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Found 4 results

  1. Present

    The Conqueress

    This is a collaboration I did with the talented LivingInfinite. He's done the honor of creating many drawings to accompany the story, which are spoilered next to where they appear in the text. Make sure to check him out at http://pixiv.me/livinginfinite (or if you just want to see the drawings). (The story takes place in the same universe as March of the Valkyries. Consider reading it first, it's sort of a prequel to this one.) “How much longer remains for us to travel?” “The Third Corps rest twenty-three kilometers to our north. They have received your order to remain still for three days. Should misfortune not befall our journey, we will arrive at noon tomorrow.” “Then let us dawdle no longer. Where are we to go?” “Certainly, your majesty. We shall go now in this direction.” Queen Ulrika the First of Scandia, regal and resplendent in an officer’s uniform, led her servant through the long grass. The queen’s stride necessitated in Iris a hurried pace matched easily by the plodding, unburdened horses she led. Perhaps walking was indeed invigorating, as Ulrika had declared, but she wished now for a respite from her sore muscles more than any invigoration. How intractable the queen was in these times, allowing the two powerful and prized stallions to be led with naught more than clothes on their backs. Of the four, the brown Arabian was perhaps the most acquainted with the surrounding lands. He was a war-horse, an ex-regular in the Gothian army whose care was bestowed upon the Scandians after a crushing battle at Mistelfeld. The green peaks enveloping the party were where he once grazed, the rapid streams in the dense forests where he once drank. Gothia’s winds, rushing cold and fast in the deep Visigoth valleys, rustled his mane as they had since he was a colt. What an idyllic scene it must have been to the stallion, who could not have known that he, in nominal terms, had still not yet returned to his homeland. For his new master, the queen who had brought him back to his pastoral valleys, had made the lands behind her Scandian soil. Eleven years of victory and conquest under Ulrika’s reign had brought her Northern empire to the peak of its power, possessing as it did now a dominion exceeding that of Gustav IV’s and an exorbitant wealth not seen since Harald II. Her march had not stopped at the lands lost in the Twelve Years’ War, for she had taken it upon herself to exact from her adversaries the vengeance Scandia’s royalty had long promised and failed to achieve. The Livonian Federation had been dismantled and existed now only as Scandian tributaries, bestowing wheat from its fertile fields upon the soldiers who were now bringing upon the Gothian Empire a similar fate. Four years of the Second Strelizian War released the once-mighty empire’s final vassals to Ulrika, who hesitated not one second in leading her Grand Army to breach the citadel of Greater Gothia. The conqueress now trod upon the Gothian heartland’s soil. An extraordinary mythos had burgeoned around the Virago Queen, whose continued presence on the battlefield broke enemy morale and reinforced her troops’ unyielding bravery even in the face of certain death. The veneration of her subjects manifested in their insistence she be referred to as Ulrika the Great, while her foes decried the Scandian monarch as a harpy of death and subjugation. But while Ulrika’s unassailable bravery in the fray made her distinct from the tradition of Scandian nobility preferring to dictate battle from afar, her tenuous control over herself while in the throes of war remained an accursed vestige of her genteel lineage. Though she would never dare to voice her thoughts, Iris could not help but ponder if the burden of bloodshed upon heart and mind had made worse the queen’s already poor continence. At any rate, it was a notion that Ulrika’s pride in herself compelled a wholehearted rejection of. She was still reaching ever-greater glory for her country and her reign, marching as she was now closer and closer to the Gothian nobility in their capital. For all of the nation’s great populations crammed into the sooty cities of industry, the countryside offered a solace of tranquility devoid of cacophonies of modernity. But free it was not of the heavens’ bellows, crashing down upon the valley in a peal of thunder echoing all around the Baden peaks. The sudden clap would prove enough of a shock to Ulrika for her to momentarily lose herself in battle-tempered trauma, and allow into her diaper’s clean padding her hot urine and a malodorous load. Only with considerable effort did could she gather enough composure to get a hold on herself, but by which point the sodden padding between her thighs and sticky mess at her rear told Ulrika her accident had been quite considerable. But Iris and her equine companion seemed entirely unperturbed by the thunder, as revealed to the queen in a quick backwards glance. Though Iris had at least suspected, from Ulrika’s reaction and blush, her secret, to make mention of needing a change to her collected servant would be a wound to Ulrika’s pride – and so she walked onwards at a steady tempo, with a blush of secret humiliation upon her face and a soiled diaper tucked discreetly under her clean clothes. She scowled at having wet herself at something so minute, something that should have under no circumstance scared her to that degree. Had it not been for Saalfeld… Adamant she was in her own strength and ability, Ulrika could not help but feel a twinge of displeasure at retaining still her personal failings despite all which she had achieved. She had become the Virago Queen and Ulrika the Great, but could not prove herself more continent than when she had been Princess Elisabeta. A preservation of her image in war was beyond a matter of her vanity—it was a powerful instrument of propaganda serving Scandian interests in the minds of both her subjects and foes. It was to Ulrika’s great displeasure that the achievement of those ends involved at times a sacrifice of her own dignity. As with all things relating to Ulrika’s personal matters, long-suffering Iris had endured much vexation before her mistress could be convinced of a need to wear protection in the days after encountering a clash. The queen had never but begrudgingly accepted the circumstance, and continued to profess to Iris the reservations she had about wearing a diaper she could not remove to relieve herself. But in light of her queen’s tendency to wet herself at even mild impetus, the servant found that such a situation presented itself quite rarely indeed. Not an hour had passed since thunder had coursed through the clouded valley when the sun peeked furtively out of the gloomy clouds. All the valley basked in its warming rays lifting the mild morning dew off long blades of grass. Such was the duality of the Gothian sky. A mild humid heat began to wash over heavily-dressed Ulrika; with sweat beading on her brow she instructed Iris to lead them into the forested trough. Their slow descent on the rocky terrain brought the sounds of life closer with each step, a symphony of birdsong and stirring fauna. A restless doe trotted half a league away, crunching on the layer of leaves below her hooves. Unbeknownst to her, she was being tracked – watched in the sights of a Weiss hunting rifle. The rifle’s bark scattered all life unlucky enough to have their peace intruded by the shot, sending legions of rodents scampering and bringing flocks of birds to the skies. Magnified as it was by the shape and depth of the valley, the shot would register within Ulrika as a phantom of the ruthless bullets hurled towards her at Saalfeld, that great fight whose recent memory still lurked inside her soul. Indeed, the discharged rifle was of the same manufacture as the one which had downed countless Scandians in their campaign in Gothia. It impressed within Ulrika’s subconscious that she was being assassinated, but the cohesion of the thought was lost in its journey to register as a sheer reflex-inducing terror. The queen spat a curse and staggered to the side with the momentum of her weight, leaping for cover behind the muscular flanks of her horse and eliciting from the beast a startled whinny. Her arms shot up in defense of her head and heart, and brushed on it way her shotgun’s roost across her breast. Adrenaline overcame fear enough for her to bring forth the weapon to return fire. Engrossed as she had been on escaping death and now returning fire, Ulrika stood unaware that the unadulterated terror had cost her what control she had over herself. The second deadly shot never came. But of course. The sound was too distant to have been a messenger of grave danger. Only as her fear subsided did she notice the increased bulk of the sodden padding between her legs, and the sensation in her bowels indicating that she had again emptied herself into her diaper. That she had voided enough in her earlier accident to avoid spilling the full contents of her bladder into the already soiled diaper was only a small mercy. Ulrika could feel against her nether regions now the mass of heavily soaked padding; and while her clothes remained clean it was quite clear that the same would not be true if she were to be overcome by fear again. The sight of Iris cowering teary-eyed behind her horse was enough consolation for Ulrika, but she still could not help but blush deeply when she opened her mouth. “Iris…” “Oh-, Y-Your Majesty, s-shall we stop for a brief respite from travel?” The servant’s voice was still quavering from fear, but irritatingly her dress seemed to remain clean. “Certainly, you must be fatigued. Before you rest, I ask that you … aid me with my personal matters.” “Of course. Ah– if I may, I shall mention that my supply of your, ah, u-undergarments, has become rather lessened.” Iris let a pause hang, then quickly stammered, “But please trust that I may find more.” In spite of herself, it was annoyance and not embarrassment that fell into Ulrika’s voice.“I understand. But assist me now nevertheless.” Iris needed only nod in confirmation. The less words to be said the better. The servant carefully tied the horses to a nearby tree before she went to attend to Ulrika, who glanced suspiciously around the forest for prying eyes. To quell the queen’s concerns, Iris led her behind a sturdy oak growing against a steep dirt bank, a pocket of nature shielded from the sun and eyes in two directions. She begun by undoing Ulrika’s pants and undressing the queen just enough to expose the evidently used diaper at her crotch. Experience had made Iris’s touch gentle and delicate, all for Ulrika to divest her attention away from the humiliation. She did not look once at her mistress’s face as she removed the diaper and cleaned Ulrika’s skin, the weight of the used padding revealing just how much she had needed the protection. It took naught more than two minutes for Iris to finish wrapping the queen in a clean diaper and dress her again, by which time the embarrassment had too receded from her cheeks. With the hot sun now high in the sky, Ulrika chose to mount her horse and ride in the shade of the valley’s tall pines. The horses, hemmed in by the tall pines and dense underbrush, could not unleash their mighty gallop here, and so carried their riders in a lively trot past rushing creeks and fallen logs. Each passed landmark prompted Iris to consult her map and compass, and adjust just enough their course to carry onwards to nightfall’s destination. There were no roads and no trails here in the countryside; a land seemingly devoid of all human imprint where one could hide and never be found. Ulrika relaxed her still-tense mind from the thought of the hunter, and let the horse’s steady gait while the hours away against the backdrop of a peaceful alpine forest. As the afternoon unraveled and the journey grew long, the Baden Valley scenery gently rolled by and changed remarkably little. Only when the horses suddenly stopped and whinnied were the two travelers broken out of their dreamlike trance. Curiously, they could spot nothing amiss within the heavily wooded vicinity which could have brought their stallions to a halt. In an abdication of her fruitless search, Ulrika knit her eyebrows and picked up the reins, preparing to spur on the disconcerted steed, when a furious howl abruptly shattered the silence of the forest. The savage cry startled all who it struck, and Ulrika’s heart jumped in her chest and her body stiffened, allowing for a moment an errant stream of piss to escape and absorb into her waiting diaper. Her regal white mount neighed and staggered, tugging upon the reins his rider still held in hand. But a temperament bred for calm under the utmost stress would prevail, and so when the scarlet fox leapt out from behind the trees he merely snorted and pawed the ground, waiting dutifully for the leather reins’ next instruction. Ulrika, however, had understood what the horse could not – those bulging eyes and the foam at the mouth, the convulsions and the erratic dash – a mad beast, a rabid beast! With not an ounce of restraint or reason in its mind, the snarling foxed twisted and contorted, and bolted towards the first creature it could see with salivating jaws ready to sink their teeth into soft flesh. Though small the fox was, the sight of its rabid dash towards its quarry would easily make Ulrika’s blood run cold. And in an instant it had found her again – the still-festering apparitions at Saalfeld, the apparition haunting her nights – those demons of death and terror, lurking always deep within her heart. It was too soon to forget, too living a memory to suppress; she had emerged victorious from the battle of ereyesterday but her nerves had been shot. So consumed was Ulrika was by the awakened terror of human carnage that she could not find it in her to scream or draw her weapon, and with her muscles paralyzed by fear she failed also to inhibit the torrent of hot urine that rushed freely from her bladder or the load squishing out of her slackened bowels. Her extremities became less and less material and dangled weightless, useless at her sides; all the queen could feel now was her heart exploding in her chest and the hot piss pooling at her crotch before it could soak into the drenched padding. But without ally in grave peril she was not, for her white Scandian horse had too realized the scope of the danger. Retaining still a clear and sharpened mind, the great beast bucked and leapt gracefully out of harm’s way, and upon impact with the earth broke into a gallop in tandem with his Arabian brethren. The horse’s loud neigh and powerful stride would be a strange reassurance proving enough for her to regain some sense, and though her chest still pounded with a bursting heart the ferocity of battle was beginning to take hold of her temples. The fox was behind, screeching a pitiful wail of desperation and confusion, and wildly running still in a chase for something, anything, though it did not even know what it was chasing for. A long-awaited demise, albeit delivered without intention of mercy, came from the left barrel of Ulrika’s Seidel shotgun in an impeccable Parthian shot. When the fox had collapsed on the ground and the blood began to paint its matted fur a sanguine red, Ulrika turned herself back around and pulled on her horse’s reins, abruptly ceasing his free and wild gallop. Iris’ Arabian followed suit. The encounter had not taken more than a minute, but to Ulrika it had felt as though half her life was stolen away. What a calamity this was. It had merely been a fox – and even instilled with all the madness in the world could not have been any match for Ulrika. But in the circumstances of today… and though I could at least kill the fox with due competence… how hampering was the residue of warfare on her soul, slowing her, dulling her, filling her with undue fear. Her assailant indeed lay dead behind her, but left her to contend with the sensation of sitting in padding wet with her own pee and a disgusting mess that the saddle squished against her backside. More than anything, she felt quite disgusted with the spectacle. There were people afoot here, hunters or farmers perhaps, murmuring among themselves while casting glances over the strange outsider in their lands. Ulrika glanced quickly at her backside to ensure her secret remained hidden, and though it wasn’t particularly reasonable for her diaper to have leaked she still felt a bout of relief at finding her clothes dry. Still, there hung over Ulrika an undeniable embarrassment of being seen while having soiled herself. To further the queen’s disconcertion, Iris again retained great composure despite all which had just occurred. Had she seen not the fox’s raving madness? The queen had begun riding again at a slow trot, and so Iris picked up heir reins also to follow. Only after about two minutes did the queen stop her steed and cast a long, suspicious stare behind her. Iris balked slightly before realizing she was not the subject of her mistress’s misgivings. She had a mind to ask Ulrika for what she wished for, but the sight of the queen’s twisted expression and crimson blush bade her to keep silence. It had also the effect of telling her precisely what would be requested of her. “Iris!” The servant jumped a bit at the anger with which her mistress spoke. “Yes?” “Ach … were you been injured by that vile, rabid creature? You must know how dangerous it is to be bitten by mad beasts!” As she spoke, the edge of her voice dulled. “Oh… I had not even noticed! Then I am sincerely grateful for your valorous deed!” Iris needed not feign her surprise. And Ulrika’s shot was indeed fantastic. “Is that so? Well, shall we rest for a while then? Just to steady ourselves.” “Certainly, ah, well, will you need me from anything then?” She tried dearly to speak with discretion. “If you may.” The flatness of Ulrika’s response told Iris of her success in tact, though of course she could not let her relief show on her face. As before, she retrieved another one of Ulrika’s diapers from the bag slung across the Arabian’s haunches. For not one second did she let the gentle grace in her movement falter as she cleaned and changed Ulrika. When all was said and done she quickly turned heel and climbed upon her Gothian horse, and waited earnestly for sight of the queen’s stallion to lead them forwards in travel. Where the tall peaks separating Gothia from its vassals begin to fall away, there lies kissed by the sun swathes of the continent’s most fertile, most bountiful farmland. The autumn’s great harvests of wheat nourished the all lands’ children, garnished by the vineyards’ delectable wines and the breweries’ stout ales. The grazing bovine herds and fattened pigs in their pens completed the bucolic beauty. How pitiful it was for such a prosperous realm to fall so unceremoniously before frozen, lifeless Scandia! The cornucopia waited at the mouth of the valley, deceiving close, tantalizing travelers with the promise that it lay not but a few paces away. But the lands were wily, for the valley rolled gently and gradually, concealing the vast distances of travel that remained in the endless valley before Gothia’s breadbasket. The sun drew lower in the sky sending its light dancing around the tops of the highest peaks, and withdrew its beating heat from the valley floor to be cooled by emerging evening breezes. It was Ulrika who first noticed the rushing wind sifting through the valley’s dense trees and realized the waning of the day. Hours and countless kilometers had gone by since her encounter with the fox. Having not left the forest of the valley floor, she had yet to be enticed by vistas of the Gothian hinterland, and was fast tiring of the beautiful but monotonous woodlands. She pulled sharply upon her white horse’s reins and swung her body off the saddle in one graceful motion, obliging Iris to quickly follow suit and begin leading both horses on foot. The servant consulted her map and compass for the umpteenth time, and when satisfied in the slight detour Ulrika had chosen to take, looked up to follow her out of the woods. Undeniable was the Baden Valley’s beauty, but its gentle inclines did not endear the Scandian queen to the lands now in her possession. All the noble blood in the world could not teach her to cherish the world’s natural grandeur through the eyes of an aristocrat. Though Iris was enraptured by the beauty her homeland so dearly lacked, Ulrika remained markedly unimpressed by how effortless a climb on the Gothian slopes felt. The leisurely stroll was barely less monotonous than a ride through the forest, but demure Iris had broken her usual silence to insist that they stay upon the hillside. She would stop to rest several times during their walk, but Ulrika felt throughout not even the slightest hint of exhaustion or exertion. There was in her body no savory ache nor biting soreness to test her endurance, and in light of her muscles’ ambivalence Ulrika’s senses were drawn to her gradually filling bladder. She cursed herself for having put on her last diaper, for she could not remove it even to relieve herself without putting it to waste. All she could do now was squeeze her legs together and try to relieve the mounting pressure. A hot dryness had formed in the back of Ulrika’s mouth, inviting her to take a swig from her canteen to slake off the thirst. She obliged and brought the jug to her lips, pouring forth the cool, pure water she had collected earlier from a rushing stream. But gulping the refreshing drink down into her stomach proved too much for her burdened bladder, which flinched and released, allowing its full contents to flow unrestrained into the waiting padding. Ulrika recoiled instantly and jammed a hand into her crotch to try and stem the torrent of hot piss, but her efforts proved futile; her diaper slowly expanded and warmed with her own pee for what felt like an agonizing eternity. When she had finally regained control of herself, she found that the bulk of sodden padding was pressing against her. In all other circumstances, she would have asked Iris for a change – but to do so now would mean traveling the remainder of the day without any protection. And recollecting all which had happened prompted Ulrika to quickly discard the idea. There was no alternative, then; despite everything, she would have to travel onwards in the diaper she had wet. Dusk had replaced afternoon by the time Iris and Ulrika exited the Baden Valley and arrived in the fertile fields. Gothia’s breadbasket was still a rustic and backwards plain, a far cry from the great feats of industrialization achieved in Aldenburg or Mülheim. Few people occupied the vast tracts of land, and what little made it their home lived in old-fashioned accommodations reminiscent of a bygone century. Separating each family from the next were vast fields of wheat and rye, stretching as far as the eye could see. Skipped as the countryside was by the new development of railroads, the Gothian peasants lived insular lives within their little farmhouses. Though the backwater’s houses was a far cry from the great palaces of Gothia and Scandia, for the weary travelers it was the best accommodation for miles around. Even deep in the lands of a warring state, the rural poor would not refuse a few guilders to quarter an enemy officer. Armed with the wealth of the Scandian crown, Ulrika could afford to be discerning when finding a bed for a night; and though she usually refrained from being particular she had today a pressing need for diapers to scavenge. Though she was in no position to refuse whatever she found, she hoped that industrialized Gothia would see their denizens at least buying disposable diapers for their infants. In rural Gothia, however, finding a house that housed a child was proving a long and arduous task. Frustratingly, there was not a map or guide for the region, and the tall crop combined with the fading light had made navigation itself a challenging procedure. To find a house at all was a small miracle, and to find one that served Ulrika’s needs seemed nigh impossible. Light was fading quickly from the fields; and though the queen was unbothered by the darkness she wished for a place to relieve her churning bowels. The rations of salted beef had not agreed with her today. With no end to the long search in sight, she made the conscious choice to void only a bit of her mess into the diaper’s thick padding. As soon as she felt the mush escape her, she instantly regretted her infantile act. Now she could not even remove her diaper until she had something clean to change into. Endlessly they searched as the hours ticked by and the sun receded to leave the valley in the throes of dusk. They mounted their horses to hasten their progress and discovered that they had only become disoriented faster. Many times Iris would note in dismay that they had only gone in circles. And all throughout, Ulrika found that voiding herself earlier had done little to lessen the bully beef grumbling in her stomach and coagulating in her bowels. She pressed Iris into the role of sole navigator, and concentrated hard on bearing down upon her abdomen, trying with all her might to avoid another accident. But it all came to no avail when her stomach suddenly lurched as she prowled the fields and forced from Ulrika’s bowels the contents she had so desperately tried to hold in. It was the second such incident that she had the displeasure of enduring today, and the mortification of wetting herself earlier paled in comparison to the absolute disgust she felt now. Her position on the saddle had the effect of pressing the foul mush up against her as soon as it escaped her, filling her entire diaper and backside with her waste. The diaper filled and strained to keep contained all of the queen’s accident, before the mass of the expulsion overwhelmed the leg gathers and allowed some to leak past her padding and into the back of her pants. Though she was already struggling with the pounding ache in her bowels, it was impossible for Ulrika to not notice instantly her diaper’s failure. Revulsion and shock swept over her, turning her face beet-red in chagrin. She could no longer maintain a pretense in front of Iris. The servant took not much longer to discover her mistress’s lapse in continence. She made no comment upon seeing the stain on the back of Ulrika’s pants. Driven by a mixture of fear and embarrassment, and without making a ripple in the awkward atmosphere, she silently hastened her pace in looking for a place to stay the night. The queen rode wordlessly behind her, shifting her weight constantly to lessen the discomfort she was in. Her great impatience for finding a place to stay had been supplemented by a crushing fear at being seen in her soiled state. But time would prove a harsh mistress and drag on for an unbearable eternity, punctuated occasionally by the discovery of another farmhouse only to find it without young children. Ulrika rode in the shadow of Iris, trying the best she could to keep as far away from prying eyes as possible. Night had almost completed its succession of day when Iris heard suddenly, from the barely-illuminated farmhouse she was riding towards, the cry of a young child. There could be the night’s stay! She cracked the reins across the Arabian, urging it into a canter, but the queen did not follow with the same vigor. Sensing quickly her mistake, she slowed her horse down to a slow trot. But Ulrika was ahead of her, having already dismounted and continued inconspicuously on foot. Iris followed in turn, and for the remainder of the distance to the farmhouse led her horse behind her. When she had reached her destination, she tied the beast to a fence and knocked upon the heavy oak door. Though she saw through the windows shadows move behind candlelight, the ruddy-cheeked boy who greeted at her at the door still took her by surprise. “Hiya, whaddya want?” He spoke through grating and tonal voice, and had the vernacular of the country dialect. Though she had years of learning with the language, Iris could only just understand the child. “May I speak to your parents, little one?” Her Gothian was the precise and careful speech of one who learned through books. It marked her as not only an intellectual, but also a foreigner in these lands. “They went out to tha market. A’hm the only one ‘round. Watcha need, auntie? Who’re you anyway? Are you one of them bandits? You don’t look one!” All the words tumbled out of his mouth and mixed together. Coarse as he was, Iris could not help but find the jovial child endearing. “We’re only travelers from a faraway land. We’ve no place to stay tonight. If you wish, I can reward you for helping us.” She held open a hand, revealing three shimmering gold pieces. The child’s eyes went huge. “Wow! Please-please-please stay here! I’ll letcha you my mama’s room! Howd’ja get the gold? Are you a king? Are you a prince?” He stared at Iris with scrutiny. Now Iris couldn’t help but laugh. “Where I come from the gold grows on trees. But where I come from is a secret!” The boy pondered her words for a moment, and apparently satisfied, took the coins and opened the door. Ulrika had been ignored completely by the child, now showing Iris around the house, and she was relieved for it. She prayed that the odor of her accident and the stain on her pants would be go unnoticed. Luck would finally be on her side, however, as the musk of open bedpans and livestock pervaded the entire house. Her attention was torn quickly to the sounds of a young child’s unintelligible speech, and she realized then that in the room across from her was the farmhouse’s only other denizen. It was a young girl, a young girl who walked steadily upon her two feet but spoke slowly and with considerable labor. She was dressed in a simple and rough dress made of a single piece of faded grey cloth, and walked over to speak to Ulrika in the Gothian that she did not understand a word of. Before the child could become frustrated at the strange newcomer who understood nothing and spoke nothing, she was scooped up quickly by her older brother and taken into another room. Taking care to stay out of sight, Ulrika watched from behind a doorframe as the boy placed her sister upon the bed and changed her diaper. She waited until the child had left the room and scampered downstairs, and called loudly in Scandian for her servant to come quickly. Iris, understanding fully Ulrika’s predicament, hesitated not for a second in responding to the request. With a wet sponge and several rags, she gently cleaned off Ulrika and peeled from her the soiled clothing to wash. Night had fallen, and the travelers would take the initiative to pad downstairs for a cold bath the kitchen’s metal tub. With both children in the house asleep, they could relax and indulge in the house’s greatest luxury. When satisfied with the bath, both women changed themselves into their silken nightgowns. Iris slipped into a pair of simple cotton panties, and produced from a bag several baby diapers she had taken from the daughter’s bedroom. She prepared from the kitchen a corrugated washboard to wash the queen’s uniform in, only looking up from her work to see Ulrika walk upstairs with the diapers in hand. By the dim glow of candlelight, the queen entered and locked the door of her room, and when sure of her absolute privacy looked carefully over the diapers to discern how she could fit them over herself. While they were certainly preferable to the prospect of wetting herself without protection, Ulrika found baby diapers to be always tight-fitting and exceedingly uncomfortable around her hips and crotch. Much to Ulrika’s displeasure, the diaper she squeezed around her waist now would prove no different. Worse still, wearing the infantile undergarment inspired no confidence – the thin padding, meant for children, would no doubt fail at containing any of the queen’s accidents. All the pillaged diapers provided to her was a small safeguard, an interim for minor leaks before she could procure another package of her personal protection. With brief consideration of her bedwetting and how unacceptably small the child’s diaper was, Ulrika decided then to put on over the diaper she wore a second pair of the padded undergarments, and hoped for the best as she lay herself down upon the bed to sleep. Though she gazed through eyes clouded by the dense fog, Ulrika found in her heart the stirring of pride upon inspecting her Grand Army at arms and ready for their trial. Upon the field were regiment upon orderly regiment of blue-coated infantry, marching in step and unison to the beat of the battle-drums, bayonets at the ready and with hearts full of valor beating in their chests. Forwards, forwards they marched, advancing in an ever-quickening tempo, pouring from their chests the gallant Northern battle-cry. The methodical march of man was drowned out by the furious flight of cavalry, galloping without fear or question into the guns of the enemy. A thousand brandished cuirassiers’ sabers sliced through the fine mist. All the worlds’ chaos was gone, drowned out by the great roar of wind rushing past. Orange turned the sky, illuminated by the fire spat from countless muzzles and penetrating deep into the murky heavens; and the infinite fury of battle collapsed back upon itself as it fell down to the earth below, finally striking Ulrika as nothing more than a drop of light bouncing daintily off her weapon’s polished brass. The gates of Hell had opened and smeared the dewy hills with a plague of black-coated Gothian soldiers, congealing and converging in the haze into one great being before the order of battle forced them apart. They were the spawn of the perfidious rogues who a century earlier had crippled and torn apart the Scandian empire and doomed to a frozen exile all which had remained. But that had been when Scandia was weak and Gothia was strong; now Scandia was mighty and poised to bring upon the invaders’ homelands a long-promised retribution. You may fight like lions and die as free men, but you will not change the fate that awaits your lands. Nearer and nearer the Gothians drew, their curses and epithets sounding louder, their gunfire bursting brighter and the hail of bullets growing thicker. They were drawn as moths are to a flame towards the flanking light infantry, and in droves fell upon their knees to fire upon the charging Scandians. Ten thousand rounds of fire coalesced into one roar sweeping from their divisions across the grassy plains, cracking violently over each Scandian horse and rider as the first bullets began striking the earth. The loosened ground began splashing up in little fountains, glanced by the flying lead; closer and tighter the pattern drew, so Ulrika gritted her teeth and pulled with all her strength to turn herself away, further from the guns, further from the storms of death. And the bullets fell away from her, and there was for a moment a blessed peace, before the second volley started in earnest and though the reverberating roar fell farther away the merciless bullets bracketed her closer than they had before. Ulrika’s head was torn apart by a thousand impulses and her breath snared deep within her chest, and the horse was crying for want of clear instruction as she desperately whipped the beast back and forth in an effort to throw off their aim. She was in the depths of a terror and turmoil that slowly sapped the strength from her tightly-clenched body, allowing to trickle from her crotch a weak but consistent trickle of piss to be absorbed by her diaper before she could even notice. Faster, faster she charged her horse to run, only half a league onwards, fifteen, ten seconds to safety. But the third withering volley never came, its expected roar replaced by frantic screams of sudden melee and disorganized gunfire. The Scandian cuiraissiers had arrived, charging with gleaming swords into the distracted infantry regiments, slashing, cutting with impunity. Lulled away from the cover of their heavy guns by the Scandians’ charge, the black-coated mob found itself without defense from the cavalry eviscerating their ranks. The feint had been successful beyond expectations, though Ulrika was already too far away to appreciate the victory, riding still at a breakneck pace until she had crested the hill’s ridge into the Scandian infantry’s ranks. Only then did she grant herself a respite, unwinding her body slowly from the tight clench of a fight for survival. Though terrifying it was to be the defenseless lure in the order of battle, the losses on her regiment had been quite minimal; nary more than a handful Scandians would emerge bleeding from Gothian fire. There would be a brief calm to be enjoyed now, a fleeting moment for the injured to be rescued and the disarmed to be requisitioned by their comrades on foot. Ulrika felt herself for wounds, and realized suddenly that the padding between her legs had grown quite warm and damp against her crotch. Her bladder felt empty. I must have wet myself without noticing. Blind to the battlefield from the low ground they sheltered in, Ulrika’s light cavalry could not but wait for the bugle’s call for them to ride again into the fray. The horses trotted indignantly at being denied the excitement of battle; their riders mentally braced for facing the next gauntlet. One, two unbearable minutes drew by, before over the hill came the clarion signal, urging the division into another perilous struggle against their own demises. No time to think, no time to hesitate; there was but one task at hand to be faithfully executed. It was a strategy whose creation Ulrika herself had overseen, and now as she loaded the gleaming brass shells into her shotgun and spurred her horse to carry herself into the enemy lines, a strategy that she would become component of. Cheers and hurrahs from the hunkered infantry carried her into battle, their voices an ardent reminder of her duty still as the Scandian idol. The two opposing forces had taken sides around the hilly battlefield, their ground demarcated by the fire of heavy cannon denying enemy advances into their lands. Both Scandian and Gothian ranks dispersed in the face of shell bursting with enough strength to wholly eviscerate a platoon. A stalemate began to coalesce over the battlefield – a stalemate that attacking Scandia had not the ability to weather. Now, the Grand Army’s spearhead could only be sharpened again by the light cavalry. Though her horse could run without fear of enemy fire in the depression, Ulrika also found herself unable to discern when her comrades’ lines ended and her enemies’ started. Scandian cries melded into foreign barks as she pushed deeper into the enemy’s ranks, but she did dared not to strike upon them until she could hear their artillery’s thundering fire. Each shot was louder and more violent than the rest, until she could feel in her bones the earth tremble from under her horse’s flying hooves. She was upon their cannon now, and a burst of fire that could pierce the heavens thundered to her right, the sheer might of its great bellow slamming into her as something tangible and forcing from her quivering bladder the last few drops of urine that she had not already lost. And then she could hear through the deafening ringing in her ears the artillery’s violence fade further and further away; they were behind the Gothian spearhead now. Five seconds, four seconds, three, two, one. Ulrika pulled sharply upon the right reign, and with a neigh her horse obliged to bound over the gentle slope, taking her in an instant into a sea of black-coated Gothian soldiers. They were to her right, to her front, surrounding her but outmatched entirely by the Scandians descending suddenly upon their ranks. Ulrika placed in both hands her Seidel and aimed quickly at the dense crowd. There was no need to identify a single target before she pulled the heavy trigger, for the Gothians had assembled so tightly that the heavy lead shells were practically guaranteed to find a mark. Again and again the twin-barreled shotgun sent its tumbling projectiles into the Gothians, who in their haste to arm and return fire had abandoned the cannon, but were nevertheless cut down in droves before they could shoot back at their assailants. Not once did Ulrika slow her horse’s breakneck gallop, nor had she the mind to consider where in the battlefield she had plunged, so entirely fixated as she was upon the blistering rampage representing all that she could do to ward off her death. Load, aim, kill, load, aim, kill. To relent was to die. To fight so viciously upon horseback was a singular experience in its cocktail of pure adrenaline and terror. It was difficult to note even the most prominent of events, no matter how close they may have occurred. But though the world had folded and collapsed down into horse and rider, it was becoming impossible to ignore the physical exertion and pain that was beginning to surface. How long have I fought – how much longer will I fight? Fatigue was dripping its venom into Ulrika’s absolute focus, melting away its layers, averting her eyes from their duties and forcing her to witness the carnage around her. A flash of black, darker than the depths of night, and there it was, the Gothian cavalry had arrived, chasing the raiders with great swords at the ready. Now the world was being pulled apart, revealing its horrors for all to see; Ulrika twisted her body around and aimed quickly at the charging soldier upon his powerful black horse, and hesitated not a second to shoot behind her, allowing the pursuing soldier to fall into the tumbling leaden shells. She would not wait to see the spray of blood choke the cries of man and beast, for she had spurred her horse in a bid to escape, and with her heart snared by terror dared not look back upon the black-coated divisions. Faster, faster she pleaded her horse to run, and pressed herself lower and lower until her chest was touching his mane, but the ruthless shouts behind her still would not cease, pulling with greater and greater strength upon her mind to look behind, to find what would become of her. The pressure mounted upon her until it became unbearable, and finally look she did, and saw all which she had dreaded made manifest; her comrades had vanished and been replaced by a hundred, a thousand soldiers in black upon horses of the same shade, screaming in Gothian and slashing their glinting swords, pushing their horses faster and faster, drawing nearer and nearer to the sprinting white horse. All the blood in Ulrika’s body had been drawn into her pounding heart, and she could feel naught but the scream in her chest, pounding against her ribs and threatening to tear her wide open. Her continence disintegrated in absolute terror, releasing from her emptied bladder only drops of piss; the same mercy could not be afforded to her bowels, churning and emptying a volume of mess into the padding where it, pressed against the lurching saddle, was squished all across her backside. But Ulrika noticed not at all that she had just messed herself, so consumed as she was by the death encroaching steadily upon her. She tore her eyes away to desperately find an escape, but all there was ahead were the Gothians, a sea of them to both her sides, marching in unison like toy soldiers closer and closer until the path in front was closed, and then slowly, mechanically, lifting their rifles all at once to fire an infinite volley. Then at her right there was the black horse again, and she glanced over to find in horror that it was the horseman she had shot earlier, returned now in flesh and blood, lifting over his head a curved sword shimmering and dancing from a light she could not see. She squeezed her eyes shut, but could see still, in perfect clarity, the blade fall towards her, ready to cleave her apart, and in that moment she understood perfectly that she was to die. Valhalla… My blood? Something was clinging to her, something liquid. She lying upon her back, but could not recall what had put her there. Gone was the great cacophony of the battlefield. Ulrika slowly forced open her bleary eyes. A room, an unfamiliar room, but empty and peaceful nonetheless. There was no gunfire, no horseman, no sword, no Valhalla. It was Saalfeld again – that battle which stalked her still in her dreams and haunted her waking moments. It was her victory, but how utterly horrific it had been, trapping her divisions in a wild, defenseless escape before throwing her back to live it all over again. And how viciously those Gothians had fought for their fatherland, retreating not one step back, caring not even for their own lives, fighting and dying until the rivers ran red with their blood. To decimate all twenty thousand of their ranks took near all of the day, in which time their maneuvers trapped her within the butchery and forced her into struggle after bloody struggle. They had denied her all opportunity to retreat and change, and their relentless assaults did not fail to elicit from her several more accidents, each time further wearing away her fortitude to the point that she had soiled herself at the Scandian cannon-fire behind her. By the time she could accept the surrender her diaper had failed to contain all her mess, and the evidence for her fear had leaked past onto her thighs. That was quite possibly the most terrifying aspect of it all – how close she had come to losing completely her soldiers’ faith and enemies’ fear. The umbrage lingered even after she had changed, accentuated by her frustration of having helplessly messed herself at a shock so minute, as if she was again a princess who had never seen warfare. But she was not on the fields of Saalberg, and it was not her blood that clung wetly to her thighs. In a quickly cooling puddle around her, soaking into the rough sheets of the Gothian farmhouse, was her own pee, spilled in her sleep from the thin padding tightly wrapped around her crotch. With her eyes open now, she quickly found that even wearing the two diapers had helped little against her bedwetting; her face grew hot at the prospect of having to hide from the child her soaked sheets. A foul odor made its presence known to the humiliated queen as well, and she realized with defeat that the diaper had been ineffective at containing not just her urine. With a sigh of defeat, Ulrika propped herself up, taking care and caution taken to not spill out any more of her accident from the ill-fitting infant’s garment. She had no mind to take the soiled diapers off as underwear, opting instead to simply tear apart their elastic sides and throw them down into an empty chamber pot. Oh, what to do now. She could not call for Iris, nor could she possible leave her room dressed like this. But in her soiled state she had no desire to dress in anything. All there was to do was drape a towel around her, as a makeshift shawl, and tiptoe to Iris’ room while praying that the children had not awakened. Mercifully, her humiliation was seen by nobody during her brief walk down the hall. Iris, always the diligent domestic, wasted no time in helping Ulrika with the situation she had long foreseen. With quick and gentle movements, she cleaned off the queen’s soiled body and stretched over her muscled body another baby diaper. Over the infantile garment were the pants she had laundered yesterday, and the rest of her full officers’ uniform. Not until the queen’s attire was complete did Iris even take the time to don her own simple dress. Without taking even a second’s rest, she then moved over to Ulrika’s room and stripped the bed of its sheets, bringing them downstairs to launder again. She let the soiled cloth soak in sudsy water while she prepared a breakfast of bread from the house mixed with the rations brought along for the journey. Ulrika needed not lift a finger for the entire ordeal, and ate her meal in silence against the still-dark sky. The countryside’s denizens slept soundly in their beds, but within the tranquil farmlands there was prowling already a roving band of disheveled men, armed to the teeth with knives and guns taken from abandoned armories all along the war’s former front. Queen Ulrika’s wars had brought upon their world a great turbulence, and robbed them of any scrupulous means in their increasingly impoverished lands. They had not been the most conscientious of men prior to the unrest, but now, driven by pure desperation, they had become true outlaws who robbed and killed without remorse if only to survive another day. All the king’s horses and soldiers were fighting and dying at the hands of the Scandian invaders, leaving the lands’ population without recourse against the plundering rogues’ reign of terror. Fearsome as they might have been, the bandits acted at least with no semblance of stealth. Their drunken shouts and swears traveled far and wide around the tranquil farmland, revealing to all precisely where they were and where they were to go. The older brother of the farmhouse had awoken now, and could hear with perfect clarity the ringing vulgarities. He turned to Iris with fear etched upon his face. “It’s the outlaws, they’re comin’ fer us!”. It was an impassioned whisper. Iris hesitated a moment before deciding to relay the message to Ulrika. But the proud queen, oblivious to the region’s anarchic descent, chose not to heed the warning. She cut down Gothia’s soldiers like rye on the battlefield; what possibly could some “bandits” inflict upon her? A quick wave of the hand was all the dismissal Iris needed to see, and so she, against her own instincts, made up her mind to stay by her mistress’s side. Though the boy was perplexed by the travelers’ fearlessness, he too decided that he would stay, and see for himself how the strangers would defeat the rogues. The voices drew nearer, clearer, until Iris and the boy both could discern the words that melded together into one rambling, drunken slur. Iris felt a fear drip slowly into her heart, with each Gothian curse exacerbating further her apprehension at remaining so vulnerable to attack. She dearly wanted to hide now, but her unwavering faith in her queen kept her from running and hiding. Ulrika for her part could comprehend none of the foreign language, and so maintained throughout her resolute lack of fear at the prospect of facing a pack of drunkards. Their voices were at the house’s doorstep now, and yet Ulrika still did not bring out her Seidel. She placed her hand upon the table, ready to rise and confront the intruders should they try to enter the house. But though she had no expectation of courtesy from the strangers, the violence with which the door was broken open with struck her as a great shock. “Yer money or yer life! Choose wiselay’!” It was a tall, bearded man who bellowed the threat into the kitchen, but he was flanked on his sides by three burly men no less terrifying than he was. In his calloused hands was a heavy wooden pistol, and he pointed the gun towards each one of the three figures he saw in the room. His finger was fully wrapped around the trigger. When the barrel fell upon the farmer’s son his mouth curled tightly into a smile. “Ah, wa’s this?” In an instant, the small child was in his choking grasp. The gun was gone, replaced by a knife, and he held the glinting blade to the boy’s soft throat. “Ya don’t wantcha boy ta die, do ya? Do ever’ahthing I say, then!” How Ulrika had utterly misjudged the situation. Now she was completely and utterly awash with only the thought of her impending death. She had faced foes more determined to kill her, but all of them were purged completely from her memory. Her hands acted on raw instinct now, clutching the Seidel and almost bringing it against her enemy before a shard of fear cut their strength and sent the gun clattering to the floor. Her arms were trembling like leaves when she brought them up over her head in surrender. Tears of defeat and fear flowed freely from her eyes, as did a torrent of urine from her crotch. A putrid mush from her rear came tumbling next, and both could only be contained by the baby diaper for mere moments before they overflowed the thin padding and leaked past her thighs. The bandits were still screaming, still yelling wildly at her with words she could not understand, and growing more and more angered at her while she could only stand helplessly while voiding herself messily into her pants. And then there was an arm at her neck – this is the end – but no, it was the arm of a woman, followed by a flurry of rapid, panicked Gothian. Iris. She choked back a sob of gratitude; and was struck suddenly by the realization that she was still emptying herself in fear. Though her pants were thoroughly soaked and soiled already, she made still the great effort to regain what remained of her potty control. “An’ who ah’ ya?! Why’s yer friend wearin’ that?! She’s not fuckin’ army, is she?” The bearded man held his blade up against the child’s next, eliciting from the boy tears of fear in a silent plead for help. “Ans’wa me!” “Please… please… we’re Scandians, and we’ve got the money you need! Don’t hurt us, we can give you what you want! Money, land, we can make sure you live well!” Iris had wet herself in fear in well, and the soaked fabric of her dress and panties clung wetly to her as she pleaded with the bandit. “Just… just don’t hurt us… please!”. The bandits’ leader laughed at seeing the wet patch on the front of Iris’ skirt, but turned his attention quickly to Ulrika. “Scandia, Scandia! Where hav ah’ seen her befo’ah! Nah, me eyes don’t lie ta me!” He turned again to Iris. “Tha’s, tha’s yer queen!” Iris held up her hands. “No, no! You’re mistaken! She’s just an officer! She -” Her pleas were cut by the rogue roughly shoving her aside and fixating his burning stare solely upon Ulrika. The boy was thrown bodily upon the ground, and before he could escape, picked up by the collar and placed in a choke by one of the waiting associates. All the rooms’ eyes fell upon the queen now, and the uproarious leader was first to notice the stain on Ulrika’s pants. He threw his head back and laughed again, echoed this time by all his cronies as soon as they saw for themselves. “An’ I thought it was tha’ boy who made tha’ stink! But it wa’ her! Tha queen of Scandia!” His pistol had reemerged now, and he pointed it directly at Iris’ head. “Now girlie, why don’cha give yer queen a new pair of pants?” He grabbed the clothes at Ulrika’s stomach and with a herculean swipe tore them right open, and then with a shove knocked her over and splayed her flat against the ground. Iris was utterly taken aback by the request, but the gun’s cold metal against her cranium was more than enough to jolt her into immediate action. She crouched down swiftly and tearfully reiterated to Ulrika what she had been forced to do. The queen was shattered beyond resistance now and gave no words to answer, but even in the dark of early morning Iris could see her mistress’s face turn crimson red. Ulrika’s body hung limp as Iris pulled down her pants to reveal the soiled diaper, filled to its capacity with piss and a solid mess that had both overflowed the padding. Iris could not even bring herself to face the bandits’ derision as she pulled the useless diaper off Ulrika’s body and slid underneath Ulrika’s soiled rear a clean one. “Tha hell? Wha’s this? Ya call ya’self the queen of Scandia? Yer a baby, a baby who still piddles in ha’ diapers!” He was almost screaming with laughter now” A voice rang out behind him. “You’ve got it wrong, that ain’t no queen! Ain’t they say, that the queen’s a monster, killin’ all the army’s soldiers? I don’t see no monsters here!” The bearded bandit turned with anger. “I kno’ a queen when ah see one! Ya look at those clothes!” Now he pushed Iris aside, and strode forward to tower over Ulrika, lying on the ground wearing a diaper for all the world to see. “Ah you a queen?” He drew his gun again. Ulrika had understood none of the exchange, and found herself suddenly starting down the barrel of a screaming assailant's gun. All she could think was that Iris’s negotiations had failed, and now she was ripe for the grave. She had not even in her body the energy to scream in terror, nor fight a final dying battle; paralyzed by fear, she could only think of the cruel fate that followed such an ignominious death. What little remained in her bladder and bowels came unconsciously tumbling out of her and into her diaper, staining the front of the white padding yellow with her urine and forming a bulge of mess in the back, all in full view of the bandit. She could hear more voices now. Were they Scandian voices? Am I already killed? “Nah, she ain’t no queen! Someone’s comin’! Let’s get outta here!” The pistol in front of her suddenly disappeared. There was to her left Iris’s impassioned pleas, a clinking of coins, more Gothian yells, and then a brief, fleeting moment of absolute silence. Then she could hear again the Scandian shouts in the distance, and felt upon the back of her neck Iris’s arms cradling her head. Slowly, slowly she found herself again. There had been no killing blow. She lived still in the realm of mortals, in the farmhouse in the heart of Gothia, in the kitchen where besides her sat Iris and a distraught young boy. How resilient children were – though his red face was streaked with tears he had swallowed his sobs and sat stoically by, absorbing in silence what had just happened. Ulrika wiped her eyes with her own sleeves and let out a long, quaking breath, and realized for the first time that her diaper was soiled with her cowardice. Her face turned hot upon seeing the dazed boy’s confused stare, and she averted her eyes when finding the child’s clothing unsullied despite all he had seen. She propped herself up with her hands, into a sitting position, and wiped the tears from her eyes, to see Iris’s face fill with elation and relief. The servant grabbed her mistress’s hands, and without even pulling up her pants to cover her soiled diaper, led Ulrika upstairs into her room, where she could hide from the foraging men and women of the Scandian Grand Army’s Third Corps.
  2. So this is just a short little one-off I've been thinking of for a long time, and finally decided to sit down and write. Since I have other stories like this one, I figured I'd lump them together in a big thread. Whenever I have some random one-off idea, odds are it'll go here. Hope you enjoy! With a stretch and a yawn, Lina Altor rose from bed. Her back cracked, she yawned again, and with all the enthusiasm of a snail in a race, set about doing her morning stretches. A big part of her morning routine was also to (begrudgingly) do a set of push-ups and sit-ups, but one look at the inn’s dirty, stained floors was all the persuasion she needed not to. She was certain she’d happened upon the most seedy, vile inn in town. Lina was also confident she was the only person to have spent the night there that didn’t take a companion into their bedroom, if the shouts, moans, and floors creaking was any indication. It was still pretty early, much earlier than she normally awoke; but she was determined to leave this place and find a more… moral place to stay while she took up contracts in the Longmarch. Since she wouldn’t be coming back, she went ahead and put on her armor, since it was difficult to carry otherwise. Dark brown trousers covered her white underwear, and a green tunic covered her chest and arms. Over this went a simple iron breastplate; some small iron shoulderpads; leather gloves with iron plating; and some iron vambraces. All of this covered her dark, tanned skin and lean muscle. Lina knew that many female adventurers and mercenaries were fond of wearing more revealing clothing, or at least shaping their armor to emphasize their more feminine traits, but Lina’s armor was as simple and practical as armor came. Stopping by the mirror briefly to ensure that her long, wavy hair was not a mess, and that she was otherwise presentable, Lina left disgusting inn, feeling like she was holier woman just for stepping away from it. She was eager to spend her time in the more reputable areas of the town. ---------- Nevermind, they’re all crooks, Lina fumed inside her head, Thirteen silvers for breakfast?! Dejectedly, Lina opened up her coin pouch, the somber jingle of the scant few coins inside more than enough indication that it was outside her price range. “Short on coin, lass?” the tavernkeep asked, having also heard the sounds of poverty coming from her coin pouch. “Afraid so… ” She pulled out whatever she had inside. “I don’t suppose you could take this and put the rest on my tab?” She held out her hand, in which she held nine silvers. An angry growling from her stomach betrayed her hunger, which normally would’ve been a little embarrassing, but she could see some sympathy wash over the old man’s face when he heard it. “No tab necessary, lass.” He took the coins from her hand began fixing her a plate of basic foodstuffs, “But take my advice, you might wanna just wanna skip on over to the next town. Reckon any contracts here’ll be taken care of soon enough.” Lina had almost stopped listening, since the plate of food had stolen her attention, “Why’s that?” “Some famous hero just rolled into town. Rumor is she’s one of the most talented sorceresses in Esora,” He explained, setting the breakfast down in front of her. “Half the mercs skipped town when she got here, and I hear the Sentinel’s Guild is reserving any well-paying contracts for her.” “Wonderful… ” Lina groaned, rubbing her eyes. Pushing it out of her mind, and deciding to be thankful for small miracles, she tore into her breakfast. ---------- Lina could hardly see the white stone buildings and cobblestone roads through the throngs of people out and about. It didn’t take long before she caught on to what they were all talking about. “I heard Gleaming Maya killed a wyvern with one arrow!” A young boy shouted to his friends, much to their amazement. “She’s so gorgeous, she can’t walk ten feet without someone proposing!” A girl said, eliciting giggles from her friends. “She knows more about magic than anyone! My uncle told me that every king in the land tries to hire her as their court mage, but she always turns them down!” Some guy said to a large group of travelers. He was talking about this hero like she was already the town’s biggest tourist attraction. I’ve never heard of “Gleaming Maya”, Lina thought, trying to recall any tales about about this legendary hero. After a few more minutes of walking, a brilliant explosion snapped the young knight out of her reverie. Like fireworks, little arrows flew into the air before exploding into magical, glittery dust. After a second, the sparks and colors began rearranging themselves, and resolved into a mosaic-like depiction of a woman with a bow standing before an orc army, ready to trample her. A large audience was gathered around the light show, oooing and awwing at the display, but they gasped and went quiet at the visage of the lone hero facing down certain death. “But, as you may have guessed, this would not be the end of Gleaming Maya!” A young woman called out, evidently the sorceress performing the light show. Lina had no romantic interest in women, but even she had to admit that this woman was beautiful. Her skin, pale and without a single blemish, was lovingly shown off by her rather revealing attire. Her chest was covered only by a tight, blue garment that was only a little more fabric than just a bra. Likewise, her enchanting thighs were bared by her “pants”, which looked to Lina like nothing more than blue panties. From both of these articles, numerous gold bangles hung down, hypnotically swinging and swaying as the mage moved her body in rhythmic motions to keep the magic going. Her hair was the most perfect shade of golden-blonde Lina had ever seen, and her strikingly green eyes were easily visible, even from such a distance. “Indeed,” She continued with her story, “This would only be the beginning of one of my finest adventures!” Ah, Lina realized, So that’s Gleaming Maya in the flesh, huh? The floating sparkles shifted once again, and turned into a scene of Gleaming Maya vanquishing the warlord leading the orc army with only a single, brilliant arrow. “Seeing their leader fall, the orcs were shaken, and I used this opportunity to perform my favorite spell!” She sent up another magical arrow, and in a flash the scene had changed to a vista of orcs running in terror as Maya’s arrows landed on the ground, exploding into gigantic, calamitous fireballs. “The orcs had been driven back, but not defeated. With the city safe, I returned to the king, and said ‘Your majesty! That is twice now I have saved your kingdom from certain destruction! You must listen to me now, and rally your armies, or the orcs will surely be the death of you!’” The crowd cheered. Nothing excited the common people more than a king getting called an idiot. “With an army of knights at my back, I-” She was cut off by the sound of a horrifyingly deep growl, and several people screaming. All eyes looked to the road leading towards a nearby forest, from which a colossal wolf monster had emerged, and was bounding towards the crowd. Lina quickly drew her longsword, and ran to meet the beast. It moved at blinding speeds, and Lina could tell it would be upon the crowd before she could stop it. Could she even stop it? The creature was easily twice her height, and had a jaw that could snap her in half. Lina’s heart pounded with fear. The crowd devolved into a chorus of screaming, fleeing people, each trying to push through the impenetrably thick to get to safety. It had been so densely packed that now, in the chaos, nobody could properly move. At the very least, most of the people who’d been on the outskirts of the audience had pushed in enough to get out of the wolf’s immediate path. All save for one young woman, who’d fallen her butt, paralyzed with terror. A puddle was very rapidly spreading underneath her, soaking the back of her cream colored skirt. It spread around her in unpredictable directions, curving around the cobblestones below her. Pushing herself as hard as she could, Lina managed to reach the girl first, and positioned herself between her and the charging monster. It drew closer and closer, and Lina levelled her sword, preparing to strike. When it saw that it now had a challenger, the wolf howled so loudly it hurt her ears. “Everyone! Shield your eyes!” The familiar voice of Gleaming Maya commanded. Sparing a second to turn and look at the sorceress, Lina saw her floating in the air as if it were the simplest, most natural thing in the world. She held out her hand, and, beckoned from who-knows-where, a spectacular bow materialized from a green light. She quickly but powerfully drew back the string, willing into existence a gleaming green arrow. Letting it loose, it soared through the air at incredible speed, leaving a trail as it flew. Before the wolf even knew what hit it, it was vaporized and reduced to so many glittering sparks in the air. Lina just stood there dumbfounded. If this Gleaming Maya could do that, it was no wonder she was so respected here. “Are you all right, miss?” she heard Maya ask behind her, reminding her that there was a woman she was trying to protect behind her. Turning around, she saw Maya helping the terrified woman to her feet. The poor thing’s face was a mess of tears, and burning bright red. No one could judge her for having lost control of her bladder at a time like that, but she was clearly still humiliated. As the adrenaline rush of being charged by a monster, and then watching that monster explode wore off, the young lady quickly became the center of attention. A number of people snickered, some looked on in sympathy, and many averted their eyes. “Don’t worry about it,” Maya said, placing a hand on the woman’s shoulder, “This kinda thing happens, but I’ve got a fix,” She waved her hand for a second, and then snapped her fingers. With a flash of light, the girl’s skirt instantly dried, bearing no trace of the accident. Lina’s mind quickly wandered to many instances throughout her life where a “hide wetting” spell would’ve come in handy. The young woman moved her legs a little, clearly gauging to see if she was truly dry. The look of surprise and disgust on her face answered her question. Maya put her arm around the girl’s shoulder, and whispered conspiratorially, “I could only make it look dry, love. You’ll need to get changed before an hour’s up or it’ll wear off,” She nodded in reply, and with a little shove from Maya, sped off towards her home. And then she turned to Lina. “And now, everyone, let’s have a hand for our fearless friend here! If I hadn’t been here, I daresay you would’ve been in good hands!” The audience cheered and clapped appreciatively, even though Lina hadn’t actually done anything. Nonetheless, she smiled and waved at the crowd. She thought she should’ve said something, but Lina had never been good with crowds. Gleaming Maya resumed her performance, the crowd practically showering her with money, now. Lina turned to walk down the path into the forest. It may be dangerous, but she’d need food when she traveled to the next town, and she certainly wasn’t about to buy any here. An uncomfortable feeling graced her privates as she walked, and only then did she realize that Maya’s remark about her being fearless was pretty ironic. Lina hadn’t even noticed, but she’d leaked a good bit of urine into her panties during the whole ordeal. Groaning in annoyance as her day just got worse, she trudged on down the path. Curiously, she noted that the wolf monster had seemingly left no footprints. ---------- Maya was happy to see that her audience had more than doubled after the wolf attack. The entire street was flooded with people excitedly listening to her tales and watching her magical performance. But two whole had passed since the attack, and she was tired, her voice hoarse, her bladder and bowels full. It was time to wrap things up. “Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you dearly for you attention and your donations,” She happily regarded the pile of gold and silver coins littering the area near her stage, “But it’s time for me to get some rest. I’ll be here tomorro-” A terrifying howl cut her off. Her eyes went wide, and her heart nearly stopped. Everyone looked to see a hulking figure, far larger than the last, emerging from the forest. The audience was on edge, murmurs of panic surging through the mass of people. That is, until someone shouted “You’ve got this, Maya!” Just like that, the audience’s fear turned into joyous excitement. They were eager to watch her slay another problem. There was only one complication… This wolf was real. Nobody knew, but Maya was only an illusionist. She only conjured an illusory monster into existence so she could “vanquish” it, and become a hero to the people. Unlike her fake one, this one approached slowly, analyzing its prey. She stepped forward as the crowd took up a position safely behind her. Maya thought she might puke. It’s okay… I’ll think of something. Maybe if I just… Shoot it with a light arrow, it’ll get scared and run off! Suppressing her trembling, she held out her hand, and once more summoned her bow. Drawing back the string, and forming the magic arrow, she loosed it. The people cheered and screamed as the arrow flew, struck the wolf, and created a blinding explosion. The cheers abruptly ended, though, when the light faded and the wolf remained, dazed and angered, but very much unharmed. It resumed its slow trot, stepping closer and closer to Maya. “It’s a demon!” Someone shouted. Maya tried desperately to think of something to do- anything. Her mind was going blank, and her body wouldn’t move. There was a sound of splashing water, and Maya glanced downwards to see a strong stream of urine falling from her skimpy pants. The crotch bore a growing stain, and she was sure she felt it spreading around her butt, too. Some of the urine coursed down her thighs in streams, winding around her legs before running into her shoes. The puddle she was standing in expanded quickly. Her knees buckled inwards, pressing against one another. She bowed her legs slightly, and felt her bowels empty in terror. With a wet crackle, her shorts, which had previously contoured to her butt perfectly, bulged violently. Tinting slightly brown, the bulge grew and grew, until it looked as though she had an apple resting in her underpants. All of this, she was depressingly aware, occurred directly in front of a massive crowd. She could hear cries of shock and insults, but mostly the people seemed to realize that this thing was about to kill them all, and panic set in once more. I’m gonna die, Maya thought, feeling tears sting her cheeks, I messed myself in front of everyone and now I’m gonna die! Taken over by despair, she fell down on her rear, splashing in the cooling puddle of her own pee. Her mess squished under her, spreading across her butt. The colossal wolf monster drew in, baring its fangs, and preparing to go in for the kill. ---------- Lina had a feeling something was wrong. The howl of another monster only hastened her decision to return to town. Maya was clearly skilled at illusion magic, considering her impressive light shows and ability to hide the woman’s wetting. And the wolf had behaved quite strangely. She’d seemed nice enough, but Lina just knew something wasn’t right. Upon returning, and seeing Maya wet and soil herself, she knew she was right. Whether or not Maya had, indeed, just made an illusion of a wolf monster, its howl was real enough, and it attracted a much meaner one. But that was unimportant. Working as quickly as she could, Lina drew her hunting bow, prepared an arrow, and fired. It struck the wolf just below the eye, getting its attention pretty quickly. It turned to face her with blinding speed, and Lina dropped the next arrow she’d grabbed, and felt a jet of hot piss spill into her panties. After fumbling for a second more, she just threw the bow aside, and grabbed her longsword. Hardly an ideal weapon to fight a monster eight times your size, but she was hardly in a position to be picky. It charged her, and she prepared to slash and roll away. One it was close enough, she swung with all her might, and struck the beast on the jaw. It yelped in pain. She attempted to roll to get away, but was caught in the middle of the action by a paw the size of her entire body. It sent her tumbling through the dirt before she landed on her back, so dizzy she could hardly think. She attempted to stand up, but the wolf was upon her almost immediately, pinning her down with one massive paw placed over her chest. Were it not for her armor, it would’ve crushed her. The wolf loomed over hear, lowering its gargantuan maw down to take her head off in a single bite. She pushed, struggled, and tried to resist, but the thing was holding her down easily, not even fazed. Terrified out of her mind, Lina felt the all too familiar sensation of mess pressing against her. She’d started to soil herself, and hadn’t stopped. The seat of her pants bulged out lightly, but the tightness of the garment forced her mess to spread. Just as she was sure the life-ending bite was near, the wolf jumped back, and began growling. Taking the opportunity, Lina rose to her feet. Upon standing, the weight of her soiling dragged her pants down a little, but she ignored it. The wolf was lowering its head, and looked angry, but not at her. Confused, she turned around, only to be graced with the sight of an enormous bear approaching the wolf. She felt a little more mess come to rest in her pants before she spotted Maya, who was clearly performing an illusion spell, judging by her rhythmic movements. She’s giving me a chance to kill it! The wolf and bear circled each other for a moment, meanwhile Lina quickly and quietly approached the beast that was actually real. With a frightening surge of movement, the wolf leapt upon the bear, only for it to explode in a dazzling burst. Shutting its eyes against the bright light and stumbling backwards in shock, Lina took her chance to strike. Sprinting just below its neck, she slashed her sword, slicing open the beast’s throat. With a gurgling roar, it thrashed around, spewing blood every which way, before finally collapsing. She knelt down, panting hard to catch her breath. After a moment, raucous cheers sounded from behind her, and the crowd that had once been adoring Maya was now surrounding her. Lina took a little comfort in seeing just how many skirts and pairs of pants were soaked or soiled. Through a break in the crown, Lina saw Maya hurrying down a small alleyway between buildings. “Sorry, let me through,” She said as she forced the people apart so she could pass. She wanted to speak with Maya, but she also wanted to distance herself from the crowd before anyone noticed the massive load in her pants. Following down the same path the illusionist had taken, she found her sitting in a secluded little nook, crying. Lina opened her mouth to speak, but couldn’t find the words right away. Maya looked up at her for a second, before quickly veering away, “I know, I’m a liar and a coward. I’ll leave town now.” “I take it you’ve never fought real monsters before.” “No, all my stories are just stories. I’m just a pants-wetting coward.” “... So was I.” Lina blushed as she said. “Huh?” “I used to wet myself all the time when I was new to this. Half the time, I didn’t even last to the fight- just seeing a monster was all it took. I couldn’t tell you how many times I’ve crapped my pants, either.” Maya considered this for a second, before shaking her head, “You’re still not a liar.” “No, I guess I’m not. But do you know what I am?” “What’s that?” “Alive,” She crouched down, ignoring the squish of her mess, and looked Maya in the eyes, “I’m alive, because you were brave when you needed to be. If you were really some coward and a sham, you would’ve run and left me, but you didn’t. You stayed, and helped me. Because of that, I’m alive.” The faintest glimmer of hope returned to the young mage’s face, “I… I guess so. But… How am I gonna live this down? People almost got hurt, I- I… messed, in front of everyone… ” “Do you think I haven’t? I’ve soiled myself in front of a bunch of people, too. Had to kill a monster for them, and I wound wishing it had killed me instead when I turned around, and everyone could see stains on my legs.” Even through her tears, Maya chuckled lightly. “Listen, I’m heading to the next town in the Longmarch, looking for some mercenary work. Would you like to come with me, at least just till we reach the place?” “I… I think I’d like that, thank you… But first, we should probably-” The barking of a dog startled both of them, and after the ordeal they’d just been through, it sounded much too similar to a wolf for either of their likings. For Lina, the strength with which she’d been holding her bladder finally failed, and her brown trousers darkened between her thighs. The stain grew and the pee flowed down her legs, mostly down her left, where it went all the way down and spilled out into a puddle around her boot. The stain on her right leg reach down to her knee. Having already soiled herself, Lina made no attempt to hold it. “... Probably get changed, I was saying.” Maya was smiling at the absurdity of what just happened. Lina knew from experience that humiliation like this took a long time to get over, but she was happy to help… even if it meant pissing herself. “Before we go… Can you still do that spell to make us look dry?”
  3. DsGSilver

    The Contagion

    "I suppose it would be pretty be fair to say that, by the time the apocalypse came, nobody was really surprised. The first outbreak was the Green Scare back in 2013, where a sudden, violent mania suddenly took control of a small town in South Carolina, driving all of the residents insane. In a panic, the Office of Disease Analysis was created to isolate and neutralize the cause. And they succeeded. ODA prevailed when everyone else thought the zombie apocalypse was upon us. In 2015, another epidemic arose in Georgia, much more resilient than the first. ODA once again responded and terminated the threat. In 2016, Louisiana was struck. Amid the panic, ODA began to expand its power, creating new sub-organizations such as the Public Health Commission and the Ministry of Epidemiology. Don’t let the professional names fool you, these were tyrannical parties, bent on containing the infection and exterminating the infected. The rest of the world watched with bated breath, all were terrified of the spreading disease, now ominously known only as “the Contagion”. Then, in late 2016, an outbreak erupted in the UK. That was all it took to blow the house of cards over. Nations everywhere shut down their harbors and airports, fearing they, too, might suffer an outbreak. It is 2018, now. Over the last 2 years, outbreaks have gone from being a yearly occurrence to being monthly, and now only weekly. People have become isolated and paranoid, and ODA is losing control of the situation. There is a lot to know about ODA, the Contagion, the crumbling world around us, but our story has a more humble beginning to it. Our story begins with a small group of three people whose evacuation didn’t quite go to plan…" -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Welcome to my interactive story, The Contagion! A terrible plague has ravaged the land, and begun the zombie apocalypse that every gun nut has always dreamed of. There’s just a few points that I want to cover before we can truly begin: 1. This story will be told from the perspective of 1 of 3 characters, and you guys get to decide who that is. While every character will remain in the party, and they will still have accidents, you will only be able to fully control a single character. There will be times when the perspective temporarily shifts to a different character, and there may even be times when the option to completely permanently change perspective is available. 2. This story will feature a main male character who is subject to accidents, along with 2 females. More characters may join the party as it progresses. 3. This story will absolutely feature messing. A lot of it. 4. This story will most likely wind up considerably darker than most others that I’ve written. Characters will get hurt, do bad things, and be put in very horrible situations. 5. And lastly, just to add some risk and unpredictability, the results of a lot of the actions you guys select will be determined via d20 roll. Not all, but a lot. With all of that out of the way, let’s introduce our cast. Leo Taylor Bio: The younger brother of Grace Taylor. His quiet, reserved speech on top of a decisively unimpressive stature and musculature makes Leo the last person anyone would expect to survive any kind of disaster. Despite his physical shortcomings, Leo has managed to survive thanks to his shortness, speed, agility, and quick wit. He always manages to find some way out of any trouble that comes his way. Though the thought of being alone terrifies him, both Grace and Angela know that he’s likely the only one of them who could survive alone. Appearance + Equipment: Leo is younger than his companions, being only 17. He is short for his age. He has light skin and shaggy, messy brown hair. Currently, he wears a green hoodie and some blue jeans. He possesses a small pistol, some ammunition, and a combat knife. Continence: Bladder control - Low, prone to leaking. Bowel control - Medium low. Fear/Stress Tolerance - Low, he will lose control easily. While Leo may always find or invent a way out of dangerous situations, he hasn’t yet discovered a way to do so without needing a change of pants. Being the timid, nervous sort of person he is, he’s always had a little trouble keeping his bowels and bladder under control. After the apocalypse, this has manifested itself in him being too shy to ask his companions to stop for a bathroom break, along with him being pretty easily scared to the point of leaking, if not flat out voiding himself in his clothes. Grace Taylor Bio: The elder sister of Leo. Grace is a respected and admired individual. Prior to the end of the world, she was a police officer, and one with a stunning record. Talented, intelligent, and strong, she was very well suited for her line of work. Evidently, she was pretty well suited for the apocalypse, too. Granted, a whole lot of her survival knowledge comes from video games and movies, but it’s served her well enough so far. Appearance + Equipment: She is 25. Similar to her brother, Grace has light skin and brown hair, though hers is kept tied in a small ponytail. She is fairly tall, and fairly fit. Currently, she wears an unbuttoned blue shirt on top of a white tee shirt, and dark blue jeans. She also wears an old, gray baseball cap that she’s owned for many years. She is the most well-armed of the group, carrying a bolt action rifle and her police handgun. She also carries a police baton. Continence: Bladder control - High Bowel control - Medium Fear/Stress Tolerance - Mixed, fear is high, stress is low. Details are below. Grace is no stranger to terrifying and dangerous situations, considering her line of work. Undoubtedly, during the early days of her career, the more intense conundrums saw her pissing or soiling her pants, but those days are long past. However, Grace has always had stomach problems, ever since she was a kid. Today, performing exceptionally strenuous physical activity will often cause her bowels to leak, or even totally empty. Angela Blake Bio: While she is unrelated to the Taylor siblings, Angela has been a close friend to both of them for many years. Before the apocalypse, she was a librarian. Like Leo, she is not the type of person you might expect to see outlive everyone else in a disaster. And, well, you wouldn’t really be wrong to think that way. Angela is not a skilled fighter or survivalist. At all. She has survived mostly by doing whatever Grace tells her. She is, however, fairly good at keeping the others going. She is decently skilled at mending clothes and wounds. She is also an excellent cook and organizer, so she is generally left in charge of supplies. Even beyond those skills, though, she is simply a very charming and optimistic person, and is usually able to inspire her friends to keep going, no matter what. Appearance + Equipment: She is 23. She has pale white skin, due to all the time she spends indoors. Her hair is black, perfectly straight, and stretches down to her back. Currently, she wears a light pink sweater and a long purple skirt that reaches nearly to her ankles. A slim pair of glasses adorns her face. She is equipped with a small revolver and a switchblade. Generally speaking, she carries their supplies, due to her skill at managing them, unless an item proves too heavy. Continence: Bladder control - Really low. Bowel control - High. Fear/Stress Tolerance - Extremely low. Angela has somewhat of a weak bladder, and it’s always been a bit of a problem for her. Scary movies or games, Halloween haunted houses, even just startling pranks, all of them had a tendency to leave her slightly damp. When the end of days rolled around, Angela found it nearly impossible to keep herself dry. Curiously, however, neither Grace nor Leo have ever seen her shit herself, nor even mention the need to relieve herself. For whatever reason, despite her weak bladder, her bowels are stronger than anyone’s. Which character will you control? A). Leo Taylor B). Grace Taylor C). Angela Blake
  4. Seven generations ago, the city of Green Massif was a very different place. It was so small that the marauding Tarnigants didn't even bother ransacking it during the Mylincian War, and so isolated that the war was over for 3 years before anyone in Green Massif heard it had begun. So when an abominable monster from unknown lands came to terrorize the village, there was no one there to help them. The simple folk of Green Massif had to toughen up or die. The monster, which came to be called the Bower Gulper, was quite a thing to behold. "Stories and woodcuts do not do it justice," they say, but there is nothing else to know it by, since everyone who saw it is now gone. The town hall is built into the shell it would retract into to sleep, giving the people of today some idea of its size. Even though the shell looked like a colossal example of something that would be cast upon a beach by the waves, the monster didn't look like it came from the depths. This is probably why some say the shell belonged to another monster it slew in battle, and that it merely appropriated it as a soldier crab does. But none of this is really known. What is clear is that the monster was a beast made of bones and red blood, not some soft and oddly-shaped sea creature. It was covered almost entirely in scales that cut as keenly as knives and protected as well as full plate armor. It was shaped something like a serpent. Its long body was girded by yoke-shaped plates of impenetrable armor, and interlocking scales protected its underbelly. Its vast and peculiar body bore myriad curious features. Many men died trying to find a weak spot. Eyes studded its body and formed a mosaic on its face, but these were protected by thick eyelids that would snap into place too quickly for any arrow or spear to pierce the soft parts beneath. The multitude of eyes also prevented anyone from sneaking up on the beast. Its head was shaped like a cone which came to a blunt end where its mouth opened. Two giant horns grew upon this cone, and another jutting out from underneath. In that part beneath the head there was a place where the scales seemed to thin out, and the movement of muscles and veins could be seen. But it was directly adjacent to a horn and a pair of jaws, so no lancer could make it there, and no archer could shoot with enough precision to pierce any of those veins. Its jaws weren't so very powerful, but they didn't have to be. What it couldn't bite to pieces, it could swallow whole. It would sometimes be seen picking rocks from the mountainside and swallowing them, so the food it ate could be ground up inside its stomach. Many different figures have been given for the number of its limbs, but I can say safely say it was more than three pairs, each with tearing claws. It was an unpleasant time in which to live, in many different ways. You may already have noticed that a great many of the antique chamber pots that can be seen today date to the time of the monster (identifiable by their blue glaze and the angular patterns decorating them). It is said that this was because more were made during that year than any other time in history. You see, the fear that grasped the village was so strong that people were afraid to go to the outhouse alone at night, and chose instead to use their own home as a place of easement or else suffer 'til the morning. After a while, the monster didn't even leave the city after its rampages. It feared the people so little that it would simply tuck itself into its shell and go to sleep. It was bad enough being attacked by a monster every few nights, but to be able to see it sitting there at all through the day was a chilling reminder of the threat. The villagers' spirits dropped further. Warriors performed even more poorly against the monster. A quarter of the town moved away to where the shell wouldn't be in their vision at all times, living in tents. Of course, this made them even less safe. Meanwhile, lances, battering rams, and fire were used against its sleeping form, to no avail. Before falling into slumber, it always rolled into a shape that left the thickest plates of its armor blocking the entrance to its shell. The only times the monster left the village was to drink from a nearby stream, and to visit a remote location where it disposed of what remained of the devoured villagers. Attempts were made to catch it off guard at these places, but the monster was too canny to fall to a surprise attack. There was one warrior in Green Massif who was not only bold enough to fight the Bower Gulper, but crafty enough to defeat it when so many others had failed. This valiant challenger was not a knight, nor a man, nor even a boy. Diceanct Gemniss was a small girl with great ambitions. Let me describe her. Her hair was red almost beyond hair's capacity to be red. She didn't put much fuss into grooming it, so it flowed all over her head and shoulders, and looked like a flaming torch when the wind caught hold of it. Inside she was just as fiery. A spark could be seen in those sapphire eyes of hers. She had the long lashes, thin eyebrows, and shapely lips that would usually catch the fellows' attention. But in her case they were more likely to be covered with dirt than makeup. She was small, even for a young lady, but the muscles that clothed her tiny skeleton could do incredible things. While the other little girls had been gathering flowers and braiding their hair, she had been outrunning hunting dogs and scaling mossy ruins. While the other girls had been learning to sew and cook, she had learned to hunt wild animals and to tan and stretch hide to fashion leather armor. Such was her way. Some thought she was mad. Others that she was really a boy. For all these reasons, the boys never brought her flowers or asked her to dances. But she was sought after in hunts and sports and other boyish pastimes. She wished to be taught in the ways of a knight, but such a thing was unheard of in those days. Many adults disdained her, as did some children, telling her she should be in a kitchen or at a spinning wheel. Even those boys who enjoyed having her as a comrade thought it was unfitting for her to be a warrior, such was the strength of the taboo. But she did have some things in common with the other girls of Green Massif. For instance, she had been eagerly awaiting the annual festival held for the boys and girls who had recently become men and women. Her year had finally arrived. When the threat of the monster became so pervasive that the festival was deemed to dangerous to hold, these children were heartbroken. But this girl Dicea instead became truly angry. The day of that announcement, she separated herself from any human contact. She was sighted in the tallest branch of the tallest tree in the countryside, stewing with rage but also working over strategies. There, hanging upside down so the blood would nourish her brain in abundance, she devised the perfect plan. She procured some daziper oil, a sweet-smelling yet potently poisonous concoction. Then she went to her family's home and began to soak her armor in it. That very night, she wrapped up her inconveniently large bosom, slid into her newly fortified armor, sheathed her hunting dagger in her belt, and went off to wait for the Bower Gulper to come out of its shell to snatch up the cattle that were being herded nearby. The villagers who witnessed the ensuing battle did not think Dicea fought valiantly. They thought she was simply mad. She taunted the monster while armed with only a dagger, and hardly defended herself at all. It wasn't long before the colossal beast was biting at her wantonly with its massive jaws. It was unable to penetrate her tough leather armor, but that didn't prevent it from wolfing her down. One swallow and she was gone, armor, dagger, and all. The onlookers wept. She had been their best hope, and would probably be their last. But in a moment, the daziper oil in which she had soaked her armor had its intended effect, and the monster disgorged her, whole and alive. This had been her plan all along, because it gave her access to the monster's one vulnerable spot. As she was cast from its mouth, she caught hold of the horn that protruded from its chin. This placed her just beyond the reach of the monster's foremost pair of arms. With her legs gripping the horn like a vice, her upper body was freed to locate and cut the great veins in the beast's unprotected neck. In moments, it fell down dead. That day, a huge celebration was held in honor of Diceanct Gemniss the Beast-Slayer. She was modest, and didn't want to receive all of the attention. She made it known that this would replace the coming of age festival of which the people her age had been robbed. And so the young women got to show off their fancy clothes and reduced girths after all. There was a great feast. All the tasty food in the village was devoured in one afternoon, but no one cared. And there was much song and dance. But more of the young men danced with Dicea than with anyone else, because, even with her body covered in cuts and bruises, she was still the most winsome woman in the land. She was the one to which they owed their lives. If not for her, they would be no more than skeletons in piles of dung. The year went on, the village rebuilt, and the suitors never left Dicea alone for a moment. She had much fun sparring with them all. The toughest and boldest of them all won her hand in marriage, although he never did win a wrestling match with her. Their combined warriors' blood, propagated by their many children, is the reason that today Green Massif has the most valorous fighters in the land, and the most feisty women. Now that you have heard this legend, which is still on the tongues of many after seven generations have passed, I will tell you the true story. Like many oft-told tales, the story of the Bower Gulper's death takes detours around certain truths. I know this because my grandfather had the privilege of studying Diceanct Gemniss with a thoroughness that is impossible today. Many relics from her era, such as her personal diary, are now lost. But the secret true history has been told among my family, and now I tell it to you. Women are a secretive sex, and it can be hard for we men to believe that each one has a full set of bowels tucked into her person, which function just as they do in a man or a beast. Combine this with the way we make idols of the heroes of the past, and it seems absurd to suggest that Diceanct Gemniss the Beast-Slayer could ever have sat on an outhouse bench. But before there were legends or paintings or statues of her there was a real person who was as much flesh and blood as you or I. I can tell you with certainty that, beneath the well-developed muscles of her torso, were nestled the five feet of bowels that are allotted to every mortal man and woman. I can tell you with equal certainty that each inch of that organ was full when she went into battle. The reader must keep that in mind as I retell the end of the story. Tellers of this tale supply its heroine with only a dagger, but she actually took a sword and shield into battle. She had even stolen a catapult from the city's defenders. This was the keystone of her cunning plan to vanquish the beast that had conquered so many. She believed the best place to strike was between the plates girding its back and sides. These came very far apart when it twisted its body, and she thought she could pierce the soft flesh between them using a poisoned sword. A long lance would have been better, but she didn't have one, nor would she know how to use one if she stole it. But she was confident in her abilities as a swordswoman, and in the potency of the poison she had found. When she faced it that night, she had a plan which the tellers of the tale have forgotten, it having been a miserable failure. She let some cattle out of their pen and goaded them toward the shell of the sleeping monster. The farmer was upset, but didn't shout her away from his livestock for fear that the mad girl might attack him. The beast ventured out to snatch up these tasty morsels when Dicea did the maddest thing yet. She had lured one of the cattle onto the catapult, and propelled it out past the edge of the town. The Bower Gulper rapidly jerked its neck to catch the flying treat, as she had hoped. But the exposure of the tender flesh between its scales was fleeting. When she charged its neck, it was already coming back around. The force of that failed stab was so great that the sword flew out of her hands. When the beast reared its head, she had to draw back instead of retrieving her weapon. In a moment it had been lost beneath the great serpent's advancing body. She tried to ward it off with a torch, but it was no use. She hid in a gap in a wall, hoping the beast would pass her by. But it used its awful curved claws to fish her out of that crack. She put up her great shield, which reeked of daziper, between herself and the hideous fiend. But it scratched and batted at the poisoned iron, and eventually snatched it from the girl's bloodied hands. She reclaimed her torch and tried to burn its hand to discourage it, but it would not leave her alone. Soon it presented its jaws instead of its arms. It was determined to eat this irksome pest. No plan of defense could have prevented the moment when its teeth caught her body. When the monster's jaws closed, they left Dicea in a compromising position. The armor kept her torso unharmed, but those shark-like serrated teeth were all about her, and she could not move an arm to draw her dagger without wounding herself deeply. The torch still burned, but didn't singe the flesh of the mouth enough for the monster to react. She tried with all her might to kick its teeth out and make her escape, but they would not be broken. The only thing defending her body was her armor. The monster no doubt tasted the daziper oil she had soaked it in, but it showed no concern for the poison. It certainly wasn't vile enough to make it spit her out. As it tried to chew its meal, Dicea's arms and legs received some cuts, but the bulk of her body was spared. The monster grew tired of trying to puncture her armor with its teeth, and gulped her down whole. She tried to make herself too large to swallow, but she still slid down that soft and slimy tube without making any trouble for the monster. She was carried for hundreds of feet before finally being deposited in a stuffy, damp, hot place. She fell onto her side, and was cemented to the floor by a sticky coating. The torchlight revealed to her a saddle-shaped pink chamber, empty save for her and a nest of sharp rocks. The spongy walls pulsed with life, and seething hot fluid was rising to meet her. Then the flame went dark. But the ending of the battle, as you have heard it before, is true. She did receive a second chance at life. When she was thrown out of the monster's mouth she was shocked to be alive, but she came to her senses quickly enough to cling to the horn of its chin and avoid a nasty fall. And she wasn't too overcome with fear to take advantage of her position. She drew her dagger and slashed madly until the beast fell to the earth, and her with it. Even then, she hacked at it frantically until its neck was a pulp and the remains of its head were totally separate from the body. Her hysteria finally ceased, and she collapsed to the ground and slowly caught her breath. Once the villagers were convinced that her mind wasn't gone, they showered her with praise. She found herself telling and retelling the story of her strategy and victory to an adoring crowd, not caring that only parts of it were true. The women were empowered to know that a humble member of their sex had achieved such a feat. The men's eyes were ablaze with fondness. The jubilant mood began to shift with the first mention of an unpleasant smell. It was at first assumed that the dying monster had ejected its bowels' contents, but no evidence could be found of this. The smell lingered, and elicited more remarks by the minute. As this was happening, Dicea began to look more and more uneasy. She began to stammer and pause in her storytelling, and her face grew more and more red, to the point that one couldn't tell where her hair ended and her skin began. Finally, it got to where she couldn't bear it anymore. She broke down, and the emotional outpouring that resulted gave everyone in earshot a full confession. These are her own words, as recorded in her journal: "I soiled myself! I soiled myself! You are smelling my shame. That's why the monster disgorged me. I was too atrocious for its body to contain. I might not have even turned its stomach, were this not an especially foul and voluminous expulsion. But I couldn't help myself. I thought my life was over, and was terrified, and the filth just issued forth. I had no control. As a fighter, I have been a terrible coward. The daziper oil had nothing to do with my escape. It was meant to protect me from being consumed in the first place, because I never planned to enter that awful thing's body at all. It was only through good fortune that being swallowed led to my victory. I had a plan, and it failed! It failed awfully, and I was eaten, and I defiled my garments like a child." What she spoke was true. As it had happened, her mind collapsed in terror and despair when she found herself in complete darkness in that horrible churning pit of death, and her muscles gave out in turn. She was conscious of the consequences of this. In fact, she was conscious of little else. She recorded in her journal the feeling of her bowels purging themselves while she was powerless to halt the process. She felt a long solid mass push the seat of her pants away, then fold over and smash itself into a formless lump against her rump. More and more came out, putting space between her armor and her body. The dank atmosphere became especially atrocious. Her inability to keep her waste inside made her failure that day even more bitter. Just when she thought she was about to suffocate, she found herself being thrust upward. Her mind ignored the disaster of her bowels, so elated she was to be alive. In the heat of the fight that ensued, and the shining splendor of her victory, she forgot all about the extra weight in her clothes. She didn't even think to go back and wash up, so lost she was in this happy moment, and now the villagers could see the pitiable thing she had done. Of course, she had proper underclothes, and all that she had produced was held inside them, and was further obscured by her armor. But, once one knew to look, they could see between her legs a mass of sagging cloth that looked like an overfilled sack of turnips, and smelled like the hole of a privy. After finishing her speech, Dicea wept and wept, and had to be consoled like a child. The villagers emphasized that she had had the presence of mind to cling to the monster's horn and slit its throat, and that she had been brave enough to face it in the first place. But all she could think about was the pungent muck she was sitting in. She never fully regained her composure that morning, but she did eventually halt the flow of tears and sulk off to the bathhouse. She peeled from her body the clothing that she had befouled, and set it aside to bury later. Then she went about soaking and scrubbing herself until her flesh was rosy and tender. All the foul-smelling filth was removed, but the shame would not wash away. After that, she walked back to her home in her armor, nude underneath, while people stared and wondered and chuckled. There she stayed for quite some time, and would not show her face to anyone. As word of the beast's vanquishment spread throughout the surviving villagers, so did instructions not to mention the vanquisher's lapse of continence. Still, Dicea would not be seen for some time. She was so humiliated that she wouldn't even show herself during the celebration of her victory, and it went on without her. Of course, it didn't take too long for her to realize that she was adored and respected much more than she was made the object of derision. Even as she sulked, she was sent flowers and gifts and enough clean sets of fine clothing to last her many years. And, even though she had missed her one chance at a coming of age festival, she soon had more suitors than all the other young ladies of Green Massif combined. True, some of the men were disgusted by her embarrassing mishap, but most were captivated by her. After all, a lady who can slay the greatest monster in living memory is quite a lady indeed, even if she does sometimes wreck her undergarments. And the rest of the story is as you know, regarding her popularity, her marriage, and her dozen and two children (which were all sired by the same man, contrary to a malicious rumor you might have heard). To compensate for her own failing, she made sure they each received stern and strict toilet training, and none had a single misfortune of the bowels or bladder after their third birthday. She was a mighty warrior. No one questions that. But she never outgrew the tendency to become deeply stricken with fear at the direst moments. Stricken right down to the bowels. Those who served with her in battle would always pretend they smelled nothing. The habit of dousing her armor with perfume continued, to hide the smells she produced due to vigorous exercise and less mentionable bodily processes. The skirt that adorned her armor, which has become such an iconic part of her legend, was something she adopted to hide her lower garments from view in case they were distended with matter she had voided. Other female fighters embraced these practices, partly so she wouldn't feel ashamed, and they are now commonplace, even though most of these lady warriors do not know the embarrassing origin of the perfume and skirts that adorn them. Thus goes the true story of Diceanct Gemniss the Beast-Slayer. I may catch malice for telling it, but none can find any solid proof that the popular version of the tale holds any more fact than mine.