The Druid and the ranger
The ranger smiles as he sees the elven woman. A tall, ginger, ageless woman with tattoos of vines and plants over her legs, arms and body. Her breasts firm and the patch of hair between her legs proving she’s a natural redhead. The ranger pulls his gaze from the beautiful elf and greets her: “Good morning fair lady. My name is Em Half-elven, a ranger of Sylvanus.” His 121 years seems young compared to the arch-druid of the woods.
The snap of a twig echoes as a shadow detaches from the oak beside the ranger, taller than most elves, her bare feet silent on the moss. She flicks a beetle off her shoulder without looking, those green eyes raking over him like she’s pricing his bones.
"Arch-druid?" Her laugh is low, edged with claws. "You’re either brave or stupid, little mayfly. The last one who sought her left with fewer fingers. Still keen?"
The ranger trembles but gathers his courage: “Yes, mistress of the woods. I’ve heard much about you.”
Her lips curl as she steps closer, the scent of crushed pine needles rising between you. A thumb brushes his chin, tilting his face toward the dappled sunlight.
"Flattery won’t save you when the brambles tighten," she murmurs. "But I’ll bite, why chase legends, half-blood? The old crone’s bones are dust. Unless..." A tiger’s grin flashes. "You’re here for me."
The Ranger nods, “I am, mistress. I am looking for someone who can help me find a missing youngling.”
The amusement drains from her face like blood from a fresh kill. Her grip tightens on the ranger’s chin, nails dimpling his skin.
"Speak faster," she growls, eyes flickering with something feral. "What youngling? Where did you last see them? If this is some noble's stolen brat, I'll feed you to the wolves instead."
“No mistress, she’s a young child, a mere 35 years old,” Em Half-elven tells her, “From the elven family Darsun from the Willow mountains.”
Vera's nostrils flare as she inhales sharply, not just at the name, but at the scent of fear rolling off you. Her nails seem to retract slightly, though her fingers remain locked around your jaw.
"Darsun." She spits the word like rotten fruit. "The Willow mountains reek of iron and greed. Explain why I shouldn't leave you here with the crows for bringing their troubles to my domain."
“The trouble arrived here already before me. I am only looking for her.” Em declares, “Orcs are looking for her as well. You may not know this but the Darsun family is not of mountain descent. They moved there to care for the rivers and the crops of the village.”
Vera's grip slackens as her eyes narrow—calculating. She exhales through her teeth, a sound like wind through dead leaves.
"The rivers," she mutters. "Of course. Those orc bastards would poison a womb to claim a well." She steps back, crossing her arms. "You've got two sentences left to convince me this isn't a trap. Use them well, ranger."
The ranger carefully chooses his words: “I am at your mercy and my honor tells me to accept anything that you, mistress, would want to do to me.” The ranger continues: “This, however, does not change the fact that orcs are hunting a fair elven maiden, child even.”
Vera’s laugh is sharp, humorless. She drags a nail down Em’s cheek—not deep enough to draw blood, but enough to make him feel it.
"Honor?" She snorts. "Honor starves when the snows come. But you’re right about one thing—orc filth doesn’t belong in my woods. Lead me to their tracks. And pray they’ve left enough of the girl for me to recognize."
Without hesitation the ranger turns, boots scraping against loose shale as he gestures northeast toward the blackened scar in the forest—a place where the orcs' crude torches had scorched the elder pines. his fingers brushes the snapped bowstring at my hip, still frayed from their ambush. "They dragged her toward the old river fork," he say, watching Vera's nostrils flare at the stench of burnt hair and rancid oil lingering in the air. "But the tracks vanished at the water's edge. Either they swam or..."
Em’s throat tightens around the unspoken fear. The river's whispers had gone silent days ago, its usual chuckle replaced by a sickly gurgle. Even the reeds along its banks stood limp, their tips tinged with rust.
Vera’s lips peel back in a silent snarl as she kneels, pressing her palm to the poisoned earth. The soil writhes beneath her touch—not with life, but with the slow, sick pulse of something unnatural. Her tattoos flicker like embers under her skin.
"Orcs didn’t do this," she murmurs, voice thick with disgust. "Their kind burns. This? This is crafted. Someone’s twisting the river’s song." She rises abruptly, shaking rot from her fingers. "Find the girl fast, ranger. She’s not just prey now—she’s bait."
Vera snaps a gnarled branch from a nearby oak—one that shouldn’t have survived the corruption—and thrusts it into the rangers hands. The wood hums against his palms, its bark writhing like living skin before settling into smooth runes. "Don’t drop it," she warns, her eyes reflecting the sudden emerald glow pulsing from the staff’s core.
She crouches, pressing both palms to the fouled earth. A guttural chant rises from her throat, syllables rasping like roots through stone. The ground heaves as vines explode from her tattoos, their thorns blackening where they spear the poisoned soil—but the river’s groan shifts, the water clearing inch by agonizing inch as her magic scours the rot backward.
The staff burns cold in Em’s grip, its runes searing patterns into his vision. Em barely suppresses a gasp as the river’s choked whispers sharpen into words—ancient, furious. Vera’s vines pulse like arteries, forcing the corruption back toward its source upstream. Em’s free hand finds the hunting knife at his belt. "They’re close," he whispers. "The girl’s alive—I can hear her heartbeat through the wood."
Vera’s chant cuts off with a vicious snarl as her vines recoil, dripping oily black fluid. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, her tattoos flickering erratically. "Upstream," she growls, jerking her chin toward the river bend. "There’s a cairn there—old shadow druid work. Someone’s perverting it." Her hands flex. "Run slower than me, and I’ll let the orcs have you first."
The staff in Em’s hand thrums like a live thing, its glow intensifying as Vera shakes her wrists, sending droplets of corrupted water hissing into the undergrowth. Her eyes lock onto his, feral and unblinking. "And if that heartbeat stops before we reach her? Pray it’s the orcs that kill you."
The ranger sprints after Vera, his lungs burning as the staff's pulse drives him faster than he’s ever run. The river's whispers guides him, sharp, urgent, until a flicker of movement catches his eye: a scrap of silver fabric snagged on thorns, fluttering like a wounded moth. "There!" he hisses, pointing to the crumbling stone cairn ahead, its entrance oozing with blackened vines.
Vera doesn't slow. She leaps over a rotting log, her hands already extended, and Em’s stomach twists as he hears the first guttural orc shout from the shadows beyond the cairn. The staff's glow spikes—answering the distant, rapid thump of a child's terrified heartbeat.
Vera doesn’t slow—she drops. Mid-stride, her body contorts with a crackling snap of sinew and bone, fur erupting across skin as she lands on all fours, now a monstrous dire tiger with fangs bared. The orcs barely have time to raise their crude axes before she’s among them, claws rending flesh from bone in great, arcing swipes. Their screams drown beneath her snarls as she tears through their ranks, her white fur streaked crimson.
The staff in the ranger’s hand jerks abruptly northeast—toward the cairn’s crumbling entrance, where a flicker of silver fabric vanishes into the dark. Vera’s roar shakes the trees as she disembowels the last orc, her yellowed gaze locking onto Em. "Go," her voice echoes strangely through the tiger’s maw. "Before whatever’s in there decides to use her."
Em plunges into the cairn's throat, the staff's glow illuminating slick runes carved by ancient hands. The whispers guide him deeper—past twisted roots that squirm like dying fingers—until he spots her: the Darsun girl, bound in blackened vines, her eyes wide with terror. The staff pulses once, violently, as the vines tighten around her throat.
Em doesn’t hesitate. His hunting knife flashes, severing the foul growths—but the moment they part, the cairn itself shudders. Something awakens in the dark behind him, breathing slow and wet. The girl's lips move soundlessly. "Run."
The moment his blade severs the last vine, the cairn groans like a wounded beast. Em scoops the girl into his arms just as the ground splits beneath them, stone teeth snapping shut where she'd lain seconds before. The staff's glow gutters, revealing jagged fissures racing up the walls. "Hold on!" He barks, sprinting for daylight as the ceiling rains dirt behind them.
The cavern collapses behind the ranger with a thunderous roar as they burst into daylight, the girl clinging to his neck. Vera stands silhouetted against the sun, her fur matted with orc blood, her muzzle still dripping red. She shifts back into her elven form in a ripple of muscle and sinew, wincing as her tattoos sputter weakly—but her eyes lock onto the child with fierce relief. "Alive," she rasps. Then, sharper: "Now tell me who did this."
Vera's gaze lingers on the trembling girl, her nostrils flaring as she inhales the scent of fear mingled with dark magic. With a flick of her wrist, she summons a single glowing vine from her forearm—its thorns retracted—and presses it against the child's palm. The vine pulses once, soft as a heartbeat, before withering to dust. "Elven blood," she murmurs, her voice rough. "But something's clinging to you. Who touched you, little sapling?"
Her fingers twitch toward the girl's throat, where faint black veins spider outward beneath the skin. Vera's tattoos flare angrily as she hisses through her teeth. "Answer quickly. This isn't just orc work—it reeks of druid rot."
The girl's eyelids flutter open—her irises aren't the vibrant green of her kin, but a sickly yellow, pupils slit like a viper's. Em’s grip tightens on the staff as he scans the tree line, muscles coiled. The orc corpses lie still, but the air thrums with something older, hungrier.
"Keep talking," he murmurs to the girl while nudging Vera's shoulder—his other hand already drawing the knife. The staff's glow pulses erratically, casting jagged shadows that twist too slowly for the wind. Something's watching from the black between the trees.
The girl's breath hitches as her fingers clutch at the frayed edges of her tunic. Her lips part, revealing needle-thin fangs that shouldn't belong to any elf. "He—he played the river's song backwards," she whispers, her voice layered with something hollow and echoing. "The flute made the willows weep black sap. I tried to run, but my feet... they walked toward him anyway."
Vera's hands flex as she spins toward the tree line, her tattoos pulsing in time with the staff's erratic glow. The shadows between the oaks ripple unnaturally—too fluid, too deliberate. A single note, dissonant and wet, slithers through the air from somewhere upstream.
Her tattoos ignite like wildfire as Vera thrusts both hands skyward—her fingers clawing downward as if tearing open the heavens themselves. Daylight ripples into existence where none should be, a molten gold spear piercing the corrupted shadows between the trees. The unnatural darkness shrieks as it burns away, revealing a gaunt figure clutching a bone flute—its fingers too long, its grin too wide. The thorns Vera summons aren't merely physical; they manifest as searing brands in the air itself, lashing toward the intruder with the precision of a scorpion's sting.
The flute-player staggers back, hissing as Vera's light scorches its pallid flesh—but its laughter gurgles wetly through the trees. "Little guardian," it croons, raising the flute to blistered lips. "You can't purify what's already fermented." The discordant note it plays sends the Darsun girl convulsing in the rangers arms, her veins blackening further as she chokes on a sound that isn't her own.
The girl's convulsions turn violent—her limbs snapping at unnatural angles as her jaw unhinges with a wet crack. Black ichor spews from her lips just as Em’s knife arcs downward, severing spinal cord and corrupted flesh in one clean motion. Her head rolls toward the flute-player's feet, those slit pupils still burning with stolen life.
Em doesn’t hesitate. Palming the staff, he channels its fading glow into a gout of white-hot flame that consumes the twitching corpse. The stench of burning rot fills the air as the flute-player's wail pierces the clearing—not grief, but fury, as his puppet burns to ash.
Vera's spine arches as the storm answers her scream—not from the sky, but from the earth itself. Lightning erupts from her tattoos in jagged forks, charring the air with ozone as she pulls the tempest into existence around her outstretched fingers. The flute-player's mocking grin falters as the first bolt strikes—not from above, but sideways, shearing through its torso in a shower of sparks and blackened viscera.
The corruption clinging to the trees withers instantly, shriveling like scorched parchment as Vera's storm scours the glade clean. She stands panting amid the smoking ruin, her tattoos dulled to embers. "Never," she snarls at the smoldering remains, "touch my woods again." Her voice cracks—not from exhaustion, but rage.
The last embers of Vera’s storm fade into the scorched earth as the ranger steps forward, his outstretched palm upturned between them—not in supplication, but solidarity. The staff lies broken at his feet, its runes dark at last, and the river’s song has returned to a murmur. His fingers tremble slightly, still slick with soot and the girl’s ashes. "It’s done," the ranger says quietly, watching Vera’s heaving shoulders. "The war’s won."
Her gaze drops to his offered hand, then flicks up to his face—searching for mockery, for pity. Finding neither, her lips peel back in something too ragged to be a smile. "Fool," she rasps, but her fingers soft as she reaches out.
Vera's fingers close around the rangers wrist—not gentle, but deliberate—as she yanks him flush against her. Before he can protest, her free hand grips the back of his neck, her nails pricking just enough to remind you who holds the power here. "Enough talk, ranger," she growls against his lips, the scent of lightning and blood still clinging to her skin. Then the world lurches as her tattoos flare—not with light, but with wind—and suddenly they’re airborne, her arms locked around the ranger as the forest blurs beneath.
The grove she lands in hums with ancient energy, moss cushioning Em’s fall as she pins him beneath her. Her kiss tastes of iron and wild mint, demanding rather than asking. When she finally pulls back, her teeth gleam in the dappled light. "You fought well," she murmurs, one finger tracing your jawline. "Now let's see if you rest just as fiercely."
Em arches beneath her, fingers tangling in her fiery hair—half to pull her closer, half to keep himself grounded as the world still spins from her whirlwind flight. The moss beneath them thrums with the same wild energy that courses through her veins, and the ranger can't tell if the pulse he feels is hers or the earth's. "Rest?" Em murmurs against her lips, tasting salt and storm. "With you? That's like asking a river to stop flowing."
The chuckle that escapes him is ragged, edged with the same exhaustion that weighs his limbs—but his grip tightens, nails scraping her scalp. His other hand finds the curve of her hip, digging in just enough to make her growl. "Besides," the ranger breathes, "you'd hate me if I went gentle now."
Vera's growl vibrates against his lips as she presses down, her thigh slotting between his with predatory precision. Her teeth grazes his earlobe—not quite a bite, but a promise. "Gentle?" She scoffs, her breath hot on your neck. "I'd skin you alive." Her nails trace idle circles over the ranger’s ribs, each pass lingering just shy of breaking skin. "But since you fought well... consider this a reward."
Her hips roll against his in a slow, deliberate arc, the friction drawing a hiss from both. The moss beneath them pulses in time with her heartbeat, vines curling around his wrists—not to restrain, but to anchor. "Don't," she pants against the ranger’s collarbone, "make me regret this."
“No mistress,” Em breathes heavily, “I’m yours to command.”
Vera’s laughter is a dark, throaty thing as she drags her nails down your chest, leaving raised trails in their wake. Her eyes gleam with something between amusement and warning. "Command?" she purrs, her breath mingling with yours. "You’re already halfway to begging." Her teeth find your shoulder—sharp, but not quite breaking skin—as her hips grind down again, the friction deliberate. "Let’s see how long you last before you do."
The vines tighten around your wrists, not painfully, but firmly enough to remind you who holds the reins. Vera’s smirk is all challenge as she leans in, her lips brushing yours. "Or are you going to make me work for it, ranger?"
Em sighs: “No mistress, please don’t work for it on my behalf. I implore you.”
Vera’s grip tightens—not painfully, but possessively—as she exhales a laugh against his throat. Her nails trace idle patterns over his pulse point, every drag a silent threat and promise. "Good," she murmurs, her voice thick with satisfaction. Then she shifts, her weight settling more deliberately against the ranger, her thigh pressing harder between his. Her next words are a whisper against his lips: "Now let's see if your obedience lasts as long as your defiance did."
The vines around his wrists twitch, responding to her unspoken command as they pull his arms wider, pinning the ranger more firmly to the moss. Vera's teeth flash in a smile, one that says she's savoring this far too much, before she leans down to claim his mouth again, this time with none of the earlier restraint.
The forest holds its breath as Vera's dominance unfolds—not just in the way she pins him, but in the way the very earth responds to her. Moss thickens beneath his back, vines tightening just enough to remind Em of their presence without truly restraining. Her lips leave his only to trail lower, teeth scraping the collarbone as her hips roll in a slow, tortuous rhythm that draws a ragged groan from the ranger’s throat. The air hums with energy, charged like the moment before a storm breaks.
Vera rises with feline grace, her tattoos pulsing as the vines respond to her unspoken command. They slither over the ranger’s body with deliberate precision—not tearing, but unraveling straps and buckles like a lover’s fingers. Leather armor peels away in segments, pooling on the moss beside him, while cloth parts with a whisper of threads yielding to green insistence. The vines never break contact, their coils shifting to keep him pinned even as they strip him bare, their touch alternating between featherlight and firm enough to leave faint imprints on his skin.
Vera watches from above, one lovely foot planted possessively on his thigh as the last piece of fabric falls away. Her smirk widens as the vines tighten their grip—not to hurt, but to emphasize the helplessness of his exposed form. "Better," she purrs, trailing a single finger down his sternum. "Now we see what you’re really made of."
The Ranger groans “Yes mistress”
Vera's fingers curl into the ranger’s hair, tilting his head back to expose his throat as she lowers herself onto him in one fluid motion. Her groan is low and satisfied as she takes the ranger fully and completely , her nails digging into his chest with just enough pressure to border on pain. The vines shift beneath him, lifting his hips to meet her relentless pace—every movement calculated to wring pleasure from his body like sap from a tree.
Her laugh is dark when she feels Em shudder beneath her, her teeth flashing in the dappled light. "Pathetic," she murmurs, though her own breath is ragged. "And here I thought you'd last longer." One hand grips his chin, forcing Em to gaze upward as she grinds down hard enough to make him gasp. "Don't disappoint me now."
Vera's lips curl into a predatory grin as she slows her movements, her thighs tightening around Em just enough to make him groan. Her fingers trail down your chest, nails retracting as she leans in close—her breath hot against his ear. "It hurts?" she purrs, rolling her hips in a slow, tortuous circle that borders on cruel. "Good. You'll remember this every time you sit a horse."
Her free hand tangles in the ranger’s hair, yanking his head back to expose his throat as she grinds down harder, her voice dropping to a growl. "Now be quiet and take it, ranger. Or do I need to make you?"
The ranger cries out in pain, the stimulation unbearable, yet unstoppable.
Vera's laugh is a dark, breathless thing as she leans back, her palms braced on his thighs—her movements turning deliberate, each roll of her hips a lesson in control. The vines tighten around his wrists in response to her smile, their grip unyielding as she drags the pleasure out with merciless precision. "Hurting?" she purrs, her voice rough with exertion. "You haven't begun to learn what pain is."
Her fingers trace the lines of his jaw, sharp nails pricking just enough to sting as she grinds down hard—her body flush against his. "But you will," she promises, her breath hot against Em’s lips. "If you survive me." The forest itself seems to pulse around the arch-druid and the ranger, leaves shuddering in time with her rhythm.
The arch-druid rides him with the same feral intensity she fights. With hips rolling in slow, deliberate circles that makes the rangers vision blur. Every movement is calculated to drag the pleasure out, her thighs flexing as she grinds down hard enough to make his back arch off the moss. The vines tighten around his wrists in response, their grip unyielding as Vera’s smirk widens above him, her teeth glinting in the dappled light.
Em stops fighting it. Lets his hips buck up to meet hers, their bodies moving in a rhythm as old as the forest itself. Her nails rake down Em’s chest, leaving raised trails that sting—but the pain only sharpens the pleasure, her dominance a drug he’s all too willing to drown in. "Mistress," he gasps, the word ragged as her pace turns punishing. The vines shudder beneath the ranger, responding to her unspoken command as the pleasure coils tight in his gut.
Vera's fingers retract as she leans down, her lips brushing the bridge of his nose with unexpected gentleness—a stark contrast to the rawness of moments prior. Then she rises in one fluid motion, semen glistening down her thighs as she steps back into the dappled light. Her smirk returns as she spreads her arms, gesturing to the grove around her, where ghostly impressions of past lovers flicker between the trees like heat haze, their sighs woven into the rustling leaves. "They all begged too," she muses, running a finger through the wetness on her leg before licking it clean. "None lasted half as long."
The vines finally release the ranger’s wrists, slithering away as Vera turns toward a moss-choked archway where the air shimmers with latent magic. Her tattoos pulse lazily now, their glow dimmed to embers as she glances over her shoulder. "Come," she orders, though her voice lacks its earlier edge. "This place remembers everything. Even your failures." The last word hangs between the arch-druid and the ranger like a challenge—or perhaps an invitation.
“I love you,” is the only thing that Em can say.
mid-step, her spine stiffening as if struck by an arrow. Her laugh, when it comes, is sharp enough to flay skin. "Love?" She spits the word like venom, turning to face Em with eyes gone glacial. "You're a fool twice over, then—first for surviving me, second for thinking this was anything but a distraction." The vines at her feet coil tight, mirroring her tension.
Yet her tattoos flicker uncertainly, their glow dimming further as she studies his face. She exhales through her nose, hands flexing once before she turns away again. "Elfroot grows beyond the arch," she mutters. "Chew it before you say stupider things."
The ranger pleads: “No mistress please, I love you I’ll be your servant forever.”
Vera's fist clenches at her side, tendons standing stark against her skin. The vines around her writhe, thorns sprouting in jagged bursts. "You dare?" Her voice cracks like lightning—not with anger, but something far more dangerous. "Servants are replaceable. Tools rust. Even forests burn." Her gaze rakes over the ranger, lingering on the marks she left. "But love?" She spits the word like a curse. "That's the one poison even I can't purge."
She turns abruptly, her hair a furious cascade down her back. The archway's magic shudders as she steps through, her final words colder than winter's first frost: "Follow me again and I'll feed your heart to the forest."
Em’s limbs move before his mind catches up—moss still clinging to the ranger’s back as he shoves upright, chasing Vera's silhouette through the shimmering archway. The grove's whispered warnings coil around him like phantom fingers, but he barely feels them; all he can see is the flicker of her tattoos vanishing into the deeper green.
The archway's magic licks his skin like cold fire as he passes through it. Beyond lies a twilight hollow where ancient roots twist into staircases, their bark pulsing faintly with residual heat from Vera's touch. She's already halfway up, her scorn trailing behind her like smoke. The ranger takes the first step anyway.
Vera's foot hovers mid-step, the root-stair groaning under her sudden stillness. Her ears twitch at the insolent crunch of moss behind her—still following, like some starved hound. Centuries-old patience snaps like dry kindling. The roots coil eagerly around her ankles, whispering of permanence. She exhales through clenched teeth. "Fine," she hisses to the twilight hollow. "But you'll root here."
Her tattoos ignite as she whirls, fingers splaying—not towards the ranger, but at the gnarled oak flanking the path. Its branches lash downward like whipcords, bark splitting to reveal a hollow just about his size. Vera's smile is all fangs. "Last chance to run, ranger."
Every instinct screams to stop—to heed the way Vera's tattoos blaze like wildfire warnings, to note how the oak's hollow yawns like a maw hungry for fools. But his body betrays Em, striding forward even as his cock twitches against his thigh, thick and aching from her earlier attentions. Death by overstimulation? Worth it. The roots creak beneath his bare feet as the ranger closes the distance, gaze locked on her determined smile. "Try harder," Em rasps, voice raw from panting her name.
The branches strike like serpents, wrapping around his torso—not to crush, but to drag him toward that waiting hollow. Vera's breath hitches when the ranger doesn’t resist, when his hands grab the vines instead of fighting back. Her pupils dilate as bark presses flush against his erection, the rough friction wringing a groan from his throat. "Still following?" The ranger gasps, arching into the touch. "Always."
The ancient oak’s embrace tightens as flowering vines slither down Em’s thighs, their petals brushing his aching shaft with maddening lightness. Each touch sends jolts of pleasure up his spine, the scent of oak and wild roses thick enough to drown in. The ranger’s vision blurs—all he can see is Vera: the sweat-slicked curve of her breasts, the fiery thatch between her thighs, the way her pink folds glistened when she rode him. The vines coil tighter, their rhythm matching her earlier thrusts, and he arches helplessly into their grip.
Vera watches from the shadows, her lips parted slightly as the moans fill the hollow. Her hands dig into the oak’s bark, her own breathing uneven. "Pathetic," she murmurs, but her voice wavers. The vines pulse in time with her heartbeat.
The vines tighten—not painfully, but possessively—their silken touch driving the ranger to the edge of sanity with every teasing stroke. His body arches involuntarily, trapped between rough bark and velvet petals, his groans echoing through the hollow. Vera watches from the shadows, her fingers pinching her own nipples in slow circles, her breath hitching as she drinks in his desperation.
Then her hands dig deeper into the oak’s bark, and the vines respond—quickening their rhythm, twisting just right—and the ranger shatters with a cry that shakes the leaves above them. Vera’s smile is triumphant as she steps forward, her own arousal glistening between her thighs.
The vines don't relent—if anything, their ministrations grow crueler in the aftermath, delicate petals dragging over oversensitive flesh with excruciating precision. Each stroke sends white-hot jolts through Em’s spent body, hips jerking uselessly against their hold as a sob tears from his throat. "Vera—please," he gasps, sweat-slicked back arching off the bark.
She steps closer, her bare feet silent on the moss, and tilts her head with feline curiosity. One finger traces the tears streaking his cheeks before she shrugs, her smile widening as the vines tighten their rhythm. "Tch. Should've listened when you had the chance," she purrs, dragging a nail down his trembling thigh. "But begging suits you."
Vera's fingertips trail through the air, summoning thicker vines that slither up the ranger's legs with deliberate slowness. They coil around his hips in intricate knots like living shackles that pulse with the grove's heartbeat. Her own hand drifts between her thighs as she watches his breath hitch, her smile widening when another vine curls around his weeping cock. "Mine," she murmurs to the rustling leaves. "Rooted deeper than my oldest oaks."
The final vine crests over his collarbone like a lover's embrace, its blossom pressing against his lips to steal his last protest. Vera's climax rolls through her in slow waves, her back arching as the grove shudders in sympathy. When her gaze flicks to him one last time—eyes half-lidded, sweat-slicked chest heaving—she finds him already writhing in endless ecstasy, the vines' rhythm unrelenting. With a flick of her wrist, the archway seals behind her, leaving only his muffled moans to haunt the hollow.
The hollow exhales—roots uncoiling, petals wilting, the last echoes of muffled cries absorbed into thirsty earth. Where the ranger’s seed fell, saplings erupt through moss: slender oaks veined with gold, their leaves whispering secrets in tongues only druids understand. The corruption dissolves like sugar in spring rain, its final traces purged by the most primal of alchemies.
Yet the grove remembers. Wind carries fractured gasps to distant clearings where dryads pause mid-song. A crow tilts its head at the scent of salt and spent lust clinging to bark. Somewhere beyond the sealed archway, Vera’s footsteps falter—just once—before she vanishes into deeper shadows.
Dawn filters through warped windowpanes, painting honeyed stripes across a wooden table still sticky with maple syrup. The woman’s calloused thumb swipes at the tear before it can splatter onto her daughter’s half-eaten toast, far too practiced at this ritual of absence. Across from them, the empty chair yawns wide enough to swallow whole conversations, its cushion still dented from when he’d last risen too quickly, his cloak snapping like a banner as he vanished into the storm.
The half-elven child frowns at her mother’s trembling chin, tiny fingers smearing jam in deliberate circles on her plate. "Papa’s oaks are singing today," she announces, as if this explains everything. The wind rattles the door latch in agreement, carrying the scent of charred earth from whatever battle he’s chasing—or whatever grave he’s already become.
From a ridge draped in witch hazel, Vera watches the cabin’s smoke curl into dawn’s pallid light—another hearth poisoned by promises. The woman inside moves like a ghost between table and stove, her shoulders rounded under the weight of what men leave behind. Vera’s claws dig into the birch trunk as the child’s voice carries upslope: Papa’s oaks are singing.
She should laugh. Should spit at the sentiment. But her throat tightens when the wind shifts, bringing the scent of scorched earth from the hollow where his saplings now stretch toward the sun—roots sunk deep in the place he refused to leave. The vines had sung for him too, in the end.
The witch hazel branches part reluctantly as Vera steps onto the worn path, her bare feet silent on the dew-slick grass. She shrugs on a robe of woven moss—its fibers still clinging with the scent of him—and palms the pendant in her grip, its surface still warm from where her magic had burned his likeness into the oak’s heartwood. The child’s laughter drifts ahead, bright as birdsong against the cabin’s creaking timbers.
Inside, she moves like mist, first pressing the pendant into small hands (its enchantment humming against tiny palms), then pulling the mother into an embrace that cracks the woman’s composure. “Stupid,” Vera murmurs into her hair, claws retracted as the farm’s soil stirs beneath them. “But stubborn to the last.” The land shivers in response, its yield already thickening beneath her silent blessing.
The pendant pulses faintly in the child’s grasp, its glow syncing with the distant hum of the hollow’s new oaks. Vera’s fingers linger a heartbeat too long before she steps back, her usual smirk absent, replaced by something that might almost be regret. The mother’s tear lands on the carved likeness, and for a moment, the cabin smells of crushed pine and the musk of a ranger’s sweat.
Outside, the wind carries the scent of charred earth away, replacing it with the tang of ripening blackberries. Vera doesn’t look back as she melts into the tree line, but the path she leaves glows faintly, a trail of bioluminescent moss that fades by midday, as if the forest itself is erasing her footsteps.