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Queen Aviati, first and last of her line, her immortal majesty, sat on her throne of ebony and gold, goblet of fine wine in hand, listening to the music of clashing iron and screams.
It had been ages since her rule began. Ages since she came to this world, a living blasphemy that clawed its way to rulership. A tribe of humans, to several. To a town, then several, then a major city. Ages of blood and screaming with the inevitable consequence of her becoming Queen from sea to sea.
It had been so long. Old temples desecrated, treasures moved to her capital. Lifetimes of sitting on her throne, proud and idle. She’d run through all manner of amusements this world could offer its rulers. Her harem grew and shrank with her moods, how much weeping she could tolerate. Musicians and artisans competed to not bore her, outré and Avant Garde became commonplace until she bored of it and classical art revived. Gladiatorial games were run and run and run in her honor until several manners of vicious beast were extirpated and she ran out of ways to watch men die.
Her rule had become routine, and she longed for something to stave off the boredom.
The revolution that began in the frozen North was welcome. When the token forces she had arrayed to keep the barbarians in line beseeched her aid, she thought it amusing. A challenge to her rule? Part of her wanted a change in the routine, but it was not worth her time. She didn’t need to abandon her revels, trite as they were, to snuff a little spark.
That spark became a fire.
That remained fine. The North was cattle, ice, and fools. Wine came from the South, most food came from the heartlands, overseas exotics from the ports—she would get around to conquering the lands across the sea eventually. She’d let them set up their king or queen or chieftain, let them build, let them think they had won their freedom, then snuff it out.
But then legions betrayed her. Slew her appointed governors in the name of reclaiming their homes. The fire in the North spread, rumors she was not invincible spread. It had been generations since the last time she felt the need to act, so maybe reminders were in order. She’d salt the earth once the revolution was crushed. Forces were shifted—she didn’t want anyone from the gold mines getting ideas from rumors of far off lands.
Even when her capital was besieged, she hadn’t felt the need to attend. She was a goddess, after all. If this revolution had a figurehead, then they would eventually come to her. And eviscerating that ant would set an example, for the others.
The first of many, of course.
She dismissed her retinue when the battle began, focusing on the sounds of battle and screaming, drinking it in with her wine. It was beginning to feel nostalgic, the old days of forging her empire. Before the tedium set in. The reckoning would be fun. She would let the insects buzz about the capital for a while. Then she would act.
When the heavy, gilded doors were kicked in, and the barbarian stepped in, Aviati perked up. The tall, muscular woman, in dressed in hides, face streaked blue with war paint and red and black with human and demon blood. “Aviati!”
“You’ve come a long way,” The Queen said, standing up from her throne. She smelt smoke and blood and sweat. Triggers for nostalgia. It was thrilling, tempered by the fact that she knew the end would be an anticlimax. “Your little jest of a rebellion has been quite amusing to me.”
“Your men have abandoned you, tyrant.” The woman said, hefting a large battleaxe. “They say you are a goddess. My people think you a demon.”
“Former’s more flattering, latter more accurate.” She said. “Still, you may kneel and begin praying anytime, darling.”
The barbarian swung her axe. Perfect form, good aim. It stopped at Qeen’s neck, not even breaking the skin. The barbarian attempted to pull it back, but Aviati grasped the head with her hand. Another yank from the barbarian almost pulled it free, forcing Queen to double her efforts.
“No weapon forged by human hands can hurt me.” Aviati said, grinning wide. “Perhaps if you grew up in a lace that actually had a culture, you would have heard those stories.”
With her free hand, she struck the haft of the axe, splintering wood. The barbarian stumbled backwards. The warrior woman looked at the broken haft, let it go, then fixed her gaze upon Aviati. The Queen waited, hands on hips, for her ‘opponent’ to run, maybe beg mercy.
The punch to her jaw was unexpected.
She reeled back, tasting brimstone on her tongue. It took a moment to place the sensation, something she hadn’t felt in centuries. It hurt. The barbarian stomped forward, grasping at Aviati. Strong arms locked on her shoulders, pushing and shoving. A leg hooked hers, and she fell backwards, the muscular form of the barbarian atop her. Her head bounced off the marble of her throne room after a punch. And again.
She screamed in rage and pain. Not fear, not ever fear. She felt no fear.
But she had underestimated this thing, this mortal.
“No weapon forged of mortal hands can hurt you?” The barbarian said. “I was forged by glaciers and crags, and my people’s desperation to end your tyranny.”
It wasn’t fear that made the Queen do it. It couldn’t be. There was nothing to be afraid of from this insect. It was rage. Rage at this smug insect, thinking she had a chance. Rage at the fact she should’ve cleansed the pathetic northlands of life generations ago and nothing of value would be lost. She wasn’t afraid, she was angry she had allowed herself to be made a fool.
It wasn’t fear that made her show this upstart her true self.
Skin sundered, peeled back, a white veil peeling away from the roiling blackness beneath. Aviati shoved with all her might, and the barbarian was off of her. Claws scrabbled for purchase as she rose, the throne room suddenly much smaller. It had been generations since anything mortal, immortal, living, or dead had gazed upon her.
She looked at the remnants of her skin, tattered and shredded along with the exquisite silks she had worn. Jewels, the prides of wherever she had acquired them from, lay scattered across the floor. Her mortal shell, something she had crafted to be of unsurpassable beauty. She had outdone herself with it, proud of its features, of how her subjects were enthralled, of how even the fairest of her mortal playthings were altogether plain compared to her work, her beauty.
And this pathetic little ant had ruined it. She might never get it just right again.
She screamed in rage and charged. And the miserable insect had the temerity to meet her challenge, running forward as well. They locked up, momentum coming to a halt in the middle of her charge. She pushed, the barbarian pushed, and neither yielded an inch.
She would tear the secrets out of her. Find out what god or goddess had answered her prayers, gifted her with their strength, and defile its temples all over again. What magician gave her this strength, and slowly torture him to death. Whatever demon she had sold her soul to for this power, and make them pay for making her look like a fool.
No mortal could stand up to her, not like this.
The barbarian, warding off a claw swipe and wrenched Aviati’s arm. She screamed in frustration and rage, pulling her arm free. A kick to her knee dropped her down, and then the barbarian slammed her elongated snout against the marble. Aviati thrashed and rolled, shaking the barbarian loose.
A ducked claw swipe was answered by an uppercut that sent her staggering back, then something hard slammed into her and she was back on the marble. Her tail lashed out, and the barbarian stepped back, failing to press her advantage, and allowing the Queen to get to her feet.
The mortal fought like no mortal should have, dodging a blast of hellfire, stepping in and landing a punch. A blow from the Queen sent her sprawling, and she just got back on her feet and continued the fight.
She tried to sweep the barbarian’s legs out with her tail, only for the woman to dodge, grab her tail, and yank. Off her feet, the Queen howled as the Barbarian spun slamming Queen through a column. Half-panicked, the Queen throw shards of rock, the woman dodging, providing an opening.
A slash of claws painted the marble red with the barbarian’s blood. She staggered back, and the Queen charged, claw raised. The scent of mortal blood frenzied Queen, made her move faster. There was no reason to be timid, even if this woman was strong. She was a mortal, and Aviati was a goddess.
But the woman would not stay down, striking and grappling and swearing her head off. They battled the length and breadth of her throne room, dusk turning to starlit night and the mortal still wouldn’t act like a mortal and just fucking die.
It ended at the throne, stained black and red with human and demon blood. Two of Aviati’s eyes were swollen shut, the rest focused on the mortal, who was also slowing down, blood dripping from a multitude of wounds. The barbarian stepped in, slamming her fist into Aviati’s jaw.
She stumbled back. Her tongue coiled around the teeth knocked loose, then struck. The barbarian drunkenly waivered, fists raised. The Queen responded with a massive strike that sent the barbarian through the gold and ebony throne.
The world spun, the only thing still was the barbarian, laying prone in the wreckage of the throne. Blood pounded in the Queen’s veins, dripped from her broken maw. The spinning slowed and eventually halted, the barbarian remaining still.
The queen let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding.
After spitting out the broken teeth, she tilted her head back and screamed in triumph. She was unassailable. There had been no doubt about the outcome, of course. This foolish mortal had thought to challenge her? And she had suffered for her folly.
Aviati was right about to turn, rally her troops and put the rebellion to the sword, make them all taste an ounce of the pain she’d inflicted on their foolish leader, when there was a groan and a stirring.
Weakly, the barbarian moved.
The Queen stepped over her, tail tense. Bloody, bruised, and still fucking alive. She could feel her heart begin to pound again. A clawed paw raised high, and she leaned in. She could end it right now.
No
That thought struck her quickly.
This miserable little creature didn’t deserve that. She had hurt Aviati. She had ruined her beautiful form. She had defied her. She had rebelled, and ruined so much of what the Queen had built.
No, death, if it came, would come long after the barbarian learned her place.
Aviati grabbed torn hide tunic the barbarian had been wearing, pulling it apart at the seams, revealing a muscular body, not delicately smooth like Aviati’s fair form had been. Her breeches went the same way as her shirt.
Aviati preferred her harem to be delicate, soft. This woman’s skin was marked with scars—small, regular, recurring patterns of ritualistic scarification maybe, as well as large, ugly, uneven scars from combat. Beyond that she heavily muscles—figures as strong as she was. Hard in an unappealing way.
But this wasn’t pleasure, this was an affair of state.
Aviati rolled the Barbarian, still barely conscious over onto her stomach. She didn’t resist when Aviati lifted her up, looping her own arms under the barbarian’s and then locking her hands behind the barbarian’s neck. Her feet dangled above the wreckage of the throne.
The barbarian roused slightly when Aviati’s tail crept up her leg, coiling its way up like a snake climbing a branch. When it found the barbarian’s cunt, she stiffened, struggled, but locked in a grapple as she was, she couldn’t break free. The barbarian stifled sounds as the tip of Aviati’s tail ran the length of her slit, back and forth, then slowly side-to-side.
“Have a man or woman you intended to go back to, once you were done deposing me?” Aviati asked.
The barbarian growled in reply. Had she answered ‘yes’, the Queen would’ve made a point of tracking that lover down and torturing them to death in front of her defeated foe.
“Maybe you’re just desperate for the touch of someone. Hm… in the pile of ice and snow you’re from, it is custom for chieftains to get a wife via conquest, right?”
That was what the Queen’s propagandists came up with, to help allay concerns over the justice of her conquest. A pretext wasn’t necessary, but it made a good story, and her soldiers were happier when convinced they had justice and civilization on their side.
Again, no response.
“You Northerners make such scintillating conversation.” Aviati continued. “Getting slick for me, dear?”
The barbarian finally responded when Aviati’s tail pulled away from her cunt, and then shoved its way up her ass. The Queen decided to make it hurt—some gentle teasing, then roughness.
It seemed she obtained results. The howl the barbarian let out was louder than any war cry she had made during the fight. She kicked, thrashed and swore, and it was a struggle to hold on to her, but Aviati managed it.
The moans, gurgles, and sound of flesh-on-flesh was music as she fucked the barbarian with her tail. The barbarian’s body was trembling with tension, doing her best to thrash out of Aviati’s grip, ineffectually kicking the air, inarticulately yelping and rowling. Tight and warm around her, struggles weakening.
She’d keep her.
Aviati made up her mind. No execution, the barbarian would be kept. She’d have to devote a lot of time to taming this creature, but she would. The doldrums of rulership, that had left her willing to ignore the revolt until it pathetically sputtered out in her throne room? She had a new project.
Aviati let the barbarian drop to the floor, pressing her head down against the marble with a paw. Her her free hand, she ran the pads of two fingers against herself, slick and needing attention. Shame she had the barbarian pegged as a biter, otherwise the woman could’ve started making up for the mess she had made.
She stroked herself, sighing dreamily as she did so. Her mind went to all manner of tortures and humiliations and degradation. Would the barbarian be a reward for her generals? Or their hunting hounds? She’d prefer to keep the woman for herself, but delegating her punishment probably would help.
Hm… the reconquest of the North would take some time. Perhaps the barbarian might be strong enough for Aviati to sire some offspring—their children burning the North down for their mother’s betrayal amused her.
She sighed again. Looking down, the barbarian was still, wasn’t struggling Had she broken already? No, she still was doing what she could to muffle cries as she was fucked. Tail still buried inside the barbarian, Aviati flipped her over, onto her back. Looking down at her, bruised, bloodied, she was almost surprised to see she still had that defiant glint in her eyes as she glared up at her queen.
Aviati ran two slick fingers down the barbarian’s face, tracing the remnants of the woman’s war paint with her own slickness. It earned a momentary cringe from the woman, followed by the continued contemptuous glare.
No fear. No contrition. She continued to have that defiant glare, like she could have stood against her. Like she wasn’t naked, flat on her back, being sodomized. Like she wasn’t utterly beaten. The woman had to know it. She hadn’t futilely struck out or tried to grapple or fight her way free, she was just lying their like the whore she was, taking it.
And yet she had the gall to glare up like that.
Aviati leaned in close, hand on the barbarian’s throat. “Beg your Queen for forgiveness.”
She emphasized her point with a twitch of her tail. The barbarian flinched, then resumed glaring up at her. The word that escaped her throat was barely a whisper, but it looked like a “no.”
She leaned in close enough to whisper, beginning to repeat her order.
Her command was cut off as the Barbarian swung her arm, and there was a pause. Aviati froze, looking down in confusion, feeling pain in her neck. The barbarian used her free hand to grab the Queen, holding her close, as she sawed.
It hurt, the sight of black blood spurting, covering the human sent her into frenzy. She shoved, pulling away, stumbling backwards, feeling something in her neck tear as she did so. She gasped for breath that came in her mouth and left through the hole in her throat. She stumbled and fell, clamping a hand on her throat, feeling her blood dripping through her fingers.
The barbarian got to her feet, slowly, gingerly. Aviati looked over her, eyes locking on something in the mortal’s closed fist, protruding between her fingers.
It was one of Aviati’s own teeth, smashed out in the fight. That had been spat out during the fight. Not a weapon forged by mortal hands.
It wasn’t fair—she had won! She had won, and the barbarian tricked her into coming close enough to injure her. As the world started to darken around her, Aviati turned. She would get away, she would heal, she would…
Something grabbed her tail and yanked, and she slipped and fell on the blood on the floor. She twisted and swiped, and the Barbarian was upon her.
Aviati screamed in pain and fear.
They made there way into the throne room after dawn. The Tyrant’s forces had long since routed and fled. Wild men of the North, a legion under a one-trusted Imperial General who rebelled, mercenaries and sellswords, peasants who had nothing to lose but their lives. They had heard the screams and figured that Finna had found her—she had broken ranks when the walls were breached after all.
They waited, long after the fighting stopped. They squabbled, they bickered. The traitor legion refused to allow sacking of their capital and its treasures; while a band of southern zealots argued they had only come this far to repatriate their stolen heritage.
This was all a means of not having to go to the throne room.
Finna had been eager to fight the Tyrant. Others, not so much, a century’s worth of stories passed down, of what she could do, what she did do before allowing idleness to overtake her ambition made them all wary. Even her fellow Northerners delayed rejoining their high chieftain, until they could find no further excuses.
And so the leaders of the motley band that had brought war to the capital of the immortal tyrant came entered the throne room.
Finna greeted them with a tired nod and silence.
And she sat, naked and bloody atop a ruined throne, the flayed remnants of some beast afore her. The traitor general almost refused to believe the thing, large and dark and terrible was the Queen he swore to serve until he decided to betray her. The zealots, in presence of a demon, backed away, muttering prayers.
A Northerner, spying an opulent crown amidst torn skin and black silk, picked it up and gingerly approached his chieftain. The Traitor General removed his cloak. A zealot offered his boots
She stood and draped herself in the offered clothes, but cast the crown aside. She stepped over the corpse of the Tyrant, dismissively turning her head and giving her first decree. They were to burn it. Leaving her generals to worry about it, Finna the Liberator walked out of the throne room, wandering her new domain, until she found a balcony. Sun beaming down, she greeted a new dawn, and the possibilities and the responsibilities that would come with it.