To the Teeth

Soft and supple flesh. The smell of excretion and lust. The gentle brush of fuzz. Mark arched over his mounted mate, a creature with fluffy wings pressed onto the floor. It's fur was soft and short, tickling the skin as Mark kept his hands planted on it's upper back. A wild passion consumed Mark as he thrust his cock into the well lubed and well exercised asshole of the fluffy being currently begging for more.

With it's chest and knees to the ground, the humanoid moth arched his hips and ass upwards, all four arms searching for anything to hold onto. Every handful of cloud simply disappeared between his fingers. His cock swung back and forth with the crashing of hips, stiff and ready for action. His chest was pulled from the ground as Mark clenched a fist around the tight fitting crop top, the volume of his chest fluffy becoming more apparent. Huffing moans flowed from him as he was made to look over the field of an already decided battle. It was the same one as the last time he'd been called to this dream, a rarity among dream drifters. 'His mind is made and he's quite excited for what's to come... or cum, perhaps,' Dusk thought as he was shown a rather exciting example of the fluid nature of dreams.

As Mark, his current dreamhost, got more and more aggressive, his cock grew in size. It likely wasn't consciously done but the will of the dreamer comes out in many ways. Dusk wasn't too upset by it, he enjoyed when things got a little frisky in dreamland. "It seems t-the battle... is done... Am‐ Mmmh! Am I to be the 'victory lap', as it were?" He had to force the words out between moans. Something about this dream turned the pleasure up to eleven. Maybe he had just had his own fun. The dial rose to twelve as Mark's entire hand slipped under the collar Dusk wore, choking him and letting Mark have total control.

"The spoils are to be enjoyed, are they not? Regardless... I don't hear any complaining, Emissary." Mark pulled at the choker and Dusk let out more choked moans. He always enjoyed when these dreams turned into his own personal pornographic experience, especially with an approaching climax to the festivities.

Mark grunted in primal fury, taking out every negative emotion on his taken lover with impunity. Dusk felt his insides growing warmer but an orgasm didn't seem to slow his dreamhost down in the slightest. The feeling of it sent him over the edge as well and fluffy clouds were soiled with the white result of their union.

When Mark let go of Dusk's collar and top, he fell forward, landing as he'd started. The only difference was the trail of cum leaking from his wonderfully used hole. Maybe he should try to find this Mark... - - - - - -

Thursday, December 4th

Mark's pace was slow and ponderous as he left work for the day. Unlike previous days, things had, surprisingly, returned almost to normal. The sheets he reviewed and filed away had more mystical keywords, one guy having burned his hands when his flame control practice hadn't included anything to shield his palms from the inferno two inches away. From his inventory, he pulled out an apple, pretending to pull it from within his jacket, and took a bite. After the events of last night, he was following orders. On his way to work, he'd stopped by the store and picked up a bundle of celery, some peanut butter, and a bag of the actually good tasting apples. None of the mealy ones. He would have gone for the classic pineapple but something about the fibrous fruit triggered his gag reflex. May as well make use of his inventory space, considering things in there appeared to be in stasis.

Imara had stayed at Mark's place and the two had spent the night close. When he'd woken up to his alarm, her head lay on his arm. If not for her waking up too, he might have been in a pickle. There was a beat of awkwardness between the two before a laugh took them at the same time. Mark really hoped he'd have the time to get used to waking up next to her. Her smile was as full of mischief as it was infectious. That was to say nothing of her eyes. He'd regretted having to get up and get ready but such was the way of things.

Now, almost nine hours later, he meandered his way towards the mall. The sandwich shop Ezekiel had talked about was close to it from what he'd found online and a good sandwich sounded like a wonderful time. The knife would be a bonus. A very pointy, not covered in viscera bonus.

Mark caught the sign for Arnold's, the full name being Arnold's Sandwich Shop. There was no chuckling at the vertical spelling of "ASS". Not even a peep.

Mark was still chortling when he entered the restaurant, shaking his head. The inside was like other sandwich shops he'd seen, the major difference being decor. Naval and army imagery littered the pictures on the walls, mostly from World War II. Behind the counter was an older man, signs of age just starting to take root in his dark hair. He looked like he had lived a lot of life in his time, for better or worse.

"Welcome to Arnold's," the older man said, a northern mid west accent at play. Somewhere like one of the Dakotas or maybe Wisconsin. "We have a special running today. Meatball subs are three dollars off."

Composing himself, Mark went to the counter and nodded. "Meatball subs, huh? Sounds like a good start. Let me get two, full length to go. Oh, and, uhh, got this from a friend. Ezekiel." Mark pulled the chip from his pocket, holding it up.

"Ah, you're the kid Zeek said would come by. Nice to meet you, I'm Noah. Let's square you away, then get to business."

"Huh. I figured you'd be Arnold. Sign and all that."

"No, that's my dad," he said as he worked, two sandwiches coming together with no hurry and plenty of care. "He started this place and I run the day to day. He was at Juno Beach on D-Day."

"That was... Canadian, right? Got their before their armor could soften the landing." Memory slowly returned from his school days. "He survived all that?"

The man nodded. "He wasn't in the first wave. He was a cook so they held him back just a bit. Saved his live."

"I didn't know there were Fish in the war."

The first sandwich was done and set aside, awaiting it's mate before they could be thrown in the oven for a quick toasting. "Only the weaker ones. Anyone with real power had enough to buy their way clear of the draft."

"Learn something new every day. Any good stories?" Mark eyed the sandwiches hungrily as they were loaded into the oven.

"He heard a few wild things but I don't think he ever got up to anything. Some madman killed a German officer with a longbow of all things." Noah rang up the total and bagged the sandwiches. "Now then, follow me."

The pair went into the back and down a flight of stairs. Basements were rare in Georgia so this was a surprise. So was the sheer volume of weaponry on display as they rounded a corner. Pistols, rifles, shotguns, ammo to match them all, spears, clubs, swords of every tradition. Mark could see swords he'd seen in every kind of media. Shamshirs, longswords, shortswords, falchions, khopeshes, katanas and their variants, dao, straight swords. This could outfit a very ragtag looking division of soldiers.

"You guys aren't here to play games," Mark said in a slightly hollow tone. He'd expect something like this from a massive vendor at a gun show, not a sandwich shop downtown.

"Only the fun ones they organize international meetings about. Go talk to my dad, he'll be able to help." Noah gave Mark a nod and headed back up the stairs.

Arnold, or at least the one who seemed to be the man, was a grizzled old coot with whispy white hair. He was waxing a bow string, sat behind a counter as Mark approached. "Ezekiel said you were a knife fighter. Budget?"

"Oh, uh... Four hundred all together. I was hoping to get a blade and maybe a set of throwing knives."

The old man eyed Mark, the look of someone who's heard it all before. "Any actual reason?"

The grit to his voice surprised Mark, wondering just how often this happened. "Uhh... I can use wind to guide them to a target. Knives are useful in most circumstances and they're distracting at worst."

"Know how to throw?"

"Not as much as I'd like. Part of the reason I want to get a set is to practice."

"Hmm... I know a way for you to practice." He set down the bowstring and went to a collection of knives, grabbing a black canvas roll and setting it on the counter in front of Mark. As it unrolled, Mark saw several needle-like lengths of metal, all about the same length as that from his wrist to his finger tips. "These are senbon. They're used for acupuncture. Ninjas were supposed to have killed with them. Use them to learn no spin throws. They're unforgiving. It will help. When you're consistent, come back."

"That's unusually reasonable..." Mark picked up one of the senbon. They were sturdy and had a small flex to them from their thin profile. The point was ground to a terrible apex that promised to embed itself deep into the flesh, regardless of it's purpose. They weighed very little but were well balanced regardless.

"I've seen way too many kids come in and die after. Your magic and your weapons should be about protecting yourself. End of story."

Mark nodded along. The man was clearly jaded but he hadn't lost hope he could do some good. He didn't want to be another tally in some morbid mental ledger. "Can do. How much?"

"They're cheap. Thirty bucks. Any left when you're done, I'll buy them back. Now the blade." With a discerning eye, Arnold looked at his collection of blades. Glancing up at Mark, he mumbled something to himself before selecting one and setting it on the counter. When pulled from the scabbard, the blade had a belly to it, like a kukri stretched out in an image editor. "Falcata, from ancient Spain. Good for chopping, good for slicing. Full hand guard so you don't lose as many fingers. It also looks good as a bonus." That last part almost seemed to be something small he allowed himself with how he'd rationed his words so far. "Comes with scabbard, sharpening kit, and a lesson. You will learn how to care for it. Blade is enchanted with increased durability and a Mana channel." He looked up to see confusion on Mark's face before continuing to explain, "you can pour Mana into it. Makes the cutting edge sharper and stops binding. Attuning it gives other effects."

Feeling he should have a notepad handy for times like this, he decided to make use of his mental tag-along in the interim. After getting her attention with their code word, Mark asks, 'have you been paying attention to what he's been saying?'

'Of course. I can relay it back to you later if you require it.'

'Perfect. Yes please.' The confirmation came with a thumbs up sticker of Heidi slapped into the corner of his vision for just a moment before it faded. Once all that was sorted, he refocused on the conversation. "So... how do I care for it? I've never had to sharpen a knife, let alone a sword."

"Not just sharpening. Drying, cleaning, oiling, how to deal with chips if you manage that. Maintenance."

Before Mark realized, the lesson had started. While Arnold may have been judicious with his words, he was patient as a teacher. He had a whole room dedicated to training, pieces of metal meant to stand in for blades just to practice on. The first step was habit building. A cloth was set in a ring at the open end of the scabbard. Mark had assumed the red scrap to be for flair but it was to wipe down the blade of blood, dirt, grime, or anything else that might have gotten on it. Next came how to remove old oil from the blade before reapplying it, just rubbing alcohol and a cloth wipe down. Lastly came the oiling. Once a week during heavy use or after cutting something acidic, once a month during lighter use periods, and once every three months with regular check-ins for long term storage. Enchanted blades would rust more slowly but it was important to keep it at bay.

The last thing Mark learned in the half hour long lesson, which took up the majority of time, was sharpening and taking care of chips to the blade. It was a simple act with exacting details, at least how Arnold explained it. "The angle is everything. Too shallow and it chips badly. Too sharp and cuts are harder. Thirty degrees for a chopper like this. Other swords are twenty or twenty five, depending on use. Knives around fifteen. The exact angle isn't as important as getting both sides the same. You'll drift otherwise. You'll bind up. If the blade ever chips, you can grind it out but you'll have less blade next time. Eventually, it will be too thin and snap."

Mark sent his mental thanks to Heidi for keeping notes on all this. He was a quick learner but details like this would escape him. The second set of ears were a relief. It allowed him to focus his efforts on the motions and feel of sharpening steel to a fine edge. His patience was a true virtue in this situation as sharpening was a time consuming act. More akin to a meditative practice, the feeling of zen overtaking Mark's perception.

Five strokes.
Flip.
Five strokes.
Check for a bur.
Five strokes.

The pattern overtook him for longer than he should have let it but soon, he had a bur from both sides. Last came the stropping, using leather to get rid of the tiny metal ridge at the apex of the edge. The final result was a sharpened length of flat bar scrap that was sharp enough to shave with.

An approving nod came from Arnold as he took the scrap and set it aside. "Come back and see us if you need anything else."

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