A price on my head, first ten, then twenty, then one-hundred gold talons, I quickly made a name for myself. In the span of one season, as the red, God Sun Spring gently heated into early summer, I had waylaid, ambushed, and fought my way from the Crossroads tavern southward, into the kingdom of Longvale. Avoiding the busier highway, the King’s Road, I stuck to the plebeian pathways, seeking refuge in small villages and thorpes, or the wilds, as the Imperial troops, the tax collectors, and diplomats of the empire became my prey.

Fire Mane, my stalwart equestrian companion, remained by my side as we cried havoc and unleashed the fury of the Duel Dancers upon them. Habitually leaving at least one survivor, allowing them to tuck tail and run to the empress. I was first vilified as a bandit, then an errant Soul Dancer.

When the reward for my capture reached fifty talons, I was delighted to see “Kyrie the Soul-dancer” on a wanted poster. When my bounty reached one-hundred talons, I had been dubbed “Kyrie the Red.” I was decreed an enemy of the empire, enjoying both fame and infamy. My latest wanted poster featured a less-than tasteful caricature of myself topless, with exaggerated breasts, covered in blood. Many young girls in the villages thrust them into my hands with pleas for autographs.

The villagers gave me sanctuary, due, in large part, to the riches I bestowed upon them whenever I would stop. I was likened to the legendary Robed Hood, a hero of the common folk, who stole from the rich and gave to the poor. I differed in one aspect; I stole from the rich and pretty much kept it. I accumulated the wealth for a purpose, not avarice.

Crisscrossing my way southward, I quickly became the most-wanted wench in all the land. I held little hope that I could infiltrate the capital city of Valencia, fight my way into the main fortress, and extol my vengeance on Cintra. Culling her armies of minions, crippling her revenue, and drawing her out seemed to be my best options. I could easily bide my time until others took up my harrying tactics, allowing me the freedom to stealthily exact revenge.

The Dragon’s Spine, a massive chain of rocky-peaked mountains weaving through the middle of the kingdom, split the territory of Longvale down the center. Except on the western coast, where Longvale met the Azure Sea, the mountains could be seen from nearly every vantage in the kingdom, jutting skyward like the crests of a dragon’s back. In the southernmost foothills of the chain, a forest called Darkwood, rumored to be haunted by evil spirits and populated by vile monsters, I hid from prying eyes and sallied forth to strike.

Few mortals had the mettle to enter the gloomy, mysterious forest; the reputation gave me the perfect lair to hide from soldiers, while still being only a few day’s ride from the walled, wealthy capital of Valencia. Rolling, wooded hills, outlined in streams, topped with dense foliage, made for easy, trackless concealment. A small hamlet called Glenbury, little more than a lumber outpost on the outskirts of the forest, provided me with any supplies the mysterious forest could not provide.

I had discovered an abandoned logging cabin, an hour’s or so walk into the forest. Nearby was a small clearing with running water and apple trees. While the apples were golden, stunted, and oddly formed, they were tasty; Fire Mane loved them. It was there that I struck my camp, hid my ill-begotten loot. The treasure was not for me; it was to employ troops when the time came. I intended to incite a rebellion.

It had been two days since my last raid. The tax collectors no longer took to the roads with a couple of soldiers for protection; they now traveled with no less than a dozen fully-armed, battle-hardened troops. Utilizing hit-and-run tactics, I would ride up, lance them from a distance, and stampede away before they could bring their cumbersome crossbows to bear. By the time I was ready to strike, the soldiers would be exhausted, demoralized, and depleted. My infamy grew. Whispered rumors in dark, dingy inns and taverns bespoke of bounty hunters and troops, dedicated to bringing me to justice.

Gathering herbs and berries one red-sunny morning, I was startled by a piercing feminine shriek that echoed through the normally still forest. Dropping everything, listening intently, eyes scouring the undergrowth for signs of movement, I had just begun to relax once more when I heard the shriek again.

A young woman, from the sound of it, was in peril. Grabbing my sword, Splinter, knowing that my roan stallion would remain where he was, I rushed through the thorns, foliage, and trees, towards the dilapidated logging cabin.

Slowing as I neared the cleared area, seeking concealment behind shrubbery and half-hewn logs, I quickly located the source of the wailing. With relief, I noted that a buxom young blond woman, dressed in a cleavage-revealing, full-bodice, peasant dress, complete with billowy skirting, was play-crying to the amusement of her young lover. He was handsome, rustic, with a long shock of deep brown hair, shirtless, and amused. Her wretched screams were merely play-cries of passion and excitement; the look on her face showed desire and humor, far from the terrified cries of danger I had initially perceived.

Her hands were held before her in mock warding, her underdress pulled down at the neck, exposing her ripe, firm, young breasts. “Somebody save me,” she cried to the denizens of the forest. “A strange man is threatening to take me.”

He stood in front of her, arms akimbo, drooling at her nude tits.

“Don’t just stand there, stranger,” her voice scolded. “Take me.”

Watching from my hiding place, I couldn’t help but smile as she commanded him to roughly throw her down in the dirt. Spreading her legs, her hands busying themselves under the folds of her skirt, buried in other, softer folds from the look of passion on her face, she told him to strip and take her with force, like a man.

His shaft now exposed, standing at full attention, he obliged her pleading and lay over her, between her outstretched legs. Her sighs echoed off the trees as he plunged himself inside her and began bucking his hips wildly.

“My soldier, my love, take me. Harder,” she cried, her voice a mix of pleasure and mock-despair. Her hands grabbed his buttocks, pulling him in deeper.

My fingers sought my aching pussy beneath my chainmail loincloth, thankful for the easy access. Fingers thrusting inside, matching his impassioned thrusts, my breath matching hers, I watched, mesmerized, as the young lovers consummated their union in the clearing before me.

Orgasm nearing, eyes closed, lost in the music of their moans, the sounds of their flesh colliding, I nearly gasped, startled, when a gruff male voice pierced the lover’s symphony.

“Well, what do we have here?” the man’s voice was filled with lechery and spite. “Looks like the little princess wants some cock.”

Opening my eyes, I could see the young lovers' faces were awash with fear and horror. Three men, dirty and armed, were standing around them. They wore similar brigandine armor, imperial helms, and wore the red baldrics designating them as Reavers, the elite troops of the empire.

The man that had spoken kicked the girl’s lover across the face, a foul, solid blow that sent him sprawling. “Hold him down, boys. Make him watch before we kill ‘im. I never had me a proper lady before.”

The sensual, attractive blond woman, her breasts still exposed, was pleading, begging for mercy. The young man, in his prime of young adulthood, maybe ten or eleven full turns of age, was threatening and struggling. Even if the honor of Duel Dancers didn’t require defending the helpless, I would have taken action.

“You shall unhand them and leave or pay in blood,” I shouted, standing to reveal myself. My right arm drew Splinter from its sheath on my back in one fluid motion; a slight ticking whoosh sound accompanied the red light of the God Sun reflecting off its silvery metal.

All movement stopped as five pairs of eyes looked towards me. The leader of the three smiled at me and spit. “Do you know who we are, you fucking whore?”

“Offhand, I’d say the village idiot and the two runners up.”

He chuckled venomously. “Hold these two down, boys. I’ll take care of the little girl.” He drew his sword, a stout, short bit of pointy steel, and waited until his underlings did as he bade.

I readied myself, stepping out into the clearing, appraising any perceived strengths or weaknesses they might have, gauging their proficiency at being murderous thugs. Their leader was either very good or stupidly overconfident; one does not give up a three-to-one advantage if there’s an alternative available. He was right-handed, stepped with his right foot forward, and his stance led me to believe that he was more accustomed to fighting with a shield.

He eyed me up. “Looks like we get to enjoy two doxies, boys,”

“It’s Kyrie the Red,” one of his soldiers cried despairingly. Word had spread. Their faces blanched. My face smiled.

I stabbed my gaze at him. Time constricted, slowed. In combat, the span of a few seconds can seem a lifetime. In the brief time that it took him to close the few-paces distance between us, I noted that his breathing was already ragged, his comrades looked at me with fear, their two victims had stopped struggling, a bird was flying overhead, cawing shrilly, and a few leaves were gently falling off to my right, descending slowly, seemingly floating in the air.

The Reaver carried his attack to me, a slashing strike, coming in horizontal and fast, blade canted to deflect mine. A quick dip of my point, over the top of his blade, circling beneath it, my longer, lighter blade of sky-steel connected just below his sternum as he charged towards me. The point of my superior weapon easily slipped between two plates in his brigandine, finding soft flesh beneath. I did not need to parry his slash; his body went limp and fell before me like a sack of grain.

Jumping over his falling body, clearing the height before his body hit the earth, I charged the closest foe, the one holding the man captive, his blade pointed at his victim’s throat. A quick javelin-toss of my blade caught him unaware, before his mind had even registered my charge, and cut deeply into his throat. He went down, clutching and screaming, as I danced into him, twirling, my hand finding the hilt of my sword and wrenching it free from his larynx.

Side-stepping with grace and rhythm, the final attacker’s overhead lunge missing me by leagues. I knocked his large, heavy sword from his hands with a simple hammering blow. Disarmed and terrified, he looked towards me. His expression demonstrated the knowledge that his life was in my hands, his face ashen with fear.

“Cintra will see your bones bleaching in the sun for this,” he said defiantly.

“Tell her to come get me. We have a blood-debt to settle.”

He stared at me, afraid but defiant, awaiting the death blow.

“You heard me,” I said. “Tell your empress that either she comes to me, or I to her. Either way, her days are numbered. Now go.” I lowered my sword, still at the ready, allowing him to climb to his feet; I watched him as he faded back into the woods, heading towards the edge.

“You,” the victimized man said, pulling up his trousers, smiling sheepishly. “You saved us, thank you.”

The young blond woman, slightly older than I, her clothes now arrayed more modestly, eyed me up and down. “So you’re the infamous Kyrie the Red? What do you have against the empress?”

“You’re welcome,” I said to the man, avoiding his attempts at embracing me. To her, I merely intoned, “She ordered the slaughter of my people. Blood for blood.”

“I’m Calvin,” the man said, extending his hand with a broad smile. “Before you, you see the great…”

“Trinica,” she finished for him, shooting him a stern glance. “The great plowman’s daughter.”

I nodded, repeating their names. “Do you have money for food and shelter?” They shook their heads negatively.

I pulled a small bag from the waist of my sky-steel loincloth, throwing it at their feet. “There’s maybe twenty or so gold talons in there, enough for you to find food, lodging, and entertainment in the village of Glenbury, less than a day’s walk from here. I wish you well.”

Weathering his thanks and her inquisitive stares, I watched them head in the proper direction. Trinica’s expression was strange; I couldn’t fathom why, although she had just been through a harrowing experience. My passion from the duel-dance was just beginning to subside when I heard the sounds of many feet crashing through the underbrush.

Shit. Dreck and death.

More than a dozen Reavers emerged from the forest into the clearing, far too many for me to conquer at once. Spears, swords, and crossbows cut off every avenue of escape, except for deeper into the forest. Nodding at them, smiling, I flashed them my ass as I turned tail and ran, calling for Fire Mane.

Before I heard the “click-swish” of the bolt being fired, I felt the pain. A crossbow quarrel pierced my left thigh, burning with searing heat, bringing pain so intense I could barely limp away. Steadying my mind, finding balance once more, I felt the arousal and lust of Duel-dancing fill me, chasing away the searing pain.

A glance backward showed that the platoon of soldiers was in pursuit, but they seemed to be moving far too slowly. I threw all of my energy into fleeing, noting with surprise that Fire Mane had heard my calls and was trotting up to me. Screaming in agony as I climbed into the ill-fitting saddle, I spurred my roan deeper into the forest, as fast as I could manage. A few more quarrels whizzed past me, some thunking into trees, others crashing through the flora.

I raced through the undergrowth, crashing through thickets, thorns, shrubs, and leaping over small obstacles. Fire Mane ran on, strong and quick, until my attackers were lost. Slowing to a trot, then a relaxed canter, I tried to find my bearings. I had no way of knowing which direction I had raced, how deeply I was into the forest, or which way led to the forest edge. The dense and twisted canopy blocked out the suns; everything seemed eerie and mysterious.

I let Fire Mane choose the direction while I tended to my pierced thigh. Pulling the wooden shaft through my pierced muscle, binding the wound, would do for now. I would live. Perhaps I’d have an interesting scar; I already had a small, but prestigious and growing collection of those. I needed to heal first, seek revenge later.

Both blood and time flowed as I rode, eventually coming to a small clearing beside a running stream, blanketed in bright red flowers with large round pods growing in their centers. Telling my horse that perhaps we should stop for a drink, I was surprised when Fire Mane veered straight towards the water.

Entering the small glade, his hooves crushed the flowers, causing the pods to break open and erupt. They broke with a hissing sound, spewing a reddish, powdery, smoke-like substance that smelled of poppies. Misting the air, causing me to chough mildly; the scent was not unpleasant. My horse whinnied and sputtered at the fog of spores surrounding us.

At first, I thought I was feeling heady and woozy from the loss of blood and my wound; I soon realized that my head was clouding, my vision blurring, and my body would no longer obey my commands. A warm, dark, comforting blackness enveloped me. I only thought of how wonderful I felt as reality slipped away. I had a vague notion of falling, then nothingness, blessed, welcome oblivion.

Consciousness slowly, eventually returned to me. I was lying upon a bed of soft, fragrant clover, looking up at the reddened sky through a tiny clearing. Water cascaded somewhere out of sight—its bubbling rushing sounds comforting me. I heard Fire Mane whinny to my right. Barely noting that my punctured thigh had been freshly dressed, I propped myself up and turned my head towards my horse. I was unaware of where I was or how I had gotten there. Splinter, my sword, leaned against a moss-covered stump, just out of reach. A humanoid figure, feminine and cat-like, stood beside my horse, making horse-like noises as if conversing.

She was tall, standing slightly over six feet in height, very lithe and sinewy; however, those oddities were her most human features. Nude except for a blue loincloth covering her privates, her skin was a deep olive hue, with light. sparse fur covering her entire body except for a forest green mane of hair that flowed from her head down her nude back, ending just above her furred tail. Her large, succulent breasts were capped with forest-green nipples, quite shapely. Her face reminded me of a cat or a lioness. Her nose ended in a dark green snout, resembling that of a mountain lion’s; her eyes were slanted ovals of mottled yellow with thin, diamond pupils. Pointed ears stuck out from the sides of her head and her smile, when she looked towards me, showed fanged needle-like teeth.

“It’s good to sees yous awake,” she purred. “Relax, I means you not harm,” she hissed as I lunged for my sword. “Take it eassy or you’ll rips your stitcheses.” Her voice was soft and gentle, a calming combination of lengthened vowels and consonants, coming out in a half-purring, half hissing drawl.

She sputtered some horse sounds to Fire Mane; him pawing the ground and snorting in my direction in response.

“He likes yous very muchs, much betters than his previous owner-man.”

I was in no immediate danger, so I managed to relax a bit. My panic of fight or flight mode subsided. “You can tell?”

“He tellss mee. We’s been chatting whiles you rested.”

“You can talk to horses?”

“Yess,” she hissed, drawing out the word. “When the red sun grows big, I’s easily talks with all creatures. He’s says that he likes his name-is and the fact that you talks to him, feeds him treats, although you cannot understand his answers.”

“Did you bind my wounds?” I asked, pointing to my newly stitched and dressed thigh.

She nodded. “Sheera. Yous may calls me Sheera.”

“She-Ra?”

“No relations.”

“What?”

“Perhaps it is too subtle for human ears. Sheera,“ she repeated, extending the word.

Fire Mane sputtered, whinnied, and snorted.

“He’s says hiss real names is,” she paused, “what is word? Thunder feets. Humans words for horses feets? ”

“Hoof?”

“Yesses, Thunder Hooofs.”

“Thunder Hoof,” I repeated. “Very well, Thunder Hoof, it shall be. I should be going. I thank you for saving me; how can I repay you?”

“’Tis my honors to help Kyrie the Red,” she purred. “If you’d pet me, your blood debt is paid.”

Tentatively approaching I asked. “Are you an Alfar?” The legendary Alfar, rarely seen in human lands, mythical according to some, were pointy-eared humans, children of nature and magic.

“No’s,” she drawled, pushing her hot flesh into my hand as I touched her back. “I is Canthrope, forest spirits of both mankinds and the kingdoms of nature.”

I had heard tales of mythical creatures, called Thropes by the Soul Dancers, that were similar to humans but with animal characteristics. They were sensual creatures, few in number, and communed with both animals and spirits. I had thought they were merely imaginary. My eyes proved otherwise.

“Love me,” she purred, turning towards me.

Her flesh was hot, the light fur giving it a comforting, soft, sensual feel. Her back arched to my touch, her purring low and sensual. My hands caressed her body, rubbing the fur. Purring and hissing, her body melted downward under my touch, causing her to drop onto all fours atop the bed of clover.

My hands raked her back, her thighs, her invitingly shaped ass, even her furred tail. Her purring grew more guttural; she moaned out words in a lisping, lilting foreign tongue. Rolling onto her back, legs spreading, revealing a patch of green fur between her legs, her forked tongue lapped at her lips; her clawed hands cupped her shapely tits, tweaking her nipples as she moaned.

“Yess,“ she purred and moaned. “Pet me there, faster.”

Feeling the lust that makes Untamed Flesh-dancers legendary well up inside me, I gave in to my urges and pet her soft, wet folds between her lightly furred legs. Her hole was dripping with a vaguely yellowish liquid, her hips undulating under my touch, her back arching in feline pleasure.

“Kissss me down there,” she pleaded. I knelt between her legs, lapping up her sweet nectar; to me, it tasted like invigorating honey. Her moans grew louder, her furred thighs wrapped around my head, drawing my mouth into her moist feline-woman-flesh, as her hips ground against my lips.

I assaulted her dripping snatch with my tongue, lips, and fingers, losing myself in the pleasure of giving her oral pleasure. I stopped, startled, when I felt a warm, soft probing at the entrance to my dripping pussy. Looking back, I saw her tail had curled around, crept between my legs, and was probing me. It felt like a velvet-covered cock, caressing me gently.

Losing myself in the passion, my hips pushed back against her prehensile pleasure-appendage until I felt her soft, bristling fur wrap itself inside my dripping sleeve. Gentle at first, until my oozing cunt handled the girth of her tail, her thrusts were soft, shallow, and gentle; growing in intensity as my body relaxed to the girth, the soft fur mixing with my lubrication, sending sensory pleasure, unlike anything I’ve ever felt, rolling and cascading through my core.

Sucking her large, hardened clit between my lips, my tongue flicking over it with intensity and lust, we found a rhythm. Her tail plunged into me, deeper and deeper, writhing like a twisting snake inside me. Her tail-thrusts pushed my eager mouth into her gushing pussy, then back once more.

Her moans became growls, hisses, and screams of ecstasy; my mouth only screamed into her slit as the blissful heat of orgasm consumed me, ravaged my body, and coursed through me like heavenly wildfire.

“I cums, I loves,” she hissed out, her voice seething with passion.

As Sheera’s orgasm consumed her, her tail went into a flurry of thrusts, pulsating spirals, and twisting. Her furred appendage, fucking me deep and hard, pushed me over the edge, causing me to release a waterfall of lusty wetness all over the tail that impaled me so expertly. We collapsed together, arms intertwined, both of us moaning and gasping for air.

“I thanks yous for petting me,” she purred out. “Does the Kyrie desires to stay until healed?”

“So long as we can do that more, Sheera.”

I stayed in her lair, a small, cozy cave, lined with thatch and furs, until I could travel once more. Her healing prowess sped my body’s natural healing, hinting at hardly any scarring. Our days would be filled with conversation, her teaching me the ways of nature and the forest; our nights were filled with love-making, torrid, passionate, gentle, loving, and adventurous. While we hailed from different worlds, I grew to consider her a good friend and ally. Sheera was a kind, gentle, loving creature of nature; I felt honored that she enjoyed my presence.

Being shown the quickest way out of the heart of Darkwood, I climbed on Fire Mane, now known as Thunder Hoof, once more, he was in high spirits and rife with energy from having constantly feasted upon fruits and sweets. I followed the stream as Sheera advised, promising to return one day to visit if I could. A day later I emerged from the shunned, haunted forest, facing northward, the peaks of the Dragon’s Spine at my back. It was time to redouble my efforts against the villainous empress Cintra. She’d soon discover what one single, motivated person could do to wreak havoc.