Kree’arra was a rogue, and rogues planned ahead. That was what distinguished them from shortsighted thugs and muggers, lurking in alleys with knives and praying that gold would come just walking by. Sure, you took advantage of those sorts of opportunities for an easy score when they arose, but more often, you had to put in the time and effort to pursue them.

Though it helped when you had other people willing to find them for you. Cutty, fence and information peddler, had been kind enough to supply Kree’arra with his latest mark, for a nominal fee. Someone had made a large purchase of some very expensive gemstones. That was all he had to offer in terms of details, save one: that it was a clutch of rogue stones that had been bought, enough of the things to make a landed noble shudder at the cost.

It only served to make Kree’arra salivate, such caprice on a bird like him putting one in mind of a magpie. Either that, or a kobold; he was known to act like either, his impulses towards shiny things demanding he seek out that hoard of jewels and make them his own. Thus, he’d put out more feelers, to build up and fill out the tidbit of knowledge Cutty had provided.

It didn’t take long to get results. Mesnilbour was a big city with lots of people in it. Kree’arra knew enough of them that knew enough other people that, if he really wanted to and had the money for it, he could find out most anything. But more, it was the simple fact that you couldn’t just walk into the city and dump a chest of gold into circulation without word getting around. Particularly when you were the sort of person to make your entrance in a set of silken robes.

As luck would have it, eyes had seen and ears had heard of just such a person, moving through the loftier sections of the merchant’s quarter just prior to the reports of jewels coming into circulation. Such robes alone indicated that the big spender was a mage. No mere hedge witch, but a [i]mage[/i]—a similar distinction to that between a rogue and a thug, marked by the possession of a magic license, indicating some mixture of both wealth and arcane skill.

This fact would serve to dissuade most prospective burglars, or at the very least, the ones with a bare measure of experience and sense about them. Disarming mechanical traps and sneaking by hired guards was all well and good, but such skills did little good against magic. Yes, it was another challenge entirely dealing with runes that exploded the moment you read them, or sleepless, unwavering golems that shrugged off blows from hardened steel and could crush a man’s skull with their bare hands.

Kree’arra was, of course, undeterred. This was because Kree’arra wasn’t any mundane thief. He was a [i]wizard.[/i]

Or mostly a wizard, at least. His training had been nothing resembling an official, Guild-sponsored education or apprenticeship. Rather, at a point early on in his career when he’d still earned a living as part-time street thug and highwayman, Kree’arra had the good luck and lack of forethought to accost a man in mauve robes. He’d smashed the sense out of the poor sap’s skull and then dragged him into an alleyway.

Such a stunt [i]could[/i] have led to him suddenly run through by a dozen gleaming ruby missiles, or having in the life being choked out of him by hands blazing with arcane fire—or, worse, the theft could have gone perfectly fine, only for him to be tracked down afterwards by Mage Guild diviners in order to be subject to an official interrogation.

But mauve robes indicated a mage operating independently, outside the purview of the Guild. So instead of being taken into Guild custody, never again to see the light of day, Kree’arra had walked out of that alleyway with a newly acquired spellbook and enough gold to buy the best honey bun he’d ever had then or since.

That was a long time ago, and with it a whole lot of poring over that book, crudely imitating the spells inside. Dispelling, illusions, mage hand—the spells seemed by and large shockingly suitable to his line of work, further fuelling his desire to learn them. So he had spent most every moment he had that wasn’t spent filching enough coin to sustain himself studying them.

And now, Kree’arra was a wizard. It truly was that simple. Perhaps he had a natural aptitude for magic, or perhaps the fact that magic was more time-consuming than it was difficult was a closely guarded secret. Whatever the case, Kree’arra was intent on making sure all the time he’d spent finally paid off. It took a wizard to steal from a wizard, which meant there would be no competition for him to worry about from his peers; those gems were as good as his.

Though first, he was going to have to figure out where said gems even were. The more powerful and wealthy a mage got, the more their cost-effort analysis slated in favour of teleportation as opposed to all other forms of long-distance transport. That meant after they’d left city limits, the mage that Kree’arra was after could’ve gone effectively anywhere. Any distance, any direction.

But while they [i]could[/i] have gone anywhere, they probably hadn’t. If they were going to Mesnilbour for their supplies, then presumably the mage—and accordingly, their home—was closer to Mesnilbour than any other city. That gave Kree’arra a range in which to search.

So he consulted maps and records on land holdings surrounding the city. All the assorted farms and peasant lots he immediately discounted as possibilities. There were a few nobles who held estates further from the city, but none belonging to families powerful enough that they’d have a house wizard in their employ. At least, not the kind that went around dropping small fortunes on gemstones. Such mages occupied either lofty ranks in the Guild or comfortable positions within the urban barony.

Unfortunately, that was about as much as public records could tell him on the matter. It was easy enough to find out who owned the largest buildings and territories, but smaller structures were shrouded in ambiguity, bar the fact that they existed. Perhaps not even that; while up-to-date maps and documents did exist, they tended to linger in the grip of governmental officials prior to being made publicly accessible.

Thankfully, there were other sources to fill in the gaps in his knowledge. Unfortunately again, that meant Kree’arra had to move further down his chain of informants. Specifically, down to Huxley, a man whose appearance invoked nothing less than a piece of cracked, sun-dried leather, or a particularly chewed and gnarled stump. He had all the good graces of either.

So, one hastily assembled meeting later, Kree’arra found himself sitting across from Huxley at a table that was altogether too low, on a chair that was altogether too hard, in a living room that was altogether too damp. As good a meeting place as could be drawn together on such short notice. Goodness knows Huxley, with the same jealously guarded connections that made him such a useful source of information, would never meet in his [i]own[/i] home.

The surface of the table was scattered with papers and, on Huxley’s side, an unlabelled bottle sloshing with something murky and brown. Kree’arra’s interest laid in the former, but Huxley groped for the latter. As he brought the bottle up to his mouth, Kree’arra caught wind of the scent of whatever was inside, and it was sharp enough to drive him an inch or two back into his seat with a beak-clacking wince. Huxley gulped down a swig with nary a twitch and, after affording Kree’arra a glance about as sour as his rotgut smelled, at last turned his attention to the papers between them, hunching over to stare at them.

“There is only one independent wizard residing within outer Mesnilbour,” Huxley said. “Barnabas Kouris. His tax records indicate a long history of full and timely payments. A dutiful citizen.”

Huxley cast his gaze up at Kree’arra without raising his head, eyes full of withering judgement which, frankly, ill-befit an equally withered man who earned his living working as a mole. 

His attention still fixed on Kree’arra, he flipped over a sheet of paper, replacing ink-scratched letters on one side with charcoal strokes on the other. It was a map, detailed and legible enough in spite of the crudity of the drawings, indicating a building placed some miles south of the city, along the bank of the River Grennes.

Huxley tapped it with a hangnailed finger. “Unless he’s moved in the past month, you’ll find him here. A day’s travel by foot.”

He pushed the paper towards Kree’arra, taking advantage of the motion to straighten up in his seat and cross his arms. His lingering eyes turned expectant.

Huffing through his nostrils, Kree’arra shuffled through a pouch at his side for the small bag within and, finding it, tossed it onto the table. Wrapped in leather, it was a fist-sized, string-tied bundle that landed on the wood surface with a metallic clink.

Huxley reached for it, undid the string binding it together, and allowed the coins inside to spill out across the tabletop. When it came to counting out the money, ensuring his fee had been paid to the last copper, Huxley’s fingers worked with an alacrity that defied both their bony appearance and the dour attitude he’d displayed moments earlier. In this, he was as spry and agile as an elf in his prime.

The counting didn’t take long, in spite of how hefty the fee had been, particularly for such a minuscule amount of service. Once he was satisfied he’d been given the proper amount, Huxley dragged his money off the edge of the table with one hand, dumping it into the waiting palm of the other before quickly secreting it away into some pouch or pocket and out of sight.

“Wonderful,” Huxley said, in a tone that suggested a much different sentiment. “Our business is done. If there’s nothing else?”

“Thanks, Huxley,” Kree’arra said, pushing his chair back and standing up. “However uncertain my life may be, I can always count on your fine attitude being there to bite me.”

---

Kree’arra had set out at once. While Mesnilbour was built up enough to have wholly exchanged natural beauty for urban sprawl, it gradually gave way to country as one approached the outskirts, as if the city was finally allowed to breathe as one made their exit. Once one left city limits, the main road edged east to run alongside the nearby River Grennes, the sparkling waters a pleasant relief for one taking their leave from paved streets and clustered buildings.

He had taken it all in at speed, the hooves of Kree’arra’s steed clattering against the cobblestone road. While Barnabas might have had the luxury of teleporting anywhere that required more travel than could be accomplished by a pleasant stroll, Kree’arra was amongst the unfortunate masses who had to make use of more conventional methods, his burgeoning magical abilities not quite up to the task.

But he didn’t feel too desolate. A horse made quick work of what would otherwise be a day’s walk, and following the map he’d been given as best he could, he found himself coming up on his target even before the sun had set. Even better, it hadn’t been any additional expense. With any luck, the owner wouldn’t mind him borrowing their horse. With even more luck, Kree’arra wouldn’t lose track of it prior to riding back to the city. 

Though as he hopped off his generously loaned steed and led it towards the treeline parallel the road, Kree’arra felt there was a terrible chance that he might lose track of the horse [i]just[/i] prior to his reaching city limits, leaving him with no chance to return it to its owner. The mare looked at him and huffed.

Oh well. Its owner was probably a merciless abuser, anyhow. He was doing the beast a favour. He lashed the horse to a sturdy looking tree and gave its neck a brief stroke, then turned around and pushed back out of the trees, moving onto the road once more. He was still roughly a mile out from his destination, according to the map, but stealth was hardly a task to be accomplished on horseback. He’d go the rest of the distance on foot.

Though he found himself moving back into the trees again before long. As soon as Kree’arra rounded the next bend in the road ahead, his target came into sight. The building stood facing out towards the bank of the River Grennes, waters stretched out before it, while the woods clustered around its back. Between the two was the road, separating them and winding right past the front door.

A front door which, notably, was not a gate, or a portcullis, or any sort of imposing entryway. In spite of the apparent tendency for reclusive wizards to live in towers, Barnabas lived in a house. Large enough, but only a single storey. Something Kree’arra might’ve suspected a merchant to own, had it been closer to the city.

But instead, there was going to be a mage inside. Hopefully Barnabas had chosen a house so far from the city under the presumption that no thieves would bother coming out all this way. Lax security always made for an easy job.

Kree’arra stuck to the inside of the treeline as he made his approach. Pushing through the brush was less convenient, but walking down the open and highly visible stretch of road right up to the front door would’ve hardly been discreet. The woods wrapped around the back of the house, eventually leading Kree’arra to a point no more than fifteen feet away from its walls.

Barnabas had little in the way of a garden; the area between his home and the forest was little more than a flat stretch of grass and weeds. That meant little cover for an approach, but that might not have been as much of a problem as it seemed. From his position, Kree’arra could see that the windows all along the back of the house were dark, shrouded by curtains pulled shut inside.

It certainly seemed like the owner’s interests slanted in favour of privacy over security. Kree’arra bounded out from the treeline and across that small patch of no man’s land, with silent speed worthy enough to match an owl's. A moment later, he was planting himself against the wall of the house, safely out of view of any of the windows. Having not been blasted into dust by a sudden magical onslaught, he considered his approach a success.

Which left the next challenge of actually getting into the house. Windows provided an obvious point of entry, but it’d be preferable to not start loudly smashing glass if he could at all avoid it. That being the case, Kree’arra turned his attention instead to an ever reliable option for both business and pleasure: the back door.

Kree’arra crouched his way past a window, in spite of the shut curtains—one could never be too sure—and over to the door. In that same spirit of certainty, he looked it over as best he could for any traps of the traditional variety, then cast his more fledgling arcane senses over it for anything of the magical sort.

Both revealed nothing. As far as Kree’arra could tell, the door was nothing more than a door. That being the case, he laid a hand on the knob with ginger touch, and upon its failure to snap at him, gave it a jiggle.

It refused to turn. Kree’arra retrieved a set of lockpicks from a pouch on his belt, and soon, that was no longer the case. After a moment of gratitude for how things always seemed to work out for him, Kree’arra cracked open the door and peered inside.

So much as he could, anyway. The sliver of light shining in from the open door was all there was in the room; everything else was cloaked in darkness, the curtains all sealed and the lamps snuffed out. But it looked empty and nothing unusual or dangerous caught Kree’arra’s eye, so he slipped inside and pulled the door to a silent close behind him.

He stood there a moment and allowed his eyes to adjust to the gloom. As opaque as the curtains might have looked from the outside, they weren’t perfect, particularly to sharp avian eyes like this. Enough light leaked through for him to see by, and looking around, he saw that he was in... a room.

There wasn’t much more to say about it than that. It was decidedly bland, downright spartan. There were no decorations to be seen, and furniture consisted of a table and chair at one corner, and what looked like a basic kitchen in the other, that being little more than a stove, a counter top, and a pantry.

Frankly, it didn’t look like what a wizard would call home, much less one that was slinging around coins by the hundreds or thousands for precious stones. Kree’arra might’ve been inclined to think Huxley had lied, and tempted to turn around then and there to go find him and teach him a hands-on lesson in the importance of providing accurate information.

However, the sight of a mauve robe hanging from a hook just beside him swayed Kree'arra otherwise. In spite of how it looked, this was the place he was looking for, a fact that left the rogue more confused than anything else.

Still creeping as silently as he could, though he couldn’t hear a sound to indicate anyone was home, Kree’arra moved towards the hallway across the room in search of [i]something.[/i] Just about anything, really, because from what he’d seen so far, it seemed questionable whether or not he’d get a decent haul out of the place at all. He wondered if Barnabas had even come back to his home to begin with, or if he’d taken all his valuables off to who knew where to perform some remote and complicated ritual.

Those fears would turn out to be a touch premature, as once he’d taken a few steps down the hallway, Kree’arra felt a prickle of something in the air. Barely perceptible, threatening to make him think he’d imagined it, but given the context, he elected to think it real—magical energy, coming from somewhere nearby.

Ordinarily, that sensation would indicate Kree’arra was about to be bathed in a burst of arcane fire or the like, and he froze mid-step. When that didn’t happen, he started to breathe again and relaxed. Only a touch, though; the fact that he was still alive and still feeling that potential in the air meant that it was emanating from something, hinting at enchantments, magical traps, conjured beings, anything that required a steady draw of magic to sustain itself.

So, Kree’arra resumed his march down the hall, albeit now at an infinitely slower and more cautious pace. Stealth was a welcome byproduct of that, but it was hardly his primary goal. He was trying to feel out where that energy was coming from, and particularly trying to feel if it was coming from the floorboards before he set his feet on them, not wanting to step on one and find himself suddenly reduced to a fine powder.

That turned out not to be any sort of serious risk, at least not in the form of a floor-based trap. The arcane charge holding the feathers on the back of his neck upright grew stronger as he continued down the hallway, peaked about halfway toward the end of it, then started to wane. Kree’arra stopped, backpedaled a few steps, stopped, then walked forward a few steps. He repeated that whole cycle about five times more, each time with increasingly smaller steps. It was as crude and barbaric a magic detection method as any proper wizardly collegiate—or even any backward hedge mage, for that matter—could dream of.

Though it did work, after a spell. Standing approximately one-and-a-half thirds down the hallway, Kree’arra determined the source of the magic as being directly to his left. Thus, his gaze arose from floor to door as he turned to face the entrance to what appeared to be a cellar, judging by the thirty degree angle it sat against the floor.

Frankly, it was probably the most wizardly thing in the whole house thus far, owing solely to the unusual positioning. If he had been going by sight rather than being razor-focused on the vagueries of his more magical senses, Kree’arra probably would’ve investigated it right off the bat.

But it was probably for the best that he hadn’t, as when Kree’arra dropped to a squat in front of the door and gave it as focused a magical read as he could muster, he found the handle inscribed with a glyph of warding—and now that he had something specific to read off of rather than groping for indistinct fields of energy, he could see that said ward, when activated, caused a very sharp, very explosive build-up of energy within the head of the one unfortunate enough to activate it.

Understandably, this only served to pique Kree’arra’s interest further. It disproved his earlier hypothesis of Barnabas preferring obscurity over security; instead, it seemed that he'd made the entirety of his house into a decoy, devoid of valuables, save for one heavily warded area that would no doubt contain his riches. Obviously, he was going to need to get inside. The trick was going to be doing so without compromising the integrity of his skull.

One way Kree'arra could do that would be to sit there in front of the door, trying to pick apart and dispel the glyph from a distance. That would be safest, but given the intricacy and power of the glyph, he could be there for an hour or more, time that he wasn’t sure he had available. He could use his hands and try to erase it with more base, tactile magic, and that would work instantly, but would also run a non-zero chance of him failing and activating the glyph, which was also less than ideal.

That seemed to exhaust his selection of wizardly solutions to the problem, but before anything else, he was a rogue, and so long as one had the proper arcane senses to work off of—plus a touch of forethought and preparation—a rogue’s mindset was capable of solving more magical problems than one would think.

Kree’arra reached into a pouch on his belt. From it, he retrieved one of the more esoteric tools he’d ever had to employ in his trade: a deer mouse, courtesy of Boffo the Ratcatcher. Its eyes were closed and its body limp, but the slight movements of its chest indicated sleep rather than death, induced by a generous application of sedative supplied by one of the more helpful and less scrupulous apothecaries the city had to offer.

Holding it by the end of the tail, Kree’arra brought it as close to the handle as he dared, then let go. It dropped an inch or so before making contact with a popping noise that, had he lips rather than a beak, Kree’arra might’ve been able to replicate. A thimble of gore splattered the door jamb and tiny fragments of bone ricocheted off of his clothes. The intact portion of the mouse, propelled by the force of the explosion, whizzed over his shoulder and landed with a thump somewhere in the region of the kitchen.

Kree'arra scanned the door once more and this time found nothing but mundane wood and iron, devoid of any magic beyond rapidly diminishing wisps formed in the wake of the glyph’s discharge. He did, however, note yet more energy thrumming from some point [i]behind[/i] the door.

Hopefully not more glyphs. Kree’arra had only brought two mice; it wasn’t proper to have one’s pouches brimming with vermin during a job, whatever the circumstances. But there was only one way to find out: Kree’arra pulled open the door, revealing a stone staircase that stretched down further than would be needed for any mere root cellar. Light flickered at the bottom from either a sconce or lamp, though a bend at the foot of the stairwell kept him from seeing anything more.

It seemed that someone was home. Either that, or Barnabas had invested in those magical torches that never seemed to burn out. Hoping more for the latter, Kree’arra began his descent with probing senses and trepid toes for every step.

---

Kree’arra counted thirty steps total. That was a staggering amount to begin with for any regular basement, but it was made to feel even greater by the fact that each and every one needed to be treated as a potential death trap.

Which, as a matter of fact, one was. The eleventh step was covered with one large glyph of warding enchanted to paralyze, presumably to leave him tumbling down the remaining nineteen steps to a neck-snapping death. This was dealt with by additional application of rodent, with markedly less grisly results compared to the door.

Up until the [i]twelfth[/i] step, which turned out to be another glyph, this time keyed to disintegrate. One small puff of dust later, and Kree’arra had both disarmed the last of the stair traps and divested himself of mice.

A worthy sacrifice, for he soon found himself at the bottom of the stairs and at the mouth of a hallway that stretched out before him and curved out of sight some ten feet ahead. The floor, walls, ceiling, everything was made out of large, flat-cut stone bricks, mortared and spaced with methodical precision. This was certainly no ordinary basement. It looked like something out of a dungeon or catacomb, built for a lord with very deep pockets.

Kree'arra came upon a sconce soon after rounding the first corner. Holding his hand near it, he felt no heat being emitted. Appropriately enough for a wizard of means, the place was lit with everlasting flame. That was a fact that let him draw very few conclusions. Barnabas could’ve been present and making use of the light, or could've just left them to burn in perpetuity even in his absence. All Kree’arra could safely assume was that the wizard was very wealthy indeed, a fact which pushed him onward.

Slowly, that was. The feel of magic was only getting stronger as he moved forward, yet no more traps appeared at his feet. His pace had slowed a good deal, out of fear that some enormously potent ward would appear and obliterate him, yet nothing did. But the hallway went on, twisting in an oddly serpentine fashion so that he could see neither ahead nor behind for more than a few feet, and the sense of magical potential only grew.

Until, finally, he came across something. Only if it was meant to be a trap, then it was one meant to dissuade, not to punish. It was a string of runes, weaving and interlocking with one another to form a ring that stretched from the floor to the ceiling, running up along the walls.

Theoretically, them being visible to the naked eye ought to have made it easier to figure out what the runes were actually supposed to [i]do.[/i] Wards were generally easy to read, given the fact you weren’t meant to read them in the first place, just trigger them. Accordingly, regardless of how much power they held, they were usually just a simple trigger attached to an effect. Two components joined to create a singular glyph, occasionally modified for specific conditions.

This ring, however, Kree’arra couldn’t make heads or tails of. Admittedly, his skills in runes were somewhat focused on trap triggers and the sorts of spells that tried to kill you—those being the kind of spells traps tended to spit out—but these ones were all over the map, in specificities that he didn’t fully understand. Evocation symbology being used to focus energy of some sort or other. Abjurations, but impeding rather than punishing, and oriented as if to keep something further [i]down[/i] the hallway from coming towards [i]him.[/i]

The spots where the two schools joined and interacted with one another Kree'arra understood even less. If it was a trap, then it was the most unnecessarily convoluted and obvious one he’d ever seen. Forget figuring out what it did, he wasn’t even sure how it was meant to be activated. In fact, it could’ve already been active, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to tell.

Kree’arra’s head was starting to hurt trying to figure it out, and he was getting frustrated. He dipped a hand into his pocket, retrieved a copper coin, and flicked it across the threshold of the ring.

Nothing happened. He stuck a hand through the ring, and felt nothing. He stepped over the runes, careful not to step [i]on[/i] them, and after bringing his entire body through the ring, felt...

Absolutely nothing. Perhaps it was a trap of a different sort, meant to dissuade any magical intruders smart enough to disarm all the previous traps by presenting them with something so utterly threatening and inscrutable that they’d be cowed into turning back. Overthinking: the deadliest pitfall of all. Cunning rogue that he was, Kree’arra had bypassed even this most insidious of traps.

Though frankly, putting several of them in a row, one after another between every curving section of hallway, seemed excessive. Even if, admittedly, the repetition did have a certain kind of aesthetic appeal to it. Sort of like a motif.

Kree’arra had gone through seven stretches of hallways snaking back and forth before finally finding something that showed signs of promise. The feeling of magic ahead had been building up with each and every curve, lending credence to his thoughts that he was approaching something of value, but now there was something visible to go along with that feeling: there was a room ahead. Due to the way the hallway intersected with the corner, he could only see a thin segment of one side of the room, but even from what little that slice revealed, Kree’arra could see that this was the heart of any and all value or power the house might’ve held.

The ceiling rose up and up, high enough that it had to be just shy of breaking through the ground floor, ending in a mass of hundreds of brass, triangular segments forming a cavernous dome. The floor was no longer a series of stone bricks, but one huge, smooth surface, made out of a darker material that looked like slate. Appropriate enough, given Kree’arra could see the edge of what appeared to be yet more runes, drawn in chalk and sprawling across the floor.

This would be of less concern and more delight, if that was all that he’d discovered. It would mean he’d found the hoard, the secret treasury, the Big One, and he’d waste no more time than caution dictated necessary in getting in there and getting all there was to get. But along with it, he also detected something else.

A hint of smoke. People doubted the ability of birds to smell, but Kree’arra’s nostrils worked just fine, and as slight as the scent was, the significance was grave. The magical torches didn’t truly burn, so they didn’t put off smoke, which meant the scent indicated there was something else that had been brought down here and left to burn.

That meant there was someone else down here who’d lit it.

Kree’arra stuck close to the wall and crept forward down the hallway, every step still coached in caution, now at what laid ahead rather than anything that might've been underfoot . When he at last came to the end of the hall where it met and joined with the room, he peered around the edge of the wall.

With that, he was able to get a full view of the room, and a proper gauge as to its construction. The walls were round, girdling a wholly circular floorspace, barring the spot where the hallway butted in. It looked around forty, no more than fifty feet wide. The walls were covered with thick sheets of fabric that hung from the edge of the dome ceiling down to the floor, like curtains or tapestries—but devoid of any design, only black satin.

But the greatest interest didn’t lie in the size or materials that made up the room, but what sat at its centre. The whole floor, barring a foot long margin from the walls all around the room, was swallowed up by chalk circles, with candles set and burning over top of them at each cardinal point. There were three total, all nested within one another. The outermost took up most of the room, while the middle had a radius only half that size.

The last circle, set at the heart of the room, was just shy of four feet wide. This was the most interesting circle of all, not in it being any different from any of the others—though it was, having visibly different runework than the other circles, not that Kree’arra could discern any meaning in that difference—but from the fact that kneeling in front of it was a spindly, olive skinned man. He wore only a single article of clothing: a chiton, a most plain and rather boxy looking tunic, cinched around his waist.

Hardly traditional wizarding attire. But going by the muttered incantations and at once sweeping and intricate hand motions, he was definitely wizarding, traditionally or otherwise. Interrupting him in the middle of whatever it was he was doing could’ve either been the wisest or most foolhardy course of action. It was hard to say. The risk and uncertainty wouldn’t have stopped Kree’arra from taking action, but the fact that the apparent Barnabas finished what he was doing before the rogue could decide to did.

The man’s fingers stopped waggling and his hands stopped weaving, instead coming together flat, palm against palm, with a clap. No louder or stronger than any ordinary clap, yet the air wavered at the force of it, washing over Kree’arra’s feathers in odd currents for a moment before stilling. As if it had shuddered.

Then, for a moment, there was nothing—aside from the sudden exponential rise of arcane potential, feeling like a spring being cranked down, harsh enough to make Kree’arra’s head ache. Another moment, and the potential suddenly released, alongside a noise like a bed sheet being ripped in half. Sudden plumes of burgundy smoke poured out from the centremost circle to swallow up the room. They stunk of cork taint and camphor.

Quick as it had formed, the stinking cloud fell to the ground, thick as campfire smoke yet writhing in tendrils like snow blown across cobblestone as it dissipated. With the air clear, Kree’arra could see that Barnabas had stood up to his full height, leaving his eyes level with the chest of the stranger that now stood before him.

Barnabas was a man of respectable stature. That sort of height difference left the stranger in the realm of some seven or eight feet tall. This fact was notable, as was the layer of indigo grey fur that covered his body, the digitigrade legs that ended in monstrous claws, and the spiked whip tail trailing out behind him.

Most notable, however, was probably the bestial skull that served as his face. Red eyes burned within its sockets and curved antlers jutted out from behind it, emerging from the wild mane of fur that enveloped his neck. Overall, it had to be said that the stranger had something of a presence. Rather eye catching.

As were the pair of heavy balls hanging between his thighs, dangling below a pleasantly thick looking sheath. Kree’arra just [i]had[/i] to stare. Nice set of jewels. Almost as nice as the specks of colourful, shifting light that had sprung to life along the perimeters of all three circles, shimmering through the facets of the rogue stones whose prismatic depths they were trapped within. Two sights that made all his previous efforts worth it.

While Kree’arra watched with barely suppressed glee, the two within the room were concerned with their own business. The wizard stood his ground before the innermost circle, while inside of it, whatever wendigo-looking creature it was he’d summoned up staggered a step and threw his head back and forth, eyes scanning the room–thankfully missing the sight of a bird pulling himself back behind the wall’s edge.

“What is this?” the beast asked, in a voice smoother and more full-bodied than one would expect to hear from a set of flesh-stripped jaws, bewildered though it might’ve been.

“This is a summoning,” Barnabas said, his voice that was the essence of calm in spite of the terrifying creature towering over him. “Are you unfamiliar?”

One step too many, and the wendigo found itself pressing up against a wall that wasn’t. The air shimmered slightly where he touched it and refused him passage, fur pressed flat against a rounded, invisible barrier that perfectly mirrored the lines of the circle drawn on the floor below.

“I am usually called with my clothes on,” he said.

“This is not a calling,” Barnabas said. “It is a summoning in the traditional manner. You are bound within the circle, that we might arrange a trade.”

Now the creature's surprise was beginning to fade. He walked as far forward as the circle allowed, looming at his full height and staring down at Barnabas. The unmoving features of his skull brooked no frown or furrowed brow, but that was unnecessary to see how he felt about the situation.

“I hardly appreciate being forced into a cage to bargain.” Clawed fingers clenched into fists. The beast's body was tall and lanky, but cut to purpose: his limbs were cords of dense packed, wiry muscle.

“Then appreciate the cage itself,” Barnabas replied, even-handed in the face of the creature’s budding irritation. “It is easy to [i]call[/i] on Orexi. It is far more difficult to find the symbols and attunements needed to draw and bind you here. You’re a gap in demonology’s collective knowledge.”

Demonology. Well, that explained why Barnabas lived out in the middle of nowhere as an independent mage, Kree’arra mused. Particularly how he still managed to sit on a small fortune in spite of those facts.

Orexi, assuming that was who or what he was, crossed his arms. “The skill or investment you’ve put into developing my cage makes it no less appealing when I’m the one inside it.”

“Appreciation does not necessitate appeal. Disdain the binding as you’d please—but note you’ve yet to fly into one of your rages.” Barnabas swung an arm out over the room, turning into it, thankfully in the opposite direction of the hallway. “This entire room is an emotional resonance chamber. The air here is calm in a very literal sense; I am making great effort to make it so.”

“That would explain why I’ve only the logical side of the desire to disembowel you,” Orexi said. He pressed a clawed finger out in front of him, and it pressed flat against the circle’s barrier. “What do you care about my rages if you’ve trapped me here? Fearful I’ll scratch up your floor?”

Barnabas turned back to face Orexi. “I’m glad you’re finally showing some curiosity.  That means we can begin bargaining. As is tradition, I make my offer prior to my demands: my knowledge,” Barnabas held out his hands, palms facing the demon, “of you.”

Some people—namely, ones eavesdropping—would’ve found that to be a poor offer, regardless of the price Barnabas was asking for it. But Orexi seemed to straighten up at the sound of it.

“And what do you know of me?”

“What did I need to summon you? Your true name, for a start. Knowledge of the planes you dwell in, [i]and[/i] the one you emerged from. Understanding of your rages: why they happen, how to suppress them, and perhaps the beginning of how to stop them altogether.”

Barnabas clasped his hands in front of himself, tilting his head and closing his eyes. “I have spent many hours and paid much more than gold to dig up scraps of information on everything you are. I knew there’d be nothing more valuable, and I need every bit of value I can offer for what I’m asking.”

“And what is that?” Orexi asked, no longer stand-offish, contrary, or deadpan, but invested, leaning in towards Barnabas.

“I—”

Barnabas was interrupted by the force of a pound and a half of lead shot slamming down onto his skull, wrapped by the fetching dark leather of Kree’arra’s blackjack. He went limp instantly, dropping to his knees and tumbling flat over top of the circle.

It would be at once amusing and accurate to say that all hell broke loose. While Barnabas had gone down silently as soon as he’d been struck, Orexi immediately started screaming, a loud and guttural sound. Kree’arra threw himself back, leaving him in a prime position to observe what happened next.

Orexi’s skull stayed the same size. Every other part of him grew, chest swelling with powerful muscle, arms and fingers drawing out into claw-tipped weapons. His lash-like tail burst with mass, spines growing into menacing spikes of bone, the whole thing becoming just as lethal an implement as the rest of him. Even his antlers grew, taking on sharp angles and adding that much more to his stature.

When the explosion of growth was finished, Orexi only just fit within the circle. He’d been wholly transformed into a hulking monster, now nine feet tall, though his hunched stature made him look a touch shorter. Letting out another scream, he charged at Kree’arra, and the bird winced...

Only for Orexi to slam full-force against the air. The barrier, it seemed, was still in full effect. Scrabbling against it with his claws, Orexi screamed again, sounding less like the civilized being he’d been moments ago and more like a very wild, very angry animal.

Unable to get at Kree’arra, the demon’s attention turned instead to the floor, and the body of the wizard that was lying over top of and within the circle binding him. Grabbing Barnabas’ unconscious body by the shoulders, he wrenched the rest of the wizard into the circle like he was nothing more than a sack of potatoes, then sank one clawed hand through the front of his chiton. There was a loud and wet crack. When Orexi jerked his fist back out, it was wrapped around Barnabas’ sternum, now jutting free from a mixture of torn fabric, ripped flesh, and shattered bone.

With a horribly long tongue, Orexi licked clean the blood and gristle clinging to the bone segment before chucking it over his shoulder. Then, he shoved his snout into the gaping hole now present in the centre of Barnabas’ chest. With the aid of his claws, he began to messily tear, chomp, and swallow anything soft that he found inside.

Kree’arra stood and watched as Orexi’s attention was devoured by the task of devouring, working with as much motivation as any starving animal. Muscles bulged and worked under his fur, blood streaming over them and down his chest and stomach, eventually running down his iliac furrows as if to frame the fat sheath and balls that sat between them.

Frankly, it looked pretty hot. As had perhaps been obvious from the time he’d spent staring at the demon’s crotch immediately after his summoning, Kree’arra had a thing for creatures, particularly magical ones. As was being well-demonstrated now, he liked them most when they were big and dangerous, and after his transformation, Orexi was nothing if not the spitting image of both those descriptors.

So, safe behind the protection of the barrier and feeling heated from the unintentional show Orexi was putting on—gruesome, primal, and sensual—Kree’arra kept standing, kept watching, and slid a hand down the front of his pants.

Groping and rubbing at himself, rolling his balls around between his fingers, he’d slid about halfway out of his slit and started dribbling onto his palm when [i]something[/i] happened. The air quivered, for lack of a better word; it lasted only a second, and was unlike anything Kree’arra could think to compare it to.

Had Kree’arra been paying closer attention to the words of the late Barnabas, perhaps he would have recognized it as the effects of the emotional resonance chamber. Being otherwise preoccupied, he did not.

Though perhaps someone else had. Orexi’s head shot up and out of Barnabas’ viscera, eyes suddenly locked on the sight of Kree’arra standing there fondling himself. Once again, he launched himself at the rogue, and once again, he slammed against the barrier keeping him trapped. But he kept clawing at it, staring intently at Kree’arra all the while.

Kree’arra, while appreciative of the better view this gave of Orexi’s underside, elected to pull his hand away from himself. As hot as he was, the demon clearly wanted out, and it was probably better for Kree’arra to take what he’d come here for and leave. Just in case the circles somehow ran out of magic and let the thing loose.

He turned his attention down to circles on the floor, and the little glittering lights scattered along them. They were placed all over the room, each one aligned with two others in the other two circles, each group of three forming a straight line from the centre of the room to the edge. Each light was trapped inside a singular rogue stone, vibrant with magic. Each was worth several thousand gold to the right buyer, and a small fortune collectively.

Kree’arra leaned down and grabbed the nearest one, which sat in a tiny chalk ring within the lines of the middle circle. The moment he lifted it out of its spot, the light shining inside it winked out, along with those of the other two gems that had been aligned with it. A second later, the gem crumbled to dust in his fingers, as did its fellows.

A squawk of surprise and outrage left his beak, that his hard-earned loot would dare destroy itself! However, this concern, deathly grave though it might’ve been, quickly became secondary as Kree’arra heard a familiar roar from behind himself—and more importantly, heard it coming closer.

Rather than waste time turning to verify his suspicions, Kree’arra threw himself to the side in a desperate roll, just managing to evade the claws of the charging Orexi swinging for his back. Turning to look, Kree’arra saw that the demon was running on all fours, his claws raking the slate as he skidded to a stop and reoriented himself towards his prey.

It was time to leave. With a few frantic gestures and a muttered incantation, Kree’arra threw his hands out, sending two ruby red bolts of magic springing from his fingers, streaking towards Orexi. Without waiting to see if they struck, he turned and sprinted towards the hallway he’d come in from.

They did strike, being that magic missiles always found their target, but the demon took the force of them slamming into his chest with little more than a grunt. It certainly didn’t slow his progress as he immediately took off after his fleeing prey, and Kree’arra’s two legs were certainly no match for Orexi’s four-limbed rush.

Kree’arra made it about halfway to the exit before he felt fur, claws, and what felt like enough weight to challenge a boulder slam into him from behind. He was sent tumbling to the floor, and Orexi followed, clawed hands grabbing at his chest, his shoulder, anything that immediately presented itself as a handhold, while the demon’s huge thighs wrapped around either side of his body.

He didn’t bother trying to escape, fight back, or cast any spells. Orexi was a hulking beast who had torn out a man’s rib cage with about as much effort as it’d take to pick the pit out of a cherry. Rather, Kree’arra shut his eyes tight and waited for his head to be torn clean off his body.

Kree’arra felt hands gripping his body with painful strength, claws poking through his clothes and digging into his skin. He smelled blood in the air and felt it being smeared against himself by the press of Orexi’s heavy body, its weight shifting under the force of his heavy breathing.

The rogue’s own breath came quick and clipped, racing as much as the demon’s crushing grip would allow. His heart was pounding. He had an erection. He was going to die.

Only he didn’t die, and after a few seconds of that being the case, Kree’arra became confused. Orexi was gripping him painfully tight and the demon’s body was heaving and grinding against his, yet he didn’t feel himself being ripped to shreds.

Possibly against better judgement, Kree’arra opened his eyes. Orexi’s tongue was lolling free, dripping saliva onto the floor near his head. Apart from the claws gripping the rogue’s torso, all of the demon’s weight was focused on one particular area: his crotch, which he was grinding against Kree’arra’s upward facing hip, crushing the other painfully against the stone floor in the process.

Kree’arra thought fast, moved by equal parts near-death adrenaline and perverse thrill. For whatever reason, Orexi was not trying to kill him. However, if things kept going as they were, then Kree’arra was going to be dry-humped against the floor into a state of shattered pelvis. Action was necessary, but fighting back was a non-option, unless he wanted to receive the Barnabas treatment.

That being the case, Kree’arra did the only other thing he could think of. Reaching out with the arm not gripped by the demon’s claws, as much as the weight pushing down on his torso would allow, he tried to squeeze his hand in between his own body and that of Orexi’s grinding against him.

The mindless working of the demon’s body did not stop for his presence, and Kree’arra’s hand quickly became the focus of all that crushing pressure, squashed against his side under a ton of fur-lined muscle. Progress was painful and halting, stopping whenever Orexi’s weight would pin his hand in place, but it always resumed when the demon’s body shifted and Kree’arra was able to continue sliding his way towards his goal.

Until, at last, he reached it. Kree’arra’s fingers brushed against the furry bulge of a sheath, and more, the warm, wet flesh that was poking out of it. Going off a blind gauge of its size and shape, the demon couldn’t have been more than half-hard, either yet to hump his way to a full erection or otherwise kept suppressed by the sheer pressure with which he was grinding himself against Kree’arra.

Obviously, Orexi had no idea what he was doing. It was clear what he was [i]trying[/i] to do, but also that he was going about it in the most inefficient way possible. But Kree’arra, unaffected by whatever frenzy it was that had overtaken the demon, could help.

He grabbed a hold of Orexi’s sheath and what had already slid free from it, squeezing down on it—not with brute force intended to harm, but just enough to form a sleeve that, while not ideal for the task of pleasure, was certainly leagues better than grinding against his pelvic bone.

Orexi made an odd sound, a sort of snuffling grunt. More importantly, he started moving differently: rather than throwing himself with crushing force against Kree’arra, as if using his groin to crush the bird flat against the floor were his only means of sexual release, he seemed to realise that thrusting into Kree’arra’s hand felt better. 

Which wasn’t to say that he got up [i]off[/i] of Kree’arra. He remained over top of the bird, the weight of his body still pinning him to the floor, but he at least had to ease up slightly to better thrust into that wonderful hand, and the force of those thrusts was no longer transferred into bone-crushing slams against Kree’arra’s hip. It was an improvement.

Very much so for Orexi, as Kree’arra could immediately tell: now provided with proper attention, his sheath was bulging with the size of his rapidly swelling maleness, growing to its full glory as it slid out across Kree’arra’s palm. It felt warm, greasy with the moisture from the inside of his sheath, and above all, big. The demon was endowed with size to match the rest of him, the tip of it occasionally glancing across the inside of Kree’arra’s forearm whenever he thrust in, inching ever closer towards the inside of his elbow.

All the while leaking a steady stream of precum that drooled across Kree’arra’s arm and turned his hand into a slippery mess suitable for Orexi’s use. The demon was clearly getting excited. Judging by the way his thrusts had gotten faster, enough that his balls slapped against Kree’arra’s hand and his whole arm bowed under the force of the demon’s hips, the attention of a single hand was not enough to satisfy that excitement.

Which left a question. Pinned under the body of this powerful, virile beast, subject to its whims and kept alive only inasmuch as he could entertain Orexi’s one primal urge and use it to distract from its bloodier counterpart, was Kree’arra going to trust his hand to do the job properly?

Or, as the throbbing against the inside of his pants implored, was Kree’arra going to allow the demon to sate himself on some other, more satisfying parts of his anatomy?

The choice was obvious. When the demon pulled back for another thrust, lifting his body up off of Kree’arra’s to do so, the rogue relaxed his fingers and drew his hand back away from Orexi’s crotch before he could shove himself back into its grip.

Orexi, aware only that the tight grip around his cock had suddenly disappeared, looked down at Kree’arra with a rumble of either surprise or confusion, as if the bird had only become worthy of notice now that the pleasure had stopped. When he did, Orexi saw where the hand had gone: up near Kree’arra’s face, an inch away from his beak, utterly soaked with the demon’s juices.

Maintaining eye contact with Orexi, Kree’arra proceeded to open his beak, let his tongue loll free, and drag it up along his palm, gathering up all of the thick slime coating it and scooping it into his mouth. Then, he swallowed it down with an exaggerated, performative [i]gulp.[/i]

It had to be performative. Without language to rely on, the only hope he had of conveying his meaning was by making a show of it. Kree’arra could only hope that the demon picked up on it.

For a moment, Orexi just stared at him, and it seemed uncertain if he understood or if Kree’arra had merely bought himself a few seconds of confused inaction before being ripped to shreds. But then he huffed a breath through his bony nostrils, and everything sprang into motion as Orexi drew himself up onto his knees, bringing Kree’arra along for the ride.

Though unlike Orexi, Kree’arra did not retain an upright position; massive hands grabbed at whatever parts of him proved convenient, claws threatening to poke through his clothes into the soft flesh beneath, as Orexi flipped him up and over so that his feet were above his head.

Then, once he was upside down, Orexi looped his arms around Kree’arra’s hips and hugged the bird’s lower half tight against his chest. This resulted in two things. First, it pressed his bulge tight against the demon’s chest, squishing it against the firm muscle there. That, combined with being suddenly spun around, was enough to draw a gasp out of him.

Which tied into the second point: Kree’arra’s upper half, specifically his face, was now level with the demon’s crotch. Now, he finally got a chance to see Orexi in his full glory, rather than just feel it. His cock was a foot long, with a reddish sort of colour and veins that pulsed and throbbed insistently—particularly where they ran over his knot, bulging with such size that Kree’arra wondered if it had swollen prematurely, fist-sized thing that it was.

Though more overwhelming than the sight was definitely the smell. Sure, Kree’arra had gotten a hint of it while licking his palm, but it had mostly been the taste of all the precum Orexi had been oozing. Salty, smacking of sex, but ultimately somewhat neutral in flavour.

Orexi’s scent was anything but, and now that his face was right up against the demon’s crotch, cock batting the side of his beak, Kree’arra was getting the full brunt of it. It was as if he had never washed himself down there—perhaps demons simply didn’t spend time on such things?

Whatever the greater trends of his species, Orexi definitely didn’t. Kree’arra could see the greasy slime coating every inch of his shaft, even the back of his knot, such coverage making it abundantly clear that it wasn’t just the precum he was drooling thick streams of, but the result of him leaving his dick to stew in his sheath uncleaned for goodness knew how long.

Having his nose within a foot of the thing felt the same as if he’d shoved his nostrils right up against the beast’s sheath: like being smothered by the cloying stink of unwashed sex, thick enough that Kree’arra felt like he could feel it sit in his lungs when he breathed in. He shuddered. His cock throbbed against Orexi’s chest, and Kree’arra could tell he’d soaked through his pants and was now starting to dribble clean through and onto the demon’s fur.

There was no time to hang there and take in the scent. If he didn’t get moving, Orexi would get bored, which didn’t bode well for his survival. So before he’d even had a chance to let the reek stop stinging his nostrils, Kree’arra opened his beak and grabbed a hold of the demon’s shaft with both hands, guiding it into his mouth.

Which left the reeking, slimy thing rubbing directly against his tongue, smearing it with the same oily layer of sheath slime that he’d been smelling a moment before. If the scent alone had been strong, the taste of it was easily thrice as potent, his every taste bud suddenly under assault by the heady mixture of male arousal and the primal musk of an unwashed animal. Yet as overpowering as it was, he only had a few inches sitting on his tongue, and he was going to need to take more to keep Orexi interested.

He was at a unique advantage for this, as unlikely as that seemed. Most people seemed to have the impression that avians like him couldn’t do oral. They glanced at his beak and shuddered at the hard, sharp edges. But the inside was just as soft as any mammalian mouth, meaning that apart from a few lip-reliant tricks, Kree’arra was on even ground with any human, elf, or whoever else.

Or, perhaps not quite even. All those other races had to take great pains to suppress that tricky physiological hangup known as the gag reflex. In contrast, Kree’arra was known in several bars for taking bets involving whole trout and his ability to do a heron impression. 

Kree’arra relaxed his throat. Then, he threw himself forward, sinking a good six inches onto Orexi’s shaft, feeling the stink clinging to it rubbing into the sides of his throat and rolling up into his nose. All he could taste, all he could smell, every breath was suffused with the smell of wild arousal and greasy musk.

Orexi was making odd sounds, like ragged, lingering grunts, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. Presumably, that was what passed for sounds of pleasure for a demon. He was feeling good. That was good. Kree’arra was going off the assumption that the demon wasn’t going to hurt or eat something that pleased him.

However, Kree’arra ought to have predicted how Orexi [i]did[/i] treat things that made him feel good, based on the way the demon had acted when given as little as a hand to work with. Kree’arra was still getting a feel for the demon’s girth stretching his throat when those great hips pulled back—then slammed forward, huge balls swinging up to smack the topside of Kree’arra’s beak.

Kree’arra let out a spluttering, gagging cough that sounded quite strange filtered around a mouth and throat packed full of cock. He could feel a thick jet of precum being shot inside him in the form of an indistinct, wet heat. When Orexi pulled out a second later, it rolled out his mouth as rivulets of mingled spit and pre, drooling out the sides of his beak and dripping down onto his forehead.

The subsequent gasp for breath filled Kree’arra’s nose with yet more sweaty, animal stench, highlighted the ache in his throat, and revitalized his taste buds with the flavour of the unwashed cock throbbing and drooling all over his tongue. All that in the second before Orexi thrust in again, once more gagging Kree’arra on his shaft and spurting more precum into the back of his throat, all the better to lubricate things and help drive the taste of sheath-ripened musk as deep inside him as possible.

Kree’arra’s hands shifted to Orexi’s thighs and held on for dear life as his mouth was repurposed into a fucksleeve. Breathing was a near-impossible task, and when he managed it, it was in fleeting gasps choked in a sex-reeking miasma. An ever-increasing ooze of precum, beyond Kree’arra’s ability to swallow, drooled back out his beak and soaked into the fur of the demon’s balls, leaving them wet and sticky whenever they slapped against his face. His throat bulged painfully, incapable of accommodating the demon’s size or ridiculous pace, yet that seemed only to make Orexi more insistent. 

Clearly, there was something Orexi wasn’t getting. He was rutting Kree’arra’s mouth like it was a hole to be bred in its own right—and well on his way to seeding it like one, if the amount of pre the rogue was choking on was anything to go by—yet the frustrated growls he was making as he did so indicated it wasn’t enough, regardless of how hard he pounded the bird’s throat. Kree’arra, having a hard enough time just trying to breathe enough to maintain consciousness, wasn’t in any position to help the situation.

So Orexi was left to discover what he needed to satisfy his needs on his own, in his own crude fashion. He sniffed at the air through bony nostrils. He smelled something, and being desirous of it, acted without thinking about what it was or why he wanted it.

His sense of smell led him down, and so his snout followed, neck craning low until he had his nose pressed up against the seat of Kree’arra’s pants, a few layers of fabric being all that stood between his muzzle and the rogue’s taint. The hard edges of his snout pressed against Kree’arra’s fragile and eminently threatened balls on one side, and on the other, the firm, throbbing mass of his perineum, pulsing in time with his shaft.

Kree’arra gasped, less at the initial probing of Orexi’s muzzle and more at the flurry of motion a second after, as the demon’s fangs grabbed a hold of his pants and tore clean through them. At first, Kree’arra thought that the demon had finally seen fit to devour him—and perhaps it was more through luck than anything else that those teeth hadn’t torn a chunk out of him in the process of disrobing him.

But luck did prevail, and Orexi managed to rip through every layer of fabric standing between him and Kree’arra’s body without harming the latter, pants and underwear turned into so many shreds floating down to the floor. His hips had stopped for a moment while he focused on disrobing Kree’arra, giving the rogue leave to indulge in a fit of coughing after gasping down a mouthful of musk-reeking air, hacking up globs of precum.

Orexi silenced Kree’arra with a fresh thrust into his mouth, resuming his thrusting at a pace that would be rough facefucking by most anyone’s standards, but for him was almost leisurely. Such restraint was purely because the demon’s attention had been captured by other parts of the bird than his mouth. Orexi’s snout was butting up against Kree’arra’s balls, fangs glancing dangerously against the tender skin there.

This was definitely the scent that he was after. Kree’arra’s dick throbbed harder at Orexi’s touch, now leaking freely onto the demon’s fur, saturating it yet further with the stink of arousal that burned all too strongly to a sharp nose like his. At the same time, it was useless to the demon. Kree’arra was male, which meant as needy as he might’ve smelled, throbbing and dripping all over himself, there was nothing there that Orexi could fuck.

But then, Orexi directed his attention a brief stint backward, away from Kree’arra’s balls and along the curve of his taint towards the base of his tail. There, Orexi found something soft, yielding. Something of mighty interest to him, that he felt a need to explore.

Kree’arra moaned around a mouthful of cock as, without warning, he felt the slippery, muscular press of what could only be a tongue lap against his tailhole. Orexi approached using his own mouth [i]on[/i] Kree’arra with exactly as much care as he did making use [i]of[/i] the bird’s: a sudden onslaught of action, the demon slobbering and lapping at his hole as if he were trying to beat his way inside.

All while continuing to make small humping motions, working his cock back and forth inside Kree’arra’s throat. On the one hand, this was a relief from the wild thrusting from earlier that had been so difficult to endure. On the other, it meant that Orexi was no longer really pulling out, but just letting himself sit with his dick sunk halfway down Kree’arra’s throat, throbbing away and oozing a steady stream of precum that he had no choice but to gulp down as best he could.

It by and large precluded breathing. All Kree’arra could do was wriggle in Orexi’s arms, feel that tongue lashing at his asshole over and over, and try to swallow enough to keep the demon’s endless fluids from going up into his nose.

Part of him found it thrilling. That part of him was drooling all over Orexi’s chest with such volume that it was like he was trying to match the demon’s own productivity. Other parts of him had different opinions, such as his lungs burning for air, the starry darkness playing at the corners of his vision, and the fact that he couldn’t expect Orexi to stop if he passed out.

Those parts found the situation more troubling. So it was a welcome relief that, after everything between Kree’arra’s balls and tail had been coated in a thick layer of saliva, Orexi shifted his grip over to the bird’s hips and yanked him up and off of his cock.

It slid free from Kree’arra’s beak with a wet sucking sound and a rush of fluid, thick and slimy, pouring out of the rogue in fat strings and droplets as he gasped, coughed, and hacked in an effort to clear his airway. He would’ve expected the taste and smell to subside, but if anything, now that he was able to breathe, air seemed to only highlight the reek and savour of filthy sheath that’d been rubbed all over his mouth, into his throat, and even worked its way up into the back of his nose.

Though there was no time to fret over the quality of the air, as Kree’arra hardly even had time to appreciate its return. Hardly a second had passed between his throat being uncorked and him being suddenly dumped onto the ground, clawed hands releasing his hips and leaving him to tumble into a painful heap on the floor below, coughing and hacking up slime from the back of his throat.

While Kree’arra was still lying on his front trying to recover, Orexi dropped to his knees behind him. Those huge, familiar hands grabbed a hold of his legs by the ankles and wrenched them apart, baring the rogue’s ass for easy access. Orexi didn’t crawl forward to meet it, but dragged Kree’arra back, pulling him across the floor until he could feel the slick tip of the demon’s cock prodding against his equally slick rear.

It was all the lubrication one could hope for, considering his partner was a feral demon who was probably unaware of the concept. Which left only the complication of his partner being a feral demon who was about to treat his ass to the same treatment his throat had already undergone.

Orexi’s cock jabbed wildly, almost blindly across Kree’arra’s ass, searching for that sweet spot under his tail. The moment he found it, he threw his weight against it, either ignorant or uncaring of the need to ease into such a large insertion. He was motivated purely by the need to feel something tight and warm wrapped around his cock.

He got a good third of it in on that single stroke before the clenching of the bird’s insides forced his progress to a halt. That drew a loud shriek from Kree’arra, one with a notably ragged sound to it after the abuse his throat had undergone, but nonetheless vibrant with the sharp agony of being speared into with absolutely no preparation beyond an–admittedly thick–layer of spit.

The demon didn’t particularly care about the screams, but he did care about leverage, and apparently found his grip around Kree’arra’s ankles unsuitable for his tastes. He released them, and instead planted his hands onto the rogue’s back, leaning into it with the bulk of his weight and using it as the fulcrum from which to work his hips and better pound the bird’s ass.

It was effective, positionally speaking. However, it did have the unfortunate side effect of crushing Kree’arra’s chest under the weight of Orexi’s heavy body, his ribs feeling as if they were bowing under the pressure and the air being quite literally squeezed out of his lungs. His shriek was cut off with a sharp wheeze, and the struggle of trying to draw breath while being squished under the demon’s claws began.

Orexi cared about the screaming’s sudden absence just as much as he’d cared about its initial appearance. What mattered was how tight Kree’arra’s hole felt around his cock, and how he hadn’t even gotten halfway inside. Another slam of his hips made some small progress towards fixing that issue, claiming another inch or two of the bird’s ass for himself. It was followed by another, and another, Orexi consumed by shoving himself as deep inside Kree’arra’s ass as possible, regardless of the degree of stretching or crushing that the rogue would suffer in the process.

Though for all the pain of the demon’s shaft mercilessly prying his guts open, pounding roughshod and raw into his bowels, and the weight crushing down on his back and squeezing the life out of him, it had to be said that Kree’arra was hard as a rock. His dick, trapped under his body and squished against the cold stone, nonetheless drooled precum in a steam that thickened with each wild thrust of Orexi’s cock. 

Though it was nothing to match that which the demon continually gushed into his bowels, that being the only thing that enabled the breakneck pace Orexi had set. Which was saying nothing of [i]depth,[/i] the presence of Orexi’s dick palpable deeper in his guts than the rogue had ever felt before–and he’d had some very well endowed partners. This beast was in a league of his own.

Which made it a blessing when Kree’arra at last felt the press of that fat knot against his hole; with no more length left to take, he wouldn’t need to worry about Orexi breaking him with his sheer size. The way he [i]used[/i] that size still might’ve accomplished that, but Kree’arra knew now he could at least fit everything the demon had to offer.

At least, everything up to the knot. There came the flip side of that blessing: there was no more shaft left to take, which meant Orexi was going to focus all of his attention on getting that last bit inside. That bulbous gland that was a shivering sight to behold, even in its uninflated state.

But Kree’arra was going to have to do a lot more than behold it. As soon as Orexi was deep enough for it to make contact, he started pulling back—a reprieve Kree’arra had only moments to enjoy before Orexi slammed in once again, bringing his knot down with painful force against the rogue’s tailhole.

And again, and again. Finding Kree’arra’s body more than capable of enduring whatever he threw at it, Orexi was holding nothing back, battering his knot against the bird’s ass with short, sharp thrusts brimming with as much power as he could muster, all with the sole intent of cramming that ridiculously fat thing into his guts.

The fact that both of them could feel it actively swelling larger, stinging more with every slap against Kree’arra’s entrance, was making matters more difficult. Providing doubt as to whether or not he’d really be able to make it fit, or just tear the rogue apart in his attempt. But neck and neck with that growing size was the stretching of Kree’arra’s tailhole, beaten into submission and straining to accommodate Orexi’s knot every time the two met.

Other contenders in the race were the already quite depleted state of Kree’arra’s lungs and the vague awareness of his own cock throbbing and oozing underneath himself, at once responding to and ignored in favour of the abuse his prostate and insides were undergoing from Orexi’s wild fucking. Though even the feelings of that were becoming hazy, in light of the pins and needles covering Kree’arra’s whole body as he burned through the little oxygen he had left. Would it fit, would he cum, and would he survive the process? All open questions.

Answers came one at a time. With a drawn out, rolling noise, a grunt merged seamlessly with a growl, Orexi slammed his hips forward once more. This time, he didn’t draw back; he let his weight, his force, sit there, pressing against Kree’arra with an insistence that refused to be denied.

And amazingly, his muscles sufficiently bludgeoned into exhaustion by the tireless efforts of Orexi’s cock, Kree’arra was stretching to accept it. The demon’s knot was prying into him, stretching his tailhole to a degree that outdid anything Kree’arra had taken before in terms of size, more and more so as it continued to swell with every beat of Orexi’s heart.

He reached the widest point just before it grew too fat to fit inside. From there, all it took was one shove, and the rest of it came rushing in, Kree’arra’s hole swallowing it up and wrapping around the root of Orexi’s cock.

Now, there was no more worrying about whether it would fit; every bit of growth just made sure it was rooted that much more firmly in his guts. In the muddied, hypoxic morass of emotions that now occupied Kree’arra’s mind, he felt a twinge of pride.

The squeezing grip of Kree’arra’s ass around his knot was, evidently, exactly what Orexi was after. With what could be described as nothing else but a wild, bestial howl, the demon’s knot grew to its full size with a powerful throb that ran the whole length of his shaft, strong enough that Kree’arra could feel the whole thing [i]shift[/i] inside him.

That being a mere forenote to the virility he was about to fully experience when, alongside the next jump of Orexi’s cock inside him, Kree’arra felt a sudden explosion of warmth inside himself. Thick, wet heat was being shot his bowels in powerful jets, and with that huge knot plugging him up on one end, it all had nowhere to go but deeper inside him. 

Perhaps it was the grinding pressure of Orexi’s knot crushing his prostate, or perhaps it was purely the knowledge that the feeling of his belly growing hot, sloshing, and bloated was all demonic seed flooding his guts. Whatever the cause, Orexi’s release set off Kree’arra’s own. His dick squirted at first, but then began to ooze and dribble, orgasmic tempo and force thrown into disarray by the huge cock plugging him up. But forcefully or not, the nonstop pressure against his prostate did an excellent job of forcing out every drop of fluid he had to offer.

Kree’arra was still leaking his way through the latter half of his orgasm and feeling himself swell with the remainder of Orexi’s own as consciousness finally escaped him. Two of his questions had been answered to his liking—and if the third wasn’t, then at least he wouldn’t have to know about it.

---

Amazingly enough, Kree’arra woke up. How long he had been out for, he couldn’t say. It took a moment for his mind to warm up enough to realise that he wasn’t dead.

But once it had, it became abundantly clear just how [i]not[/i] dead he was. Being dead wouldn’t have hurt nearly as bad. His chest ached constantly and spiked with pain every time he breathed in too much, threatening a broken rib. The rawness he felt under his tail and stinging throughout his insides was unspeakable. Every muscle he knew he had, and quite a few he was only just learning the existence of, ached with exhaustion.

Kree’arra groaned and blinked, trying with only mild success to drive the blurriness from his eyes. When he started being able to see the room again, he saw everything was sideways, on account of his being sprawled out on the stone with his cheek pressed against the floor. Not yet willing to try to move, he made the most of that subpar vantage point.

He was still in the summoning room. The floor was now streaked with gratuitous amounts of fluids–mostly streaks, smears, and puddles of white, but there were splatters of red here and there. The grisly remains of the wizard were still there and still just as unpleasant to look at.

So it was good that they were not the focus of his attention. That distinction fell to Orexi, who was squatting some feet away, staring down at him.

Kree’arra’s immediate thought was that, as miraculously lucky as he’d been to survive this long, his luck had just run out, and the demon was going to finish the job. Then, he realised that Orexi was not the same broad-chested, dishevelled monster that had disembowelled and consumed his summoner. While his fur was still matted with blood, his calm stance and smaller physique made it clear he’d reverted to the same form he’d held prior to flying into his rage.

Seeing that Kree’arra was focusing on him, the demon spoke. “I am trying very hard not to tear out your throat right now.”

That he was making the effort was promising.

“In this room, emotions have power. Calm has inertia, it resists change,” Orexi said. “I am calm. If you are not calm, your emotions will resonate. You will provoke me, and I will not be able to control myself. Do you understand?”

Kree’arra’s response was a groan, followed by a cough. The taste of Orexi was dredged up from somewhere deep in his throat. Admittedly, he did feel surprisingly calm, though that could’ve been just as well due to shock than anything else.

“Whatever. It’s enough that you listen. That way, I can say you were informed, prior to your decision.” Orexi stood up, and Kree’arra was left staring at the demon’s clawed feet and tail lashing along the ground, hearing his voice come from above.

“I’ve a distinct lack of information on what I am. I was summoned here with the promise of being given that knowledge, but you have ruined that.” Orexi paced back and forth in front of Kree’arra as he spoke, and Kree’arra stared ahead, watching the working of his legs as he passed by.

“While you may have killed my summoner, I am still here. I’d like to [i]remain[/i] here, as it is easier to investigate things here than in the Outer Sphere, with daemons, demons, and devils trying to kill, consume, or otherwise undermine you at every turn.”

Absolutely none of what was being said was registering in Kree’arra’s mind whatsoever, but his attention was swiftly grabbed at the same time as his beak, when Orexi stopped in front of him, dropped to a squat, and sharply jerked the rogue’s head up.

“Are you listening?” Orexi said, and the ripple that went through the air suggested his calm he’d made such a point about earlier was not as stable as it might’ve seemed. “This concerns you.”

Kree’arra would’ve nodded, but the clawed hand holding his head up made it impossible. He settled for trying to look attentive and not let out a loud groan at being made to move.

“While this chamber made it worse, the state you saw me in earlier is not uncommon. Given the slightest provocation, I tend to go berserk, for lack of a better term. Kill and eat whatever living thing is nearby. This is an inconvenience I’ve yet to find a way to solve.

“[i]You,[/i] however, awoke a certain... base desire in me, one that I’ve never before bothered with. But one which satisfied my raging self, gave me relief that would otherwise require your slaughter. This is a useful thing to me.

“So, the offer is thus: you will bind me to yourself. I will draw the energy I need to tether myself to this plane from you. As the need arises, I will use you to satisfy the urges of my lesser self, just as I did before.”

At a certain point, Kree’arra had started understanding and retaining what Orexi was saying to him. Or, at the very least, he grasped the offer he was being given—such as it was. When the demon stopped, Kree’arra waited for him to continue, but Orexi just stared.

“What do I get out of this?” Kree’arra’s voice was weak and raspy to his ears. Not an unexpected outcome of the ordeal his throat had undergone between Orexi’s thighs.

Orexi lowered the hand he had supporting Kree’arra’s head, bringing the rogue’s eyes level with his crotch. There was the sheath Kree’arra had become intimately familiar with, and judging from the wet fur and the particularly slimy opening, Orexi had not even bothered to wipe his shaft clean after he’d finished having his fun.

“You’ll get everything I offered, and as a token of goodwill, I’ll have you lick me clean before I use your throat again.”

So it was one of those deals. “And if I say no?”

“Then I will tear out your spine and find someone more cooperative.”

[i]Definitely[/i] one of those deals. Kree’arra coughed again, his throat aching from all the abuse it had already taken and preemptively at that which it would be put through shortly. 

“Guess I don’t have much of a choice,” Kree’arra said.

“If you could be a bit more explicit in your agreement,” Orexi said. “Verbal contracts and all. It’s important that everything is clear-cut.”

Oh, of course. It wasn’t like he was asking for much, after all. “I accept.”

With those words, something happened, though Kree’arra couldn’t say what. It was very much a blink-and-you-miss-it kind of thing, and he had missed it. All he had was an indefinable feeling of some small, vital change having occurred, within himself just as much as without.

“Excellent,” Orexi said, shifting his grip from under Kree’arra’s beak over to the back of his head. “We can start work on the binding and all the fine details of our partnership in a moment, but as for now...”

Orexi yanked Kree’arra’s head forward, driving the bird’s face into his crotch, being quite particular to drive his nose right up against his sheath. His nostrils were immediately filled with the scent of dried sweat and sex left to marinate within its folds. The slimy residue of cum smeared across the top of his beak, drooling down its sides.

Kree’arra found himself instinctively drawing a deep drag of the scent, feeling the animal musk of it burn in his sinuses. Really, as far as demonic encounters went, it could’ve gone worse.