems to be the part of Zemja that represents lust. And by the verses that I can read, 'virgin strings bared' along the 'stone lute,' to be played with 'tongue and fingers' in a 'song and crescendo.'"

He spread his arms helplessly. "And you have unwittingly volunteered to become the strings." Once again, he was not going to ask if she was a virgin or not. He glanced about...there! "I see a way to release you," he assured her. "...I think. But if I do, the vault might disappear again." He was having a hard time not staring at Misia. The way she was, she looked downright fetching - and if he were of a lesser moral character, he might have simply taken advantage, consequences be damned.

"I...think you know where this is going. I can try and release you now, spare you the trouble of doing this, and risk not getting in...or...well. I can try attempting the instructions on you. But I refuse to do this without your consent." Since if I try anyway, you'll rip me limb from limb, he mentally added.
 
MIsia gave the bard a hard, long look.

"I am Misia S'dikabu, a maiden of the Guardian Rock People. I have won the great Archery contest for five years, once at a distance of more than three hundred spans. I have felled a darga beast during the Great Games, and am considered a Peer of the Steppe Mist. No man or woman fears to follow me when I call, and no foe stands against me without hesitation. You will release me from this sorcery, or you will face my wrath."
 
"...believe me, I would love to," Morcant said slowly as he attempted to manipulate the small relief. The stories were varied, but they all firmly agreed that this was supposed to let her go. Every one! Yet... "...but it seems our scaly friend removed that feature." For all their progress of making their way to the vault and discerning the instructions, now it seemed that Lagney was in no way intending to let the mortal woman go.

Not until the bard had played the strings and made her sing.

"So...I think we can't proceed - or let you go - until we comply," he said slowly. He knew that if looks could kill, he would have been a smoldering wicker man by that point. He was reluctant to do it, but...he also didn't want Risia to remain stuck forever either.
 
Misia jaw was firm and set, her eyes refusing to meet the bard's. "I am a maiden, bard. A Sarmaritan maiden. A Sarmaritan warrior maiden. One who has not been unhorsed in any situation. Any situation. Do you understand my words? If you have not seen to all possibilities, it would be to your benefit to make sure you had, before we proceed down the path you suggest."
 
In his own defense, Morcant really did try to find some other way to let her go. But the stone lute really was adamant about refusing to let her go. From attempting to manipulate the latch once again, to even applying some tools to the job - of which he sincerely hoped she would not ask questions of where they came from - the lute would not budge. And while not too much time had passed, Morcant was conscious of the passage of the sun...

"Afraid to say," Morcant admitted, "but I have exhausted all other ways to let you go. There's just the one way..." Though he was no stranger to making women 'sing,' Morcant was just as awkward about this as Misia was. And if she was as skilled as she claimed to be, then no man had ever been able to come close to her - and Morcant might well be the first.

His hand slid down from the latch where her hands were bound, down along her arms, feeling how smooth yet toned they were. "Just...recall that this should, at bare minimum, free you," Morcant offered, "and at best it will open the vault." He would be lying if he said a part of him wasn't a little eager to try this...
 
Misia stared straight ahead, her jaw set in determination.

"Just...do what must be done," Misia said in a quiet, level voice.
 
The way Misia's voice seemed to brace, to Morcant it seemed as if she treated sexual union not as a pleasure, but as a terror, an obstacle. And to the bard, that was...upsetting, in a way. Had she never laid with a man? With her strength and beauty, she could have had any man she desired, easily. Regardless, he resolved to make her first sexual experience - if this was indeed her first - as pleasurable as he could make it.

He just hoped she wouldn't dismember him for it after she was freed.

Morcant's hand slid down to Misia's breast. Tentatively, as if he were reflexively afraid that she would break out and cleave him in twain, his touch grew bolder as he cupped her breasts in his hands. They were soft, yet of a firm round shape that felt incredibly pleasing to the touch. Squeezing firmly with both hands, he leaned forward as he began to plant a kiss along her jaw - different women responded to different spots, if his experiences with past lovers were any indication, and he wanted to see what she responded to...
 
Misia tensed at the feel of a hand sliding down over her leather and linen clad breast. It wasn't the first time a man had reached for one of her breasts, but it was the first time that the man in question got to keep all her fingers. The hand that slid over her breast was tentative at first, then became surer. The touch wasn't hard or possessing, but it was firm and persistent. It was soon joined by another hand on her other breast. If the hand had gripped her breasts tighter or harder, Misia's willpower would have remained intact. As it was, she felt the beginning of a small orb of pleasure starting to build, an orb that wanted to spread throughout her body.

When the bard started kissing her jaw, though, it broke the spell. It reminded her too much of drunken would be suitors in the past. Men that had made her train harder, and to defend her virginity as ruthlessly as she always had. With a belligerent "NO", she yanked her head in the opposite direction.
 
Morcant nearly recoiled in surprise at how badly Misia reacted to the kiss. Perhaps past experiences were influencing her, yet she seemed to respond positively to touch... "I won't do that again," he promised her as he leaned in again, "but I need to know what your body enjoys..."

With that, his hands began to gently fondle her breasts again. Softly, but with the same level of firmness as before, Morcant's hands began to squeeze and massage along her breasts, looking to recreate the sensation that had been about to take hold earlier.

Growing bolder, his fingers gently tugged aside the leather concealing her breasts, revealing them to his eyes as his thumbs gently teased at her nipples. Would this be enough to make the strings sing?
 
Misia stiffened as she felt her top being removed, her flesh being exposed to the air. The smallish reddish brown nipples capping her firm, apple sized breasts hardened as soon as they came into view. She bought back a little whimper of pleasure as she felt the bard's finger gently brush against her nipples, and she found herself trying to arch her back to press her bressts into the bard's exploring hands
 
Encouraged by Misia's reaction, Morcant began to grow bolder with his actions. Obliging her efforts to press her breasts against him, he leaned closer to one of her breasts. Kissing her erect nipple gently, he began to tease around it with his mouth, only occasionally grazing it with his teeth.

His hand, free to explore further, slid down along her inner thighs. Mindful of how she reacted before - likely a reaction from lecherous men in public houses - he stayed away from putting a hand on her ass, and restricting himself to teasing her with gentle touches...
 
All pretense of being stoically removed from the pleasure her body was feeling vanished at the feel of Morcant's tongue teasing her hard nipple. At the feel of his teeth, Misia grunted, "Don't---don't bite...yes, tongue...oh, mouth around." The last was said as Misia tried to thrust more of her firm flesh into Morcant's mouth.

When she felt his other hand between her legs, her body betrayed her, with her hips trying to thrust toward his questing fingers.
 
Morcant was all too happy to oblige Misia. His lips wrapped around her nipple, gently sucking against it while flicking against it with his tongue - all before he simply alternated to her other breast to repeat the process. If he ever received the privilege to enjoy Misia's company like this again, he would remember her sensitivity here!

His hand slid beneath the fabrics keeping her modesty in place, all too eager to press against what laid beneath. Slipping beneath the leather, his fingers teased along her lips, almost treating the dampened area like he would strings. Gently pressing against them, he worked to bring the song closer to crescendo as the perverted dragon demanded...
 
As soon as Morcant touched her nether lips, Misia exploded. She had never known any fingers but her own there, and even her own touches were few and rare.

It felt like her entire body was being consumed by a large ball of pleasurable flame, spreading through every inch of her being. Either the magic that bound her to the stone lyre was relaxing, or her own desire was overcoming the magical bounds. Either way, Misia was able to lift her hips away from the stone to rub herself against Morcant's fingers, all the while moaning loudly in ecstasy.

Finally, Misia's body collapsed. When it did, the stone lyre released her, letting her collapse into a heap on the ground. At the same time, a door swung open, revealing a tunnel leading to the treasure vault.

Misia laid on the ground, silent save for her heavy breathing. Finally, without looking up, she said, "Go investigate the vault. When you return, we will discuss what has happened."
 
Seeing Misia erupt with pleasure the way she did took Morcant by surprise. He'd barely touched her along her lower lips, but it was as if he'd simply commanded her to climax and it happened. Even as she calmed down and refused to look at him, the dampness to his fingers were proof of her enjoyment.

Silently obeying her instructions nevertheless, he entered the vault, curious as to what he would find.. but the Pipe of Syrinx was chief among them. It already stood out among the rest of the treasure - a simple flute-like instrument, carved from what appeared to be the bone of a strange animal. "I was promised this," he muttered. But before he claimed it, he cast his gaze about, seeing what else was there.
 
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