Tavern Tales: Cabin of Mist

Note: This is a series of fantastical, erotic "fairy tales", with the framing device being a group of late-night taverngoers with little else to do. The previous installments are, in order, "The Riddling Sprite", "The Queen's Lesson", and "The Fiddler's Pride".

The last time the taverngoers met up, impetuous server Horasen bet that Misty's story of an arrogant fiddler could surpass the librarian's tale.

~~~~ ~~~~

"Well?" Horasen patted Misty on the shoulder, grinning. "I think that's a pretty solid story, myself. Ready to throw in the towel, Madam Librarian?"

Emekis snorted. "Misty is a gifted storyteller, I'll grant. But she doesn't have anything on elven traditions. I'm going to tell you a special kind of 'fairy tale'." The half-elf's ears seemed to twitch. "I'm going to tell all of you about:"

~~~~

THE CABIN OF MIST

Long ago, and to this day—or so the wisest sages say—there is a house 'mid darkest yew that every season's someplace new.

Shrouded in the thickest mist, like serpents coiled 'round in tryst, this cabin follows those not blessed to ever reach their place of rest. Those who enter rarely leave, abandoning loved ones to grieve, lost to fog of sight and mind: Forever in that house confined.

This is the Cabin of Mist, of Fey. Or so the wisest sages say.

Some call the house a demon's door; it grabs one soul and thirsts for more. Others say a witch's prank, though that's far-fetched, to be quite frank. A ghostly whore, a temptress touch, once-mortal mages who've seen too much. Its source is vague as smoke and mist.

Nevertheless, the cabin exists. Only those lost can find the way, or so the wistful sages say.

No place to track, no prize to catch. No lock to tinker with, unlatch. The cabin falls where it will will. And where it goes, it takes its fill. This is true. It's certain fact. This is no lie that you can crack. No casual tale from flighty fey.

This is what the sages say.

Roiling mists surround the cabin. These mists are believed to be what transport it through woods and swamps, for the cabin does not appear in urban environments, and it is only known to appear to a small number at a time. Currently, no known magic is capable of reliably determining where the cabin will be next, though some mages claim to be able to find where it is currently.

Do you think this is an idle tale? It's real. Folklore is rooted in reality. Do you think creatures don't exist who could spell a violin into enslaving a whole town? Do you think there has never been a sprite who used riddles to simplify minds?

Where I am from, legends are tools of basic learning. Now stop asking questions. Let me continue.

The greatest question—the one you all should be asking—is what is in this fearsome cabin. The answer?

Corruption.

This cabin is believed to be a link to the Hells themselves. Succubi and lust sprites are frequent customers. Crueler fey, and undead and daemons who have escaped capture congregate there as well. Even the odd human magic-user. Within the cabin, the moralities of our world cannot threaten them. None dare enter the cabin if they are not confident that their souls are already forfeit to wickedness. The cabin itself is a force of plain, pure evil.

The interior is said to resemble a bar, or perhaps a bathhouse, or both, or all. Some have called it a sauna. But where do these rumors come from? Not from good-hearted souls ensnared. Those are its prey. A noble knight wanders the countryside in search of shelter. A kindly healer sees a cabin up ahead, and thinks to get some relaxation after all the good they have done the world. A wise druid finds himself lured to the cabin by seductive fey, thinking to spend a merry night with his patrons of the woods.

The stories we have are from Mad Mavenwitch, of course. That sorceress spends much of her time in this cabin, and may even own it. She takes great delight in reporting on the misfortunes of the forces of good.

The noble knight finds herself sitting at a bar, drinking a mulled wine that makes her head spin and her voice come out breathy. Two beautiful women sit on either side of her, twirling ruby necklaces in front of her eyes. Every time a necklace twirls, her head twirls with it. When she recovers, she finds another piece of her metal armor has been removed as though it is naught but tinfoil, she a gift to unwrap. But then she finds herself taking another sip of wine, and her concern ebbs away from her.

The healer sits at a table in the corner. She is too shy to socialize with the strange patrons. Fey and witches fill the establishment, and she fears that things antithetical to her sacred ideals—undead, for instance—might be here as well. She does not flee. She is drawn to the idea of doing good by learning more about this menace. A tall, handsome pale man sits down across from her. She stares into his red eyes and feels her breath catch in her throat.

The druid follows the fey into a tranquil lounge within the cabin. They lie down and spread their legs for him. He moves to embrace one, not noticing the horned sprites gathering around in the shadows.

Oh, the Cabin of Mist. What miserable fate befalls those of virtue who enter the place—and those of ill will with too little will to resist the charms of the inhabitants. No mortal is safe unless they come with power, and the mind to hold onto it.

The brave knight's armor has been stripped away, piece by piece, and she finds one of her breasts exposed. Her mind is atwirl with glittering necklaces as one of the women latches fulsome lips onto the nipple and begins to suckle something that the knight cannot spare. The knight knows she should fight, but it feels so good, so evil, so right. Where is her sword? Ah, the other woman has it. Good. It is so shiny as the woman holds it in her other hand. She would have hated to have harmed someone with it. She allows more mulled wine to be poured into her mouth, and at some point, the glass is replaced with soft lips. And then her mind is again scattered as the necklace twirls, spins, catches the light just so...

And there is the healer. She is caught in the gaze of the man as he talks, talks about things she does not understand, does not need to understand. She reaches out to her magic, but it is so much weaker now, as she finds that her silken undergarments have fallen around her knees. She stares at the man with red-rimmed eyes as he smiles. Her fingers thrust into her pussy, and it feels so, so good to obey. He says more things, but he is not speaking to her waking mind, and she feels a trance settle over her.

The druid lies in the arms of his two wicked nymphs. They hold him fast, he oblivious to his impending doom as the sprites gather. Lust sprites focus their energies, filling him with need. He thrusts into one nymph's mouth, stares up as the sprites giggle down on him. He begins to wonder if he has made a mistake. But then the nymph's tongue rolls along his glans, and he starts to cum into her, and he forgets everything but his need for more.

Oh, Cabin of Mist, tavern of evil, lounge of corruption.

What will drives you to take and consume? Why do you drag these poor souls to their doom? Did they deserve it? Did they do something wrong? Why must a night bring them into this tomb?

The knight is drunk on mulled wine, and she sinks back into the women's arms as they guide her onto silken blankets. Her pussy is exposed, now, and even as one drinks at her teat, the other drinks down below. She sees tails rising up, sees wings unfurling. But the pleasure is so great, and her head is still spinning.

Just a few more moments, the moaning knight thinks. Just a few more moments, and some sips of the drink. She lies there 'mid demons, and deeper she sinks.

The healer is drunk on the eyes of her captor. He makes her stroke herself to orgasm, but still he is not satisfied. And neither is she, she realizes. He whispers hideous promises in her ear, and it is all she can do not to whimper her final concession.

But the pleasure is growing every second she sits. The healer's mind fights as her body submits. A sad thing it is when brain's smothered by clit.

The druid is drunk on the pleasure around him. He does not think as the nymphs guide him towards their dripping cunts, even though he realizes that this will bind him to them. He thrusts into them, makes them scream. And then the lust sprites are upon him, and he realizes what he has done. But he cannot pull out. He is coming, now.

He needs to rise out, but the sprites pull him down. They whisper sweet promises, if he'll just pound, pound, pound. Their smiles make him dizzy, and he feels guilt at their frowns. Just a few more cunts. He lets himself drown.

And the knight has submitted, lying there on the floor. She lets them lick her soul away, and she screams all the while for more, more, more, more. She screams for much more from the devilish whores. And they give her more. They lick out her soul and they lick 'til she's sore.

The healer gives in, and she squeals with glee. It feels so good, so right, so easy. She doesn't even feel the man's fangs sinking deep. She just feels her pussy, and the joy to be drink.

The druid is drowned in kisses and lust. He sucks at their cunts and he thrusts and he thrusts. He pounds into nymphs and he does what he must to keep feeling, keep coming, keep licking at busts.

And when they ask him to come with them, to visit the town? To help spread corruption? He gladly sinks down. In lusty nymphs' juices, the people will drown.

And when the knight's soul is taken, does she feel any shame? No, this proud knight in armor is by succubi tamed. She lures in more victims, and they, like her, are claimed.

And what of the healer? What was her fate?

An empty coffin.

A red-eyed harlot of thirst.

His harem has grown.

"Well, that was a load."

Everyone turned in surprise. Nobody looked more surprised than Emekis herself. Horasen had last seen that look on the librarian's face when she'd first discovered the catgirl drawings, actually.

Molekicker was leaning back in her chair, chewing on that old ogretusk ivory pipe of hers. She looked extremely irritated. "A load," she repeated. "And I know loads. Misty and I just had to shovel our way out of the Biologic Dungeon with nothing but a pair of eversteel trowels, and we didn't exactly take the front entrance."

Adelsia shuddered. "Please don't tell us details about your thrilling adventuring lifestyle when we're eating." She stared at the plate of donuts she'd acquired, then shrugged and took a bite out of a glazed.

"What do you mean, 'a load'?" Emekis sniffed. "I assure you, the Cabin of Mist is quite real."

"That's my point!" Molekicker jabbed the pipe at the half-elf. "It ain't a real fairy tale if it's real."

"All we know is from tales." Emekis frowned. "That makes it folklore, even if, as I did say, it is steeped in truth."

"Yeah, y'know what? Nah." The elderly adventurer stood. "Because 'tain't even that. What you just said is a huge wad of garbage."

"How so?"

"Because. Folks do go in and come back out. Good folks, even." Molekicker's eyes narrowed to slits. "It ain't common, but it happens."

"And how would you know that?" Emekis swallowed right after she said it, clearly realizing, as had Horasen, just what had Molekicker this irritated.

"'Cause I went in," Molekicker spat. "And here I am to tell of it. Get another round, Adel. Misty and I are leaving in the morning, but I'm getting this tale told."

TO BE CONTINUED...