Brightwing Herbalchemy

Brightwing Herbalchemy and Monster Slaying

Hey guys!

I've always loved fantasy, and I wrote this in a flurry of excited inspiration. I, of course, ended up writing a lot more of this then I'd planned.

This became a sort of prequel to a story that may eventually be written. There are two, maybe three chapters worth of writing in here, that I've chosen to publish all at once.

If you like this, please let me know. And while you wait for the doubtless considerable delay in adding to this series; consider taking a look at my other works here on Literotica.

Anyways, ramble over. I hope you guys enjoy the first of Arthus and Morgana's many adventures.

......

There's a hidden depth of creativity that men find when speaking of the beauty of their women. I've heard a thousand different men brag in a thousand different ways. They'll speak of the shape of their smile, the curve of their bodies and the sway of their hips as they move.

Even the thickest clod in the taproom could pull verses from himself, finding, from somewhere, the ability to wax lyrical about the jiggle of the barmaid's tits.

Except for me.

I get lost when the bard's sing their songs. I get tangled up in their words and metaphors, unable to slip through to the other side. My wife says that I was just born too practical. I, however, suspect that I might simply be a thicker clod than most.

And so, when I think of my wife; of her dark hair and pale eyes. Of the way her smile tightens my chest; and the feel of her naked flesh on mine. There's only one word that bursts from the depths of me.

Magic.

"Arthus!" My wife called.

I looked up, the brush in my hand poised over a small pot of black paint. Morgana was rushing towards me, her pale-gray eyes wide in the shadow of a wide-brimmed straw hat. She had a wicker basket in one hand, her sickle-shaped knife clutched in the other.

My lips curled into a smile. Despite the alabaster of her skin, and the inky blackness of her hair; my wife was the brightest thing in this sun-bathed forest clearing. She was a riot of colors, from the bright red laces of her brown leather boots to the blue, many-pocketed apron slung over a custard-yellow dress. Even her hat was festooned with colorful ribbons.

"Don't cut me," I said, eyeing the naked blade in her hand as she threw herself down onto the log beside me.

"Mandrake!" Morgana said, waving the basket under my nose. "There's mandrake here, Arthus! Look!"

"Is that one of the mushrooms?"

"Is that one of the-- Arthus! Its the root here. See? The one that kind of looks like a fat baby?"

I squinted down at the mass of roots, mushrooms, leaves and berries that my wife had managed to gather up. Another thing about me; while I may be able to tell the difference between an oak and a pine tree, I was hog-shit at identifying plants.

"Here," I said. "Why don't you put the knife down and show me?"

She did, pulling out a dirty mass of roots that did indeed sort of look like a chubby infant. The words tumbled out of her as she pushed the root into my hands; listing off all of its properties and the recipes that she might use it for. I nodded along, though in truth, her explanation just went through me.

My wife, Morgana, was a witch. Her body was infused with the magic of earth, and wind and sea and sky. She was a brewer of potions, a maker of charms and hexes. She could weave protective wards into cloth, or spin them into curses.

And though she could mix her magic in with all sorts of ingredients; it was plants that Morgana loved the most.

"What about those mushrooms?" I eventually managed to ask. "Can we eat any of them?"

"No idea!" Morgana answered with a grin. "I've never seen this kind before. I'll give them to Shags before we head out."

My mood soured.

"Is that for the new sign?" Morgana asked, finally noticing the wooden board and inkpot in my lap.

I let out a breath, running my hands over the length of wood I'd spent a long time smoothing and varnishing. It was to be our sign, and all that was left was to add a few words.

"I still don't understand why we can't just put 'witch' on it. That's what I am."

"We've been over this, love."

"I know, I know," she said. She forced air out between her lips. "But I still don't like that we're putting 'alchemist'. I hate that people will think that I'm one of those two-copper hustlers."

"Its all the good with none of the bad," I said, laying the brush down beside the paint. "People already think that alchemists are magical and mysterious. This way, they won't blink when your potions do something crazy."

"But we're lying," she said. "Besides, this isn't Teutonia, people here won't care that I'm a witch."

I gazed at her flatly.

We were in the Duchy of Garone, near the southern border of Seinia. It was a kingdom more tolerant than most; allowing dwarves, elves, gnomes and even orcs and syrens onto the streets of its cities.

But even here, amongst the green of its peacefully rolling hills and vineyards; it hadn't been so long ago that witches had been hunted with torch and pike.

Consorts of the dark, they were called; born beneath a moonless night. Witches were tainted with fell magics, held in thrall to the twisted ambitions of the Hells they served.

"Ok fine," Morgana said. "Maybe some wouldn't like it. But I'm not an alchemist, Arthus."

"Most of what we sell are potions."

"But not all!"

"Love..."

"Okay, okay," she said. "Just wait a second. Let me think."

She leaned forward on the log, holding her chin up with the palm of her hand. Black lines of ink swirled down her bare arms to her hands. Those tattooed lines vanished beneath her dress, where I knew they continued along the shape of her; curling around the peaks and valleys of her body.

Her long fingers picked at her bottom lip, bringing my attention to where her whorling lines of ink began as three vertical lines. I followed them down the curve of her neck, watching as they looped away from each other at her collarbones.

The central line was the thickest, and my eyes traced its path down until it was swallowed by the warm flesh between her breasts.

"Herbalchemist!" Morgana said, suddenly. "Thats what I'll be."

I tore my eyes from the swell of her chest, blinking into her wide grin.

"What?" I said, "herbalchemist? Thats not a word."

"Words are just things that are spoken, Arthus. I've spoken it, so now its a word."

I let out a long breath, trying one last time.

"People aren't going to know what that is, love. Alchemist is simpler."

"Alchemists," Morgana said, reaching up to brush a bit of hair from my face. "Are liars and frauds. None of what they do actually works; and they're are

obsessed

with gold."

I tilted my head into the smoothness of her touch, feeling my lips quirk upward.

"Didn't you say that you wanted us to 'make a pile of coins big enough to sleep on'?"

Morgana snorted. "Please, love. Thats not the same. I'm providing an actual service, so, its only right that I get paid."

"Ah," I said, teasing. "Of course."

"Its not the same!"

"I know."

I leaned forward and kissed away her frown, pulling her up with me when I regained my feet. "Come on, lets get back into the wagon. Its time we got moving again."

We made good time, the sun arching slowly downwards. Garone's gently curving countryside rolled by. We waved to farmers as we passed. We ambled by stone-lined fields, vineyards and patches of light-dappled forest.

I drove our oxen carefully, ignoring Morgana's impatience.

This wagon wasn't just some farmer's cart. It was like a house on wheels, with a door and shuttered windows. We'd spent all the money we had in world to have it built. It was our home a refuge where we ate and slept. More than that, it was our livelihood; the shop from which Morgana sold her potions and charms.

Our entire lives, all of our hopes for the future rattled above this six-wheeled frame. Our destination could very well wait until we got there.

We came upon Dalford as the late summer sun blazed low and orange in the sky. It was a town much like any other. It was medium, that was the word for it. The town comprised of medium sized shops and houses built of wood and stone upon the banks of a medium-sized river.

That river was the Dal, and as we approached, I caught sight of the town's single bridge. It arched gracefully over the running water, the construction too smooth to have been built by human hands.

I stretched my back, resisting the urge to shift in my seat. Morgana was asleep, tightly curled on the driver's bench beside me, her head in my lap. I let myself watch the steady rise and fall of her body, feeling my face soften into a small smile.

My wife. We'd been married but a pair of months, and I still couldn't believe the miracle that had brought me to her. I slipped my hand through the midnight cloud of her hair, tracing the silken softness of her cheek with my thumb.

I felt her stir. She let out a sigh, snuggling deeper into my lap. I chuckled, bringing my thumb to the dimple of her chin.

"Wake up, my love," I said. "We're almost here."

Her eyelids fluttered, and she made a small sound of pleasure as I glided my fingers down along the warm curl of her neck. I followed that inked, central line down to where it disappeared within the milky, summer-warmed swell of her chest.

"Don't just tease me," she murmured, shifting.

She was on her back now, peering up at me through slitted eyes. Her breasts had drifted slightly further apart, revealing more of the shadowy warmth between them. I swallowed; hearing Morgana make another small sound.

"I saw you looking earlier," she said. "We should have stayed in that glade a little longer."

"Maybe," I said.

I slipped two fingers into the darkened crack, sliding them along the luscious curve of one breast. I passed a tattooed swirl, pushing my fingers beneath the fabric of her neckline. My heart beat faster. Her flesh was so warm, velvet in its softness and just a bit sticky with her sweat.

Heat rose to stain Morgana's chest. I could feel it, my fingers gliding until I brushed against the silken stiffness of her nipple. She let a breathy little sound; my own stiffness beginning to rise.

Then, the wagon shuddered, jolted, and we were rattling over cobblestones. We'd reached the town's outskirts.

I pulled my hand back to the reins, finally lifting my head to look at where our oxen were leading us. I leaned back against my seat, face burning. There were people and buildings on the street before us; the nearest being but a stone throw away.

Morgana rolled back onto her side, pushing herself up with her arms. Her face was a handsbreadth from mine, her legs coiled serpent-like at the end of the curving length of her.

"You, my dear husband," she breathed. "Have terrible timing."

Then, she kissed me, deeply enough to make my head spin.

A few cheerfully shouted directions, and a turn or two later, and I found what I'd been looking for; an inn.

We were still on the edge of the town proper, and there was more than enough room for me to pull our oxen to a stop a little way from the wooden building. There was a stable attached to it too, I noted, with a mound of hay piled beneath the sloping roof.

"'The Bargemen,'" I said, reading the sign over the door. "Looks busy enough. It should be perfect."

Morgana didn't answer. She stretched; her jaw cracking open in a wide yawn. She shivered, gooseflesh pimpling the bare skin of her arms and shoulders.

I reached back behind our seat, sifting past her discarded hat and apron. I pulled her woolen shawl out from where it had gotten tangled up with my spear and shield.

She wrapped herself in the pale wool, watching a group of burly looking farmers and bargemen push into the inn. "Strength here, I think. That'll be easiest."

I hopped down from the driver's seat, groaning as I stretched the kinks from my spine. I rubbed at my backside, considering.

"Stamina potions should also sell well here," I said.

She grunted in agreement. "Will you get them?"

"Sure."

She slipped to the ground, ignoring my outstretched hand. She stretched once again, her curving body tight against the yellow of her dress. My wife let out an explosive breath, clapping her hands together.

"Right," she said. "How do I look?"

"Like you've been lazing around all day."

She stuck her tongue out at me, but took a few moments to brush the worst of the frizz from her hair.

"Perfect," I said, once she'd given me a little spin.

She smiled, leaning forward and giving me a quick kiss on the lips. Then, she reached up and pulled at the neckline of her dress. She lowered it alarmingly, pushing her breasts up until her creamy, tattooed chest seemed on the edge of bursting free.

"There," she said. Her pale eyes flashed; her voice tinged with the same breathy purr as before. "Now its perfect."

I laughed. "Morgana, they don't stand a chance against you."

She grinned; skin flushed with sudden energy. "Let's go make some money! Don't forget to check on Shaggy. Oh! And bring a few hangover cures too!"

The last was said as she was already halfway to the door, disappearing through it a few moments later.

My eyes lingered on the empty doorway for a handful of heartbeats, before I heard one of our oxen snort. I turned to find Phri, his hide a dark brown speckled with white, staring balefully towards me. He shook his horned head, leaning into his yoke, as if asking me what in the hells was taking so long.

"In a minute, guys," I said, scratching the large animal beneath the chin. "That hay over there looks good, eh? I'll get you some of that, don't you worry."

An, Twegen, Phri and Foewer; one, two, three and four in the old tongue of Morgana's Shattered Isles. They were as agreeable a team of steers that could be found on this side of the Garone river. I felt a little twinge of guilt at keeping them bound a while longer to the heavy wagon they'd spent the day pulling.

But I had a much less reasonable creature to deal with.

I pulled open the door of our mobile home to find Shags already in the doorway. He glared at me.

"I'm surprised to see you," he said. "I didn't think that you'd ever finish pawing at Miss Morgana's breasts."

I felt heat crawl up the back of my neck. "She's my wife, Shags."

"For now, perhaps," he said, hopping down onto the cobbles.

I stepped back to give him space. Shags had lived most of his life with Morgana on the Shattered Isles. It was a foreboding a place of log houses, thatched roofs and the reek of fish. Despite this, he spoke in a refined, courtly accent that wouldn't be out of place within the palace of the Seinia's Kings.

"I am working on breaking the spell that your sandy hair and blue have cast on her, you Teutonian butcher," Shags continued. "You aren't worthy of breathing the same air as her; must less touch her with your brutish mitts."

"Go dance with a cat, Shags."

I couldn't hold his gaze, shame curling through my guts. I saw too much of me reflected in his small, dark eyes.

"I daresay even a mange-riddled feline would waltz better than you, Arthus."

He dismissed me with a flick of his ears, hopping past my ankles towards the bank of the river. I watched him go, wishing I had some clever rejoinder to shout.

Shags, I should mention, was a rabbit. He was one of the large island breeds, with floppy ears and thick, white fur that was speckled with black. He was Morgana's familiar, and had been with her almost from the night she was born.

He was also, unfortunately for me, as crucial to her magic as he was an insufferable little pile of donkey shit.

I sighed, shaking myself and forcing myself to turn away. The bastard had probably shit on my pillow again, too.

The interior of our wagon was dark, the numerous shutters having been locked tight against the dust of the road. I felt my way to the nearest opening, pushing them open one by one to let in the light of the setting sun.

Our home was divided into two, unequal halves. We slept in the front section, the space separated from the rest by a heavy curtain. I drew it back, revealing our neatly arranged bed. I threw open a few more windows, letting in another flood of light.

Shags had indeed left a surprise for me on my pillow.

I cleaned it up quickly, dumping it out of the window beside my armor stand. The leather and mail were clean. It gleamed with oil, well-maintained more from habit than anything else.

The rest of the space was taken up with similar equipment from my past. A dozen spears of varying lengths were in one rack, their tips glinting with razor-edged iron. A spare shield hung there as well; below which were a half-dozen axes in all shapes and sizes.

There was also small shrine to the winged-martyr tucked away in the far corner. I felt its presence like an itch between my shoulder blades, but I kept my eyes off it as I moved away from the windows.

The rest of our six-wheeled home was Morgana's.

It was as if a tornado had blown through a hoarder's kitchen, cracking the floorboards and allowing a jungle to burst into the room.

There were hundreds of jars, bottles, boxes and vials; all crammed into whatever cupboard, shelf or crate would hold them. Each was filled with ingredients; reagents, powders, animal and monster parts and whatever else Morgana thought she might need.

And the plants.

As I think I already mentioned, my wife had a special love for all things that grew. There were plants everywhere; dangling in pots from the ceiling and spilling out from between racks of jars and bottles. They grew on shelves and at the edge of windows. They crept out from beneath tables and chairs, and peered over from the dozens of pots bolted to the wall.

It was a veritable forest in here; a thousand different scents and shades of green that Morgana spent hours tending too every morning.

I navigated through the back carefully, never able to remember which of these plants were poisonous and which weren't. Shags had a little sleeping area here as well, the various mushrooms and plants that my wife had found earlier scattered about his blanketed nest.

There were little bites taken out a few. I hoped they were toxic.

I fished a hidden key out from the chaos, crouching to unlock the only locked cupboard. From there, I piled dozens of little glass vials into a specially slotted box. I was grateful that I'd finally managed to convince Morgana to, at the very least, keep her ready potions and charms organized.

I was pushing my way into the tavern a few minutes later.

"So, you're an alchemist?" I heard someone say as the door shut behind me.

"A

herb

alchemist," my wife corrected.

"What in the hells does that mean?" Another man asked.

"It means that my potions actually work!"

A smattering of laughter and smiles followed that. I headed in her direction, chewing on the fact that now I'd probably have to paint that made up word on our sign.

The taproom was medium-sized, with rough, but well-made tables and chairs scattered about. Equally rough, but solid looking men and women filled the seats; served by a single, harried looking barmaid. There was a small cook fire heating a pot of stew in the hearth, and a long bar of even rougher looking wood at the back.

"Horseshit," one of the men sneered. His face was quickly reddening, and I assume that he'd been the one to cause the laughter.

"Let's make a bet then," she said.

And then, before the angry farmer could make another retort, Morgana bent at the waist. She leaned over the table, the warm shadows between her barely contained breasts parting invitingly.

The man sputtered, suddenly choking on his anger. He said something else, but trailed off after a few words. His eyes, along with those of the four other men at the table, were fixed on Morgana.