Note: This is a series of fantastical, erotic "fairy tales", with the framing device being a group of late-night taverngoers with little else to do. The previous installments are, in order, "The Riddling Sprite", "The Queen's Lesson", and "The Fiddler's Pride".
The last time the taverngoers met up, impetuous server Horasen bet that Misty's story of an arrogant fiddler could surpass the librarian's tale.
~~~~ ~~~~
"Well?" Horasen patted Misty on the shoulder, grinning. "I think that's a pretty solid story, myself. Ready to throw in the towel, Madam Librarian?"
Emekis snorted. "Misty is a gifted storyteller, I'll grant. But she doesn't have anything on elven traditions. I'm going to tell you a special kind of 'fairy tale'." The half-elf's ears seemed to twitch. "I'm going to tell all of you about:"
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THE CABIN OF MIST
Long ago, and to this day—or so the wisest sages say—there is a house 'mid darkest yew that every season's someplace new.
Shrouded in the thickest mist, like serpents coiled 'round in tryst, this cabin follows those not blessed to ever reach their place of rest. Those who enter rarely leave, abandoning loved ones to grieve, lost to fog of sight and mind: Forever in that house confined.
This is the Cabin of Mist, of Fey. Or so the wisest sages say.
Some call the house a demon's door; it grabs one soul and thirsts for more. Others say a witch's prank, though that's far-fetched, to be quite frank. A ghostly whore, a temptress touch, once-mortal mages who've seen too much. Its source is vague as smoke and mist.
Nevertheless, the cabin exists. Only those lost can find the way, or so the wistful sages say.
No place to track, no prize to catch. No lock to tinker with, unlatch. The cabin falls where it will will. And where it goes, it takes its fill. This is true. It's certain fact. This is no lie that you can crack. No casual tale from flighty fey.
This
is what the sages say.
Roiling mists surround the cabin. These mists are believed to be what transport it through woods and swamps, for the cabin does not appear in urban environments, and it is only known to appear to a small number at a time. Currently, no known magic is capable of reliably determining where the cabin will be next, though some mages claim to be able to find where it is currently.
Do you think this is an idle tale? It's real. Folklore is rooted in reality. Do you think creatures don't exist who could spell a violin into enslaving a whole town? Do you think there has never been a sprite who used riddles to simplify minds?
Where I am from, legends are tools of basic learning. Now stop asking questions. Let me continue.
The greatest question—the one you all should be asking—is what is in this fearsome cabin. The answer?
Corruption.
This cabin is believed to be a link to the Hells themselves. Succubi and lust sprites are frequent customers. Crueler fey, and undead and daemons who have escaped capture congregate there as well. Even the odd human magic-user. Within the cabin, the moralities of our world cannot threaten them. None dare enter the cabin if they are not confident that their souls are already forfeit to wickedness. The cabin itself is a force of plain, pure evil.
The interior is said to resemble a bar, or perhaps a bathhouse, or both, or all. Some have called it a sauna. But where do these rumors come from? Not from good-hearted souls ensnared. Those are its prey. A noble knight wanders the countryside in search of shelter. A kindly healer sees a cabin up ahead, and thinks to get some relaxation after all the good they have done the world. A wise druid finds himself lured to the cabin by seductive fey, thinking to spend a merry night with his patrons of the woods.
The stories we have are from Mad Mavenwitch, of course. That sorceress spends much of her time in this cabin, and may even own it. She takes great delight in reporting on the misfortunes of the forces of good.
The noble knight finds herself sitting at a bar, drinking a mulled wine that makes her head spin and her voice come out breathy. Two beautiful women sit on either side of her, twirling ruby necklaces in front of her eyes. Every time a necklace twirls, her head twirls with it. When she recovers, she finds another piece of her metal armor has been removed as though it is naught but tinfoil, she a gift to unwrap. But then she finds herself taking another sip of wine, and her concern ebbs away from her.
The healer sits at a table in the corner. She is too shy to socialize with the strange patrons. Fey and witches fill the establishment, and she fears that things antithetical to her sacred ideals—undead, for instance—might be here as well. She does not flee. She is drawn to the idea of doing good by learning more about this menace. A tall, handsome pale man sits down across from her. She stares into his red eyes and feels her breath catch in her throat.
The druid follows the fey into a tranquil lounge within the cabin. They lie down and spread their legs for him. He moves to embrace one, not noticing the horned sprites gathering around in the shadows.
Oh, the Cabin of Mist. What miserable fate befalls those of virtue who enter the place—
and
those of ill will with too little will to resist the charms of the inhabitants. No mortal is safe unless they come with power, and the mind to hold onto it.
The brave knight's armor has been stripped away, piece by piece, and she finds one of her breasts exposed. Her mind is atwirl with glittering necklaces as one of the women latches fulsome lips onto the nipple and begins to suckle something that the knight cannot spare. The knight knows she should fight, but it feels so good, so evil, so right. Where is her sword? Ah, the other woman has it. Good. It is so shiny as the woman holds it in her other hand. She would have hated to have harmed someone with it. She allows more mulled wine to be poured into her mouth, and at some point, the glass is replaced with soft lips. And then her mind is again scattered as the necklace twirls, spins, catches the light just so...
And there is the healer. She is caught in the gaze of the man as he talks, talks about things she does not understand, does not need to understand. She reaches out to her magic, but it is so much weaker now, as she finds that her silken undergarments have fallen around her knees. She stares at the man with red-rimmed eyes as he smiles. Her fingers thrust into her pussy, and it feels so, so good to obey. He says more things, but he is not speaking to her waking mind, and she feels a trance settle over her.
The druid lies in the arms of his two wicked nymphs. They hold him fast, he oblivious to his impending doom as the sprites gather. Lust sprites focus their energies, filling him with need. He thrusts into one nymph's mouth, stares up as the sprites giggle down on him. He begins to wonder if he has made a mistake. But then the nymph's tongue rolls along his glans, and he starts to cum into her, and he forgets everything but his need for more.
Oh, Cabin of Mist, tavern of evil, lounge of corruption.
