There had been no children born in his previous tribe since. It was something he never had to worry about with a female minos before.
But there was no way of knowing for sure, not for quite some time, and so he worked the long night away and exorcised the thoughts from his skull.
He worked his blade to a dull point, whittling old, wet wood to an edge that it did not want to make. He watched the pile grow substantially as the mist around him lightened with dawn. One stick became two rotten boards, and from there any piece that was long enough to be positioned upright in the mud was shaped into a point. The thralls, in their wet rags and undead-like demeanor, did the same.
There will not be enough.
He knew that from the beginning, but still hoped for more. If his brother Vedikus were here, he would tell him that hope was futile. Still, each piece that was made could fell a centaur galloping through, especially if they were hidden within the reeds where the swamp waters were deeper.
He heard Calavia’s soft footfalls long before she appeared behind him. He turned to face her. She was carrying a large pot of melted wax in her arms. She set it down beside him and sat on the other side, her face scrunched up in an expression he could not read.Determination? Sadness? Fear?All of the above? He glowered, put his whittled stake to the side, and picked up another.
As he worked, he watched her out of the corner of his eye. She would retrieve one of the stakes and with careful deliberation, scoop wax from the pot in her hands and coat the wood, much like she had done with his horns.
His body went tense at the thought. He began to envy the wood she moved between her skillful palms.
She did the same for every sharpened stake, and as the day lengthened in silence, his body continued to prime with each stroke of her hands along the wood. Astegur grumbled to himself and did his best to banish the thoughts.
By midday, she left him, and he forced himself not to follow her, find her, and drag her back by her hair and force her to her knees by his side. But right when he was about to do just that, she returned again with another pot of wax, sitting beside him.
“You will not have much wax left if you cover everything with it,” he said, breaking the silence.
“I know,” she mumbled.
He canted his head. “Don’t you need it?”
She refused to look at him. “I need it to help us. Not stay gathered where it is of no use…”
“And when it is all gone?”
“I will figure something out.”
Astegur hummed and set aside his wood and hefted one of the waxen stakes that Calavia had covered while they spoke. Try as he might, he could not scrape the wax off, and when he tested the sharp end, it would not break.
He grunted in approval. She was useful, more so than he ever thought a human without pure blood could be, even though he had realized her power had been honed for defense, not offense. Only the most powerful of beings, like his mother had been, could do more with magic than rituals and incantations, divinations and imbuing. He did not think Calavia had the skill to strike out if she were cornered.
That did not sit well with him. His grip tightened on the stake.
Filled with my seed. Pregnant with my spawn.In his sudden need to rut her and make her submit to his will, he did not think of the aftermath, only his need to exact his rule over her. To reclaim authority. His tail slapped the fallen stone boulder he sat upon.I had not thought about what would happen to my seed once it was within her. His only thoughts had been getting it inside her.
Some sinister, evil part of him, deep inside the pit of his black soul, liked the idea that she was using up the remainder of her wax. With her affinity gone—which he was beginning to truly believe was tied to her power—he could enslave her. Maybe. His aching prick liked the idea.
He put the waxen stake aside and palmed his face, only to smell her upon his hand. It made his shaft chafe uncomfortably against his loincloth.
My brothers will not accept one such as her into the tribe.Astegur knew they would see her as they saw their mother, and fear her just the same. The only difference that mattered though was that unlike his mother, Calavia’s blood was tainted, and could not offer the strength of it to him or to his brothers.
He barely trusted her himself.
Astegur stood and gathered the readied stakes in his arms and began to strategically place them upon the raised paths throughout the settlement. He dug with his hands and ensured they would remain upright and at an angle, all pointing away from the central temple. He made sure the centaurs would see them and be forced into the deeper waters if they wanted to avoid them.
The labor didn’t ease as hours passed. He only returned to the temple to retrieve more of the stakes. But each time he did so, Calavia was there, and she would flood his skull with devious thoughts.
Once the last of the stakes were placed, darkness had descended around him, and instead of finding the hag and using her hurting body again, he went to scout the perimeter. Each step away from where Calavia rested pained his hooves.
He stopped short when he came upon the broken hut that stored his belongings. Inside, with violent energy and desire lacing his veins, he shed his leathers and gripped his bull’s cock. It was too big for his hand, but he rubbed it vigorously, joyfully, thinking of Calavia’s tiny quim being forced to stretch around it, smelling Calavia’s tasty, citrus scent all the while.
He came hard across the mossy stone at his hooves. Steam rose from his parted lips.
With the sweat on his body, and his cock’s seed covering his hand, he stormed back out into the swamp and cleaned himself with the undisturbed waters nearby.
