Commissions

Commissions

Hey, guys. This is a story I wrote to advertise for a special I’m running right now. I’m doing Halloween commissions for a flat rate of $60 USD ($63 if paying via PayPal to handle the fee. I’ll send an invoice.) I think I’ll offer the same deal to all of you on here at tumblr. My standards are simple. I don’t do adult content, and I reserve the right to refuse to do certain themes, if they go against my personal beliefs or make me too uncomfortable. If anyone is interested, drop me a note either through PM or ask and we’ll talk business. I reserve the right to take credit as the author and to post the work on my various posting pages. You as the commissioner will be credited as the one who paid for the story. If you choose to post the story anywhere, you must give credit to me as the author and the one you commissioned. With that said, I hope you all enjoy the story.

Brad strode over to the door. The hour was surprisingly late on that muggy September night. He’d been enjoying a murder mystery marathon, when the knock came. He flicked on the porch light, then pulled open the door to see … a fursuiter with a clip board?

“Bradley Sarthopan, AKA Sarkos the werewolf?” the fursuiter asked. His eyes were a piercing red that seemed almost to pulse, like hot coals. The fur was midnight black with bloody red accents along his muzzle, chest fur, and his three tails. Slick claws glinted in the fluorescent light of the porch bulbs.

“Who’s asking?” Brad narrowed his gaze suspiciously as he looked over the stranger.

“Forgive me. So rude of me not to introduce myself.” The fusuiter’s lips pulled back in a sneer, exposing sharp canid teeth and fangs. “You know me as Omnikitsune online, though around this time of year, I prefer to go by Ronoc. You did hire my services for a commission, didn’t you? I believe you said you were looking to become your fursona, yes, a powerful werewolf?”

“How did you get my address?”

“Why, by scrying you, of course.” The suiter began scrawling along the surface of his clipboard. “How else am I supposed to deliver my services, if I don’t give them a personal touch? Customer satisfaction is vey important to me, you know.

“O … kay, I think I’m going to shut my door now.”

“The man said with full intent of calling the police. After all, he wasn’t about to go about dealing with a potential lunatic. Except, as he was about to close the door, he was struck by a sudden sense of vertigo. His shoulder slammed into the door frame as he leaned against it for support, a sudden feverishness overtaking his usual calm demeanor.”

Brad panted heavily as he felt a sudden pain in his shoulder. Both hands clutched at the door as the moist air blew in over his face. “Wh-what the hell?” he huffed.

“Oh, trust me, you’re not in hell, though I could arrange it, I suppose, assuming you’d prefer to be a were-hellhound. Then again, your kind are also known as the hounds of God, so perhaps you could find a way into hell at that,” the Kitsune mused as he tapped a claw against his chin in thought. The clipboard was hovering questioningly at his side, the pen scrawling, even as he stared pensively in Brad’s direction. “But that would make it too long, and I like to balance exposition with the transformation. After all, we both know we’re not made of money, Mister Sarthopan.”

Brad had had enough. He clenched a hand firmly around the doorknob and slammed the door home, then stumbled toward the kitchen with his stomach reeling. His phone sat connected to its charger atop the breakfast nook between two great windows. All he had to do was reach it, call the police, and they’d sort out this mess. He clutched at the high countertops along the way, like a life line, using them to guide his steps, despite the rising light-headedness and sudden burning beneath his skin. He panted more heavily, then finally lunged for the table as the world spun, yet again. He was rewarded with the cold sensation of tile against his cheek.

His heartrate picked up as he heard the familiar scrabbling clack of keratin along the hard surface. Moments later, a familiar set of paws met his gaze across the legs of the table. His ears burned with the sound of the pen scratching and rumbling across the page as it continued to write.

“Now, Mister Sarthopan, that was very much uncalled for. After all, I’m here to help you.” The man let out a heavy sigh as his tails swayed idly, brushing the floor and other places as they each moved independently of one another. “But I suppose that position suits you, all things considered. Shall we resume the story?”

“Wh-what did you … do to me?”

“As I said, I’m writing your story, Mister Sarthopan. It’s quite simple, really.” And suddenly, those blazing red eyes were staring Brad in the face as he struggled to push himself into an upright position. “You commissioned my services, and I always deliver, whether my clients want me to or not,” he practically purred as he ran his clawed hands through Brad’s hair, gently scratching the scalp and forcing a shudder to pass down the man’s spine.

Brad huffed as the heat continued to build and sweat began to bead his brow. The dizziness had dulled into a sort of numb tingling that spread deep into his bones, not unlike when his dentist shot him up with novocain.

Omni, or Ronoc, as he said he preferred to be called, rose to his feet, his eyes still boring deeply into Brad. He opened his mouth, and his voice spoke in a curiously dual tone that seemed almost to echo, reverberating through the room and through Brad.

“The man that was not a man looked down on his client, a wicked sneer on his face as he watched with unwholesome delight. The tingling along Brad’s scalp intensified and flowed down to his ears as slowly, ever so slowly, the cartilage began to warp and shift. And the longer Brad listened, the sharper his hearing became, the voice consuming everything, growing louder, more prominent with every passing second. And as his hearing sharpened, so, too, did his ears, tugging, shifting, warping, until they had taken on a distinctly canid point.”

Brad gasped again as the words licked at his thoughts, like fingers gently massaging his ears. It felt … so good. So very, very good. His eyes rolled in the back of his head as a dull rhythmic tapping sounded behind him.

“He was helplessly enthralled in the words of this mysterious stranger. The magic of the narration controlled him entirely as, with a single flick of a furred hand, both blinds shot up to let the radiant light of a full moon blaze into the dark tiled room, casting the narrator in shadow, so that only his burning eyes were visible, along with his wicked grin.”

Brad looked on in utter shock as the man did exactly as he had narrated, and the curtains obeyed, drawing themselves to reveal the silvery rays. He slammed his hands on the table and slowly pulled himself up, so his elbows could rest there. The full moon glowed radiantly, its orb so large behind the narrator. Ronoc’s tails writhed, like the tendrils of some demonic entity, as he stared with those hungry, pulsing eyes.

And still the pen scrawled. Still, the narration continued, unabated, recording the teller’s words in utter exactness. For, what else could the pen have been doing?

“All right, you. No need to get cheeky on me,” Ronoc said as he chided the pen, breaking the contact he’d held with his victim.

“Care to rephrase that?”

…

The contact he’d held with his victim commissioner.

“Much better. Let’s not forget who’s in charge here.”

You do realize meta theory suggests that we’re just pawns in a larger author’s game, corr–?

“One more dalliance into that territory, and you’re going to find yourself a pile of ashes and slag. Are we clear?”

The pen quickly made sure to correct its error, the moment its master released it, hastily scrawling its apology in the form of the steady narration its master desired, though grammar demanded it place the question mark to end the cut-off its master had executed so, well, masterfully.

“Much better.”

A low, guttural rumble pulled the kitsune’s attention back to the table, where a heaving Bradley continued to pant, his tongue stretching out beyond the confines of his lips, which had begun to lose their texture, becoming darker, slick, almost rubbery as his irises began to radiate the same silver as the moon that had so totally entranced him.

“Oh, look at that. You made me miss one of the best parts. I wanted to narrate that.” The kitsune pouted at the pen. “What am I going to do with you?”

The pen continued to scrawl faithfully, lest it face the aforementioned wrath its master had promised.

“Well, at least you’re starting to get the hang of the basics.” Ronoc sighed and shook his head. “Honestly, it took you months to break that ridiculous habit of repeating words in the same sentence.” He rolled his eyes. “Interns.”

The pen was not quite sure why its master had designated it an intern, but a snap of its master’s fingers and the glow of the runes that gave it life and power quickly pulled its thoughts away from such meaningless things. Its purpose was to write the story as its master told it and as it unfolded, and it would fulfill that requirement.

“Now then, so sorry to keep you waiting, Mister Sarthopan. I believe it’s time we returned to helping you transition, yes?”

A low growl escaped Brad’s throat as the muscle around his neck clenched and expanded, while the surface of his skull began to shift, like so much clay, flattening and stretching under the master’s guidance.

“By now, Bradley had become subsumed by the heat and the pleasure radiating in waves through his body. He arched his back as his spine pressed out against his skin, becoming more prominent as his feet began to rise up on their balls, while his heels stretched higher with his lengthening ankles to create the beginnings of thick, powerful paws. A loud crack sounded as his waist readjusted with his rapidly swelling thighs to create powerful haunches lined with taut muscle, waiting to pounce.”

The kitsune chuckled wickedly as he approached the deforming human. He ran a single claw down the back of a shirt that was barely holding onto Brad’s muscular frame. A loud tear rang out as the fabric finally gave way to Brad’s bulk, easily shredding along the line the kitsune had started, once the collar had been broken through. Thick hairs had begun to form along his back, and a second set of hairs were spreading down from his head to form a set of guard hairs, while more hair grew in along the sides of his face in a form of exaggerated sideburns.

“The kitsune continued to go about his work, crouching down to the rapidly changing humanoid’s new hindquarters. With a deft swipe along the waist, the garments slid uselessly to the ground, exposing his mostly bare hindquarters. A loud series of clicks and pops sounded as, link by link, a ropey tail pushed its way out. The guard hairs were swift to follow, completely obscuring the ridges of Brad’s spinal column and flowing like a waterfall to consume the new appendage as the moon’s light dyed it silver with darker hints of gray underneath.”

Ronoc’s grin was one of pure delight as he pranced back to the other end of the table and peered at the clipboard.

“Pranced? Really? Revise that. I don’t prance; I stroll with confidence, style, debonair,” the egotistical Kitsune said. He growled at the pen. “I may have an ego, but that is not something the audience needs to know.”

If the pen could sigh, it would have. Instead, it continued to write, making a note to revise the content of its recording later, using proofreader’s marks and notes along the margin.

“That’s better.” The kitsune nodded as he returned his focus to Brad. He ran his fingers over the man’s face, brushing down the bridge of his nose to touch the tip and prick it with the edge of his claw. The reaction was instantaneous as Brad’s now much more canid tongue curled up and ran over the spot. When it dropped back down again, a shiny, moist black patch had appeared. It spread rapidly as his nostrils flared and expanded into the beginnings of a canid snout.

“As the moon continued to beam on the shifter, his face reacted in kind, stretching almost yearningly towards the moon. The former man’s head soon finished its transition, growing a powerful muzzle with snapping jaws and sharpened fangs. Dark claws gouged the table’s surface as thick, rough pads began to inflate along his palms and finger tips, followed by shrinking and contorting as the fingers retracted into the four toes and dew claw that made up a wolf’s paw, while knees and elbows shifted to fit his new quadrupedal state.”

The former human had grown to the size of a lion, made all the larger by the density of his new muscle and guard hairs. His mane rustled as his head snapped forward in a powerful sneeze, followed soon after by a yawning whine, and finally a long howl. Ronoc’s eyes flashed, and the massive canid immediately cut off, approached the fox, then sat down on his haunches.

“There you are, ‘Sarkos.’” The kitsune smirked as he ran his hand over the huge wolf’s head. The wolf panted in delight, its tongue lolling out of its mouth. “Just as promised. You’re a werewolf now, and a mighty fine specimen, if I do say so, myself.” A scarlet collar materialized around the canid’s neck, followed by a series of tags that jingled as they collided with one another. “And you are going to make an excellent guard dog at my store, until you pay off your debt.”

The newly dubbed Sarkos rose up on his hind paws and stuck his forepaws along either of the kitsune’s shoulder, before licking his face in gratitude.

“All right, all right. That’s enough of that. Down, boy. Heel.”

Sarkos’ eyes flashed, and he obeyed without question.

“Good boy.” Ronoc chortled wickedly. “I can’t wait to see you build up a proper pack to patrol my store. How about you?”

Sarkos’ tail wagged rapidly as he began to pant and rubbed his head against the kitsune’s leg.

“Excellent. Let’s get going, shall we?” He snapped his fingers, and the back door near the kitchen swung open to reveal a long hallway flanked by endless shelves. “Go on,” he urged. “Your partner is waiting for you. It’s best you two get acquainted.”

Sarkos required no further prompting. He bounded through the portal, leaving Ronoc to himself. The kitsune turned then, and stared off into space. “And as for the rest of you folks watching out there, I know you’re listening, so listen well. I’m happy to perform commissions for you all, too. Just make sure you’re ready to pay. Magic doesn’t come free, you know.” He chuckled. “But I’m sure most of you can afford the rates. And it is most definitely worth it. Now then,” he sneered, “how about we make a deal?”

Lifting Up and Dumbing Down Part 44 (End/Epilogue)

You smile goodnaturedly at the blushing young man fidgeting in front of you as you run your sharpie over the photo from your greatest triumph, the day you broke the world record for strongest man. A hint of silver has come into your bristles along the side of your head, but you didn’t mind. It was a sign of character, after all. You still felt young and strong, even after all these years in the spotlight. For the briefest moment, as you look up from the photo at that beaming face, you see the shadow of your former self staring back up at you with adoring eyes. It flickered away as quickly as it came, but you took an interest as you stared at the man’s figure. He was slim, yes, but there was definitely tone there. He wasn’t a slouch. It was quite possible he had potential, just that he couldn’t reach it on his own. You sure didn’t, till you met Hank. You can feel your twin bodyguards chafing as they fold their vascular arms impatiently. Harry said he’d found them on a website. You figured that was probably true, but you had your suspicions about what kind of website that may have been. Of course, you were careful to avoid going too far down that road. Last time you tried, you dropped into trance again. Besides, it wasn’t for a muscleman like you to think about such things. Your purpose was to Lift things up and put them down. You hand the signed photo back to the man and chuckle. “Hey, kid, how’d you like to join me for lunch? I’ve got a few friends I’d like to introduce you to.” The kid blushed. “I ... I don’t know....” “Aw, come on, Draco. It’ll be fun!” “Um, it’s ... Drake, Sir,” the man muttered. “That fire in your eyes when you stood up to my guards says otherwise, kid. I’m calling you Draco, no ifs, ands, or buts. Think of it as a nickname,” you suggest. “Duff and I had plenty of our own, when we first started in the field.” You chuckle then. Ah, good times. Good times.” You wrap your massive arm around the young man’s shoulders. “Come on. It’ll be my treat.”

You sighed in contentment as you laid back in your chair and smiled up at the ceiling. In all the years you’d been trekking around the globe, this place still had some of the best damned teriyaki you’d ever tasted. You couldn’t help but smirk at all the gym goers chowing down. Each of them wore a familiar bicep logo somewhere on their person. One endorsement from a pro bodybuilder, and the whole place had practically exploded. The influx had been so great that they had to relocate and renovate to accommodate all the extra business. “Everything sitting with you well, Sir?” Shirley, a cute little lady with curly blond hair asked as she returned to refill your glasses. “Just fine, Shirl. Thanks for asking.” You smile kindly at her and she giggles and blushes. You then turn your attention back to the table, where Duff and Charlie both sit mashed next to each other. Two young men sit to either side of them, glaring at one another, and you can’t help but chuckle at the sight. “You know, Chuck, I never thought I’d see you out of those fatigues again.” Charlie let out a deep, rumbling laugh. “Y’know, I never thought I would either. The army was everything to me. It feels so strange being retired now.” “Benefits are good, though,” you point out. “The country takes care of her veterans,” he agreed as he adjusted the camouflage pattern ARMY cap on his head. “Been getting back into the ROTC scene again. Feels more like home, you know?” You laugh. “I know exactly what you mean. I’m gonna miss the circuit.” “You can’t be planning to retire just yet,” Duff scoffed. “You’re too dedicated for that.” “Muscle is my life,” you agree, “but even I can’t fight aging.” You shrug. “I figure I’ve got a few more years left in me, but I’m gonna have to pass the torch, eventually.” Duff eyed Drake speculatively. “And do you have any candidates in mind?” You shrug easily. “One or two. I’ll need to test them, though, see if they have what it takes.” “And what about you, Draco?” Duff asked. “What do you do?” Drake blushed, doing his best to avoid Duff’s gaze. “I’m an accounting student, Sir. I’ve always had a good head for numbers.” “That so?” He smiled. “Maybe you can tutor Lance here,” he said as he thumped the young teen hard on his back. “Math and he don’t exactly get along.” “Dad!” the boy cried exasperatedly. “I-I’m not sure if I’m that qualified, Sir. I focus on finances specifically. Algebra and geometry don’t exactly fall into that scale.” “Oh, I’m sure you can do just fine. I can pay you well, you know. And besides, if you were invited here by the big honcho himself, then you can bet you’ll be seeing a lot more of us in the coming weeks,” Duff added with a smirk. “Wait, what?” Drake asked. “Duff, stop confusing him,” you growl. “What, can’t a big bro have a little fun with his little bro’s protege?” “He’s a guest, Duff,” you stress. “Sure he is,” Duff said as he rolled his eyes. “Say, where’s Hank, anyways? I thought he was supposed to be meeting us today.” “He told us to start without him, said something about a last minute appointment. You know how busy he can be.” “Huh. And I was hoping to introduce Draco here.” You shrug. “Guess we’ll just need to make a stop there, then.” Drake gaped at you. “Hank? As in Hank Harrison? The Hank Harrison?” You chuckle. “The one and only. You didn’t think I’d stop at just introducing Duff and Chuck here, did you? We can leave as soon as you finish your meal.” You looked on in satisfaction at how quickly he devoured the other two bowls you’d ordered. As you had suspected, the kid had a fast metabolism. You allow a knowing wink to pass between yourself and your two friends. Their smiles widened in response.

The gym ran in full swing as you made your way past the reception desk and strode confidently out onto the floor. As you had suspected, there was no sign of your coach, though business was clearly booming. Youths and adults alike grunted and sweated together as they performed their various exercises. You quickly guide Drake through the STAFF ONLY door and pass down the hall towards the great door at the end. You were taken by surprise, when one of the side doors creaked open and a tall, broad-shouldered man stepped out, looking dejected. He was soon followed by the titanic frame of your coach, Hank Harrison. “I’m sorry, but I can’t allow that kind of habit in my gym, Albert. If you can stay clean for a year, come back then and try again. That’s my final ruling on the matter,” Hank rumbled as he looked down almost pityingly at the muscle man. Albert nodded, then lumbered sadly away towards the entrance. “Another steroid user?” you ask. Hank sighed and shook his head. His whiskers had taken on a steel-gray, and just a hint of a pudge had started to form on his belly. “They all think I care about how big and muscular they are. What I want is someone who can teach and work safely with my clients.” He smiled sadly. “Hey, Kid. Good to see you again.” You smile and give the man a quick bro hug with a thump on the back. “Good to see you, too. I see the gym is doing well.” “I can’t get them to stop coming. Something about wanting to be like the world’s strongest man,” he teased. “And who is this?” “Draco,” you say, quickly cutting off any chance for Drake to get the first word. “I met him earlier today, after a gig at a local showing. Thought he might like to meet you.” Hank raised his brow in surprise. “Is that so?” “He’s a good kid. Smart, clean, brave, and one hell of a metabolism.” “And you wanted to introduce us.” You shrug causally. “Already did for Duff and Chuck. Figured I’d round it out.” “Is that so?” This time, he gave Drake a much more scrutinous examination. “And it couldn’t wait?” “No, it couldn’t,” you say pointedly. “I wanted him to have the chance of a proper one-on-one.” “I see.” He tapped a few buttons on his watch, then strode over to the big door. he’d just emerged from. “Why don’t we step inside, then? I’m sure my other clients won’t mind waiting a little longer, and besides, I’d like to hear a little more about you, Draco.” “Um, ... it’s Drake, ... Sir,” the kid said somewhat hesitantly as they passed through the door and into the room. You smile as you note the gentle buzzing filtering out from the speakers. Then you enter, too, pulling the door shut behind you. Coach could see it, too. You knew. Now it was just a matter of convincing the kid. That wouldn’t be much of a problem. The muscleman in Drake was just waiting to bust out. And no one could do busting better than Hank. Time to pass the torch.

This is pretty awesome.

An old and homely grandmother accidentally summons a demon. She mistakes him for her gothic-phase teenage grandson and takes care of him. The demon decides to stay at his new home.

Announcing: Military Daze

I promised a special transformation to Army Brute for being the highest donor when I asked for your guys’ help making ends meet, and said generosity has not gone forgotten. With the end of Lifting Up and Dumbing Down, it’s time to begin a new story. Since Army Brute wanted something military, that’s what this next project will focus on. I don’t know how long it will stretch, but we’ll see as the world develops. Introduction: Your name is Abraham, though you prefer to go by Abe. You and your friends were the standard teenage boys: young, reckless, and with a terrible streak for mischief and trouble. Nothing outrageous, mind you, just ... problematic. At least, that’s how you tried to put it, when you played the diplomat. It didn’t play so well with your friend Kendall’s dad, however, and poor Ken found himself suddenly enrolled in a military academy. It’s been a couple of years since Ken was shipped off. You’re all about to start your junior year in high school. When Ken was home for the holidays, you and the gang made sure to take advantage of every minute vacation provided you, and he’d regale you with all the gruesome details of the rigid military lifestyle. As usual, he seemed adamant on getting into as much mischief as possible, while he was home. A buffer, he’d said, for all the brainwashing they do at the school. He’d then pantomimed a rigid military officer, while you all gasped in mock horror. Everyone had a good laugh at that bit, even if it did get a little on the stale side. It seemed almost as if Ken had to do it. He even went so far as to use his uniform last time as a prop. “To get it nice and dirty for them,” he’d explained. Ken didn’t come home this summer. Something to do with an incident involving party balloons, smoking joints, shaving cream, and dye in the sprinklers. His dad was furious. Apparently, so was the school. You always knew he might push a few buttons too hard one day, but still, losing vacation? That was harsh. You’d exchange emails every day to help him pass the time, but things had been getting a little ... strange the last couple of months. He joked and jibed the first few days, but that soon turned to something a little more frantic. Then, about halfway through break, it just ... cut off. Now you wonder just what’s going on in that place, and more importantly, what happened to your friend.

Military Daze Part 1

I’m telling you, man, there’s something going on in this place. It’s just not normal! Everyone looks and acts like everybody else, and it’s really starting to freak me out. I feel like I’m being watched wherever I go. And since it’s summer, that gives my COs even more time to breathe down my neck. My TAC officer keeps appearing in just about every hiding spot I try. It’s like they’ve got a tracker or something on me. They’ve been running me ragged with those exercises, and my back is killing me from all the cleaning assignments. On the plus side, who knew I could actually piss them off enough to get them to pull out the old tooth brush trick? On the down side, who knew cleaning would be so ****ing hard with just a toothbrush? It’s like my head barely hits the pillow and I’m suddenly waking up bright and early to morning taps reveille. It’s worth it, though. I won’t let them break me. I won’t let them mold me into a perfect cadet. I won’t let them play with me, like some doll. I’m ... I’m not a doll. I’m not. I’m Ken. I’m ... I’m just Ken. Just--. Shit Shoot. TAC officer just walked in. Abe, whatever you do, don’t stop sending me emails. Remind me who I am. ... Please. I’m Kendall Rogers. Prankster, fun-lover, rebel. I’m Kendall Rogers. I am not a doll. I am Kendall Rogers. I am Kendall Rogers. I am Kendoll Rogers. Kendoll Ken doll Kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk

You sigh as you look up from the journal you’ve compiled. That had been the last email you’d received from your friend, but showing it to anyone else would have been a pointless endeavor. It would be put down as a prank Kendall was pulling to get out of trouble and try to diminish the academy’s reputation. After the last incident, most of the adults had given up on him. You knew him better than most, though. He actually sounded scared, and Kendall never allowed himself to show fear, even if he felt it. For him to open up like this, to actually admit he was getting “freak[ed] ... out,” something had to be wrong. ... It had to. Ken wouldn’t pull a stunt like that with you. He wouldn’t. ... Would he? You groan as you close the book’s cover and plop your arms on the desk to hold your forehead in your hands. You and the others tried your best to keep his memory alive, but without Kendall around, it just ... wasn’t fun anymore. You missed Ken. You all did. The others wanted their leader back. They were almost listless without their fearless commander pushing onward into the next adventure, heedless of the dangers, dauntless to the end. You? You just wanted your friend back. Unfortunately, you had the sneaking suspicion that may never happen. That last letter had been sent a month ago. You hadn’t received a reply since, but you honored his request to keep writing, all the same. You sighed again as the summer sun filtered through the window overhead to bathe you in its warmth. “Damn it, Kendall, what happened to you?” you mutter. And then the doorbell rang.

The Tale of the Midsummer Maiden

Gather ‘round, ye children of men, believers, keepers of the faith from the olden days. Whether ye be man, woman, or child, brownie, kelpie, faun, nymph, spirit, or sprite, all are welcome by my fire to listen to my tale. But be forewarned. This is no playful yarn. The story I am about to tell you is a true one. It is a tale of true love, of radiant passion, of heart-wrenching loss, and a truly insidious revenge. If you’ve a pale constitution, it’s best ye turn yer head and close yer ears. For this, most curious patrons, is the tale of the Midsummer Maiden.

Long ago, in the time when the world was still young and the old magics ran above, below, and through every land and creature, two forces made to embody the powers that drove the night and the day in their eternal course finally chose to meet. The power of day took the form of a man, and the night a woman. Not content to merely remain a nameless pair of entities, the pair chose to name one another. The night named the day Oberon, and the day named the night Titania.

Their meetings were brief, for it was the duty of their magic to keep the heavens in motion and maintain the delicate balance that lay between the two. And so it was that twice a day, the two would descend for those few brief moments they could spend together. And as time passed, the two eventually came to call each other by other names: leannán, ceann daor, áilleacht, dathúil, grá amháin, stōr, muirnīn, and finally fear céile and bean chéile, or, being interpreted, husband and wife.

Time passed, and the two rulers gave rise to whole kingdoms of magic, governed by their rule, for their power was mighty, indeed, and few there were, if any, that dared to stand against it, who lived to tell the tale. Devoted followers swarmed in droves to offer food, sweets, incense, sacrifices dedicated to the mighty rulers. For a time, all was peaceful. All was happy.

But, like all married couples, this was not to last forever. They had their arguments, and all of nature heaved in those moments. Of greatest note was the dispute over an Indian child, the son of a most faithful adherent to the Queen of the Night, or perhaps the son of a mighty king stolen in the dead of night. Either side could be true, and there’s naught a mortal who knows the right of it. For who among our kind could have lived through those events and be here today to tell the tale?

In the end, the quarrel was settled, and the child taken from Titania’s grasp. What befell this child, no one can say, but in the tumult that followed, one rogue fae took her chance to lead others down the path of temptation, to join her in her own court, in the realms they claimed as their own. And so came the great division, and the birth of the Seelie and Unseelie. So came the birth of the Summer and Winter courts. And so came a new balance betwixt chaos and order, life and death, morality and lawlessness.

Eventually, Oberon and Titania came to their senses as man slowly began to forget the old magic and the splendors and dangers that lay in the land of the fae, the mythical Sidhe. The Christian God had come to hold sway in the hearts of mortal men. And with his coming came the desire to destroy all magic. For if one were to perform a miracle that was not of the power of the almighty, it was considered sacrilege, and one met a most gruesome end at the hands of voracious hunters. Witch, warlock, demon, familiar spirit. These were but a few of the titles invoked, forced onto others, until the magical races had no choice but to leave and close their borders to all save a few places.

It was during this time that Oberon and Titania brought forth their greatest joy, and here is where the hidden truth lies. For, you see, Titania had been with child, and at last, she delivered a beautiful boy. Oberon was filled with pride, Titania with the depth of love and affection only a mother could understand for the infant that had been born to them.

Ah, but poor, ignorant man would not allow this to pass. No. The Unseelie made sure of that. For they, like all fae, knew how to manipulate the hearts of mortals just as easily as any demon or evil spirit could. It was a simple matter to find a priest devout and zealous enough in his calling and tell him of the birth, of what it would mean for the old ways and the old magic, the threat it stood to make against the spreading of the faith, the chance to lead the precious flock into temptation.

And the priest, in his folly, listened and believed. He gathered his followers and called for the most faithful among them to enter into a perilous quest, the quest to save the soul of this faerie child, to raise him in the true faith, and to prevent the threat that the old magic posed. This also proved the opportune moment to teach the faeries just how painful their actions had been to innocent men and women for so many years, stealing their own babies to replace with one of their changelings.

Of course, to tell this to any of these mortal men would do nothing to inspire them to action. Quite the opposite, in fact. Man had long since left their faith in the old magics behind. And so, the priest conspired to lie, and he succeeded, telling them of the innocent child stolen away from home and family, of the need to save him from a terrible fate, raised by the murderers who had killed his parents and destroyed the home of his birth. Innocent blood cried out for justice, for vengeance, for rescue.

…

How could a man resist such a lie, when told by the very one he had trusted and loved for so many years?

The answer is simple. He couldn’t.

And so it was that the men stole into the faerie court with the aid of their supposed allies, the Unseelie, oblivious to the true import of their actions and the devastating consequences that would follow. They claimed the child, slaying the attendants with weapons of steel and of iron, forged by the will of man, imbued with their righteous indignation. I’ll not tell a lie. It was a slaughter, made all the more gruesome by how silently it was carried out.

And so it was that they absconded with the child, and brought it to the hands of the priest. From there, the boy was spirited away, “for his own protection.”

Oh, the folly of mortal men. What fools they were. What fools they still are. Ay, what fools we still are today. The rage and sorrow of the rulers rent the skies, and the world groaned and shook with the force of the imbalance that had come to pass. Titania was inconsolable, and Oberon, ever proud as the sun which he represented, refused to show any sign of weakness.

The two were never the same, nor was their marriage. Oberon lost his mirth. Titania lost her joy. And the Seelie Court lost its dawning light with the theft of the child. Titania would never concede to have another. To her, it would be the gravest of betrayals to her lost son, to simply replace him, like a discarded rag.

Knowing his love could not be whole, until the boy was found, Oberon spent more time away from his wife, searching high and low across the lands. But the mortals were clever, and they knew of ways to safeguard from a fearie’s prying eyes, even those of the great king and queen.

Years passed, and Titania wept, until tears of scarlet replaced the long-dried wells in her eyes. They watered the ground, and all the sacred forest trembled at the drops, for now the queen gave vent, not only to her sorrow, but the towering rage that had built within her. The moon hid its light, eclipsed in a mighty shadow, and the stars trembled and flickered in the heavens. It is said that the celestial dance halted as, for the first time in many a year, the deep magic stirred, and its stirring was as the East Wind, fueled by the raw emotion of a mother who had lost nearly all she held dear.

It is not entirely certain what happened, whether the blood merged with a spirit waiting to be given form, or simply gave life to a seed hidden among the many blades of grass, or perhaps something entirely different and unique. After all, the old magic is just that, very old, very ancient, and few, if any, remain that know its ways. All that is known for certain is that one moment, the moon failed to show its light. The next, it did, and a new maiden stood before the queen.

Her hair was a beautiful coppery gold that rippled and flowed down to her waist. A garland of flowers hung around her neck, a mixture of roses, acacia, amaranth, jasmine, lilac, and aster, magnolia and mallow, balsam, and Narcissus, and so many more. Those that couldn’t fit round her neck lined the cuffs of her sleeves, the collar of her dress, the hemming at the bottom of her flowing gown, while a circlet of the more delicate flowers wove together around her head.

The moon’s rays reflected off the maiden’s dress and into her skin, leaving it fair and flawless, radiating the beauty of that precious light. And when she opened her eyes, the deepest blue radiated outward, almost hypnotically, with flecks of gray that allowed them to shift and change naturally to silver and purple, to green and to brown. Indeed, the maiden seemed to change in the eye of every member of the queen’s court to behold her, and her beauty was unearthly.

“What is the wish of my mistress?” she asked, and her voice was light, musical, and strong, one that pulled and teased at the ears, leaving one begging to hear more. Verily, the voice was enough even to draw the legendary puck, Sir Robin Goodfellow out from his place of hiding. For, in his absence, Oberon had requested his faithful servant watch over his beloved, and out of love for his master and friend, the Goodfellow agreed. He, too, mourned the child’s loss, for he wished to teach it all the ways of mischief and delightful merriment, how to bedazzle the eyes of mortals and snare them in harmless pranks. Well, mostly harmless. And yet, this new creature was enough to pull him from his sorrow for a time as his heart quickened and his bosom burned.

This was not lost to the eyes of the queen of the night. Nor was the effect the maid had on the other men of her court. The order flowed easily from her lips.

“Find my son, and let those mortals know what it is to have their own wrested from them. I will be avenged.”

“As my lady commands,” the maid replied. “But I fear I will only have the strength to venture into the world of men at midsummer. To remain there at any other time would kill me.” For, you see, midsummer was the time of her birth, and midsummer is a time when the old magic flows stronger in the world and passion runs wild in the hearts of men. To remain even a day after would surely destroy her, for she must have a steady supply of that ancient magic to sustain the spell that made her what she is.

“Then so be it,” Titania said. “Go forth and avenge me.”

The maiden obeyed. And so came the time that she ventured to the land of mortal men, guided by the queen’s love for her son and the hatred of her enemies. For you see, blood spilled in any way has power, especially so, if it is innocent or shed out of love as a willing sacrifice. And so it was that, like a dog, the maiden went forth to follow the path of the kidnappers with her magic. And so it was that she ventured into the county, where the parish lay and all the land was hushed and beautiful.

She went with her charms, and she claimed many a prize during her stay. The men were aflame with desire. Not even the priest was to be spared, and she toyed with them all most cruelly. She stole the priest’s virtue. She stole the women’s trust. She broke the men’s honor, all with an angel’s smile. Ah, and perhaps she was an angel, of a sort, an avenging angel bent on her task to right a terrible wrong and ensure that mortal men knew the pain of her mistress.

Ay, she led the young ones away next, the village boys aflame with passion and lust and the foibles of youth. It was a simple matter to stoke their pride and draw them to her. And each time, the maiden would test them. Each time, she would probe for that which she had been brought into being to find. And each time, she would fail to locate her true objective. So it was that the boys, especially the ones who lacked in faithfulness to their betrothed, met a gruesome end at the hands of the maiden, and mothers were left to weep their loss as the message written in their child’s blood spoke the demand of the faerie queen.

Return what you stole.

The men that knew the message’s true meaning turned to their priest for guidance and protection. They met in secret, as they had that night so many years ago, under the guise of a great visit from a higher dignitary of the church. After all, the priest that had incited their venture into the Sidhe was rewarded most handsomely for his dark deed, and now stood well above his peers in favor and stature, though not in true grace. They chose the crypt beneath the old church, a place where their discussions could go on unheard.

The men begged him to return the boy, lest all come to ruin and their loved ones be forever stricken. Naturally, the man refused.

“Have you forgotten what is at stake?” he demanded as he drew his formal robes and finery around him. “Have you forgotten your resolve to protect your home and kin from evil?”

“Evil has come, regardless!” one man cried. “Our children mourn, and our grandsires lay in their gore for the sake of the child you had us steal.”

The men murmured their agreement, but still, the former priest would not yield. “He is to be raised in the true faith and live as an honest man.”

And that was their greatest mistake.

“Honest. Honest?” The laughter that followed was cold, bitter, and cruel. “You men know nothing of honesty, nor of honor.” And there she stood in the midst of them, in all her unearthly beauty.

“Who are you, witch?” the priest spat.

“I am no witch, archbishop. Look upon me well. You know what I am. Indeed, you know better than any other here.” A silver dagger glinted in her hand as she stood proudly in her dress and gazed upon them with a cold indifference. “I smell the stink of Unseelie magics about you, archbishop. I hear the blood of the men who served so faithfully before you crying out for justice.” She leveled her blade. “It is on your hands, and your god will not save you from the wrath of justice, nor these mortals who aided you.”

She plucked a single rose from her bosom and threw it at the priest’s garb. With the sound of shattering glass, the spell that had given him the vision of grandeur and the magic that had laced his tongue with such eloquence and authority were broken. Blood pooled around the archbishop’s feet, staining the hems of his robes a deep crimson.

Then she threw more flowers, raining down upon the gathering, spattering tunics and vests with blood, as she had the archbishop.

“For the innocent lives taken to steal a child that was the future of the fae. For the rage of my mistress, the Queen of the Night.” Her eyes glowed in the still night air. “All of you shall pay the price for your wrongdoing. The geas that beguiled you is broken, but that is no excuse, for it was but a light cantrip, a whispering to make you more susceptible to his desires.” Her eyes narrowed as they began to glow crimson. “You had a choice.” Blood dripped from the dagger’s tip as the first of the men gasped and gurgled, looking down in utter shock at the metal jutting from his chest. “And you chose poorly. Let your god judge you for your actions. I am but the arbiter of my queen’s wrath.” She pulled the blade from the man and let him fall.

The events that followed are too gruesome to describe as the maiden wreaked her terrible vengeance upon the men, leaving the priest to the very last, so he could behold the blood that stood upon his conscience. She demanded the truth of him one last time, but the fearful man knew not the fate of the child, only that he had been spirited away, hidden beyond the maiden’s reach. And though he was afraid, hatred allowed one last, cruel smile. “You and all your damned kind will never find him,” he said.

“Never say never,” the maiden replied, then took his life.

It is said that as she left that place, her gown glowed the deepest crimson, and the children playing among the gravestones watched her passing. She looked to one of them, pointed and spoke in a terrible voice. “Mark ye this day, children of man. Know that my wrath is unending as my mission. Until the day that I find what was taken, and the lost is returned, I will not rest. You will tell the tale of what happened here this night. In prose, in lore, by word of mouth and song. Tell the tale, and let it spread as the fires in the fields. I am the Midsummer Maiden, and I will claim what is mine.

With that terrible geas pronounced upon the children, she left, trailing the blood of the dishonorable men in her wake. The mournful wails of the villagers soon followed behind.

To this day, the tale of her comings and goings echoes through time as a warning to young men. Therefore, be warned, if ere the wanderlust takes ye, and ye travel the roads alone in midsummer. For to this day, the Midsummer Maiden still hunts, and she will seek to test you, ere you reach journey’s end. Be watchful, therefore, and live honestly. For if’n ye mistreat her in any way, she will wreak her terrible vengeance, and the fate of the men of Midsummer County shall be your own.

So shall it ever be, till the day the lost child returns to the Sidhe.