Werewolf the Podcast: Burned for her Pleasure. (episode 203)

The Professor steps through the portal to another realm. A realm where he may meet demons from hell. It could be The Maw of Níðhöggr, where the great serpent Níðhöggr is nearby—gnawing on the bones of oathbreakers and murderers, its breath like rot, its hunger eternal. In the Professor's words, 

"The worst place to wake up, my dear students, is anywhere you were meant to be forgotten. Because if you were meant to be forgotten, someone went to a great deal of trouble to make it so."

Wil is being burned to almost death, then allowed to heal again, and then burned again. It's not nice. It's probably a lot worse than the above places.

Grendel Press is our partner on this horror journey. 

Link: https://grendelpress.com

Please give us some support.

Buy us a coffee at this link right here:

https://www.buymeacoffee.com/Werewolfwil

Buy a book about werewolves. Here it is, straight from a fang-filled mouth.

Il Lupo

Greg's first Werewolf book. Brilliantly written characters in an incredible story. 

https://amzn.to/4090lpy

A Werewolf's Story

https://amzn.to/3BjXoZu

Werewolf the Colouring Book.

What should I do this evening? Why not sit and do some Wonderful Werewolf colouring?  Red may be a theme.

https://amzn.to/40k93l6

Facebook Group

https://www.facebook.com/groups/werewolfthepodcast/

Greg's X profile:@SempaiGreg

Werewolf the Podcast:@AWerewolfsStoryWil

Intro partnership with Grendel Press.

https://grendelpress.com/

Outro partnership with Grendel Press.

https://grendelpress.com/

Transcript

The Professor

Hmmm! Well, after the embarrassment of falling over in too much kit in the last episode, I have to really consider what I need for this bloody task. The issue that I have is that I like to be prepared for a... mission? A job? A task? A thingy and I have no idea what we are walking into, no bloody idea at all.

I have learnt over the years. No, that is not the case; let's take that up a notch. The centuries. That you need to be prepared for all the eventualities that... What is it the modern military types say? Contact, yes, yes, that is it. That contact... contact can make.

Sadly, in this case, I have no idea what I am going to contact on the other side of that blank magical portal that sits and sizzles in the air before me. That's an issue. An utterly colossal issue and I am not bloody willing to risk popping the old noggin through there and taking a gander without being ready.

Reassuringly, I will have a very pretty and very lethal weapon with me. That very weapon was standing and looking at me at this moment. It was Vaughnt the Werecat, and she was pretty, lethal, and always silent. 

Even with this killer on my side, I was concerned because I had no idea what we were walking into. I know I keep harping on about this state of affairs, but this is a rare circumstance in this day and age of intel and profiling. 

Even in the world of the unknown, which is my specific workplace, the modern methods of gathering data and information are 90% of what we do. Often, the situation that we find ourselves dealing with is dealt with in the planning stage of the process. 

The old story is that the plan goes out of the window once you start to apply it. I don't think this is the case in the modern arena. In these days of modern intel gathering, we often know everything that we need to in order to guarantee our success in 90% of circumstances. 

These days, we take away as much risk as possible from any mission. Soft. Things have changed for the warrior these days. It is now a bad thing and not a noble thing to die in combat. I find this strange. Honour and risk were why we fought in the past. It was the reason why we lived. (Sigh)

Dealing with blood and horror on the field were the making of a man. Sorry, perhaps I should say, person. 

Should I?

Oh, please think me not a... a woke individual. I do try, but my generation of 12th-century knights were not particularly known for their wokedness. 

The truth is the truth, which I cannot deny. There were women who took to the field as readily as any chap. It was rare, but I am aware that they did and often were a bonafide part of any troop.

I can also promise you that those women felt as strongly as any man did that they did it for a higher purpose and that if that day was to be their last, it was fate and their time to pass, and as long as they took a good account of themselves that they were deserving of that level of sacrifice. What more can a man or woman give than their life. Ironic in my own case.

It made them a worthy human. They were willing to risk and maybe give their life for something... for something more than their life was worth. 

As warriors, we suffered and understood that the value of a... person was his or her willingness to test themself with keen-edged steel against another.

I miss those days when we would just go and fight. We knew very little in some cases about our enemy, maybe numbers and the field of war, and, more often than not, we knew nothing, and we walked into the situation. We would adapt to the situation we found. Sort of. 

These days, we have to consider the others who are involved in these things; you have to be careful with others' lives when taking on a job. In the past, if they were under your command, that was enough. They would be willing to give all. Everything. These days, if people die, you have to deal with the consequences of that. 

Primarily, for me, this is a hell of a lot of paperwork as I tend to be behind a mask of secrecy, but for those that have to deal with the public and media, it can be heart-rending and career-ending. 

In recent years, we have much more to consider for our soldiers and agents. If they survive the contact, then we have to evaluate their mental health. We have to deal with a thing called PTSD. 

Bloody Post-traumatic stress disorder. Sorry, I know it is a real thing, but it annoys me that these people put themselves at risk in these ways and then can not deal with the outcomes. Why would they do it in the first place? Sorry, not PC, I know, but I find it difficult to swallow as a man of the 12th century. My true sensibilities are still of that era. We all had PTSD just from our... our bloody lives.

I need to understand this modern world. I know I do, but it seems to me that someone should expect to be a little fucked up mentally if they choose a job as a soldier. I would worry if they did not get PTSD. That brings you into the realm of the psychopath.

Although they are bloody useful in a fight. The old psychopath, that is. (laugh)

I can understand getting PTSD in other spheres of work. The caring and rescue industries, but if you train as a fighter and then complain about what it has done to your head, then... Sorry, I know. I know. I am old and ranting once again. 

There was no PTSD allowed in my day. We drank and gave thanks to God, who would absolve us of any sins. Then we drank some more to calm the voices. To rid us of our nightmares and finally send us into a fitful sleep. 

People expected and experienced horrors, and that was okay. To survive them made you bloody happy, to be quite frank. 

People died, and if you did not die and saved and served others, it made you very happy. We found happiness in our P.... T..... Fing S... D.... because it showed what we were willing to endure for others and God. 

People die. Soldiers die. All my friends always eventually... Well, you get the point.

Having said that, somewhat luckily, that is not the case for one such as me. For an immortal being such as myself, being killed was just a bit sore and short-lived. 

(Pause and Sigh)

Short-lived. What an utterly comical description of death. Many times have I been tapped on the shoulder by the Grim Reaper himself and been told in resolute terms to 'Fuck off back, Simon' In that voice filled with the tolling of church bells and overwhelming disappointment. I am sure he will get his way one day.

Anyway, the long and short of this rant of sorts is that we did not have to be careful with our losses in the past and that loss in these days of the modern Western military is a rare thing for the so-called... goodies. 

Another factor in my over-preparedness is that I had once been just a knight. Not that that was 'a just' thing. I was a tank of medieval warfare, but I only had the kit I had. I will not list it because I have no doubt you know what a Knight worked with. You have to be a bright type to appreciate these tales, so patronising you with simple things like what a knight wore are not appropriate.

Over the centuries, I have learnt and, with that experience, have built a vast arsenal of tools and weapons that can be used against any of a myriad of comers, as it were. 

When a situation was realised and the intel came in, I could select the correct things for the job. I could select the correct tools from out of, well, tons of items. Yes, tons would be an accurate description of the amount of catalogued things that I have to fight the forces of... evil? No, not evil; just fight the forces I have to fight. Not always evil. Although, that term is somewhat arbitrary. 

That had been why I had taken too many things this day and, as a result, fallen over. 

I did not know what I would have to fight so I had tried to take all of eveything that I had learnt was effective. 

A human can not be doing that. Even an immortal one. 

After falling over and being laughed at by Vaughnt, I had considered getting the Wheelbarrow from the garden shed, but that seemed a little ridiculous. A battle wheelbarrow. Such a thing would require sythes to be added to the wheel. 

So, how do I choose what I need? Hmm!

After another ten tense minutes, I had settled on the items for my journey. 

The Mossberg shotty and the relevant ammunition. The iron filings and my short sword and arming sword. I left all else. Perhaps I could step back through the hole in space and time if I required other items when required. 

I then prepared myself mentally the way that I always do. I reached for my flask and emptied a good glug of the hot-biting spirit into a welcoming mouth. Sighing with the divinity of the taste.

Vaughnt watched me with an element of bored confusion. I offered her the flask, but she shook her head and offered me a face of disgust at its contents, which made me smile. 

'Not for you old girl?' I asked her. She shook her head and folded her arms. 

I shrugged my shoulders and helped myself to her portion. '

'That's the ticket. A bit of Dutch courage. Funny saying that. I say it a lot and have no understanding of its relevance.' I told the young woman; she shrugged and frowned in bemusement. 

I put the flask away and smiled. Here we go.

I turned to Vaughnt, and she signed. Ready Yet?

She nodded. 

I then bowed and directed her to the portal. 'Ladies first?' I was always the gentleman. 

I lifted my head and looked at the Werecat. She looked back at me with a smile and shook her head in refusal. 

'You don't want to go first, then?' I asked her. I was being a little hopeful. 

She shook her head again and directed me to the portal in the air with a look.

'Ah... Okay then, I suppose I will take... bloody point.' I said to her. Again, hoping she may change her mind. 

She nodded, smiled, pointed at me, then the hole in the air and signed, 'Start walking.'

'Ah, right then.' I said, patting myself down very deliberately. At the end of the check, I looked at her just once more. 

'Now, are you sure? I don't want to get in the way of your fun?' 

This time, her response was again sign language, but was a little over-emphasised. She raised her arm and hand and then her middle finger. 

'Okay...' I said as I strolled to the portal. 'No need for that. I am going.'

Foxglove

Who the fuck do they think that they are? Who the fuck do they think that they are dealing with? They had just made me destroy a good part of this factory's inventory. 

This type of unit is difficult to gain. It takes a lot of effort and time to collect them and bring them to these facilities, so destroying them is not an acceptable thing, so them making me do such an unacceptable thing is... erm, unacceptable. 

The changelings had managed to get the disaster that Wil and Fenrir had caused under control. They reported that some fifty-four of the belief units had been destroyed no no totally fucking inihaliated . Right. Right. 

I looked at the gorgeous man in the bubble of protection. The beauty of this was that nothing could get out, but everything could get in. It was so beautifully unfair. 

I waved over one of the dark-shrouded figures and turned to it. It was Gregor, but who can tell these things apart? 

'I want you to burn him.' I said out loud enough for all present to hear. 'I want him to burn.' I repeated, turning to the man in the chair. 

'I want to see that beauty destroyed. I want it to writhe in agony. I want to see the suffering and let him learn that he can not stop me, ignore me or refuse me anything. I want him to burn almost to death, and then I want to watch him recover because he will. That will be as painful as the burning.' This was so exciting. I was going to train this powerful beast to heel.

'Fuck you, Foxglove, bring it.' Said the shadowy wolf soul, standing now at the edge of the bubble. 

I flew to within an inch of its nose and smiled at it.

'Erm, woah. Wait a minute... Fen... Erm, let's not be hasty about this, mate. You don't have to go through the burning bit, do you? So let's not...' Said Wil, stuck in his chair.

I lifted a hand and clicked my fingers. Gregor sent a blast of magical fire from his fingertips. It surrounded me, but itonly felt like sitting in the warm sun. I had too much magical protection to fall for something as simple as a non-accidental, accidental blast from the changeling. 

I did not take my eyes off the seat at the centre of the bubble and saw flames licking at its occupant, who instantly started yelling, screaming, and shaking. He tried to flinch back but was held firm by his restraints. Oh, the horror! His clothes flashed into fire, followed by his hair. He actually looked at his flaming chest. His skin shrunk back from the burning blast as though a liquid, and it started to char.

Oh, how he screamed and shouted. He panicked and rattled around in his bindings until he just stopped moving, and his body relaxed, slumping under the flames. He better not be dead. I clicked my fingers again, and the blast stopped. I watched the flames licking at the mess that was now in the bubble in the blackened steel chair. It was not beautiful anymore. It was perfect. Oh, the thrill of the power. Oh, the excitement. I... I... Oh yes! (orgasm) (Pause)

Oh, the changeling had tried to kill me. 

I turned. There were now five fairies flittering in flight. Ridiculous. Four of them pointed at one of their party. That must be the changling. I turned and looked at it. This would be a great example to the others. A great moment of education. I turned to the other four fairies and smiled at them. Their faces were now twisted with vindictive evil. They were excited about the punishment I was going to deal out on the stupid creature. 

I looked at the thing that had tried to kill me and smiled at it. It tried to kneel in the air and beg for forgiveness. I shook my head and lifted my hand towards it. The fake fairy closed its eyes and turned its face from mine, ready for the horror as I clicked my fingers. 

Three of the snitching fairies fell from the air dead. The fourth checked themselves over. The fifth fairy opened its eyes to see that it was still alive. I laughed. My focus now returning to the fucked up figure in the bubble.

He was already recovering. His breaths were wet and raspy. It must have been hard to breathe through smoke and heat-damaged lungs. Oh, the pain, oh, the agony it must be feeling. Oh, how wonderful... Suffer... suffer, you fuck. Suffer, and remember I did this to you and can do it whenever I want. A wet scream from a damaged larynx turned into a healthy scream from a healthy voice box. He was recovering, and I was going to do it again. Gregor! AGAIN.

(Mad laughter.)

Vaughnt

Yes, I am mute, but only when it comes to being in human form. I am quite a chatty creature as a cat or catkin. That's what we refer to ourselves as, catkin, not Werecats. That 'Were' thing is for animals, not the gods we are. All cats are gods and have nothing to do with those flea-bitten furry Werewolf things. Yuck, can you imagine being doglike?

Anyway. This is why you hear me. That is why I am being read by the narrator, because I can't speak. I know that should be obvious, but I have to allow for the lack of intelligence in you so-called Homo Sapiens. The thinking ape. Yeah, right. 

I tolerate the Professor. That is as close as we catkin get to... love, I believe. I love him. No, not in that way. I am not into bestiality. 

I have tolerated him now for a couple of decades and let him live with me in his home. As long as he follows the rules, he can stay. As long as he feeds me, gives me that credit card thing, and does not mess my home up too much, I will allow him to stay. In fact, he has recently spent a lot of time away. It has been wonderful. That's when I like humans the best. When they are not evident. 

The last couple of hours had been very exciting followed by very dull. He was testing my patience, to be honest. I mean, he wastes so much time. I was thinking of going to get the squirt gun to teach him some manners. He hates that. Especially when he is wearing his 'Quality' clothing. His look is yucky. So un cat-like. I mean, he is clean and well-maintained, but his choice of clothing is so last century it hurts. He does not dress nostalgically or even with any irony either. He wears it because 'I have a certain class, my dear.'

He had finally got himself to a state of readiness. A massive pile of stuff sat on the floor in the middle of my beautifully polished Egyptian marble-floored hall. If he had scratched that, then... Well, it was not worth considering, but he would be out for at least a few days.

There had been a funny moment where he had fallen on his face. These humans can be quite entertaining at times. They are usually dull, but seeing him trapped on his belly like a mousy under a paw was funny. I mean, I had not tried to stop him from putting all that equipment and junk on his body because I knew that it would end with me laughing. I love laughing at these silly creatures when they try. Bless them. 

Now, all I wanted was to go hunting for more prey. I wanted to play. 

He had offered me the opportunity to go first through the hole in the air. I had very politely declined his offer. Did he think that I was mad? I was not going to die. I only had five lives left. Yeah, the nine lives thing follows for us as Werecats. Been quite useful, to be honest. 

He had finally approached the portal. We had no idea where it would open, but I assumed that it would be where the cloaked things had come from. 

At the portal mouth, the Professor paused and took out his arming sword from his scabbard. I could see him preparing himself now. Building his bravery to enter the magical doorway. Come on, for cat's sake. I wish I could shout! 

He... He... paused and looked at the sword, carefully weighing it in his hand, then shook his head, carefully replacing it in his scabbard at his waist. Oh, for the sake of the kittens, get on with it. 

He slowly extracted the big bangy gun thing off his back and held that in his hands. It seemed to please him more than the sword because he smiled as he slid something back and forth on it, and it clicked. I don't know much about guns apart from that they are cheating. 

Again, there was a brief moment of mental consideration as he stared at the portal, and then he quickly popped his head into it and out again. His head was still whole, and it smiled, giving me a brief look. It winked and then. 

'Oh, come on!' I thought, and pushed him. I could not wait any longer. His face suddenly was full of shock. 

'Bloody hell...' Was shouted as he was swallowed by the gateway he fell into. I must have pushed him a little hard, but we would have been here forever, for cat's sake. 

I could not see the results of my actions and heard nothing. There was just silence. Simon, you better not be... 

Oh shit.

'It's okay, old girl. I'm okay. I must have misstepped. Fell over again, what a clumsy old bugger I am.' A reassuring sentence from the other side. 

'Goodness, this place is a little dismal. Oh, but I gather we are in a building in Faeton.'

I was confused. How did he know he was in Faeton? If he was in a dismal dark dungeony place. 

'Yes, definitely Faeton.' He repeated. 

'Yes, definitely. I can see the pub from here. Come on, old girl, if we get our skates on and sort this hoohah out, we might make it for last orders and a pickled egg.'

The Professor

'Bloody Hell...' I seem to have tripped and fallen through the portal that was before me. I combat roll to a firing position with the Mossberg shotgun lifted and do my four-corner sweep of the room. 

Where the hell am I? I am on an ancient stone floor that is covered in detritus. Bones, scraps of cloth and what seem like rotting rushes or straw. 

The room itself is quite large and has a vaulted ceiling. Stone walls surround me with a barred window at one end and a door at the other. The air is thick—humid, stale, and filled with the clinging scent of damp stone and old decay.

The hairs rise on the back of my neck as I sense the amount of magic that has been undertaken in here recently.

Through the window, I see what seems to be a temperate evening. I remember Vaughnt with all my checks done. 

'It's okay, old girl. I'm okay. I must have misstepped. Fell over again, what a clumsy old bugger I am.' I say. I am hoping she can hear me. 

I lower the barrel of the shotgun and wander to the window carefully to see if I can work out our location. I touch the window sill covered in the dead of a battle between spiders and flies. Yuck. Then I see just outside the window a mix of peculiar creatures wandering the streets of what would seem a small 1920s village. I recognise this place, I think.

'Goodness, this place is a little dismal. Oh, but I gather we are in a building in Faeton.' I yelled out in the hope that the Werecat could hear. 

I notice next to the window a pile of bones. Those were not human and of a mix of various... things. Not so reassuring.

'Yes, definitely Faeton.'

Looking out of the window, I can see...

'Yes, definitely. I can see the pub from here. Come on, old girl, if we get our skates on and sort this hoohah out, we might make it for last orders and a pickled egg.'

The Werecat stepped through the portal. She was already hyper-aware, and I did not want to disturb her while she was at work. Her senses were far better than mine, so allowing her to do her own sweep would be an outcome of quality. 

After the young woman did her thing, I looked at her. She nodded her approval. Then signalled that there were two outside the door. I think modern sign language did not have the signs for what those two things were. 

The door was a proper eldritch thing. The wood was ancient and hard like stone. I liked it. I went to the door and moved my left hand to the ring-like door handle. 

Vaughnt stepped in between me and the door and shook her head, gently pushing me back as six-inch claws extended smoothly from her fingers. She nodded at me with a big smile, gripped the iron ring and leapt through.

I waited a moment, heard the kerfuffle of conflict outside the door, and ran through to give her some aid, raising the barrel of the Mossberg as I passed through the door. 

There were three fighting Vaughnts. I pointed the shotgun at them and tried to work out who was who. It was utterly impossible to tell; each woman seemed to be fighting each woman evenly. Ah, bloody hell. Changelings. 

One body was thrown across the room. They should have ended up in a heap against on the floor, but instead, after doing some complicated gymnastics in the air, she landed gently on her feet, her back touching the wall.

That Vaughnt looked at me with pleading eyes. 'Shoot them.' She said, pointing at the two continuing combatants. 

I lifted the Mossberg to her head and fired. The head was liquidised by the shot and iron filings. That sprayed a patch of brain and bone on the far wall. I was right. It was a changeling, the remains of which formed a dark puddle on the floor. 

'That's a fundamental mistake right there.' I told it.

'Vaughnt doesn't talk.'

At the gunshot, the two other fighters separated. They were very equally matched. Well, I suppose that would be bloody obvious. They were the exact same thing.

They were now staring at each other in a way that cats only can and tried to catch their breath. They seemed to pay me no attention as they circled each other, hissing and posturing like their little moggy cousins looking for an opening. Looking to intimidate the other.   

I lifted the shotgun, choosing the Vaughnt on the right. It just felt... I switched my aim to the other young woman and fired. Again, the blast blew Vaughnt off her feet, and she landed on the ground, where she, thankfully, dissolved into a black oil-like puddle.

I turned to the remaining Vaughnt, who was now somewhat animated with her body language. You could say she was shouting in sign.

'How... did... you... know?' She asked at high speed in BSL. 

I shrugged my shoulders. 'I didn't', I honestly told her. 

She gave me more sign language about her feelings about this. She was not happy. I could tell by the amount of single and double-finger gestures. 

'Calm down old girl... Calm down.' I told her. It took a while, but he managed to get herself under control. 

'If I got it wrong and, that is a big if. If I got it wrong, I know you have five more lives, do you not?' I smiled and slid the forend to load another shell in the chamber.

'Now, my girl, pip pip. Let's go and do some damage.'