The witches of Eileanan:


“Her father threw back his head and roared again, and the mirror was filled with the unsavoury sight of his tongue and tusks. “So be it,” he said at last. “Each time we have struggled to regain what is rightfully ours, the dragons have set their will against us. I am displeased, though, daughter.” He spat the note out with contempt and, indeed, for him to remind her of her lowly status was to insult her. To him and his kind, daughters were mere pawns in the games of power they all played so relentlessly. If times were hard, it was the girl babies who were drowned so there would be more food for the boys. If a female child survived to adulthood, she had no control over her future, being mated to whatever male her father or brother favoured at the time. Manliness was proved by displays of brutality and strength, and the dviding up of food, space and women decided by manliness.”


“Curse your feminine mysteries. Curse your sleek, sly ways. That I should have to leave such matters in the hands of fools and weaklings! That the proud children of Jor should have fallen so low to depend on a imbecilic half-breed woman!”




“She glanced away, then down. Bardon decided she was younger than he’d first thought. Probably a little younger than his friend Kale. But where Dragon Keeper Kale Allerion had a determined expression about her eyes and in the tilt of her chin, this fair maiden resembled a lost kitten. splashes of dark purple blood covered the front of her homespun dress, looking incongruous on someone who radiated such innocence.”


A small smile slipped into place on the gentle tumanhofer’s face. “There are words, but I hear them in my thoughts, not with my ears. I hear voices a lot. It used to scare me when I was little, but someone told me about Wulder, and from then on, I could tell which voices were good and which were bad. I learned to shield myself from the bad voices.”

“For true? What did the bad voices say?”

Sittiponder laughed. “Do you know that hadly anyone ever asks me what the good voices say?”

Ahnek rolled his eyes. “Well, what do the good voices say?”

“They tell me secrets of the universe.”


Sittiponder nodded.


After an hour, the meech dragon began translating the pages with much less difficulty than his instructor. Bardon laughed at his friend’s ability to grasp the nuances of a language to quickly, but the mapmaker stared open-mouthed. He slammed his mouth shut, furrowed his brow in a fierce frown, and shook his finger at the meech.

“What’s this? Were you lying to me?” demanded the enraged tumanhofer.

“No,” Bardon leaned forward from where he sat watching the two. “He has always learned at a phenomenal rate. Didn’t the meech you encountered in Punipmate exhibit incredible mental abilities?”


Bardon exchanged glances with Regidor as the will-traveled tumanhofer talked of various cultures and their similarities.

“Don’t be so alarmed, Bardon. He can still be of use to us even if his beliefs are tarnished.”

The coin is cold in my hand. Paladin said to shun those people who did not have a heart for our quest.

Regidor’s eyes returned to the pleasant tableau of an afternoon tea. “What are you going to do. Put him on a dragon and send him back to Wittoom?”

Perhaps. We needed Bromptotterpindosset to translate the diary. Now you can do that.

“Yes, but the diary belongs to the mapmaker. If he goes back, the diary and his maps go with him.”


The mapmaker sat at ease, clearly a man accustomed to sitting at the tables of refined citizens. He held the others’ attention with a story of a deity popular among the Ataradari, a tribe on one of the smaller southern continents. This Ataradarian character of folklore rewarded cleverness and beauty from his powerful seat of authority on a mountaintop.

Bardon twisted his lips. Even a child learning the rudiments of the Tomes knows cleverness and beauty are temporal achievements and have nothing to do with lasting contentment.


Bardon took a couple of deep breaths and went on. “When people are confronted with an outside enemy, they band together for mutual protection. a physical threat unifies.”

“Correct,” said Regidor.

“But ideas, contrary concepts, shades of differing opinions, theories, these things shatter commonality.”

“I agree,” said Regidor. “A quiss rises up out of the mist, and one knows one must kill or be killed. A man says over a pint of ale at the tavern that he believes Wulder is one form of universal fable, and who contradict him? No one. Yet his words are belittling the truth, wounding the strength of our convictions.”


He stood and moved toward Kale. When he was face to face with her, he looked her in the eye and spoke in a strong, gentle voice. “you can move your feet now.”

Her eyes widened, and she inhaled sharply. Without hesistation, she moved into his arms.

“How did you do that? Was it wizardry?”

“What held you was a suggestion, only a suggestion. I merely spoke the truth.”

“How did you know?”

He pulled her close to him and hugged her while his eyes roamed around the room, taking in the area from this vantage point. He spoke while he sized up the strategic elements of the layout. “My studies have covered physical, mental and spiritual laws. Yours have focused on the physical elements of Wulder’s world. You can alter things you understand. You can change water into ice. You can form cloth and then change the cloth. But your training has not introduced you fully to the spiritual realm. In the spiritual there are truth and lies. And truth is the stronger of the two.”


Touched by Venom:


Right away, I noticed their erections. Truth, I’d been looking for them, as had Waisi and Kobo’s twins, Rutvia and Makvia. All four of us poked each other and tittered. Behind us, Mother yanked on Waisi’s and the twins’ braids with her strong potter’s hands. She even yanked on my own scabby bristle, causing instant tears. We paid heed. Unwise while in the presence of so much masculinity to mock the phallus.

A venom cock, they’re called. I’d heard the words grunted respectfully among the pottery clan men. I’d also heard the words mentioned by women wearing a carefully blank expression cultivated to hide opinion. Understand, women do not revere the venom cock as men do. They see it for what it is: an uncontrollable reaction to an impending event, and a slightly foolish reaction at that.


There’s something about a full-figured adolescent girl using a whip that has always attracted Malacarite men.


Hey-o, was he handsome! He was the perfect result of Archipelagic and Malacrite breeding, broad shouldered, skin the colour of aged ivory, eyes the colour of rich, wet loam. His beauty made me acutely aware of my sorry state and my nonexistent hips and breasts.

Our eyes met as he approached our tent.

My gaze lingered overlong on him, I did not drop my eyes as I should have. I couldn’t; his beauty held me in its thrall.

Still swinging his oily instruments, still droning stanzas, he came toward me.

He moved with an easy confidence; he knew the power of his looks, and that reminded me of Waisi. Indeed, he was exactly the type of self-assured, attractive young man that would have cast eyes at Waisi while at market, and she at him. But here he was, looking at me, and as he continued to step over the prone sick and pick his way round refuse, a flush started up my cheeks and my heart beat faster.

He stood before me. He continued to regard me, and up close, I could see his look was not what he would have directed at Waisi, not at all. There was too much poise and amusement in his mien, and I knew, in my secret heart, that he was merely diverting himself, momentarily, from his tedious task of purifying soiled ground.
But I didn’t care.

I was thrilled by the stir of emotions his attention evoked. His eyes direct upon mine stirred some small animal within me, a creature that not only sought food and light, but seemed, in fact, ravemous. No man had looked at me that way before, in jest or otherwise, and yet here stood the most beautiful young man I’d ever laid eyes on, his whole attention focused solely upon me.

He smiled; my heart nearly burst with joy, and a peculiar heat bloomed near my bladder.

“You’re beautiful,” I whispered, not realizing till the words left me lips that I would speak.

He smiled twitched. He lifted a foot. Dropped it gently down on my closest leg. Stroked.

I held my breath, was lost in the sensation of his skin gliding over mine and the magnificence of his eyes.

“Like that?” he murmured.

I could not speak, felt faint, would have done anything that he asked of me, instantly.

A bead of his sweat fell slow-slow through the air and landed on my cheek. I touched it with a finger, brought the finger to my lips. Savoured the briny taste.

His look altered somewhat, darkened briefly, and his foot fell still on my leg, and I knew, I knew, that for that moment I held him in a thrall much the way Waisi usually entranced men. exhilaration swooped through me; I felt desirable and female and canny with seduction for the first time in my life.


Hands nudged my thighs apart. I tried to lift my head to see. The hand on my forehead pressed down firmly.

Confusion flooded me, spiraling rapidly into panic, and equally as swiftly the hands about me tightened and my ankles were grasped and my loincloth was tugged off. I bucked and turned and cried out; the grindstone squealed back. The crouched onais pinned me down by kneeling on my elbows and ankles, which hurt, and something cold and wet was slapped over my sex. Thick, it was, like aloe jelly, and it clung obscenely to me, a strange, invading beast smeared over my crotch and leaking cold against my anus.

Anyways, we learn that the stuff is diluted dragon venom, which is an analgesic and hallucinogen. Zarq starts having happy fun illusions which end when the nuns start cutting out her clitoris:

A shocking pain in my sex, a blinding white tug. The cloud and the millstone song vanished.

Burning pain radiated from my groin up into my belly and down deep into my thighs, a nauseating, engulfing never-ending pain that threatened to split my head apart, and it didn’t end, it increased, and someone was wailing, a breathless ongoing scream.


From the kneeled women, Boj-est rose to her feet. She did it not as an arthritic crone, but with the fluid grace of a bayen lady. Whatever had been in the goblet had imparted a measure of youth and strength to her limbs.

She stepped onto the cloak and into its center, her feet sinking into glossy fur. As the kneeling onais continued their intoxicating hum, Boj-est stripped.

Her old hemp tunic fell away from her body and slithered to the fur as if made of silk. She wore no bark-cloth leggings, must have shucked them prior to all this, and she stood there magnificently naked.

I say magnificently, for that was what she looked. No hunchbacked, cavern-chested, scrawny-limbed crone did I see, but instead an empyreal creature, her naked breasts full and taut, her belly softly rounded, her hips lush, and her buttocks high and ripe. What magics were these, to transform her so?

I should have felt fear, but I could not. the music held me in its thrall, was a fire in my heart, a spice on my lips, a yearning on my tongue. I felt swollen and languid and full of growing want.

Boj-est raised her knees in a child-birthing position. The onais who knelt about her leaned forward, still droning their intoxicating Djimbi chant. They reached out and ran hands lightly over her glorious body. Palms caressed her stomach, fingers trailed over her tip bones, down her thighs, disappeared into her dark cleft.

My nipples hardened; heat pulsed into my groin.

Lutche fought the muzzle pole hooked in his nare. His dessicated wings fluttered, fanning Nnp-trn, who held him still.

Boj-est panted and moaned.

“Now, oh, now,” she gasped.

Abruptly, the women pulled back. Nnp-trn unhooked Lutche. The dragon lunged forward, great arrowed snout diving between Boj-est’s legs.

I closed my eyes against the terrible sight but could not escape the inebriating Djimbi chants or Boj-est’s esctatic gasps, and desire bloomed within me, climbed higher and higher and so deliciously higher—

Boj-est cried out.

Her cry rang around the rotunda, sent a flurry of bats chattering into the night. My eyes snapped open and I found myself panting, sweat slicked, my trembling hands between my thighs.




“This is how Bant Bitterwood learned that hate could change the world.

This is how Bant Bitterwood found God.”


Jandra’s heart fluttered at Bodiel’s beauty.


“Humans these days are worthless,” Albekizan said, addressing the High Biologian. “In my youth the humans had more spirit. They were always finding sharp rocks to wield as weapons, or hiding in tiny caves. I remember how one doubled back and hid within the palace for two days before being captured. Now, the slaves run blindly, leaving a trail of excretement any fool could follow. Why can’t we find good prey anymore, Metron?”


“He’s Bitterwood,” said Albekizan. “The predator. He’s no mere human.”


“Still, I am not blind to the possibility that other humans assist Bitterwood,” Albekizan said. That’s why I’ve called you here. We are going to devise a way to remove the stench of humans from my kingdom forever. I’ve tolerated their kind far too long. They breed like rats. Their dung-encrusted villages spread disease. They create nuisance by leeching off dragons as beggars and thieves.”

Metron broke the silence by clearing his throat, then asked, “all humans, sire?”

“Every last one.”

“From what area?”

“From the world.”


More to come from all the others I’ve suffered through.


  1. Nate Winchester on 4 April 2010, 10:17 said:

    Wait, I’ve forgotten: what does BFT3k stand for again?

  2. Danielle on 4 April 2010, 16:39 said:

    If a female child survived to adulthood, she had no control over her future, being mated to whatever male her father or brother favoured at the time.

    This gives me baaaad Avatar flashbacks….

    splashes of dark purple blood covered the front of her homespun dress, looking incongruous on someone who radiated such innocence.

    O_kay_….now I’m getting Batman: TAS flashbacks to the episode “Baby Doll.” Does this girl talk in a full-grown woman’s voice, too?

    I hear voices a lot. It used to scare me when I was little, but someone told me about Wulder, and from then on, I could tell which voices were good and which were bad. I learned to shield myself from the bad voices.

    “Hmph. You’re just jealous because the voices only talk to me.”

    Bardon twisted his lips. Even a child learning the rudiments of the Tomes knows cleverness and beauty are temporal achievements and have nothing to do with lasting contentment.

    Soooo….smart and beautiful people are doomed to a life of discontent? I’m screwed, then.

    There’s something about a full-figured adolescent girl using a whip that has always attracted Malacarite men.

    No comment no comment no comment no comment no comment no….

    “From the world.”

    That is where most humans are, yes. Thank you for your insight.

  3. Kyllorac on 4 April 2010, 18:30 said:


    Bad Fantasy Theater 3000

  4. fffan on 5 April 2010, 00:45 said:

    Weoah. I just read over the first paragraph of touched by venom and decided that it was one worst quotes from bad fantasy I could do without reading.

  5. No one. on 5 April 2010, 05:39 said:


    The 3rd paragraph of Touched by Venom reminded me of Twilight for some reason…


  6. dragonarya on 5 April 2010, 09:06 said:

    Touched by Venom was the worst. Absolutely.

  7. Snow White Queen on 9 April 2010, 16:53 said:

    Was Touched By Venom someone’s vanity published stuff or what?