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Maeron whistled, stretching out to enjoy the sun. It felt good against his ageing body. He was already forty years old - a venerable age indeed, especially outside of the nobility and clergy - and after a life of hard labour, he was able to enjoy some of life's simple pleasures.

That's what had brought him out today: the siren song of the fish he hoped would be swimming around in the lake. He'd already forced the worm's thin, wriggling body onto the sharp tip of his fish hook; the line coming off his rod dangled in the water, gentle ripples coming out of the lake. Feeling the first pangs of hunger, he checked to make sure the base was still securely wedged between a bunch of heavy rocks he'd diligently collected. His part was done; he could now relax.

Scratching his large, hairy belly, he smiled. It was dangerous to come this far off the road, but he was old and poor enough that nobody really bothered him. If anyone wanted to try to rob his empty purse, he decided, they were welcome to it. Same with his house: though it was getting more to be his son's house now that he was a man grown and with his own family. Maeron's small adventures were designed to give his family the space it needed to grow. Now that he was widowed, he could have picked up with another woman, but didn't feel that need. His job now was to make sure his son had a safe future.

That is, when he wasn't stretched out naked in front of a lake.

Maeron stretched out his legs, feeling the sun caress his body. There was something pleasing about this. The fish could wait, he decided, feeling his manhood thicken. He chuckled, thinking of a couple of widows he knew who had heard some remarks about the size of his manhood; he wasn't handsome or rich enough for their curious glances when they assembled for community gatherings. Although he had needs, he wasn't particularly interested in indulging them with another. His heart no longer ached for his wife, but he felt no motivation to pursue a member of the fairer sex.

A cloud's shadow crossed over him, and he shuddered. Maeron's mind had been dragged back to less pleasant thoughts; talk had been going around from one of the neighbouring villages. The smithy had turned into an inferno; the smoke would probably be smelled for another week. The smith's family, and two guards who had been on duty that night, had perished according to the news. He felt sorry for the poor men who had died in such a terrible way.

There were other rumours: that there had been monsters sighted. Maeron didn't put much into such things. He'd certainly believe that there were things like dragons and griffins and other monsters of legend, but they probably lived on the fringes of the world. They wouldn't - couldn't - just turn up unnoticed in a town like a shadow in the night.

Like misfortune, the cloud's shadow passed, and Maeron put those thoughts aside, returning to thinking about the pleasing things of life. His manhood thickened to full mast; reaching down over his round belly, he touched it. It probably wasn't as big as had been imagined in the village, but he had fathered one son, so it certainly performed adequately.

Pleasuring yourself tended to be frowned upon, but Maeron didn't know anyone - nobody who wasn't an uptight, humourless bastard anyway - who had not. Certainly, if a wife was available for her duty, there was that. Maeron winced; that had been the one thing he had not enjoyed with his wife. They had been a good pair in every other way, but she was bashful and small; it was surprising enough she was able to birth even one son, but she had.

Maeron was just about to decide on whether he should go further when the line on his rod strained. He quickly rallied as it looked like it was about to dislodge from the rocks, jumping to his feet as the thin twine seized up and down. Trying not to think of the large fish he might lose if the line broke, he made it half-way to the rod before it snapped, the line and half of the fishing pole disappearing into the water.

There was no wailing. No anger. Maeron just burst out laughing, rolling back onto his back, wriggling his feet to shake off the stones and dust he'd accumulated. His breathing came out heavily, letting his joy roll out of him. For a moment, he thought he'd laughed so hard that he'd started crying.

However, the drips were too cold to be coming out of his body, and not enough of him was getting wet for it to be a mysterious sun shower. Curiously, he opened his eyes: the remnants of his fishing line dangled in the air above him, grasped in a glistening black, scaly, clawed hand. The owner of that hand seemed to be studying him intently with huge, bulging red eyes. It was hard to say: the eyes had no pupils or irises or any other feature that told if the creature was looking at him, or even be able to discern the emotion behind them, assuming there was an emotion or not. It gargled, the lipless mouth opening to show off a fang-filled maw.

Since the creature had no nose, and seemed to be clad in scales, Maeron's mind decided that this creature was some kind of frightening fish monster. It was certainly intimidating, with two powerful, strangely humanoid arms curling in front of him, returning to some neutral pose after dropping Maeron's broken fishing line on top of his belly. Webbed hands rested against each of its arms, its clawed tips tapping on the scaly arms. It continued to look down upon him, this strange fish-man mixture.

The first surprise was when the creature's mouth opened, a gargling watery voice inquiring, "This is yours?" It sounded like it was speaking from the bottom of the lake. Even in its unearthliness, there was something rather soothing about the voice.

"Yes," Maeron answered automatically, his mind still agog to do anything but answer in the forthright manner he was accustomed to. "Have I died," he wondered, "and is he here to take me to the afterlife? Or am I dying, and he is some final demon to come and torment me for time wasted?" He blinked, but the monster had not vanished like some shroud. Trying his best to be accommodating, he asked, "Who are you, uh, sir?"

"I am Thrall," the creature said, "I am on a mission for my master."

"Who is your master?" Maeron wondered, babbling.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Maeron saw a quiver of motion. The creature then slowly squat next to him. Thrall's nostrils opened, sniffing at his chest as his head seemed to scan his body. Water still trickled off of him, chilling Maeron's naked body. When Maeron's stomach gargled, Thrall's head jerked back a little, then he continued his examination. His sharp fingers worked over Maeron's body, touching parts of his anatomy that probably would have been wise to not let him touch.

"Nowhere," Thrall finally answered, his examination apparently completed. "You are not injured severely," he summarised, "although you are quite old. Your age has eaten away at your vitality."

"I don't know if your... kind ages," Maeron answered politely, "but my kind does."

"I can restore your strength," Thrall promised.

"Thank you for the offer," Maeron began, "but I..."

"You are old, and alone," Thrall stated; somehow, he seemed to be able to either smell the truth on Maeron, or he was able to pluck the thoughts and memories from his head. Maeron felt his jaw drop as Thrall continued. "I sense you feel you would not be missed, and yearn to go on an adventure."

Maeron was dumbstruck: he knew that wasn't true. Or was it? He was certain now that Thrall could enter his mind, as it was almost like he could feel its presence in his head. His son loved him, certainly, but he was clearly eager to start his own life, and had a wife. Having a father about seemed like a nuisance; he knew he would have felt that way. Poverty had kept his son from moving away. Should he go away, his son would certainly miss him, but he was a good lad and would cope well without him.

"What am I thinking?" Maeron thought, shaking his head.

"My master could use a person like you," Thrall explained. "I have a quest, to avenge those who have wronged my master."

"Please, sir," begged Maeron. "I am not so old, but I certainly am in no state to go off on some adventure." He glanced down, trying not to laugh: perhaps this fish-creature was mad; nobody but a madman would ask a naked, ageing man to go off on an adventure. Especially someone like him: a simple farmer and woodsman by trade, one of many sprinkled throughout the land. He'd certainly had the boyish fantasies of adventure and excitement, but as he grew older, he'd learned what that would have meant.

"I can restore your strength," Thrall repeated his earlier promise. "You will be stronger and more powerful than any man living or dead."

Maeron chuckled. "No disrespect meant, sir, but after a certain point, the size of my kind doesn't necessarily equate to strength, and..."

Distracted by Thrall, Maeron's words caught in his throat. Following a single twitch, a slit opened up in his black, muscular torso. A thick, salty-looking tentacle extended out into the air, dripping with a musky liquid.

"Please, open your mouth," Thrall said, straddling Maeron's chest as the man tried to find the right words to say to this. His jaw opened, which seemed to be enough of an invitation. Thrall's tentacle twitched, slipping between his open lips. Maeron's mouth pushed open as the tip slipped down his throat, forcing his tongue down against the base of his mouth. A strange thrum rippled up the length, a ring of flesh added to the girth of the tentacle invading Maeron.

Fluid gushed into his stomach, the tentacle pumping as Maeron slowly felt his stomach fill with the creature's fluids. The fluid's heat warmed him up even more than the sun did; sweat glistened across his wide chest, his muscles buzzing with energy. He tried, once, to push it out to breathe, but somehow - even with the tentacle clogging his throat - his lungs didn't seem to burn.

Feeling better than he had in a long time, Maeron's mind wandered. He daydreamed of a young man: handsome but sad, looking out across the lake. Maeron felt his heart pause for a moment, then the young man disappeared along with the dream. The sense of love and loss lingered, however, filling up his mind just as easily as the fish-monsters seed filled his body. An intense longing overwhelmed him: what he wouldn't do for that sad young man!

Maeron found himself wondering if perhaps going off on an adventure wouldn't be a bad idea. It would free up his son from having his old father underfoot as he started up his own family. He hadn't seen very much of the world, and he thought it would be nice to see more of it before he died. And he'd had a decent life; if he were to die, at least he would have had some fun. It would certainly be worth considering at any rate.

Thrall's cock popped out of his mouth, a stream of clear green fluid spraying out like ale or wine from a corked-up barrel. Now Maeron gasped for air, swallowing whatever of the fluid was left in his mouth. He sat up, muscles buzzing with strength and power. He patted his fat chest: not so fat now, he noticed. Clefts and curves in his skin showed the hints of the wide, barrel-like torso he'd had in his youth. His arms felt firmer too, and the aches in his knees had lessened. Despite having been forced into it, if one wanted to quibble - and Maeron decided he didn't particularly want to - the strange sexual act Thrall had enacted upon him had rekindled his own sexual urges to. He grinned, reaching down to squeeze his cock; that too seemed to have been invigorated. His erections of late had not had the same firmness they once had, thought that was to be expected. Now, though, it burned with the ache of a youth getting his first heady tastes of manhood.

Flexing his arms in admiration, Maeron bowed the way his father had taught him. "I thank you, Sir Thrall," he began.

"I am no sir," Thrall insisted, "only Thrall."

"Well, Thrall," Maeron continued, "I thank you for your gift. I haven't felt this good in years."

"Not finished yet," clarified Thrall. "You need to be fully reborn before you join our master's quest."

Maeron shuddered slightly; he had always been a free man - as much as a serf can be - but he had never called any man "Master" before. Thrall clearly idolised the young man, and the enthusiasm seemed to be contagious. He found himself laughing, embracing the surprised Thrall. "I suppose, if I agree, we will be quest brothers then?"

"I suppose so," Thrall answered. The fish-man was cold, but it was clear there was something about him that Maeron found interesting. Rather appealing, he decided, feeling the tentacle cock slide up the inside of his legs, leaving a trail of translucent green slime. Maeron shuddered as it seemed to bond to his skin, being absorbed into his body to continue this "rebirth" Thrall had alluded to. His own cock bulged.

Maeron had never thought of sex with another male before. It was technically illegal and immoral, but both the lords and priests would overlook it when the person involved was too high or low of station to risk or bother exposing him to the authorities. Now, though, he studied Thrall's muscles in a new, appreciative light. He'd occasionally gotten thoughts about it, especially given some of the tales he'd heard. A man with his endowment seemed to be in demand from some of the less restrictive pockets of society. Freed from having to worry about his family, he could now explore all sorts of unusual things.

Maeron, some of him at least, wanted to laugh, to shake his head and dismiss all of this as the stupid whim of an old man. But his body seemed to not be entirely his own any more; his hand was raising up to touch Thrall's scaled arm. The firm muscle evident underneath dredged up old memories, that seemed to either twist in his mind, or at least show them in a new light. Many of them were from when he was a young man, toiling in the fields with his friends. Sometimes, when it was hot, they would strip off and splash about in the lake, frolicking as they sprayed each other with cold water. Thinking back on it now, his mind seemed to recall those young, strong naked bodies with surprising clarity, and with a growing appetite for more.

A strange halo-like fuzziness seemed to squeeze his head, his hand finding their way to the glistening scales covering Thrall's firm arms. His body pressed up against the cold, wet flesh so gradually that he hadn't realised it. Hands slid over the scales; surprisingly there was a fair amount of warmth coming from out of his body. His gentle caresses found their way down the side of the body, his touch appreciating the firm curves, sliding down to the buttocks. Maeron breathed in; his stomach rumbled again.

Suddenly, it didn't matter that Thrall was an inhuman monster. Maeron wasn't smitten with him for his looks or charm, although his physique was impressive and he seemed quite able to do some very clever things with that tentacle-cock of his. That wasn't it, though; it was that he, despite his appearance, was safe. He felt certain of that. Thrall was quite willing to do those things Maeron hadn't done before, but seemed to find increasingly appealing.

Finding his hands sliding up Thrall's jet black scaly back, he gently nudged him over. Maeron moved in closer; the tip of his cock touched Thrall's flesh, he moaned and his cock shuddered, leaving a sticky trail on the scaly buttocks. His tip seemed to hone in on Thrall's rear; the thick tail slipping around Maeron's body, cradling him as he leaned over.

Before Maeron knew it, the pair of them had eased down onto the ground: he squatted on his legs, Thrall going further, bracing himself on the ground on his hands and knees. Thrall's tail pulled him closer, a movement that he was more than happy to welcome. The tip of his erection grazed up between Thrall's buttocks; Thrall pulled him tighter with his tail. Fluids dripped from Thrall's hole; Maeron wasn't entirely aware of it at first, but the same scent of Thrall's juices swam up to his nose. It reminded him of the fluids that he had enjoyed.

Sliding up, Maeron found his cock sliding up, almost welcomingly coaxed into Maeron's hole. It sucked him in further; he moaned. Suddenly, the years he had spent denying himself the pleasures of the flesh seemed stupid. He hungered for it with a rapacity that surprised him. Curling his lips back, he thrust forwards, his cock sinking in to the oddly juicy folds underneath that strong, scaly exterior. More of the clear, green fluid lubricated his shaft as he thrust in, some dripping down onto the ground beneath their feet.

"Do what you feel," Thrall coaxed; Maeron seemed to be pulled into him. "Our master takes great pleasure in people showing their love for one another. Life was his gift, and this is the very essence of life."

Maeron curled his toes through the silt beneath his feet, his heart beating so hard his chest quivered because of it. His body shook faster, jiggling less as his stomach, while still barrelling out, seemed to firm up. The heavy weight on Thrall's body didn't seem to bother him, and Maeron didn't worry too much about the wet, scaly feeling of the body under his. Intense feelings washed over him, as he suddenly felt the years since he had sunk his cock into another living thing. Any urges he had he handled himself, in the way young men did when they had neither wife nor money for whores. Now that he had a taste for it again, he didn't think he could stop.

Thrall's tail seemed to lengthen; so did Thrall's cock, which managed to squirm its way between his legs, up through Maeron's and up against his hole. The slick tendril wormed its way in; had Maeron the mind to stop it, he didn't think he could have with how easily it penetrated him. His lower body dripped with slime, clinging to its skin as it ran down his legs.

Slowly, Maeron's arms slipped down off of his shoulders, resting on the ground. Muscles bulged out of the skin; the thick, grizzled muscles of a warrior, growing longer and stronger still as his hands reached down, fingers joining his toes in sinking into the silt. He had already been much larger than Thrall, even when they met, but it became increasingly obvious that that was the case.

Glazed eyes opened up, looking down at his arms. He had been hairy for so many years he had forgotten what it was like to be anything else, and now was no exception: thick patches of hair seemed to bristle all over him. However, it was the colour of that hair that drew his attention. White fur had started to grow across his arms, thickening visibly as spot after spot on his skin disappeared under the blanched tufts of hair. It wasn't the white-peppered hair of advanced age, either; Maeron had seen enough of those around his temples to tell the difference. This hair felt thicker, it made his skin feel thicker. Perhaps his skin was thickening.

The question hovered on his lips; instead Maeron redirected the energies of those thoughts into the next thrust. Thrall lost his balance - apparently he hadn't anticipated the energy - and only the fact that his tail and their cocks had entwined their bodies kept him upright. Maeron shifted his body, cramps coming from his limps, yet he couldn't stop. His mind wandered: to stallions, bulls, rams, bucks, stags; all the creatures he had seen, at one time or another, lose themselves to the rut. He had become one of those: the realisation seemed to lift a great weight from his body.

The fur didn't remain confined to his arms: it spread up around his neck and down his body, like a heavy coat wrapping around him. It moved in, thicker on his extremities and lighter, sometimes barely there, in the places where his limbs met. A thick ruff formed around his neck. It disguised the muscles which burned, his body growing and shifting in size.

Something seemed to slide out of his fingernails, as he shifted his hands to lie against the silt. Whether it was because the hair had spread across them, or the skin on his hands had thickened, the outcome was the same: Maeron's fingers were becoming less flexible. They needed to flatten out. As he shifted his weight, his toes slid through the gravel. More flesh than he had expected weighed down, stopping him from sliding or toppling over.

The feeling of such strength was exhilarating: Maeron let out a yell of boyish triumph as he thrust in once more; it came out more like a beastly roar, but that just seemed to make him even more excited. He felt so big, so strong that he was surprised Thrall could bear it. He was certain his manhood had swollen, expanding in length and girth beyond his natural limits. It even felt strangely shaped as shivers passed through him as parts of his maleness scraped at the insides of what he was sure was Thrall's tender innards. He tried to let out a gruff apology, but his throat couldn't find the words, his voice instead coming out as a deep rumble.

"Do not worry." Maeron heard Thrall's voice in his head, their minds somehow joined together. "You are not harming me."

"How is this possible?" Maeron wondered; he felt pleased that, although he seemed to be unable to speak, he could still communicate.

"Our master loved life," Thrall stated, "and believed that it was all connected to one another. All of his servants embody that purpose."

A shudder passed through Maeron's body. He looked down again, black claws jutting from the ends of his digits. Calling them fingers still seemed inaccurate: they more resembled the paws of a cat - a particularly large cat, possibly like one from one of the strange lands that he never known, but may get to visit.

"You shall," Thrall stated. "We shall spread across the land, finding those that will join in our master's service."

Maeron's face twisted into a proud grin as he thought of it: he and Thrall, part of a growing throng that sought others, introducing him to the pleasures that life truly offered. The hairs of his growing mane twitched as he stretched his aching jaw, another roar bellowing out of him. Excitement washed all over him. Digging in his claws, he plunged his slick shaft further inside Thrall, feeling their connection growing.

It seemed as though this was a call to orgasm. Maeron felt his heavy balls, his sack lined with a light coating of the same fur that bristled over his entire skin now, quicken, his life-giving fluids shooting out into Thrall. His wide, beastly chest shuddered as he pushed a final time with full force into Thrall's body, his pace slowing as orgasm reached his mind. Crashing over him like a wave, he enjoyed the sensations; he bared his teeth, the enamel stretching like swiftly-ageing stalactites and stalagmites in his expanding maw.

Strangely, the peak of ejaculation didn't seem to kill off his libido. He still enjoyed the feeling of Thrall's body wrapped around his, and his own being pumped into by the flexible fish-man's tentacle cock. White fur glimmered green underneath the mingling of their juices. His, to his surprise, still seemed to flow, as if his balls contained an everlasting supply of seed. Thrall's explanation made a certain strange kind of sense, and he decided to go along with it. Soon, his cock was pumping the greenish, clear fluid almost as fast as Thrall did.

Feeling the bones in his face press out into a short feline muzzle, Maeron explored his mouth with the tongue that didn't quite fit in as the changes went through a lopsided phase. Sharp teeth filled his muzzle, stretching over his elongated jaw. His exploring tongue uncovered the hard white bristles that burst from his upper lip, and the thin lips that attached underneath his flattening nose.

Maeron's feet crunched into the ground below his feet, shifting his legs. Although he'd had some suspicions about his physical changes, when he felt the bulging above his backside was when he accepted he was now a four-legged beast: two-legged creatures that roamed the land seldom did so with tails, and his large body eliminated a situation like Thrall or some of the others whose minds he had been linked with. The scaly fish-man had only been the first servant; the family of minotaurs and the dragon formed of two had arrived later. He could see the ones he had not met in his mind's eye, flying through the air on their mission.

Flight had never been something Maeron had considered before, but feeling some of the dragon's thoughts with his head stirred up an excitement that he hadn't felt before. No man, he knew, was able to fly; but of course now he was no man. He wasn't sure if his thoughts drove it, or the changes had permeated his mind to make him more comfortable with the process he was about to undergo, but along with the swelling in his tail came others at his shoulders, and a deep pain. While he was no longer a man, he was certainly formed of one, and they had four limbs while his new body required six.

The wings took some time to grow. The only thing that kept Maeron sane was the unending pleasure that seemed to come from continually sharing their magic-infused seed with Thrall, a perpetually looping orgasm. His body had been flushed of its old seed quite a while ago, but his cock still throbbed with an unending hunger for sex as the bony growths farther back and down from his shoulders branched out, taut white, leathery skin pulling along with them as wings large enough to support his body's mass stretched out of him.

Behind him his tail emerged, and very unlike what he was expecting. It seemed to grow in segments, covered with hard, chitinous skin that glowed almost ominously with the same green glow that permeated his fluids, Thrall's fluids and those they had unleashed, which had now reached the water's edge.

Briefly, pain flashed through his mind. It wasn't caused by any physical hurt, simply the nagging regret from the life and the people he had left behind. But that was washed away in the flood of magic that permeated his whole body now. Giving himself over to his master, he suddenly felt a hard stirring in his loins.

This orgasm was different than the others. It was a truly monstrous one, more suited for his monstrous body. Thick fluid, glowing green with the vibrancy of bright, pale leaves shuddered out of him. He flexed his tail, his mind accepting it as part of his body. Claws dug through the silt underneath them, his wings stretching out further, enclosing them in shadow as they continued to grow and strengthen.

Swinging the barbed tail down, he struck it into the ground. A jolt of ecstasy shot through his already pleasure-soaked mind. His mind seemed to find the knowledge that he needed to understand himself. While unique, he now knew he had the body and face of a lion, the tail of a scorpion and huge bat-like wings: each creature he could see formed in his mind, and he could see himself as he was now, and would be forever.

Finally, orgasm had robbed him of his strength. Thrall sensed this, untangling himself from the giant albino manticore and sliding off of his shaft. Flexing his strong forelegs, the fabulous new creature created by his new master's magic examined his proud face in the lake.

"The Stinger is ready to serve my Master," the manticore claimed proudly.

"Let us recover for a moment," Thrall suggested, "I think both of us should recover some of the energy we have lost. Then we should fly."

"A good plan," The Stinger agreed, reclining on his side. He studied his new beasthood; all through its growth and change, he hadn't seen how it had changed, how barbs had grown around the tip, or how it was now a slick piece of flesh that pulled up at least as far as the midline of his chest. He licked it clean, feeling the magic fluids dance across his tongue, as it slowly retracted.

The Stinger turned his eyes towards Thrall, moments before he plunged below the surface of the water. He marvelled at how such a small creature was able to keep up with him. Truly, he thought, their Master had blessed their first servant with a special power indeed.

Once he had cleaned himself to his satisfaction, he stretched out his wings, folding them over his shoulders, and rest on the silt, watching Thrall occasionally breach the surface of the water, before disappearing once again. The sun moved lazily across the sky. Before he knew it, The Stinger had fallen asleep.

The sleep was blissful, and surprisingly long. Nobody had come to bother him, he noticed as he felt his eyes focus once again. Night had fallen: even his own brilliant white fur seemed to blend into the shadows. Had it not been for his acute vision, he wouldn't have been able to see the energy coming off of every living creature in his vicinity.

Thrall stood below him; giving his assent, The Stinger allowed himself to be boarded. It felt surprisingly satisfying to have the weight of a passenger on his back. Getting to his feet, he prowled around the lake. This was not an ideal spot to start a flight, he thought, but there was little choice. They were too remote, and disturbing that much of the forest would garner attention.

Using the lake shore as a running strip, The Stinger loped across the ground, gaining speed. His wings outstretched, knocking over huge swathes of trees, or at least bending them out of his way as his feet nearly flew across the ground. Then the wind kicked in, his wings beat hard, and he slowly took off of the ground.

Flying took some getting used to: he performed circles across the lake, marvelling at his shadowy reflection doing the same on the water's surface. Once he was sufficiently comfortable enough, Thrall instructed him on where the Master's servants were going to meet.

The night made for good flying.

In time, the Servants of Life, as they came known to be called, spread their Master's magic throughout the lands. Men were drawn to the cause, their humanity traded away to become a living army. The enemy was faced, and defeated; the monstrous army, having served its purpose, disappeared from the world, to let the world of men and beasts recover and forget the losses caused by the mighty battles and the heady orgies.

Or so the legend goes.