Lord Amplevine's Revenge - Part 2

 Part 2 of Lord Amplevine's Revenge! Make sure to read Part 1 first!

There's pretty much no sexual content in this one. It's here to wrap up Synnøva's story. Nevertheless, it still features an anarchist elf with huge boobs, so maybe you'll be into that? Enjoy!



-~o~-

“Fifty-two inches, my lady.”

Synnøva threw her hands into the air. “Gods above! Two inches in two weeks. Did Halvar actually manage to curse me, or has fate simply decided that my tits will reach my knees in a few years?”

“It could be water weight. Have you gotten your blood this month?”

“I haven’t had my blood in three years. I had the priests at the Temple of Faira rid me of that nonsense ages ago. Of course, they could do that, but they can’t make my breasts stop growing.”

“Ah…” Ædde rolled up her measuring tape. “Well, all I can do for you is continue making you clothes that fit, but I am happy to do it, my lady.”

“Hopefully after today I will no longer need you to. Bjarna!” She called out his name, and he appeared at the door with a bow.

“Yes, my lady?”

“Has the priestess arrived yet? The one that Astrið sent for.”

“As a matter of fact, my lady, I saw Ulv letting her in just moments ago.”

“Excellent. Inform her that I will be with her shortly.”

“At once, my lady.” He bowed again, and didn’t even stammer once. He’d been much more confident around her ever since his little tryst with Astrið in Amplevine Manor. She had come to visit him five times since then, and Synnøva was certain that he was spending all of his free time outside of the house with her. He was a decent enough servant, but what Astrið saw in him, Synnøva would never know.

She concluded her business with Ædde and clothed herself in a dress that was already feeling a little tight about the chest, despite the fact that it had been delivered to her just the day after the incident with Halvar. She stopped outside of the parlor, because she could hear two voices inside of it, chatting in rapid, fluent Shalian. She took a breath, and entered.

One of the two women sitting at the small table was human. Dark of skin and hair, green eyes. Probably from Vishanatar or Baribantar, or had parents from there. More importantly, she was wearing a suit of silvery mail, with a stylized image of a flower etched into the gorget. This was Naala, then. Astrið’s friend. The other woman, her friend of a friend, had to be the priestess.

Astrið was Shalian in ancestry, but as soon as she opened her mouth you could tell just from her accent and the way that she spoke Norðmol that she was from Branturhem, born and raised. This woman, on the other hand, Synnøva could tell was absolutely, thoroughly Shalian, just from looking at her. Her skin was blue, the color of the sky, her hair white, her eyes yellow. The robe she wore was soft and had Shalian writing stitched along the trim. Underneath it she wore a pair of loose pants and leg-wrappings that went halfway up to her knees, along with a pair of soft woolen shoes, all cut and tailored in Shalian style. Her long hair was tied back in a loose braid, and woven into it were various fetishes and charms, which gently wobbled as she stood and smiled. And her teeth… Yes, there were the long, pointed canines. And when she said “Hello. You must be Synnøva. I am called Tula, and this is Naala,” she said it in fluent but still distinctly accented Norðmol.

She introduced herself. Bade them to sit down. Braced herself for a lecture about the evils of wealth.

“Our friend Astrið says that you have a problem with your chest?”
“I do. It’s too big.” She stole a glance at Tula’s chest as she said it. Astrið hadn’t been exaggerating. She really was bigger than either of them. Of course, Astrið and Synnøva were both quite thin, so their enormous breasts looked out-of-place on them. Tula was heavyset, with wide hips and thick thighs, so hers looked…

Well, no. They were still immense. Gods above, how did she carry those things around?

“Hmm. Okay. You would like for me to make your breasts smaller?” Synnøva was listening for any hint of disdain or haughtiness, but there was none. Her tone was nothing but polite and matter-of-fact.

“I would. Is that something that you can do?”

“Yes.”

She sighed in relief. Finally. “And what will your price be?”

Tula looked up at the chandelier hanging from the ceiling. It was covered in gold leaf. She looked at the wallpaper, which only the very wealthy in Branturhem could afford. She looked at the rich, dark wood lining the floor, and the fine porcelain teacups on the table, and the little silver spoons sitting next to them.

“Fifteen sovereigns.”

Oh. Hmm. That was… not bad. Very expensive, but more than manageable for her. It was just that… “I was told that you wouldn’t ask for money, but rather that you would take payment in some other way.”

She smiled. “Astrið told you that, did she? She was close. I do not need your money, nor do I want it. The fifteen sovereigns will be donated to fifteen different orphanages, public kitchens, and shelters throughout the city.”

Ah, there it was. Very Shalian. Still, it was a price she was willing to pay, and what did it matter where exactly the money went after it left her pockets?

“And I want you to deliver these donations to them yourself.”

That made Synnøva furrow her brow. “Surely it won’t make a difference if I send runners to do it? I have plenty. I could have it done within the hour.”

Tula shook her head. “This is my price. We will come with you if you like, Naala and I, but you must give the money to them yourself, in person.”

“But… Why does that matter?”

“I have a reason for it.” Her smile was cheerful, and frustratingly unreadable.

“Well, can I at least know what I am getting first? How much smaller can you make my breasts, and how long will it take?”

“I can make them any size you want them to be, and seconds. Unless you want it to take longer. It can be easier to adjust if you make it slow rather than all at once.”

Synnøva looked down, and saw nothing but chest. “I don’t want to get rid of them entirely, and I don’t even mind if they are big. I just don’t want them to be…” She was about to say ‘ridiculous’, but then she took another look at Tula’s chest. It was actually resting on the table. “As big as they are now.” She looked at the knight, Naala. She was large-chested as well, but proportionally so. The curves that they made in her mail were big, but not to the point of excess. “If you could make me the same size as her, I would be happy.”

Naala raised her eyebrows in surprise. “I’m wearing a tight band and the armor presses them down even more. My chest is actually much bigger than it appears right now.” Her voice was striking. Deep, for a woman. Commanding.

“Well, if I could be as big as you look then I’d be happy. Is that doable? Oh, and I want to make sure that once they are a size that I like, they won’t just grow larger again!”

“Without a doubt,” said Tula. “I can do that as well. After you make your donations.”

It wasn’t that terrible of a price to pay, really. It would probably take most of the day to visit fifteen different places around the city, but Synnøva had been searching for the means to do this for years. What was a few more hours?

And so it went that she found herself standing, along with Tula and Naala, in front of an orphanage in one of the poorer neighborhoods of the city. She had been hesitant about carrying such a large sum of money with her as they simply wandered through the streets, but it turned out that the two of them had planned for that. It was for that reason that Naala was wearing her armor, and carrying a sword. Ulv had not allowed her to take it inside the manor, but she had it now, and despite being the shortest of the three of them she cut a striking figure through the crowds. The city watch was one thing, but nobody would dare to cross a Chrysanthemum Knight in full regalia.

“I have never much liked Tarja, as a deity,” said Tula as they stepped inside the orphanage, “but they do good work here.”

The place was… Dirty. There were holes in the walls, patched roughly with plaster in some spots, boards and nails in others. To the left and right were two hallways, and at the end of one was a room full of bunks with tattered sheets. Synnøva saw a little boy peek his head out from behind a bed and look at her shyly.

An old woman in the robes of the Temple of Tarja bustled up to them, smiling brilliantly, arms wide. “Hello! Hello, hello! Goodness, a Knight of the Chrysanthemum! Welcome! How may I help you? Are you here to adopt?”

“Er, not as such…” muttered Synnøva. She found herself suddenly tongue-tied. Odd. That rarely happened to her.

“Actually,” said Naala, “Lady Silvercreek has come to make a donation.”

The old woman’s face changed visibly at the mention of her family name. She clearly recognized it, as her father was quite well-known around the city. “Lady Silvercreek!” she said, sound almost in awe. “Mercy, you should have said so!”

Synnøva recognized that tone. She had heard it before. This old woman had never spoken to anyone who owned a family name in her life.

“Goodness, of course, we are willing to accept any donation that you can spare, Lady Silvercreek! If only we had known you were coming, we could have prepared something for this occasion! Would you like to stay for lunch? We do not have much, but-”

Tula held up a hand. “Thank you, grandmother, but we have lots of places to visit today. We do not mean to be rude, but Lady Silvercreek must be off as soon as she makes her donation.”

“Of course, of course! I apologize, my lady! Allow me to fetch our coffer, then you may be on your way!” She disappeared down a hallway.

“That old woman is going to carry the orphanage’s coffer here? By herself?” Synnøva muttered.

“I think you’ll find that it is different from the coffers you are used to seeing.”

Indeed, it was. Synnøva had been expecting a small chest, at the very least. The tiny, wooden box that the old woman emerged with was scarcely big enough to hold a hundred coins. She brought it before them and opened it. Synnøva took a peek inside and furrowed her brow. “There are only two øre in here.”

“Oh yes! Donations have been especially good as of late, so we’re doing quite well! These two øre will last us through the rest of the month, I think. Still, I promise you, Lady Silvercreek, anything you are willing to give will be put to good use!”

Two øre. Synnøva paid Ædde four crowns per dress. A crown was worth twenty øre. One dress cost forty times the entire contents of this whole orphanage’s coffers. And this would last them the rest of the month?

“Right. Er… Well, here you go.” She unceremoniously pulled one of the fifteen sovereigns from her purse and placed it in the coffer, next to the two øre.

The old woman looked at it. “Er… My lady, surely you did not mean… This is a preposterous amount of money! You must have meant to put an øre in here, yes?”

“No. One sovereign. That is my donation.”

“My… My lady, I…” She put a hand to her chest. “My goodness! I… I don’t know what to say! Thank you! Thank you! A sovereign! This will last us years! And we will finally be able to two meals a day, instead of one, and get them proper clothes, and… and…” There were tears streaming down her face now, and suddenly, she was embracing her. “Thank you, my lady! Thank you!” Her robes smelled musty, and her old arms were thin and frail. Synnøva stood there for a moment, looking between Naala and Tula, unsure of what to do. Bewildered, she gingerly wrapped her arms around the old woman and hugged her back.

By the time that the three of them left the old woman was weeping openly, crying tears of joy, telling them about all the things that they would be able to do with the money that they had been given. Mostly this consisted of things that Synnøva found absurdly trivial, like fixing the shutters on the windows so that drafts wouldn’t get in, and buying firewood. Firewood! How could they possibly not have firewood, she wondered, and when she had said this aloud to Tula, she answered her.

“How could they? You saw the coffer. They barely had enough money to feed the children. Anything that isn’t essential to their survival has to be foregone.”

“But… Can’t they go and cut down some trees outside of the city or something?”

“Who? They were all old women and little children. They have no servants, and no money to pay anyone to do it for them. And even if they did, which trees would they cut down? Every tree within twenty miles of the city that isn’t on private property is owned by the Crown. Cutting down either carries a sentence of… what is it, Naala?”

“Five years of servitude.”

Synnøva shifted uncomfortably at that. Some of her house staff were there because they had received servitude sentences. Could any of them been consigned to her household for something as simple as cutting down a tree? “Alright,” she said. “I am starting to understand why you’re making me do this. Couldn’t you have just given me a lecture on the morality of wealth instead? It would have been a lot faster.”

“I could have. But nobody likes to be lectured, and nobody will open their heart to the words of someone who is lecturing them.”

“If you think that I’m evil because I have money you could just say it, you know.”

“I don’t think that you’re evil. Truly, I don’t. But I think that you have benefited from a system that is designed to keep the rich rich at the expense of the poor, and you have never examined the workings of this system because, well. You’ve never had to. You’ve likely never had any reason to spend all that much time around poor folks, have you?”

“What a strange question. No, I suppose I haven’t.”

“That’s all I’m trying to do, give you a glimpse into the lives of these folks. What you take away from the experience is up to you.” She shrugged. “Next up is Torvald’s Soup Kitchen.”

Torvald, as it turned out, was a young man, not much older than Synnøva herself. He too was moved to tears by her donation. As was the proprietor of the Arnesson Shelter, and the Dockside Orphanage, and the headmaster of Alder’s School for Underprivileged Youths. None of the other ten wept openly, but they were all quick to express their gratitude in a number of ways. The owner of one of the soup kitchens they visited actually passed out on the spot when he realized how much Synnøva was giving him. Tula had revived him by unstoppering a vial full of a strange, green liquid that she pulled from her bosom and waving it under his nose. And finally, on their very last stop, a very poor, very run-down orphanage on the edge of town, one of the children had even given her a doll as a present. It was a filthy, tattered little thing, with one wooden button for an eye (the other had fallen off), and bits of fraying yarn for hair. Synnøva was hesitant to even touch it for how dirty it was, but the way that little girl had offered it to her, as if she was bequeathing unto her her most precious possession, and the way that she had insisted… “This is Vigga, and she’ll be happy with you, 'cause you’re a nice lady.” How could she have said no?

As they made their way back to Silvercreek Manor, Synnøva stared at the doll.

“Tula.”

“Hmm?”

“You didn’t tell any of the places that we visited today that we were coming, did you?”

“I didn’t.” It was believable, given the surprise that every single one of them had expressed at seeing them. And most of them had clearly never met either Tula or Naala before.

“All of them, every single one, tried to offer me something in return for my donation.”

“They did, didn’t they?”

“Some of those people had hardly anything at all, no more than a few penigs.”

“A sovereign is an incredible amount of money to these folks. You probably noticed that I chose some of the poorest places in the city for this.”

“I suppose that’s the lesson you’re trying to teach me, isn’t it? I could do this every week if I wanted to. Maybe not fifteen sovereigns, but I could spend two or three a week, if I budgeted it properly. Is that what you want me to do?”

“That would be incredibly kind of you, but…” Tula shrugged. “It would bring me overwhelming joy to return here a year or two from now and hear that you have been providing for the folks here who need it most, and I could certainly ask you to do it, but once our business has concluded I really have no way to make sure that you will. All I wanted to do was to show you how incredibly easy it is for you to make, well… An enormous difference, in lots of peoples’ lives. You have an amazing amount of power to help people.” She grinned. “Well, I’ve started to get a bit preachy, haven’t I?”

“A little,” said Synnøva. “But it’s alright.”

—

She stared at that doll all the way back to the manor, and when she arrived there, she handed it off to one of the servants. “Please wash this, and then bring it to my bedchambers. Be careful not to damage it.”

“Of course, my lady.” As the servant- Synnøva didn’t even know her name- carried it off to the laundry, she couldn’t help but notice the brand on her right hand: the letter Þ, for þjof. Thief. What had she stolen, she wondered? It couldn’t have been much, otherwise Father would never have purchased her contract. And how long had she worked here? She could remember seeing her face around the house for a few years, at least, and she had never once thought to ask her about herself, or even what her name was…

By the time that she had returned to the parlor, Tula had produced a tiny statue, very similar in form to the figurine that had made Astrið so overwhelmingly bosomy, except this one had a little hole in the base in which there was a cone of sweet-smelling incense burning. In front of it, there was a cup full of white liquid. Milk.

“God-magic is different from sorcery,” said Tula. “Sorcery is dangerous, both to its caster and those around them, but it is very easy to move and center in other places. God-magic, on the other hand, is no danger at all, unless the god granting it wants it to be, but it is very difficult to transfer it from one mortal body to another. In order for me to do it, a physical link has to be formed. This can be done in one of three ways.”

“Name them.”

“The first way is to have sex.”

Synnøva raised an eyebrow. “Typically folks at least make an attempt to court me before proposing that. And I’m not all that interested in women, to tell the truth.” She thought again, suddenly, about Astrið’s pussy, dripping with cum, wrapped around Bjarna’s cock. Why couldn’t she get that image out of her head?

Tula smiled. “I understand. The second way is to drink my blood. Or for me to drink yours. Either way would work.”

“Gruesome.”

“I agree. Not many folks choose that option. The third is for you to drink this.” She gestured at the cup of milk on the table. “It is pleasant to drink and not nearly as personal as having sex, but I would be remiss if I did not make it clear that it did come out of my body.”

She peered at it. “And those are the only ways?”

“Unless you happen to be lactating.”

“You’d think I would be, but no. They are just enormous, not full of milk. What about the figurine that made Astrið’s chest bigger? She didn’t have to drink anything, or have sex with anyone.”

“If I had the power to imbue magic into an object like that I could just as easily put the magic directly into you, but alas, I am not that skilled.”

“Right. Okay, well, whenever you’re ready.” She put her hand around the cup, and noticed that it was shaking.

“As big as Naala appears to be while wearing her armor, and you don’t want them to grow anymore, and you want it to happen in just a few moments, yes? Think about it carefully. If you change your mind you might not be able to do this again until the next time I am in Branturhem, and that could be years from now.”

“I have been thinking about it for years.” She downed them milk, all of it, in a single swig. It tasted… Heavenly. It felt strange to admit it even to herself, but it was quite possibly one of the most delicious things to ever cross her lips. “Do it.”

She did it.

It took moments, just as she had said. Tula placed her hands on Synnøva’s shoulders, closed her eyes whispered a few words in Shalian… And then they simply shrank. It was the strangest sensation, skin tightening, her breasts compressing, down, down, until they were big, but not huge. A bit more than a handful each, albeit for someone with exceptionally large hands.

And that was it. It was done. Synnøva found herself shocked that it had actually worked. So many years of wishing for this, and she finally had it.

“May you always feel comfortable in your own body,” said Tula.

The shell cracked. It was Synnøva’s turn to cry. Before she knew what she was doing, she found herself embracing her. Tula hugged her back without the slightest bit of hesitation. “Thank you,” she said into her shoulder. She smelled lovely, like chamomile, and though Synnøva was glad that she would never have to carry the great weight of an enormous chest around ever again, Tula’s felt really very nice pressed up against her.

Hmm…

“It was my pleasure. Blessings of the Eight upon you, Synnøva Silvercreek.”

With that, Tula and Naala gathered their things (really, this was just the incense, its holder, and the cup), said goodbye, and went on their way. Synnøva offered to have them stay for dinner, or to stay the night, but they very politely and gracefully declined.

And that was it.

—

Epilogue:

Weeks passed. Halvar went to trial. Synnøva, Astrið, Captain Eadwig, Bjarna, Ulv, and a few of the servants who had heard the commotion all testified against him, and to nobody’s surprise, he was sentenced to fifty years in prison for the crimes of assaulting a noble, twice, assaulting a Master of the University, twice, and attempted murder of a free citizen of Branturhem. Why were assaults on nobility and Masters considered separate crimes from assaults on free citizens, Synnøva wondered? She had never really considered it before, but once the thought came into her head she couldn’t quite shake it.

As it turned out, it was Magistrate Sigrun who was presiding over the case. Rumors around the house were that she was planning on sentencing Halvar to death, so Synnøva had taken it upon herself to speak to her and ask her to take pity on him. She wasn’t sure why she did that, even as she sat in Sigrun’s office speaking to her.

Halvar had been oddly complacent during the trial. He admitted to his crimes without any compulsion at all, and when the magistrate announced his sentence he was smiling. At Synnøva. It made her shiver. Had he somehow discovered that she had gotten his sentence reduced? How? The thought made her very nervous indeed, but then Astrið, sitting next to her at the time, had placed a gentle hand on her arm. That made her shiver too, but in an entirely different way.

Why? Synnøva was starting to have an idea…

After the trial, things settled down at Silvercreek Manor. Amplevine Manor was now without a master, but Synnøva had forfeited her right to the property when she had severed her betrothal to him. That was fine. She wanted nothing to do with the place. Though now, without an upcoming marriage and without her chest to worry about, Synnøva found herself idling. She considered learning Shalian properly, instead of just sounding out the letters, for no particular reason other than it seemed like it could be useful and she was bored, but she had nobody to teach her. She could have hired a tutor, but…

She settled for talking to her servants instead. Why had she never done that before? The girl who had washed the doll for her (it sat now on the headboard of her bed) was named Freja, as it turned out, and she was in the employ of the Silvercreeks because she had stolen an apple from a merchant’s stall on Market Row, three years ago. This, apparently, carried a sentence of five years of servitude. That seemed absurd to Synnøva, and she wondered at why she was unaware of all of these laws that she was, apparently, receiving unpaid labor from. Her father had paid money to the city in order to buy Freja’s contract, and he was bound to feed and clothe her, but other than that he did not have to pay her anything at all, and he didn’t. It… Didn’t seem right.

Bjarna, on the other hand, was not in servitude. He was paid, although Synnøva had, for the first time in her life, bothered to take a look at his contract. Three øre per week. She had purchased candy from shops Uptown that cost more than three øre. She ordered her father’s Master of Coin to give him a raise, as thanks for his help back in Amplevine Manor. It turned out to be fortuitously timed, for when she called him into her chambers to tell him, he came in sulking.

“Astrið and I are no longer seeing each other,” he said when she asked him why. “She said that, although the sex was wonderful, she just didn’t feel much of a connection to me.”

Poor Bjarna. She gave him a bonus of a crown on top of his raise, just because it made her feel good to see his face light up. He was very thankful, almost as much as the matron of that first orphanage had been. Odd. It was only a crown…

—

She found herself standing in the summer rain outside of Siegmund Hall. This was where the University housed its Masters- in small but well-appointed apartments right on the edge of the city, where the sprawl of stone and wood buildings began to give way to forests and farmland. An attendant let her in and directed her through the halls to Apartment 531, residence of Master Astrið Issansdotir, and she was made to wait outside yet another door.

Astrið’s eyebrows raised when she saw Synnøva there. “Oh, Lady Silvercreek! This is a pleasant surprise. I was just about to start writing a letter to you. Please, come in.”

Her apartment was cluttered, filled with books and scrolls and all sorts of little trinkets that Synnøva couldn’t identify. Astrið herself was wearing a robe much like the one that she’d been in when they’d met, only this one was absolutely strained by her chest. She found herself very, very glad that she did not have to deal with that sort of thing anymore. And yet, at the same time… It was rather interesting to look at. They were absolutely ridiculous, it was true, but they did look quite soft.

“What can I do for you, Lady Silvercreek?”

“Oh, um. You can call me Synnøva, if you’d like. Or Synne.”

Astrið grinned. “Sure, Synne. What can I do for you?”

“Well…” Now that she was here, she realized that she wasn’t entirely sure why. She’d just… wanted to see her again. “I was thinking about learning a bit of Shalian. I know that it’s not your native language, but-”

“Say no more! I’d be delighted to teach you Shalian, Synne.”

It had always rankled her when Halvar had called her that, but coming from Astrið it was nice.

“Of course, one can’t learn a language in a single day. You’d have to come visit me at least once a week, maybe more than that if you really want to get good at it.”

Synne smiled. “You know what? I think I’d like that.”