SONG OF POWER

Chapter XXII: The Ethereal

SONG OF POWER

CHAPTER XXII:  THE ETHEREAL

The plains thundered under the fur-booted feet of the tall, slender ogre.  Donk’s long, springing strides allowed him to outpace any humanoid he’d ever met, be they sidhe, human, or other.  Running was an inborn gift, and he always took the prize in contests of speed.  He was swifter still, spurred to new fleetness due to the gravity of his quest.  It was all the overburdened horse could do to keep up with the freakishly fast ogre.

Donk kept Tyroce’s half-hidden face sharp in his mind, only vaguely registering the rolling hills and creatures of the plains that he passed as he ran into the growing sunlight.  Donk had been a member of Midnight’s Light, the troupe of gypsies that Tyroce once belonged to.  Though it was a long time ago, he could still recall the details with as much clarity as if they were happening while he ran.

Tyroce was beautiful, more beautiful than any woman of any race that Donk had ever known.  She came to the troupe young and afraid, naked save for the ruby encrusted at the junction of her collarbones.  Her hair flowed in white rivers down her lithe body to her plump buttocks.  He first saw her stumbling out of the woodline near where the troupe had made camp for the evening, fear wild in her ruby eyes.  Donk knew at once that she was in trouble and rushed out of the safety of the wagons to throw a blanket around her, even as she shrank away from the charging ogre before her.

“Missus?  MISS! Are you well?  You harmed?  Please, speak to me!” Donk begged in his own tongue.  The woman, realizing that the massive man before her meant her no ill will, collapsed in a tangle of blanket and limbs to the soft earth.  The other gypsies, slower than the lanky ogre, soon caught up as he lifted the blanketed woman protectively.

“What is your name, child?” asked Fagolina, the eldest gypsy and leader of the troupe. turned her ruby eyes to the wizened woman, then rested her head against Donk’s massive chest.

“Donk, bring her back to the wagons.  Myrtle,” Fagolina motioned to a young gypsy about the same height as Tyroce, “fetch our guest something more comfortable than a blanket.  Earl, she’s famished,” Fagolina stated to the dim-witted Earl, who nodded and moved off to find the snow-white beauty some food.  The rest of the group moved back to the wagons, only those Fagolina had tasked not resuming their slumber.

Donk set Tyroce on a log near the fire and sat protectively beside her.  Myrtle approached with a billowing pair of sky-blue silk pantaloons and a black leather halter top.  Tyroce stood and wordlessly accepted the proffered garments, then let fall the blanket.  Myrtle and Donk’s jaws dropped.

“They’re…” Donk began, then remembered his manners.

“Not going to fit in my top,” the less well-endowed Myrtle remarked.  Ignoring the gypsies, Tyroce pulled on the hose and tightened the drawstring, then stuffed her impossibly large breasts into the halter top.  Suddenly the strange ruby at her throat flared to life, and its glow surrounded the ill-fitting garment.  The piece of clothing expanded until it was properly sized for the woman who wore it.

“What curious magic is this?” asked Fagolina, who had gone undetected as she approached the preoccupied trio.  Tyroce’s white cheeks flushed red, and she looked at the ground.  Fagolina waved away her question with a sigh.  “You’re in shock, no doubt.  Very well, I only ask that you speak one word, then I’ll leave you to your silence, pet.”  Donk and Myrtle exchanged glances; the respect Fagolina commanded in the troupe bordered on fear.  Those ruby eyes asked the question the matching lips would not.  Fagolina returned the stare in kind, a youth and power in her ancient eyes that most found unsettling.