The Feast of the Mased Dancers

This story is my entry into the

Tales of Leinyere Story Event 2023

, which is set in the fantasy world of Leinyere, created in collaboration with other writers on Literotica.

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Tales of Leinyere: The Feast of the Masked Dancers

Jack sat cross-legged on the bare earth, warming himself by the campfire. In his palm he held five silver pennies, glistening in the light of the flames. He sighed and looked up to the stars above.

"Was that it? What a waste. What an absolute waste."

He was alone, except for the trees in the small clearing. He put the coins back into the pocket of his trousers, still filthy with ratten blood. He took off the leather hide jacket, folded it and placed it under his backpack. He leaned back against the tree and gazed into the flames, waiting for the fire to go out.

When the call for the men of Breagor to take up arms arrived, Jack thought his prayers had been answered. He was well into his thirties, unmarried, childless, and labouring in a nearby farm for a pittance of a wage. For years he watched former friends get married and settle down, or just leave to find fortune elsewhere. Jack never left.

Every night he prayed to his ancestors for a chance to gain his fortune, or a quick glorious death. He was sick of this half-existence he felt trapped in.

And then the rattens came.

They came in the night. The shouts of men woke him from his slumber. Looking out from the window of his hovel, he saw men bearing torches and swords, heading towards the farmlands just beyond the village.

Jack had no sword, no armour and only minimal experience in swordsmanship, having been taught by his father as a child. For a moment, he feared invasion, and prepared himself to grab his things and run.

But it was not long before the shouting ceased and the men with torches returned to the village. He went back to bed.

The following morning, he got up at dawn and headed to the farm. He stopped in his tracks when he saw crops uprooted and fences destroyed. Sheep and cows lay dead in the fields, their throats torn out. He stepped over the carcasses of livestock on his way to the farmhouse.

Among the cows and sheep he noticed other dead creatures, definitely not livestock. Rodent-headed creatures, dwarf-sized, with spindly limbs curled in on themselves, lay where crops used to be. Their red eyes stared up at him as he carefully treaded over them.

The windows of the farmhouse were broken in. The stone walls were covered in blood, dried black in the morning sunlight. A couple more of those strange creatures lay slumped against the wall.

A tall, thick-bearded man was hammering nails into the door.

"Tanner!" Jack called out.

Tanner stopped and turned around. The brawny farmer had a bandage across his forehead.

"Jack."

"What happened?"

"You don't know?" Tanner replied. "Bloody rattens came in last night. Biggest horde of them I've ever seen. They ate everything, even the fences."

"I thought we were being invaded," Jack replied. "Are you okay?"

"I'm alright. Just a scratch. Bastards tried to break in through the windows. I ran outside with a hammer and cracked a few of their skulls."

Jack looked at the dead ratten slumped against the stone wall.

"Rest of them scarpered after that."

"How's the missus?" Jack enquired.

"Jayne? She's fine. She's around the back gathering logs for a pyre. We'll have to burn the dead livestock. It's not going to be a good harvest for us this year."

Jack looked around.

"I guess we'll have our work cut out for us today."

Jack joined the rest of the workers, local lads from the village, clearing up the mess. Dead animals and ratten needed to be hauled onto the pyres. Jack spent the afternoon hammering in fenceposts as the bonfire smoke blew the smell of the burning carcasses across the farm.

Jack stopped to watch a man come strolling towards him across the field. He was as big and heavily built as Tanner, but more finely attired. His dark mane of hair framed a face with friendly, green eyes above a square jawline. His black leather boots came up to his knees. His green trousers and black jacket were part of a military uniform. Jack recognised him as the captain of the town guard.

"Jack!"

"Afternoon sir," Jack wiped his brow and leaned against the fence.

"Working hard as always," he remarked.

"Of course," Jack replied. "Those rattens did a number on the farm. How can I help you?"

"Those rattens were the biggest horde I've ever seen. I've seen them before, but not in such numbers, have you?"

"Can't say I have."

"This is why I have been ordered by the squire to organize an expedition. I'm asking every man under fifty to join us in taking up arms and hunting them down. You will be compensated of course."

Jack stared at him. This was it -- the answer to his prayers. His chance to get out of here and find glory in this lifetime. To end his wretched existence, and hopefully find a new life.

The captain stared back at him.

"Of course," said the captain, "if you're too busy..."

"No, no," said Jack. "I'll join you. When do we leave?"

"Not just yet. We've sent a few scouts to track the horde back to their warrens while the tracks are still fresh. As soon as they come back, you'll receive word to join us."

"Okay," Jack replied. "Let me know."

The captain nodded, and Jack watched as he strode back across the field.

Later, back at the farmhouse, Tanner gave him a curious look.

"Never took you for a warrior, Jack."

"I'm not," Jack replied. "But someone's got to do this. We don't need more rattens coming back, do we?"

"Do you have a sword? Armour?"

"Well...no."

Tanner went back into the farmhouse and came back out with a jacket of leather hide.

"Here, you can borrow this. As for your weapon, you're on your own."

"Thanks Tanner."

A week later, Jack was up at dawn, stood with a mixed group of local men and town guard, watching the sun rise over the village. The scouts had discovered the ratten warrens somewhere in the mysterious woodlands to the west. It would be a forty mile hike to get there, an eighty mile round trip.

Jack had Tanner's leather Jacket and a partially rusted sword he bought second-hand from a local blacksmith. Most of the men around him, with the exception of a handful of professional militia, were outfitted with whatever they could find: hatchets, clubs, knives, old swords handed down to them by relatives.

Led by the captain of the guard and a handful of professional guardsmen, they marched from the farmlands surrounding Breagor into the woods, where they camped that night.

The following morning, directed by one of the scouts, they found the entrance to the warrens. A cave in a rocky outcrop, almost hidden by vines and foliage.

Jack helped as they gathered sticks from the forest. They created a bonfire in the entrance of the cave, to smoke the rattens out into the open, so they could cut them down in the light of day.

When the captain lit the bonfire with a torch, Jack was stood as part of a semi-circle around the cave. He remembered waiting silently, anticipating his bloody end. The men around him were just as silent, eyes fixed on the cave. Except for the guardsmen.

"Come on," said one guardsman next to Jack. "Get on with it, you bloody vermin. We've got shit to do."

As the smoke billowed out of the cave, Jack remembered hearing the echoes of screeching from deep below the earth. Then he heard the stampeding of small feet against stone, scrambling to reach the surface.

Jack gasped at the speed of the first ratten to burst out of the smoke. They were flanked on all sides, and immediately cut down before he had the wherewithal to act. Ratten blood spurted into the air, darkening the soil.

But more rattens spilled past the men. Jack screamed when one of them vaulted over the dead body of it's fellow ratten and landed on his head, bounding over him. He turned, swung his sword and hit it square on the back of it's neck. It fell twitching to the ground.

Then Jack entered the fray, slashing haphazardly at the fleeing rattens, who put up little resistance.

The Breagan men broke their formation as they chased fleeing ratten through the woods. Jack lost count of the rattens who ran blindly into his sword, as he chased anything that resembled a furry dwarf through the trees.

It was more like a pest extermination than a battle. When it was over, Jack was up to his knees in ratten corpses as he bent over, panting from the effort. He wiped his gore-drenched sword on the hide of a dead ratten, before following the other men back to the cave.

The midday sun pored through the trees as he lined up with everyone else. The guardsmen had gone back to camp, preparing to head off towards a campaign somewhere to the South. Jack stood in line, waiting for the captain of the guard to give him his compensation. He was handed a five silver coins and a loaf of bread.

Jack knew better than to protest. As he wandered through the trees, back in the direction of Breagor, he realized that this was not the call to glory he was expecting. If his life was in real danger, he would have been angrier.

Jack walked ten miles before the sun set over the horizon. The woods started thinning out, and he decided to set up camp, looking over his meagre payment in disappointment. He lay back against the tree, contemplating going back to his life as a humble labourer.

He woke up in the night. Or at least he thought he did. The fire was still burning. The eyes of an animal watched him in the clearing, reflected in the light of the fire.

It was a cat. A big forest cat, with golden hair and big blue eyes. This one sat on his haunches, looking at him with a mixture of curiosity and demand. It stood up and turned to go into the forest, stopping to look at him. Jack knew it wanted him to follow. And without thinking, he did.

He found himself running throught the woods, chasing this cat, which was the size of a small dog. It's hide reflected the moonlight as it bounded over fallen trees and rocks.

Jack didn't know how he was keeping up with this speedy feline, without tripping on rocks or tree roots, but he did.

The forest cat stopped on the steps of a small stone building, squat in the centre of a clearing. It was narrower than his hovel in Breagor, but taller, with a domed roof partially obscured by tree branched. Two torches were set into an arched doorway, illuminating the trees around him.

The cat didn't move when Jack stepped forwards. He peered at the carvings on the door frame. On both sides of the door, Jack saw depictions of tombs - two ancient barrow mounds with sun crosses above them, at both sides of the door frame. From out of the tombs he saw cats bounding up the sides of the door, single-file, meeting at a huge sun at the top of the door.

This building seemed to be a chapel. The cat entered the open door, and Jack followed.

The interior was small, enough to fit a handful of people. The two torches at the far end revealed more stone carvings depicting cats. At the far end was an alcove containing a water fountain -- water trickled from a hole in wall, probably from a spring beneath the chapel.

Above the fountain was a bigger, much grander depiction of a cat. Sitting upright, it stared down at him, with the skulls of the dead at her feet, and a sun above her head. This had to be a shrine to Abasis, the Cat God.

The cat nudged his leg. Jack looked down and noticed a red rug at his feet -- a prayer mat probably. The cat used a paw to drag it aside, revealing a metal panel with a small handle.

Without thinking, Jack lifted the metal panel, revealing a huge iron chest. As heavy as it was, Jack somehow managed to lift the thing out of the ground and place it before the fountain.

Jack opened it and gasped. It was filled with gold coins, gems, diamonds, all glinting in the torchlight.

Thoughts rushed into Jack's mind, of where he was going to take this treasure, what he was going to do with it. This must be the answer to his prayers. He missed out on the glory of combat, but wealth would be his!

The cat nudged his leg again. Jack turned to see it stood at the door, looking at him expectantly. He had to follow the cat.

This time, Jack was led into another clearing. A warm light came from the windows of a small stone hut. Smoke came from the chimney in the thatched roof.

Jack stood at the edge of the clearing and watched as the cat moved to the hut, jumped through the window and disappeared.

He woke up to the smoldering remains of his campfire, and the morning sunlight coming through the trees. He sat up and rubbed his eyes.

It was a dream. But a significant one. And maybe, just maybe, it was the answer to his prayers. He had to find that chapel.

Jack sat up, put on Tanner's Jacket and headed in the direction of the chapel, silently praying that it exists.

Along the way, the ground felt strangely even in places, like the forest had grown over some old roads. Occasionally he would pass what resembled some old shrines. Wooden carvings of cats, weathered but still cat-like enough to be recognised as such, were attached to trees or poles. Jack would stop to examine them, and notice runic carvings in scripts he didn't recognize. Some of them had small wooden bowls at their bases, as if for offerings.

One such shrine was a wooden cat on top of a pole, leaning against an old tree. At it's base a cat was curled up, startling Jack as it unravelled itself from the pole and got up on it's hind legs, sniffing at him curiously.

The cat, just a regular tawny-coated tabby, regarded him with blue eyes. It didn't seem afraid of him. It got back onto it's paws and darted through the trees beyond the ancient path.

Jack took it as a sign and followed it through the thick undergrowth. He quickly lost sight of the feline, but clambered through the foliage regardless.

It wasn't long before he came upon a strange stone structure, covered in vines and bushes. He recognised it immediately. It was the shrine from his dreams. He scrambled towards the rotten wooden door and looked at the archway.

Clearing away the vines with his sword, he saw the carvings. Now weathered and ancient, they were the same carvings he saw in his dream -- the cats leaping up the side of the archway towards the Sun. He smiled.

With the help of his sword, Jack cleared the vines away from the thick wooden door and pushed it open with a loud creak.

Sunlight entered the interior for the first time in what must have been centuries. An alcove, filled in with cobwebs stood exactly where he dreamed it, with a weathered depiction of a cat above it. No water trickled into the alcove. He wondered what happened to the underground spring.

He entered the shrine and saw the metal plate, without any prayer rug hiding it. The lock was rusted, as was most of the plate. He used his sword to pry the plate open with ease.

The plate collapsed in pieces of rust on the ground. Inside, there was no metal chest. Instead, there was something rectangular, wrapped up in rags.

Jack carefully took it out of the ground and carried it outside, into the sunlight. Laying it on the ground, he carefully unwrapped it.

It was a painting.

The thick wooden borders were old, but not as ancient as the shrine. And the painting itself had not shown signs of age.

A pale, dark-haired woman, reclining nude across the purple silk sheets of a four poster bed. One of her legs crossed over the other, providing some semblance of modesty. Both of her ample breasts pushed together before her, covered by an arm as she rested her head against her hand, looking out of a window. Just subtle enough to be considered art rather than pornography.

Jack wondered if she was a high-born noble lady, given the opulence of her bedchamber.

Looking at the bed, he noticed a large silver mask leaning against the bed post. Could this be one of the famed masked dancers of Bremasdon? A dancer from many years ago?

Jack thought of the festivities that would be happening soon in Bremasdon. The Feast of the Masked Dancers.

Every year, as summer turns to autumn, a weeklong festival occurs in the city of Bremasdon drawing in travellers and pilgrims from across Leinyere. Many come to witness or become one of the masked dancers of Bremasdon.

Each night, a beautiful woman is walked to a hill overlooking the shores, wearing a mask she has crafted or had commissioned for her. There she performs an erotic dance in front of a roaring crowd, in a tradition that goes back centuries.

The women are often a certain type -- usually human or elven, always with the athletic physiques of professional dancers, and always stunningly beautiful. Their masks would sometimes depict a God or saint they are devoted to, but just as often had a completely abstract design.

Jack couldn't see the artist's signature. He suspected that this painting might be worth something. And if it wasn't, it would certainly be worth hanging up near his bed at home. He had to get something from this expedition.

He wrapped it back up and managed to fit it in his rucksack, before heading through the trees in the direction of Breagor.

Back on the path, the ancient cat shrines became fewer in number. He noticed a small cottage in the distance, through the trees. Was this the cottage from his dream? He had to investigate.

He sneaked into the clearing where the cottage was situated. It appeared exactly the same as in his dream, although it seemed empty and quiet inside. The windows were dark. Some chopping wood and a hatchet was against the wall, suggesting that someone might still live here.

Jack walked up to the windows to take a look.

The place was silent, but seemed occupied: a table with a few chairs, before an empty hearth. Herbs kept in jars on shelves, before an old iron stove. He couldn't see much else in the gloom.

"Can I help you, traveller?"

He jumped, turning to see a woman stood at the door, leaning against the doorframe.

She had long, blonde hair, flowing down to an hefty bust, that was obvious even under a thick but well-tailored hide coat, furlined. Her leather boots went up to her knees. Jack could tell she was no pauper, or crazy hermit. She regarded him with piercing blue eyes, and a wary smile.

Jack couldn't quite place her age. She wasn't young, maybe in her forties, possibly older.

"Excuse me," Jack said, straightening himself up. "I was just looking for directions. I'm trying to get to Breagor. I'm a bit lost."

The woman looked at his filthy sword.

"Have you seen combat?"

Her accent was of someone high-born, wealthy.

"Yes. I was part of a expedition to the ratten warrens. I'm just on my way home."

Her eyes lit up.

"Ah! The rattens. And did you kill them all?"

"Difficult to say. We killed most of them, there may have been a few survivors."

"Well that's good. There was a swarm of them through here a few days ago. They ignored my hut, but the damaged they caused to the woods was immense."

"If there are survivors, they might set up elsewhere. Hopefully far away from here."

"Let's hope," she replied. "Why don't you come in? I can get you clean, wash those clothes of yours? It's the least I can do."

Jack was wary, but he remembered the dream. He decided to go with it.

"That's very kind of you, thanks."

He followed the woman into the cottage. In the room he could see better the other adjoining rooms. A door besides the hearth was open to a bedchamber, with a small bed and not much else. Another door was covered by a drab curtain.