The White Flower and the Imp - Sex Stories

The White Flower and the Imp

... mine who inhabits these woods. He will know what to do.” Her horse neighed loudly and stomped its hooves into the dirt, ready to leave the place. “Genevieve,” Devyn produced a sword from within his cloak and handed it to her by the hilt, “Do you still remember how to wield a blade?” Genevieve nodded grimly. “You will need it.” She strapped the blade and scabbard around her waist and gave Devyn one last look. “Thank you, Devyn. I will not forget this.” With a kick, Genevieve’s horse leapt forward into a strong gallop, leading her down a trail past the moonlit clearing and into the darkness of the forest. Back inside his home, Devyn settled into a chair by the fire. He sat there for a long time, a slow grin gradually growing into a satisfied rictus. He spoke hushed words again, low, sinister incantations that rose from his lips like the wisps of smoke around him. The fire dimmed suddenly, and a wailing wind broke through the silence of the night, and in the center of the flames, a charred mass settled itself into the image of something terrible. Devyn bowed to the smoldering image and smiled at it. “You were right, my lord, the lady did seek out my counsel after all.” The shape in the flames stirred slightly, obviously pleased. “She rides for the lake now. I hope your son enjoys his gift, do give my regards to the young prince.” The mass spoke, and Devyn smirked, and, within and without, the night was darker than before. ...

... *********************************************************************************************************** The Deep Forest sang all around her, yet it was truly the most silent place Genevieve had ever been in. The slightest hint of frost fall lit up occasional flickers of glimmering specks of translucent light as Genevieve made her way into yet another clearing where she was met by the incandescent glow of a second moon, wavering in dark waters with the occasional ripple of some hidden inhabitant swimming beneath the surface. Genevieve was prone to astonishment, even in such troubling times, and she found herself entranced by the serenity of her surroundings for she had never expected to find such a peaceful place within the Deep Forest. The large conglomeration of ancient trees was a day’s ride north from the heart of the Riverlands where her people had reigned as rulers for hundreds of years. The kings of old had often turned their eyes south, east, and west, conquering lands and establishing new kingdoms. None, however, had ever dared to march on the Deep Forest. A foreigner might have mocked Genevieve’s apprehension, ridiculing her “petty fears.” But those who held the faith of the old gods, and were familiar with the things that occurred in this strange place, knew all too well that amid all the myths and tall tales told to scare little ones at night, there was a measure of truth to the stories spoken. Genevieve approached the lakeside with counted steps as she opened the leather satchel Devyn had given her and produced the ...