A Fitting Mount
Rbwolf
by Rubberwolf
© 2006 - Rubberwo
storycodes: Other/f; bond, pony; nc; X
A Fitting Mount by Rubberwolf other/f; bond; nc; pony; X
Authors Comment
Terry Pratchet, one of my favourite authors, once wrote of Discworld
that it offered him a wide scope for storyline and characters. Unlike
other writers, if he wants to write a detective novel, a romance, a
science fiction fantasy, or ghost story, all that he has do to is set
it on the Disc. There he can introduce new characters, plots, or
anything else, without alienating his loyal fan base. After all he
has an entire world to play with. So, if the Discworld works for
comedy, tragedy, armies, thieves (As long as their membership to the
guild is fully paid up.), lovers and trolls, wouldn't it work just as
well for the fetish writer? After all, the Patricians Palace does
boast the most modern, well maintained and deepest, darkest dungeon
this side of the hub?
Now if you will excuse me I am just off to pack. Ankh Morpork awaits.
A Fitting Mount
Death walked across his yard towards the stables. He walked with a
purposeful stride that could best be described as ominous, accompanied
by the click clack of bone on cobbles. In his hand he carried a
scythe, while in his other he clutched a number of large hour
glasses. As was fitting, he wore a black cloak and hood, joined at
the shoulder with a golden clasp depicting the letter omega. Blue
eyes shone from underneath the hood, like twin lamps of sapphire.
This scene would, to the casual observer, appear to be out of
character with the surroundings. Deaths domain consisted of, to the
naked eye, a picturesque cottage, with a beautifully maintained rose
garden. The garden also boasted a tree, complete with childs swing, a
pond and an expansive lawn. A range of mountains acted as a back drop
to this charming scheme.
Closer inspection would reveal that, the roses were all black.
Although a swing hung from the tree, no rope secured it to the
branch. If one was to spend a pleasant day walking towards the
mountains, one would find that, upon arrival, the rocks lacked depth,
or substance, like an oil painting where it is obvious that, when
viewed from half a room away, you are looking at a mountain, but when
you examine the picture more closely you can not tell what the various
blobs and blotches mean. Walking into the house one discovers that,
rather than quaint, comfortable little rooms, strewn with lacy
furniture, dark wooden tables and stone fire places, they are in fact,
unnervingly infinite.
Alfred, Deaths servant, stood holding Deaths horse. Alfred had worked
for the Master for centuries. At first sight, the same casual
observer who enjoys walking in the mountains, would be excused for
thinking that Alfred was a particularly grumpy and set in his ways.
He would think that here was an example of someone who looked so old
and unwell that they had only a short time to live. They would be
right on all counts. Alfred only had two days, twenty seven minutes
and fifty four seconds of life left in his hour glass. He does not,
therefore, visit the mortal plane as often as he used to.
"THANK YOU ALFRED," Deaths voice boomed with the finality of tomb door
closing, as he took the rains of his horse, placed the hour glasses
into the horses saddle bags, the scythe into a special holder on the
rear of the saddle and levered himself onto his steed.
Temple depictions of Deaths horse would have you believe that Death
rode a mount as skeletal as its owner, breathing fire from its
nostrils and fixing you with its menacing blue glowing coals for
eyes. To be fair, Death had tried to riding one, but it was not very
comfortable and a skeletal horse would tend to fall to pieces whenever
there was a particularly large bump in the road, or slight shift in
causality. So Death had opted for a real mount, who he called
Binkey.
Binkey was large, at least seventeen hands high and pale, very, very
pale. True, Binkey did have glowing blue eyes and although fire did
not sprout from his nostrils, there was a certain fireyness about his
breath. Everything about Binkey said horse. While other mounts could
claim to be fairly equine, Binkey was, from the curve of the muscles
on his neck, to the shine of his pale hooves, a very real horse. In
the same way that Death was the ultimate reality, Deaths horse was a
frighteningly real horse.
"ARE YOU SURE I CAN'T OFFER YOU A LIFT?" Death enquired of the small
figure that had accompanied Death to the stable.
"SQUEAK," said the figure, who was a rather large skeletal rat, who,
like Death, wore a dark, hooded, cloak and carried a small scythe
that, despite its size was, like the larger version that Death
carried, sharp enough to cut the air.
"VERY WELL. I WILL SEE YOU LATER."
With that, death pulled his right leg backwards along the flank,
touched the underside of Binkeys belly with his left leg and thrust
his hips slightly forward.
Binkey shot off across the courtyard as he went from stationary to
canter in the blink of a blue, luminous coal, before taking off into
the multi chromatic reality sky.
The Death of Rats strode into the stable, equally as purposeful as his
taller colleague. Moments later he rode out into the courtyard on his
own, less imposing transport. True the tack and saddle had obviously
been designed by the same crazed saddle maker, but the small shaggy
dog that served as this Deaths transportation, lacked a certain
presence of his taller counter part.
Never the less, the Death of rats asked for canter, or the doggy
equivalent and had to settle to a rather ungainly, lopsided, lop.
It was a slightly more dishevelled Death of Rats who steered his
troublesome mount back to the stables several hours later. He should
have known that there would be trouble. After all cats, while not as
gruesome as traps, or effective as poison, do a reasonable job of
keeping the rat population under control. He should have anticipated
what had happened and taken steps, chosen another mount, or
something. But he was beginning to despair. So far he had tried a
chicken, a rabbit, a Cat (Which did not go down very well with the
recently departed) and now a dog. All had been disasters of one form
or another.
"SQUEEEEEK," The Death of Rats lamented as he put his mount to bed.
Goodwife Cabage stared intently at the glass jars that were supposed
to be bubbling away before her and sighed. She had spent several
weeks pouring over ancient transcripts, consulting some of the finest
minds in the guild, literally spent the rent on the ingredients, as
well as stirring the contents for concoction for three hours. The net
result of all of her labours was not a wondrous new source of energy
that could produce light without heat, or any form of energy exchange
what so ever. No, instead, she was looking at a rather disappointing
brown, burnt, biscuit at the bottom of her jar.
Goodwife was used to dealing with difficulties and set backs. For as
long as she could remember she had wanted to be an alchemist. A
rewarding career that could help people to enrich their lives.
Medicines, potions and all manner of powders, that could be used for
both industry and home. The money generated from new ideas could set
up an alchemist for life. But just as the reward could be great, so
was the price of failure. The guild of alchemists boasted the only
buildings with four foot thick, magically reinforced, blast proof
walls, designed to channel explosions safely away from populated areas
(A necessary expense compared to rebuilding sections of the guild
every time an experiment encountered difficulties. It was also a
precaution that the city rulers insisted upon).
Saving enough money to pay for her tuition fees had not been easy. It
was not that her family were without money but, as her name suggests,
her parents had different career aspirations for their daughter. Even
now, her mothers letters are full of subtle questions like:
"When are you going to find a nice young man and settle down?"
or
"Have you met your cousin Quentin? His father is a butcher you know."
Eventually, after it had become clear that she had set her mind on an
education, as if a young woman actually needed such a thing, they gave
her an income that would allow her to get by. After all, she might
meet a nice young man while at university. At twenty three, while not
unattractive, she was still unmarried. The fact that her idea of
cooking in the kitchen came with a potential area affect might have
something to do with the lack of suitor, or it might just be down to
too much time in the lab.
Picking the jar up she tried to scrape the contents out of the bottom,
only to find that it fell out rather easier than she expected and
landed on the floor with a resounding thump. A rather disappointing
brown thing, with no apparent urge to burst into light what so ever,
sat unspectacularly on her floor.
Sighing disappointedly, Goodwife got up and headed for bed. She would
clean up in the morning. Something would come up. It had to.
Death sat at his desk, a large journal open before him, as he
calculate the nodes that would need to be collected for the coming
day. A small robed figure leaped onto the desk in front of Death.
"SQUEAK, EEK EEK SQUEAK."
"NO, NOT AN IDEAL SITUATION. I CAN ALWAYS GIVE YOU A LIFT WHEN I GO
OUT."
"SQUEAK SQUEAK EEK."
"NO, IT IS NOT IDEAL. BUT WHAT CAN YOU DO? PERHAPS YOU CAN TRY A
LIZARD NEXT TIME? I HAVE HEARD THAT IGUARNAS ARE EASY TO TRAIN."
"SQUEAK EEK. EEK EEK EEK SQUEAK."
Death considered for a moment.
"A UNIQUE SOLUTION TO YOUR PROBLEM AND IT DOES HAVE A CERTAIN
CYMETERY. VERY WELL. I SUPPOSE YOU WISH ME TO PURCHASE ANOTHER
SADDLE AND TACK?"
"SQUEAK."
Death rose from his desk. He had finished with the evenings nodes
anyway.
"I WILL PLACE THE ORDER WHILE I AM OUT. DO YOU WANT A LIFT?"
"SQUEAK," the skeletal rodent replied as he clambered off of the desk
and headed, along with his larger colleague, towards the door on the
other side of the room and an infinite distance away.
The following morning Goodwife came down stairs to a curious
discovery. The wasted experiment from last night had been gnawed
upon. Not simply by one rat, but by many, at least eight she
concluded, judging by the corpses littered about the experiment.
Actually one of the rats was not quite dead. Goodwife watched on in
amazement as the dying animal, in obvious agony, tried to eat one more
piece of the compound.
Putting on her thickest leather gloves Goodwife picked up the strange
compound. She thanked the gods that she had possessed the foresight
to take scrupulous notes last night.
For the next few weeks Goodwifes' lab was a hive of activity as she
tested the compound on the guilds rats. No matter what the foodstuff
that she placed into the maze, the rodents would always seek out the
poison. Within days the guild was free of rats. Within six months,
every home contained a small packet of Cabages Rodent Pills. The tiny
packet showing Goodwifes smiling features holding up a small plate of
pills while a couple or rats sniffed eagerly at the upheld offering of
certain death.
Eventually the rodent population would become resilient to the
poison. The process of natural selection ensuring that only those
rats with a certain gene survived. However, for the moment the rats
of Ankh Morpork were in decline and Miss Cabages fortunes were on the
up and up.
The lack of suitors had diminished in inverse proportions to her bank
balance. As she could afford new clothes and her face and obvious
wealth became known, so the list of suitors increased.
The confident, well healed woman who strode out to her carriage for an
evening at the theatre was a far cry, in her silk ball gown and
exotically feathered hat, from the bookish girl of only a few months
ago. At five foot eight she was above average height. However, her
family were of country stock and so Goodwife was well muscled, despite
her years in the lab. Genetics had decreed that the Cabage family
should be long limbed and hardy. Despite this, the right corsetry,
hair and dress had transformed her into a raven haired, statuesque
beuty.
The proprietor of Albion Saddles face broke into a grin as the tall
figure of Mr De Arth walked into his shop. This promised to be a
rather lucrative, if not eccentric commission. So far his company had
built saddles for a variety of strange animals for this strange
customer. Dogs, cats and even a chicken had enjoyed the benefits of
the finest hand made saddles on the continent. All so that Mr De
Arths' pet rat could ride around his cage in style.
At first Mr Albion had assumed that this strange customer was a
funeral director, judging by his first impressions and the style of
saddle. However, one strange request could be put down to the whims
of Mr De Arths own customers. But four such orders had changed this
strange customers occupation from funerals to circuses and Mr Albion
was convinced that the orders were for some strange circus acts.
However, that opinion was about to be revised as the nature of the
next rodent saddle became known.
"Although we can make the saddle you might find it easier if you
sourced some of the equipment you require at another establishment.
If I might be so bold, I believe I have just the place for you."
After several minutes rummaging around in the back room, Mr Albion
returned to his customer holding a business card.
"SAX LEATHERS. HMMM. YOU SAY THAT PEOPLE ALREADY DO THIS? AMAZING.
VERY WELL, I WILL GO THERE AND SEE IF THEY HAVE WHAT MY RAT WILL
NEED. HE IS QUITE PARTICULAR YOU KNOW. IN THE MEAN TIME, HOW LONG
WILL IT TAKE TO BUILD THE SADDLE?"
"Should be ready in around three weeks. Of course I would require a
fitting session."
"UNFORTUNATLY THAT WILL NOT BE POSSIBLE, BUT I HAVE TAKEN DOWN THE
MEASUREMENTS THAT YOU WILL NEED."
"Very well, if you pop by in three weeks time I should be able to have
it ready."
"VERY GOOD. I SHALL RETURN IN THREE WEEKS."
With that, the tall and painfully thin Mr De Arth turned around and
left the shop leaving Mr Albion with the feeling that, despite his
customers impeccable manners and the fact that he always paid promptly
with old copper coins (If Mr Albion was to look more closely he would
find that, not only were some of the coins incredible old, some
bearing the names of rulers no longer remembered on the continent, but
always came in pairs), he had just had a very lucky escape.
The Shades was not a part of Ankh Morpork to be walked lightly, or
without an armed escort. Those visitors to the city who had found
their way into this district had left, feet first, minus all of their
valuable, as another unfortunate addition to the floating debris of
the river Ankh (Although perhaps floating is not quite the right
word. Most things that fall into the Ankh will usually take around
twenty minutes to sink enough to be called floating.)
It had taken Death about half an hour to walk here from the Street of
Cunning Artificers. However, Death was quite familiar with The
Shades. He does a lot of business there. The change was, however,
noticeable. Walking from the Five Ways and though the Pitts, Over Elm
Street and down onto Paradise. One moment the streets, while not
paved with gold, at least looked relatively well maintained, suddenly
became dirty and un-kept.
Despite this, business prospered in places. Death passed several
prospering businesses. Igneous the Troll's Wholesale Pottery, Chalkey
the Trolls building supplies, before leaving Paradise and heading
toward the Whore Pits, or more specifically, SAX leathers, on
Sweetheart Lane.
Normally, the lone wanderer would, by now, have several pairs of
hungry eyes, not only watching their progress, but calculating their
net value, where to get the best market price for their shoes and were
to dump the body. Not only did Death not have a small crowd following
him, but those same speculating eyes seemed to slide off of him,
ignoring him, or where the eyes noticed his progress their owners
decided that it might be advisable to be somewhere else.
SAX leathers did, indeed have just the items that he was after. A few
alterations would however, be necessary. The bit would need replacing
with a more traditional, two piece link and reigns would need to be
shortened to cater for the riding position. However, harnesses,
reigns, girths and all that the Death of Rats could require for his
new mount could easily be found.
Once he had placed his order with the shop assistant who bore the
usual glazed expression of a man whose eyes were seeing a six foot
five skeleton, but whose brain had overridden these images and
replaced them with a tall, thin gentleman of indeterminate age and a
passion for sombre dress.
Leaving the shop and following the assistants advise, Death walked
into a cobbler shop and placed an order. Now, thoroughly shopped out,
Death pulled an hour glass from his robe, watched as the remaining
sands trickled into the bottom chamber, before walking deeper into The
Shades. It was time to go to work.
Despite her new found wealth and popularity, Goodwife was an Alchemist
and she had not forgotten her earlier quest for cheap lighting for the
masses. Unlike her earlier experiments, she could now afford to rent
rooms in the Guild which offered access to an enviable selection of
equipment and knowledge. High density beakers replaced the crude
storage jars of before. A network of glass pipes snaked from
container to container, while a small, constant temperature magic heat
plate ensured a level of thermal accuracy undreamed of in her previous
life. The view from the window was nice as well. The young woman who
bent over the work bench was a far cry from her previous incarnation.
The Degucci lab robes that that she was wearing would have fed her
for a year only a few months ago and the blast proof goggles were of
the finest flexi crystal dug from the Uberwald Dwarf mines.
"Now that's looking promising," she muttered to herself.
Bending over she read the rest of her notes and nodded to herself.
"Now, just a drop of Argon," she muttered to herself as she filled up
a glass dropper with the yellow, glowing liquid from a jar on the
bench beside her and squeezed a drop of the liquid into the bubbling
potion before her.
Despite the blast proof walls and channelling, large sections of her
lab exploded in a red hot cloud into the direction of the river. Bits
and pieces of lab, glass and Degucci robe rained down on the city.
Goodwife climbed out of the rubble that had once been her lab. She
was grateful for the fact that the workbenches were made from the
finest, triple layered granite that Troll artisans could manufacture,
and that she had ducked at just the right moment. She was also
pleased that she had written her will and that her family would
inherit the business if something happened to her.
"Well, that could have been worse," she muttered as she dusted herself
off.
"SQUEAK," said a voice behind her, or at least, that is what her ears
heard, her brain seemed to understand something else, as though she
could hear a voice saying "WELL, NOT REALLY," inside her head.
Goodwife turned to where the squeak had come from.
"Oh no," she groaned as she took in the small, robed figure carrying a
scythe.
Looking behind her she saw what she had expected to see. Normally,
when a person dies, a strand of light will connect the soul to the
body, running from the temple of the dead body, to the back of the
head on the soul standing near the remains. In Goodwifes' case, over
a score of strands spread out from her head to several places around
the room.
Goodwife stood numbly surveying the carnage that had been her. A high
pitched, squeaky chuckle brought her attention back to the rat, who
held an hour glass in his hand. An hour glass with her name on it.
Then, to her amazement, the Death of Rats turned the hour glass over.
Pain shot through her body and she staggered as flesh returned to her
and she was once again, standing in the ruins of her lab, alive.
Alive and, thanks to the blast, naked. Goodwife tried to cover
herself as her 34C breasts were exposed to the world.
"Why did you do that? Why am I alive?"
"SQUEAK, EEK EEK EAK. (I HAVE A JOB FOR YOU. THANKS TO YOU A GREAT
MANY RATS WILL DIE. IT COULD BE SAID THAT YOU AND NOT I WERE TRULY
THE DEATH OF RATS.)"
Goodwife stood in stunned silence as she took in what she had been
told.
"What job. What could I possibly do for you?"
"EAK EEK SQUEEK EAK. (ALL IN GOOD TIME. BUT FIRST THERE ARE SOME
PEOPLE YOU SHOULD MEET.)"
If was then that she noticed the rats. She was surrounded by
thousands and thousands of rats.
"EEK SQUEAK, EAK EAK EEK. (THESE ARE ALL OF THE RATS THAT YOU HAVE
KILLED. MURDERED BY YOUR POISON, AS IF YOU HAD SQUEAZED THE LIFE OUT
OF THEM YOURSELF. YOUR POTION WILL SELL BY THE THOUSANDS, KILLING
HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS, MILLIONS EVEN. THEY HAVE A GIFT FOR YOU.)"
Goodwife screamed, throwing her hands up in horror to protect herself
from the tidal wave of fur and claws that rose up before her,
engulfing her and forcing her to the ground. Thrashing and screaming
she tried to throw her attackers off of her, but it was useless, there
were too many of them and she lost the battle as thousands of claws
and tiny teeth bent her to their collective will.
Eventually, it was over and the claws and teeth withdrew, leaving her
as a lone island in a sea of grey and brown fur and red eyes.
Goodwife struggled to take in what had happened. She was tied up and
dressed strangely.
"SQUEAK EEK EEK (GET UP. GET UP AND SERVE ME.)"
Goodwife struggled to rise, but it was not easy. Her arms were
secured behind her back somehow by leather straps, so that her elbows
touched. Her hands were attached to a leather corset, by cuffs on
either side of her waist. Although corsets were common to the women
of Ankh Morpork, none were as tightly binding as this one. Her waist
had been squeezed to minuscule proportions, while at the same time her
bust seemed enormous. As if this were not enough to restrict her, she
wore strange gloves which forced her hands into fists. These gloves
also had a strange dark bone like substance, giving her hands the
shape and appearance of hooves. She also wore a strange series of
straps around her breasts that formed a strange outline to her naked
bust (Leather strap bra).
In addition to this her attempts to rise were hampered by the strange
ankle boots that she wore. They were incredibly high, forcing her to
stand on the balls of her toes, while her height was further increased
by the same bone like hoof attached to the bottom of the boots. Thick
lacing robbed all flexibility from her as the hoof boots formed a
tight corset around her feet.
Goodwife felt more leather straps around her head and her mouth ached
from something cold and metallic that hooked over her molars and
forced her tongue down into her jaw. She tried to push the intruder
out, but although formed by two pieces, which were joined in the
middle, she could not free her mouth.
Angrily, Goodwife threw her head back, not an easy thing to do when
wearing a thick collar, to complain, which was when the straps ran
from the lower half of the French bridal pulled on her nipples
painfully. Ann had thought that the pain in her nipples had been
caused by the rats claws. She was wrong and she screamed a strange,
grunting sound, as the bridle pulled painfully on the nipple clamps
which imprisoned her tender flesh. She also noticed the common
design. Hanging from various points on the leather work, small silver
rats skulls adorned the leather.
Sinking to her knees she looked down at the straps that ran from her
nipple clamps, under her arms behind her. With a growing suspicion,
Goodwife looked behind her. There, strapped to the V formed by her
arms was a tiny saddle. Angling further around she found that the
reason her ass hurt was because a tail had been forced into her anus
and long raven hair curved out of a place that hair should not curve
out of.
"Narghhh. Um Igh ee. Att OO OO Ant," she complained into the gag.
"SQUEEK, SQEEK EEK. (YOU KNOW WHAT I WANT. YOU MUST ATTONE FOR ALL
OF THE WRONGS YOU HAVE DONE. WHAT BETTER WAY THAN THIS? NOW RISE AND
SERVE ME. I WILL TREAT YOU WELL. I THINK I WILL CALL YOU GOODY. HOW
DO YOU LIKE YOUR NEW NAME?)"
Goody stared mutely as she rose to her feet and her small master,
pulling on the lower reigns and, stepping upon her slightly bent knee,
levered himself into the saddle that perched on her arms and placed
his feet into the stirrups.
The Death of rats fed the reigns through his lower fingers and up over
his top fingers, so that he could press his thumbs down, trapping the
reigns securely. Adjusting the reigns so that the upper set pulled
Goodys' head up, but keeping tension on the lower set, the Death of
Rats dug his bony heels into his new mounts sides.
Goody had no choice and she knew it. She was bound securely and her
new master literally held her life in his hands. She could feel the
tension on the lower reigns which promised unspeakable pain if she
disobeyed. The bit in her mouth would be painful enough anyway, if
tugged hard and with heels that bony her rider did not need spurs.
Resigned to her fate, Goody walked forward as she was commanded.
"THAT'S IT, NOW PICK YOUR FEET UP HIGHER AND WE SHALL TRY FOR TROTT?"
The End.