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She lowered her visor and lance and spurred the horse forward.
Over the rise it lay, every joint plated, many sharp spurs covering it, razor sharp teeth filling its mouth. And it was regarding her. She charged. The lance struck home and she was hurtled
from her mount. With a glance from the dragon the stallion froze
- a statue. She tumbled to the base of another statue, that of a
naked woman and shuddered, wondering. Suddenly the thing's
massive paw pinned her to the ground in her armor. The jaws
closed around the helm and ripped, freeing her long hair. The
dragon stopped, regarding her with a gleam in its eye.
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She passed a field with a mare in it. From the way the stallion
pranced she guessed that the mare was in heat. The thought of
the stallion being tormented by the mare caused her to smile.
Shades of her teasing many a man with her own sexuality. As she
drew closer she realized that it smelled as bad as the stallion,
ending the comparison right there.
Soon she came upon a scene of great beauty - gold strewn about
the mountain - works of art scattered carelessly - the dragon's
horde. Out daring any to even touch it. Gnawed bones and shat-
tered armor showed what fate befell those attempting to claim
that horde.
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The horse was a buckshin with a slightly whiter mane and tail.
As she had combed the mane out it had kicked her viciously,
almost as if it knew and understood her resentment, as if it knew
she enjoyed dominating it, and it chafed at the dominance. Faint
traces of that resentment faded as they rode off.
Rumors of a dragon, a foul platinum colored thing, swept the
land. It was said that this dragon was once kind and good but
now it had been conquered and corrupted by the evil goddess
Tiamat. Now she rode forth to find it. And slay it.
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Dahala's armor felt warm on her shoulders as she saddled her war
stallion. She hated horses and this spirited light war horse was
no exception. They tended to be headstrong and they smelled bad,
though, admittedly, their fur could be soft. The feel of the
saddle reminded her of the smooth leather against her own skin
under her armor. She loved leather and when the horse died,
either in combat or if she slit the foul thing's throat, she'd
make herself a new jerkin out of it's hide.
She swung up into the saddle, the girth tight around the horse's
barrel, the cinch squeezing it snugly. Though she was still a
virgin, she was not quite the valiant knight most thought her to
be - mainly because she, and her five sisters, enjoyed the teas-
ing she could give the men - and the sound thrashing if they
overstepped their bounds. Still she was kind by nature. She was
a tall woman, broad of shoulder, narrow of waist, and quite
lithe. Her musculature did not detract, rather, it enhanced her
shapely figure. The long flowing blonde hair left hidden, along
with the firm curves, inside the full plate armor she wore.
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I began to explode, unable to contain him as his power
spurted forth into me, coating me for faster, more powerful
thrusts and explosions. My every cell was inundated with his
lust, heated to white-hot, until I could take it no more and lost
consciousness.
I awoke the next day, and knew that now, I was truly a
Templar. I felt the power of the demonseed filling me, and knew
that I could release it at will, that I had the true power within
me, and I was Baphomet's, now and forever.
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Finally he released my throat, allowing me to breathe. My
respite was only momentary, as he forced me to my hands and knees
and mounted me. Time lost meaning as I became his
concubine, his tongue wrapping about my neck as a collar, invading my helpless mouth and throat, and reaching down to where his
hands brutally held my cock and balls by virtue of which to pull
me back and forth on his rod in a piston-like action. I was
helpless as the object of his demonic lust, lost in sensation,
able only to serve as I was subjugated by his true power.
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His strength redoubled again, and I began to bend, my mouth
now filled with his Wand. Still his strength increased, and I
had to move. I twisted his arms in my grip unexpectedly, stepped
in, felt his weight shift as I pulled him to throw over my hip,
his right hoof scraping, unsteady,
And he pushed me laughably to the hard floor, spinning and
pinning me on my back. Reorienting around the tip of his cock in
my mouth, he thrust it home to the back of my throat and beyond.
It slid, oiled, for an eternity until my face was embedded between his hairy thighs and held tight there, only able to breathe
the aroma of his heavy, full sacks. Though I could not see it,
his tongue serpent-like struck between my legs and slid up between my cheeks, forcing me open and greasing me with his slime.
His sword came down in a strike of stunning complexity.
Each swath of ice threatening to leach my power I blocked, until
finally the blades struck, and mine was shattered through no
fault of mine own; the block was perfect but the sword insufficient.
Baphomet’s grin was terrible to behold.
He held out his hands, inviting the challenge. The power
rushed back through me, and I accepted, locking my fingers with
his, using all my strength in the age-old game. He towered above
me, pushing down, but still I held, and pushed back. His
strength doubled, and doubled again; still I held, and forced
back. I became a statue, exerting all my strength while his
doubled and pressed ever down against me. Then, his height
became in relation to mine, and his cock curved up from his crotch, engorged with blood, to my mouth. To break my
stance would be to be crushed. The head of his phallus pressed
hugely against my lips, rubbing and wettening them. With his
strength ever doubling, I could not help but open my mouth to
breath, allowing the cock entry. Shifts of his body and torso in
attempts to dislodge my stance rubbed the head against my helpless, panting, licking tongue, overwhelming me with the power of
his scent and taste.
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I stepped triumphant into the final circle, the most intricately drawn. The chanting and drumming reached their peak and
stayed, and the fog of incense cleared, allowing me to see who
sat upon the dais, who sat upon the throne, who presided over the
proceedings.
The ancient texts named him Baphomet; Satan Mekratrig's
warrior-duke. My sword and shield were limp in my grasp as I
looked up, as he was many hundreds of feet tall. His head was
the head of an ibex, with the outward-spiralling horns, gazing
inscrutably down upon me with the eyes of a beast. His shaggy
chest was traced with scars delineating his prowess in battle,
inflicted perhaps by a flaming sword. He stood, rising from his
throne, on the legs of a goat, stepping into the seventh pentacle
on cloven hooves. In his right hand he held a sword cold as ice,
and his left stroked his impossibly huge phallus. As the warrior-magus, he wielded the primal Wand, and his scent struck me a
nigh-physical blow with the power of his maleness. I staggered,
and could not bear the weight of my shield, letting it drop into
the abysmal pit below my feet, lost.
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The fourth circle held the Giant, who looked down at me and
grinned evilly. He threw a boulder at me, which I shattered with
a slap, and then I raised him off the ground as Heracles did to
Antaeus, and crushed the life out of him, redoubling my strength.
In the fifth circle, I slew the Minotaur by taking each of his
horns in a hand, and breaking open his skull. I was imbued with
the powers of a demigod at least by this time, walking into the
sixth circle, the one holding the dragon. The fight was hard,
the flames of the dragon almost enough to make me falter, but
then I realized that they were power too, and took them for my
own, absorbing it into my shield while I made my heart's thrust
with my blade. The dragon's blood fountained out, covering me,
and by its power my skin was made invulnerable like that unto the
skin of Achilleus.
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Next, I fought a man with the horns of a stag, in a larger cir-
cle. He bounded and leapt, and attempted to take the fight to
me, but I made myself the Hunter, and he, too fell before my
onslaught, and I added his power to mine.
I grew aware of the hugeness of the chamber, and many men
chanting outside in a language I did not know. Some wore robes,
most wore only paint. I felt larger, larger than life, full of
power, and stepped into the fourth circle. I saw that I was
heading towards a huge dais, and the pentacles into which I
stepped became more and more intricately detailed. Perhaps some
part of me might have wanted to flee, but it was long subsumed by
the huge power residing within me.
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I felt an exaltation. I had, through skill, taken another's
power, strength, and life for my own. I was the conqueror. I
stepped into a larger circle, delirious with my new power, and
confronted another man, wearing no clothes as I did but his face
covered by a monkey's mask. His fighting was clever and power-
ful, canny, but mine was tactical and graceful, control and
skill. I left him unconscious and made his power my own as well.
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I awoke when I realized that I was lying on stone, and not
sheets. Sensing motion about me, I leapt up into a cloud of
incense, and weaved about an empty-handed blow at me. Unbidden,
my motions were swept into a rhythm of chantings and beatings of
drums, and I hop-scotched over intricate chalk lines in the dimly
lit, smoke-filled room. Lashing out with a foot I caught my
assailant in the side, crashing him to the ground. He was up in
an instant, and rushed me. I took a stance, and felt the power
flow up from the earth into me, filling me strangely, rushing
into every hollow drained by the High Mass. The fight became a
dance, and my opponent could not touch me; every time I struck
him, his power exploded out as if he were a powder puff, entering
me. His steps grew weaker, and I drained him dry, leaving him
lifeless upon the floor.
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Once away from the Church's grounds, I felt centered upon my
horse. It was a Liath Mactha, a grey of battle, and power flowed
up through its beating hooves to me from the earth. I felt well
again, and I rode to the castle of the Templars where I was first
assigned, there being no immediate fighting. I arrived just
after dinner to much cheering and fanfare, received a repast, and
joyously took another heated bath. My last conscious thought, as
I luxuriated in the huge bed and clean sheets that were now my
right, was a delirious joy at the quality of the plumbing system
of the castle.
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My mind flicked back to the ceremony. Strangely, I did not
feel empowered by the High Mass. As I drank the wine and ate the
wafer, rather, all power seemed drained from me, and I felt
light, empty and powerless. I managed to walk to the Master for
the rest of the ceremony, receiving my blow and my knighthood. I
must have blacked out somewhere in the run to leap upon my steed,
and I do not remember making the strike, but I did, and I rode
forth from the town, clinging to my steed like a babe.
My return blow knocked him a dozen feet, but just made him
even more angry. He charged me, and I stepped aside, slamming
him on the back, but he was without feeling. He spun, and his
blow shattered my practice sword into flinders in my grasp. I
threw him to the ground, pinning him, but his strength was demon-
ic, and I could not hold him despite his poor leverage.
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But just as I lost my grip, he calmed, and regained himself.
The next day, I was assigned to another knight. Perhaps I had
seen something of what makes the Templars the holy warriors of
God. I would have to be careful not to fly into such a rage
myself, lest the circumstances truly warrant the use of such
power.
