#and vengarl but well he's special

[friedesgreatscythe]

“My name is Lucatiel. Remember my name, for I may forget it myself.”

;_;7 I love you, Lucatiel.

Leave it to the Souls games to make doing sidequests a negative thing for the characters.

[c-e-c-e-r-o]

On Love's Tail 19

A mighty fwoosh rings throughout the courtyard, and Priscilla and Sær are formed from the smoke of the nearby bonfire, propelled forward by Priscilla's power. She clings to him as they roll along the ground, skidding to a stop at the foot of roughly hewn stone stairs.

 The two look up, only to witness the startled faces of Vengarl and the tattered woman holding him.

"Hullo," Sær chirps.

"Are you well, mister Vin-gral?" Priscilla asks. Vengarl never had the heart to correct her.

"I am faring well enough, lady Priscilla, though I lack favorable company."

"Hey!" The ragged woman says.

"This poorly dressed girl is known as Rosabeth of Melfia. I unwittingly freed her from a curse of stone, and she is now indebted to me. I would have her pay with her body, but seeing as neither of us have one...

Rosabeth smacks his helm against the stairs, setting his ears to ringing. "Of course I would get stuck with this lout," she complains. "I had expected someone like you to rescue me," she says to Sær, blushing. Priscilla growls, her tail curling protectively around Sær and yanking him to her chest. Rosabeth's eyes widen, frightened by this massive woman intent on protecting her mate.

Priscilla turns around, clutching Sær and sulking. "Damn you for being so handsome," she mutters. The both of the turn beet red, not meeting each other's gaze. Sær hugs her tail reassuringly, stroking it. Despite how close they are, anything related to sexual desire sets their faces aflame.

Now, Sær is no maiden, or the whatever the male equivalent of a maiden is, but there's something about his bride-to-be that sets his heart racing like no other. The thought of laying with her had an allure far beyond mere physical pleasure. In the theater of his mind, when he is inside of her, the whole world is warm and pleasant, and the past and future cease to exist. He wants for nothing, and all of existance disappears with the first thrust. Priscilla's sighs of pleasure fill him with ecstasy, and her tail writhes and squeezes him as they reach their peak.

He snaps out of his fantasy, turning to look up at Priscilla. He loves her with all his heart, and when she holds him against her chest the both of them grow warmer than bed of chaos. The cool breeze coming off of the Majula coast disappears as she hugs him tighter, enveloping him between her breasts. Sær sighs happily. He truly has the most beautiful, comfortable wife- er, wife-to-be, in all of Lordran, and she would be all the more so once her fur grows back.

"A-hem," Vengarl interrupts. "There will be time enough for that and more once you are married. Do we not have a quest to complete?"

"Mister Vin-gral is right, Sær," Priscilla agrees. It has been at least a decade since we set out, judging by how long your hair was when you saved me from darkroot garden. Poor aunt- um, uncle Gwyndolin, must be suffering greatly."

"We should hurry, then," Sær says, gently untangling himself from Priscilla's tail and falling to the ground from between her breasts. "But while we're here, we should get Priscilla more... Suitable attire."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Majula, despite looking like a ruin, teems with shops to provide various undead with whatever they may need. Swords, armor, female company, and skin cream (for the humanity-starved walking pieces of bacon.)

Priscilla walks out from behind a large building, the only place large enough for her to change. The sight of her drew a loud wolf whistle from Sær, while the rest of the town's occupants looked on in amazement.

Her top is a black gown of shining silk, swooping along her form, accentuating it.

The skirt portion parts to either side, forming an A shape, allowing freedom of movement, even more than her fur. The rims are trimmed with gold. Her sleeves are long, as well as wide at the cuff, with a slit along the forearm for her fluffy "wings." Draped around her shoulders is a short cape of dark, thick cloth whitch comes around to her front in another A shape, leaving her scales and the area between her neck and chest bare, save fore the diamond ribbon Sær gave her. Gold trim rings the cloak as well. She wears a pair of flat, black, flexible shoes that leave the top of her feet bare.

Sær melts. Paying for the custom-made garb may have left his soul vessel empty, but the sight of his fiance in her magnificent garb makes his

heart- among other things- feel full.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Rarely does Sær ever dislike Priscilla's size. That is one of his favorite things about her appearance, after all. It allowed them to overcome many obstacles thus far. It also means that she is much stonger than him, and a much better warrior, a boon at almost all times.

This is not one of those times.

Sær splutters and coughs as Priscilla dunks him in a vat of soapy water, scrubbing him raw with a large brush. It couldn't be helped; he had tried to run the moment Priscilla suggested he clean up to be fitted for new clothes.

He hisses as she scrubs his neck and upper back. "You vile vixen," he huffs.

"Whatever do you mean?" Priscilla coos sweetly, knowing full well that his neck and back are the second most sensitive places on his body. He only grits his teeth in response, grunting as she caresses the area with her large fingers. Sær fights back a groan, and he loses when Priscilla rubs his shoulders and back with her thumbs, pressing deep into the weary muscle. Her hands are warm from the hot water they are in, a small pool fed by a nearby hot spring.

She adds her tail to the fray, wrapping it around his torso. Sær jumps and gasps loudly as Priscilla leans forward, nuzzling the back of his neck. She hums a random tune, and Sær joins in after listening for a minute. The two soak in the steaming water, humming as they press together.

Priscilla nudges him with her nose. "Sær?"

Sær's ears perk up. She rarely calls him by his name, instead usually opting for 'Darling.' This is pleasant in it's own way, though...

"What shall we... Well, do? Once we're wed, I mean." The idea of officially being Sær's wife sets her heart aflutter, and she blushes.

"I'm not sure. The world is a big place, even for you."

"How big is it, really?"

"Who knows? I'm sure we will, eventually. Time doesn't exist for us, being immortal."

"Do you really want to see the whole world?"

"Do you?"

"Yes."

"Then yes. We've only been at this quest for a short while, and we've already made so many friends, and we still have yet to find a single person who curses your existence. Either Gwyn was lying, or you are truly something special, Priscilla Filia Gwynevere."

The two are silent for a time, before Priscilla speaks up again.

"You know, one must be wed to claim the throne... Mother has no plans to marry, and uncle Gwyndolin prefers the company of his many male consor- Ahem, Darkmoon Knights. So, if you should wish it..."

"We could be Queen Priscilla and King Sær?

As temping as that is, Anor Londo would need quite a bit of work to be a true city again, and neither of us have any experience in politics."

"I suppose so. We are already King and Queen of Darkroot Garden in our own right, thanks to your efforts, darling."

The two silently soak, only leaving once Priscilla sneezes and accidentally freezes the hot springs.

"Darling, you're taking an awfully long time to change. Perhaps you need assistance?"

Behind the curtain, Sær grins. "I would be delighted," he says, his heartbeat quickening. Suddenly, a large red wolf's head is flung over the curtain, rolling to a stop at Sær's bare feet.

"AAAGH!" Vengarl cries in mental anguish. "COVER THINE SCRAWNY FORM, THOU NAKED BUFFOON!"

"I'm not scrawny! I'm wiry!" Sær protests, tripping as he hastily tries to cover himself.

"BY THE GODS!"

The changing room becomes a hotbed of clanging, cursing, and thumping until finally Sær pulls down the cutain, ripping it from it's place and falling face first onto the ground. Vengarl hits the ground with a thud, slowly rolling and coming to a stop at Rosabeth's feet. Sær stands, cursing and brushing himself off.

Priscilla gasps.

He wears black trousers made of breathable fabric, the knees reinforced with boiled black leather pads, fastened with gold thread. He wears a short black sleeveless surcoat, his upper back, shoulders, and upper chest covered by a short black leather cloak trimmed with gold, much like Priscilla's. The cloak's collar is high, coming halfway up his neck and framing it loosely.

Priscilla begins to feel an odd heat in the pit of her stomach.

Sær tugs at the cloth, unused to being so covered. "Mnnnrgh," he whines. "Priscilla, do I have to wear thi-"

"YES!" Priscilla interrupts. "Don't you dare take it off." She stares at Sær predatorily, drooling. He steps back, worried.

"Well, if we are all finished with our errands, I believe we have a wolf to slay," Vengarl reminds them.

The group encircles the bonfire. The undead holding the dragon crossbreed princess, who holds the hand of a centuries old stoned woman, who holds the severed head of a man who was once one of the most dangerous mercenaries in existence. Sær pities the sorry sods whose party merely consists of a warrior, mage, theif and cleric.

With a deep breath, they all touch the hilt of the coiled sword, Priscilla's power dragging the two non-undead along with them through the void.