The first thing Ranma noticed as conscious thought returned to him was that he felt sore all over... and not in the ‘fought my rivals all at once’ or ‘Akane got a new cookbook’ way. It felt odd... yet satisfying.
The other, was as he licked his lips, he wondered why he tasted... milk and fish...
And why was it so flippin’ HOT? What happened, did someone bury him in a mountain of blankets or something? He needed to cool off.
The pigtailed martial artist paused in his efforts to free himself of the bed as the ‘blanket’ across his leg grumbled and squirmed atop of his appendage.
Now, don’t get him wrong. Ranma had been in this situation before. Although usually when Shampoo snuck in, she usually kept her panties on for a quick escape in the morning. Oddly enough, she didn’t want to do more in the same room as his father. Go figure that—she had some standards about seducing him.
“Shampoo...” Ranma groaned as he tried to squirm. “Shampoo, come on...” the heir of the Saotome School of Anything Goes Martial Arts grumbled as he tried to free himself of all the blankets. What was with all the weight? Did someone drop Akane’s training set atop of him too?
He paused as he felt hot breath against his ear, along with a disoriented female voice. “Nnn... what’s that about shampoo, my God-King? Do you wish to bathe?”
The sleep-slowed mindset instantly vanished as he heard that, brain cells and thought processes coming online at one-hundred percent in under a pico-second, flat. Instantly, his mind recalled everything from the last day, even oddly jumbled scenes from when he could guess he was under the Neko-Ken.
That alone made his logical mind question how he had done such without hurting his back.
But the personality side overshadowed that, causing not just a minor Blue Screen, but a WTF Screen as well, as he tried to figure out how he had gotten into this situation.
The last thing his logical side had propositioned that he agreed with was ‘this can’t be my Old Man’s fault’. Mostly because it was quickly executed before the other parts of his mind could agree that yes, it was likely true.
Raising her head as she opened her eyes, the High Priestess of Saotome blinked her emerald orbs. “My Lord Ranma?” the werecheetah asked as she yawned. “If I may be so bold... that was simply amazing yesterday... you truly are worthy of the title ‘Sex God’...”
“Um... okay,” he muttered, focusing on her eyes, instead of what he knew might generate fear—but oddly, it felt less than he thought. “I... I’m gonna go back to sleep now.”
“Of course, my Lord,” the Priestess replied with a Kasumi-like smile—which just creeped him out all the more, as he didn’t like the mental image of Kasumi doing any of... THAT! “We shall take care of the damage and caring for you until you awaken. I think some of the Hundred Harem shall be alert by then.”
H-huh-hun-hundred h-ha-hah-harem!? he mind squeaked. “Okay,” he replied, as his eyes rolled back into his head.
Yeah, sleep was the best thing at the moment. He’d wake up soon enough, to discover a topless Nabiki going through his pants once again.
High Priestess Tswana smiled down at her lover, lord and deity. Granted, he hadn’t proclaimed himself to be that last part, but Iceron had... and in having outdone the old bastard, splattering him into little itty-bitty-bits, the silver-immune werecheetah had to take up such a mantle as well.
Oh yes, she looked forward to holding sermons proclaiming the wonders of ‘God-King Saotome, Lycan God of Blood and Sex’... such really had a nice ring to it...
“I can’t feel my legs!” came from the pile of female furry flesh.
“And?” came another voice.
“Nothing,” the first voice answered. “Just putting that out there!”
“Truly, he is the Son of God!”
“But that means we are admitting that Ye Olden Dirty Bastard was a God...”
“No, we are admitting his mother was!” Tswana was quick to proclaim.
“Ah, a female-God! I like it!”
“But why did she sleep with Iceron then?”
“Because, only a being of Good and Evil could properly lead us!” The High Priestess smiled. It looked like her cover story would be as accepted as she wished.
“...So...” Captain Scyde said as she started to come to, wrapping her arms around the werecheetah’s waist. “Does this mean I'm off the hook?” said weretigress questioned hopefully of the head of the Harem.
“Oh yes... for now,” the Priestess replied. Why give up perfectly good blackmail material? “As for you, oh Captain of the Guard... send for those who can repair this tower, ensure they may find any material our new Master may wish to study from the old one. See to it that the Fortress is cleaned and ready for when he awakens, as I shall take him on an inspection tour.”
“...Okay,” she grumbled. Lucky for the furry bitch that she was in such a good mood from getting some. Hell, right now she could discover there was a spell on her to ensure she bred octuplets and she’d still be riding this high.
Sitting atop a large rock within the center of a forest clearing, Alpha Amethyst of the Werewolf Pack meditated, allowing her enhanced senses to alert her of life around her and the various changes... there was a tension growing in the forest—from her own people if she wasn’t mistaken...
There had been growing tension since word had spread that Iceron lived, that he hadn’t been ended, as that wererat slut had stated. She only had herself to blame, inner peace giving way to inner hatred. Had they stayed for a while longer, had they first slaughtered the assassin and then ensured their Lord had a proper burial and attendants for his ‘death’, perhaps such would not be the case.
But the clan was divided, divided between those wishing to return to their former Master and those wishing to remain free.
And both looked to her for her support...
“Damn it... we shouldn't have left...” she whispered. Even though he had changed her... he had taken her... had made her his... it was difficult to go back to what she once was—even if she knew she was the strongest, the Alpha of the Clan, and all others looked up to her, she had been the Captain of the Guard... she had been his bitch...
She was Lord Iceron’s.
It was shameful to Amethyst but she realized she needed him, she ached for him... that rotten bastard! He’d broken her, made her a slave to his whims and lusts and now, even if she was able to get away... she was still his.
“My Lady!”
Opening her eyes as she exited her mental state, she spied not only the two leaders of those factions—a shock unto itself—but a third person, a spy she had sent to remain near the former Lord’s Fortress, in case news of retribution came. “You ask of me?”
The leader of the Return Fraction spoke first, as all three bowed before her. “Your spy, he returned from the Den of our Lord,” he spoke, ignoring the snort of his opposite. “He speaks of a new Lord, an heir who has taken the throne from Lord Iceron!”
Amethyst blinked. O~kay, this was unexpected. She quickly sniffed her water, to ensure no one had spiked it. She even spared a glance at a nearby plant she had watered with it, seeing that yes, it was still alive.
So that meant the water was fine. That also meant...
“Iceron... the God-King is... he’s truly dead?” she asked, feeling her throat go dry and wondering if she should still take a drink of the water. It was as if a ball of lead dropped in her stomach. She felt no relief, even if hearing the bastard was dead. “What do you think this means?”
“It means we should return!” The Leader of the Return Faction claimed. “It should be good enough for these ‘Freedom Fighters’ that we would no longer serve the old God!”
“This is not just about returning,” spat said werewolf. “I say we should not be slaves to yet another Lord who would use us simply to water the ground with our blood!”
“And if this new Lord is not like this?” asked his opposite with a smile, refusing to let go of it like any dog with a bone would. “Perhaps this Lord is humble, perhaps he is nothing like his sire?”
Amethyst twitched as she listened to the two fools debate. As if they knew anything about running the clan!
“Obviously, neither of you knows anything about this lord...” she said firmly. “We cannot dive head-first into this...” the Alpha turned about, glaring at the head of the Freedom Faction. “And you, wipe that smirk off your face! This could very well be a chance to regain protection and resources!”
The younger werewolf gasped. “But what need have we of protection and resources? The forest provides both as well as us being about to defend ourselves!”
“And we also still have the hatred of the HUMANS!” Amethyst snarled. “Have you forgotten how we were made to lord over them, take over their homes? Their lands? Their pride? They certainly haven’t! That is WHY we were driven into the forests in the first place!” She paced about. “Like the Former Lord, they have long memories, their hatreds last even longer.” She shuddered. “And should this new Lord erase those hatreds, prove he is different, what will those humans think of us, who didn’t return to him?”
The two leaders remained silent.
Sighing, her shoulders sulked. She knew she would have to do this. “I will sneak into the lands, I will choose someone to lead in my stay should I not return, and it will be neither of you,” she spat. “I shall go see and judge this new Lord, and then I shall meditate on our course.”
The leader of the Return Faction stepped forward. “What? Neither of us!?” he gasped out. “Are we not the most well-suited to serving in your stead?”
“I must agree with Reginald... for once...” the leader of the Freedom Sect admitted. “We are the eldest of the male Werewolves, at least species-wise. We were turned and served that false lord before he even inducted you into his service, made you the head of his harem and his personal bi—”
He was silenced, his head firmly smacked against a tree, clawed fingers gripping tightly into his face. “FINISH THAT SENTENCE, AND I’LL FINISH YOU!”
The younger werewolf would have looked to his rival, had he not been imbedded in the tree next to him.
“This decision could affect our tribe for centuries to come!” Amethyst spat out. “You two are good at seeing the obvious, not the long term! The one I choose for my temporary Command shall be both, to keep you fools from destroying us, as the werehounds were destroyed!”
She released the two, causing them to fall to the ground. “Now, leave me!” she yelled. “I must prepare for my journey, and I desire my last sight of our tribe in the worst case, to not be thee!” she bellowed, not wanting them to see her grab her thong and crotch-less panties. No need to seduce a new Lord in granny-panties...
Sherisha sat against a cold marble and ivory throne that had belonged to the Elven King of the Northern Fields... HAD being the key word...
She looked down at the headless corpse of said ruler, still dressed in bloodied refinery yet long-since picked of all jewelry. She supposed she SHOULD have that cleaned up... but it really did add to the decorum that she was the most ruthless of all wererats. After all, had it not been HER that gave them their freedom?
But still, even with what she’d done for herself, the pride she took with her freedom, these past few day... she’d not felt... ‘right’. It was as if something were missing to her, like she were coming down with some sickness... which she knew couldn’t be the case! Lycanthropes were immune to all diseases.
She shook her head. As the de-facto leader of the wererats, she could show no weakness. If she did, there was no telling how many would willingly stab her in the back to take her position and for that, she had no one to blame but herself and her Love. The wererats were already developed enough for a society. It would take time to change them from the old way of ‘killing for opportunity’ into something new. Oh, a society of wererats over all others would be a long time in coming... but she would see to it that it did come.
But still, the feeling persisted. Perhaps some young upstart had tried to poison her?
Well, she’d find out... before she had some people executed for it. Best to understand the breech before killing all witnesses, after all.
She frowned as there was a very loud knocking on the double-doors to the throne-room—maybe her guards actually using the knockers for once instead of coming in unannounced and getting killed for it. She could only hope the new ones were learning... “What is it?” she called out.
Slowly, the doors opened, as her guard entered, dragging some wererat with them; all weapons displayed and pointed down, so as to show fealty and not get zapped by whatever offensive-inclined defensive spells she had in waiting.
“Our Lady,” the one on her right spoke. “A spy has returned from the nearest village to the Fortress of our former Lord. He has news to tell you.”
That made Sherisha stand up in her chair. “So, it’s finally come? The supposed ‘God-King’ has completed his stock of... cats...” she sneered. This could only mean that war would be on the horizon until her infliction finally took hold and he became hers.
Oh yes, she looked forward to making him her ‘Gothwrain’, ye olden Trollvic for, “The Bitch of Bitches”.
“This is true, My Lady,” the scared middle wererat stated, quivering slightly, lest his leader have him silenced for his act. “But still, even more news came.”
“Oh?” asked Sherisha.
“Yes, my Lady,” he quickly replied. “There is news of a new Lord in the Fortress, supposedly the son of the Lord Iceron, who arrived and silenced his father... permanently.”
The rat woman’s eyes widened, standing up from her throne quickly, she snarled, “What!?” Immediately, she was already feeling for him in the back of her mind, through the line of thralldom that had been forming ever so slowly...
But it wasn’t there... only nothing.
That was what had made her feel so off. Her first slave... the only one she wanted as her slave... was not to be.
“They state after he slaughtered his father, he sought out a lab, turning himself into a lycanthrope, just to spite Lord Iceron. What more, his were-form is said to be immune to silver.”
“So?” asked Sherisha, trying to still come to terms with her Love being forever gone...
“They say he turned himself into a werecat, a werecheetah, and then pleasured his full harem, before falling into sleep for several days...” he squirmed a bit in place as the Queen of the Wererats glared at him. “I admit, I couldn’t gather how much of this is true; yet the werecats work diligently, trying to clean and protect their Fortress, working to make it ready for their new Lord to inspect.” Best to show some information may not be trustworthy, before the boss discovered and had you executed balls first.
Sherisha slowly nodded her head, her hands gripping into fists so tightly that they bled. “I shall take this with a grain of salt but...” she looked down at the scout with a firm gaze. “You are to take an entourage of a half-dozen scout-assassins with you.. scour his kingdom and find out EVERYTHING you can about this bastard child... then I shall decide MY move...”
Not that she planned to wait for the fool. Have a body-double take her place, and then go see for herself, see that the man she loved was gone. Then she would need to decide how to approach him, if not further ensure he was... eliminated.
If not, she needed to find out who this bastard was, where he had come from—Iceron had been a furry-fanatic, a human woman would have been low on his List-o’-Tappin’—and then ... deal with the usurper as she needed.
She smirked. Sherisha couldn’t inflict him... but the wererat could see what it took to dominate another lycan to her will.
Feroul sighed. Ever since the High Priestess decided to have him and a couple of the others dispose of the old lord’s bits and pieces, she had done nothing but assign the werelion with more and more duties! Damn it! Wasn’t it the women folk that were supposed to clean and build things while the males lounged about and acted as soldiers as needed?
Still, he guessed he should be happy. The ‘Harem’ had yet to look towards his men, thus they lived longer, as did he.
In fact, apparently the New Lord could fire a few more shots than the previous. As such, his men would not need replacing for a few more days. And cleaning hallways and rebuilding a tower was sight-better work than dying for some stupid cause in some stupid town to secure some stupid resource or prestige.
Still, some poontang would be nice every once in a while.
“It’s either feast or famine with our women...” Feroul sighed. They either wanted more than the males could muster or they just ignored them. Damn those stuck-up bitches! Why couldn't they have REGULAR libidos? It was as if the old God-King had purposely upped their hormones!
“...Who am I kidding?” Feroul asked himself. “Knowing ye olden dirty rat bastard, he probably had.”
“Sir?”
“Ignore me!” he yelled. “And keep working! Do ye not know what the women-folk shall do if we have not done what they request?”
“...Yell some more?” one of the werecat workers called out.
“...There’s always one suicidal idiot in every bunch,” the werelion muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.
His partner, a male weretiger good with a spear who was—ironically—named ‘Tigerseye’ asked, “You know the men will finish all the repairs in time. Hell, they pretty much are done. All the fortifications just need that one last coating of stone, mortar or what-have you and everything will be nice, new-seeming and spiffy for the new God-King.”
Turning about, the older werelion stared down the weretiger. “And?” he asked. “Should we tell the women—who are all but in charge until the new God-King awakens—that we are finished and in the need of yet more work to keep us busy?”
“...No?” Tigerseye replied nervously.
“And yet you state the response as a question,” the armored werecat spat. “Does this look like some stupid game show where you must respond in the form of a question?”
“No, sir!” the grunt responded.
Nodding his head, the werelion continued. “Good; now ensure all work is done and at the highest quality, or should the females need sating, I shall ensure you are first, and I shall remind you that carries nearly a one-hundred percent fatality rating!”
Tigerseye blanched. “But sir, it’s not one-hundred percent if it’s only one woman...”
“Therein lies the problem...” Feroul sighed. “They RARELY come to you one-on-one. It’s always two and more-likely three. Two is ninety-three percent chance of fatality... three is no damned hope.” He turned, looking towards all the younger werecat males. “The females outnumber us! Never forget that!” he practically spat out. “They have always outnumbered us! Should such a time come where they don’t, I expect our men and their descendants to remember this trauma we are potentially exposed to every day!” His narrowed his eyes. “Remember, my followers; never let your children grow up to underestimate the female gender. If they do, death quickly follows!”
“Snu-Snu means death!” All the soldiers and workers proclaimed in unison—Feroul’s speech really gathering them under one banner: the fear of females.
Nodding his head, he turned towards the two subordinates who had forgotten. “What does it say when those of higher rank have forgotten such facts?” he spat in quiet, so as not to embarrass them further. “Now, what do you have to say, and by such, I mean, in a way not to further humiliate those that shall be born after the females have their way with you and leave corpses with broken pelvises and jaws?”
Tigerseye gulped and looked over at his jagwere counter-part. Both men nodded their heads and the weretiger looked back at the larger werelion. “Jordal and I agree... there is still far too much work to be done and we’ll be lucky to have it completely finished by the time the new God-King awakens from the coma the hundred harem have put him into—even if such should have him dead rather than in a heavy asleep.”
“Good,” their commander replied. “But we cannot be lax! Keep working as hard as you can! I expect proof of such work by the time the God-King awakens!”
”Should we really be calling him that, sir?” asked one grunt with rather low intelligence.
“Would you rather die during Snu-Snu?” the commander growled.
“If I had a choice, sir!”
“Then it shows your intelligence, fool,” the commander spoke. “Old age is the correct answer. Never forget that!”
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(Posted Sat, 10 Jul 2010 16:03)
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