Random Encounters: Abyssal

RANDOM ENCOUNTERS: ABYSSAL

Giving Into Her Bottomless Desire

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Copyright © 2020 C. D. Fable

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

All characters appearing in this story are over the age of 18.

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The hooded figure moved slowly through the moonlit forest, hand crossbow drawn, loaded, and ready. He took great care with his footsteps, ensuring not a single twig snapped or leaf crunched beneath his boot. The only sound was that of the rustling leaves and the occasional satisfying clack of his steel-reinforced leather armor that he wore under a dark billowing cloak.

He inhaled deeply. The stench of sulfur mixed with the heavy and humid summer air. The entire area felt mired, hot, and stagnant.

"Gotta be around here, somewhere..."

An ominous glow emanated up ahead, obscured by a handful of trees and bushes. He drew another breath of the foul air, holding it in. He moved against a large oak tree, pressing his back to it. Exhale. Steady. He rounded the tree, crossbow aimed straight ahead.

Nothing.

His eyes darted around the area, searching for his prey—still nothing. Once he was sure no ambush would beset him, he made his way over towards the source of the eerie glow. Disembodied mumbles full of madness whispered in his ear as he drew closer. He stood over a wound-like tear in the earth. Sharp onyx stones jutted around the lip of the tear, and faint embers danced through the air around it.

"So, you decided not to nest here, eh?"

He scanned the clearing again before kneeling and inspected the area around the earthly wound. The plant life and grass near the tear was dead or wilting. He looked closer at one of the nearby flowers.

"Trampled." He looked at the dirt around it. "Hoof prints. Moving west. Heh, gotcha."

He slipped his crossbow back under his cloak and latched it into its harness. In its place, he drew a cigarette and sat down next to the tear. He put his hand into the pit and, a moment later, withdrew his now lit cigarette.

He took a long drag, the tip illuminating his face and emerald green eyes. His human face was weathered and heavily stubbled, mostly black with a few hints of grey. His hair was long, pitch black with a single white streak, kept in a loose ponytail save for a few strands that hung in front of his face. A thin scar ran across his cheek to his ear.

He exhaled a large cloud of smoke with a long sigh. He sucked on it again, keeping it in this mouth while he rooted around his cloak. Pushing himself back up to his feet, he produced a sack of salt and a swirling green potion. He tossed the potion into the pit. There was a shattering sound and the whispers turned to shrieks. He grinned, smoke escaping between his teeth.

He started throwing fistfuls of salt in and around the hole. The abyssal pit began closing, the disembodied voices growing fainter as it shut. He stowed the salt sack back under his cloak and took a final drag of his cigarette before flicking it into the pit just as it sealed shut. He let out another plume of smoke. The clearing was quiet.

He clicked his tongue and looked in the direction of the tracks. "Alright," he grumbled, "we do this the hard way."

* * *

After several days of tracking, eating whatever the forest offered, and much brooding, the hooded man arrived at the walls of a small city. At the city's main gate, a well-worn path, large enough for an average merchant wagon, cut through the walls and was guarded by two men in heavy armor as well as a few crossbowmen in rickety wooden towers along the wall. As he approached, one of the guards gave an upward nod to their companion in the direction of the cloaked man. They choked up on their halberds and eyed him closely.

"Woah now, stranger," called the rightmost guard as the cloaked man approached. "Pull down that hood and state your business with the town of Truaighe."

"Let me through," said the man.

The guards looked to one another and gripped their weapons tightly as they firmly planted their feet in the muddy path.

"Last chance, stranger," said the left guard.

The man lifted his head enough to glare at the guards with his menacing green eyes. He grumbled and pulled back his hood. He held his head high, his loose hair picking up in the gentle breeze.

The left guard dropped his weapon in the mud. "No way. No fucking way!" He grabbed his fellow guard by the shoulder and shook him while jumping in place. "No fucking way!"

"Get off me! What the many hells has gotten into you?" said the right guard, shooing him away.

"That's Pycha! Pycha of Bodcathitch!"

"No fucking way."

Pycha grumbled and pulled his hood back up.

"So, my lord," started lefty with a clumsy bow, "how may I be of assistance."

"Open the fucking gate," growled Pycha.

"Are you currently tracking an abyssal right now?" asked Righty wide-eyed.

Pycha slowly turned to him. "Do you think I'd come to this pit if I wasn't? Open the gate."

The two guardsmen looked at one another with giddy excitement and gave the signal. The gate slowly opened, accompanied by the sound of some unseen turning crank.

"Actually, maybe you two can be of some use," said Pycha taking in the sight of the town ahead of him.

The guardsmen exchanged excited glances.

Pycha rolled his eyes. "How has this town declined in the last couple of months?"

The two guards gave one another a blank stare before responding to Pycha by shrugging in unison.

"Think," said Pycha, stepping towards lefty and looming over him. "Brother turning against brother? Moneylenders taking children? Blood in the streets? Paranoia? Something!"

The guard sunk into his armor as Pycha face nearly pressed against his. "N-nothing like that."

Righty leaned in close to them. "We've been better than ever, actually."

Pycha gave him a sidelong glance and scowled.

Righty continued, "Things have been going great. New alchemist showed up a couple months back and has been treatin' all the disease and healing the sick. The marquess was generous enough to give us a pay raise the other week. And-"

"Yeah," interrupted lefty, chuckling nervously, "and he's needed every extra penny, what with the new brothel that's opened."

"Brothel?" said Pycha, giving the men some space. "Hmm. The madam of the brothel, she say where she's from?"

"Trust us, it's not the madam you'd find interesting." chuckled Righty.

Pycha narrowed his eyes on him.

"That is to say, uh, I-I think I heard somewhere south?" stammered lefty.

"Yeah, yeah," continued Righty, "definitely has an accent. Bit of an icy temperament too. So yeah, northern. M-maybe?"

Pycha grumbled and pulled a cigarette from under his cloak. "And this alchemist," he asked, searching for his matches, "they any good?"

"Oh, she's fantastic," said lefty. "Gave me a brew that cleared my armor chafing rash right up."

"Sweet as pie too, and twice as nice to look at," said Righty. "Heard she got an offer to work at the brothel but turned it down. A damn shame."

"He's smitten," whispered lefty. "And rumor has it she's lookin' for a partner. Takes all suitors. So you can imagine the competition." He pointed this thumb at his fellow guardsman. "This dunce thinks he's got a chance with an educated lady."

Pycha struck a match and lit his cigarette. He tossed the match into the mud, and it went out with a quick hiss. He took a long drag and looked the guards over before exhaling a cloud of smoke. "Alright, hope she knows how to make more than healing ointments. Tell me, where can I find her, a cheap inn, and the brothel. And spare me any more stories or personal details."

The guardsmen told Pycha all he wished to know, along with more stories, personal details, and even an apprenticeship request. Luckily, all places he needed to visit were located near the town's center. He made his way through muddy streets, carefully observing the townsfolk. It was as the guards said. The people seemed in good spirits and cheerful, even on this dreary and overcast day.

Pycha took another drag as he made his way through the town. "Almost too cheery for this kind of a backwater," he mumbled to himself. He stopped in front of a battered wooden house. The sign hanging above the doorway was much newer than the rest of the building and read, "Akrasia House of Alchemy and Healing." Pycha flicked his cigarette into a nearby puddle and made his way inside.

The shop's smell was overwhelming—an all too familiar mix of potent cleaning solution and seemingly every other possible scent. The interior was sparsely furnished, a simple wooden counter in front of an old shelf stocked with common healing ointments and poultices. Several additional shelves stocked with vials of red liquid lined the walls. The store's potent odor seemed to be wafting from a half-open door behind the counter, likey the alchemists' primary work area. There was an overly sweet perfume scent coming from up the set of stairs to the right. A less than successful effort to make their living quarters smell less like a lab.

Pycha approached the service bell sitting on the counter but stopped short. Something caught his ear. There was a muffled scream from the workroom. He reached under his cloak and, gripping a throwing dagger, stealthily made his way over the counter. He crept up to the edge of the doorway and peered over the threshold.

He saw the pale ass of a man thrusting arrhythmically. He was well dressed save for the pantaloons around his ankles. On the receiving end was a woman laying on an alchemy bench, holding her long skirt up with one hand and covering her mouth with the other. The man grunted, his ass clenching tight.

Pycha moved away from the doorway and made his way back over the counter, listening to the muffled sounds of climax in the back room. He waited for a few seconds before ringing the service bell. The sounds of rustling clothing and the panicked clatter of boots on the wood floor emanated from the other room. He drummed his fingers on the countertop as he waited.

A human male emerged from the back room. "Yes, so please have those healing ointments ready for tomorrow." He wiped some sweat off the brow of his flushed face. He was middle-aged, slender, and handsome with a well-groomed beard that came to a sharp point at his chin.

"Yes. Yes, of course, m'lord. First thing tomorrow," came a sweet, bubbly voice from the back room. "A pleasant day to you!"

The man walked around the counter and stopped at Pycha. "You'll not find a finer alchemist in this territory, my good man."

"Is that a fact?" said Pycha dryly. "And did you fuck all the other just to be sure?"

The man took a step back. "I see." His expression soured. "I could have you arrested, you know," he said, pointing a finger at Pycha. "You'll not breathe a word of this to anyone. Do you understand me? Mister..."

"Pycha."

"Oh, like that famous abyssal hunter?"

"Sure."

"Well, Pycha. Not a word, do we understand each other?"

"Like crystal, m'lord." Pycha removed his hood. "Your affairs don't interest me. I'm here on business and then I'll be on my way."

"Good," said the man as he fussed with the ruffles on his vest. "Huh, you fit the description of that abyssal hunter too."

"Yeah, funny that."

The man gave Pycha a derisive sneer before leaving the shop and slamming the door behind him.

A human woman emerged from the doorway behind the counter. She had straight chestnut-blonde hair that draped down to her shoulder blades. Her face was very comely, and her eyes were the same emerald green as Pycha's, only considerably more welcoming. Her full lips greeted Pycha with a warm smile as she tried to fix all her stray strands of hair. Her blue and white dress was very immodest and fit tightly on her curvaceous figure. The bust of the dress showed off a large amount of cleavage, her full breasts bound so tight that her bodice's binding lace nearly vanished into her flesh.

She fixed the last few stray hairs and leaned on the counter. "Apologies for the delay. I was in the middle of a very precise-"

"Akrasia, I presume. Do you often let customers into your workspace when working with precise measurements?"

Akrasia smirked and raised an eyebrow at him. "If you promise some discretion in the matter, I'll give you a discount, mister..."

"Just Pycha is fine." He pulled several rolls of parchment from under his cloak and laid them out on the table. "I need these formulas brewed as soon as possible. By morning, preferably."

"It's just, this town runs on gossip and Viscount Baois and I-"

"I don't care. Can you brew this or not?"

She clicked her tongue and made an exaggerated frown as she picked up one of the scrolls. "So serious. Do you take no joy in life's little distractions?" As she examined the parchments she grew serious. "This is... some nasty stuff," she said, looking back at him.

"No need to worry. Abyssals are nasty creatures."

"Oh, you're an abyssal hunter then?"

"The best. And I have a reputation to uphold. I've never let one of those spawns get away from me, and I'm not about to start now. So, if you please, can you brew these?"

"I- maybe? I've never done anything like this before. I specialize in healing ointments," she said, gesturing to the shelf behind her.

"Well, unless there's someone more capable, you'll have to do. Before you get started, however, I some questions."

She nodded and continued to inspect the complex alchemical parchments.

"Where do you hail from? I heard you arrived a few months ago."

"That's correct," she replied, "My home is two villages back along the main road, Bréag. I entered the town with a bard I met on the road. I think he's since left town, which is a shame. His voice was as lovely as his tales were romantic." She giggled, "He was very romantic too. I learned a lot from him. My upbringing was fairly strict, so I'd never heard such stories of love and romance before. I learned so much from him and I hope to find what the people in his stories had. Do you travel with a bard? You should!"

"No, that sounds like a nightmare. And bardic tales are often embellished, so I suggest you disregard his teachings." Pycha thought for a moment. "After he secluded you, did he ask you to swear anything to him?"

Akrasia went bright red. "What? No!"

"Probably not an incubus," mumbled Pycha, "Wouldn't have skipped town so quickly. Just a bottom-feeding bard." He turned his attention back to Akrasia. "I wasn't aware Bréag had a school of alchemy. Or much else."

"They don't. My training isn't exactly what you'd call traditional, but the results speak for themselves."

He hummed inquisitively and walked over to the walls to examine her work. He picked up a glass vial and inspected the red healing liquid inside. "This seems too viscous. What did you use as a base for this?"

She placed her hands on her wide hips and smirked. "I'm not telling you my methods. And before you ask, yes, they are highly effective. This town would be in ruin if not for my potions."

"A romantic and an alchemist, an odd mixture. But saying the town would be in ruin without you, seems a little dramatic, no?"

"Well, aside from the usual maladies, the brothel that opened up has been both a boon and a curse."

Pycha placed the potion back on the shelf and walked back to her. "What do you mean by that?"

"Well, those establishments aren't renowned for their cleanliness. Though this one seems better than most, as I understand it." She raised an eyebrow at Pycha, "But I'm sure a drifter like yourself is well acquainted with those conditions."

Pycha grimaced. "I'm a hunter, not a vagabond. Let's just say easy prey doesn't interest me. Now, as you were saying..."

She continued, "Well, it has been good for business. Lots of rashes and what have you that need clearing. And Madam Catherine buys potions in bulk for her workers. So, I'm doing quite well in that regard. Overworked, perhaps, but I'm not about to complain."

"Hmm," said Pycha stroking his stubbled chin. "Go on."

"There's been more than a few brawls over it, though. Jealousy has a powerful effect on people."

"That it does. I heard this place opened not long ago. When exactly?"

"Madam Catherine arrived a week or so after me. She had her establishment running a week later. I'm guessing she plied her trade to speed up the approval process with the nobility."

"I take it you're not a fan of her?"

"She's fine, I suppose. Keeps to herself when she's not running the brothel. Haggles too much over the cost of my potions, but she buys a lot of them."

"From what I understand, you have a fair number of suitors." He continued with a hint of mocking in his tone, "Does it make you jealous that her establishment is stealing your potential partners?"

Akrasia blushed and chuckled. "It's had quite the opposite effect, actually."

Pycha grew more serious. "Oh?"

Her face reddened further. "They come to me seeking relief or aid, and I take care of them. It's somewhat romantic, don't you think? Sometimes one thing leads to another and then-"

"Might be after effects," mumbled Pycha. "Starting to make sense now."

"Pardon?"

"I suspect the madam may be an abyssal. Possibly a higher variant if she's able to run a business."

Akrasia laughed. "I doubt that. She doesn't look anything like that."

"Lust abyssals are powerful shapeshifters and one of the most dangerous."

Akrasia was taken aback. "You're not going to hurt her, are you?" She looked down at the parchment. "I'll not brew you a thing if you intend her harm."

"You're very loyal, considering what you just told me. You might already be under her influence." Pycha moved in until they were nose to nose and looked deeply into her eyes. She blushed and her eyes went wide. He looked more intensely. Her eyelids drooped, and he felt something wet press against his lips. He jumped back, drawing a dagger.

"What happened?" she said, looking confused.

Pycha wiped her kiss from his lips and spat on the floor while still pointing the dagger towards her.

"I- I'm sorry," she stammered, "I don't know what came over me! I just-"

"You're lovesick."

"What?"

"It's the effects of a lust abyssal, a succubus." He lowered his dagger. "It seems this whole town is already affected."

"So I'm a little more prone to flights of romantic fancy? Hardly seems drawing a weapon over." She crossed her arms. "Certainly not worth brewing poisons over."

He stashed the dagger back under his cloak. "Seems that way now, but lust abyssals are one of the most dangerous of their ilk. A wraithling or a glutton can't go long before making some big gory show and getting themselves slain by locals. Envies, sloths, and pridefuls can be nasty but tend to only target a single person, two at most. Avarice imps have been known to start wars between merchant guilds but are physically the weakest. A succubus, however," he paused, "those have destroyed entire cities. The higher variants put themselves at the center of the city, slowly manipulating everyone around them. They leave lust in their wake and feed off the jealousy it brings. Jealousy has a powerful hold on people, and oftentimes they'll do anything to relieve themselves of it. Anything."

"That's not a good enough reason to brew something like this. Catherine is a good person if a little cheap. How do you even know this abyssal even stuck around? I'm sorry, but I refuse to brew this." She stood tall and crossed her arms.

"Don't you think it strange that you're so fervently defending someone you don't know all that well? Not just you but everyone I've met in this cesspit seems to be affected by it: you, the guards, those stuck up nobles. Abyssals are creatures of base instinct. They lack any ability to delay their urges and act on them with the same instinct that compels us to draw breath. Think about your own impulses. Did you always have torrid romantic trysts with everyone that entered your shop?"