While the character of 'Doc' isn't mine, his owner was more than happy to give their blessing.
Warning: contains monsterfucking and possession.
***
Doc dragged his fingers across the dirt path. "We're close."
"How can you be sure?" A villager called from the back of the mob.
"The soil's tainted. You can already see it affect the plants." He stood and gestured to an ash tree, its bark splitting as black thorns tore their way through. "Your demon must've been here for a while."
"Aye, we've always told our children to stay away from the woods." An older man nodded, lip curled in disgust. "Thought it was just folklore, myself, but whatever it is has grown bolder."
A young widower hugged a pitchfork to his chest, his gaze dropping to the floor.
"It's a good thing you came when you did, cleric. Had we sent for help, I doubt they would've made it back before the whole village disappeared."
Doc gave a solemn nod. He looked out at the dark forest with its gnarled trees and thick walls of bracken, an unsettling knot forming in his stomach. Definitely demonic corruption: the fey didn't blacken the soil or turn sap to ichor. Clasping his hands together, he mouthed a short prayer, finishing by kissing his fingertips through the veil covering most of his face. Gods give him strength and guidance, for he knew he'd need it.
He followed the path, the ragtag mob a few feet behind him. Doc resisted the urge to pull his cloth coif further over his head as their stares burnt into his back. Or, rather, his backside. Touches of red bloomed over his cheeks; the loose slit skirts cascading off his girlish hips did little to hide his' blessings.' Generous flashes of copper skin atop stark white thigh-high boots. Large, hazelnut eyes surrounded by long lashes. A slender torso cinched tight by a grey girdle atop a tight leotard.
That was what set the villagers muttering when he'd offered his help. A few mutters still floated behind Doc now: when you asked for a demon slayer, you expected a heroic build. Big man or woman, even bigger sword. He exhaled slowly. He didn't need strength, not when he had his faith.
"Where does this path lead?" He asked over his shoulder.
"Not sure." The older man shrugged. "No one comes this way."
"It might lead to the old manor!" Someone suggested.
Doc cocked his head. "I thought your lord was too far to ask for help?"
"He is. But generations ago, there was a noble lady. Never married and bore no children." The older man shook his head. "My great-grandfather was the last to see her. Said she'd gone mad and cast out all her staff. I can't imagine what it must've been like, dying all alone out here."
The villagers murmured amongst themselves, grips tightening on their cudgels and farming implements as sweat dripped down their brows.
"Y-you don't think she's behind this, do you?" The widower gulped.
"I don't know," Doc said, "Maybe not her. But it's not uncommon for the mad and desperate to turn to magic. Perhaps all this is the result of dark sorcery left—"
He stepped across an invisible line, and his blood froze. Fearful needles pricked his skin. Doc stopped dead in his tracks, the villagers barrelling into one another. His wide eyes flicked through the shadows. Mouth dry and heart pounding in his chest, he swallowed.
"We're here" He whispered.
No sooner had he said it than the signs became clearer: grey fog settled around them, thick enough to suffocate with its faint sulphurous smell. The twisting limbs reaching into the sky blurred and faded, becoming the silhouettes of dark horrors waiting to pounce. Brambles with finger-length thorns clawed onto the beaten path. The oppressive silence stole their breath and left them with only their thudding heartbeats to remind them they were still in the land of the living. For now.
The villagers huddled together, shuffling and clunking their tools. Murmuring became panicked whispers. Doc took a step back, hands clasped in front of him as if the mere suggestion of prayer could provide protection.
"Show yourself!" His voice cracked.
A shrill, mocking laughter echoed around them.
Doc looked about the fog, eyes flicking between dark, shifting shapes. One of the mob screamed, stumbling back and pointing. The group turned, weapons ready, shrinking back as a pair of red eyes gleamed in the darkness. A clawed finger lazily ripped through the fog, the grey veil dissipating until a single tree stood out from muddled colours. In its bows lounged a lanky figure; a five-foot frame stretched to seven or more.
"My, my... I wasn't expecting any guests today," The demon purred.
Its spindly legs hung from a branch, each with three toes tipped with enormous claws tapping against cracked bark. Smooth black hair fell down to its waist like a waterfall of ichor. Its only garment -a patterned red and gold silk gown— hung loosely about its purple shoulders. It held itself with a feminine authority: like a tyrannical queen about to sentence an unruly advisor to death.
She vainly examined her lengthy, black claws. "And to what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Are you the one responsible for the women disappearing from the surrounding villages?" Doc took a tentative step forward, running through every scrap of training in his head.
"Me?" The demon feigned indignation. "Such a horrid accusation!"
"Don't play games with us!" The widower pushed to the front of the crowd. He raised his pitchfork, hand trembling as he spoke through gritted teeth. "You took my love from me, you monster! Not more than a few days ago!"
"Oh? Was that adorable blonde your wife?" She propped her chin on the back of her hand and grinned. "My, but what good taste you have. She was delicious."
The young man screamed, tears streaming down his face as he dashed toward her.
"No!" Doc shouted.
Too late; the demon snapped her fingers, and the brambles beneath her lashed out. The widower thrashed and bellowed as thick, woody tentacles coiled around him. Thorns tore his skin like paper. Blood wet the soil. His cries of anger turned to fear, the twisting vines pulling him deeper. In a scarce few seconds, he vanished entirely into the underbrush, his stained pitchfork clattering to the ground. The bracken shrank back and lay perfectly still.
Doc swallowed back the bile in his throat. He clasped his trembling hands tighter, peaking his fingers and turning his terrified gaze up to the demon. "F-Foul fiend! You'll pay for what you've done."
"And who's going to make me, hmm? You? That pathetic band of farmers?" She chuckled, settling back against a branch. "If you all run now, I promise I won't take all the beautiful young women for myself. Maybe just once a year. I wouldn't want to get too gluttonous, after all."
"You won't be taking anyone else!"
