Menielle flittered along the edges of the great silver fence, singing to himself in that buzzing hum the fairies most enjoyed. His head was immersed in happy little sparkly fog right now, thanks to Mistress Tricin, and so most of his mental processes were dedicated to thinking about the rules of obedience:
A good pet listens to Mistress Tricin.
A good pet lives to be told they are a good pet.
A good pet comes when they are told, and also cums when they are told.
A good pet listens and obeys.
A good pet laughs at Mistress Tricin's jokes.
A good pet...
He paused, blinking compound red eyes rapidly. Curly blue hair bounced around his head as he stopped mid-flight and hovered for a moment, purple wings humming behind him.
Another order came to mind.
If anyone approaches, send three to the farmhouse to report; the rest of you, do whatever you can to stop them.
There was a young woman approaching the gates. She was pretty—plump and pale, with shoulder-length brown hair and hazel-green eyes, dressed in a flowing green robe made out of something shimmery and expensive. Menielle's eyes sparkled as he watched her. She had the most peculiar gait—the stumbling, struggling walk of a sleepwalker.
Or someone still shaking off the aftereffects of hypnosis.
Well, they couldn't have that, could they? He grinned and pointed up into the sky, sending tiny little bolts of light arcing up to signal the other fairies that
he had found someone
. Then he descended into a dive to investigate further. As he drew nearer, he realized she was talking to herself.
"Oh, brother..." she was mumbling, her voice haggard and uneven, "... what have you gotten yourself into? Crows and fey and enchanters..."
"Good evening, Madam!" Menielle chirruped, coming to hover in the air behind her.
Put her between you and the gate. Trap her. Stop her.
He vibrated his wings rapidly. "Where are you going, then?"
"Um..." She blinked at him. He grinned wickedly and vibrated his wings faster, driving the beautiful patterns into her pretty, tired eyes. "I... l-looking for..."
"For what?" Menielle teased, giggling. The fairy started to fly up and down, swooping back and forth, just far enough to make her head bob to follow his movements. "Looking for what, pretty girl?"
"I... um..." She blinked. "I..."
"Well?" He smirked, seeing her eyes starting to glaze once more. Such pretty eyes were
meant
to be glazed, he was sure. That was a rule of Mistress Tricin. "C'mon, sweetie, what is it?"
The woman's mouth opened, and she let out a soft whine.
And promptly blinked out of sight, without so much as a 'pop'.
Menielle stared at thin space, his jaw dropping. His expression screwed up in a disappointed pout. "Well.
That's
just
rude
!"
But the sourness faded quickly, thanks to some fervent edging. And after confirming that she had not simply turned invisible, he flew back into the air and returned, blissfully, to his mantras.
~~~~
Senya stared into the glass chamber, swallowing, and watched the nymph squirm.
"W-what did she do?" he whispered, as Ambrosia wriggled and giggled, tears streaming down her face.
Mommy's breath was hot in his ear, and Senya detected an impossibly rare note of rage buried beneath her creamy-sweet tone. "All fey follow the Primal Codes, and for all fey, those Codes vary. Nymphs can be quite
naughty
with how they bend the rules. But to harm a
child
... no, baby, that wouldn't do at all."
A child.
Senya remembered Bobbin alluding to this. He realized he'd never asked just where that nymph was being kept. Stupid. Thoughtless. He'd been a dumb, thoughtless, absentminded...
He stopped himself. It probably wasn't a good idea to scold himself right now using words that he'd been trained to submit to.
Senya swallowed. "S-so what do we do?"
Senya wasn't a cruel person, by nature. Aside from the odd stone tossed at clustering ravens—none of which had ever done more than spook the noisy birds, anyways—he'd never hurt anything he didn't have to. Really, anything at all.
And as much as the holstaur's words made his blood run cold, a part of him couldn't abide torturing
any
living creature for so long. Ambrosia had to have been here for centuries. That couldn't be right.
But why were he and Mommy here now, then? Were they here to...
release
such a woman?
"Oh, that's quite simple." Mommy have a musical little giggle. "Do you trust me, baby boy?"
The answer came without thought, meek and compliant. "Yes, Mommy."
"
Good
boy." And for a moment, Senya shivered, overcome with the sudden feeling of delight that coursed through him at those words whispered in his ear.
Then he felt a shove, and he was sent sprawling into the room of ivy and glass.
His fall was cushioned by the crawling vines, and just as quickly, he was up to his feet, heart pounding. He whirled around, stunned.
There was no sign of the holstaur in the hallway.
"
Ooh.
"
Senya's heart sank. He turned back to the center of the room.
The four scarecrows had noticed him. And they were smiling.
"U-um..." Senya's mind cast about for the right words. "Hi."
The scarecrows exchanged smug looks. Three of them abandoned their shrieking charge without a word and advanced on him, their narrow hips swaying. One sauntered to his left, and without thinking he edged right, not realizing until too late that she was cutting him off from the hallway.
"I'm—you—it's a—" His tongue fumbled for a solid few seconds as the scarecrows walked towards him, dark dresses trailing after them, twirling those paintbrushes in their delicate doll-like fingers. "I'm the Master of this Ranch, still," he finally managed, "and I...
command you
to stand down."
He put as much energy and command as he could into his voice, staring straight into the red button eyes of the nearest blonde monster girl just as she drew level with him.
Her response was to smile... and shove him roughly up against the ivy-covered wall.
He let out a squeak, struggling desperately. But she held him there like a cat pinning a mouse, one-handed, not even struggling as the brush spun in her free hand.
"L-let me go!" he sputtered, eyes following the paintbrush nervously. He'd seen what those did to the nymph. What could they do to a mortal like him?
"Silly mortal brat," cackled another one of the three, advancing and grabbing his left arm. She took it so easily, so casually, he almost didn't notice as she pinned it against the wall, holding him so his entire side and armpit were exposed. It was like his arm just... belonged to her. Like his whole body did.
And then he realized their game, and he started to struggle even more fiercely. They only laughed, as the third plucked his other arm away from his side, rendering his upper body totally exposed. "We know no 'master'," she said with a wicked grin. "We are created by Bobbin."
The first of the three nodded, her button eyes seeming to glitter on their own as she dipped her paintbrush into that torturous silver ink and twirled it before his eyes. "And
she
told us what we get to
do
to those little snacks that come down here!" she sang.
"N-no!" he whimpered, tears of sympathy and panic springing to his eyes as he heard the nymph wail. That would be him in a moment, and his heart was pounding. He couldn't look away from the first scarecrow's brush, dipped in that shimmering ink, as it slowly descended towards his side...
"Help..."
The scarecrows paused as the little murmur rose above the nymph's squealing and Senya's panicked whimpers. They seemed to exchange looks once again, then turned.
The paintbrush slowed in its spinning, and Senya managed to steal a glance at the speaker.
The first scarecrow stood before the nymph, as before, dabbling with her paintbrush. But her mouth hung open in entranced wonder as she stared at the holstaur's big, jiggling tits in front of her. That little whimper appeared to have been her last burst of resistance, for as Senya watched, a dumb smile was starting to flicker onto her face.
Senya couldn't see—the squealing nymph blocked his view—but he could tell from the scarecrow's little gasps and jerks that the holstaur had fingers between the scarecrow's legs. Mommy glanced back at the other three and flashed a sly grin. They stared at her, plainly shocked.
One hand still hard at its sticky task, the holstaur dove down and thrust her free hand into the mass of ivy.
It was like a jolt of lightning struck the scarecrows. They ran forward with wordless shouts.
Then Senya's ears popped.
And Mommy wrested from the ivy a brilliantly gleaming emerald the size of a horse's eye.
As she knelt there, gripping the Verdant Star, Senya felt a strange sense that everything about life had just fundamentally changed. Something had shifted. The wind had turned. The sun had come out from behind the clouds. Rain had begun to fall.
Something had changed. Something big. Something intangibly ancient. Something deadly.
The holstaur straightened and held up the gem with a grin. Several streaks of gold flawed its surface, Senya noticed, almost like the roots of a plant. The Star shed its light freely now, a lovely green shade that washed over Senya in rapturous glory.
He blinked.
Swayed a little.
The gem's glow was not harsh or unnerving. It didn't flash or spin or crush his will like a mouse in a serpent's coils. It was... calming. Like a sunset. Like a warm breeze.
That said, it was difficult to feel
totally
calm with these scarecrows advancing on Mommy with their paintbrushes, murder in their eyes.
Mommy cast Senya a guilty smile. "Forgive me, sweet Senya. I only wanted to make absolutely certain that they were not of the Will before I did anything too... rash."
"Of course we're not," the lead scarecrow hissed. "Bobbin made us. And she told us just what to do with you." She twirled the paintbrush menacingly, openly eying Mommy's chest. For a moment, Senya wondered just what would happen if the brush touched one of Mommy's teats, and his legs quaked a little—out of concern for the holstaur, and also out of arousal at the very image.
Mommy was staring at the gem thoughtfully. She glanced at Ambrosia, who was giggle-whimpering in clear erotic agony, then back at the gem. Her eyebrow rose as she side-eyed the scarecrows. "You might not be of the Will," she said, with a slow nod, "but there is
so much more
to this pretty little thing than bloodline. This pretty thing doesn't dance for
