Monsterboy Quest Ch 01

Note: all characters in this story are 18+.

Chapter 1: The Manticore's Sting

The spare wooden floor of the room was hard against Levinja's knees as she knelt, eyes shut, hands clasped together, and sought again that place of inner peace the Reverend Mother was always talking about.

"There is a place in every heart, free of all desire and fear and passion, where we become aware of the illusionary nature of the world. Seek out that place, acolyte Levinja, if you wish to understand the source of the peace we Sisters of Aletheia enjoy."

An acolyte. Her, Levinja Verada, retired knight, mother of two sons, a woman of two and forty summers. An acolyte!

And yet it was the path she had chosen for herself. Kneeling on the floor, she snorted and straight away the peaceful place the Reverend Mother had spoken of receded from her. She sighed and with the passion of her disappointment it vanished completely.

She was thankful for it. She got to her feet, muttering to herself. Her knees were chafed and her thighs and butt hurt, too. She had never got used to the way a sister was supposed to sit. She envied the other acolytes, the way they could sit there for hours on end, finding their place of inner peace -- some of them sisters from childhood, others, like her, refugees from the real world.

The real world. She felt the sting of sudden guilt. The sisters had taken her in, after all. When her husband had died and despair had gripped her heart, it was a Sister of Aletheia who had found her, kneeling in the freezing rain outside a church, begging the gods to bring him back to her. Her tears had been so hot that even the freezing rain had not cooled them.

She'd tried to come to terms with his death. A freak accident, drowned, swept from the deck of a ship within sight of land, within sight of their very home. She knew she was not alone, was not the lonely victim of a unique disaster. Many other widows had suffered such a loss. Yet there was only one her, only one Levinja Verada. It did not matter that her grief was shared by others. They were not her. The grief she suffered was all her own.

Her sons had been there for her. Almost grown men, they had been at her side. But how to reach a person in the depths of despair? And that was why she had at last had recourse to the gods, she, Levinja Verada, who had never asked for help off any other man or woman. Levinja Verada, the hero of Tarphessa, the slayer of the dragon of the Black Moors, on whose walls the skulls of monsters and beasts were arrayed, testament to her prowess with the sword, to her long career as a Knight of the Order of the Evening Star.

But that had been before, before she had fallen in love, married and quickly become heavy with twin boys. She had remained a knight, but a knight of the pageantry field. At first the honour of being one of the Autarch's Twelve had filled her chest, but soon the endless foppery of military displays had paled. She ached again for the melee, but her love for her husband and children had kept her tamed.

The boys had grown strong and brave, eager to become knights themselves. They had left home, and alone with her husband again she and he had grown even closer than they had been before.

And then he'd died. Fate, they called it. Ill luck. The will of the Gods.

She had never believed in the gods, only in her strong right hand, and then, when that had failed, in the strength of her husband's love.

And so, with nothing left, she had knelt on those steps, the pain sluicing from her, tears and rain mingling until the sister found her.

She hadn't made the choice to join the sisterhood straight away. It had taken time. Even when she had admitted to the Reverend Mother that she still did not truly believe in the gods, the tiny, whip-thin old woman with the dark eyebrows had fixed her with her deep-set eyes and grinned.

"That is the first step," she had said. "There can be no true faith without doubt. You are ready, if you wish, to take on the robe."

The robe. That white robe, plain and simple, and yet it clung to her. She had always been over-generously supplied in the hips, butt and bust by those gods she did not believe in, but her time here, kneeling and praying and performing the thousand little chores of an acolyte of the Order of Aletheia, had added voluptuousness to her form where once there had been pure muscle.

Voluptuousness. It was the right word. Pain in her knees had driven the calm place of inner peace away this time, but next time it could just as easily be passion that did it.

Passion. The thoughts she tried hard to suppress. Thoughts and dreams and daydreams, not always of her husband, may the gods forgive her. She would do as the others did, busy herself with the rosary or one of the thousand-line chants, and sometimes that worked. But not always. And sometimes, as she bathed, she would bring her hands deep within the valley of her thighs and with slick fingers bring release at last to the dreadful pressure that grew within her, that overwhelming tension that came screaming out of her, or would do so if she did not bite back her cries of delight until her bottom lip bled.

Such thoughts birthed a liquid heat in her even now. She brushed the robes from where they were bunched around her thighs. The movement of the cotton against her bare skin thrilled her. She swallowed, glanced at the door of her cell, willed her hand to pull away, was powerless as her fingers danced higher to the growing heat and wetness between her legs.

She pushed the heel of her hand there, bit back a cry.

A knock on the door.

"Acolyte Levinja?"

Her hands flew from between her legs. Acolyte Machka's voice. "Yes?" Levinja cried out, hoping that Machka would not notice the heat of passion that still thickened her voice.

"The Reverend Mother wishes to see you."

Levinja swallowed again. The woman truly had a sixth sense.

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"You wish for me to go on... a quest?"

It had been an age since Levinja had said the word. It felt strange and familiar in her mouth all at once. A delightful word, and dangerous.

Delightful. Again she sensed an inflammation of passion. But it was not her fault. The Reverend Mother had used the word. Her heart raced as she repeated the word in her head, remembered what it meant.

"Yes," the Reverend Mother said, nodding. "A quest."

Levinja frowned, sure that this was some sort of test. "But Reverend Mother, my studies -- I, I cannot just-"

The Reverend Mother's lips curled up into an understanding smile. "Now, child, we all know how you struggle with your lessons. There is no sin in this. Why, it was a good many years before even I found that place of quiet rest in my heart. And that quiet place is not always found on the cold floor of one's cell. Why, the great Saint Veverica discovered it when fleeing from the predations of the dragon of Revisca. No, there are many different paths to that peaceful place. And I feel perhaps that your restlessness is divinely sent..."

Levinja flushed and stared at the floor. All this talk of quests and dragons made her blood flow hot, and she felt too the sting of guilt at the Reverend Mother's mentioning of her 'restlessness'. Is that what it was, this deep passion that kept filling her to overflowing, which drained from her all at once in a delicious flood, only to well up again? But no, the Reverend Mother was speaking surely of her desire to return to the old ways, to the life of a knight.

The Reverend Mother's eyes glimmered. She had recognised the doubt in Levinja's face.

"This place is your home, Levinja," she said, gently. "And will always be so. That will never change. All I am asking of you, all the gods themselves perhaps are asking of you, is for you to leave it for a short while."

Levinja raised her eyes. "But a quest, Reverend Mother?"

The old woman smiled. She raised a hand and Machka, who had all this time been patiently waiting in a corner in quiet reverie, woke and bustled over to Levinja. She was holding a book.

Machka glanced at the Reverend Mother, who nodded. She opened the book to a page which had been bookmarked.

The Reverend Mother spoke. "Last month this book was discovered deep in the Convent's library," she said. "An ancient work, by an anonymous author. The language is obscure and it took our most learned sisters long to translate it. The book speaks of many things, but it is this page that is the one relevant to your quest."

Levinja was already staring at the book. The page was beautifully illuminated and illustrated, the rich reds and deep blues as bright as though they had been painted by some diligent scribe just this morning. The language was indeed ancient, and Levinja could only understand a good dozen words on the page. But the illustrations made the matter clear.

"A treasure," murmured Levinja.

"Or rather, a holy relic," said the Reverend Mother. "But precious beyond imagining. It is the mirror that Maona carried."

Levinja looked up, her eyes wide. "Saint Maona's mirror?"

She knew the story. Every acolyte and sister did, for Saint Moana was the funder of their Order. When the Lady Maona had turned away from her life of hedonistic pleasure, she had discarded all her possessions save one: her precious mirror. It remained, so she said to her followers, not as a reminder of who she had been, but a reminder of who she was now.

"The mirror will always show the truth," Levinja recited. "The truth of all things."

The Reverend Mother nodded. "You have learned your lessons well." She coughed and Machka, who had fallen back into her reverie, startled and turned the page to reveal a map.

"As you can see," continued the Reverend Mother, "The tower where the mirror lies is far from here, across the wilderness. It is many weeks journey."

Levinja's eyes scanned the map with the learned keenness of a military mind. Her breath quickened with the surging of her blood. Yes, many days journey through the wilderness. It would be a dangerous journey. The illustrator of the map had filled it with little figures, monsters, many of them. Perhaps, like many illustrators, she had merely been terrified of leaving any blank space unfilled and had let her whimsy get the better of her. But it was true that the wilderness, far from human towns and cities, was filled with monsters. Levinja's eyes found elves and manticores and kobolds and lupines and merrows and many others.

"It will be very dangerous," Levinja said. She flushed when she realised she had spoken the words aloud and not just thought them.

"Yes," said the Reverend Mother. "That is why I have asked this thing of you. Of all of us, you are the only one with the experience and skills to make the journey, or pilgrimage, rather. Your many years as a Knight of the Order of the Evening Star will be vital to your survival. And yet-" The Reverend Mother settled back in her chair. "I fear I am asking too much of you. Perhaps this is all selfishness on my part, and I desire this relic more than is right."

"No, Reverend Mother," said Levinja, looking up from the book. "I will undertake the pilgrimage. You and the sisters have showered every kind of kindness on me, and now I have the opportunity to repay you."

The Reverend Mother smiled indulgently. "You know there is no obligation between us," she said. "Such things are a binding of the world that we little need. But I thank you for accepting this task, and the gods, from whom all blessings flows, thank you also."

The Reverend Mother rose and came forward. She took Levinja's hands and lifted her to her feet. The old woman was surprisingly strong, the wrinkled hands hard and warm.

"Go and ready these hands for the gods' work," said the Reverend Mother. Then, in a softer voice, "I hope on your journey you will find that peace that you have sought for so long."

Levinja nodded. But peace was far from her mind now, as her heart swelled in excitement. A quest!

It had been a long time.

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Her armour shone. Sister Zelva had brought it out of the convent's storage, where all the personal items that the acolytes and sisters had owned before taking on the robe were kept. To leave the convent, all one had to do was retrieve the items and go.

But Levinja was not going forever. No, she would return. She would return, triumphant, with the Mirror of Maona. Her fingers had shivered in her excitement as she had oiled and polished her greaves and cuirass, and now they trembled as she took off her robe and dressed in her silk tunic and began to tie on her armour.

It had been many years, but the muscles of her body remembered. Her fingers danced over the laces, knowing without looking where they were to be tied. And yet, as she slipped on her doublet she noticed it felt tight. Had it shrunk during the long years it had been stored away?

Her doublet, shrunk? She snorted at her simplicity. No, it was she who had expanded. The wideness of her hips, the heaviness of her breasts, the roundness of her thighs -- the extra pounds she was carrying had found their way there. She knew she should be thankful for that. Her stomach was still flat, if not as toned as it had once been, and her waist was narrow. But her hips and boobs! With a sigh she laced her doublet more loosely before turning her attention to the cuirass.

She quickly resized the buckles of the thongs. Better to be comfortable than to make believe the last few years had not happened!

She was dressed. There were no mirrors here in the convent, of course, but she had burnished her shield until it had shone and now she looked at herself in it.

The curve of the shield elongated her figure and made her slimmer and she chuckled with a childish delight at the sight. But illusions aside she was happy with what she saw. Levinja Verada, Knight of the Order of the Evening Star. How long had it been since she had seen herself thus?

She leaned down, looking at her face in the silver boss. Yes. A few more lines, perhaps, but it was the face she remembered. Green eyes, hard like jade, but lit from behind now with a cheerful energy she had not felt in a long time, maybe not since he had...

She frowned. Ah yes, a few more lines there as well. But her face was not uncomely. She had been sought after when young, and even after his death she had not been wanting for suitors. What did they like about her, men? They often spoke of the dark arc of her eyebrows, the silken blackness of her straight hair, the olive of her skin. But that was all lovers' talk. It cheered her to remember it, but she pushed the memories away.

She took up her sword, felt the old familiar weight of it. It felt good in her hand. She struck the Heron in Flight kata, left foot back, right foot forward, sword a sudden deadly slash of silver in the reflected steel.

Ah, but a twinge in her back! She gasped, lowered her sword and brought her feet back together. Better to ease herself back into the old ways, perhaps. Her mind remembered, but her body would need a while longer.

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Levinja shifted the heavy pack on her back and looked back over her shoulder. The Convent's whitewashed walls glowed in the clear rays of the morning sunshine. Above her the heavens were a dome of cobalt-blue. An auspicious start to her quest.

She had forgone a horse, deciding that the way would grow too hard for one soon enough, and for the same reason had left her shield and greaves behind. This was a quest, not a war, and she needed to travel light. The Convent bordered on the wilderness, on the very edge of human habitation by design. Her journey would be shorter for it, but no less dangerous. She would have to move fast.

She scanned the grassy plains before her. There, in the distance, powder-blue-grey against the sky -- the mountains. Somewhere deep within them the tower waited for her. But between here and there were grasslands and ravines and forests and rivers and hills and badlands to cross.

Levinja felt a prickling on the back of her neck and turned. A single figure, tiny and black against the white wall of the Convent. The Reverend Mother. Was she raising a hand in farewell? It was too far to make out. Perhaps she had.

Levinja had left without saying goodbye to anyone. It was better that way. The Sisters of Aletheia lived cheek and jowl, but despite their physical proximity they were not close -- not unfriendly, but wary of the passion for society that ruled the world outside those white walls.

Passion. That word again. Yes. She must conquer her passion if she was to find her inner peace.

The grass shimmered in the rising breeze. Her heart felt lighter. Ah. Perhaps Reverend Mother was right. Perhaps peace was beckoning to her, there, on the horizon, deep in the wilderness.

And yet, monsters lurked there too.

The thought thrilled her. Combat. It would be necessary, likely or not, although she would do her best to avoid it. If she were wounded here in the wilderness, help would be far away.

But still her heart filled to overflowing with the thought of battles like those in her youth. Of the sweat and heat and raging fire of the melee...

Ah. Again that passion. She shook her head, turned and strode down the grassy slope, focussing on the heaviness of her pack, the heat of the sun, the single trickle of sweat from her brow, slipping down her cheek to her chin, gentle as a lover's caress...

She resisted the urge to laugh out loud, to fill this gentle quiet with mocking laughter. Instead, she broke into a jog. The exhaustion of work would teach her better sense.

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Levinja crouched at the bank of the river. The plain had become low hills now, the grass replaced with scattered groves of trees. The river had been obvious from a distance, crowded as it was by twin columns of thirsty willows and marsh-oaks.

She slaked her own thirst. The water ran over sand here, clear and glittering like flowing glass. Silver fish flickered, blades of knives among the bright green of water-grass. Beautiful, but also an assurance that the water was pure. She drank deeply, splashed cold water on her sweat-sticky face.

If only she could cool the heat underneath her arms, the sweatiness under her bound breasts with such ease. But she was not about to abandon her armour here. She had seen the signs. Footprints, clawed ones. A tuft of hair on a branch. This was an area frequented by monsters.

She remembered the map which she had consigned to memory -- all those years as an acolyte, memorising the thousand-line chants and the hundred precepts had honed her mind. She saw it as though Machka was holding it open before her.

Yes. This was the place where the cartographer had drawn the little figure of a manticore. She remembered well the shaggy hair and the spiked tail. Manticores were dangerous monsters, and she would do well to avoid them.

She stood up. The break had refreshed her, but she brooked no more delay. She hefted her pack and hurried along the river bank.

The sand of the bank soon turned to rock and she heard ahead the roar of white water. Rapids. She pushed past the bushes that overgrew the track and saw that the rocks became a cliff-face, sheer and smooth. Above her, the glitter of shattered water like fragments of crystal, the arc of a rainbow, the flash of white foam. The rapids were born of a waterfall.

There would be no more following the river. She sighed and turned back. Earlier she had seen a track that had led away from the river. She would try it.

She found the track again, almost invisible, little more than a trail of convenience made by a deer or some other creature. She pushed aside the brush and entered.

The trail dipped down, curving wide. Ah, so it had been made by someone to avoid that cliff. It led around the other side of the hill. The rocks here were huge, a jumble of boulders left over from the time of the Deluge, some the size of houses. The trail swung around a smaller rock the size of an elephant and her hand touched its grey surface. It was warm with the sun.