Goddess on the Mountain - The Countess Devana
She was dressed in black and purple; although the purple was so dark, only in certain lights, could you distinguish it from the black. Her clothes were the finest weave of wool of the county's sheep. The black was obtained from rare fruits from the easternmost ends of the trade routes that led to her. The purple was of the snails of the Middle Sea...tens of thousands of the tiny creatures died to dye her finery.
She shivered slightly in the chill of her castle. A glance from her deep-set, dark eyes was enough for the fire in her enormous hearth to glow brighter. The wood would be consumed faster...but her servants would know...she had silently just told them that more fuel must be brought to the Countess's rooms.
As her limbs warmed, she smiled in pleasure...she touched herself between her legs, remembering a lover of long ago.
"Pawel," her eyes closed, she licked her lips...a soft moan escaped her...not through her mouth, but the room reverberated with the sound of sound it was.
Her deepest feelings.
Pawel had saved her from destruction, these...many centuries ago...she lived once a goddess, now a mere countess...her realm had shrunken to this castle, and the countryside surrounding it.
A mortal would feel that they were a great noble, to possess this castle and these wild but rich lands. There was much game here in the hills, in the plains, wild cattle and horses roamed; in the valleys and small villages, her 'subjects' lived prosperous lives, which they thanked the countess for with 'voluntary' gifts.
They were frightened of her. A being they had no understanding of, but they felt her power...such as it was now...but they did not know how diminished she was; it felt like an awesome and terrifying power ruled them.
Once, she was the forest goddess of all Slavdom, she lured young men and women into her domain, and lived and prospered off their sexual energy. The life the women brought into the world kept her young. The piss of the pregnant woman refreshed her both inwardly and in her external appearance...she was immortal, as long as the balance of male and female essence fed her being.
Proud of her strength and power, she took on a challenge to win ever greater glory among the gods. She would revive two dying villages, populated only by old men and women. She would make THEM young again. This miracle would gain her glory and fame, both with the mortals and the gods.
But others were jealous of her, afraid that her increased power would diminish theirs. So they trapped her in that forest...cut off from mortals—she was dying. She needed the mortals, their life sustained her.
War came...and the people were gone, killed or driven off. Her situation became more desperate; she fed off herself to make it day by day. But, she had little time left when salvation came.
Her savior was a small, old, scarred soldier. A mercenary, a killer for hire, and yet paradoxically, a gentleman. He destroyed her jail and her jailers. With patience and compassion, he brought her back from the edge of oblivion.
His love made her strong...he fed her, nurtured her, protected her. And when SHE was ready, she took him as a lover. His love and his sexual energy rejuvenated her. But, he was mortal and he was old, and there was a limit to his capacity. She had never, could never, be the goddess with just one man; she needed many, and she needed women.
