Fifth Day

27th day of the 9th moon, 1103 HC

There is a comforting warm weight around Damion as he drifts into consciousness. It's a new experience, but one that feels missed. He remembers bits and pieces of the night as he slept filled with moments of gentle caresses up and down his back, kisses along his shoulder, and his legs being wrapped in another.

He opens his eyes and sees the top of Mulsae's head, his disheveled black hair sticking out in various directions. Mulsae is curled into Damion's side with his arm draped across Damion's back and a leg snaked within his own. Mulsae's breathing is slow and deep betraying that he's fast asleep.

Damion buries his face in the pillow. What an awful way to start the day. He takes a deep inhale and exhale. I guess I have at least a few moments of reprieve before he fucks me. He turns his head to face away from Mulsae. His stomach sinks at the thought that he's going to have fingers and a cock shoved up his ass and forced to cum yet again. His stomach sinks and sinks down into the watery abyss and when it hits the silty bottom his body shudders.

Mulsae's arm and leg pull to squeeze Damion tightly against his body. Fuck. Fall back asleep. Fall back asleep. Fall back asleep. Mulsae noses up to Damion's shoulder which he punctuates with a warm kiss. He shifts up so he can create a trail of soft kisses along his shoulder to his neck. Fuck.

"Good morning, Damion," Mulsae coos softly in Damion's ear. Damion's hummed response is inadvertently strangled into a whine.

Mulsae strokes Damion's hair to pull it up and off his face. He kisses up his neck and to his ear and whispers, "I want to hear you beg for my cock again," he emphasizes by beginning to rut his hardened length against Damion. Damion groans and buries his face into the pillow. He regrets last night so much. Mulsae is never going to let it go. He had a moment of weakness and now Mulsae is going to exploit it.

Mulsae licks up the edge of Damion's ear, "I think you like being cared for, Damion." He shivers.

Mulsae pulls on Damion to rotate him on his side so his back is nestled up against Mulsae's chest and pulls Damion's arms down in front of them. He snakes an arm to hold firmly against Damion's chest.

"I think you've never had anyone care for you before." Mulsae noses behind Damion's ear as he speaks softly, "I think you never even realized how much you've yearned to be held until I held you." He kisses behind his ear. "I think a lowborn bastard Emberai like you has never had a chance, that you've been a slave to one lifestyle only, one devoid of warmth, comfort, and care. And that isn't who you are." He nips at his ear lobe then licks the hurt. "I think you crave to have someone care for you, you crave that warmth and companionship. You crave to not be alone any more."

Mulsae's words sink into Damion and they ring true. Damion shudders and a tremble just doesn't leave him as the realization of what he's hidden deep down in the core of himself is revealed. Mulsae holds him tighter, "It's okay, you're not alone any more. I am taking care of you."

Damion takes a deep shuddering breath and continues to tremble. He misses the mother taken from him. Where a warm embrace should have been, Damion was met with bitterness. Alone night after night for decades before he earned the right to a proper tent. He tried to find his mother, reestablish that connection that was stolen from them, but only found their old home abandoned, the entire Hearthhold scattered.

Where there had previously been rage in Damion's heart, there is now loss and yearning. He feels only bitter cold and sharp wind where he wishes he felt warmth and a soothing embrace.

Mulsae squeezes him tightly again. Damion lets loose another shuddering breath. A soothing embrace like this one, he does wish someone would hold him like this, just not Mulsae. Damion's trembling settles, and Mulsae resumes his ministrations down his neck, down his spine. Mulsae reaches the spot between Damion's wings and Damion slightly arches his back.

Mulsae moves over to continue his kisses along the top edge of Damion's wing. Damion gasps and arches his back further, and Mulsae responds by bringing up his thumb to circle around a nipple. Damion sucks in a breath. No lover has ever touched his wings before, no one has ever laid their mouth on his wings before. He's angry about it, but overwhelmed with a battery of unfamiliar, exotic pleasure.

Damion's breath quickens and he clenches his hands. While continuing his ministrations on Damion's wing, Mulsae gently tugs a nipple ring then runs his hand down Damion's abdomen with a feather-light touch, over his hip, down the swell of his ass, and gently circles the circumference of the anal plug. Mulsae gently pushes against the anal plug to create shallow thrusts as he licks along the wing's feathers. Damion exhales sharply and introduces shallow thrusts of his hips as well. He's becoming lost in the warm pleasure.

Mulsae gets a firm grip on the base of the anal plug and gently works it free. He drizzles some oil on Damion's cleft and works it around and in Damion's hole. Damion whimpers from being overwhelmed. It's so much with his tingling nipples, the ministrations along his wing, and Mulsae working his hole. Damion doesn't want a repeat of last night, but he won't be able to help himself. Mulsae is learning his body well, and knows exactly how and where to touch him.

Two fingers are inserted into Damion and thrust gently. Damion writhes slightly as he becomes cocooned in pleasure. Mulsae caresses the p-spot and Damion releases panting moans and thrusts and writhes beneath Mulsae's touches on his wing and in his hole. Damion's panting quickens, his back arches further...

... and then Mulsae stills. No more kisses. No more ministrations in his hole. He's just still. Damion's breath evens out and the pleasurable cocoon around him recedes away. What is he doing?

Mulsae restarts his kissing along the wing and gently scissors the fingers in Damion's hole. He adds a third finger and gently thrusts. Damion's panting resumes and a flush spreads across his skin. Mulsae readjusts to caress that sensitive spot within Damion. He moans and thrusts. Damion's breath hitches.

And then Mulsae stops. Damion groans and buries his face in his hands. Fuuucckk. He pants shallowly. Damion wishes for the release that Mulsae is dangling in front of him, out of reach.

Mulsae removes his fingers and oils up his cock. He notches it at Damion's entrance then snakes his hand up to Damion's chest. He resumes his kisses along Damion's wing before circling a nipple with his thumb. He gently tugs a nipple ring while pressing himself into Damion's hole. He pulls the other nipple ring. Damion's back arches and his breath hitches.

The pleasurable cocoon flows over Damion like a heavy blanket that was warmed in the sun. Every inhale is a gasp and every exhale is a moan. The continual press forward of Mulsae's cock is blooming sensations across his body. The feel of the ministrations on his freshly pierced nipples is new and intriguing. His wings flutter with their own blooming pleasure radiating outward. Mulsae fully seats his cock and then...

... stops. Damion pants, waiting for what's next. The pleasurable cocoon begins to recede being replaced by stark reality. No. No no no. Just let me forget for a moment. Bring it back. He thrusts his hips and finds friction along Mulsae's stilled cock. His thrusts begin shallowly, but then become more fervent. He arches to press his back into Mulsae's face, silently urging him to keep going with his wing.

Mulsae hums in lustful approval and gently fondles one nipple ring and then the other, eliciting a satisfied moan from Damion. Mulsae starts his thrusting and as Damion starts to pant again he nibbles along his wing. Damion gasps loudly and starts thrusting with abandon. His panting quickens and a moaned, "Yes!" slips from his lips. Mulsae gives one last powerful thrust in and then...

... stops. Again. Damion loudly groans and buries his face into the pillow. He growls out a reprimanding, "Mulsae!" into the pillow. He can feel a smile spread across Mulsae's face where it rests between Damion's wings.

"Yes?" Mulsae punctuates with a kiss to Damion's back. Damion groans. "What is it? What do you want?" Damion whines and can't help but to thrust himself along Mulsae's cock a few times. "Tell me what you want." Mulsae nips between his shoulder blades.

Just fuck me already!

Mulsae hums questioningly, "Say that again?"

Just fuck me, you asshole.

Mulsae hums again, "I can't hear you."

Damion groans and turns his head forward. "Fuck me," he whispers.

Mulsae thrusts a couple times then stops, "You want me to fuck you?"

"Just please, let me cum."

"It would be my pleasure, Damion." Mulsae resumes his thrusting, mouthing along the wing, and fondling of the nipple rings. Damion breathes deeply and as the cocoon of pleasure envelopes him again he begins to pant and thrusts along to meet with Mulsae. The radiating pleasure from his wing, nipples, and core all grow into and entangle with each other. His entire body feels great.

"Oh gods!" Damion gasps.

"Should I stop?" Mulsae can almost not resist a chuckle.

"Gods, no!" Damion breathes heavily, "Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop..." Damion babbles away.

Damion and Mulsae get lost writhing with each other, selfishly taking what they want from the other. Damion's vision starts turning white at the edges and the pleasure spikes to a level he's never experienced before. He is no where and nothing but this growing wave of pleasurable sensations.

"Oh gods!" Damion yells out! His vision turns completely white and the balloon of pleasure pops and releases a fountain of bubbling waves rippling through his body from his center to the tips of his fingers and toes. Damion collapses spent and wrung out.

Mulsae holds him tightly while panting heavily into his back, sending puffs of warm air along his wing. Damion shivers every time Mulsae exhales, but it's slowing down the receding of the pleasurable cocoon so he doesn't complain. Damion is so focused entirely on how great he feels that he doesn't even notice as he slips into the oblivion of sleep.

=*=

Damion wakes to warm kisses along his neck and shoulder as he feels the odd sensation of Mulsae slowly pulling himself out of Damion's hole. Mulsae climbs off the bed and leaves for awhile then returns with a warm wet cloth. He gently wipes off Damion's chest, his inner thighs, and up the cleft of his ass. He then gently inserts the anal plug.

Mulsae caresses Damion's hair and softly says, "You'll have to get up in a few minutes. I'm going to get dressed and then we'll go."

Mulsae dresses himself and as he walks over to a chair with his shoes he announces, "Get up, put on your shoes, it's time to go." Mulsae sits to tie up his own shoes while Damion sits up on the edge of the bed and slips on his shoes. He can't tie them with a bag over his hands, so he just stuffs the laces into the shoes. Damion stands up with a jingle of the bell on the guiche piercing. He rolls his eyes at the ridiculousness of it.

Mulsae leads them through the war camp, no leash needed, and bell jingling all the way. They make an uneventful trip to the latrines then make their way to the prisoner cages. Damion's steps falter as they approach the prisoners. He keeps his eyes ahead, not looking directly at them.

The prisoners are still subdued, mostly sitting isolated, each in their own depressed thoughts of life after being pinioned. As the prisoners start noticing Damion's approach, many shift to speak in low tones to each other. Their speech is quiet, so everything they say cannot be heard, but the occasional word drifts out louder than the rest: naked, tattoos, plug, disgrace, ass, embarrassment, bell, die.

But what seizes Damion's core is hearing "Whore." The word 'whore' implies he's selling himself. He isn't. He's being stolen, getting nothing in return. But is this how his soldiers are thinking of him? That he's selling himself out?

Mulsae is guided around the prisoners' area by someone while they talk and Damion dutifully follows. The bell jingles with every step. All eyes of the prisoners are following his movements. Judging. Harshly. Disapproving. Damion's stomach sinks.

Mulsae's meeting is complete and they make their journey through the war camp away from the prisoners and back towards the heart of the camp. They step inside unfamiliar tents occupied by unfamiliar people. Mulsae speaks with them before moving on to the next tent while Damion dutifully stands just behind Mulsae's left. Everyone they meet with rakes their eyes up and down Damion's naked, tattooed form. Some smirk, and others openly chuckle. A few make a comment about Damion, and Mulsae deftly redirects the conversation back to the matter at hand.

They approach a large, long tent and enter. Both sides of the tent have a long row of cots with injured soldiers lying on each. Mulsae points to a spot to the side of the entrance, "Kneel." Damion obeys. "Stay," Mulsae says out loud but then provides details in Damion's mind. Do not move. Do not lash out at anyone. You know I can catch you, and you know the consequences of disobeying. Do you understand?

"Yes," Damion responds with a curt nod. Mulsae returns the curt nod and walks down the center aisle with his hands in his pockets.

He walks to the far side of the tent and speaks with some of the staff. He then makes his way forward, stopping at every cot to speak with the soldier there. He sits next to most of them and speaks at length. Mulsae is always facing Damion's direction while speaking with the patients, keeping him in his line of sight.

People walk in and out of the tent with regularity. Most seem startled to see Damion kneeling there. Some are puzzled. Some scowl. A few even spit on him, which he just wipes away with the side of his arm.

One person actually crouched down in front of him and asked if he was okay and needed help with anything. He didn't know how to respond. He looked at them wide eyed for a moment, then shifted his eyes towards Mulsae before shifting them back. The helpful person glanced at Mulsae briefly, then nodded and said, "I understand," before standing back up and walking away.

Mulsae completes his rounds, and as he starts to exit the tent he says, "Damion, heel." Damion scrambles up and stumbles on his numb legs to catch up to him.

Mulsae leads them back to his tent. He goes to the table, picks up the riptide collar, and puts it around Damion's neck while saying, "We're going home." He picks up the matching riptide ring and puts it on. "It's a distance from here. We're going to fly back. People will pack up my tent later, but for now I'm no longer needed here." He puts his hands on Damion's shoulders and smiles. "You'll like it at home. It's much more comfortable than here."

Mulsae putters around the tent packing a bag. He puts in a couple water bottles, a first aid kit, and some field rations. Damion watches and thinks about how much he doesn't want to go to Drenvaar, the City of the Cutting Deep. All he has heard is that it is dark and cutthroat. But he has no choice. His life now is to follow Mulsae.

And follow Mulsae he does. They leave the tent and Mulsae summons his wings and flares them wide. The bag is strapped across his chest. "Ready to fly? It's a long trip. Just think to me if you need anything. Do you understand?" Damion nods. Mulsae smiles, "Then let's go!" He jumps into the air and Damion follows.

They fly southwest. The great canyon of the Water Sanctum lies far in the distance, barely a crack along the horizon, but unmistakable, a dark cleft etched deep into the earth. Drenvaar, the Sanctum's capital city, is carved into those sheer canyon walls. They will follow the river south until they arrive.

It will take a while for them to reach the canyon and the river that feeds it. For now, the land beneath them is quiet, brooding, and strangely soft in its contours. The ground ripples with low, forested hills and hidden gullies. The trees grow thick and close, branches draped in silver-leaf moss and old lichen. Mist clings to the hollows, refusing to lift even in morning light.

They pass no roads. Only narrow footpaths curve through the undergrowth like veins in stone. Occasionally, a thin wisp of chimney smoke marks a home half-hidden in the wooded hills. They're modest, cautious dwellings tucked beneath overhangs or folded into cliffside alcoves, always close to natural springs. Water glimmers faintly wherever the land sinks: in fern-choked ravines, in crescent-shaped ponds, in slow-dripping caves.

They fly without speaking. Damion just watches the landscape roll by beneath them. And then the soft hills fall away without warning. What had once been a gently folding land suddenly tears open, vast and violent. The canyon splits the earth like a scar gouged by the hand of a god, its walls steep and wet with mist. Trees cling to the cliffsides, roots twisted deep into cracks, their canopies drooping over the edge like offerings to the drop below.

The air grows colder as they near, filled with the roar of water rising up from somewhere unseen. And then the river appears glinting far, far below, as a silver ribbon curling between the canyon's black walls.

Mulsae leads them into the canyon. Water shines on every surface. Moisture beads along the rock faces. And the deeper they descend, the more the outside world disappears, replaced by shadow and spray and the steady thrum of a hidden world.

Mulsae banks smoothly toward a narrow shelf on the riverbank. Damion follows. The air is damp and rich with the scent of wet stone and moss. The canyon muffles every sound except the river's voice, which dominates, endless and deep, like breath pulled through a thousand mouths. It isn't a gentle stream. It's a wide, muscular current that moves with quiet strength, its surface smooth in places and churning in others, cutting around mossy boulders and disappearing into the mist.

They land on a rocky stretch just beyond the water's edge. Slick pebbles shift underfoot. The rock is dark with moisture, slick in patches with algae and the slow drip of condensation. Ferns grow from cracks in the canyon wall, their green vibrant against the gray. Above them, the sky is nothing but a narrow slit of pale light, blurred by rising mist. Everything smells of minerals and memory. It feels like stepping into a place that hasn't changed in a thousand years.

"How was the flight?" Mulsae asks.

"Fine." Damion answers curtly. Mulsae huffs a laugh and shakes his head.

"Let's break and eat," he says as he removes the bag from his chest. He walks over to a wide low boulder and sits. He taps the stone next to him, "Come, sit." Damion obeys. "I'm not going to have you kneel on the gravel. That's just cruel." That's what's finally considered cruel to him?! Damion rolls his eyes.

Mulsae pulls out a small box of rations and opens it. "I would normally have you feed yourself something like this, but your hands are bagged." He looks over at Damion, "And why are your hands bagged?"

"I attacked someone," he replies.

"Precisely. You can earn them back, but I need to be able to trust you to not attack people." Damion nods.

Mulsae feeds Damion by hand first, then opens another package of rations that he eats himself. He helps Damion drink some water before drinking any himself. Once done he packs up the bag and buttons it shut.

"We have to do another two legs like this last leg before we get home. We'll take another break, but definitely let me know if you need a break before then." Damion looks at him quizzically while nodding. "What?"

"I thought Drenvaar was further south." Damion muses.

Mulsae smirks. "We're not going to Drenvaar. I don't live there. My family has always lived separately, between the Cutting and Blooming Deeps." Blooming Deep? The Cutting Deep is Drenvaar, but what is the Blooming Deep?

Mulsae slaps Damion on the back. "Of course you wouldn't know. I'll show you sometime." Damion furrows his brow. "Ready to go?" He shrugs and nods. Mulsae puts on the bag and then takes off into the sky. Damion dutifully follows.

They fly above the chasm, following the wide ribbon of river that carves steadily south through the Sanctum. From this height, Damion can see life tucked into every bend of the canyon. Stone-cut staircases wind down the cliffs to small villages perched on ledges or nestled in carved-out alcoves. They're clusters of slate roofs, drying nets, and glowing lanterns that bob gently in the mist. Smoke curls from narrow chimneys.

Boats drift on the river. Broad, low-decked vessels laden with baskets and barrels are steered by Sky-Touched persons bending the river's water to their will. Some boats move alone, others cluster in processions with ropes tying them together like beads on a string.

The bridges that span the canyon vary wildly in design. Some are no more than swaying ropes and wooden planks, patched with rawhide and prayers. Others are solid spans of cut stone, carved with wave motifs and talisman. A few arch high across the narrowest sections of the gorge, engineering marvels that gleam faintly with protective magic, their surfaces etched with the flowing scripts of old masters.

Villagers pause in their work as the two winged figures pass overhead. Most simply watch. A few bow. One tosses water into the air as a blessing, maybe, or a silent hope the Water Sanctum still sees them.

Mulsae has them land on a narrow stretch of rock-studded bank just downriver from a small village pressed against the canyon wall. The buildings are shaped by the terrain, tall and narrow where space is tight, built outward on stilts or platforms where the cliff juts. Most are made of river stone and dark wood, bound with lacquered ropes or copper hinges that glint in the sun. Their roofs are gently sloped and tiled in slate or moss-covered thatch, meant to channel rainwater into collection jars.

Wooden docks stretch from the lower tier of buildings, anchored by thick poles driven deep into the canyon floor. Rope ladders, pulley baskets, and winding staircases connect the riverside homes to their cliffside neighbors higher up. Everywhere there is motion: children hauling fish nets, elders patching hulls, women coiling ropes and hanging laundry between boat masts.

It's clear this village lives and breathes with the river. Every building, every pathway, every task bends toward it, dependent on its gifts and shaped by its temperament.

Mulsae leads them to sit on a large log that had washed up on the shore. He pulls the water bottles out of the bag and helps Damion drink it. They sit and watch over the children playing on the riverbank, the village breathing, and the river flowing while they rehydrate.

The gaggle of children notice them and run up to greet them. Their voices stumble over each other as each wants to be heard.

"Who are you?"

"We haven't seen you before."

"Why are you here?"

"Emberai don't come here!"

"Can I see your wings?"

"Can I touch your wings?"

"Why is he naked?"

Mulsae stands to meet the children with a wide smile. He watches with mirth in his eyes as they all chime in with their voices. He finally raises a hand and all the children promptly hush. "One at a time." He points to the nearest child, "You."

"Who are you?"

"I'm your Sanctum Master."

The gaggle gasps in unison. They erupt in exclamations and more questions. Mulsae raises a hand again and they again quiet at the gesture. He points to the next child, "What's your question?"

"Why are you here?"

"Did you hear about the civil war with Scaldmere?" They express they have. "We won, and now I am heading home."

"I thought Sanctum Masters were Sky-Touched."

"They are."

"But you have wings."

"I am also Windborne. My mother was Emberai."

"Can I see your wings?"

"Sure." He turns, crouches down, and flares out his wings. The kids swarm him at all sides to look at him closely. "You can touch them if you want."

They reach out their little hands and feel his feathers. Their fingers trail across the smooth curve of bone and the downy feathers near the base. One gasps when a flight feather twitches under their touch. Another runs both hands over the long edge like they're petting a prized goat. Damion is flabbergasted. It would be my worst nightmare to be swarmed by children trying to touch my wings.

"Why is he naked?" the child points at Damion.

"He is the Harbinger of the Flood." The children gasp again. Everyone has heard of the Harbinger of the Flood, the most famous of the Emberai. "I have taken him prisoner to teach Scaldmere to not rebel any more."

"He's not the Harbinger," one kid exclaims incredulously, "My cousin said he saw him once and he was really huge and scary!"

"He's still quite scary! Just not to me."

"But why is he naked?"

"I'm bringing him shame. I need the Emberai to think more clearly before they start a rebellion again. They're too rash, and I need their heads to cool." The children have settled around Mulsae, some sitting on the ground listening to him.

"How did you capture him?"

"Well," Mulsae sits on the ground and gets comfortable, "Our last battle was five days ago..." He proceeds to tell an elaborate story of the battle, how they out-strategized the Emberai rebels and got Damion to admit defeat and surrender. The children watch him wide eyed listening attentively. They ask more questions and Mulsae patiently answers.

Damion is surprised this side of Mulsae exists. He's so patient and gentle with the children. He watches his smile and the ease in his posture as he sits cross legged on the rocky shore. He's seen so many different parts of this man. How can one person be so evil yet so kind?

Finally, Mulsae announces its time for he and Damion to get back to their trip home. The gaggle whine their displeasure, and he tells them he was happy to meet them. He packs up the bag and puts it back on. He guides Damion away from the children, then waves at them good bye and takes off in the sky with Damion on his heels. As they rise into the sky, Damion keeps glancing back at the riverbank, unsure which image will haunt him more: the children's laughter or Mulsae's smile.

They continue to fly south following the river's path, passing tiny villages and homes tucked along the canyon. The wind shifts with the narrowing of the gorge, rising in sharp updrafts that make the flight more work than glide. Time stretches as the scenery repeats. Water glints below, stone rises on either side, and the occasional flash of color from a passing ferry or hanging laundry. Damion loses track of how many bridges they pass. After a while, even the roar of the river becomes background noise.

In the distance, the canyon reveals its crown: the largest bridge Damion has ever seen. It is magnificent, with two structures anchoring it on either side. It's less a bridge and more a suspended plaza, swelling in the center where a small park nestles between twin lanes. Three trees shade benches. A stone fountain trickles beside carefully tended greenery.

Beneath the plaza, an elegant structure clings to its underside, its wide windows catching the canyon light. Below that, more structure is built into the canyon walls, dripping down it like stalactites to the canyon floor. The structures lead out to large platforms serving as patios and docks that line either side of the river.

As they near, Damion notes the architecture is as divided as Mulsae himself. The western side is all cut corners and barren stone walls and terraces. But the eastern side flows and turns, with undulating walls, arched windows, wooden terraces, and slate rooftops. It blooms with life from vines, planters, and trees. One side a fortress, the other a sanctuary.

They grow closer and Mulsae descends towards this grand structure. This is apparently their destination. They circle once around it and then land in the middle of the plaza-like bridge near the small green area with the fountain.

Mulsae dismisses his wings and slings the bag from his chest to his back. "Welcome home, Damion."

Damion's eyes widen and he gazes around him to take a closer look at this structure. "What is this place?"

"This has been the home of the Water Master and their family for as long as we can remember. It's grown over time. We have spread along the canyon walls when we need more space. But now..." Mulsae runs his hand through his hair. Now it's only you, Damion remembers his family's slaughter.

"Now it's only me." He sighs. "We've never kept a staff here." He gestures for Damion to follow while he talks. He heads towards the western structure that is more barren, cold, and sharp-edged. "My family has relied on spirits for maintenance. Unfortunately, after they died, the knowledge of how to maintain most of the spirits died with them. I was only familiar with some of the rituals so I've only been able to attract a bare minimum of spirits."

They enter the tunnel that goes through the western building, and small clusters of shimmering light start to dance around Damion. He watches them as Mulsae leads them to a grand set of double doors. They're seamless slabs of dark stone, etched with angular sigils that catch the light like blades. The handles are cold-forged iron, shaped like interlocked restraints.

But Mulsae doesn't go to the doors, he goes to a small alcove next to the door that's no taller than his midsection. He kneels before it. "Kneel." So Damion kneels before it, too. The alcove is framed by carved eaves and flanked with twin lanterns that burn low. Inside rests a smooth black altar stone with a shallow bowl and a single incense holder. Above it, a sigil is etched into the back of the alcove.

Mulsae lights the incense from the lantern's flame and sets it in the holder. "I've come home. Thank you for watching the manor while I was away. I've brought a new resident to live here with us. I ask you to receive him under your watch." The dancing lights descend before them and seem to examine Damion.

Tell the guardian spirit you would appreciate their protection, Mulsae's voice floats through his mind.

"I..." Damion swallows, mildly confused, "I would appreciate your protection."

"May you please receive him under your watch," Mulsae adds. The shimmering lights swirl around Damion, slow at first, then gaining speed until they whirl in a cyclone of color and motion. He holds his breath. Then, all at once, the lights shoot upward and vanish.

Mulsae smiles at Damion and stands. He puts his hand on the door handle and jerks his chin to indicate for Damion to stand and follow. Damion rises, still feeling the hum of the spirit's approval lingering in his chest. Mulsae opens a door and it moves inward with a resonant groan. A breath of cool, still air washes out like the manor itself is exhaling.

Inside is wide and symmetrical, every angle sharp, every surface polished. Geometric tiles of dark stone stretch across the floor in rigid patterns, reflecting the soft, indirect glow of recessed lanterns. No warmth. No clutter. Only deliberate emptiness that speaks of control.

A formal seating area rests in a sunken quadrangle of smooth obsidian flooring. Four straight-backed chairs sit equidistant around a a low blackwood table. The chairs are stiff, unyielding, and without cushion. Behind them, a carved stone screen veils the presence of a modest brazier, more symbolic than warming. It emits a low, steady heat. Every piece whispers the same message: power is not meant to be comfortable.

The western side of the room holds a grand, curved stairwell rising upward, mirrored by a matching stairwell that scoops downward. The rising staircase is open, airy, while the descending staircase is wrapped in polished black granite. The treads are white marble, the centers of which are slightly indented from being worn down by generations of use.

Mulsae leads them to the staircase and they descend. The walls curve around the stairs and sparkle from the embedded mica that catches the lantern light like flecks of ice. Each landing leads to a unique set of closed double doors, varying in design as they descend. And there are many landings. As they descend, the treads are less worn indicating the lower levels are newer. Their footsteps echo in the stairwell, and the air becomes colder.

Damion counts ten landings in all before they reach the bottom. Here, the double doors are carved from dark blue basalt, polished to a sheen that catches the lantern light in slick, wet streaks. Veins of silver ripple through the stone in harsh, jagged lines, like rushing water forced through a blade's edge. The handles are slim vertical bars of forged obsidian. Mulsae pushes the doors open and takes a moment to prop both to stay open.

Inside is a hallway with undulating, rippling blue light just beyond it. Damion follows Mulsae, and when they enter the chamber beyond, he stops short, stunned. Mulsae pauses with a grin and watches Damion swivel his head around.

Because they have entered a room under the river. It visibly rushes above them, and the northern wall is simply more river. The roar of the rushing water above is strangely muffled, transformed into a low, echoing hush like a temple underwater. Damion drifts over to the wall of water like a magnet and examines it closely. He reaches his bound and bagged hands out and feels a hard surface in front of the water. A translucent barrier, so clear it's nearly invisible, holds back the rushing current. Cold radiates from it, and tiny drops cling to the edges like dew on glass. He gazes out into the water and sees actual fish swimming by.

Damion turns around, wide eyed. "How?"

Mulsae huffs a laugh, "Generations and generations of Water Masters."

Damion blinks and shakes his head. "It's amazing."

Mulsae looks around him trying to see it all for the first time like Damion is, then he levels his gaze to him. "You live here now." Mulsae gestures to the walls, the water, the light. "This is your home."

Damion turns again, still awestruck. I suppose if I have to be in prison, an incredibly beautiful prison is a good place to be. It's all too much, too beautiful, too calm, too confusing. He should feel afraid. But some part of him, long tired, only feels heavy.

"Come. Let's wash the grime of the war camp off of us." He looks down at himself. "Gods, I could use a good hot bath." He gestures to Damion and continues eastwards down the hallway. Damion dashes across the room to catch up.

They walk down the hallway and into another room, this time with its southern wall open to the river's flow sweeping by. Down another hallway, and into a room that is very similar to the first room with the north wall open to the river. Here, there is a set of double doors on the south wall.

The right door is identical to the blue stone doors with rippling silver veining found in the stairwell. The left door is completely different. Made of pale wood, its natural grain flows like currents. Carved lines enhance this motion with cascading waves and flowering reeds. Its handle resembles smooth river stones bound in twisted bronze vines.

Mulsae opens the right door and ushers Damion in. There is a short hallway with an open door on either side. The right door leads to a brightly lit white marble bathing chamber. The left door leads to a warmly lit clothing chamber lined with clothes and shoes.

The south wall is made of water, flowing past just beyond the invisible barrier. Fish dart by, and tiny twigs swirl in the current. In front of this living wall sits the bed: wide, imposing, carved from deep, dark wood. Its headboard rises like a fan, precise and angular, but softened by a silk inlay of blooming pale lotuses. Power, held in grace.

To the right, the western wall holds perfectly square shelves, each displaying a single item under focused light. Just beyond stands a desk of black-lacquered wood, with a polished stone surface holding only calligraphy tools and parchment.

To the left, the eastern wall is cluttered and alive. Books and artifacts spill across wide shelves, arranged by use, not order. A sunken hearth anchors the space, surrounded by plush couches and chairs strewn with pillows and blankets. The polished stone floor is softened by warm-toned rugs.

Mulsae allows Damian to glance around a little before ushering him towards the bathing chamber. He flicks a wrist and the bath automatically starts to fill with steaming water. Mulsae approaches the counter top and removes a bottle of lotion from a drawer. He lifts Damion's hands, removes the bag around them and then the cuffs around his wrists and places them aside. He pours some of the lotion on his hands and starts to massage Damion's wrists. It's welcome after wearing the cuffs for five days.

The long counter is backed by an equally large mirror. Out of the corner of his eye, Damion looks at himself for the first time in weeks. There is a large purpling bruise with a bite mark in the center on his shoulder. Hickies line his shoulders and neck. Bruises of fingerprints line his torso and cluster around his hips. And he sees the tattoos on his arms, chest, abs, hips, and ass cheeks. They're beautiful, but foreign. He's been changed. He'll never be the same again.

"Give your arms and shoulders a good stretch," Mulsae commands. Damion doesn't need to be told twice! His hands have been stuck together in cuffs for five days. He steps back and stretches his arms out and rolls his shoulders. He moves them every which way, and stretches them above his head and behind his back. It feels glorious.

Once he's done stretching, Mulsae commands, "Turn and face the mirror. Hands on the counter." Damion heart sinks, but he slowly turns and complies. "Eye contact." Damion closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before staring into Mulsea's amber eyes through the mirror.

Mulsae undresses, keeping eye contact with Damion. It's like he's putting on a show, unbuttoning his shirt and shrugging it off as if it would turn Damion on. All it does is increase the level of dread seeping under Damion's skin. Mulsae tosses his shirt and pants into the laundry bin. He takes his half hard cock into his hand and strokes it while staring into Damion's eyes through the mirror. His cock comes to full attention.

He stands behind Damion. One hand holds Damion's hip in a bruising grip, while the other hand drags from his hip, up his abdomen, over his chest and stops to firmly hold Damion's neck while pressing his hardened length into Damion's ass cheek. Damion's breath hitches at having his neck held this way. He doesn't want to be strangled.

Mulsae pulls Damion's neck back towards himself and says in his ear, "You're going to watch me fuck you. You're going to watch yourself shatter beneath my cock." Damion closes his eyes to give himself a moment to maintain his composure then resumes eye contact with a neutral expression.

Mulsae gently removes the anal plug and tosses it in the sink. He pours oil down Damion's cleft and works it into his hole. When Mulsae penetrates him with two fingers, Damion watches himself wince and sees for the first time all the facial expressions he betrays as fingers are thrust into his hole.

Mulsae scissors his fingers and works his way up to three fingers. He finds Damion's favorite spot and Damion watches himself gasp and a flush start to spread across his cheeks and down his neck. His lips part and he leans forward slightly.

Mulsae pulls out his fingers then oils his cock. He positions his cock at Damion's entrance and gets a firm grip on his hips. Mulsae leans forward and hoarsely says, "Hold on tight." Mulsae pushes forward fast. Damion gasps, leans forward and slams a palm against the mirror as he groans. His head falls forward and he's panting.

"Look at yourself, Damion." He looks up and sees his mouth gaping open and panting deeply. He sees Mulsae behind him with a devilish smile, pulling Damion's hips towards him as Mulsae presses his cock forward inside him. "Oh gods," Damion gasps.

Mulsae seats himself and without a moment's reprieve starts a swift thrusting. Damion punches the countertop with his other hand. He tries to cope for a few thrusts but then exclaims, "Ahhh, too much! Too much!"

"Yes, it's a lot," Mulsae acknowledges without breaking his stride.

Damion's flush runs down his chest and burns his skin. His legs turn to jelly as he tries desperately to keep his core relaxed and his body pliant so he doesn't get hurt. But the sensations of being thrusted into with such little warm up is creating a massive overwhelm from the top of his head to the tips of his toes.

"Mulsae, really, this is too much!" Damion pleads. Tears bead at his eyes. Mulsea's speed and force quickens. The front of Damion's thighs are digging into the edge of the counter.

"Stop! Mulsae, Stop!"

"No."

Damion's forehead falls against the mirror. Mulsae pulls back his head with his hair, "Look at yourself," he growls. He wraps his hand around his hair to create a painful grip that tugs strands from their roots.

Damion sees his head cocked awkwardly and his mouth gaping open. Tears run down his face. He's grimacing in pain.

"Stop!" Damion sobs. "Gods, please, stop."

Mulsae snaps his hips and practically lifts Damion off his heels with every thrust. "Look at yourself, Damion. Look at how pathetic and helpless you are. Look at how you take my cock. Look at how you beg for it to end." Tears stream down Damion's face.

Mulsae groans and stills with a final thrust, while pulling Damion's head back even further with his painful grip. "I do whatever I want to you, whenever I want to," Mulsae growls in Damion's ear. Damion whimpers at the truth of his words.

Mulsae yanks himself out then slams Damion's head into the counter. He jams two fingers into Damion's hole and finds the prostate. There's no pleasure. This is pure milking. Everything Damion feels is tinged in an uncomfortable white sharpness. He squirms and punches a fist into the counter. But he can feel an orgasm building, and it's nothing good. It just is. It's powerful, and overwhelming, and overtakes his body with force.

Damion yells out as he's crushed with a decidedly unpleasurable orgasm. It's twisted and sharp and leaves him with nothing but exhaustion.

In one swift movement, Mulsae yanks his fingers out and releases Damion's hair and steps back. Damion whimpers and slowly slides back off the counter, collapses to his knees on the floor and leans his face against the cabinet. Tears continue to fall.

Mulsae turns on the sink and can be heard washing things. Damion feels Mulsae's seed drip out of his hole and onto the floor while he waits and recuperates. He's a hole to fuck. Cum dumpster.

The sink turns off and Mulsae pulls back Damion's face and roughly wipes it off with a hot wet cloth. He then crouches down and Damion hisses when Mulsae runs the cloth along his freshly abused hole. Mulsae grabs the anal plug off the counter and firmly presses it into Damion, who whimpers at the intrusion.

Damion kneels limply leaning against the counter's cabinet, and hears Mulsae walk away and then water lightly pouring followed by a loud yet brief gush sound. Mulsae then calls out, "Damion, come."

Damion groans. He moves his legs and his asshole protests, demanding stillness in order to recuperate. He slowly, but steadily moves away from the counter and stands up. He sees Mulsae standing next to the toilet. He lumbers over and when he arrives Mulsae tells him to sit and relieve himself.

Damion sits on the toilet. Mulsae is still quite close, crowding him. It was one thing trying to squeeze into a tiny latrine, but now they're in a large spacious bathing chamber. Why stand so close? Damion sighs. It's gotten easier to pee in his presence these past few days. He stares down at the tiled floor and his piss flows freely.

Damion stands and notices urine filled water at the bottom of the toilet. He's only ever used a latrine in his life so he isn't familiar with how modern indoor toilets work. "When you're done, you press down this handle," Mulsae instructs while pointing to a handle attached to the box behind the toilet.

Damion reaches over and presses down the handle. He's startled momentarily as he hears that gush sound again and sees the water in the bottom of the toilet slurp away. Mulsae barks a laugh and slaps a hand on Damion's shoulder, "Looks like there's a lot of new things you'll be encountering." Mulsae jerks his chin towards the tub, "Kneel at the foot of the tub."

Damion settles himself into proper kneeling position, and tries to straighten his back. He realizes he doesn't know what he's supposed to do with his hands, so he just clasps them in front of himself.

Mulsae slips into the hot water with a satisfied groan. "The baths at camp are never this warm," Mulsae comments as he sinks into the water up to his ears. He closes his eyes in bliss.

Mulsae then sits up and leans against the back of the tub. "This is your new home. What do you think?"

"It's fine," Damion says hoarsely.

Mulsae smirks, "I shouldn't have expected anything else from you," he chuckles softly to himself. "I'm taking the rest of the day off. My Voice for Lirae is coming by, but it's more of a social visit than a governing visit." Damion merely stares blankly, exhausted, "We have the afternoon just you and I, though."

Just the two of us. Great. That's code for 'more fucking' I suppose. Damion visibly deflates. Mulsae gives a devilish grin. I don't think I can take anymore. Damion's eyes begin to water again.

Mulsae washes himself up then gets out of the bath and towels himself off. Once done, Mulsae approaches an alcove and commands Damion to join him. He stands on unsteady legs and lumbers over to stand next to Mulsae, looking into the alcove.

"This is a modern shower. You'll be expected to wash yourself from now on," Mulsae instructs. Damion is familiar with showers at the Hearthholds of Scaldmere but has never seen anything like this. The entire alcove is lined in white tile. Near the ceiling he sees what he recognizes as a shower head but the rest is foreign to him. Mulsae instructs how the faucets work to turn on the water and adjust the temperature. Adjust the temperature?! Damion thinks eagerly to himself, I can have warm water?!

Mulsae snickers, "Yes, you can have warm water. Go ahead, adjust the temperature to your liking. Just keep in mind it takes a minute before the temperature of the water catches up to the changes you make to the faucets." Damion puts his hand under the water and turns the knobs of the faucets. He feels the water turn hotter and colder as he moves the knobs. He finally chooses a comfortable warm temperature.

"Get in, get wet." Damion gingerly steps in and instantly falls in love with the feeling of warm water pouring over his head, shoulders, and wings. He closes his eyes savoring every moment.

"This is the body soap," Mulsae points to a bar of soap, "and this is shampoo and conditioner," he points to two bottles. Damion looks up to Mulsae with a puzzled expression. "Shampoo and conditioner is special soap for your hair," he fingers Damion's wet locks, "It'll make your hair silky and soft." Damion nods.

"Whenever you shower you're going to have to clean your hole." Damion stills. His throat bobs as he swallows. "I'll walk you through the process now." Damion nods hesitantly.

"Squat down." Damion lowers himself on shaky legs.

"Take out the anal plug." Damion takes a deep breath before reaching down and feeling the anal plug for the first time. He tenderly runs his fingers around the base to get an idea of what it's shaped like. He finds a grip and gently wiggles and pulls at it as he works it out of himself with a pronounced grimace on his face. He drops the anal plug to the ground. He feels seed drip out of his hole.

"Put a finger or two inside yourself and clean yourself out." Damion closes his eyes and takes a shaky breath. He slowly inserts a finger inside of himself. He's tender and sore. He feels there is slime in there. "Hook a finger around my seed and drag it out." Damion shudders as he swipes around inside himself and slides out a gob of seed. He's so sore his hole aches at the movement. "Keep going until there is nothing left." Fuuucckk. It feels weird and uncomfortable and it's gross. Damion continues to finger himself until he finds nothing else. He's now become more familiar with his hole than he's ever wanted to in his life.

"Wash the anal plug with the body soap." Damion takes the body soap and lathers up his hands before picking up the anal plug. He's getting his first real look at this object that has been inside of him this entire time. It's large and black. He can't believe it's been fitting inside him this whole time. He completes washing it.

"Now put the anal plug back in." Damion lets loose a heavy inhale and exhale. He gets on his knees and leans against the wall. He positions the anal plug at his hole and pushes in. It's not going easily. Water is not a lubricant. He takes a deep breath and firmly pushes in as he slowly exhales. He barely makes progress.

"It's not working," Damion pleads.

"Make it work," Mulsae demands. Damion whimpers. He tries spreading his knees and squatting further. He presses the anal plug in more firmly as he lets out a gasping whine. He's made more progress but it's agonizing against his abused hole.

"Try slowly thrusting in and out, pushing further with each trust in." Damion glances over at Mulsae and sees that he's grasped his cock and is languidly stroking himself. Fuck.

Damion tries the suggestion, slowly thrusting the plug in and out, trying to push deeper and deeper. It's going slowly, but actually making progress. He's panting and needs to take a break for a moment.

"Keep going," Mulsae demands.

"I just... I just need a moment," Damion pants. Damion takes a few deep breaths then starts up again, slowly thrusting in and out trying to push it in place. Damion gasps when he finally works it over the flare and his hole greedily grasps the plug into place. Damion slowly lowers himself to the floor of the shower and curls up. He feels so full and weighed down.

"Get up and finish washing yourself," Mulsae commands. Damion groans and slowly drags himself up off the floor and back onto his feet.

"Start with your hair. Pour some shampoo in your hand then lather up your hair." Damion grabs a bottle. "No, that's the conditioner, I said the shampoo." Damion switches to the other bottle.

"Wait..." Mulsae says. Damion stills. "Can you read?" Damion slowly slides his eyes towards Mulsae then shakes his head. Mulsae eyes pop open as wide as saucers.

Mulsae blinks a few times then runs his hands through his hair as he paces back and forth. "I've known that Emberai don't educate bastards, but to see it first hand is just mind blowing!" Mulsae turns to face Damion, "But you're the Harbinger of the Flood! You've lead soldiers into battle!"

"I can read a map!" Damion snaps, then says more softly, "They didn't need anything more from me than that."

"Ok, well," Mulsae clears his throat, "Let's table it and readdress this issue later." Damion looks at him quizzically.

"Wash your hair. With the shampoo." Damion shrugs and lathers up his hair. He puts his head under the hot water and luxuriates in how incredible it feels to have the water running over his hair.

"Now the conditioner." Damion pours the conditioner in his hands and is puzzled by the silky nature of the cream. "It makes your hair soft," Mulsae explains. Damion runs the silky cream through his locks and rinses it out.

"Alright, wash yourself with the soap and get out when you're done," Mulsae says while walking out of sight in the direction of the counter. Damion can hear a drawer open and some things being taken out and put on the counter.

Damion soaps himself up then leans under the shower to rinse off. It feels great. He leans forward pressing his forehead on the wall and letting the water run over his wings. It feels amazing. After minutes, hours, or days, he doesn't know, Damion drifts downward, sinking onto the floor. Hot water runs over his face. It's effortless to cry this way. Tears just join the hot water so it doesn't feel like he's crying at all.

A shadow envelops him, but he doesn't care. He doesn't budge. The shadow is a silent companion as he cries.

After quite some time a hand rests on his shoulder. Damion lets out a shuddering breath then sobs. The hand doesn't move. It just stays there on his shoulder telling him he isn't alone. But he wants to be alone. He doesn't want him here with him.

Damion opens his eyes and slides them over to look at Mulsae sitting on the floor outside the shower with one hand on Damion's shoulder. Mulsae's expression is that of sympathy. As if he has sympathy for the torture he himself is inflicting.

"Damion," Mulsae says softly, "It's time to get out of the shower."

Damion closes his eyes and nods his head. He carefully stands up, and Mulsae follows. Damion turns off the water and when he steps out Mulsae is waiting for him with an oversized fluffy towel. Mulsae drapes the towel across his back then grips it tight across his front and lays a gentle kiss on Damion's forehead. Damion looks at him puzzled, but Mulsae just walks over to the counter. Damion takes hold of the towel and dries himself off.

Mulsae gestures for him to come to the counter. "I want you to put this lotion on your skin, and this oil on your wings after every shower." Damion numbly nods and begins the process to lotion up his skin and oil his wings. Mulsae watches intently, occasionally stroking his cock.

Once he's done, Mulsae returns the lotion and oil to the drawer then commands Damion to heel. He leads them into the other side room, the 'clothing chamber' Damion supposes, because it is filled with hanging clothes, shelves, and drawers with a three-paneled mirror at the far end.

Damion drifts over to the mirror to look at himself while Mulsae picks through his clothing. There he is now, the new version of himself. The version of him tattooed from shoulder to toe. It's beautiful, but it's different. He's been changed. He turns slightly to look at his ass and his heart deflates that the tattoo around his hole can be seen between his ass cheeks. Fuck.

Through the mirror, Damion watches Mulsae approach him with a large square of black leather with buckles on it. Now what?

"Hands behind your back," Mulsae says coolly. Damion puts his hands behind him. Mulsae ensures his shoulders are loose and relaxed then gently bends both arms at the elbow so one is resting above the other just under the joints of his wings. He snakes the buckled leather around his arms and wraps it in place then buckles it firmly. Damion's arms are trapped behind him.

Mulsae grasps Damion's shoulders and looks him in the eye through the mirror. "You lost the privilege of using your hands during the day. Do you remember why?"

Damion's throat bobs as he swallows. "Because I attacked someone," he says hoarsely.

"Yes. You attacked someone and have lost privileges because of it. You'll be wearing this during the day until you earn the privilege of using your hands again. Do you understand?" Damion nods numbly.

"Good boy," Mulsae coos, but Damion's heart sinks.

Mulsae removes the two collars around Damion's neck: the riptide collar, and the collar with the talisman preventing him from dismissing his wings. While Mulsae puts the collars in a drawer, Damion dismisses his wings and folds them into the Spirit Realm.

Mulsae turns back and huffs a laugh. "You've been waiting this whole time to dismiss them?" Damion nods. I don't feel safe with them out, he thinks.

"I wasn't raised with the same fear about my wings as you all are over in Scaldmere."

Mulsae leads them out of the bed chamber and heads right, east towards the other wing. There are another two open rooms like the western side, except that they have warm lighting, expansive plush furniture and sunken hearths at their centers.

They reach the stairwell and the doors are pale wood with carvings and handles in the same motif as the other door to Mulsae's bed chamber. Mulsae props these doors open and leads into the stairwell. This stairwell is entirely wood. The treads, dark and smooth, show little wear, seeming to have been replaced here and there over time. The walls are a pale wood and carved with life under water. Damion recognizes the shapes of so many different fish, many larger than he ever thought possible. Some creatures have fishlike fins but strange, almost feline faces, startling in their whimsy. This stairwell has a banister made of copper that twists on itself like rope.

Mulsae leads them up many landings, each with a set of uniquely carved double doors. This manor is enormous. And quiet. Damion hasn't heard or seen any signs of other people. Gods, this place is huge, and... empty. Doesn't anyone else live here?

"No, no one else lives here," Mulsae sighs, "This has only been for my family, and, well..." And your family was slaughtered. Mulsae runs a hand through his hair, "... yeah."

Mulsae stops the ascent on the seventh landing. The wooden double doors are carved as if they are bookcases filled with thick leather bound books. The doors open to a room filled with actual bookcases all crammed full of books. A set of half-height bookcases flank the passage to a comfortable sitting area set in front of wide open windows that lead to an open terrace beyond, overflowing with vines and plants.

"I offered Nori to live here, but she says she likes her apartment in Drenvaar." He sighs, "Personally, I think she hates it there, but still sees me as her Sanctum Master before family despite that my mother raised us both together." He shrugs, "She comes by regularly, though, to deliver her reports and have dinner occasionally." Mulsae slowly leads them through the stacks of books as he looks through the shelves dragging a finger along their spines.

"Do you want to learn how to read?" Mulsae asks, not taking his eyes off the shelves.

Damion looks at him like he just popped up a second head, "What would I even do with that?"

Mulsae shrugs, "Entertainment purposes?"

"I thought I was for the purposes of entertainment," Damion snarks.

Mulsae snorts, "You are for the purposes of preventing another Emberan rebellion. Which can be quite a boring job. You might want to read your time away."

Damion looks at the leather bound books with fascination, "I would not be opposed to being able to read."

"We can work on it a little bit every day." Mulsae continues to lead them through the stacks, occasionally taking a book down and paging through it before putting it back. Finally he doesn't return a book he had picked out and instead leads them to the sitting area surrounding a sunken hearth. Tables and chairs flank either side of this sitting area.

Mulsae sits down in a comfortable chair. "Sit here," Mulsae says, spreading his legs. Damion carefully lowers himself as best as he can while having no use of his arms. Mulsae reaches to guide him down, supporting his weight as he settles. "Lean back. Let me."

"Relax, get comfortable," Mulsae coos as he runs his hands through Damion's damp hair. Damion wiggles himself a bit as he tries to get comfortable. Mulsae gently presses Damion's head to lay on his thigh, "Relax," he whispers. Damion nuzzles up to Mulsae's leg and thigh.

Mulsae pops open the book with one hand and gently caresses Damion's hair with his other hand. He alternates between fingering Damion's hair for awhile then running his nails gently down his scalp. It's soothing and relaxing. Damion listens to the crackles and pops of the fire while enjoying the soothing ministrations in his hair. Sleep pulls him under slowly, the warmth of the fire and Mulsae's fingers blurring the sharp edges of his thoughts.

=*=

A voice, smooth and genderless, rouses Damion from his haze. "He has grown comfortable with you."

"Good evening, Rivenar." Mulsae closes the book and sets it aside. He leans forward to speak gently near Damion's ear, "This is Rivenar, my Voice in Lirae." Damion blinks. What is Lirae?

Rivenar approaches and settles into the chair opposite, her movements fluid and weightless. Her bald head is long and narrow, her skin pale as moonlight. Though her frame is slender and feminine, her presence is neither male nor female, just... other. Damion stares. Her eyes are black, fully and deeply, and the air around her tingles like static. Half-spirit, clearly. Likely a unique being.

She lifts an eyebrow. "I did not realize you meant 'pet' literally."

"Quite literally," Mulsae says, fingers sliding through Damion's hair.

"Interesting." Her head tilts as she eyes Damion, who instinctively sinks deeper between Mulsae's thighs. "Congratulations on your war trophy," she says, flicking a hand toward him. "Though traditionally, trophies are not alive."

"Cats and dogs are given as prizes all the time," Mulsae murmurs.

"He is a person."

"So are dogs. And I'm not convinced cats aren't gods."

"I meant highly intelligent."

"I've known very intelligent dogs. And as for cats..." he smirks, "who knows what riddles they're withholding behind those eyes?"

She exhales. "You know what I mean."

Mulsae leans forward, elbows on knees. "What unsettles you isn't that he's a pet. It's that he's a man. If I'd taken an Emberan woman as my prize, no one would bat an eye. It's what's expected." He reclines again, relaxed and smug. "The war trophy is supposed to be the woman every man wanted to possess. Instead, I took the man every soldier wanted to become." A brow lifts. "Memorable, no?"

Rivenar taps a long finger against her knee. "If Damion were a woman, you could just call her a wife and exercise the same control."

"Exactly. Flame Master Sorvak dominates his wife. I dominate Damion. Functionally the same."

"That says a lot about the plight of women."

"It does. Lirae would never tolerate that kind of inequality." Mulsae sighs. "But Scaldmere's a pit of rot. Drenvaar's not much better. There's... work to be done."

Damion frowns. Lirae again. It's a city? He's never heard of it.

Mulsae turns his gaze to Rivenar, eyes curious. "Why do you present as a woman? You're sexless. You could just as easily present male."

"I did," she replies. "As a child, I presented as a boy. Later, I switched in order to see how differently women are treated. I wanted to understand." Mulsae nods as she continues. "And I stayed this way. It is fascinating to watch people change around me. I have found you can learn a lot about someone by how they treat the socially disadvantaged."

A pause. Then Mulsae speaks, voice quieter, heavier. "Damion must be remembered." His hand glides through Damion's hair again. "His story must stay in living memory. I cannot let Scaldmere rise up again every time they get bored and belligerent. We're returning the other prisoners pinioned. But he stays. Their best. Their symbol of might controlled by me." Another slow stroke in his hair. "They glorify war and death. Let them remember what war really brings: not glory, but scars. Not death, but ruin." His nails scrape lightly along Damion's scalp. "Damion's suffering is this rebellion's legacy."

Damion listens, still and silent. And, gods help him, he thinks Mulsae might be right. War, to him, had always meant victory or an honorable death. There was no space for this... this limbo of defeat. No legends for those too broken to die, too strong to kill. He had trusted his Flamekeepers to wield him wisely. He'd become a sword. And now he is a warning. Maybe he deserves it.

Mulsae presses a kiss to his temple. "Let's have dinner."

"What was that for?!" Rivenar squawks.

"He's being such a good boy," Mulsae says, massaging Damion's shoulders. "Such a good boy." He double-taps his back. "Up. Come on, my good boy." Damion rises and steps aside. He doesn't protest.

The three of them wind their way up the wooden stairwell. At the first landing Rivenar suddenly stops and listens. Mulsae looks at her puzzled. "I keep hearing a bell. But it has stopped now."

Mulsae barks a laugh, "Damion, walk over to Rivenar." Damion's face turns a deep red. Gods, this is humiliating. He walks over to Rivenar and jingles along the way. Rivenar cocks an eyebrow and circles Damion, then she sees it: a dainty little bell hanging down from his ass cheeks.

Rivenar blinks, "Mulsae, why in all of Harmura did you hang a bell from his ass?"

Mulsae shrugs nonchalantly and puts his hands in his pockets, "I wanted to be able to know where he is."

"He's not a cat."

Mulsae's eyes have a devilish glint in them as he says with a smile, "But he is my pussy."

Rivenar looks at him dead-panned, "That is a horrible joke."

They continue their trek up just one more flight of stairs and through a set of carved wooden doors with flowing vines and water swirls and handles worn from frequent, loving use. The opened doors reveal a warm, sunlit kitchen filled with the scent of herbs and hearth. They enter facing large windows and a terrace laden with plants. Damion can recognize many as edible. A massive brick oven anchors the north wall, its curved arch blackened from years of steady use. Nearby, a long island counter of polished reedwood stretches beneath hanging lanterns. Woven stools line one side, inviting company as meals are prepared.

On the southern side, a large round table rests atop a lotus-patterned rug and surrounded by many mismatched chairs, each looking like it has its own history. The walls are lined with open shelves holding clay jars, stacked bowls, and sprigs of drying herbs, all lending the space a sense of warmth and welcome.

Rivenar sits at the table while Mulsae heads into the kitchen. He goes to a small shrine recessed in the wall next to the massive oven. He lights incense and murmurs, "Thank you for dinner."

He heads to the cabinetry and removes two bowls and two spoons and takes them to a large pot steaming over the stove. He puts just one ladle of stew in one bowl but fills the other bowl to the top. He brings them to the table and places the bowl with the smaller portion in front of Rivenar, then settles into a seat next to her. Damion kneels to Mulsae's left, anticipating being ordered to.

"So obedient!" Rivenar exclaims, "He just walked in with us and kneeled right down."

"He's highly intelligent," Mulsae stirs his stew, "I rarely if ever have to issue a command twice."

Rivenar nudges at the food in her bowl. Mulsae offers a spoonful to Damion who accepts it without objection. His eyes widen. It is positively delicious! And it is oh so comforting. An orange glow dances before Damion and then swirls around him. He watches it puzzled.

"Well, you've made a good first impression on the kitchen spirit, Damion!" Mulsae ruffles his hair. "I think it made this stew especially for you."

Rivenar raises an eyebrow at the scene, "Feeding him from your portions, I see."

"He relies on me for everything."

Mulsae and Rivenar chat lightly as they eat. Rivenar eats her food very slowly, spending more time poking at it than eating. They sit back in their chairs after they finish, continuing to chat away idly. Mulsae notices Damion fidget a little, so he announces, "Let's get more comfortable upstairs."

They all stand and exit the kitchen. They left the bowls on the table. Damion wonders what will happen to them. Will he be expected to wash them? Will he become a housemaid?

Mulsae chuckles. "Damion is getting his first introduction to house spirits."

"They do not attract them in Scaldmere?" Rivenar asks.

"No. The entire culture basically acts like they don't exist." Mulsae turns to Damion, "You aren't going to be a housemaid. I won't expect you to do any chores I don't do myself as well. The house spirits take care of the cooking and cleaning." Damion is flabbergasted at the concept of incorporeal beings doing house chores.

They ascend just one flight of stairs and wander into a room that unfolds in soft tones and natural textures. Woven reed mats layer the floor beneath low, cushioned seating arranged in a gentle circle around a sunken hearth. Pale wood shelves display wind-chimes, ceramic tea jars, and little tokens that feel like they belong to someone who lives here, not just visits. A braided swing chair hangs from one ceiling beam, drifting slightly in the breeze from the open terrace doors.

"Can I get a good look at him? I've always wanted to see a Windborne up close," Rivenar requests.

"Yes, and be sure to appreciate his new tattoos," he looks over his shoulder to Damion, "Stand in front of the fire."

Damion stands in the open area by the hearth while Mulsae pours himself a drink at the small bar. Rivenar circles around Damion slowly. Her studious gaze is a bit too close to Damion's cock cage and ass for comfort. And she gets close! She sweeps her scrutinizing gaze across his body, analyzing his tattoos, cock cage, anal plug, and piercings with fine detail.

"He is an amazing specimen."

"Damion is, quite literally, the finest warrior alive," Mulsae sits and makes himself comfortable.

"Can I see his wings?"

Mulsae nods, "Damion, kneel and spread out your wings." Damion scowls but obeys, kneeling and flaring his wings wide. She circles again, scrutinizing every inch.

She looks up at Mulsae, "May I touch his wings?" Damion sucks in a breath.

"No." Damion closes his eyes and exhales in relief.

She eventually finds herself satisfied and sits comfortably near Mulsae. Damion remains kneeling with his wings flared and lit by the flickering fire. Rivenar and Mulsae gaze upon Damion's form.

"It's a shame he'll lose that muscle mass," Rivenar muses, "It's part of what makes him so magnificent."

"What do you mean?"

"He needs to train in order to maintain those muscles. Being your pet won't give him the exercise those muscles will require."

"He will be continuing his training regimen while under my care. I am not going to let the most powerful warrior in living memory wither away." He leans back against the arm of the couch and stretches his legs across the cushions in front of him, making it easy to rake his eyes across Damion's form as they discuss him. "I plan to use this most powerful warrior in living memory to help me improve my fighting skills."

Rivenar snorts, "He is going to train you?" Mulsae shrugs while Rivenar snickers. "Is it not the master who trains the pet?"

"This pet happens to come with a valuable skill set," he waves a hand flippantly, "Besides, I need to run out his energy. A tired pet is an obedient pet."

Their conversation flows on. Damion tries to be patient. He tries to be a good boy and stay still, but the strain of kneeling there with his wings flared out is getting to him. The tips of his wings are trembling from the strain.

Mulsae. No response. Rivenar and Mulsae continue their chat.

Mulsae, please, can I lay down? No response.

Mulsae, can you hear me? May I please lay down?

But you look so magnificent this way, Mulsae finally replies.

Damion grits his teeth. I guess I'm a fucking living statue, then, here for your amusement. Mulsae chuckles. He continues chatting with Rivenar as if he weren't interrupted at all.

Damion's wings begin to strain to hold up. The heat from the fire is creating its own sore point on Damion's skin, making it feel as though it's burning. He plays with his tongue ring to distract himself. His knees beg for relief, though. He doesn't dare shift his knees because at this point the blood flow rushing back into them would make them more tender.

He takes a deep breath and remembers he is here in this situation because he allowed himself to be wielded by reckless Flamekeepers. He's here, being a living statue as punishment for not wisely directing his bloodlust. He deserves this. He strengthens his resolve to accept his punishment and remain kneeling.

"Damion, come sit here." Oh thank the gods. Damion folds in his wings, stands and shakes out his legs. Blood rushes to them and they throb with pins and needles. Mulsae is still stretched across the couch, now patting the side of the couch next to his hip.

Damion lumbers over to where Mulsae is indicating, dismisses his wings, and sits on the floor leaning on the couch with his legs folded to the other side. Mulsae promptly drapes an arm around Damion's shoulders and runs his fingers delicately across his skin.

Rivenar and Mulsae chat late into the evening with Damion on the floor at Mulsae's side. Damion shifts and readjusts as his body needs and, fortunately, doesn't earn a reprimand from Mulsae. He simply moves with him and readjusts how his arm is draped across Damion's body.

As the evening wears on, Damion finds himself leaning against the couch, facing Mulsae, and resting his head against his thigh with his eyes closed while Mulsae gently runs his fingers through Damion's hair. It's nice and warm. Almost like hanging out with friends with an attentive lover at his side. Damion slowly drifts in and out of consciousness, his mind floating by, half listening to the semi interesting conversation.

Mulsae lifts up his chin and Damion blinks sleepily up at him. He quietly says, "Time for bed." Damion nods and clambers to his feet. He looks around and doesn't see Rivenar. Guess I did fall asleep. Mulsae leads them back down to his bedroom under the river.

"We're going to do something different for tonight," Mulsae says as he guides Damion to the bed. He unbuckles his arms then instructs, "Lay on your back."

Damion massages his arms and rotates his shoulders and wrists. He is concerned about what 'something different' means, but still gingerly crawls onto the bed and sits with his legs in front of him. He carefully lays his back down against the bed, his head on the pillows, and his arms at his side.

Mulsae spreads Damion's legs apart and crawls to kneel between them. Damion warily watches Mulsae as he moves. He shuffles forward so Damion's ass is propped on his knees and his legs fall to either side of Mulsae's hips.

"I want to watch you tonight. I want to see every expression you make as I fuck you. I want to watch you cum on my cock." Mulsae reaches down and starts to work the anal plug free. As soon as his ministrations start, Damion turns his head to the side and screws his eyes shut.

Mulsae reaches over and turns Damion's face towards him. "No doing that. Open your eyes and look at me." Damion's face crumples before he slowly opens one eye and then the other. "Keep eye contact," Mulsae commands. Damion grimaces then wills his body to relax and maintain eye contact as he mentally prepares for what's to come.

Damion looks at Mulsae with a neutral expression as Mulsae slowly removes the anal plug, but can't resist flinching when it pops out. Mulsae oils up his cock but not Damion's hole. Damion's breath hitches when Mulsae's cock is lined up against his hole and begins to press in.

"I want you to feel it all and watch everything you feel on that face of yours," his cock continues to press firmly forward. Damion grips the sheets in his fists and squeezes his eyes shut once Mulsae's cock breaches the entrance and starts to rub against the rim of Damion's hole.

"Eye contact," Mulsae coo's. Damion's eyes flick open and he swallows. "Don't worry, I'm going slowly. This feels good, right?" This feels weird! Damion's core warms up and a flush spreads across his face and chest. He just wants to thrash his head side to side to cope with these sensations, but instead only grits his teeth, wiggles his tongue piercing, and dutifully maintains eye contact. His fists clench at the sheets and his chest tightens, but he wills the bottom half of his body to be relaxed, loose and pliant so he doesn't get hurt.

This experience is so much more torturous when Damion can't just bury his face in the pillows or whatever surface he's been shoved against. Just being able to close his eyes allows him to be alone within himself, but being forced to face his rapist and watch what he is doing to his body makes him feel so vulnerable. He isn't alone in a sea of blackness and sensations. He's present in a bedroom on a bed being fucked by a male enjoying his torture. Damion tries to narrow his focus to get lost in Mulsae's amber eyes, but it barely works. He can still see everything. He can see Mulsae's pleasure. He can see his own hips being pressed against Mulsae. He's being forced to face it all.

Mulsae's slow but relentless push forward into Damion continues. Damion starts to pant. "You're being a good boy, Damion," Mulsae says softly while gently caressing Damion's abdomen, "You're taking me so well."

'You're taking me so well.' The words echo through Damion's mind. 'Good boy' follows behind. I shouldn't be taking cock so well! I am not a good boy! But what can I do about it? There's nothing I can do. I am trapped here to be continuously fucked and humiliated and there is nothing I can do to escape it. Damion's vision blurs and tears edge his eyes. I'm trapped. Fucked and trapped. One of the tears escapes down his cheek.

Mulsae carefully leans forward to wipe away the tear with a thumb, "Oh, Damion. Good boy." Damion gasps a sob. Good boy, good boy, good boy! I'm trapped into being a good boy. Tears stream down his cheeks, and he instinctively throws his arm across his face to hide himself. He mistakenly clenches down onto Mulsae's cock and gasps another sob because he can feel more intensely the girth and depth of it. Humiliation ripples through his body. I want out of here!

Mulsae gently moves Damion's arm back to his side while humming a soothing shush. He pushes Damion's head to face him again. Damion keeps his eyes squeezed shut from humiliation for sobbing in front of this man. "It's okay, Damion, look at me." He takes a large inhale and exhale before opening his eyes to latch on to the amber eyes across from him.

Mulsae caresses down the side of Damion's face, "You're okay," No, I'm not! "Everything is okay," No, it's not! "You're a good boy," Damion flinches as a sob escapes him again.

Mulsae continues his excruciatingly slow push forward while humming soothing shushes. Damion is lost in trying to cope with the sensations while maintaining eye contact. Finally, Mulsae bottoms out.

"There we go," Mulsae caresses up either side of Damion's abdomen and chest, then pulls on both nipple rings causing Damion to flinch forward and unconsciously clench down onto Mulsae's cock. Mulsae lets out a low moan, "That's good, just like that." He pinches Damion nipples while shallowly grinding. Damion grimaces from the overwhelming sensations in his core and on his chest. He pulls on the sheets.

Mulsae's shallow grinding gradually turns into shallow thrusts. The flush across Damion's face and chest burns warmer. Damion swipes an arm up and down the cool sheets to cool himself down. The continuous pulsing thrusts inside him overwhelms his senses. His mouth falls open while heavily panting trying desperately to cope with everything happening to his body.

Mulsae readjusts his position so he's hovering over Damion while continuing to gradually increase the depths of his thrusts. The position is disturbing to Damion. It's too close. It's too intimate. They're sharing air. Mulsae's lips part as he starts panting, too. They're staring at each other's eyes. Damion tugs on the sheets and wishes he could fall away and collapse into the bed, away from Mulsae.

The sensations from the thrusts into him become too much. A low soft whine escapes him continuously, changing into gasps and moans in response to sharper thrusts.

"Good boy, you're doing so well," Damion doesn't even react. He's too overwhelmed. Too lost in coping. His pants become rapid, in time with Mulsae's thrusts.

Once Mulsae has worked up to full depth of thrusting strokes, he adjusts his angle to hit upon Damion's sensitive, orgasmic spot within him. Damion's facial expression changes to one of pleading. He knows what that spot means. He knows what Mulsae wants from him. He doesn't want to. He doesn't want to do it. He doesn't want to feel it. He doesn't want to experience it. He pours all his pleading into his eyes with a desperate hope that Mulsae might give him a reprieve.

"Cum for me, Damion, let me watch you cum," Damion gasps at the lost hope. His loss of hope strips him of any last bits of restraint he had remaining and becomes lost in sensation. Each thrust builds up the molten pleasure in his core and spreads around. His body moves on its own, hands clutching the sheets, his chest twitching back and forth and even his hips thrust to meet with Mulsae. There is nothing for Damion other than the pleasure, panting breaths and Mulsae's amber eyes.

The orgasm finally crashes into Damion, arching his back and thrusting his chest into Mulsae. His head is thrown back and a loud gasping moan escapes him. His body then reverses course and has him curl forward and press his forehead into Mulsae's shoulder as another orgasmic pulse rides through him before collapsing back against the mattress.

Mulsae uses one hand to cup Damion's face, "Good boy, that was phenomenal, good boy," Damion's eyes flutter while he pants away the last remaining dregs of orgasmic energy.

Mulsae hasn't stopped, though. He continues to thrust into that spot inside Damion. He begins to squirm and grimace. It's too much. He's oversensitive. It's a painful, overwhelming pleasure. He's so fucked out, and so overwhelmed he forgets himself. He places his palms against Mulsae's chest, gently pushes, and actually speaks aloud, "Stop."

"No."

"Stop," gasp, "Stop."

"No, one more."

"No," Damion shakes his head side to side, "No more, enough."

"One more."

Damion regains more of his senses and remembers how pointless it is to beg for reprieve. He's trapped. He has no choices any more. What he does, what he feels is no longer under his control. He's trapped experiencing this overwhelming, oversensitive sensation until Mulsae decides when to stop.

It's more difficult for the orgasm to build up this time, but Damion just wants this to be over. He turns his head to the side and screws his eyes shut so he can concentrate. He thrusts and shifts his hips to make it more pleasurable. His writhing must please Mulsae because he doesn't insist on eye contact. Good. I need to concentrate on just me right now.

Mulsae's panting increases, and his warm breath puffs into Damion's face. He tries to ignore it. He's alone in the blackness just trying to wrest another burst of pleasure from these sensations.

A molten pleasure tinged in white sharpness begins to grow in his core. Good, finally, almost there. He lets his body go, to writhe and twist and thrust however is needed to get that molten pleasure to grow and pop. His head thrashes from side to side and he arches back with a gasp as his building orgasm crosses the threshold to inevitability.

The pleasure grows and grows, and Damion thrusts along with it and it finally pops! He hollers out a groan as he flexes forward burrowing his head into Mulsae's shoulder. He shudders and falls back as a panting fucked out mess.

"Good boy, Damion, I knew you could do another one," Mulsae says soothingly. Damion is a melted pile of goo, completely pliant under Mulsae's manipulations. Mulsae moves Damion's legs to rest on his own shoulders and presses Damion's knees down towards Damion's head.

In this new position, Mulsae's thrusts turn faster, more forceful, borderline violent. Mulsae's tone changes from soothing to dominance. "Your body likes my cock. My cock pleases you. Brings you to ecstasy. I keep fucking you, and your body just keeps asking for more." Damion's feet are flapping with the force of the thrusts and his body jerks forwards and back. Damion's pulling on the sheets trying to cope. His breath is pushed out of him with every thrust, forcing him to gulp for air in time with Mulsae's rapid thrusts.

Mulsae grabs Damion's chin and roughly turns his face towards him, squeezing so tightly Damion's lips pucker. "Look at me while I fuck you." Mulsae's face is hard and cold. He lowers his face so they're close to touching, "You're mine," he growls. His thrusting begins to stutter, then he arches back with a moan as he pauses, enjoying his pleasure. Mulsae's body softens and he resumes a few languid thrusts while gazing down at Damion's limp form.

Mulsae removes himself and rolls off the bed to walk away. Damion remains on his back with his legs bent. He focuses on just breathing, just bringing his body back together. He can feel the seed seeping out of him.

Mulsae returns with a warm wet cloth. He first wipes the tears and snot from Damion's face before wiping up his thighs and hole. The warm wet cloth feels exquisite on his skin.

"Turn to sleeping position," Damion softly groans as he wills his exhausted body to turn around and lay on his stomach. He eyes where the cuffs are attached to the headboard and scoots himself over to line up with them. He raises his arms and rests his wrists by the cuffs. These are different. There is a bar about shoulder width apart separating them, which Damion is grateful for because having his arms squeezed together was less than comfortable. The cuffs themselves are lined in soft fur. Hopefully this will be more comfortable.

Mulsae fastens the cuffs around Damion's wrists, and they actually feel kind of nice with the fur lining. Shortly after, Damion can feel pressure pressing against his abused hole and knows it's Mulsae inserting the anal plug back in.

The one blessing of these evening fucks is the exhaustion. It takes no effort at all for Damion to drift off into oblivion before Mulsae even gets into bed.