A Simple Request

It was not a difficult request, and yet Wallowe knew he had to be cautious while fulfilling it.
He fixed his gaze upon the Woman—upon the Witch—watching the faint motions of her breath as if the air itself trembled around her. The Etafop she had spoken into being was so thick that she herself could not see through it, though it did not stop her from remaining alert, nor from keeping her predatory stance. Wallowe knew well that any witch was a creature of heightened senses. Who could guess how many of their organs they had trained into unnatural refinement, into something keener than those of ordinary mortals? No—no one knew.
Therefore Wallowe had to be careful.

“A simple request,” the Witch repeated in her deep, resonant tone. She paused, shifting her posture as she reclined, curling her legs as though settling into the stone. “Is it too difficult for a Farmer?” she added, letting a slow smile unfold upon her lips.

Here, Wallowe felt a flicker of curiosity—dangerous curiosity. But one must never become too foolish, especially if one was a “Farmer”—though Wallowe, in truth, was a horseman from Antioch. He reminded himself of his training, his strength, and the manner of men he had ridden beside.
The cold of the dungeon’s damp walls seeped through his skin; the only warmth came from a torch burning far from him. He was grateful even for that meager light—though it did nothing to warm him, it revealed the Witch’s pale complexion, a hue not meant to be seen by common eyes. And her smile—playful, sweet, and perilous.

He knelt. Half her torso lay hidden in the shadows of the cell. Wallowe lifted his head slightly, glancing around—his eyes fell upon the iron guard sitting in the corridor. The guard was slumped against the wall, laughing softly to himself.

“He seems drunk,” Wallowe thought, relieved. It meant he would not be closely watched as he carried out the Witch’s request.

The Witch chuckled quietly; Wallowe’s attention rushed back to her at once. A tremor ran through him, making his lower body quiver and his lips tremble. He nearly pulled away, but the Witch calmed again, her serene and rare beauty emerging—beauty Wallowe felt he had never glimpsed in all his life.

“Why? Why are you imprisoned?” he asked. His voice steadied as the trembling faded. He wiped his hands upon his clothes, as though ridding them of the dungeon’s filth.

The Witch was captivating—she was a Woman, after all… and she was beautiful. Beautiful like an angel fallen into shadow.
“Why... Are you frightened?” she demanded. Above her head, the chains rattled softly. Her arms were lifted, bound between two iron clasps. Her palms were torn and bleeding; her fingers blackened with decay—yet strangely, no scent of rot lingered. Wallowe heard the clinking of the chains swaying, gently… rhythmically…
“Listen,” she whispered, her voice small, sweet, and strangely affectionate. Wallowe obeyed. He crawled toward her as a child crawls toward the first toy given to him—like a gift from a mother.
Closer… and closer… swallowing his fear, though the taste of it was bitter and metallic on his tongue.

The Witch exhaled softly.
As she lowered her head, a string of saliva slipped from her lips, disappearing into the darkness—perhaps falling upon her abdomen. Wallowe recoiled, repulsed, and prayed he would not become her tool for some obscene pleasure. He froze, sitting on his knees like a dog, observing the Witch as she bowed over something unseen.
“Do you hear it?” she asked.
Wallowe’s heart hammered, and his eyes widened.
“No—I… I didn’t hear you speak.”
The Witch laughed again—this time with a teasing cruelty.
Then, raising her head slowly, she beckoned him closer, assuring him again that the iron guard was drunk, and promising she would not use him as a plaything.

“Come,” she whispered.

Wallowe wanted to—but his legs refused to move. After ten seconds of inner turmoil, he shook his head.

The Witch closed her eyes and bowed gently, like someone drifting into sleep. Before she fully sank into that posture, she murmured: “Do not fear. You will understand something soon. Not all evil is what you think. I will show you something… and you will not be harmed. He is drunk. You are safe. When you come near, you will choose—between me, or yourself. Do not tremble. In time, I will use you—for that. But not tonight. One day.”
And then she grew still. Wallowe was lost entirely.
The request was small—anyone could fulfill it if they were not alone. But he was alone… and so he alone had to bear it. He thought of nothing but himself and the Witch’s small request. The League had questions he was supposed to ask her, but perhaps he could earn her favor first… then obtain her answers.

He sat in silence for several minutes—long enough to forget time. And in those minutes, no one understood what he pondered…
The Witch waited patient as stone, occasionally rattling the chains. Sometimes her blood fell—a soft drizzle, crimson but soundless.

At last, Wallowe decided.
He would fulfill the Witch’s request.

He lifted his gaze. Half her body was lit by the distant firelight—an erotically sculpted silhouette. He approached, closing his eyes to avoid staring at her naked form. But the request itself… that was harder.

He only had to bring his head to her stomach. That was all. Just that.
And then—then she might reveal to him what she wanted him to know.

He reached out carefully.
His hand brushed the floor, then moved upward… touching skin.
The Witch flinched and released a small, incredible moan.
Wallowe’s hand floated for a moment—then fell upon a warm surface.
“Yes… there,” the Witch murmured.

Wallowe hesitated to look at her. His cheeks warmed with a shy flush.
“That is my stomach. My stomach,” she repeated, “Yes. There.”
“All right,” Wallowe said softly. “I will lift my head if you become uncomfortable.”

The Witch giggled, the sound slithering across the stones. She pulled at her chains and shifted her soft, heavy thighs.
“So it may be more comfortable—for you,” she whispered.

And so Wallowe leaned in—closer, and closer still—until his ear, then the whole side of his head, pressed upon her abdomen. He heard her breath first. Then—small eruptions of acid. And then… the micro-screams.

Wallowe shuddered. A cold exhalation escaped him.
He pushed his head deeper into her flesh.

And he heard— screams, whimpers, mad laughter, weeping, and the wild pitch of stupidity— like music falling from the lithosphere, onto the roofs of flesh that should have been digesting instead of dreaming.

He listened to madness as long as his head lay there. He did not want to rise, even as his heart threatened to burst, even as a phantom pain clawed at his ribs.

When he steadied himself, the Witch moaned again.
This time, the moan was unmistakably hungry—yet also lustful. A monstrous desire, halfway between devouring and mating.

Now Wallowe understood the danger: either he would be devoured alive, or he would be forced to breed with the Witch— a creature whose appetite was said to rival that of a hare in spring.

He never lifted his head.

And according to the League, he vanished that night.
They refused to comment, choosing instead to send another soldier—someone brave enough to interrogate the Witch…