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“Please allow me to introduce myself
I’m a man of wealth and taste
I’ve been around for a long, long year
Stole many a man’s soul and faith”
-The Rolling Stones, “Sympathy for the Devil”


The Order of the Radiant Warriors was, despite its impossibly pretentious title, a fairly reliable sect, hidden away in a small valley just off some of the more worn footpaths between the Great Kingdoms. For a modest donation, travelers could stay the night in assured safety and relative comfort, and many lower-ranking nobles often sent their scions to study combat or theology within the Order’s walls. In some rare cases, it had been known to send some of its warriors to fight on behalf of a neighboring king or baron, provided said nobleman was a member of the Order’s own faith. In short, the Order was a respectable local institution, but not an overly-ambitious one.

Although she wouldn’t quite agree with the above assessment, having a much higher opinion of the Order than may have been warranted by circumstances, the warrior known only as Marcella did have to admit that her summons by the Priest Ezekiel seemed a bit odd on its face. As she crossed the courtyard, the young woman reflected on the brief message she’d received, advising her to prepare for a few days’ travel. She didn’t know of any particularly nasty squabbles in the region; she couldn’t think of any reason for the Order to send its finest warrior out into the countryside.

‘Ah. Pride,’ she chided herself mentally. ‘Mustn’t fall to that.’ This particular bit of self-remonstration had become so common to her that Marcella only half-heartedly felt remorse. Yes, Pride was a Deadly Sin, and certainly the one she was most vulnerable to, but at a certain point, humility became deception. Marcella was, without question, the finest warrior in the Order, and had been since she first joined over ten years ago. Admittedly, she held some distinct physical advantages when it came to combat: she was a tall girl, six feet when not in armor, and her lithe frame was nonetheless fairly muscular from over two decades of training with swords, equestrianism, and generally superb self-discipline.

This same self-discipline translated into everything Marcella did. She studied the canon texts of the Order with a profound passion, and not merely as a shallow, intellectually-lazy drone. No, Marcella had a profound, intellectual appreciation for the tenants of her faith, and could argue them with a logically-consistent conviction. Alternately, she could enforce them at the point of a sword, if the situation called for it. Although Marcella wouldn’t consider herself a violent person, per se, she certainly never shied away from combat, either. Indeed, she greatly enjoyed the release battle provided, finding physical combat an excellent companion to rhetorical or theological combat. Her self-confidence in her own righteousness was such that she never had reason to question herself or her beliefs.

This self-confidence, although being a source of much personal strength, was also Marcella’s most annoying character flaw. It was one thing to be proud of her own convictions and devotions, but it was quite another to expect all those around her to adhere to the same creeds. She was so devoted to her calling as to ignore all else, having no time (or patience) for social niceties, hobbies, or even romantic relationships.

With such an attitude, it wasn’t a surprise that she didn’t bother to keep up with appearances, at least not in the way typically expected for women of her age. This wasn’t to say that she was unattractive; far from it. Her clear complexion, evenly tanned from years of working outdoors, complimented her short, dirty-blondhair, and made her deep blue eyes appear all the more striking. But she didn’t style her hair, or indulge in make-up or fashionable clothing; her gray and brown garments were completely utilitarian, and even her combat armor was unremarkable in design.

Indeed, even the only modification she made to her appearance was done in the name of pragmatism. What Marcella considered an unfortunate accident of maturity had gifted her with a rather generous bosom, which was a constant source of embarrassment and frustration. She’d become so irritated with the undesired attention from the opposite sex, (and on one occasion that had led to a string of rumors, the same sex), that she’d begun to actively wrap her upper body in order to compress and conceal them as much as possible beneath her clothes.

As she strode across the courtyard to the central tower that served as the hub of the Order’s monastery, the source of one of those irritating rumors was lounging in the seating area by the tower’s entrance. Marcella tried to mask her obvious dislike for the other woman, and hoped to just move past her. But, of course, life is never so easy. The woman, a tall, raven-haired young lady with an ample bust of her own, moved into Marcella’s path, smiling like the cat that ate the canary.

“Going somewhere, Marcy?” she teased, already starting things off on the wrong foot. Marcella absolutely hated that nickname.

“I’ve been summoned, Jezebel,” Marcella snapped with barely-disguised contempt. Supposedly an academic for the Order, Jezebel had joined the same year as Marcella, and the two had never gotten along. Jezebel was a naturally catty socialite, who, despite her somewhat-pious position, clearly enjoyed the sins of the flesh a bit too much, particularly in the eyes of someone like Marcella. In fact, Marcella suspected that the seeds Jezebel’s dislike of her stemmed from Marcella’s natural endowments being larger than hers.

Speaking of, Marcella’s cheeks turned bright red when she glanced down to see how prominently Jezebel was displaying said endowments this morning. Her rival caught her gaze, and smiled wickedly. “Stealing a peak, Marcy? Are the rumors true?”

“Stand aside,” Marcella muttered, pushing past the alpha-bitch and heading up the tower stairs. After climbing the extensive rows of stairs to the highest point of the tower, Marcella opened the heavy wooden doors to Priest Ezekiel’s personal library. A triangular room with a windowed view of the entire Order complex, the library was absolutely filled with texts. Many were standard religious canon, but there was also an impressive selection of appendices on magic and other arcane arts. The Order may frown upon such arts, but it wasn’t stupid; powerful magics existed in their world, and Ezekiel believed in having that knowledge available should the need for it arise.

Ezekiel himself was a fairly unimpressive man; thin, tall, bald, and wearing a featureless black robe, with a small, stylized white cross on the right shoulder as befitted his rank. Marcella knew the design well; she had a complimentary one tattooed onto her own right shoulder. “Good morning, sir,” she replied, bowing slightly. “I came as soon as I received your summons.”

Ezekiel nodded with approval. “…I’m not going to mince words, Marcella,” he began, his tone making it clear that this situation was as strange to him as it was to her. “What I’m about to ask of you is rather…unusual. In fact, it’s unprecedented in my time as the lead Priest of the Order. As such, if you at all feel unsure of this mission, I want you to decline it. I won’t think any less of you, and the knowledge will never leave this room.”

“…Sir?”

“I received a report from a travelling merchant who stayed with us late last week. He tells me that something is deathly wrong in the small principality of Starling. Are you familiar with it?”

Marcella frowned briefly. “I’m familiar enough with it to know that something is always wrong with Starling, mostly due to its prince.”

“Yes, well. Prince Benito may be an unpleasant person-“

“He’s a womanizer, a lout, and a thoroughgoing brute,” Marcella corrected.

“But,” Ezekiel said firmly, cutting her off. “He cooperates with his neighboring principalities, serves his lords when called upon, and pays tribute to the community when required. Beyond that, it’s not to us to judge.”

This clearly didn’t sit well with Marcella, who didn’t appreciate having to turn a blind eye to this Prince’s vile behavior, particularly on such weak pretense. The Order didn’t believe in retailing indulgences; why should a brute like Benito be able to buy the leave of his neighbors with monetary tribute? Ignoring her obvious indignation, Ezekiel continued.

“The merchant told me that something odd had happened within Starling. Benito’s castle did not appear to be fully occupied, and the people of Starling seemed frightened. Of what, no one would say. When he asked, my merchant friend was rebuffed at every opportunity. It disturbed him so much that he only stayed in the town a single night, not bothering to sell his wares. I thought this a very odd story, so I sent a pair of pages to search for more information. And what they discovered, if true, is rather alarming.

“It seems that the Prince’s foul behavior may have finally come back to haunt him. He offended some wizard or sorcerer or other manner of mystic, who has imprisoned him and taken control of the entire town. Its people now live in fear of their lives. We’ve been asked to free thePrince, if possible. More importantly, we’ve been asked to slay the wizard who’s done this thing.”

Marcella was quiet for several moments before she responded. “I accept the quest, my Priest,” she replied slowly. “But I must register an objection. The people of Starling already lived in fear of their Prince, and we were satisfied to turn a blind eye for years. Now, because someone of influence has asked us to intervene, we’re to do so? I can’t accept that. I’ll act to save these people, but the Prince’s safety is decidedly secondary.”

Ezekiel eyed her sharply for a bit, before responding. “Your mission is two-fold: rescue the Prince, and slay the wizard. That is the entirety of your mission. That the people of Starling will be saved from mystical tyranny is a happy consequence, but not the mission itself.” His tone allowed no invitation for further discussion.

This did not sit well with Marcella, at all. But she’d already accepted the mission, and was bound upon her honor to complete the quest. Bowing again, she left without another word. As she exited the tower and came back into the courtyard, she pretended not to notice Jezebel and her gang of flunkies. When Jezebel whispered something, and gestured rudely towards Marcella, she was forced to shoot the other woman a deathly glare even as the assembled gaggle laughed at Jezebel’s wit and innuendo.

With this thoroughly sour inception, Marcella gathered her supplies and started her journey.

§

It had taken two days by horseback to reach Starling, and the sun was already low in the sky by the time Marcella reached the modestly-sized township. She immediately understood how the disappearance of the Prince could have passed unnoticed; Starling was barely a spot on her map. The only notable landmark was the Prince’s castle, which was itself fairly small considering some of the larger villages she’d passed through on her way here. Starling couldn’t have held more than one hundred and fifty people, if it held two.

Complimenting this feeling of insignificance was the disturbing feeling of isolation she felt upon entering the town proper. It wasn’t just the knowledge that the nearest neighboring village was a day’s ride away; it was something more abstract that Marcella couldn’t initially put her finger on. And in a moment of clarity, she realized exactly what was wrong: there was no one visible in the streets of the town. The town wasn’t empty; she could smell the burning wood fires from the individual homes, hear the hushed sounds from behind closed doors and latched windows. This was a town that was actively hiding from something.

Intellectually, she’d been prepared for this type of environment, but there was a difference between hearing about it from a third-hand source, and actually experiencing it. With such a palpable feeling of fear and unease, she completely understood why the Priest’s merchant friend had fled. Marcella had once slain a dragon, and even she was getting a terrible case of the creeps.

Pushing such thoughts aside, Marcella identified the local tavern and tied her horse outside. She was surprised, upon entering, to see a sizeable mass of people inside, sitting close and speaking low. As soon as she entered, every eye in the building turned towards her, initially with terror, then with suspicion.

No one volunteered any greeting, however, so Marcella continued on to the bar, where the barkeep, a tall man with a glass eye in the left side of his face, grunted to acknowledge her presence. “What’ll ya have?” he asked curtly.

“I’m not here to drink,” she said calmly; it wouldn’t be a surprise to anyone who knew her that Marcella never imbibed. “I am Marcella, High Paladin of the Order of the Radiant Warriors. I’ve come to free your people.”

The barkeep immediately frowned at her, glaring with such intensity that Marcella thought his glass eye might possibly pop from his socket. “What in the Seven Blazes is wrong with you, girl?” he snapped. “Are you trying to cause trouble?”

This wasn’t the anticipated response, and Marcella’s confusion was obvious.

“Isn’t it true that a powerful mystic has-“

“Yes, yes,” the barkeep snapped. “It’s not exactly the best time we’ve ever had of it, here in Starling. But only a few people have been pressed into service, and as long as we keep our heads down and our mouths shut, we won’t bring any more badness on ourselves.”

A quick glance around the room confirmed to Marcella that the barkeep was expressing the sentiments of the rest of the town, which she found both inconceivable and unacceptable. “You’d let your own countrymen to slavery if it meant saving your own skins?” she demanded, obviously disgusted. “Perhaps my zeal was misplaced. I’d come to recruit as many able-bodied men as possible to lay siege to the castle, but clearly, your spirits are already so sickly as to make you worthless.”

And now the crowd was getting irritable. Marcella judged it wise to show herself out. As she left, she heard the barkeep behind her. “We got enough problems without an Amazon with a rod up her arse stirring the pot. Stay out of Starling!”
Marcella slammed the door behind her, initially so enraged by her cold reception that she failed to notice her horse was no longer where she’d tied it. For a brief second, she’d thought it had slipped loose and wandered off, until she saw the telltale trail of her belongings strewn into the mud along the main path.

“Very well,” she whispered to herself, picking up the individual pieces of her armor to clean and assemble. “I shall proceed alone. Someone in this wretched hive must stand for righteousness, after all.”

§

It was an hour later, when the sun finally disappeared over the horizon, that Marcella emerged from the small collection of trees that surrounded the castle. While she’d been waiting for the cover of darkness to make her initial assault, it turned out to have been perplexingly unnecessary. Although she continued to make her approach with experienced and silent caution, there simply didn’t seem to be any sentries, barriers, or guards of any kind. Marcella realized, as she slid into the main entrance, that she could probably have just casually strolled into the main hall and still not met any resistance.

Aside from some Spartan application of candlelight, there didn’t seem to be any signs of habitation, at least until she approached the dining hall. As she neared, she saw lights, smelled food, and heard an indistinct voice. Well, it was supper time, after all. Drawing her sword, Marcella raced into the room in a single fluid motion, but was so surprised by what she found that she momentarily froze in an attempt to make sense of it all.

In the center of the room was a moderately-sized dining table, capable of seating between seven to ten people along its rectangular sides. The table was covered with an incredibly elaborate spread, each dish painstakingly prepared despite the obvious fact that most of the food was going to waste. At the end of the table closest to Marcella stood a young woman in an ill-fitting servant’s uniform, clearly as surprised to see Marcella as Marcella was to see the rest of this.

At the opposite end of the table, an older, barrel-chested man stood off to the side, also in a servant’s uniform clearly too tight in the shoulders and too short in the legs to have been tailored for him. He held a serving tray with the awkward handling of a man who’d never done so, before. He, too, was shocked into silence.

As odd as this mismatched pair were, they weren’t what gave Marcella such pause. Sitting at the head of the table, clearly the only person completely comfortable with this outlandish scene, was an unassuming young woman who had to have been a few years younger than Marcella herself. She had pale skin that spoke of aristocracy, flowing silver hair that continued to the small of her back, and disturbingly-serene brown eyes. She was wearing a black dress with violet highlights, which served to prop up her modest bosom. It was the eyes that bothered Marcella the most; they were so calm it was unnerving, particularly when paired with the half-smirk that tugged the corners of her mouth.

At that moment, Marcella realized she’d made two false assumptions. She’d presumed, with no real evidence, that a mage powerful enough to hold a whole town in terror would be much older and more experienced. She’d also assumed that the mage would be male, an ironic misconception considering Marcella herself.

Her momentary hesitation was all the time the girl at the head of the table needed to take stock of Marcella’s intrusion. “Oh, how lovely,” she noted calmly. “I haven’t had company for dinner since my arrival in Starling.”

The broken silence brought Marcella back to full alert. “You, witch,” she said firmly. “I am Marcella, High Paladin of the Order of the-“

To Marcella’s surprise, the young woman waved her hand dismissively, as if sending away an undercooked dish. “Yes, yes, dear. You’re here to avenge the priests or the princes or the unwanted puppies, or whatever particular dolt has you throwing away your life so recklessly.”

Marcella was incensed. “You dare!” she snapped, rushing at the girl with her sword raised.

“I do,” the young mage replied calmly. With a gesture, she sent Marcella’s sword flying from the surprised warrior’s hands; a second gesture wretched the armor plating from her body. To her credit, Marcella was undaunted; she continued to advance, fully prepared to tackle the girl bodily. Her target gave her a deep look that seemed to pierce Marcella’s very soul, before making a more precise gesture. Marcella suddenly stopped short, gasping as she felt the wind get knocked out of her by some invisible force. At the same time, one of the chairs at the table seemed to move of its own accord, sliding to where Marcella stood in order to accommodate her falling backwards into it.
Before she could regain herself, a series of leather straps appeared, seemingly from out of nowhere, binding Marcella fast to the chair. With a final gesture from the mage, the chair slid back into place, seating Marcella at the girl’s right hand.

The girl smiled as if an anticipated party guest had just seated herself. “Much better, don’t you think? Now, let’s start again. I’m Ranavalona, and I’m the current Lady of this manor. And what did you say your name was? I missed it during your laughable attempt to assassinate me.”

After straining against the straps and confirming they were, in fact, not going to budge in the slightest, Marcella consented to answer. “My name is Marcella, Paladin of-“

Ranavalona cut her off once again, not even offering her the courtesy of a dismissive gesture this time. “You see, Marcy, you’re not the first misguided fool to arm up with lord and sword and come to slay me. Oh, credit where it’s due, you did take the precaution of a white magic charm on your sword and armor. That would probably have delayed a lesser mage long enough for you to defenestrate their head, but you’re not dealing with a lesser mage at all.”

Rana paused, enjoying another bite of the poultry dish before her. “Although I suppose you’ve deduced that already.”

It was the tone of casual conversation that enraged Marcella the most. Seeing this spoiled woman sit in absolute control of the situation, radiating control and power, caused Marcella’s heart rate to speed and her cheeks to flush with what she assumed was rage. “I won’t pay you a compliment, witch,” she hissed. “No matter what ways you disguise it, you’re nothing more than a common thug.”

Rana smiled. “Oh, you’re fun. I enjoy your spirit. You’re still going to die, of course, but at least you can die with the knowledge that you’re a step above the normal idiots that I have to dispose of.”

She gestured to the room around them. “Like this lot, for example. Do you think that I woke up one morning and decided to waste time playing with a useless spat of land like Starling? Hardly. I was merely passing through on a completely unrelated matter, when that fool prince decided he was ‘owed’ certain things in exchange for allowing me to enter his sad little realm.”

Rana paused her story, tilting her head slightly to study Marcella. After a moment, her eyes lit up with realization, and she snapped her fingers. In response, the cloth bindings holding down Marcella’s chest tore clean in half, allowing the warrior’s generous endowments to bounce upwards and breathe a bit.

“Hm, it seems you’re no stranger to those types of impositions, are you, Marcy?”

Marcella felt a warm sensation in the center of her being as she was casually toyed with by this woman. She brushed it from her mind, trying to focus on what it was Ranavalona was saying. She hoped the witch would reveal a weakness or opening that could be exploited.

“So, the Prince…” Marcella began.

“Is quite dead, yes,” Rana nodded, taking a sip of wine. “And most of his court. Carlisle and Ashleigh here are the last two remaining. Carlisle was Starling’s sheriff, while Ashleigh was one of the Prince’s mistresses. But since the house servants had the good sense to abandon their masters, I decided to improvise. It just seemed easier than going after them, particularly when I’ve still got an entire town of people waiting, should I need anything during my stay.”

“But why?” Marcella demanded. “Why torment and kill all of these people for the sins of a man you’ve already slain?”

Rana sat down her glass and looked directly into Marcella’s eyes, which felt to the paladin not unlike staring into an abyss. “Because I can.”

Smiling with satisfaction at Marcella’s obvious astonishment, Rana gestured to Carlisle. “Get my guest anything she likes,” she ordered. “Marcy, what can he fetch for you?”

Marcella considered. “I’m quite parched,” she allowed. “Wine?” Rana nodded to Carlisle, who moved with the swiftness of a man terrified of failing in his task. Marcella briefly wondered what horrors he and the woman Ashleigh had seen in these past weeks to inspire such a level of fear.

With some small delay, Carlisle returned with a fresh bottle of red wine, which he quickly poured into the glass sitting at Marcella’s side. He briefly hesitated, turning to Ranavalona. She nodded her consent, and the impressed servant lifted the glass to Marcella’s lips. The bound warrior took a generous drink, then paused to allow Carlisle to lower the glass.

At which point Marcella turned her head to the right and spit the entirety of her drink into Ranavalona’s face.

You could have heard a pin drop. Carlisle and Ashleigh were ghastly pale, terrified at what their tyrannical mistress’s reaction would be. With supreme satisfaction, Marcella noted that Rana’s mask of casual confidence, (if it was a mask), had finally slipped. The witch looked at Marcella with astonishment, as if she couldn’t process what had just happened. And just like that, the moment passed, and Rana reacted in perhaps the most terrifying way possible: she started laughing.

It was a genuine laugh, as if this was the funniest thing Rana had ever seen. “Oh, Marcy, I absolutely adore you,” she said cheerfully, still chuckling as she stood and wiped her face. “Of course, now you’re all going to die, but your sheer nerve is commendable.”

With this casual death sentence tossed out, Carlisle decided to press his luck, trying to make a break for the secondary hall that led to the kitchen. It wasn’t to be; with a single gesture, Rana brought him hurling backwards through the air, landing with a resounding thud onto the very table he’d spent hours setting. He moaned in pain as he wondered what piece of cutlery it was that currently pained his spine.

Ashleigh took a more pragmatic approach, immediately dropping to her knees and pleading. “Mistress, please, I did everything you asked, please please don’t kill me please…”

Rana sighed with annoyance, rolling her eyes. She’d have thought Ashleigh was paying attention when her fellows had been killed; begging did little but irritate the cruel mage. She stopped out from behind the table, allowing Marcella to see that she’d misjudge the girl’s attire.

She’d assumed the dress Ranavalona wore continued to the floor; in fact, it was barely a dress at all, stopping midway down the thigh. That isn’t to say that Rana’s legs were completely exposed; rather, the short skirt was almost met halfway by the longest pair of boots Marcella had ever seen. They were black leather, with a series of laces running up the entire front of the shoe. What’s more, they each had a thick rubber sole that elevated Rana several inches. Without the boots, Marcella judged the girl to be about five foot six, but she rose to five nine with those heels.

For some reason, Ashleigh stared at those boots, seeming more terrified of them than the girl wearing them. Marcella wasn’t sure what to make of this.
Still, she couldn’t just let this happen. “Let these people go, witch!” she snapped. “I’m the one who insulted you!”

“But they witnessed it,” Rana replied in a cheerful, almost sing-song voice. “You need to consider the consequences of your actions, Marcy.”

“They’re innocent, you harlot!”

Rana laughed again. “’Innocent’?” she repeated. “No one’s innocent, dear. Especially not these riffraff.” She turned to the table, and, using her magic to temporarily augment her physical strength, hefted Carlisle off of the table and slammed him to the ground in a single motion.

“This man, for example, has been extorting the citizens of Starling for years, taking anything of value that catches his eye. Food, money, women…”
She turned to where Ashleigh was still cowering, and pulled the woman towards herself with another gesture. “And this one, the Prince’s mistress? She gained her position by murdering her predecessor.” Rana let Ashleigh fall to the ground next to Carlisle.

“And these two are the least offensive of the lot,” the witch went on, taking a moment to turn Marcella’s chair towards her captives. She leaned over the warrior’s shoulder.

“You really have to wonder,” she whispered into Marcella’s ear. “What your Order really thinks of you, that they’d send you to risk your life to rescue such foul creatures.”

“As if you’re any better!” Marcella snapped, trying to pull away from Rana as much as her bonds would allow.

“Perhaps I’m not,” Rana noted casually, making a point to steal a glance down into Marcella’s generous cleavage. “But the blush in your cheeks says that you find me much more interesting.”

“It’s called ‘rage’, murderer!”

“If you say so, dear,” Ranavalona replied in the most condescending tone possible. “Now, you sit tight and let me deal with these two, okay?”
Ignoring the string of (admittedly creative) curses that followed, Rana went back to the remains of Starling’s court, making a ‘tsk’ing sound with her tongue. “Oh, Carlisle. Really, trying to run? Whatever am I going to do with you? Well, aside from the obvious…”

It took Marcella a moment to realize what, exactly, she was watching. It looked as if the large man was moving, crouching lower and lower to the ground, but that wasn’t it…no. No! He was actively shrinking, dwindling in size before the astonished paladin’s gaze. He voiced a terrified wail of protest which became less and less pronounced as he grew smaller and smaller. Rana, too, was looking with extreme intent, flushing at the sight. She did, however, take a moment to steal a glance at Marcella, noting with satisfaction that her ‘guest’ was enjoying the show almost as much as she.

When the process ended, the former bull of a man was a mere two inches tall, barely high enough to see over the heels of Rana’s elaborate footwear. With an icy chill, Marcella realized exactly why the young witch enjoyed such impractical shoes. She held her breath in anticipation of the inevitable.

“You can try running again, if you like,” Rana noted coolly to her miniaturized prey, her casual pronouncement sounding to him like the voice of God. “For all the good it will do.”

Carlisle certainly tried his damndest, not turning to either of the comparatively skyscraper-sized women on either side of him. He knew full well they couldn’t help him; in fact, they were next. He just ran, with a sense of primal, animalistic panic that he’d never felt before. For a brief, joyous instant, he began to think he might actually escape, before the shadow descended on him.

He’d never have the chance to realize this, but his impossibly mad dash hadn’t even taken him outside one of Ranavalona’s strides. Once she vaguely felt the vibration that indicated he had stumbled beneath her juggernaut of a boot, she slowed her step. A low moan escaped her lips as her eyes fluttered, enjoying the knowledge of what her prey was experiencing.

“You see, Marcy,” she whispered huskily. “You waste time praying to a god. But to this man, right now…I am God. That’s no theology. That’s cold, hard-“ Squish. “…reality.”

Marcella finally released her breath, shocked at the perverse cruelty this girl held. Before she could react, Ranavalona had already turned her attention to Ashleigh. The witch roughly grabbed the murdering socialite by the neck, starting to shrink her as she did so. Rather than leave her to the floor, Rana ensured that she was holding her terrified hostage in her hand when the process was complete. Ashleigh was openly weeping now, shivering despite the wash of Rana’s warm, sweet breath over her reduced form.

“Now, because you were a good girl and didn’t try to run,” Rana said with a false sweetness, keeping Ashleigh grasped firmly in her hand. “You get a special treat. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”

Not expecting or waiting for a response, the mage strolled to Marcella, smiling seductively as she straddled the other woman on the chair. Marcella tried her best to back further away, but there was simply nowhere to go. “What are you doing?” she demanded.

“Helping you lighten up, dear,” Rana teased, holding her shrunken captive above the canyon created by Marcella’s breasts. Her intention was immediately obvious, and Ashleigh’s screaming commenced again.

Marcella watched, captivated, horrified, and…something else? She managed a single, whispered, “No,” before Rana, chuckling, dropped the tiny woman. Marcella was briefly elated to see (and feel) that the small creature had survived impact, and was nestled firmly between the paladin’s titanic tits.

And then Ranavalona took one of Marcella’s breasts in each hand, and began to kneed them together.

Rana was purring as she did so, but Marcella was positively moaning. No one had ever touched her like that, before…a fraction of a moment later, a realization of what had just happened sank in. Ashleigh was no longer thrashing. Marcella screamed.

“Monster!” she spat, thrashing and squirming in rage and disgust. “Perverted monster!”

Rana laughed at her plight. “Slow down there, Marcy,” she teased. “You’re far too eager on your first time.”

But the smile dropped from Rana’s face when Marcella pulled her head back, and Rana immediately recognized the gesture: her unwilling partner was about to spit in her face.

“No.” Rana practically snarled, letting a concentrated bolt of dark magic pass through her hands. Marcella cried out in pain before blacking out. Irritated, Rana crawled off of her toy, considering the situation.

She’d initially expected to just toy with the warrior’s mind for a bit before shrinking and killing her like all the other attempted heroes with the misfortune of crossing her path. But Rana was genuinely interested in this one. She’d never come across someone so willing to stand up to her; she would normally have potential prey begging for their inconsequential lives by this point. Marcy was clearly made of sterner stuff, and that alone was noteworthy.

The fact that she was so obviously repressed also made her incredibly amusing, and was a bit of a turn on. It was fun, in a prurient fashion, to molest the overbearing, self-righteous prude. But therein lied the problem: Ranavalona wouldn’t ever quite get satisfaction as long as Marcy kept resisting her will. The control was as much of an aphrodisiac as anything else, and not being able to control this one woman was becoming a sore point. True, Rana could easily use a spell to cloud the older girl’s mind, and to all outside appearances, it would appear that Marcella had broken of her own accord. Rana would be the only one who would realize it was a lie.

This was, of course, another way of saying that everyone who mattered would know it was a lie.

“No,” Rana said aloud, finally deciding on a path. “We’re going to do something a bit different for you, dear Marcy…”

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