Note: Alright, I'm trying something totally different here. This is an entirely casual series of fantastical, erotic "fairy tales", with the framing device being a group of late-night taverngoers with little else to do. It's not an "instead of" when it comes to my writing schedule, and other stories will continue to update at their usual pace.

Obviously, this series won't be quite like my other stories in style or plot, but I hope you enjoy! Let me know if you have any requests for future fairy tales!

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"Quiet night tonight." Horasen took off his apron and tossed it on the tavern counter. The redheaded young man groaned, stretching his arms and arching his back, trying try and recover something of their old shape. The inn had been busy today, and he'd been running around serving hot meals practically since sunup.

"Isn't it always?" He exchanged a look with the speaker, the curvaceous barmaid and current apple of his eye, Adelsia Winter. She gave him a tired smile as she carried two stacks of dishes back to the Grim Harvest's kitchen.

"Sure," he said, following after her, "but quiet doesn't have to mean boring. It's so dull here, don't you think?"

She snorted, dumping the dishes noisily into the sink. "Is this another come-on, Sen?" She looked at him in a way that suggested the answer didn't necessarily need to be 'no'.

As he was opening his mouth to voice the opposite, a hoarse voice snarled out, "Nah, he's right!" They both turned, alarmed, as the hulking Urg barged into the kitchen. Urg was said to be part ogre, by those who believed in ogres, and he certainly had the build of one. He grinned at Horasen. "It's been slower than a snail's defecation since those adventurers left!"

As he stooped to make room for the whole of him in the cramped kitchen, one of the good teacups on the high shelves teetered unhappily.

"Urg," Adelsia said, sounding nervous, "you know Miss Setteflour's rules."

"Aah!" The bartender waved a hand dismissively, but obediently backed out of the kitchen. "My own apprentice bossing me around! I teach you to mix drinks, not fraternize with locals!"

"Sen isn't a local," Adelsia said, walking back out. Horasen took the opportunity to admire her prominent rear end. Was it just his imagination, or was she putting a bit of extra swing in it tonight? He grinned, following close behind. "He's an employee. He serves drinks, Urg."

"Well, he's off-hours! Night shift!" Urg took out his beloved brass pocket watch and waved it around cheerfully. Adelsia looked to Horasen like she was regretting that birthday present now. "He's a civilian, and civilians pay or leave."

Horasen cleared his throat. He hated confronting the bartender. People said he'd been in five wars before he was old enough to spell his own name. People said he'd broken a man's spine by sitting on him. Horasen personally knew the second one to be true.

"Urg," he said, coughing again, "what were you saying a moment ago?" He sidled out of the kitchen after Adelsia, closing the door behind him.

"Huh? Oh, yeah." Urg turned around to the rest of the common room's occupants, his annoyance with Horasen evidently forgotten. "It's boring as hell around here!"

"Well, what do you expect, Urg?" asked Emekis, the town librarian. She always claimed she was too old for Horasen, but the attractive blond half-elf sure didn't look it, and he was pretty sure they aged at the human rate. She pushed her spectacles up a little freckled nose. "There's hardly anyone in at the night shift, after all. I'm only in this...loathsome little establishment while the library renovations are resolved." She gave Horasen a very particular look on 'loathsome'.

"Well..." Urg considered this. He seemed to brighten. "Why not a fairy tale?"

"What?" Adelsia looked taken aback. "Oh, no."

"I'm out." Errol the Lumberer emptied his ale tankard and stood up. "This late, you think we're gonna be thinking of children's tales?" He turned and walked out, leaving a few coins on the counter. There was, Horasen noted sympathetically, a very small tip. Errol was like that.

"I should think," said Emekis, adjusting her bun, "that the library should be all that you would need when it comes to fictional endeavors."

"I don't know." Adelsia was nodding, though her dark cheeks were turning a shade of orange. "People here probably have interesting stories to tell. The Grim Harvest sees a lot of wanderers." The barmaid looked around for an ally. "We could make it fun. Horasen, what do you think?"

Those big brown eyes stared up at him. Damn them, he thought. "Sure," he said half-heartedly. "What did you have in mind, Urg?"

"Well, we used to tell tales all the time here," Urg said, looking proud of himself. "Tall tales. Spook stories. But 'fairy tales' are what stuck. It was sort of a game." Why was he blushing, too? "I think Adelsia was just starting out here when we stopped doing them. Her mum wouldn't have wanted her to—"

"No, I remember it," Adelsia said coolly. "Mother never really checked to make sure I was out of earshot, Urg."

"Ha. Right."

There was an awkward moment of silence. The only sound was Emekis sipping at her water, observing the conversation without any evident emotion. Total ice nymph, Horasen thought. He turned to the bartender and apprentice, frowning. "I'm confused. What am I missing here?"

"Well..." Urg grinned. "It's a late night crowd. So back then, we figured, why not late-night stories?"

Adelsia arched her eyebrows at Horasen and gave a taunting pout. "If we're all old enough, that is."

Horasen felt his cheeks going as red as his hair. "Oh."

The tavern doors swung open as Errol stuck his head back in. "I'm back in."

Errol was like that.

The rest of the taverngoers—all three of them—seemed to warm to the additional descriptor fairly enthusiastically. Emekis sniffed with disdain, but she wasn't exactly leaving, Horasen noticed.

"So, who goes first?" Horasen asked. As if he needed to. Adelsia always had to be the first at a challenge like this. Plus, neither of them exactly wanted Errol to start things off.

"I will," Adelsia said smoothly. She pulled herself up by the balls of her palms to sit atop the counter. She kicked her legs, though sadly not high enough to give Horasen anything beneath that skirt to think about later. "And we'll have a proper dark fairy tale. That's what you should tell in a tavern like the Grim Harvest." She grinned. "Fairy tales."

"But with tits!" someone yelled. Horasen didn't look. He knew it was Errol. It was always Errol.

"Yes, of course," Adelsia said, rolling her eyes. "Don't worry. This'll be plenty steamy." She leaned over, crossed her legs, and raised both hands. "I intend to tell you all..."

~~~~

THE TALE OF THE RIDDLING SPRITE

Once upon a time, back when the barley grew gold and the gods still reigned, a young robed woman was walking down the paths of the Evergreen Forest. Now, as you all know, the Evergreen is a dangerous place for any sensible young woman to set foot into. Back then, the Rangers were seen as little more than exterminators, and oh, they did not do their jobs nearly as well.

But this young woman had a foul secret: She was a witch. A witch attuned to the Tendrils Beyond, in fact. Her mind was knotted, as that sort's always are, and so was her womanhood—no pleasure could reach her while it remained so. She had never felt anything down below, nor had she ever arranged her mind for ordinary thoughts. She was Tendril-mad, and she was proud of it, this witch.

And so as she entered the forest, the nymphs and dryads left her beds of delicate petals to walk upon, fearing her wrath, for their touches could have no effect on her impervious body. And so the fauns fled into the brush, for they could not make her dance until she could not stand. And the fairies and goblins scrambled into the treetops, for their lights could not daze her and confuse her. None contested her power.

She walked halfway through the forest alone, this young witch, with her pretty, pretty black hair and pretty, pretty green eyes. But then she heard a voice. A very, very pretty voice.

"What," said the voice, "walks atop two feet for the first question, four feet for the second, three feet for the third, and none for the fourth?" And this confused her, for its speaker was a beautiful sprite, with skin as green as the pine's first needles and hair as green as the greenest ocean. Her ears were pointed, and wavy hair fell down to her slim waist. Her eyes glimmered, green as emeralds in the riverbed.

The witch was not affected by the sprite's beauty, but she was confused. How could this one not fear her? Did she perhaps not know? She laughed at the sprite, pitying it. "You poor little creature," she said, for the sprite was but four feet in height, "don't you realize you cannot control me with those pretty, pretty eyes of yours? I should kill you for your foolishness, but because the sun is bright and I am in a good mood, you may live. Begone."

But the sprite did not go. She smiled at the witch. "Why should I leave?" she asked, and her voice was as pretty as a trickling stream, as merry as birdsong. "You cannot answer my riddle. I am therefore smarter than you, and as I am smarter, I see no need to obey you."

"Pah!" said the witch. "You insult me? My dark arcane masters will bring down a rain of tendrils and malice to punish the presumption!" But as she was about to destroy the creature, and half the forest with her, she stopped. And she thought. She thought hard, and she thought carefully, for the first time in many, many years.

"What walks atop two feet for the first question, four feet for the second, three for the third, and none for the fourth?" she asked herself. "It makes no sense."

The sprite smirked widely at her. "Of course it doesn't," she said. "That's how I know I'm smarter. Your silly tangled brain can't possibly understand my riddle! Tee hee!"

Her laugh grated on the witch. Like all witches, this one was vain and arrogant. She could not stand the thought of being inferior to such a clearly lesser being, and so she thought. And thought. And all the while, the sprite kept taunting. "Silly!" the sprite called her. "Dumb!" she said, laughing at the witch.

At last, the witch had had enough. "Is it a esclopaeon demon?" she blurted out. "The demon might have two legs, and then the esclopaeon merges with it, and—"

But the sprite was giggling again. "Tee hee! Tee hee! You're dumber than me!" The sprite hugged those perky, round breasts of hers. "You don't know anything about what you need! You should do what I say, indeed, indeed!"

The witch left in a huff, and she stayed gone, walking through the forest. But she found that the question was bothering her more and more. So she sat down on a stump, and stumped, she thought. And thought. And thought. And the more she thought, the more her mind uncurled, the more her body untangled, and the more she started to think about other things. Things like pretty, pretty eyes, and a pretty, pretty voice.

At last, the witch had thought so hard that she could think no more. She clutched her head and fell to the ground. She was dizzy and confused, and too weak to stand. So she crawled—on all fours!—back to the sprite.

When she saw the witch approaching, the sprite laughed so hard she nearly fell off her perch. "You really are dumb; what fun, what fun!"

The wicked witch begged the fey to tell her the riddle again. A twinkle in her eye, the sprite leaned down, took both the witch's breasts in her hands, and started kneading them as she began. The witch had never felt anything like it, no, sir.

"What walks atop two feet for the first question, four feet for the second, three for the third, and none for the fourth?"

The witch thought harder and harder, but the sprite's touch was just too distracting. "A dog affected by a Hideous Mutation charm!" she managed.

"Wrong! Silly! Dumb!" And tittering like a hyena, the sprite let go of her breasts, handed the witch a long rod of smooth dark wood, winked, and waved her goodbye. The witch took it, though she knew not why.

Oh, and this rod had a very special spell on it. The longer the witch crawled with it, the heavier it would become. Soon, she needed both hands, and yet she still bore it. Her mind was struggling to collect itself. That witch had never truly thought like this before, and the effort was almost painful.

The more she thought, the more the rod's magic was able to make sense of her tangled mind. And the more it was able to make sense, the more it could control. And what did it want her to do? Well, as this was a sprite's spell, just what do you think it wanted her to do with that long, thick shaft of smooth wood?

That's exactly what she did. In and out. In and out. The witch had never felt such exquisite pleasure in her whole life.

The rod seemed to have a mind of its own, and it slammed into her without mercy or respite. She was gasping and moaning as she made her way back towards the sprite, clutching it with both hands. Unable to take her hands from that rod—unable to stop pleasuring herself for even a scant moment—she began using the long rod as a sort of makeshift walking stick, moving forward on her knees and wielding the rod for balance.

The sprite fell to the ground in a fit of uncontrollable as she saw the once-proud witch crawling towards her on her knees and rod. "I can't believe my eyes and ears! Oh, you're the most fun I've had in years!"

"Please," whined the witch, falling flat on her back and spreading her legs for easier access, "please tell me the riddle again!"

The sprite smiled. "No."

The witch moaned. "Please."

The sprite pranced over and seized the other end of the rod, keeping the witch from thrusting inward. The witch found this unbearable. Oh, she needed that inside her. She whimpered and blubbered and keened and begged until at last the sprite relented. "Very well, I will tell it to you one more time. But you won't understand it! You're too dumb!"

"I'll think very hard, though!" insisted the witch. "You'll see! I'm smarter than you!"

"Well...okay!" The sprite shoved the rod forcefully back in, causing the witch's mind to be filled with lusty thoughts. And then she began her riddle for the third time.

"What walks atop two feet for the first question, four feet for the second, three for the third, and none for the fourth?"

And the witch thought. And pleasured. And thought. And pleasured. And the more she thought, the more she felt the pleasure. And the more she pleasured, the harder it became to think.

And suddenly, the tendrils gripping her mind snapped off. Suddenly it made sense. In a rush, her mind came untangled, and with it came the obvious answer.

"Me," she whispered.

She felt the pleasure change, then. It became more full. More true. At last, she was totally whole, and the pleasure began to grow. And she had the answer! She had won!

"Wrong!" sang the sprite.

The witch's eyes widened. She did not understand. The sprite was lying, but she was too overwhelmed by new sensations to realize it. Her drive to win had been her undoing.

And now the fairies and goblins came down from the treetops, and their lights dazed and confused the witch as she lay there, making her vision blurry and strange, making her mind soft and weak.

And the fauns ran out of the brush and began to play their pipes, and they made her rise up and dance with them until she could not stand, still pleasuring herself. She danced merrily as they toyed with her, taking her rod and throwing it between one another as a cruel game, never allowing her to retrieve it. Sometimes the manhood of a faun would substitute for a time, but it was never enough to truly fill her, no matter how much pleasure the dance brought both of them. At last, she collapsed, and what a mess she was.

And the nymphs and dryads took up their beds of delicate petals and blew them over the witch. The petals tickled her naked nipples and made them pointy. They stuck to her womanhood, caught in her hair, in her mouth, filling her with a thousand smells she had never truly experienced before. They pranced forward and played with her, and their touch had every effect on her body. But still nothing could satisfy the witch but that long, thick rod.

At last she lay still, still trying to reach the great pleasure moment. And then the sprite returned.

"What walks atop two feet for the first question, four feet for the second, three for the third, and none for the fourth?" the sprite asked, a big old smile on her pretty, pretty lips.

And now the witch knew the true answer. It all made sense. She knew what her answer had to be, and she whispered it to the sprite right then and there. "I don't know."

"Who's smarter?" sang the sprite. Her pretty, pretty eyes shimmered like emeralds in the blazing sun.

"You are," whispered the witch.

"And who should be giving the orders?" sang the sprite. Her pretty, pretty voice tinkled like the chimes of a thousand tiny bells.

"You should," whispered the witch.

"Who's the master, and who's the slave?" sang the sprite. Her pretty, pretty breasts swung in the air above her captive's head.

"You are the master," whimpered the slave.

Without another word, the sprite took the rod by its other end and impaled herself upon it.

Their bodies came closer and closer until they joined, each grinding against the wonderful shaft—and each other. The sprite looked into the witch's pretty, pretty blank eyes, felt the witch's pretty, pretty breasts, which now belonged to her. And then she sealed the witch's fate with her pretty, pretty lips, and the witch came.

No bindings held the witch to the sprite. No spells forced her to remain there. But the witch—who was now no witch, just a beautiful young woman—remained all the same. For no pleasure would ever compare to that which the sprite could give her. And so the witch cast off her old masters and learned to kneel before a new goddess.

THE END

~~~~

"And that," Adelsia said, smirking, "is why you should be glad of what you've got, instead of losing it all trying to get something new."

Silence greeted this proclamation.

"Ridiculous." Emekis sniffed. "It's clearly a moral on the evils of witchcraft." But the librarian's cheeks were bright red.

"I don't know what you're all jabbin' about," said Errol. "I think that witch lucked out!"

"Uh, hello?" Adelsia scowled. "My story, my moral."

"That's not how oral stories work."

"Oh," Errol said, "are we gonna get an oral story next?"

"I'll go next," Horasen said. Adelsia shot him a look. What was he up to? He grinned at her.

What a dumbass. But he was a sort of fun dumbass. Adelsia rolled her eyes and gave a mock curtsy as she hopped off the counter.

"Let me just get a couple orders settled," she called back, laughing. "Then it's all yours, master storyteller! Let's see what you've got!"

TO BE CONTINUED...