Chapter 17: The Kobold and the Confession
The silence in the fungal forest was thick, textured with the sweet, rotting scent of the blue-gilled mushrooms. Brutehilde moved like a ship through a reef, her clogs leaving deep, brutal impressions in the soft, spongy earth. Tanna followed, her silver armour seeming to absorb the faint phosphorescence, making her a ghostly knight in the gloom. Tulip’s green hair was the only vibrant colour, a signal flare in the monochrome blue. Polly brought up the rear, her usual swagger replaced by a tense, twitching alertness. The absence of the others was a hole in the world.
“This place is watching us,” Tulip whispered. Her druidic senses were screaming. Each mushroom felt like a blind, listening ear. “The mycelium runs under everything. It knows we’re here.”
“Let it know,” Brutehilde grumbled, not breaking stride. “We’re just passing through.”
They hurried, the need to find a way back to Minnie a physical ache in Brutehilde’s chest. The cavern seemed to have no end, just an endless, dripping grove of luminous fungus. Then the ground began to slope more steeply, the mushrooms thinning, replaced by slick, wet stone.
Polly, her eyes scanning the shifting shadows for threats, didn’t see the gnarled, root-like protrusion from a particularly large, pulsating toadstool. Her combat boot caught. She pitched forward with a sharp curse, her arms windmilling. She crashed shoulder-first into the thick, fleshy stalk of the fungus.
It erupted.
A cloud of fine, iridescent blue spores burst from the ruptured gills, enveloping her head in a shimmering haze. Polly inhaled a reflexive, shocked gasp.
She immediately began to choke. A violent, racking cough tore through her. She stumbled back, clawing at her throat, her eyes streaming. She wasn’t just coughing; she was spluttering, hacking up thick, blue-tinged phlegm. Her face flushed a deep, alarming purple.
“Polly!” Tulip screamed, rushing forward.
Before she could reach her lover, the ground in front of Brutehilde erupted. Stone and loam exploded upwards as a massive, segmented head thrust into the air. It was a cave worm, a pale, eyeless thing the width of a barrel, its circular mouth a spiralling hell of concentric, razor-sharp chitin rings. It let out a deafening, grating shriek—the sound of grinding rocks—and dove for Brutehilde, its maw aiming to swallow her whole.
There was no time for weapons. Brutehilde didn’t need them.
She dropped her center of gravity, planted her back foot, and as the worm’s gaping mouth descended, she threw a punch. It wasn’t a fighter’s jab. It was a blacksmith’s hammer blow, a colossal, piston-driven drive of muscle and fury starting from her heel, twisting up through her tree-trunk legs, exploding from her shoulder. Her fist, a knotted battering ram of bone and callus, slammed directly into the leading ring of teeth.
A sickening, wet crack echoed through the cavern. The worm’s head snapped sideways, several of its chitin plates shattering. It recoiled, shrieking in pain and confusion. Brutehilde didn’t let up. She advanced, a study in brutal efficiency. Left hook into its rubbery flank, right cross against the same spot. Each impact was a dull, meaty thud that shook the worm’s entire body. She grabbed a handful of its slick, pale hide, anchored herself, and began punching in a steady, relentless rhythm—boom, boom, boom—like she was tenderizing the world’s largest, ugliest piece of meat.
While Brutehilde systematically pulverized the giant predator, Tanna and Tulip reached Polly. She was on her knees, still coughing, her body shuddering. A strange, blue tracery of veins was visible under her skin, pulsing in time with the cavern’s light.
“Get her back!” Tulip yelled. Tanna didn’t hesitate. She sheathed her sword, hooked her arms under Polly’s shoulders, and began to drag her backwards, away from the fight and the spore cloud. Tulip covered their retreat, her hands glowing with a soft golden light as she prepared a druidic ward.
The cave worm, its side a pulpy mess, tried to thrash its tail. Brutehilde saw the movement, released her grip, and dove forward, rolling between its segments as the massive tail smashed down where she’d just stood. She came up inside its guard. She wrapped her massive arms around its neck, just behind the mangled head. She squeezed. Her muscles corded, her plaits straining. The worm’s shriek became a wet gurgle. There was a final, catastrophic crunch as its internal structure gave way. It went limp.
Brutehilde let the corpse slump to the ground, her chest heaving. She wiped worm ichor from her face with the back of her apron.
Tanna had dragged Polly behind a large, shelf-like fungus. The punk was leaning against it, breathing in ragged, wet hitches. The blue veins were fading, but her eyes were wide, pupils dilated into black pools.
“The spores… they’re psychoactive,” Tulip said, her hands hovering over Polly’s face. “It’s a neural toxin mixed with a potent aphrodisiac. Her system is flooding.”
Polly’s gaze focused on Tulip. But it wasn’t recognition. It was raw, unfiltered hunger. A grin spread across her face, savage and unlike her usual sarcastic smirk. “Hey, beautiful,” she slurred, her voice hoarse. “Come here. I wanna taste you.”
“Polly, fight it,” Tulip pleaded.
“Fuck fighting it,” Polly growled. In a move faster than her sickness should have allowed, she lunged. She grabbed the front of Tulip’s tunic and yanked her down, sealing their mouths together. It wasn’t a kiss; it was an assault. Polly’s tongue forced its way past Tulip’s lips, deep and demanding. She tasted of blood and that strange, sweet decay.
Tanna moved to intervene, but Tulip, after a moment of shock, responded. She kissed back, a hand cupping Polly’s cheek. This was a known danger, a familiar demon in their relationship. Polly needed an outlet for the poison, or it would burn her up from the inside.
Polly broke the kiss, panting. Her hands went to Tulip’s belts, fumbling with clumsy urgency. “Need you. Need to fuck you. Right now.”
“Okay,” Tulip breathed, her own composure cracking under the desperate heat. “Okay, love. Tanna, keep watch.”
The knight nodded, turning her back to them, her hand on her sword hilt, eyes scanning the cavern. The sounds behind her were immediate and filthy.
Polly had Tulip on her back on the soft, damp earth. There was no foreplay, no tenderness. Polly ripped Tulip’s leggings down to her thighs, the fabric tearing. She shoved her own plaid skirt up. That was when the spore's effects became fully evident: where her hungry pussy had been, a hard, pulsing cock now throbbed. Polly wasted no time in pushing it deep inside Tulip.
Polly’s new cock, slick with Tulip’s wetness, plunged to the hilt in one brutal, claiming stroke. Tulip’s back arched off the ground, a sharp cry ripped from her throat—not pain, but shocked, overwhelming fullness. “Fuck! Polly!”
“Yeah,” Polly grunted, her voice a ragged mix of wonder and feverish need. She pulled back and slammed home again, setting a punishing, immediate rhythm. Her hips pistoned, the slap of skin against skin echoing off the shelf fungus. Each thrust was a raw, selfish taking, the spore’s poison translating into pure, penetrative hunger. She fucked like she fought: dirty, direct, and without an ounce of quarter.
Tulip wrapped her legs around Polly’s waist, her heels digging into the small of Polly’s back. She met every slam with a roll of her own hips, her fingers scrambling at Polly’s vest, nails scraping skin. “Harder! Don’t you fucking stop!” she demanded, her druidic composure shattered into primal, wanton need. The familiar thrill of Polly’s dominance was transformed, amplified by this strange, hard flesh stretching her open so completely.
Polly obeyed, driving into Tulip with a frenzied, animalistic force. She leaned down, capturing Tulip’s mouth in a wet, biting kiss, swallowing her moans. One hand gripped Tulip’s thigh, holding her open; the other fumbled between their bodies, thumb finding Tulip’s clit and rubbing rough, frantic circles. The dual assault was too much. Tulip’s orgasm hit her like a cave-in, a silent, shuddering convulsion that clenched viciously around the invading shaft.
The intense squeeze tipped Polly over the edge. A guttural, unfamiliar roar tore from her lungs. Her thrusts became erratic, short, brutal jabs. She could feel a pressure building at the base of her cock, a foreign, urgent peak. “Oh shit, Tuli, I’m gonna—I’m gonna come!”
The sensation exploded. For the first time, she felt the pulsating, surging release of male orgasm. Thick, hot jets of her own spend spurted deep inside Tulip’s cunt, each pulse wracking her transformed body with shocking pleasure. She collapsed forward, shuddering, as the last few spurts leaked out around the edges of their connection.
The frantic energy left her all at once. The blue tracery under her skin faded completely. As she lay there panting, she felt a weird, melting sensation in her groin. The hardness softening, retracting, reshaping itself back into familiar folds and contours. Within moments, the cock was gone, replaced once more by her own wet, sensitive pussy, pressed against Tulip’s thigh.
Polly rolled onto her back, staring up at the invisible cavern ceiling. Her body felt thoroughly used, gloriously wrecked. A slow, sated grin spread across her face. “Well, fuck me sideways,” she breathed, her voice hoarse. “That was… fucking incredible.”
Tulip propped herself up on an elbow, her green hair sticking to her damp forehead. She looked dazed, thoroughly fucked, but her gaze was already sharpening with analytical curiosity. “The ejaculation. The full physiological experience. Astounding.”
“Yeah, astounding,” Polly sighed, stretching like a cat. She reached down between her own legs, giving her newly-returned fanny an appreciative pat. “That was wonderful. But all things considered, I think I prefer having a fanny! Less plumbing to worry about. More fun to play with.”
Tulip wasn’t listening. She was staring at the remains of the shattered, spore-releasing fungus, her eyes wide with nascent, greedy inspiration. “Do you have any idea what we could do with this?” she whispered, then her voice rose with fervent excitement. “A temporary, full-functional sex change aphrodisiac? The commercial applications are absolutely monumental!” She scrambled to her knees, ignoring the mess between her thighs. “We need a sample. A large sample. Tanna! Your waterskin, empty it. We’re gathering spores.”
Brutehilde, having wiped the last of the worm’s viscera from her arms, walked over. She looked from the blissed-out Polly to the now-businesslike Tulip, who was carefully scraping blue powder from an intact gill into Tanna’s proffered leather pouch. “Are you two quite done? We’ve a sister to find and a treacherous little lord to question, not start a fucking boutique.”
“This is better than cheese, Grunts,” Polly said, sitting up and lighting a battered cigarillo with a steady hand. The afterglow was sublime. “This is retirement money.”
“It’s a biological marvel,” Tulip corrected, her fingers meticulously dusting spores into the pouch. “The alchemical implications alone… imagine controlled doses. Temporary, targeted transformations. The healing potential for dysphoria, the… recreational revenue…”
“It’s weird mushroom jizz,” Brutehilde stated flatly. “And this tunnel isn’t getting any shorter. Can you walk, or am I carrying you?”
Polly took a deep drag and stood, her legs only slightly unsteady. “I can march. Feeling right as rain.” She winked at Tulip. “Better, actually.”
Tanna sealed the full waterskin, now heavy with luminous powder, and secured it to her belt. Her innocent face was a mask of professional detachment, though a faint blush lingered on her cheeks. “The passage ahead narrows and descends further, ma’am. The air currents suggest a larger open space below. Possibly inhabited.”
“Then let’s not keep the locals waiting,” Brutehilde said, turning back to the path. The descent grew steeper, the walls pressing in, covered in a slimy, phosphorescent lichen that provided a sickly guide.
They moved in single file for what felt like hours, the only sounds their labored breathing and the occasional distant skitter of stone. The narrow passage finally opened into a vertical shaft, a sheer drop into blackness. A series of rusty iron rungs were bolted into one wall, descending into the gloom.
“Lovely,” Polly muttered, peering over the edge.
They climbed down, the rungs groaning in protest under Brutehilde’s weight. The shaft bottomed out into a labyrinth of intersecting tunnels, each looking identical, carved by water or something less natural. The air here was still, stale, and carried a faint, sharp scent of damp fur and something chemical.
From a side passage, a small, scaly figure shuffled into view. It was a kobold, barely three feet tall, its rust-colored hide patched with lichen. It wore a crude harness hung with odd bits of gear and a single, large fungus on a string around its neck like a pendant. It blinked large, yellow eyes at them.
“Lost, yes? Very lost,” it hissed, its voice like grating stones. “Tunnels here eat the lonely. Griv can guide. For a price.”
Brutehilde eyed the creature. “What price?”
“Cheese,” Griv said, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Or good compliments. Flattery lubricates the path. You have cheese?”
“We have a boot up your arse if you’re leading us into a trap,” Polly said, blowing smoke in its direction.
Griv cackled, a dry, clicking sound. “No trap! Griv is best guide! Even helped the shiny one, the sad-eyed lord, hide his shiny little treasure in his sock when he thought no one was looking. Very sneaky! But Griv sees. Griv always sees.”
The words hung in the dead air.
Brutehilde’s head turned slowly. Tulip’s breath caught. Polly’s cigarillo paused halfway to her lips.
“What shiny one?” Brutehilde’s voice was dangerously quiet.
“The weepy one! Dark elf, fancy clothes, no cheese,” Griv said, clearly proud of his observation. “Came through days ago, map in hand, muttering about ‘priming the way’ and ‘the sacrifice of fools.’ He hid a shiny metal key in his right sock. Thought he was so clever. But Griv saw!”
A cold, clear fury settled over Brutehilde’s features. Tulip’s suspicion in the cursed tunnel had just crystallized into hard, damning fact.
Dravion hadn’t just known the way.
He had mapped it. He had primed it. He was leading them into a sacrifice.
The distant, grinding shriek of the cave worm they’d left for dead behind them echoed faintly down the shaft, a reminder of the dangers at their backs. Before them, the kobold Griv grinned, awaiting his cheese. And somewhere in the maze ahead, a traitor was waiting, a key hidden in his sock.
The kobold’s words dissolved the last pretense. Brutehilde’s hand shot out, snagging Griv by the harness and lifting him until his feet dangled. “Which way did he go?”
“Cheese first! Or compliment!”
“Your scales have a… resilient sheen,” Tulip offered flatly.
“And you smell like a memory of damp,” Polly added, flicking ash.
Griv beamed. “Good enough! This way!” He pointed a clawed finger toward the left-most tunnel, its mouth exhaling a faint, warmer breeze. “He goes to the Heart Chamber. It's the only way out. Your other friends are that way too, but blocked. Different paths.”
Brutehilde dropped him. “Lead. Quickly. No tricks.”
Griv scurried forward, his fungus pendant bobbing. The tunnel he chose narrowed quickly, forcing them into a crouch. The sound of dripping water grew louder, a steady percussion in the close dark. Brutehilde’s mind churned, images of Minnie trapped with that perfidious worm mixing with a cold, building rage. Her sister’s cheer was a fragile light in this depth; the thought of Dravion extinguishing it made her knuckles crack.
Meanwhile, in a separate fissure, tumbled into darkness during the cursed split, chaos of a different texture unfolded.
It was a pit, a sheer-sided sinkhole twenty feet deep, its floor a seething mat of pale, blind cave newts. They were large, each the size of a fat cat, slick and squirming with a mindless energy.
Grakthor was waist-deep in them, their cool bodies sliding over his fur. He bellowed in panic, a deep, resonant “Mooooooo! Help! They’re in my… they’re… moo!” A newt slithered up his back, and he convulsed, swatting at it desperately.
Scoffer, however, had found a purpose. His cavernous orc mouth gaped, and he chomped down on a thrashing newt headfirst. There was a sickening crunch. He swallowed with a gulp, belched thunderously, and grabbed another. “Tasty! Salty!” He’d already gulped six, his leather posing pouch straining over a visibly distending belly. He patted it with pride, burping again. “Room for more! Make path!”
Elophelia, the deceptively sweet-faced psychopath socialite, saw an opportunity in the writhing cover. She pulled Scruffulus, her sorcerer husband, behind a thicker cluster of the amphibians. “Quick, while they’re busy!” she hissed, her dainty hands yanking open his ragged trousers. His cock, already half-hard from the adrenaline, sprang out. She spit into her palm and started wanking him with a rough, fast rhythm, her eyes on the struggling Minotaur.
“Oh, sweet gods yes, ‘Phelia,” Scruffulus grunted, his hips bucking into her fist. The newts slithered over their feet, adding a weird, tickling sensation. He was close already, the absurd danger tightening his balls. “Oh my goodness! I'm going to blow!”
He came with a sharp cry, thick, ropy jets of creamy jizz arcing through the air. It spattered across the back of a particularly large, placid newt, glazing its pale skin. Elophelia giggled. Scruffulus, panting, stared at the befouled creature. Then a light of culinary inspiration dawned in his beady eyes. “Sauce!” he enthused. He snatched the sticky newt up by the tail and bit its head off, chewing with gusto. “Adds a tang! Brilliant!”
Back in the right-hand fork, the silence was heavier than the stone. Ulrika fastened the last buckle on her breeches, her movements precise and hateful. Dravion’s smug, glistening face was a trophy of her failed intimidation. He’d weaponized his own deviance, and it left her feeling unclean, outmaneuvered.
“We need to move,” she stated, her voice stripped of all emotion. “The wall is permanent. We find another route to the objective. Or we find what he’s leading us to.”
She refused to look at him as they walked, Minnie’s trolley squeaking a forlorn rhythm beside them. The tunnel curved, then opened into a circular chamber with a high, domed ceiling. In the center stood a strange structure: a dais of polished black stone, and upon it, a statue of a robed figure holding an empty bowl. The air here was crypt-dry and carried the faint, metallic scent of old magic.
“An altar,” Ulrika murmured, approaching. Her eyes scanned the floor. Etched into the stone around the dais was a complex series of interlocking circles, a sacrificial matrix. Her blood ran cold. “Not an altar. A battery. It’s designed to harvest life force, channel it.”
Dravion let out a sigh that was pure theatrical melancholy. “The Sorrowing Well of Az’rath. My great-great-uncle wrote of it. A place of tragic resonance, where sacrificed anguish fuels… greater works.”
“What works?” Ulrika’s hand went to the whip at her belt.
“The opening of the Door, of course,” Dravion said, as if it were obvious. He gestured to the far wall of the chamber, where a massive, seamless slab of metal, covered in runes, stood. There was no handle, no keyhole. Only a shallow, star-shaped depression at its center. “The Door of Last Lament. It requires a specific, emotional energy to unlock. A sacrifice of… companionship. Of trust. The more potent the bond, the more powerful the key.”
He was smiling now, a sad, beautiful smile. “You see, the key isn’t metal. It’s metaphorical. The betrayal is the key. The act of leading those who trust you to their doom upon this stone.” He stroked the edge of the empty bowl lovingly. “I needed to get away from the city of Mahzipan, this group was my excuse. You brought me here, and here the sacrifice must be made. The real key was in my heart all along. Isn’t that tragic?”
Minnie stopped wheeling her trolley. She looked from the sadistic matrix on the floor to Dravion’s radiant face. “You’re a right bastard, you are.”
“I am an artist!” he corrected, his voice soaring. “And you, dear plump lady, and you, stern, delicious governess… you are my final brushstrokes! The bond between guide and follower, shattered at the moment of sacrifice, will be exquisite. The door will open for me. I will claim the freedom that lies beyond, and you will be forever part of a perfect, tragic poem!”
Ulrika’s whip unfurled with a crack that split the air, but Dravion was already moving out of her way. "Be very careful, Colonel! You will remain here forever if not for me!"
"What exactly is your game?" demanded Ulrika through clenched teeth. "You have been playing us all along, and we have known it. I just don't see why."
Dravion grinned. "Get undressed," he ordered silkily. "Both of you. Then perhaps I'll tell you." He pulled a small assassin's hand crossbow from within the silken folds of his clothes and levelled it at them.