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Archive name: stag.txt (M+/F+, FF, inc, orgy, medieval) 
Authors name: Koji (gokoji@hotmail.com)
Story title : White Stag of Winter

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This work is copyrighted to the author (c) 2002.  Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
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The White Stag of Winter (M+/F+, FF, inc, medieval) 
by Koji (gokoji@hotmail.com)

***

An ancient clan is about to vanish. The forest is about 
to go barren. Rory Rolfson is desperate to help his 
people. The secrets of the Great White Stage of his 
ancestors and the fertility rites of winter could save 
his people. If only he knew them.

***

It was Winter Solstice, Yule in the Saxon tongue. Great 
iron skewers of geese turned on spits in the great 
Hearths. The drippings caused the flame to lick up and 
spit. The chieftain's war band roughly handled the 
serving wenches who brought them freshly tapped tuns of 
ale, cheese and barley bread. A great roar filled the 
hall, and the three days of Solstice had only just begun.

This was the first Yule Feast the new Great Hall had 
seen. The chieftain, Rolf the Outlaw, now Rolf the 
Hunter, had built a grander one than even his eldest 
brother had in the old land. It was constructed of 
notched whole logs with waddle filling in the gaps. The 
roof was laid thatch that held in the heat well. The 
oaken floor was his crowning achievement, one that 
elicited much comment by visitors.

There were other parts to the axe-shaped building, the 
chieftain's quarters, the root cellar, the larder, the 
pantry, the stalls for the cows, but the Great Hall, the 
"handle of the axe", that was the center of Stedding 
life. It was three tall timbers long, with room enough 
for two cooking hearths and a U-shaped head table. The 
chieftain's kin, landholders and senior war band ate with 
him at the table. Warriors, servants and the like sat and 
slept on benches along the walls. How close you were to 
the chieftain and the food was determined my one's rank.

Progressing down the hall from the East to west, one had 
the larder and well room the room that connected all. 
There were two big doors that led into the Great Hall. 
The head table was closest to the larder and well room. 
Past the table sat the first hearth in its stone ring. 
Then the second hearth flamed in a similar ring. Smoke 
was supposed to rise up throughout the covered smoke 
holes above, but the hall was constantly in a fog of wood 
smoke, especially on windy days. Beyond the second 
hearth, on encountered the inner door. Then there came 
the wind room, then the outer door. The wind room was 
designed to give people a place to hang their wet things 
and to make sure no one let in the cold wind. The 
construction of the inner and outer doors was special and 
had cost Rolf a small fortune in silver.

The doors were joined oak and bound with iron belts and 
recessed iron hinges. The doors would neither split nor 
shatter nor be pulled from its frame. It would that the 
sturdiest raiders days to hack through them. In his 
outlaw days, Rolf had used such tactics on sleeping 
families to great success, now he feared someone to use 
it on him.

In the Great Hall, all judgments and laws regarding the 
inhabitants of the Stedding were proclaimed, disputes 
settled, foreign merchants bargained with and even the 
King's men received. Sometimes duels were fought. But 
tonight was a great feast. The goal was to outdo one's 
kin in eating drinking, storytelling then boast of great 
feats of prowess. 

Rory Rolfson did not feel like feasting, he felt like 
fighting. The things he saw in the hall burned in his 
blood. The skald sang like he had a mouthful of bread, 
while the honored bard, Fleance The Lame, was left 
squatting in the corner, with the common troubadours. The 
warriors lathered and bruised girls of good family; soon 
the raping would begin, all in sight of the warrior's 
wives and children. 

Rory tried not to retch whenever a warrior passed, so did 
they reek. Greasy food and worse stained the beard of 
every one of them. Their breath was fetid. They believed 
that bathing caused The Scourge and ate with the same 
hand they wiped their arses with. They had more fleas 
than their dogs and more nits than dandruff fells from 
their oily hair. But every man jack of them was a master 
butcher. Between them all they killed more men than the 
pox, so Rory kept his comments to himself, for now.

Rory considered having such swine, even dangerous swine, 
at his family's table, a personal insult. His mother, 
Gweneth, could see the boy's rage rising. "Rory, the fire 
needs more faggots. Help me gather a basket, outside." 
Rory grabbed a great wicker basket; the kind used for 
carrying stacks and followed his mother outside, to the 
woodshed. As he piled the faggots of alder into the man-
sized basket, he and his mother spoke.

"Rory, you have to control that temper of yours. I did 
not shelter you all this time to have you slaughtered by 
your brother's now."

"Half-brothers. Did you not send me away to my uncles' to 
learn how to fight?"

"No, I sent you to your uncles' to learn The Old Ways, 
the ways of our people. Half brothers indeed! Next you'll 
be talking about bastards. They are all our people."

"Our people, our people, always our people! Is it part of 
the way to tolerate the abuse of my kin? Forced to be 
servants and serfs when they were once freemen of the 
land?" He snapped three sticks at once then jammed them 
into the basket for emphasis.

"Patience is the Way of our people. Our great ancestor, 
Hern, will protect as always."

"Protect us? The White Stag? Where was he when the king 
drove Rolf the Outlaw into our lands? Rolf slaughtered my 
grandfather and raped you when you were barely more than 
a girl. Then he bought his majesty off with an oath of 
fealty for him and his forty warriors. It is too late for 
protection."

"My father had that temper. He refused the king's offer 
of protection. Rolf saw his opportunity and took it. 
That's what that temper of yours got our people."

That slowed Rory down. "I am useless."

His mother approached. "Sixteen years ago I sent you to 
your uncles to keep you safe. Look at us. We have Ahern 
black, curly hair. We have Ahern green eyes and coloring. 
In all things, you are Ahern, except you have a bit of 
Rolf's cool cunning in you. But the cunning is not 
visible to Rolf.

His other two sons and his daughter are all blonde and 
blue eyed. He sees you and he sees Ahern. It fills him 
with dread. You have noticed how he looks at you?"

"Ay, mother, like a wolf watches for a rival."

"Yes, and your brothers are not much better. Harold is an 
idiotic savage and Wulfgar...wheels in wheels, that one. 
I suspect him of poisoning. All three men would seek your 
life."

"But I cannot hide forever."

"Nor do I expect you too. But I do expect you to hide for 
now. Even the Great Stag uses camouflage."

"Very well mother. I will use my cunning and bite my 
tongue."

Rory and his mother shook the snow from their boots as 
the guard re-barred the great door. Then he left the wind 
room for the Great Hall. The noise was greater if that 
was possible. The skald was trying to sing to drums now. 
His mother went to oversee the geese. Rory dropped his 
basket next to the others and took his place on the 
bench, at the end of the head of the table.

Only his father, Rolf had a chair, it was the old great 
seat of Aherns. On the back of the chair, the carved 
emblem of a stag rampant had been mutilated. After raping 
the chieftain's daughter, Rolf hacked off its phallus 
with his great, broad knife, the traditional, Saxe. It 
amused him to keep the great oak chair as a reminder to 
all the local idiots that he was the chieftain now.

Rory scanned the room with cooler eyes. His half sister, 
Dorcas sat at Rolfs' left hand. Rory had to admit, she 
was a beauty, with waist long red-gold hair and pale 
skin. She was tall and shapely; with breasts that could 
have given a dozen children suck. Already foreign men of 
prosperity had come seeking them for marriage. She 
flirted with them all and favoring none. Rory pitied the 
man she married. Sex would ever be a weapon with her. Her 
children would live only as tools of her personal 
ambition. Still, he bet she was hot in bed.

So deep in "thought" was he that he did not see Wulfgar 
coming. "I hear you've become quite the hunter."

Rory had visited the Stedding enough to know that the 
weasel of a boy could not hunt, fight or do anything 
useful and he usually scorned anyone who could. Why was 
he being friendly now? He tried to use some of the 
cunning his mother said he had. "Anything I know, I owe 
to my family."

"Yes, your mother's brothers. Been with them a long time, 
haven't you?"

Rory could tell Rolf was listening, even though his eyes 
were elsewhere.

"I cannot learn to hunt here."

"Oh? And why is that?"

"Woods are all hunted out." That last part was a thinly 
veiled jab at Rolf, for it was he who hunted the game to 
paucity.

"Just as well. I prefer goose and swine for feasting."

"I prefer venison."

"Venison? Don't care for it much myself, but it is our 
father's favorite. What say you get him some? Prove to 
our father you are useful in some way."

"Very well. I meant to bring something to the feast."

Triumphant, Wulfgar stood atop the table, putting one 
foot on a tray of flatbread. "Everyone, the night's first 
boast! My little half-brother here has sworn to bring a 
deer to the night's feast!"

The Saxon's cheered but the servants, Rory's people went 
dumb with shock. Gwen, his mother, dropped her ladle.

Wulfgar was far too happy. Rory wonder just what he had 
done. Rolf laughed and clapped him on his back.

"Fetch my brave son his gear! At least I have one son who 
won't force me to eat goose for Winter Solstice!" Other 
members of the war band congratulated him on his bravery 
and wished him luck on his hunt.

Bravery? Was there a board or bear in the woods he hadn't 
heard about? Bravery?" Rory was over his head. He 
accepted the praise as graciously as he could, but he 
could see that his mother was at the entrance Wind room, 
impatient to speak with him. She and two minor kinsmen 
held his furs and gear.

"Foolish boy! Did I not tell thee to mind thy tongue?" 
She cinched on his rucksack a bit too tight.

"But mother it is only a simple deer hunt." He belted on 
his good Moorish knife, water skin and fire pouch.

"Simple he says. In your woods, it is simple. Not here! 
Here all deer belong to the King and it is death to hunt 
one. Poaching!"

"How can the King own all the deer?" He slipped on the 
tether to his short bow and quiver.

"Because he is the King. And to stop fools like Rolf from 
hunting them to extinction."

"So if succeed, Rolf drags me before the King and is free 
from kin slaying. If I fail, I am disgraced. Who would 
follow me then?" He paused to reflect.

"Well, the woods are scarce with deer. You can just go 
for a long walk and claim that you could not find any."

Rory looked at his mother levelly. He would not do that. 
He would not lie. He had said he would bag a deer and he 
would, hanging or no.

"Foolish boy! That temper of yours, just like your 
grandfather. Damn you men and your pride." She left in 
tears, dreading the idea that her only son would end his 
days as a landless villain. Only the two servants 
remained, an old woman, the other a little more than a 
girl.

"Is there anything else you require, sir?" The old woman 
spoke on the Old Tongue.

"Yes. I will need food for my hunt and oats for my pony. 
Do you still grow fresh herbs in pots?"

"Ay."

"I will require a small pot of those. Keep them in dirt, 
please."

The old woman left and the girl produced a very odd thing 
from her apron pocket. Her head remained bowed, under her 
woolen hood. "Sir, please take this. It might be of help.

"It was a flint knife. Rory knew that her family must be 
very poor indeed if this was the girl's only kitchen 
utensil. It was very large, about a foot long with the 
dull base wrapped in buckskin as a grip. It was the kind 
used for hunting and skinning by the meanest sort. 

Rory picked it out of her outstretched palms. It was 
sharp enough to shave with. There were no chips on the 
stone or stains on the suede so it must have been made 
that day. Still, it was heavier, clumsier and more 
brittle than his prized Moorish crescent. He tried to 
hand it back. "Keep it. I have a knife of steel."

"But sir, you are hunting a solstice stag, only a flint 
blade will do."

"Who are you? Let me see your face."

She pulled back her hood. Chestnut curls framed her 
lovely round face. Her eyes were black as two onyx stones 
set into her ivory face. Rory noticed she smelled like 
herbs, rosemary? "What's your name?"

"Allanna."

"Allanna. You're right. If I am going to die, no half 
measures. Let's do this Old Way." Rory pulled out an 
arrow and frowned at one of his copper tipped arrows. "I 
used to be proud of these. Now I'd trade them all for one 
of Uncle Edden's flint "elf darts."

"Wait here, sir." She pulled her hood back on, ran in the 
Greta Hall. She was back in flash with a great ash spear. 
It had an antler point.

"You do know the old Ways" Bless me, a Great Spear! Where 
ever did you find it?"

Allanna simply blushed.

"It is fine thing to have at least one person aiding me 
in my fool adventure. How can I ever thank you?" He 
touched her shoulder. She shivered, but not from the 
cold.

Before Allanna could answer, the Old Woman returned with 
the poke of the supplies the young man asked for. The 
matron sized up the situation in a glance and shoved the 
small sack, partially filled with stinky cheese, into the 
young man's face. "Your food, young gentleman."

Rory remembered his manners. "Thank ye, goodwife. Now I 
go. At least I'll escape the stench of the Great Hall. 
Take care you two." Then he walked into the snowy forest.

When Rory made his boast, he knew it would be fine night 
for hunting. The moon was full. The sky was clear. The 
knee-deep snow would illuminate forest and tracks. He 
rode upwind from the Stedding. When he figured he had 
left all signs of man behind, he left his pony, old Hob, 
in a meadow with a sack of grain to keep him fat and 
content.

Hob was used to long waits.

At the creek he turned stalked along the ridgeline, 
keeping a sharp eye on the southern slope. If any deer 
were to be found, it would be on the slope where the 
day's sun had exposed sprouts. Hinds would keep to the 
forest line beside the creek. Every seventh step he would 
stop, bend and look for moving legs. Movement was always 
the first thing that gave prey or predator away.

He hadn't seen any sign of any game. Only in his 
grandfather's time, the woods teamed with life. The Oaken 
Land was a resource for the whole tribe. In less then a 
generation Rolf had hunted these woods out. It broke the 
young man's heart.

There. Was that steam rising above that boulder beside 
the stream? Rory flattened. The steam was too high up to 
be a wolf or boar. It might just be stray cow.

The hoarfrost had made the snow as crunchy as walnut 
shells. So he slipped into the creek, thigh deep and 
waded to the sign of breath. He used the banks overgrowth 
to screen his outline from his prey. He was cold, wet and 
very patient in his approach. Any deer to survive so long 
would be skittish indeed.

Gods! It was the White Stag. Full fourteen hands high he 
was. Nine points of antlers at least. His hide was as 
white as the moon. Just like the stories said. He was 
just pulling up some grass and began to chew. Then he 
turned.

The great White Stag didn't look AT Rory. He looked 
THROUGH him. He considered the young hunter with his 
eyes, black as jet, then as a show of contempt, he simply 
sprung across the creek.

Rory's mind reeled, "Impossible! It was impossible that 
any stag was so huge. It was impossible the White Stag 
had seen Rory, beneath the overgrowth. It was impossible 
that any deer could leap so far from a standing start. 
Impossible."

The stag paused at the top of the hill, like he was 
letting the young man appreciate his power. Then he 
sprung off.

Rory's breath was taken away, but not by the frigid, 
running water. That stag was magnificent. He would never 
be able to catch it. His blood raced with the idea of the 
challenge the buck represented. 

All deer, even monstrous white ones, have a favorite 
track. Rory interrupted the great ones route. He lifted 
himself from the creek. He sucked on some willow gum to 
thin his blood while he studied the beast's sign. This 
one was clever. He could see where his kicked his pellets 
into the reeds, to hide his spoor. He walked on rocks to 
avoid making tracks. But this was his path all right. He 
would be back.

Rory re-entered the creek and paralleled the stag's 
track. Occasionally, he checked to make sure that the 
deer's path did not leave the gallery forest. Feeling had 
left his legs long ago.

Two hours walk until he found good ground. There was a 
patch of bare rock and a no trees for five paces. Rory 
could get in a spear thrust. But there was also no cover 
to leap from ambush. If he had a bow, this would be easy. 
But he could have to use his wit.

A small snowdrift laid only a stride away from the place 
of ambush. That would have to do.

Rory took the herb out of its pot. It was pungent and 
smelled a bit like leeks. He laid the greens on the bare 
patch of stone. Then he got on his belly and, beginning 
with his feet, carefully wormed his way into the snow 
bank. In the end he shook his head a little, collapsing 
snow over his face. Rory gripped his ash spear and 
waited.

Fears plagued him. "Did I scare him away?"

"Suppose he does not come?"

"Suppose he smells me on the herbs?"

"On the stone?"

"He will see me. Gods, he saw me through brush thick 
enough to hide an army." The cold crept into his bones. 
He flexed his muscled to keep from sleep or cramps.

Dawn was not far away when the King of the Woods made his 
appearance. 

He came into Rory's vision. Proud and very, very, 
cautious. He scanned the area, sniffed the wind and 
slowly bent to sniff the green herb. The man's plan was 
to pounce when the animal grazed.

Suddenly, the Great One reared its head in alarm at the 
scent. Rory sprang in desperation and he threw his spear. 
But after so much cold and inaction, his muscles betrayed 
him. His easy toss went short and low, clattering across 
the stone.

The pole of the spear tripped the stag, ruining his 
retreat. He stumbled and stood face to faced with his 
enemy. The stag lowered his head and charged. Eighteen 
daggers, pushed by two hundred stone drove at Rory's 
face.

Reflexively, the boy grabbed the antlers and twisted with 
all his might. Hooves slipped on the icy rock and the 
buck his the ground with a mighty burst of wind. For the 
moment, Rory was happy to be alive. He gripped the 
antlers like a madman. Then the buck began kicking him.

The hoofs cut as they hammered him. The beast's legs 
moved incredibly fast, inflicting half a dozen serious 
wounds in a span of three heartbeats. 

Rory knew he was loosing. Throwing his weight on the 
deer's neck, he fumbled for his favorite steel dagger. 
The buck now scored hits on his legs. 

Time slowed. Rory considered the steady, healthy, steel 
dagger. He dropped it and took out the flint one Allanna 
had given him. Then he plunged it into the Stag's neck. 
It slit the hide beautifully and the hart's lifeblood 
spewed, steaming, out onto the stone and the Rory. 

The stag thrashed wildly, its eyes rolled back to stare 
at him in panic. Rory kept it pinned. As it's struggles 
subsided, Rory spoke to it. "Sorry, old man. You were 
beautiful. So, sorry, so sorry." Finally, the blood 
fountained no more. The King of the Forest was dead.

Rory knew the lore, his uncles did teach him well. Still 
with flint, he slit the old King's belly open and feasted 
on his raw, smoking heart, like it was an apple.

The vision came upon Rory with power, a rape of sorts, 
unstoppable, brutal, and unapologetic. Hern himself stood 
before him and within him. In an instant, everything he 
did, everything he was, and everything he would be stood 
out in stark clarity. There was no point in asking the 
god any questions; it would be like talking to oneself.

He wrapped his wounds in moss and leather, and then set 
about butchering the Great White stag. He prepared the 
stag's intestines, sweetmeats and innards in separate 
oilskins. He skinned him and dressed himself in its pelt. 
Rory removed the old King's lower jaw, smashed in his 
small bones and wore his head as a helmet. It fit 
remarkably well, but he still lashed it to his chin with 
leather straps.

Using his hatchet and rope, he lashed together a hunter's 
sled of birch and ash. Then he pulled it to old Hob. The 
pony took the towrope well enough, but Rory was confined 
to walking. It turned out it was good thing that the pony 
was weighed down.

A pack of wolves, so starved the hunter could see their 
bones paralleled them. They were drawn by the smell of 
fresh blood. Only the fear of the supernatural kept the 
beasts at bay.

Rory was about meet the road. It was icy and his progress 
would be smooth. But then the lead she-wolf, the one with 
cubs, blocked his path. She was desperate. The lead male 
snarled right behind her. The rest of the pack waited.

"Peace. This is flesh of my flesh. You may win it but 
your dwindled pack will be ended. The vitality of the 
forest will perish. Be patient but a little while. Come 
with me. You will feast on the meat of your persecutors. 
This is Wyrd."

The wolves actually appeared mollified. The lead pair 
followed and the other four fell in behind them. Fresh 
snow began to fall, dusting their gray fur.

Winter Solstice was a three-day feast. The First Day 
Approaching was ended. The Second Day Here, the real 
solstice was today. He would arrive mid morning. By 
midnight, either he or the Saxons would be dead and the 
land be shaped according to the victor.

*

Gweneth felt a strange urge to go out into the woods. She 
could have sworn she heard Rory's voice calling her, but 
surely nothing could be heard through the log walls or 
above the bawdy din. She couldn't help it anymore. She 
handed the spit to a servant, slapped on her wool cloak 
and plowed through the snow, cursing herself all the way. 

Someone, a girl by the look of it, had walked into the 
woods ahead of her. Gweneth looked back and could see 
Morgawse the elder walking in her path, using Gwen as a 
snow breaker.Gwen followed the girl's' footprints into 
the tree line and saw the god. The Great Horned One stood 
there; his hide was as pale as the moon, and he wore and 
absurdly large horns upon his head like he was born to 
them. His chest was bare, colored with dried blood. 
Stream rose up his body. In one hand he held a spear of 
ash wood tipped with antler. At his belt he wore two 
knives. It was just as her grandmother had always said.

Allanna knelt in the snow, prostrate, licking the Horned 
One's left hand clean. Behind the god, her son's pony 
waited faithfully. Where was her son?

Her son WAS the god. The Great Stag possessed him. In 
every real sense, he was no longer her son but the 
embodiment of the virility of the woods. Gwen bowed 
immediately in the presence of the King.

Old Morgawse arrived suitably unimpressed. "SO you 
finally decided to show up, have ye? About time. Where 
did you go? And why the hell did you leave us to these 
savages?"

The Stag took no affront. "Any forest's herd grows thin 
on its own. Rogue bucks from neighboring woods wander in, 
bring fresh blood. Our people are old, inward turning. 
Chieftains had begun to shun new blood. We needed new 
stock."

Neither of the two senior women brought up their kin's 
death. To the Horned One, death or life, it was all the 
same. Allanna was lost in idolatry. Her young life had 
been spent in depravation. Now her faith had been 
restored.

With her son's voice, Gwen heard the god speak again. "A 
generation has passed. It is time to reclaim the herd. 
The old buck's time is done. I will slay my rivals and 
take the all the hinds.

My host has warned me of my rivals' might. You will aid 
me, as your mothers did." He held out the sack with the 
old Stag's intestines in it. "First, give this to the 
bard."

*

"Wine? Where have you been hiding this woman?"

"In the secret caves, my lord and husband. I hid it there 
in the days when the village was becoming a Stedding."

"Why bring it out now?"

"Since the Romans introduced my family to it, a Sol... 
Yule feast has never been without it."

"Is this all of it?"

"No, my lord and husband. There are many barrels. My 
family traded with Aquitain often."

"Humph. You will show me these caves when we are done 
here."

Gwen bowed.

Rolf stood. "Landsman, warriors and honored guests. I 
have a special treat. I have brought, as no small 
expense, real wine to our feast. Wenches!" 

The crowd cheered in appreciation. Allanna led the host 
of young serving women in from the larder with pictures 
and pictures of wine. Drinking bowls and drinking skulls 
were quickly emptied to make room for the deep red 
vintage.

Two hours of drinking and feasting later, the war band 
was growing ugly. They were used to mead and ale, not 
wine. Fists flew on more than one occasion, but usually 
ended harmlessly. The wenching was getting serious. Rolf 
enjoyed the wine's effects on his men or himself. In the 
safety of his new Great Hall he let himself enjoy the 
scene.

"I can see why your family liked wine at your solstices, 
nasty orgies that they were.""Oh this is nothing. I could 
perform the dance for you."

"Dance?"

"Yes, it's a celebration of life, it tells the story 
of..."

"Ha! I'd like to see you dance. You've been a sour faced 
old bitch ever since they day I took you. You'd think a 
chief's daughter would be a better sport about such 
things."

"Very well. I will dance."

"How, the scald has already feinted from the wine."

"Fleance knows the old tune well enough."

"Bah! A harp is no real instrument. It's soft and 
womanly."

"He has put on new, strong strings that will make a very 
manly sound. Besides, the mistrals will follow him."

"Very well." The sodden chieftain swayed and stood while 
Gwen spoke to the Bard. "Landsmen, warriors and honored 
guests. My wife would like to dance for us. It's some old 
pagan dance, but we might be amused."

The servants refilled all the cups and blows, then left 
the pitchers beside the warriors. Then they cleared the 
hall away. Gweneth Ahern stood at the end of the hall and 
waited for Fleance to begin.

The music began frolicsome, as Rolf has expected. Gwen 
leapt, pranced and skipped down the hall. She seemed 
twenty years younger. Long legs extended from her skirt. 
She slewed her hips from side to side, flirting with 
every Saxon, until his eyes didn't leave her. 

The music grew more intense, more urgent. Rolf found 
himself growing a pole and by the heavy breathing of his 
men, he was not alone. Gwen leapt on the table and 
increased her gyrations. Her laces came undone by 
whirling or her nimble fingers. Her black ringlets of 
hair flew from side to side.

Finally, her bodice slipped down to reveal two pale, full 
and heavy breasts. 

The music increased its pace. No man in the hall wondered 
what the dance was being performed before them. It was 
re-creation of the Dance of Life, or the dance of making 
life. Gwen bent her knees until her haunches rested on 
the tabletop.

Undulating her hips with increasing fervor, breast 
bouncing, head whipping from side to side, she humped an 
invisible lover. The music matched her fiery lust.

In crescendo, Gwen lifted her head skyward in ecstasy. 
She hunched her back convulsively, winding down in 
intensity. 

The foreign men pounded the table in appreciation. The 
wenches simply replaced non-full pitchers with full ones 
and continued with their cleaning. But the dance did not 
end.

The music took on a gentle quality. Gowned in a simple 
white shrift, young Allanna slowly walked forth. She 
climbed onto the table. Gwen stood, spread her legs and 
lifted her skirts. The girl crawled underneath. 

Gwen's body moved in mock pain and then the young girl 
emerged from beneath the curtain of skirt, naked. She had 
discarded her simple gown. 

Allanna's curly chestnut hair waterfalled to the small of 
her back. Her skin was smooth and without blemish. Her 
teats were modest. Her hips could have been fuller, but 
she was very fit. Slowly she arose, Gwen's arms welcoming 
her. Allanna tenderly took a nipple and sucked on the 
woman's right breast.

Between sucks, Allanna whispered to Gwen. "I am going to 
mate with your son, mother."

"So be it. Share his couch. Make many grandchildren. Now 
drink of my life."

Allanna framed Gwen's head in her hands and kissed her 
fully, passionately on the lips. Their tongues entwined 
like serpents. Then Allanna slid down Gwen's front, her 
destination was obvious.

"That's enough!" Rolf roared. "Damn pagans! What is 
this?"

"Why husband and lord, it is the dance of life. Performed 
every solstice."

"Od's blood it is! It ends tonight, now!"

"But you haven't seen the end."

"I don't need to see the end."

"Oh, but you do. You see it ends in death."

Rolf was never so drunk that he failed to recognize a 
threat. He looked round the room. The musicians waited, 
patiently. The oldsters stood in clump by the wind room 
door. The serving wenches and lads were gone. And all the 
weapons and shields were missing from the walls.

"It's a trap! Alarm! Alarm!"

The drunken warriors looked about for a threat and saw 
none. "The doors, you fools! Guard the doors!"

The door flew open and winter walked in with the Great 
Horned One. From across the room he threw his great ash 
spear and impaled Rolf Outlaw to the back of his oaken 
throne. The antler point protruded just where the stag's 
phallus had once been. Morgawse handed him a Saxon boar 
spear and the slaughter began. 

*

The serving lads and wenches trembled in the larder and 
well room. The screams and sounds of killing permeated 
the larder door. The lads made a brave show of 
brandishing knives and crude clubs but they were not men. 
Only Rolf's men were permitted in the Great Hall, until 
now. Then hall went silent. 

The knock startled them. "Open the door. It is only I, 
old Morgawse. It is safe."

The people removed the wedges from the door and opened it 
cautiously. It was only Morgawse. "Come on young'uns. 
There's work to be done before the play."

As the young one's entered a mighty sight greeted them. 
Against the table, beside the corpse of Rolf, the Great 
White Stag humped a blissful lady Gweneth while the naked 
maiden, Allanna, bathed the two in caresses and licks. 
"What's the matter? Haven't you seen a woman mounted by 
the Horned One before? Get used to it younglings. Your 
fathers and some mothers may not remember the ancient 
Ways, but we elders do. And this Solstice you are going 
to start it all anew."

Lady Gweneth suddenly arched her back and gave a great 
shout of joy. The old woman smiled with nostalgia. Then 
the Stag thrust his loins in forcefully and grunted. 
While the buck savored the moment, the doe-eyed Allanna 
placed her hands on the table lip and presented herself 
to the new lord's servicing. 

The new lord withdrew from Gweneth. His phallus was huge, 
dark and dripped with hot semen. The girls gasped with 
awe at the gigantic member. Without skipping a beat the 
Stag, shoved his massive cock into Allanna. Gwen, legs 
limp, folded to the floor.

Allanna first yelped, then sighed, then shouted vulgar 
words of praise and encouragement to her mate. Little 
drops of blood fell from her womb and speckled the honey 
colored oak floor. Gwen was still weak from the onrush of 
rapture. She simply wrapped herself around the Great 
One's leg and kissed it.

"Well, enough witnessing. Come on, we've got work to do." 
The avatar had killed or subdued everyone in the room. 
Most of the war band was dead. Some few were stunned, 
dead drunk or too wounded to move. The armed elders and 
musicians held all the Saxon women and children in the 
corner.

The children were led into the root cellar and bolted in. 
The Saxons who could walk were forced to carry the dead 
out into the snow. When the last corpse or drunk was 
removed the outer door was bolted and they were left to 
the wolf pack.

"That skald cannot even scream on key," laughed Fleance.

"Bring two barrels of wine." Ordered the new lord. 
Allanna and Gweneth were licking his phallus clean, 
savoring each drop of life-giving seed. The servants 
rolled two barrels in promptly.

"Upturn them." The butler and his steward obeyed. The 
Stag disengaged his mates and walked towards the kegs. 
With his elbow, he smashed in the ends of both. Then he 
picked up one of his leather sacks, the smallest one. He 
untied the pouch and showed its contents to all present. 
It was the male part of the first stag. With the flint 
knife, he slit the deer's sack, allowing its milky goo to 
drip into a keg.

Then he let the organ follow, dropping it into the red 
vintage. He picked up a bronze tankard, poured out its 
remainder and shouted. "Every man here drinks!" he 
scooped up a cup and gulped it down between breaths. The 
he refilled and made way for his kin.

The elder men went first. One by one, to keep and eye on 
the prisoners. Every youth followed. They dared not 
disobey. The bloody new King cast a baleful eye on anyone 
who did not fill his tankard to the brim with the first 
dip. Most men could not swallow so much at one time, so 
they drank while the Stag executed his next instruction.

He picked up a larger pouch and set it on the portion of 
the table directly opposite from the girls and women. He 
untied the oilskin and revealed a large, raw whole liver. 
"Eat. A bite will do."

Morgawse's eyes grew wide with greed. She took a step 
forward. "No! Her." He pointed towards Dorcas.

"Absolutely not." Dorcas was ever the chieftain's 
daughters, even when held prisoner. 

"I don't know what got into you Rory Rolfson, but if you 
think we are simply going to..." Then Dorcas saw sparks. 
When she looked up from the floor, Gwen, now standing and 
strong yelled down at her.

"You heard the King you miserable harridan. Now do it! 
Eat the liver." She kicked the prostrate girl. Then she 
grabbed a handful of hair and pulled her closer to the 
table.

Allanna began to beat, pinch and pull Dorcas in a similar 
manner. The serving girls joined in the fun. 

She was bent over the live in short order. "Eat it!" The 
people demanded. The girl whimpered and cried. "Eat it!" 
Dorcas tried to get away with a nibble. "No! A whole 
bite, you foul sow!" A serving girl spanked her with a 
handled wooden tray until she gave into the inevitable, 
bit into the black and swallowed.

"Now cage her in a faggot basket. I will have use for 
them later."

The big girl screamed and resisted, but the other girls 
had worked their whole lives and so were too strong for 
her. "Maybe we'll throw you on the hearth!" The girls 
teased. The lid was tied on the wicker cages. Then the 
elixir of the Great Stag's liver hit the female's 
bloodstream. Dorcas Rolfsdotter fell into a stupor."

Crones, sliced up the remainder into hearty bites. Women, 
prisoners, people, then crones; you will all partake of 
the Great Stags liver. Throw the rest into the second 
barrel and then drink of the mixture."

To avoid the same beating the prisoner wives, daughters, 
sisters and kin ate the liver the crones offered. They 
were not so proud and they had eaten liver before, though 
the Rolfdotter's stupor did not encourage them. All the 
rest partook and the remains thrown in the second barrel. 
The wine washed it down.

All the women fell into a sleep, which is not what the 
men wanted. All the men, from the youths to the oldest, 
were panting heavily. Hard members tented their clothes. 
Their feet twisted into the wooded floor as they watched 
the women's breasts slowly rise and fall with each 
breath.

"Come. Brothers, bathe. The doe's will awaken soon. You 
there, save these two barrels and bring in the rest."

The men ran to obey their King. After the wine had been 
moved, they melted snow and washed themselves. For Rory's 
body, the caked blood was hard to get off at first. But 
the trail dirt and sweat wiped up easily enough. His hair 
was sticky and he wiped that too. Then he redressed 
himself in his pelt. "You played the Song of Life well, 
bard. Can you play the Solstice Dance as well?"

"Yes, my liege and may I say you have blessed me with the 
finest harp strings imaginable."

"You are very worthy. Ah. They awaken. Man your harp."

The women, starting with Gweneth and Allanna began to 
rise. The younger and more vital women awoke first. The 
elders awoke last.

The women stretched and looked about for the men. The 
divisions between captive and guard were forgotten. They 
were women, plain and simple. They cast for the males 
with slow smiles. The men began their panting.

"It is so hot in here." One of the girls groaned and all 
the rest echoed her plaintive cry. Slowly, in full 
knowledge of what they were doing, they slipped out of 
their garments. Then they stretched. Everyone one of them 
smiled, savoring the delicious knowledge of the effect 
they were having on their big, handsome men.

Already naked the stag advanced. It didn't matter which 
one he took; they were all his herd. Thanks to his liver, 
they were all in season. And all the men were in the rut. 
They scattered. It was Morgawse he grabbed first.

As he mounted her, she was amazed. She had gone trough 
the change ten years ago, but now her womb was as slick 
and fresh as a maiden's. The liver had worked its magic. 
Morgawse thought she was beyond the age where life called 
her to create, make her a Mother. What a wonderful 
discovery!

"Ughoooo!" Morgawse thought she would split open. Goddess 
the stag was huge. In and out he slid inside her. She 
could feel his hot breath in his ear, feel his hands grab 
her teats. In and out. In and out. She used an old trick 
from the days when boys begged her for a roll in the hay. 
She used her inner muscle to clench down invader of her 
body.

The Stag laughed in approval. "Ha! I see you have spirit, 
woman! Good! Use all your skill, tonight is for joy!" He 
renewed his thrusting and she began to loose control.

Something more was filling her. She threw her body about. 
She ground her haunch into his loins. She screamed, she 
yelled and she begged the great Horned God not to stop. 
She wanted him to fuck her forever. Something like a 
great flood was building. She desperately didn't want it 
to stop building and she desperately needed release. In 
the end, the damned up emotion had to burst open. She 
remembered howling with joy; the rest is a blur.

All around the Great Hall, naked females allowed 
themselves to be chase by naked, rampant females. When 
they finally caught them they humped in any one of a 
dozen positions. Or they didn't use their loins at all, 
but just used their faces. The wine flowed. As a 
demonstration of his prowess, Fleance kept the charmed 
magic in the air, while he pleasured a doe at the same 
time. Two more females awaited his attention. 

"Women always like Bards." The Great Stag remembered.

He had removed himself from the orgy and sat on the 
bloody ruined throne. He was letting his people have a 
good time. There were twice as many does as bucks, but 
that was fine. As soon as a buck pleasured one doe, he 
moved on tot another, never minding if another buck had 
been there first. 

The females did not mind that fact that the men were 
constantly hard and ready to rut. After she exhausted a 
man, all a woman had to do was present herself to a youth 
and he serviced her with the energy of his young years.

Two pairs of does pleasured each other in the manner of 
lovers. One poured wine over the other and licked the 
juice from her breast. The other two had their mouths 
locked on each other's sex and kneaded each other's 
behinds like bread dough. Moans of love emitted therein.

Saxon or People, it mattered not. Now they were simply 
men and women. It amused the Stag no end how people 
thought they were anything else. Amused him, that is 
until Rory intruded with a memory of how much strife it 
caused.

Hours of intense fucking and midnight was near. The 
people were winding down. The stag ordered the restocking 
of the fires, bathing and feeding of themselves and the 
children in the cellar. Then he approached Dorcas. It was 
clear that the baskets were not to keep her in, but the 
others out. During the orgy, she had screamed for a good 
rutting until her throat grew hoarse.

But whenever a buck approached, the Great Stag warned 
them off. She knew she was being saved. But for what? 
Human sacrifice? She did not care. She did not fight it 
any longer. She was a woman, like these other women, 
sisters. All the silliness, vanity and pride at being 
something she was not had left her. It was a like a great 
weight had been lifted from her spirit.

The Stag's time was ending. He called all his people, new 
and old near. Even as they listened intently, they reach 
out and caressed each other's unclothed flesh. "You will 
always be my People, you newcomers as much as the 
old.Remember to bring new blood into the herd. This new 
mortal king is a good man and Rory Rolfson has a plan for 
dealing with him. Listen to him.

I have left you two barrels of wine, imbued with me 
essence. Place a tincture of them in each new solstice 
barrel so you will know life still wanders the wood. 
Remember that I love you, always."

Then the Horned One draped his pelt over the throne sat 
down and rested his head. When he looked up again, the 
people roared, "The King is dead. Long live the king!" 

All but an echo of the Great Horned One had left Rory. He 
had witnessed and taken part in all. 

Gweneth spoke up to her son. "What now, my lord?"

"Now we rebuild. This hall is a good refuge. We will be 
gamekeepers for the King. We will use him to guard the 
woods.

I will keep the name Rolfson, so as to not breed 
suspicion. But the Stedding will be renamed to Herntown, 
to remind us of our real allegiance."

"And me, my lord?" Rory's beautiful half-sister, swayed 
through the crowd. She held her hand behind her back, 
showing off her udders. Her hair was red-gold both above 
and below. Her hips were full but not fat, she was ready. 
"You know I always thought you were handsome."

Rory's blood grew warm and he felt a stiffening below. He 
looked down. Dorcas followed his gaze.

"Ohh, my lord." Unabashedly, she wrapped cool fingers 
around the base of the shaft. Her other hand could have 
wrapped around it too, with room to spare.

"Apparently no all of the Great Horned One's might has 
left, my lord."

This was the first time Rory, just Rory, was confronted 
by the fertility magic. It was his half-sister. He 
hesitated. The People almost stopped groping each other; 
the tension was so great.

"Do it, sir," Hissed Morgawse. "Mother, sister, maiden. 
It is The Way of the Triple Goddess."

"Join with her, my son," whispered Gweneth in his ear. 
"The people need new blood."

"Fuck her, my love." Spoke Allanna, triumphantly, "No 
woman can resist my man. If you want her, take her." Rory 
met her lips in a kiss. Her mouth opened to receive him.

A servant brought out a bed of furs so when the two 
lovers descended to the ground, it was ready for them. 
The rest of the people moved towards their own favored 
partners. The earlier screams and barks now moved into 
gentle sighs and quiet moans.

Morgawse, Gweneth and Allanna stayed with Rory, caressing 
the two lovers with hands and tongues. The two young 
people slithered up and down each other's body. They 
sucked in each other's body heat.

Rory found Dorcas's lips to be more intoxicating than any 
wine. Her breast sweeter than a honey and her sex, her 
sex was a peach, a juicy, sweet, nectary peach. 

He lingered to savor the juices. Dorcas ran her fingers 
through his dark curly hair and her sweet whispers of 
"Oooh my lord, that feels so good." swiftly rose to a 
shout of joy, "Oh ya! Ya! Yaaaaaaaaa." He wiped his chin 
on her thighs.

When he stood, she scratched him against her. "I love 
you. I love you. I love you. Oh bed me now, please bed 
me!"

Gently, Rory lowered her onto the bed of fur cloaks. 
Allanna laid our Dorcas' hair so it spread around her 
head like an aura. She impatiently spread her legs and 
Rory slipped in to her soaking wet nether lips. She 
sighed. He hunched his back so they could kiss with the 
other set of lips as well. Then he bent his hips forward 
and back in rapid succession.

As the tension built, she broke the kiss and shouted. 
"Ya. Ya fill me up. Fuck my cunt. Ah my cunt is burning! 
Fill me up. Och, you are so big. Aya aya ya Aya!!!" Rory 
arched his back at the same time, spewing his seed deep 
inside his half sister. 

In the afterglow of the lovemaking, Dorcas thought about 
how lucky she was, how the Stag had saved her form a 
bitter, fruitless life. She realized, now, that her sex 
was not a coin. Rather, it was a gift, to be shared with 
loved ones and celebrated. 

As for Rory, he was satisfied he had found a strong, near 
fearless woman to lead the People, as well as share is 
bed. Both now belonged to each other.

Mother, sister, maiden, Rory took them all to his new 
bed, the chieftain's bed. Each woman and all his children 
brought something to his household. The bounty of babies 
in the Fall kept the midwives buys.

The king was well pleased with his new gamekeeper and the 
village that supported him. The Rolfson clan flourished 
as the Woods prospered. And every Winter Solstice, a bit 
of the Old Wine was mixed with the new. And thought he 
effect was not as dramatic, it was still very, very, 
magical.

END

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Please keep this story, and all erotic stories out of
the hands of children. They should be outside playing
in the sunshine, not thinking about adult situations.

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Kristen's collection - Directory 19