A great banner fluttered in the smoky battlefield, a black crescent moon with a rich violet backdrop marking its heraldry. Accompanying the sound of billowing cloth, was also the crackle of fire and the cries of the dying. War had come to Camelot.
Morgana strut among the dead, back to her command tent as her warriors went about burning the dead and dying. The very image of feminine perfection, the lush, pale slopes of her breasts jiggled within her sorceress regalia, two ebony skulls barely holding back her bulging cleavage. She moved gracefully among the battlefield, like liquid death, her creamy thighs bared for all to see while her silken cloth could not conceal her bouncing bottom, quivering and flexing with each step.
She paused, to peer through the smoke and regard the corroding countryside. Beautiful trees had become mangled and twisted, gaping tortured faces showing through their wooden trunks, as meadows boiled with infectious, black tar. Most delightful to her of all, was watching her fallen maidens ransack the neighboring farms. Once pure, now tainted with her evil, they took the women and devoured the men, proudly wearing dirtied and torn gowns as a reflection of their souls.
She watched with pride as she saw three of her maiden's hold down a buxom farmer's wife. The stout woman wriggled and screamed helplessly, as her voluptuous violators ripped away her clothes, letting her abundant, jiggling breasts sway free. The maidens then went about corrupting her, one pulling her panties down, letting her ripe, glistening pussy rub and latch onto the wife's sex, while another grabbed the wife's face, crushing her lips against her as her dark essence poured down her victim's throat.
The maiden's throat undulated, making gulping motions as foul black veins rippled along her neck. She moaned as she pumped pleasure and pure evil into the twitching wife, while the maiden grinding her pussy against the wife did much the same, her voluptuous ass cheeks clenching together as she streamed her corrupting nectar into the poor woman's womb.
The wife jerked and bucked in ecstasy until her convulsions ceased and her body went slack, surrendering to the maiden's attentions as her body was overcome with lust and desire. Her screams of defiance had transformed into moans of intimate need, her greedy hands grasping her ample bosom and those of her assailants, who moaned in turn, relishing the euphoria of converting another to their cause.
Vile horns sprouted out of the woman's forehead as black fluids bubbled out of her mouth, her body having completely succumbed to the invading evil, as all semblances of homeliness were burnt away, her body reforming itself for seduction and primal temptation.
Morgana turned away from the sinful sight, pleased with yet another added to her ranks. She was not here to win hearts and minds, she was here to tear them out. Her demonic soldiers had swept away all resistance in a storm of fire and blades, her maidens having hollowed the souls of all they conquered. None could resist her rule.
A blast of jasmine and other incense wafted over her as she stepped into her black tent, her command center filled with crimson cushions and ornate carpeting, the nubile shadows of her handmaidens silhouetted in purple smoke. At her table awaited her greatest servants, Ingrid the Deceiver and the Black Knight.
"M'lady..." they said in unison, bowing their heads.
"The battle is won, the day is yours..." continued the Black Knight. Morgana tensed, there was something at the edge of his words, hinting at something he did not want to say.
"And?"
His finger gestured toward the map, tracing around supply lines and provincial borders."I can storm the capital by week's end. It will cost us thousands of heads but it can be done. Losses on both sides will be maximum."
Morgana sighed, and caressed the mighty warrior's shoulders with her delicate hands. She loved brute force as much as the next overlord but even those predictions made her wince. "My love...there are other ways to lay the crown on my head than through the sword. The world will not pause for my greatness, the kingdom must be seized, and suddenly." She motioned Ingrid over to her side, her voice taking on a more conspiratorial tone. "This is what we shall do..."
***
The Royal Palace, City of Camlann
King Karnor took another swig of wine from his jewel encrusted goblet, letting the ruddy liquid dribble onto his graying beard in a rather unkingly manner. He didn't give a damn about nobility, for he was not born high, but low, out of the frigid barbarian wastes. His crowning ceremony was the very opposite of serene, involving much bloodshed and fornication, the previous king's head used as a ball for many of their beer games.
"Bah! The gallivanting whore thinks herself a general!?" his guttural laughter resounded through the chamber, his advisor putting on a forced smile. "That simpering runt had half her men slaughtered by Florian van Vinkle, and if that white-livered boy fondler gave her trouble, I'll be damned if I roll over for a pair of tits with pipe dreams!"
His advisor, Marlowe Dreville, was a royal holdover, his duties comprised of matters of state, war, party planning and anything else the King could think of, none of his bloodthirsty warlords clamoring for a position of menial administration. "Yes of course my lord...but uh..."
"Spit it out boy!"
"Well King Florian is dead, his men scattered to the wind. Empress Valera of the Amazons has passed on from plague and Lord Faenarion of the Elves seems..." he took a closer look at the parchment in his hands, "Seems to have suffered some misfortune involving horses and honey."
The King's eyebrows arched incredulously, wondering if the last bit came out right. "What!?"
Marlowe's hands shook nervously, barely able to stifle a stammer. "I-I'm sorry sir but it isn't more specific other than that he bled out sometime in the night." He looked back to the King, relieved that he was still calm, before steeling himself and continuing. "Our rivals and allies both, are torn asunder, and while the sorceress has suffered much, she is implacable and still has her eyes set on your crown." He trembled, his breath at an end, hoping and praying his King did not decapitate him right then and there.
The King stroked his beard, his face caught in a rare moment of internal contemplation. "Hah! She can admire it for all time when I stick her insolent head on my pike!" He poured himself another goblet. "The Tickler dead, the Empress of Nothing dust in a jar and that pointy eared maggot one with his limp wristed tree people..." He took a deep gulp of wine, his face crinkling into a smile. "I fail to see the bad news! The realm is ours for the taking, 'bout time too, the lads were getting testy with nothing to kill or fuck!"
Marlowe sighed, his ears awash in his King's laughter. "Yes my lord."
"Bring me my Queen, this talk of war has got my blood boiling!"
"Of course sir."
King Karnor sank back into his lion pelt laden throne, his bulging muscles and savage hair looking comical in his royal environs. He wondered...did King Arthur ever have these problems? While he put on a good show for his aide, in truth, he was troubled. Not by Morgana, but by the responsibility of ruling. He longed for the simpler times, when it was just his sword, horse and a random tavern whore. Those were the good days. He looked up when he heard the creaking of his chamber doors, and smiled when he saw his pride and joy, his wife, his Queen.
Queen Adrasteia, or Adras for those with practical inclinations, was the stuff barbarian dreams were made of. She was the fairest of all the previous king's concubines, her elegant face and bronzed skin betraying her exotic lineage, but what won the King's heart (or rather his lusts), was her outstanding, voluptuous body that could set a whole kingdom aflame, for whom thousands of lives would be shed just for a chance to spend one moment in her arms. Her shimmering blue dress clung tight to her curves, teal lace tracing around the large, firm peaks of her breasts as she sauntered in, her wide hips rolling sensually, as she pulled her King to her chest.
King Karnor sighed as he gripped her abundant ass, her beauty never failing to enthrall him. Her eyes stood out like gems, outlined in violet kohl, entrancing him the longer he gazed in. He moved down, kissing her neck, his roaming hands feeling up her tight belly, until they came upon her succulent breasts, cupping and squeezing her mounds to her elated moans.
"My love...you will be so proud, I let in a caravan of King Florian's refugees and warriors, eager to swear fealty and serve loyally...they will do us proud in our war against the witch."
Karnor tore himself away from her juicy cleavage. "You what!?"
"I had to...it was my royal duty."
