Rising

   (MF, FF, Fantasy, Viol., Long, Oral, Anal, Cons., Non-Cons, Blkmail.)

   Prologue



   The sky was painted with smoke.  It cast a heavy gloom, promising a
sizable downpour of hail laced rain, a stinging sleet that would smother
and sap the strength of all.  The dark and suffocating drear of the sky had
already sapped their spirits.

   Methaniel stood upon the small rise of a hill, his hand resting on the
hilt of his broadsword.  His armor gleamed in the rare flicker of light to
penetrate the smoke and cloud.  A large dent graced the left of his
breastplate.  It had originally been much larger, but had since been worked
out as well as the smith could manage.  The smithy was crowded with more
heavily damaged equipment, so Methaniel did not mind.  The damaged plate
pressed inward against his pectoral muscle till it ached.  It was one of
many minor discomforts that he couldn't find the heart to complain about.
His life remained and he stood without any heavy wounds or handicaps.  It
was more than most could say.  After nearly a year waging war on the
battlefield, only the luck of the goddess could explain his relatively
unscathed state.

   The land before him stretched on, a bloody and scarred field with thick
mud that had been trampled by countless boots.  The coming rain would only
worsen it, and footing would be difficult when the rain lifted and the
armies met on the field.  It could be tomorrow...it could be a week. 
Winter storms in the mountainous regions were never certain.  Beyond the
field he could make out the hastily erected tents of the enemy encampment.
They too would be counting their dead today, re-grouping and rearming their
remaining soldiers and horses.  Upon the morn, battle would commence anew.

   He swept a shining copper lock from his face, pushing it back to hang
down to his shoulders.  His hands grasped his cloak and pulled it tighter
around his body in a futile effort to ward off the chill and damp breeze.
He stood motionless a moment longer, a tall and proud figure atop the small
rise, gazing on at the grim truth of his world.  He turned and his cloak
whipped back and billowing out in the slight breeze that filled it.  He
walked back to his tent.

   Before he could reach his tent Grimlock intercepted him.

   Grimlock was a physician, though he was a dwarf, and a burly one with
massive, gnarled hands that looked better suited to the smithy than the
delicacies of medicine and healing.  He was something of an oddity in that
he was one of the very few physicians in the army.  With clerics and
priests to neatly tend the wounded through divinities, holy spells, and
sacred relics, physicians were deemed messy and unreliable.  However, in
recent months the war had become more costly than ever, and the death toll
was on a steady climb.  The clerics and holy men were overwhelmed by the
dead and wounded, and a call had gone out to those who healed not through
magic, but through science.

   "A moment m' lord," Grimlock rumbled.  He wiped blood from his meaty
hands with a rag heavily splotched in red.

   "What news, Grimlock?" Methaniel asked quietly.

   "Arthas din'a make it.  The lad's taken `is place in the gods' kingdom,"
said Grimlock somberly.  "I be sorry, Methaniel.  He was a good lad.  I
couldn'a help him."

   "I understand, Grimlock.  I held little hope that he would survive.  The
wound was grievous," Methaniel replied.  He patted the dwarve's broad
shoulder gently and began to walk to his tent once more.

   "Methaniel," Grimlock spoke after him.  "Ye need to see this."

   The Dwarf pulled a large arrow from where it had been tucked into his
belt.  Methaniel turned and approached Grimlock.  He took the arrow and
turned it slowly in his hands.  The shaft was slightly bent, either from
the impact with which it slammed into Arthas' chest or by Grimlock when he
extracted it, which one Methaniel couldn't tell.  It painted black and had
no other distinguishing features.  The arrow head, bent and chipped from
thudding into Arthas' sternum, was made of steel, which would penetrate
deeply if the aim was true.

   "Thank you, good Dwarf.  This makes some things clear...and others less
so."

   Methaniel would say nothing else and walked into his tent with the arrow
clutched tightly in his fist, leaving the physician to scratch thoughtfully
at his beard.























   Chapter One



   An hour before dawn Ahma awoke.  The seven other women in her room were
in the same process of waking; they were all used to years of the routine.
A chill breeze rushed through the cracks between the stone walls, causing
the women to shiver as they dressed and braided each others hair.  Hannah,
the only other Wingling in the house, helped Ahma to braid her thick brunet
tresses.  Ahma returned the favor and carefully groomed the older woman's
delicate, dainty wings.

   The two Winglings scurried out of the servants quarters and tailed the
others to the kitchens.  The fires were burning in the stoves, the only
light coming into the room.  Soon the kitchen would be fully lit by
sunlight streaming through the windows.  The cook put out the servants
food.

   Breakfast was only ten minutes these days, a merger meal of crust and
scraps of last night's few pieces of meat.  Very few words were exchanged
during the meal.  Ahma sat in sullen silence and tried to calm the
grumbling of her stomach demanding more than what had been set out for it.
She finished her thin, gruelish porridge and started the hard crust
provided for her.  The bindings holding her wings tightly to her body
chaffed at her.  The discomfort and pain ruined her appetite as it always
did, and she forced herself to eat even the little amount of food she had.

   After the morning meal the servants split apart and began their duties
around the manor.  Hannah went to the foyer at the front of the Manor to
clean.  Ahma made her way toward the library.  It had been her desire for
some time to be the servant assigned to the library.  Cleaning the room,
dusting the shelves, polishing the desks and chairs took a full week to
complete, but the room held fond memories for her, from the times before
the old Master's death.

   The study was massive.  The Master had been an advocate of books in a
realm that was only marginally literate.  Aside from the royal library
(which from what Ahma had heard from Gareth, a Halfling man who once worked
in the palace, was largely unused), Master Daelen's study was one of the
single largest collection of text in the north most reach of Durinum. 
Bookcases stretch from ceiling to floor, worked from rich, well polished
oak.  The volumes gracing the shelves ranged from barely an inch thick to
being almost too big for Ahma to properly carry.  The well-dusted volumes
were written in the native script of nearly all the races that coexisted in
Durinum, and even some that did not.  Two great, spacious windows occupied
the only wall that was not crowded by bookcases.  The windows overlooked
the richest of the Manor's south gardens.  The sun crept through the window
and edged the well-trimmed hedges and brightly blooming pants in the
glowing orange of dawn.

   First, she dusted and polished the master sitting chair, as she had
every day for more than a decade.  It was a tall backed, well crafted chair
befitting nobility, carved from cherry wood with intricate and fine vines
and wildlife along the back and a true rarity: a padded, feather-down seat.
She could still see him, sitting upright and proud in his comfortable
chair, gesturing to a book he wanted to read.  Often, he would read aloud
to her, letting her neglect whatever duties she had that day.

   But those were different times.  She now had to finish her duties before
the evening meal or there would be consequences.  Not just for her, but for
everyone.  The death of the Master meant hardship for everyone and personal
grief for herself.

   She didn't have time to think about it, and her state of mind would only
deteriorate if she did.  She emptied the shelves on the west wall today. 
She tended each wall and its respective shelf on a daily rotation; there
were simply too many books in the study to tend and clean in one day.  The
Wingling girl dusted and polished the wood.  It gleamed with the care of
dozens of servants over the years.  The manor had stood for hundreds of
years.  It was rumored to have been built and first inhabited by an
extension of the royal family itself, and later given as a gift by the king
to the Master's grand father for his service to the throne.  With proper
care, this library would stand for another hundred years or more, and Ahma
felt an odd sense of pride for her role in keeping it in shape.

   She put the books back on the shelves in exact order.  The Master had
spent countless hours organizing the library, with her help, after his
retirement from the knights.  He had been the first in generations of his
line to organize the room, really to even care for it.  He had declared a
need for a hobby once his retirement was official, and with his son so far
from home, he had set about busying himself fully with the study's
organization and refurbishing.  He was not a man comfortable in idleness,
that much had been sure.  Even with his attention focused upon the study,
it was obvious he was not comfortable no longer having an active role in
Durinum's army.  The Master had always struck her as being somewhat
lonely...His wife, the love of his life, had passed away before Ahma had
even come to the Manor, and he had never taken another woman to her
knowledge.  His son had rarely been home...she could hardly even remember
seeing him in her youth.  Perhaps that was why the Master had always talked
to her and been kind to her.  Ahma had become something of a strange
companion to him...and he, a father to her.  Some of the other servants had
been resentful, especially the Stewart...but the Master had told her to pay
no mind.

   Ahma sniffled softly.  She clenched her jaw and willed the wave of
misery to pass.  It had been nearly half a year since the Master had
passed, and with him, the only bit of kindness in her life.  She would not
give in to self pity, and the period of mourning for the Noble had ended
four months ago.  But how could one confine one's grief to a set period? 
Humans and their traditions confounded her sometimes.

   Quickly as she could, but much attention and care, Ahma finished with
the shelves and books before moving to the Master's desk.  It was large,
also carved out of cherry wood, and during the Master's life, surprisingly
cluttered and messy considering what a neat and orderly man the Master
usually was.  Now it was clean and neat, with a pen set beside a capped
inkwell and a stack of unblemished parchment beside it.  The Master's
favorite book, written in elvish (which he had spoken fluently) and bound
in leather sat on the left side of the desk, placed there intentionally by
her.  He had often read it to her.  It described Dragons, the fearsome
creatures that were feared and hated the realm over.  The mountainous
reaches of Durinum had once housed many roosts of the wyrms, but the
spreading nation had chased the massive creatures away with raiding parties
too large for even their impressive might to contend with.  Ahma had never
seen a Dragon of course...No one had, except for perhaps the oldest of
Durinum's elves, but she was as secretly fascinated with them as the Master
had been.

   Ahma let out a heavy sigh and stood up.  Her wings were stiff and achy
from all the bending and stretching she did while she cleaned.  The sun
filled the room, stifled by the gloom of heavy winter clouds hanging across
the sky.  At first Ahma thought it would snow, or perhaps sleet, but the
heavens began to open and a light drizzle began to fall across the gardens
below.

   She placed her dusting rag in an unoccupied drawer in the Masters now
empty desk, and shut the door to the study quietly behind her.  She was
done before schedule, and the study would not be inspected till just before
the evening meal.  She could stay in the Study, undisturbed, and continue
to attempt to finish learning how to read, but without the Master to finish
teaching her where he left off, reading felt hollow.  And the rain called
to her.

   The crisp grass tickled her bare feet as she shut the door to the side
gardens behind her.  She walked deeper into the gardens, taking a deep
breath.  The day smelled of gloom and greenery and rain, and Ahma was glad
the Manor was uphill of the city commons, and thus upwind of the stench of
Durinum's masses.  The rain was coming down steadily now, a soaking but
gentle downpour.

   The east garden was much more natural than the southern garden
overlooked by the study.  This garden was more of a clustering of trees and
shubbery, and had been allowed to grow in a more natural and wild way.  The
grass was tended and weeds removed, and the trees and undergrowth had been
cleared out so that people could walk through the trees and bushes, but the
plants and flora were allowed to otherwise grow as they would.  Many of the
trees were naked and spindly looking, their green cloaks having been shed
for the winter, leaving their gnarled and branching bodies to cool in the
winter winds.  The snow had been cleared away from this part of the
gardens, but another shower was sure to come along in a few days and leave
the ground white.  The limbs of the trees were still fairly heavy with
powder.

   The rain was chill, but Ahma did not mind cold, and the day was
surprisingly warm for the season.  She would have to spend time warming
herself by the kitchens fires when she went inside, but for now she was
unconcerned.  She wandered deeper into the garden till she came near the
small lake the Master had been so fond of.  He had fished therein his
youth, but as age came upon him took to simply watching the ripples on its
surface.  A layer of ice covered it now, and snow was piled on its smooth
surface where it had fallen from the overhanging branches in great clumps.
She didn't trust the ice as stable enough to walk upon given the mildness
of the season.

   The Manor was still in sight, but the men would be busy tending to the
animals and bringing them out of the rain for the day and harvesting the
winter crops on the west side of the Manor as quickly as they could before
the approaching winter rains and snow ruined them.  The other servant women
had enough sense not to be out in the cold rain.

   Ahma undid the bindings on her dress as she approach the lake.  She
smiled when she spotted Hannah and nodded a greeting.

   "We Wingling have no sense, you know," Hannah said by wave of greeting.
"I think the Humans may just have it right with their bathes and warm
water."

   "It is our way," Ahma replied.  She pulled her dress off and placed it
under a pine tree that still had most of its needles.

   Hannah handed Ahma a rag and a sliver of dirty and worn soap.  Ahma
thanked her.

   The young Wingling was a vision as she bathed.  Her hair was long and
thick, a shining, healthy chestnut shade with shocks of gold along her
bangs.  Braided it hung down below her buttocks and was so thick it took
several minutes out in the rain for it to completely soak through.  Her
skin was the snow white shade of her people, as if untouched by the sun,
though she bore light tan-lines from regular tending of the flowerbeds. 
Her face was perfection.  It had a gentle oval shape and large, wide eyes
of a deep brown.  Her nose was small and delicate and slightly upturned and
her lips were full and had a natural purse with a pronounced and dainty
cupids bow.

   Ahma's figure was that of her people as well; slender and slim with
pronounced, extravagant curvature.  Her shoulders were slightly wide and
her hips round and supple.  Her breasts were full, perky, round, and
enormous, hanging high and surprisingly firm on her young chest.  They were
as all Wingling women were; Hannah, too, had an oversized bosom, and it
remained tight and perky despite the graying around her temples.  Wingling
women could support their generous chests due to the powerful flight
muscles needed for flight through their backs and chest.  Ahma's took on a
firm teardrop shape, with just a touch of pull along the heavy bottoms. 
Her nipples were hard and throbbed softly from the cold rain splashing
across her bosom, a pleasing cherry blossom color.  Her areola were of the
same color and stretched across her generous breasts.  Her bosom jiggled
softly as she bathed.

   Her stomach pulled inward slightly and her ribs could be seen through
her flesh.  Hannah had the same look about her middle; all the servants did
these days.  Belts had been tightened alarmingly since the Master passed
away.  No one could complain...it did no good for any of them, and had only
been met thus far with even more ration cuts.

   Her womanhood was soft and plump, and smooth as silk from top to bottom.
This, too, was the way of her people, both the men and the women...Some
Wingling grew a small path of downy feathers over their genitals, as Hannah
had.  Ahma and Hannah had both been puzzled upon seeing a thatch of pubic
hair the one time a human servant woman had joined them in their bathing
ritual, and agreed that humans were quite odd.  Ahma's buttocks were full,
shapely, plump and meaty with a perky and round shape.

   Finally, Ahma's beautiful wings lent her an exotic, fabulous beauty.

   Or rather, they would have if they had not been bound down against her
back.

   Wingling servants and slaves regularly had their wings clipped and their
flight taken away so they could not escape.  It had been so with Hannah,
who's wings were beautiful and delicate, but useless for anything but their
aesthetic value.  Hannah had been sold to the Manor by another, but Ahma,
who had been directly taken in and cared for by the Master, was spared this
fate.  The Master had delighted in Ahma's flight, watching excitedly as the
child soared through the clouds.  In her later years, he had even taken her
out on the hunt with him, letting her fly high above as he rode down his
quarry.

   Ahma tried not to choke on the bitter-sweet memory.

   The Steward would have nothing of the kind.  As soon as he was able, he
had her wings bound to her back with a kind of corset he had made just for
the cruel function.  It scooped down around her middle, just under her
breasts and over her navel, and lapped over her wings.  It was locked in
the back, and the Steward was the only one who had the key.  The corset
flattened them tightly to her back, making them chaff and sore and ache
from disuse.  Ahma was afraid her feathers were going to fall out soon. 
She bit her lip.  She would not dwell on the injustice, and she would not
give the Steward the satisfaction of making her miserable.

   "Why do we even follow the old ways?" Hannah asked sadly as she soaped
her generous breasts.

   "Because it is who we are.  We bathe in the sky's gift of rain, and we
say silent prayers to the turning of dawn and dusk," Ahma replied hollowly.

   "We are long removed from our people," Hannah reminded.

   "We are our people.  We are not removed from each other.  It is enough,"
Ahma said, as she always did.

   "You are young," Hannah smiled, and there was resignation in the smile.
She cupped rainwater in her hands and splashed it across her bosom to wash
away the soap.  She began to rub her last bit of soap into the feathers
above her womanhood.

   "I am not so young anymore," Ahma said, allowing the hint of a smile to
curve her lovely lips as she lathered her inner thighs and buttocks.  "I've
seen Twenty-Two years."

   "Not so long, in the grand scheme of things," Hannah chuckled.

   Ahma was silent for a moment before looking up at Hannah.  "How much
longer do you think the Steward will go unchecked?"

   Hannah stared at the younger Wingling woman for a moment before letting
out a soft sigh.  She began to bring her wings forward to clean them then,
remembering Ahma's inability to do so, folded them back.  "I do not know
Ahma.  The war is long, and it is terrible, and everyone's attention is
occupied by it.  Compared to the war, our situation is nothing.  You know
this."

   "I know," Ahma admitted grudgingly.  "But that does not make things
okay. That man has no right to do the things he does."

   Hannah shrugged.  She hated talking about this.  "Who will stop him? 
You?  I?  He has been seated over us, and there he will remain until
someone over him says otherwise.  And who is to say anyone will?  You know
the nature of nobles."

   Ahma nodded wordlessly and finished rinsing the soap away in the rain.
The two Winglings turned as a servant woman approached from the Manor.  She
was a Human, as most of the servants and slaves of Durinum were.

   "Ahma, the Steward asks for you," she said as she drew near.  She looked
down; no one envied Ahma the Stewards summons.  No one knew what he wished
from her, but the Steward was not a kind man, and it was certainly no favor
to her.

   Ahma swallowed and nodded, pulling on her thin, soaked dress.  She said
farewell to Hannah, who watched her go sadly before returning to her
bathing.

   The Steward's quarters were supposed to be on the first floor with all
the other servants.  He had, since the Masters death, taken the liberty of
moving into the Master's wife's room, which had been undisturbed since her
death.  Until the Steward had his way, that is.  This, more than almost
anything else, made Ahma hate the Steward.  He was a cruel man, he was a
selfish man, he was an oaf and a pig and a bully, but all that Ahma could
accept, and even expect to a degree; servants who grasped power abused it
nearly as much as nobles, in her experience.  What she could not accept was
the callousness with which the Steward had disrespected the departed, both
the Master and his wife as well.

   The Steward was sitting in his dimly lit room, staring out his window,
his chair facing away from her.  His bed was enormous, loaded down with
pillows and silk sheets and blankets of nearly every color, with a huge
canopy engraved with rare silver threads.  The bed that had been in the
room before was not rich enough for him, so he had had it thrown out and
replaced with the current one with no thought to the disrespect he did.  A
large hearth was set opposite the bed, and a dull fire crackled inside,
burning low from not being tended.  A large desk sat before the window,
facing toward it, and it was littered with piles of documents and
management information that he was responsible for but hadn't been touched
in weeks.

   "You summoned me?" Ahma said softly, her voice barely a whisper.  She
hugged herself tightly as she stood just behind the Steward's chair.  Her
stomach was in knots.

   "You Wingling Women have no shame," the Steward's scratchy voice came.

   "I do not understand," Ahma replied.  She felt like there was a trap
before her, and she was setting her foot into its jaws.

   "Of course you do," the Steward snapped.  "You women have no decency and
self restraint.  Animals of the basest instinct.  You caper about tempting
and corrupting good Men and poison our Human society with your obscene
practices.  Like those right there."

   The Steward pointed with a thick finger out the window.  Ahma drew
closer and glanced out the window.  Her breath caught.  Gazing through the
gloom of the rain and the naked branches of the trees, Ahma could clearly
see Hannah rinsing the last of the soap from her body and slowly pulling on
her dress.  Neither of them had realized the Steward's window overlooked
those gardens!  Ahma had only even been inside the room a handful of times
before, and on those occasions the draperies had been pulled to block the
view outside.

   "You do not understand," Ahma began, but the Steward cut her short with
a wave of his hand.

   "Come here," he demanded as if speaking to a dog.

   Ahma swallowed the bile in her throat and walked around to the front of
the desk to slowly face him.

   The Steward was not an entirely disgusting man.  He was short, overfed,
but not quite fat.  His hair was beginning to recede, but he wasn't balding
yet.  He wasn't young, and he wasn't old.  His face, though a bit heavy
through the jowls and over red through the cheeks, wasn't misshapen or
marred by any particular faults.  But his appearance was set in a perpetual
scowl.  Every finger on his hand was clad in a gaudy and fake ring he had
bought with a large part of last months food budget.  Ahma hated him.

   "I understand all I need to," the Steward said.  "I understand you
people are filthy low bred scum, and that you need me to keep you in line.
I understand that you have evil ways that corrupt the soul of Man and we
Humans were right to chase your people out of their little nests.  And I
know you understand what you have to do to keep what little feed you and
the other bird get."

   Ahma swallowed and nodded, once.  She willed her mind to go blank and
make herself go numb inside.  If it was just for her own good she would
never comply with the Steward.  But Hannah would be suffering too, and that
she couldn't abide by.

   She pulled the Stewards cock from his trousers and began to trace her
tongue over the head, forcing herself not to shudder in revulsion and get
the task over with.  Her tongue swirled around the head as he had taught
her to do and she licked her way down the shaft, leaving a trail of sticky
saliva along his flesh.  The Steward leered down at her and leaned back in
his chair.

   Ahma moved her mouth back up the Steward's cock and slid it between her
lips, sucking slowly on the head before easing more of his meat into her
mouth.  She wrapped her pale, slender fingers around the bottom of his
shaft and began to jack him off.  She sucked at his prick, her plump pink
lips gliding wetly along the fleshy pole as her cheeks hollowed to suck at
him.  She bobbed her head along the Stewards dick, trying to please him as
thoroughly, and thus quickly, as she could.

   He thrust his hips forward, sneering as she almost gagged when his cock
slid deeper than before.  Ahma swallowed her bitter humiliation and slurped
on him harder, her tongue sliding firmly along his underside as he thrust
his manhood in and out of her mouth.

   "Use your bosom, bird," the Steward commanded.  Ahma pulled her mouth
from his throbbing cock and undid the front of her thin, plain dress.  She
pulled her enormous breasts out and wrapped them firmly around the
Steward's saliva coated cock.

   He thrust hard, driving his cock between her heavy, bouncing breasts. 
Ahma bit her lip, trying not to give him the satisfaction of hearing her
gasp at how his cock pumped roughly between her tender breasts.  The
steward fucked her breasts for several moments, his slick, saliva coated
cock sawing in and out between Ahma's soft plentiful breasts, which easily
swallowed up his rather average sized manhood.  She gripped the sides of
her breasts together and squeezed them tightly around the Steward's pumping
member.  They quivered and jiggled with each thust.  The Steward reached
out and grabbed a handful of her breasts and held them tightly.  Ahma bit
her lip harder, nearly making it bleed as she suppressed a moan of pain at
his bruising grip.  The cock slid wetly in and out of her deep cleavage,
making soft slurping sounds as her fleshy breasts crushed down around it.

   Ahma saw the now familiar twitch in the Steward's face and quickly
pulled her breasts free, cramming his cock back into her mouth.  Never one
to last long, the twitch always signaled the Steward's orgasm.  The man had
already cum on all over her breasts once and her face twice; she didn't
wish to repeat the experience.  He grabbed the back of her head and thrust
in deeply, making her gag again and drool heavily upon his cock.  She
allowed herself to blush now that he couldn't see her face properly,
letting her shame and embarrassment show through at last.

   The Steward let out a scratchy groan as he began to cum into her mouth,
his thin, salty semen splashing wetly down her throat and coating the back
of her tongue.  She swallowed quickly, having learned the first time how
easily he could gag her with his seed if she didn't.  He spurted several
more small bursts of spunk down her throat before finally settling back in
his seat.  Ahma swallowed the last of the load, trying not to let her
queasiness show lest the Steward become displeased and cut of her food
despite her efforts.  At least this time she hadn't been able to taste his
seed well.

   "Keep doing as you are told and you will continue to eat," the Steward
said dismissively, and turned his attention back outside the window as if
she had ceased to exist.

   Ahma let herself out of the Steward's room and leaned against the wall
for a few moments to shake.  She wiped away angry tears, almost as mad at
herself for allowing the Steward to do this to her as she was at him for
doing it.  But what choice did she have?  She couldn't let Hannah suffer if
she would help it.  The older Wingling woman had been her support for
years, and especially so since the Master passed.

   She glanced out the window set in the hall.  The sun was beginning to
set, heralding the evening meal.  She wasn't hungry...the feeling of the
Steward's seed swimming in her belly made her want to rid herself of the
morning meal and turned her stomach from thoughts of even more food.

   She leaned her forehead against the windows cool glass, gazing longingly
at the sky.  She had told Hannah to keep faith and follow the old
ways...but Ahma had not prayed to the sky in some time...not since it had
been robbed of her and she had become grounded by the Steward's will.  It
seemed wrong, somehow, to pray to something you could not be a part of.

   Tears flowed down Ahma's cheeks, unchecked this time.  She mouthed a
shaky prayer to Father Sky to deliver her from the misery she had been led
into.  It was a hollow prayer, and that hurt most of all.

   Ahma felt her stomach churn and when she thought of what the Steward had
robbed from her.  She dashed down stairs and out the kitchen door to empty
her stomach of the Stewards seed.

   Chapter 2 coming soon.  All comments questions or critiques should be
sent to: Crouching_Buddha2000@yahoo.com 


  
Rising Ch.1