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Avalon in Flames

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Beneath a snowy roof in the village of Karkan, an act of incest most foul reached its climax. Braya Redhand, voluptuous barbarian of the Ironfang mountain clan, rode her son. She forced his rough hands up her sculpted mid-section, sinuous and glistening as it twisted with each thrust upon his turgid cock.

It wasn't long before his fingers reached around the sleek slopes of her enormous tits, firm orbs possessed of a deep and dark tan. He squeezed deep into her thick breast flesh, relishing the suppleness, the hardness of her nipples.

Braya for her part, was wracked in pleasure, each slam of her healthy and round buttocks upon her son's thighs ripping a cry of anguished joy from her throat. Her desire to couple with her son was not her own. Deep within her heart dwelled another, a soul of boundless cruelty and wanton appetites.

Her actions were those of the vengeful and ancient sorceress, Morgana. "I'm so sorry Haldur!" moaned Braya, her body on the cusp of another orgasm as she leaned over her son, her heavy globes smothering his face. You're not sorry, my pet. You're in bliss! Just as you were when we murdered your husband! Morgana's sweet voice rushed through the barbarian's thoughts, making her twitch.

Behind the rutting duo was Braya's husband, Agnar, white eyed and withered, his life force having been long since devoured.

"I had no choice..." she breathed, her lust filled whisper setting her son on edge. And neither does he! Braya bit her lips as her strapping son pawed deeper into softness of her tits, molesting her luscious globes as if she were some mere tavern wench.

His eyes were as wild as his hips, all inhibitions destroyed. "I don't... care... fuck me!" he gurgled, his muscles straining to hold her closer, to feel her supple thighs glide and squeeze against his legs, her lithe back twist with each thrust, her giant breasts squeezing on and off his chest.

Braya's complexion glowed with sorcerous devilry. She gasped and slammed her round, jiggling ass cheeks down, falling upon her son's engorged shaft with a lust she could not control. Fresh terror rose in her bosom, seeing her hands move on their own accord, forcing her son's drooling face ever closer to her pillowy breasts.

"Impossible!" whimpered Braya. You are lost in lust... a ripe time to try some things, no? "You monster-" Braya shivered as the heat of another orgasm rushed up from her loins. Her hips jerked and her hefty breasts careened together, while moans tinged with the shadows of the sorceress flowed from her lips like some haunted melody. Come come, I know what I'm doing. I have taken more souls than you. Braya's rebel hands smothered her son's face into the caramel valley of her heaving tits. It's easier this way.

The silken walls of Braya's love canal throbbed with exquisite slowness around her son's cock, minute ripples to coax out the man's most precious possession. They always scream. Haldur stiffened and then screamed muffled ecstasy into his mother's generous mounds, her feminine swells overflowing and molding around his face.

Braya's eyes brightened while an avalanche of gasps tumbled from her mouths, the very sound of satisfaction. Hot spurts of seed and life alike shot up into the she-barbarian's womb. She moaned madly and held him with such a grip as to rival that of a jungle snake. Haldur's hips jerked, thrusting between his mother's supple thighs as he climaxed without end.

Even when it became painful, still he wallowed in her grip, relishing the feel of satin flesh through his fingers, the firmness of her bountiful bottom, the great mounds of her chest pressed around his face.

And even when he became withered, still Braya held on. Pump after pump, her belly writhed, her lower lips greedily devouring every drop from her prey. Haldur's stocky frame shrunk, his groans weaker and weaker, his head sinking further into his mother's heavy breasts, his slumped form held up only by the grace of her hands.

Tears of bliss and sorrow ran from Braya's eyes as she felt her son's final shudder, the last shot of liquid fire inside, consumed like every offering before it. Haldur's exhausted, satiated gasp echoed the faintest sounds of his soul's screams, taken not from this world by another warrior's axe or by the implacable march of time... but by a mother's desire.

Braya let the wasted and browned husk that used to be her son fall from her gorgeous breasts, still heaving from the exhilaration of a soul steal. "I'm sorry... so sorry..." she whispered, Haldur's whited out eyes and frozen rictus grin staring back at her.

Did I not say this would come to pass? I found your clan. I've taken your family.

Braya pulled her kilt up quickly, and snapped her massive breasts behind her chain mail bra just in time before the approaching shadow entered the tent. Immediately her feelings of sorrow amplified, forcing her to her knees in anguished sobs.

The shadow quickened its pace.

"My lord? Agnar!?" called the voice outside.

"Help!" Braya called, feeling the sorceress's compulsion. And then something else. Shadows twisted off her fingers and coiled on the ground, piling and piling until they faded away, leaving the bloodied form of a sorceress garbed in Black Moon regalia.

The warrior came into the tent, gasping at the dried out corpses of the jarl and his son. "What is... by the gods..." he muttered.

"She did it..." growled Braya through her sobs. "One of the whoresons of the Black Moon Bitch sent an assassin... I'd recognize sex magic anywhere."

"The jarl is dead!" He fell upon Agnar's white eyed corpse. "Oh they will pay... in blood and fire!" He looked to Braya. "We will hold a moot and decide..." He drifted off as Braya's eyes flashed violet, her voice ethereal and soft.

She folded her arms, pushing her luscious mounds into massive swells."Nonsense. I am jarl enough for this clan. We must strike now, while the blood is hot, before passions have cooled and the enemy realizes we have not been cowed."

The guard's expression slackened and his voice deadened. "What is your command?"

"My command?" Is my command. "Rally the men, the hill tribes, the mountain lords, all of them... we're going into Camelot... and we will put the bitch's pups down."

The guard stood up. "It will be done!"

Very good! I could almost believe you hate me.

Strange purple light flickered through Braya's irises but for a moment, while the dark circles under her eyes grew. Behind, her illusion of shadow had melted away into nothing.

In the conflict for Camelot, a third Black Moon army had entered the fray.

***

Black Moon War Camp Outside Avalon

Melehan sipped from his wine goblet, watching Lady Sybilla's tremendous breasts rise and fall behind her corroded armor as his lieutenants gave their battlefield reports. "A storm of sorcery over Radgar's Hill was reported, m'lord..."

"Sorcery you say? Correct me if I'm wrong, Carnarent, but that's not a very Orcish thing to do."

"It is not, my lord." Carnarent's voice was deep, his grayish skin and horned features marking him as one of the Black Moon's oldest warriors, from the days of the Black Knight. A shapeshifter, he had served as the prince's horse and personal guard since the very beginning of the conflict.

The great clash between brother and brother was neither quick or clean. Many of the Black Moon forces deserted without Morgana's will to hold them in check. Those that stayed allied with Melehan, but victory was not in hand for the martial and merciless brother.

The night the Witch Queen fell, Morvith fled the capital with the Stone of the Incorruptible. The artifact that had proved to be the bane of the Elves was the salvation of the traitor, granting him the power to turn peasant and lord alike into brutal Orcs. Soon the countryside crawled with a new shade of green.

Melehan had made it red. But still the green came. Wave after wave, the emerald tide was inexhaustible, its lust for blood as tireless as it's lust for lust, rutting with the peasantry, where buxom, jade skinned she-Orcs coupled with farmers, the Orcs with the farmer's daughters, passing on the curse and making a new warrior for Morvith's war with each bout of carnal conquest.

The prince gestured for a nubile slave girl, holding his empty goblet aloft for a refill."Hmmm... I am vexed... after my mother, who could wield such power?" The pitter patter of gentle and soft feet came across the carpet, belonging to a bosomy beauty of immaculate complexion and ice blonde locks. "Certainly not Morvith. The snaky eunuch couldn't even spirit away my mother's killers right!"

The slave girl, Ada, smiled at the prince's words. Melehan had carved his way through an Orcish warband for so fair a prize. He kept his goblet low, forcing her to lean down, keeping her round breasts on the verge of spilling out of their scant restraints.

Carnarent coughed, trying to pull his leige's attention away from the woman's chest but was no more successful than he would have been trying to pull him away from his sword. "It is possible that some of your mother's warlocks... witches... have lent their talents for your brother's coin."

Melehan smiled, watching the slave girl's creamy breasts wobble to her struggle not to spill. "For coin you say? Unlikely. Such needs are common among the small folk, but not the Black Moon. No, my mother's spellweavers are scattered to the wind... this is something else."

A great call resounded from outside, containing neither the smooth notes of Melehan's royal trumpets nor the driving beats of Morvith's Orcish drums. The dark prince leapt from his make-shift throne to the bottom of his command tent, drenching his busty serving girl in a patina of savory reds.

"What in the blazes..." muttered Melehan as he threw open the tent flap. The valley leading into misty Avalon stormed with golden fire. Orc drums beat to a panicked rhythm as wild flames spread through their camp. War horns called and war horses lanced into the unready green masses below while a line of torch bearing barbarians marched up to Melehan's high ground.

At the front of the line strode a woman, tall and buxom, yet a certain paleness ran through her countenance, her shady blonde hair possessing a luster that seemed unnervingly familiar to the warrior prince.

"That's her!" hissed Lady Sybilla, now at Melehan's side.

"Who?"

Sybilla pressed herself into his side. Her large, round breasts squeezed onto his arms as she whispered in his ear."The one who helped topple your mother."

Melehan's eyes narrowed. "Braya..."

***

Braya forced her way into the tent, leaving her warriors outside. In the months after she had set forth from Karkan with her barbarian host, more changes had fallen over her. No longer was she the curvaceous sun bronzed warrior of yore, but carried a complexion much as Morgana did in life, a smooth ivory glow. White streaks ran through shady blonde locks, darkness ringed ocean blue eyes.

She grabbed a pitcher of wine from the central table and drank from the spout. All the Black Moon guards watched in stunned silence at the she-barbarian's audacity.

Melehan spun around, bemused. And then his face contorted in rage. "You presumptuous bitch-"

Braya held up her hand and then lowered the pitcher. "Quiet yourself. Your mother wanted me to tell you that you're welcome."

"What!?"

"For scattering Morvith's vanguard. You have at least a day to clear the fog and plunder Avalon before they come back in force."

Her speech shocked one of the guard's out of his stupor and into action. "For the Queen!" he shrieked, his blade singing through the air. Braya caught his wrist unnaturally quick and then pulled him against her luscious body.

Her plush lips sucked on his wantonly, while deep moans of need resonated from her quivering throat. The guard, for his part, pawed at her giant breasts, squeezing them into a tight swell that captured the whole room's attention.

His groping was to be short-lived.

Braya moaned louder and writhed against him with erotic grace as his body seized up. The man's hands froze around the rise of her soft ass cheeks, gripping her cool and supple flesh tight to the sound of his own gurgled pleasure. Faint white light traveled across his skin and through Braya's mouth.

She rubbed against him harder, arching her back so the full and silken mounds of her tits filled up the palms of his hands. Her hands wrapped around his waist, grinding against his aroused bulge. The guard's face tightened, veins rose to prominence, his eyes ever dimmer.

He slumped back but still she held, cradling his head, kissing as deep as possible into his mouth. The man shook more violently with each passing moment, while Braya's toned thighs rubbed against him, quaking with expectation and pleasure.

At once she dropped him and cried out, lips curling in joy. Her body shivered while lavender smoke coiled out of her mouth, her eyes flashing like polished amethysts but for a moment.

Uncertainty crept into Melehan's stalwart heart at the lustful display. "Who are you... really?"

"It is Braya..." said Lady Sybilla, "yet not Braya."

Melehan sighed with agitation. Another one of those gems and it's the frontlines for you, wench.

Braya stepped over the guard's spent corpse and came before Melehan, her momentous swell of cleavage arresting his attention almost as much as the silver fanged, demon skull necklace that lay smothered between her breasts. I've seen that before...

The she-barbarian ran a finger across Melehan's chiseled face. "I am she... returned from the grave... come to aid the son that loves me, and avenge myself on the son that does not." She spoke in double tones, the voice of Morgana near overpowering Braya's own.

Melehan's eyes widened. This woman really cannot die! He hugged her tight and sighed with joy. Braya might have thought it was the joy of returned family, Morgana the joy of such lush breasts pressed against his chest, but neither would be right. Thank you, brother, for betraying her first. Now I know it is folly... and have the best sorceress a soul can buy.

"Fate has made great things of us both, Braya." said Lady Sybilla with malicious glee, noticing Braya's paled appearance. The former hero and princess, once as righteous as any of the Black Moon's foes, was now the most corrupt of its leadership, aside from Melehan himself. Multiple sets of eyes peered through hair as black as night. Her locks, like silken shadows, draped lithesome shoulders, flowing around immense tits, as ripe as a maiden's come into bloom.

Below finely formed buttocks however, heaved an arachnid abdomen, atop skittering chitinous legs. The curse Morgana had placed on her ancestor had not diminished with time when it was transferred to the fledgling princess.

"Great... but terrible..." sighed Braya, before her eyes flared violet once more and she turned to Morgana's son. "There isn't time to waste," Morgana's imperious voice came through and her posture straightened, bringing her massive breasts just below Melehan's face, "it isn't happenstance that Morvith makes his stand at Avalon." She gestured to the foggy city that waited beyond the tent. "The prize you seek awaits."

Prize? "Morvith's head and a crown for mine..."

Braya smiled, her shadowed eyes manic, her grin pearly. "Something greater than both, my son."

***

Avalon

"Excalibur!" said Morvith, watching his Orcs burn away the city's mystic fog with great pyres, "It's so close I can feel it." Moans echoed from the nearby trees, their flowing branches and emerald boughs marred by the sight of cocoons, pulsing with infernal orange light.

A dumb green brute waddled up to the prince who would be king, drool running down his tusks. In front of him cried a woman, round of face with pillowy breasts, the baker's wife. The baker himself held her in his arms, conjuring his best 'tough' look in front of the black armored lord's majestic countenance. "Found two, king lord."

Morvith lowered his gaze from the city veiled in mist and squinted at the two below, as if it pained his royal eyes to behold peasantry. "A man and a woman. Leave her here. You know what to do with the man." The Orc stared at him dully. "Take him over there!" Morvith pointed to a grove just in sight of where he now stood.

Beautiful orchids and hibiscus were trampled beneath the passions of rutting greenskins. Peasant farmer men pawed at the giant jade breasts that bounced above them, their barbaric lovers slamming down on their cocks with animalistic fervor. Other men shuddered in the embraces of the she-Orcs, their faces smothered with firm yet overflowing tits as they slowly became like those they coupled with.

Tanned skin darkened into deep emerald while arms toned with the plow, rippled with muscle that would swing the axe. As these new Orcs came into being, so too did their new, primal lusts. The helpless men of before were no longer. Mighty hands gripped into the round and plump ass cheeks of their green conquerors, impaling them along their enlarged cocks with hearty roars.

"Ohh..." said the Orc, a dim smile lighting his face at the sight of the orgy. At once he pulled the man and woman apart effortlessly, their best efforts naught before his raw strength.

Morvith watched the two trod off. "I thought you said they would be smarter this time..."

"When your brother fought them, they killed each other as often as themselves." said a voice from the shadows, fluid and sensual. "This is an improvement."

Morvith caught the silhouette of his sorceress from the corner of his eye. Tall and voluptuous, not even the darkness could conceal the inner fire that burned through her veins, that lent a bronzed gleam in the forested murk, showcasing the deep plunge of her bulging cleavage, a lithe belly accented by wide hips and lush legs, yearning for a man to wrap around.

He turned back to the simple baker's wife. She was destined for a darker fate than that of her husband.

"Levina," said Morvith, beckoning the shadow, "if you please."

The sculpted sorceress strutted out of the forested gloom, her eyes gleaming like hellish citrines. Profane tattoos writhed along her copper red skin, her generous cleavage swaying to her step. Morvith watched in approval as her true form walked behind in silhouette, flapping shadowy wings, a trio of horns pointing up through her foamy mass of raven hair.

Once a noble sorceress, the woman had been possessed by an ancient evil in the attempt to bring down the great Morgana. She had become even more demonic since absorbing the essence of her unborn son, seeing no use for the creature once she had come across the vainglorious puppet that was Morvith.

You may have the Black Moon, brother. But I have the Stone and the succubus.

"It would be my pleasure." she sighed, and raised a lazy, silk wrapped hand in the direction of the baker's wife.

The bosomy pastry maker whimpered and fright and fled from the grassy vantage point. She made it but ten feet before Levina's sorcery halted her step. Slowly she floated, higher and higher, back to the trees. First her soot stained apron fell off, and then more layers flew off the higher she floated.

Morvith cackled at her yelps of dismay, while her bare and wobbling round breasts elicited a cruel yet lustful gleam in his eyes. Branches extended from the trees with a fluidity becoming of flesh and bone, pulling the woman's arms and legs wide apart. Brief pangs of lust arose at the sight of her smooth backside, her creamy cheeks jiggling to her duress.

Very well formed for a commoner. He willed his erection to pass. Still, I have her for my... needs. He glanced at Levina, the demon possessed sorceress had inherited a look of utter joy, of orgasmic delight at having made the baker's wife so helpless.

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