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Castaspella wants to shout at the tug-of-war between that relentless ache in the balls of her feet and the pride that insists she not voice her discomfort.
Already, she’s been following Shadow Weaver through the Whispering Woods for moons know how long and still, the promise offered by the Heart seems more daunting than beneficial. Perhaps what bothers Casta most is her own trepidation that she might not have what it takes to stop the witch from taking what she wants. While the headmistress of Mystacor must admit surprise at the fallen sorceress’s reluctant request to step in should the temptation become too great, Casta now just hopes she can fulfill her promise, should the need arise.
Even now, as she struggles to distract herself from the craggy rocks that push at the soles of her shoes and the jagged branches that tear at her cloak, an unbidden memory flashes into her mind – that eerily intriguing combination of apprehension and anticipation at Shadow Weaver’s proximity as she stood behind Castaspella toward the start of their journey.
As much as Casta is loath to acknowledge that thrill even to herself, she finds she cannot halt her train of thought that suddenly spirals into how long it’s been since she last pleasured—
“How many times must I tell you to keep up?” that deep, infuriating voice pulls Casta from her thoughts like a crude splash of cold water to the face.
“I’m going as fast as I can with this cloak…” she bites back, skipping over yet another barely visible rock as she finally falls into step behind the witch.
She has grown very tried of trailing behind the older woman like some lost puppy.
“The cloak is hardly necessary,” Shadow Weaver quips, not slowing her pace. “I’ve already told you we can’t afford to stop for the night. We need to scout out the caves for the Heart before more time runs out.”
“Don’t you even need to rest?” Castaspella protests, determined to keep stride with the older woman.
“I never said we couldn’t rest,” the sorceress replies, “simply that we couldn’t stop for the night.”
Chest equal parts inflating in relief and deflating in embarrassment, Castaspella finally stands her ground and stops in her tracks. “I’ll take that rest now, then. These shoes aren’t meant for hiking.”
“You could always break off the heels,” Shadow Weaver suggests, glancing up through the forest canopy at the new and beautiful stars, likely feigning boredom as Casta sits on a large boulder at the base of the nearest tree.
“I happen to have respect for my belongings, thank you very much,” the headmistress huffs, as she removes her cramped footwear, inwardly aching for a dip in the likely frigid stream several paces away.
“We shouldn’t linger here,” Shadow Weaver’s grave tone sends more shivers down Casta’s nape than it should. “We don’t know what could be lurking among these trees.”
Casta scoffs. “I’m not one of your wards, Shadow Weaver. Your children’s ghost stories won’t work on me. Save it for the Horde propaganda.”
“Except now that the true Horde has landed, machines threaten us more than any spirits.”
“I imagine a dark sorceress telling frightening tales to children in the black of night far outweighs anything a robot could muster,” Casta retorts, as she finishes rubbing the soles of her feet.
Shadow Weaver doesn’t reply right away. Instead, she turns her head from the trees above to gaze with narrowed, stark white sockets at Castaspella. All at once, the other sorceress feels smaller than she has in a while – and not only due to the height difference, comforted only by the steady rushing of the nearby stream.
Unfortunately, given the relative proximity at which the older woman stands, Casta can’t help as her gaze flits to the dark rose and ebony design at the front of the witch’s robes. All at once, she can’t prevent her gaze wandering from that harsh visage to the perfectly trimmed attire at her waist to the manner in which the dress flows out seamlessly at the hips.
No. Those thoughts are horrendous – this is the woman who nearly got Micah killed before wasting all chances to destroy the Horde from the inside.
“Can I help you with something?” That irritating voice comes off unusually low, almost soft.
“I—no,” Casta’s cheeks redden like a moonset. “Do you mind if I just…soak my feet in the stream over there? I won’t be long…”
“Be my guest,” Shadow Weaver cuts in. “I expect I don’t need to advise you as to the temperature.”
“I’m quite aware of the weather,” Casta nearly barks before reining in her spite and turning to wade up to her ankles without a second thought.
The icy water gnashes at her flesh seconds before the air rushes from her lungs. Through her haze of shock and near panic, her ears detect the hollow chuckle from behind her.
“Looks like you require some assistance, after all.”
Before Castaspella can manage a sufficient comeback regarding the witch’s loss of magic, the retort dies on her tongue at the sensation of warmth enveloping her calves. Mere moments pass before Casta realizes the older sorceress has laced their fingers together.
“You…” Casta begins, inwardly hoping this feeling doesn’t betray her to a renewed chill, “You better not be draining me. Adora healed you.”
“While the hunger will likely never vanish,” Shadow Weaver admits, further surprising the younger sorceress as she joins Casta in the shallow water, “I simply require your magic to supplement my weakened power. Without our joined efforts, you would still be freezing your extremities off. Moreover, She-Ra's magic dampened the parasitic effects of Obtainment. Rest assured I will not feed from you. Not in any way you don’t desire, that is.”
Despite the comfort of the warm water, Casta’s muscles tighten at the implication in those words. While she should hardly marvel at Shadow Weaver’s predatory nature potentially taking a seductive turn…her pliancy under such a suggestion disturbs her more than the older woman’s possible intentions.
Before she can stop herself, anger overrides her hesitation, though she can’t bring herself to remove her hand from the sorceress’s. “You dare to make such jokes with the sister of the man you nearly killed twice.”
A quiet hum in response, as the stream water grows even hotter, rivaling the temperature of the healing pools at Mystacor. “The Spell of Obtainment forced certain actions I would rather not have taken. Micah understood my intentions in casting the Spell were entirely honorable. He helped me of his own accord. He was besotted with me, after all.”
Casta’s chest drops, as she bites her lower lip. “He was an adolescent, Shadow Weaver. The bar was hardly set very high. He wants nothing to do with you anymore. And I see right through you, you will not get anywhere—"
“Your brother supported me during a compromising situation with the former headmaster,” Shadow Weaver continues, as if Casta hadn’t spoken. “For that, I owe him.”
Casta’s toes curl amidst pebbles on the floor of the streambed, finally making to remove her hand. “I really don’t need to hear further excuses about your perverse obsession with—”
Castaspella barely has time to feel annoyance at the way the witch keeps cutting her off before her hip bones make contact with the bank at the deeper end of the stream half a meter from where they had entered. A little cooler here yet still tepid, the water soaks through Casta’s dress to lap at her belly, as Shadow Weaver once again looms behind her.
“Perhaps,” comes that whisper in her ear, hot breath tickling the younger woman’s earlobe, “You envy the affections I have for your brother. Moons, I think we can agree from that little interrogation session that Queen Angella certainly envied the desire her husband had for—”
Casta sees red. Pure rage welling in her chest, she whirls around despite the heaviness of the water surrounding them, switching their positions as she slams the sorceress into the streambank.
“You leave Angella out of this! My brother never wanted any of the mess you got him into! He refused to even take a title like the rest of us, he was so determined to leave it all behind.”
”Good thing you and your ambition stepped in to take his place at the institute,” the witch goads, swiveling her neck a hair to regard Castaspella.
”All you do is lie, twist and destroy,” she seethes, ire fusing with latent desire, as she can no longer ignore the ache between her thighs at the way her hips press against Shadow Weaver’s backside. “Have you ever spoken a single shred of truth in your life?”
Those white sockets bore into dark eyes for only a moment before the reply comes. “I have nothing to hide, Castaspella. It seems you might be the one hiding. Why deny yourself what you truly want? Because the world might judge you? The world will judge you, anyway.”
“Not hiding anything, hm?” Casta scoffs, fingers already rising from the water, as she fights the urge to linger on the memory of the witch on her knees back at Bright Moon. “Then, surely, you won’t mind me taking a peek.”
The younger woman has to wonder at the lack of resistance beyond a mere tensing of that lower back against her abdomen, as the witch pivots to once again face Casta. Heart pounding in her ears, the younger sorceress finally peels away that maroon disguise.
The first feature Castaspella registers are the eyes – marred like cracked glass, yes, but they are actual eyes that emote rather than artificial sockets that betray nothing.
Cold fingers, barely touched by the lukewarm water around them, slip the mask from her grasp with more gentleness than seems characteristic of Shadow Weaver. Casta’s eyes trail along those dark, path-like scars that decorate the witch’s otherwise youthful face, only to disappear beneath her high collar.
Turning back to Castaspella after placing her mask upon the bank, the older sorceress smirks. “No more twists.”
Casta barely stifles a cry, as two fingers from the witch’s other hand snake beneath the water’s surface to play at the apex of her thighs over the soaked thin material.
No, she doesn’t want to think of the Light Spinner from her youth – vibrant chartreuse eyes dulled to a murky green – as capable of inciting such delicious desires in her. Before she can stop them, thoughts of her brother with this witch flood her conscious just as Shadow Weaver’s hands lift the front of Casta’s dress around her hips.
Palm coming up to silence a scream that betrays both humiliated arousal and terror over the sudden aching lust she feels for this creature that has haunted Casta’s nightmares for years, Shadow Weaver spins them yet again.
"We mustn't attract the Horde spies," that hiss tickles the sensitive skin of Castaspella's throat.
She barely has time to whimper against the moist flesh of the witch’s hand, as a slender digit enters her from behind.
The palm lowers the moment true panic starts to set in, and before Castaspella can form any words, the finger inside her curls upward in a manner that evokes the post pitiful whine the younger sorceress ever thought herself capable of.
Tears of humiliation sting her eyes, as all reservations fall away. Shamelessly, she rocks her hips back against those delicious ministrations, even as her senses register a chin coming to almost rest upon her left shoulder, firm fingers rising to knead at her right breast.
“Micah was a brilliant pupil who showed more promise than anyone I have ever had the pleasure of instructing,” and indignance rises once more in Casta’s core. “But even he knew he was the exception. My primary predilections have always lay…elsewhere.”
The older woman takes advantage of the water’s buoyancy to lift Casta so the younger sorceress practically slides up and down that maddening digit, and Casta chokes down a groan as teeth graze the spot between shoulder and throat. Too far gone for further shame, Castaspella has to wonder what level of depravity the sorceress could have managed at the prime of her dark magic wielding days. If those shadow tendrils from the attack on Mystacor several years prior had been any indication...
Boldness suddenly rising at the notion that this fallen sorceress is technically servicing her, Castaspella decides to take that advice and prioritize control over image. Lifting her fingers to trace along the defined jawline of the sorceress at her shoulder, Casta voices her thoughts.
“It seems you’ve lost that perpetual control you’re known for,” she taunts, barely masking the waver in her voice just as she finally acknowledges that her climax already promises to arrive within mere moments. “Is that what the late Master Norwyn said of you, as well? Eager, easy Light Spinner—”
For the second time that night, Castaspella finds herself with the wind knocked out of her - this time, face down in the sparse patches of grass on the riverbank, catching her fall just in time to brace against the impact with her knees.
The chilled air scarcely strikes her backside before she bites back a yelp at the prodding of a warm, wet tongue at her core. When the witch speaks, her words drip poison, as that hot breath whispers across the headmistress’s exposed ass.
“Never, ever presume to speak as if you know what transpired with that old bastard, Headmistress.”
The apprehension that rises within Casta would have likely turned to terror by now if not for the overwhelming need to climax.
“To feel someone within you,” the witch continues, “despite not desiring their touch like a wanton beast the way you do mine. Telekinesis can be a gift and a curse. Just imagine using magic to…”
Through her own spite, Casta swears she detects the hint of a quaver in the older sorceress’s voice as she continues, following what feels like a harsh nip to the back of the headmistress’s thigh, “…to convulse the muscles against the victim’s will purely for one’s own sadistic pleasure.”
Overcome with a simultaneous wave of sympathy and shock, Casta cannot quell the keening cry that escapes her as that languid serpent assaults her center anew, sweeping her slick opening and tonguing her clit from a rear angle that shatters the younger sorceress’s awareness in a sea of quaking limbs and singing flesh.
The haze clears the moment the night air hits her rump, and Casta finally turns to face Shadow Weaver. Idly, she registers her cloak has come undone, likely lying somewhere on the dark forest floor.
Those polluted green eyes serve as only a fleeting distraction from that scarred chin shining with Castaspella’s release.
“I-I didn’t know. How…” she pauses, at a loss for words at first. “How did you not escape…?”
“Master Norwyn raised me at Mystacor,” Shadow Weaver deadpans. “I was one of many orphans he discovered while scouting for exotic variety as much as magical talent and groomed until we saw the world in him. He taught us to speak eloquently and serve as Mystacor’s emblem of magical tutelage. We strove for the epitome of perfection and class, even if it meant some of us concealing certain features considered to be...brusque. Believe it or not, I took quite a while to master the craft of sorcery. Keep at it, and you might just follow suit.”
“So, you practice the same manner of manipulation with Micah? And Adora?” Casta replies, with less spite in her voice given this new revelation. Still, Light Spinner could not be forgiven for her crimes. Nor can Shadow Weaver.
“I have never forced my students nor my wards to hide who they are. Micah engaged with me of his own volition,” Shadow Weaver reminds her, as she resumes a sitting position on her knees. “Many of Norwyn’s mentees submitted willingly out of fear or a sense of indebtedness, deeming me a foolish ingrate for my reservations. I managed to resist his advances for a time...until I reached late adolescence, and he began using magic. In a different manner every time to catch me off guard...five years before you or Micah ever attended Mystacor.
”The charms on the island didn't only make us invisible, they also bound all of his mentees - until the Spell of Obtainment ended up being my only means of escape. I can't say I blame any of you for defacing my statue...the headmaster only had it erected after taking what he wanted. I wasn't even granted admission to the Guild until then."
Casta shifts against a shiver across the back of her shoulders, as she chances a glance up through the canopy at those riveting yet somehow frightening stars. She swallows against the lump in her throat, head too cloudy to process the strong emotions trying to bubble forth.
"After catching Norwyn in the act one evening after sneaking into the Healing Pools," Shadow Weaver continues softly, "Micah insisted on standing watch as I slept. Your brother is still one of the few interactions to which I’ve willingly consented. To think, if a fraction of the magic used for entrapment and violation had been channeled toward defeating the Horde...”
Castaspella fights the urge to fume at the flowery language the witch uses to discuss decidedly sordid affairs, particularly concerning her own family. Notwithstanding, that afterglow still ebbs through her veins, as she voices her next thought. “It is unfortunate what happened to you. I cannot imagine having my hand forced.”
“Sheltered gem that you are,” Shadow Weaver’s tone could carry mirth or bitterness, Casta can’t quite decide. “If you must know, the old goat wasn’t even the worst of it.”
Casta’s brown eyes widen. “What could possibly be worse…”
“Dark magic,” Shadow Weaver begins again, prompting the younger woman to fall silent, “is both achingly beautiful and devastating. The rush of euphoria that simmers in your very blood renders all thoughts obsolete for what can feel like an eternity. I didn’t experience my first brush with such sweet oblivion until the moment tendrils of shadow permeated my entire being. And not only through the surface of the flesh…it begins with the natural orifices, you see. The eyes, the nostrils, the gullet, the nethers…all of it. The worst part, well…imagine facing the deepest agony and greatest bliss you ever thought possible.”
“Then,” Casta cannot stop her gaze from taking in the soaked front of the older sorceress’s robes, “the scars are…everywhere.”
A stretch of silence again sets in, as Casta soon realizes that dull stare might unnerve her even more than the emotionless mask she has come to know.
“Would you like to see?”
Before Castaspella can even respond, Shadow Weaver begins removing the shawl that crosses her own front as swiftly as she undoes the buttons of the bodice beneath.
In mere moments, Casta soon realizes the sorceress technically now wears fewer clothes than herself.
Could it be? Is Shadow Weaver really letting someone else in? Well, it would seem that the older sorceress certainly desires such…and Casta figures they can both tell from the nectar that the witch’s tongue finally swipes from her own lips that the younger sorceress shares the sentiment. The sight alone provokes a yearning ache in Castaspella’s belly, lips parting as her breath hitches.
For some reason that Castaspella cannot quite fathom, she thinks to the pitying gaze of Angella upon her sister-in-law's status as overworked, unwed Head Sorceress; of her parents’ incessant praise of Micah – and how she can finally partake in a similar opportunity and experience awarded to her brother. If possible, as much as it pains her to admit, she almost feels the need to make it somehow better for this husk of the once great Light Spinner. This jewel of magical brilliance turned nightmare.
Before she can even mask her intrigue, Castaspella lets her gaze roam over scars that wind from modest breasts down to ample hips and thighs.
Somehow, despite all of the pain and horror between them, Castaspella cannot deny the nearly unfathomable beauty of the woman reclining on the grass before her.
Face partially illuminated by dappled moonlight through the trees above, Shadow Weaver allows the ghost of a smile, hinting the glint of fangs at Castaspella. Perhaps the attribute Master Norwyn had sought to hide behind that veil for purposes of image?
Riddled with anxiety in the face of only scattered experiences with women and even fewer men during her studies, Casta swallows as the drive to spoil this sorceress washes over her in an almost dizzying wave.
Not bothering with her own gown and, in fact, enjoying the difference in their state of dress, the headmistress crawls forth on her knees. Stroking drying fingers along the ruined yet unexpectedly taut grey flesh of the witch’s thighs, Castaspella can’t even be bothered to care about the brisk breeze that whirls about her soaked gown.
Ebony hair strewn on the ground like a dark halo, Shadow Weaver's pale green eyes flutter shut, as Castaspella leans forward. Long ashen legs parting of their own accord, Casta’s mouth waters at the sight of the clearly eager sorceress.
Beginning with feather-light kisses to her lower belly, the headmistress maneuvers her lips over Shadow Weaver’s left inner thigh. As soon as those hips rise in anticipation, Castaspella almost smirks at the power she finally feels.
Addictive, indeed.
Fingers grasping the witch’s calves to hold her in place as one hand escapes to fondle an erect nipple above, Castaspella drags out the torture just a bit longer – if not also to quell her own nerves at the heady scent emanating from that still hidden center...not to mention the reservation over the suspicion that Casta's family relations might not be entirely independent from the fallen sorceress's amenability.
Managing not to shiver as two hands tangle themselves in the mess of her disheveled bun, Casta concludes with identical treatment to the sorceress’s right thigh…before finally letting those legs fall open.
Castaspella’s breath catches at the sight before her – black pathways riddle the grey flesh even here, one jagged mark twisting its way into the left edge of her glistening entrance, marking its route with a tear to those otherwise sizeable lower lips.
Meanwhile, the older sorceress has already begun a steady rhythm with her hips at the mere breath of the younger woman contemplating her sex – and Casta has to wonder just how long it’s been since Shadow Weaver has been touched, especially of her own desire.
Surprisingly encouraged rather than deterred by the fingers digging into her scalp, Casta envelopes the hood above that marred opening with her warm mouth, suckling with as much care as possible. The moment a low groan rumbles through Shadow Weaver, Castaspella can’t ignore the renewed ache in her own belly, as the tip of her tongue flits out to begin teasing that bundle of nerves.
Casta swears her ears pick up a whimper that dies in the witch’s throat, as those fingers stroke through her loosened black tresses.
That triangle of coarse black hair tickles Castaspella’s nose, as she finally removes her right hand from the older sorceress’s calf to play her middle and index finger across the slit beneath her chin.
A tightened grasp on her hair barely precedes Shadow Weaver’s growl, “Get on with it.”
Desire surging at the unabashed need rolling off of the witch in waves, Castaspella renews the flicking of her tongue over that sensitive clit, as her two fingers delve within warm, soaked depths.
With a guttural moan, Shadow Weaver tosses her head back, as she begins thrusting against the headmistress’s face.
Only spurred on further by this renewed vigor, Casta can’t help the moan that leaves her own lips and vibrates into the cunt she currently devours. Especially not once she registers that smooth, tight flesh undulating around her digits.
Shadow Weaver peaks with a hoarse cry that sends several night birds scattering through the trees above, walls clamping down upon Castaspella’s fingers as she rides out a climax that couldn’t have taken more than a minute to achieve.
Drawing back to catch her breath, Casta regrets withdrawing her fingers almost too much to ponder the inky black nectar that marks her hand.
The sorceress begins dressing quicker than Castaspella can properly note how the older woman doesn’t even seem winded. Averting her eyes, the headmistress rinses off her hands in the stream, then rises to her feet, straightening her dress and re-fixing the clasp around a new makeshift bun. She doesn’t bother with her mouth, figuring Shadow Weaver’s essence will blend well enough with her black lipstick...to say nothing of the tart honey flavor, the appeal of which she doesn’t want to dwell upon....
Casta wants to kick herself for the pang of disappointment she feels as the older woman replaces that emotionless mask back over her features. Even as she replaces her own cloak and fallen golden crown, she dares to chance, “Do you—”
“The break is over,” Shadow Weaver states, with less bite than Castaspella would have expected. “We move along from here.”
“I-thank you,” is all Casta trusts herself to say, deciding that the statement is neutral enough as to remain open to interpretation.
A pause ensues, as Shadow Weaver halts, piquing the headmistress’s curiosity – perhaps even hope. The hope for change, for openness, for honesty. For something less…twisted.
“It was enjoyable.” Always uncomfortable with prolonged silence, the truth once again tumbles out before Castaspella can stop herself.
“The emptiness is slower to return if you don’t dwell on the joy,” that deep rasp replies, as Shadow Weaver resumes her brisk pace into the darkness of the woods.
As Castaspella gathers up her discarded shoes, the pointed heels vanish with a wave of her hand.