THE MARE WITH THE BLACK BLADE
By Laz Briar

>You are the bladekeeper of the northmare Agwyn
>Long have you been dutiful to her, and the titanic weapon
>Months have transpired and your job is the same: care for her armaments and, by doing so, care for her
>At first, you were promised to the great Brightswords of Sol Solaria, but internal conflict threw you into the service of the mare and her mercenary band
>Now you spend your days at her side, administrating care to her greatsword
>Today is especially important, as the mercenaries will take strike at a small camp of Solarian loyalists
>Thus, you must make sure the greatsword is in fine order, along with all of Agwyn's supplies

>Morning has scarcely breached the dull, grassy horizon, but you're hard at work
>Within a hastily drawn tent, you've laid out the flank of obsidian metal, oiling it carefully
>It's a terrifying object, easily your size, where the head is terminated without point - rather flat, as an executionior's blade might be
>It takes a mighty wielder to swing this dread object, and such is Agwyn
>Even with your time spent with her, you're still bewildered at her strength and stature
>She claims lineage from the cold, desperate northern lands of Vyskaal
>It's a terrifying place, you're told, littered with giants and wolfmen and the ruinations of old gods
>As such, it makes sense she could possess this weapon
>Like the sword, she's hands higher than you, eclipsing you with a size perhaps eight feet
>Her horsehair is a dismal ash grey sporting a black mane and cut tail
>You liken her to an old parable: "her buttocks could break backs and her breasts were like battering rams"
>You never say this aloud, of course
>But she isn't just a warrior of the north, she's also a mare, and one you sometimes think too much of
>You shake your head, losing yourself in thought again
>This wasn't a time for games - you had to make sure the weapon was ready for service
>You shiver inside the small tent, the morning whipped with a fine chill
>Soon, the band would prepare to strike, and Agwyn would expect you to report to her
>Spending some time, you finish cleaning the greatsword, even muttering a few Solarian prayers to bless the damned metal
>Morning has come, and so has death

>Finding Agwyn isn't difficult, considering her stature and reputation
>She's atop the grassy hill, hiding amongst brush, gazing down at the camp of loyalists
>You, with all strength, carry the greatsword to her, as though a knight might care for a child
>She does not look to you when you arrive at her side - she finds your company as natural as breathing at this point
>You remain silent too - you've been chastised enough to know not to break her peace
>Finally, she glances down to you
>"It's the brew they want, did you know that?"
>You aren't certain what she means - "The brew?"
>A smirk tugs her lips - "Aye, quite. Rare stock, vintage, so I'm told. Rare, fermented blackberries you can only find in the southlands. Pilfered em' straight off the 

rabbit folk."
> "Oh." You knew little of alcohol and meads and drink - the holy attendance of swords was more your trade
> "More than oh, anon. Imagine that? Sending out for swordwork, just to get your hands on fine drink."
>You're not sure you understand - "We aren't here for the soldiers?"
>She offers a warm chuckle, and amidst her leather, you can't help but notice the gentle bounce of her massive breasts - you try to push the thought aside for now
>"We always are. But it's the brew we were sent for. Men will die so other men will drink. The most northern thing I've encountered in all my years in these sunsoaked 

lands."
>You clasp the sword tight, like it might reveal some additional wisdom
>The thought is strange, but death is trivial to you now
>Even then, the exsanguination of foes was a holy lesson amongst the Swordkeepers
>Now their own soldiers would die by the lesson
>"Perhaps some of the stuff is lost during combat," you say
>If there's one thing you learned about Agwyn, she loved her drink
>Another warm chuckle, and her hand comes to grip the greatsword's hilt
>You kneel and offer it dutifully, while she nudges you playfully
>"We might just 'lose' the whole batch and barrel."

>Morning brought tides of blood and scream
>You are only a keeper of weapons, not a soldier, so you are left to watch, and watch you do
>The brutalization of men through violence is its own terrible philosophy, one you try not to think much on
>But it plays out much the same - bodies are hewn and limbs separate like snapped branches
>Blossoms of scarlet mist erupt from the once living
>Stink and entrails litter the once calm grass below, and fire springs out in searing pillars
>The Solarian loyalists are caught off guard, and Agywn's mercs do their bloodwork with such casual, efficient indifference
>Agwyn is something else - a terror in her own right
>She swings the ugly flank of black metal with horrifying ease and each foe caught in its proximity simply turns to fleshy tendrils
>You can't see too much from the brush, but you're quite sure one of her swings bifurcates a man from shoulder to groin
>Despite all the testaments and preachings, you find that all sword work is the same; there's no holiness to it, not as the Swordkeepers said
>Soon, it's over
>It seems to have gone by in a flash, and you're grateful
>You return to camp, prepping supplies to clean the litter of blood-drenched weapons
>You try to ignore all the death, and think of one thought which always brings you comfort: Agwyn in her tent, prone and nake, nursing a mug of brew

>The mercs take their time coming back - most are cheery, having carried off bags and kegs of loot
>The promised brew is among them, and you notice many cherish the fat barrels with greedy desire
>Some, you overhear, are protesting with Agwyn, wishing to keep the stuff
>She is insistent, however, the job be done as instructed, much to the chagrin of her quarry
>But, she adds with a tempting smile that not *all* barrels were found during the assault
>This leads to cheers
>You are glad, even though you do not much partake; you're simply pleased to see Agwyn pleased
>While you tend to your work, wrapping swords in scrolls of testament parchment, she finishes talking with the squads of men and women
>Soon, she comes to you, and you feel yourself excite at her approach - she has always been fond company
>The northmare casts you a fine grin, and she lodges her mighty titanshredder into the heard
>Her snowy gray fur is spatterd with splashes of crimson, and her leathers are torn in a few places
>You can spy her cleavage, shown in excess, hardly held by the remains of her attire, while her thigh is quite exposed
>You shiver, but not from the cold chill
>"A fine fight?" you query, smiling
>It's not needed, her soaked weapon is story enough
>"AYE!" she bellows. "Solarian southmen aren't as hard as a stallion's cock, but they fight like stubborn bras on a wenches teat!"
>She's riled, you can tell, almost nickering
>"Far better than those paltry Gallers we caught off the river. These southers, ah! Had blades that'd make me father blush!"
>She laughed, and her heaving tits wobbled a bit - you did your best to look busy then, finishing your work
>"I'll feast on the finest hay and drink their blackmead, I will!"
>Oddly, a twinge of pride radiates in your chest - you like to see her succeed. . . even if it means the ruination of other men
>"You are a fine warrior, maestress Agwyn."
>She made a face, pushing you 
>"Ahh FYE to that, anon! Agwyn, Ag, even mare! But never maestress! I'll cut yer tongue for such formality!"
>She roiled with a chuckled, though part of you wondered if she was serious
>You relax, nodding "Right, of course!"
>You want to say something else - you don't often get to catch her in fine, talkative moods
>But she rolls her shoulders, turning - "Anon, I'll trust you to take care of Her? She sung like all the bitch wolves of Vyskaal!"
>"Her" meaning the blade, and you nod "Of course! My service is to it, and to you."
>Agwyn smirked - "Good lad."
>She saunters off, and your eyes snag on her thick, plump buttocks, which even through leathers is quite noticeable
>You block the thoughts because if you don't, you'll have another "sword" to attend to

>Evening settlings in an obscenely peaceful fashion
>Down the hill, carrion vultures and murders have set upon the entrails of the dead
>Yet crickets and fireflies and pond frogs are dancing and singing
>It's still a bit cold, but nothing a massive campfire can't settle
>All the cutthroats are singing merry and drinking their weight in brew
>You are snagged into the mess, forced to share mugs with rose faced brutes and narrow-eyed ladies
>You don't mind though, and the ale helps you loosen a bit
>The Swordkeepers were always so stifling and dutiful, pious about their traditions, hardly ingesting except for the occasional ritual wine
>So, you aren't used to it, but you manage a horn or two, the liqud tasty, yet better, bearing a strange heat to it
>They are strange, you find, so full of cheer despite the incarnations of earlier violence
>These bands come from all stretches of Sol Solaria; vixens from the Shadewood, men from borders of Dagados, dogs of the Dying Sands
>And you, a friend among them, a traitor to Solaria
>You let yourself sing with them, bad as you are
>Eventually, you find somewhere to sit, nursing another mug of brew
>Someone approaches not too long after, a man with a pale white beard split into three tendrils
>"Oh anon, dun be squarin' off to soon, the Mare wants to seez ya"
>You look up, surprised
>"Agwyn has asked for me?"
>He grins, showing off rows of gold teeth, sloppy in his motions
>"Oh yah, don' keep er' waitin, Mare ain't one for slowfoots."
>He wasn't wrong; you thank him as he returns to the festivities, and you stagger up
>You can't imagine what she wants so close to twilight
>But you dare not keep the northmare waiting, so head to her tent, fever of the night rolling over you

>You reach the massive set up, far larger and more luxurious than others
>Entering, the nightfire and chill set aside as your eyes try to adjust to the light
>It's difficult to see at first, as only a small cinder-born fire lingers 
>"Aaaahh, anon, good lad."
>You see Agwyn
>No, you SEE Agwyn, and your heart stops
>She isn't in leathers or armors or ANYTHING
>No, she is nake, lying prone on the floor at her side, nursing a frothing wooden mug of blackmead
>She bears a grin, her cheeks are flush, and her immense, supple tits rest together, tented with nips as dark as the night sky
>"W-what? Agwyn?"
>You're at a loss, as it seems the idle thoughts of your dreams have coalesced before you
>You're allowed to ogle her shapely form, which bears all curves of a mature, mother-made lady, yet carved with delicate sinew of tempered muscle
>"Aye, Agwyn. Stop ya starin' and get in, swordcoach, been wantin' you for a bit now."
>You aren't about to argue with your leader, yet at the same time you're at a loss
>Was it... the drink? She appeared quite tipsy
>Yet, a part of you - actually - all of you, don't know that it cares, you could see where this was going
>"Yes?" You step forward, closing the flaps behind you, and your loins already tent from the sight
>"Mmmmmm," she casts another smirk, eyeing your crotch, taking a long sip of the mug before tossing it away
>"You been doin' fine, fine work, anon. Told you that She sang today. Not a hint of rust on the ol Girl. You're skilled. . ."
>Again, she referred to the titancutter, but your thoughts were distracted by her renewed motions
>She sprang to all fours, crawling to you, licking her soft, plush lips
>"Now, I need to take care of you, eh? After all, ya' gotta sword yourself."
>You're stunned, watching the object of your affections and lusts shift toward you, thick hips swaying as she came to you
>"I. . . Agwyn. . . I don't know what to say. . ."
>You truly are at a loss - not that you plan on going anywhere, but no words from your teachings could possibly describe THIS
>"Ahhh don't be sayin' nothin' unless it's more, welp. Shut up and let the captain have her sword!"
>She cackled, and at once came to your tunic, snatching it down in one brisk motion
>Your cock sprang free, and you were allowed to appreciate the true difference in size between you to, as even on fours, she was quite massive compared to you
>"Gah! Maest-"
>She abruptly gripped your cock and squeezed, staring up at you with an expression that could stop a devil
>"I told ya welp! Anything but THAT. Try mare why don'tcha!"
>You wanted to nod, but couldn't as your shaft was enveloped by warm lips, wrapping around your tip with practiced ease
>Agwyn mumbled in coaxing pleasure as she kisses at the crown, her tongue lapping in seductive, worship fashion, procuring pleased groans from you
>She even granted your stones a gentle smooch, nuzzling them, breathing on them, letting her long pink rug lap away and cover them with sticky saliva
>"Oh fye by every sword, mare, gods, do not stop! Do more!" you yell
>She grins, hands to your waist, assaulting your cock with another barrage of suckles, slowly bobbing her head with rises and dives
>She suckles the sides as well, kissing, leaving trails of saliva as your sex dribbles
>"Ain't much a sword, more like a spear. You're quite the big one for such a welp."
>You shuddered, uncertain if she was truthful or just stroking your ego - either way, you cared little
>Especially as she shoved the tip into her cheek, running it across her lips, drinking your scent
>"Good lad," she rumbled, pulling you again, now shoving you to the blanketed ground
>You grunt, but don't move, astounded, ready to see what she had in store
>"I've never wanted a thing so much in my life," you say, as she comes to you again, at your loins
>this time, her thick, frothy tits come about to smother your pike, and you wince from astounding pleasure
>"Aye? Hah! What a thing for a welp to say. Probably losin' your little mind. What was it then? Wanting to watch me fat arse bounce off that cock? Or maybe you lick your prick like I was servin' a god? Precious."
>The words rattle you with profound truths, and your mind is flooded with desire
>Soon, the mare begins pressing her fat bust together, utterly crushing your mast with her plump front, stroking it with her grey cushions
>Again, she sucks at your crown in between motions, while your gaze is treated to the labor of her bouncing front, the warm horsehair like hot silk
>Instinctively you grind into the motions, helpless, desperate to sate this tingling urge radiating through your loins
>"That's it, swordboy. Might make a proper pole outta' you!"
>Your hands toss out to grip her breasts, chancing - she only laughs, shoving them into your palms, where you twist and flick the black, hard nips
>"I've never seen... tits so large!"
>Indeed, they were likely twice the side of your dome, and here they were, wobbling on your cock
>She grins, and this sends you into overdrive - a surge of heat bursts from your bellend, and suddenly spurts of hot white issue flood between her pillows
>"AGGGGH!"
>Your body jerks and twists in ways you didn't know possible, a siege of harsh pleasure gripping your mast; it doesn't help that the mare continues to work you over, adding a twist of pain to the orgasmic pleasure
>Agwyn laughs, and the axis of her breasts are soaked with your male essence
>She rolls a finger over your tip, though you aren't quite softened
>"Not bad for a lad who polishes nothin' but swords. Well, not done thankin' ya yet."
>By the gods, what else could she mean?
>Now, the towering body of powerful mare looms over you, and her frame encompasses your own
>You gasp, feeling her thick rump cheeks coax your pole between them, wiggling the veiny flesh as if to tease you
>And it works
>Her soft, black, sodden snatch rolls against your own, testing it with cleft kisses, while she pins you down by the shoulders
>"Hope I don't break ya', lad."
>You are concerned? But also excited
>"What do you me-"
>You dare to question, but you're cut off as she sinks her hips over yours
>You let loose a guttural, pleased groan as her tight, sodden walls snugly grip yours; you've never felt anything quite so pleasantly comfortable as this
>"Aghnn, sword fits the sheath!"
>For a moment, she holds, enjoying the sight of you writhe within her, trying to buck into the plump pussy
>You are, of course, at her mercy, being that she is so large
>It is hardly a concern, however, as the mare begins battering your loins with a gentle barrage of heavy grinds
>Her fat, plump buttocks wiggle with each slap, and you find yourself reaching for any part of her to grip
>Her cunt is practically drooling with pre and saliva, allowing for quick, smooth motions, creating puddles of sex beneath your coupling
>Her lips nip at your ear, and her hot moans twist into your brain, causing you to hump and groan in tandem
>"G-gods!"
>You have barely any words to muster; and how could you?
>The mare quickens pace, how hammering her hips and thighs against your own
>You're almost afraid she'll break something, as the power of her bouncing rises and dives is sexually terrifying
>She hastens, to the point where things become a blur of fucking
>You can't hold out, though, as you're not quite used to the temptations of flesh
>Surprisingly, you feel a rush of nectar pour over your cock, but it's not you
>"AGH!" Agwyn bellows with a moan, loud enough you're afraid someone might here
>But no, she reaches peak and floods the coupling with her own juices
>You hit yours as well, with surprisng gusto, bursting with a renewed river of seed
>You clench her close, and she seems content to allow this, letting you rut into her satin cunt
>After a while, the orgasm fades, followed by serene afterglow and panting breaths
>"Well aren't you full of surprises, lad?"
>Carefully, Agwyn rises, her pussy leaking with floods of seed and honey
>You're quite battered and worn, watching her saunter to a table as she pours another mug of mead
>You're winded, yet she hardly looks bothered
>"I can see why She's in such good hands. But I might have you at closer attendance from now on, eh?"
>You struggle to raise yourself, nodding
>"Yes, of course. I'd serve you well."
>Agwyn laughs, bending over, wiggling her thick, gray rump and spreading thighs
>"That so? Well, serve again. Get over here and start fucking, welp."
>You're in disbelief, surely she wasn't serious?
>But a quick flash from her devious eyes tells the story, and you dare not decline
>Besides, you don't want to
>Trembling, you steady yourself and rise once more, going to her thick haunches and working yourself to get hard again
>Before you know it, you're desperately humping into that thick, fat buttocks, quite a challenge considering difference in size
>It was going to be a long night

>The night fizzled out in ways you dared not expect
>Agwyn's appetite for you was insatiable, forcing you to fuck for most of twilight
>Thank goodness for the blackberry mead
>At some point, you fall asleep
>In the arms of a goddess, no less
>You're quite content

>When morning comes, the first thing you see is the mare with the black blade
>She's stroking along it with - as far as you can see - one of your holy cloths
>When she notices you stir, she looks to you wrapped in blankets
>She's still nake
>"Anon? Sleep well? Good. Come show me how you tend to Her. I want to see it first hand."
>Though you ache, the pains are blissful
>"Of course, uh, Mare."
>She casts you a smirk as you come to her
>You spend the morning in her grasp, her breasts on your shoulders, her arms wrapped around you, watching you work with patient attention
>The life of a traitor might not be so bad after all