The Conqueror's Wish free porn video

There once was a king called Fergus the Conqueror, a former adventurer and veteran of innumerable campaigns. He was a handsome man in his youth, and valued the conquest of beautiful women over even the most notable deeds. As a youth the injuries from his many adventures merely turned his good looks rugged, adding a layer of danger and mystery to his features. But the years passed, and the scars continued building. He lost an eye to an assassin's blade, was badly burned by dragon's breath, and spent months in orcish captivity. He gained great respect when he came to rule a fledgling kingdom, becoming known as a genius tactician and shrewd politician, but by then few remembered his days as a mighty conqueror of maidens and dungeons. As Fergus grew old, he came to fear death. He wasn't been afraid of dying on his own terms, doing battle with an evil wizard or leading his men to war. He feared the ravages of disease and age, the thought of being forever remembered as a wizened ruler instead of a fearsome warrior. Fergus was not a humble man, and even the respect granted to a king was not enough. He yearned for the days when he was strong and pretty, when men drank to his heroism and women slept with him for his looks, not out of pity or duty. He could not bear being forgotten. There was a another possibility, though for a long time even Fergus was hesitant. In his youth he had saved an elf lord, a noble among the Fair Ones, from a powerful warlock. In return, the creature promised to grant him a single wish. Young Fergus had declined using it, knowing better to bargain with the fey, but as he felt the threat of dying in bed grow near he reconsidered the offer. Even when benevolent, the Fair Ones followed strange rules. There was always a price with fey magic, and the more powerful the enchantment, the larger and more personal the cost. No mortal had ever outwitted an elf, even with the upper hand. But the elderly Fergus was desperate and arrogant enough to think that if any human could best them, it would be he. Fergus told only his most trusted advisors of his plan. They would run the day-to-day of the kingdom until he was certain the wish's enchantment hadn't ensnared his mind. In the meantime, Fergus would be presumed gone on one last adventure. A succession plan would be announced in the event of his death. The heir, of course, would be a reinvigorated Fergus. He was taking no chances, and fully expected to look unrecognizable after his wish was granted. It was unlikely he would remain a scarred old man with what he had in mind; if Fergus was going to risk dealing with the Fair Ones, he was going to make it a suitably grand bargain. The plans were made, and so late one night Fergus found himself standing in front of a grand mirror in the palace's highest tower, illuminated only by candlelight. Staring back at him was a scarred old man, battle worn and bone weary. His thin lips were crossed by the numerous scars that ran across his face. His good eye burned with determination, but also betrayed the weariness of age. His white hair was thin, limp and messy, the remaining fringe hanging to his shoulders. Fergus' simple tunic did little to hide the slabs of muscle underneath, still hard from daily exercise. An enormous two-handed sword was strapped to his back, and while its purpose tonight was decorative, his thick arms had the strength and skill needed to swing it. Fergus was still a powerful man, despite his pale, wrinkled skin and hunched posture. The outline of his member was visible through his tight pants. Useless as it was, Fergus liked to be reminded of his glory days. He'd always prized his manhood, and if this wish could make it work again it would be worth any price. He focused on that thought, and began to chant. It wasn't a spectacular ritual. Fergus simply repeated the True Name of the elf lord he'd saved so many years ago, the Name freely given in promise to pay back the debt owed. Soon the mirror began to ripple, distorting his reflection. Then Fergus' visage morphed into that of an ageless man of unearthly beauty. The reflection stepped out of the mirror, its fluid steps possessing uncanny grace. Now in focus, it became apparent that those elegant features were somewhat inhuman, perfect beyond the flaws of mundane reality. Fergus embraced the notion, a reminder that this creature was far from human, and just as far from friendly. "Salutations, friend mortal," the being said, taking a short bow. "I know your death looms near, and I must admit I worried you would never release me from my burden. I assume that is why you summoned me, oh short lived one?" "Greetings, Fair One," Fergus said, returning a deeper bow. The elf's prods at his age grated. "I do wish to release you from your debt. It is for this reason that I have spoken your Name." The elf nodded and smiled widely. "Then speak your greatest desire, and I shall make it so." His teeth shined white, even in the shadowy room. "Thank you, Fair One," Fergus said. He was certain that unnatural smile was further mockery, but ignored thought and took a deep breath. "I state my greatest desire as thus: I wish to become the existing human ideal of physical youth and beauty, while remaining human." "Your wish is heard and understood. But I must ask, are you certain? Such a great enchantment will come with a great price." "I know the ways of the Fair Ones, and chose words you cannot use to change me into a statue or make humanity consider flabby old men attractive," Fergus barked. He was speaking as if to a fellow king, yet the creature poked him relentlessly. It was tiring. "Do not try to make my words dance, elf. Mortal or not, my arm is strong and my blade sharp, and I've slain worse than you." He placed both hands on his sword, prepared to draw. "Ah, your legendary temper shows! How I fear for my life!" The creature put his hands over his mouth in a brief pantomime of terror, but quickly pulled them away. His unnerving smile was even wider. "You are foolish, but correct. I cannot betray your desire, however short-sighted. I shall guarantee you flawless youth and beauty, as well as your continued humanity. The wish and its price are yours." Fergus released his sword and tried to stop shaking. "Then our dealing is done. I hereby relinquish your True Name. Now leave." "Do not make such haste, human. You may use my Name as you wish, with my blessing. I enjoy seeing the fruits of my handiwork in person. Call upon me once the enchantment has set, and in return I may adjust any unforeseen consequences more to your benefit." Fergus spat to his side. "You would drag me ever-deeper into your plots, elf? I have made my decision. Whatever the cost, I will bear it nobly." "As you wish. I just ask you consider my words," the elf lord said as his smile faded. He bowed, then turned back towards the mirror. "Your lively spirit has long been a great amusement. I do not wish to lose such as exquisitely interesting mortal to ennui." With that, the creature stepped back into the mirror, which briefly rippled before returning to Fergus' reflection. Pondering what had just happened, the tired old king retired to his chambers to sleep and await the results of his wish. ----- The following morning, Fergus felt better than he had in years. The extra vigor proved useful when he formally announced his "adventure" before the court. Even those who doubted the elderly man's fitness had to admit his sudden enthusiasm made him seem far younger than his years. None could deny his excitement as he rode off with an entourage of his most loyal guards and headed toward the barbarian-ridden wilds. The entourage rode for three days, then set up camp in a clearing and said goodbye to their king, who continued on alone. They did not know what was truly happening, only that they must stay put until they received official word from a messenger bearing his royal signet ring. Fergus trusted them implicitly, but the fewer that truly knew what was happening the better. He spent several hours continuing deeper into the unknown before doubling back and making his way home. Fergus' newfound energy made return trip easy, and he was back in the royal city within two days. He stabled his horse and sneaked back onto the palace grounds, and the skullduggery was exhilarating. As Fergus walked into the disused guest bedroom that would serve as his temporary home he felt more alive than he had in years. The stage set, Fergus spent the next several days confined to that room. The mirror within confirmed his changing appearance: he was standing straighter, and his hair had darkened from white to gray. He was still too similar to his old self to avoid notice, and so passed the time by practicing with his heavy sword in a large, empty room off to the side. Days passed, and Fergus felt his years return. His many scars became less prominent before fading into healthy, unbroken skin, which in turn looked more youthful. Color returned to his hair, spots of deep brown appearing until all traces of gray disappeared. It also thickened and grew out, returning to the lush crown of locks he wore in his youth. The slight paunch aged had burdened with him disappeared, and Fergus once again felt confident enough to practice shirtless, the swings of his two- handed blade feeling near weightless to his younger joints. Only his ruined eye remained completely unhealed, the sole remaining mark of who he had been. By the end of the first week Fergus saw a handsome young man in the mirror, and after a clandestine update with his advisors, he decided he was ready to let his new body be seen in the palace. However, it was not yet time to retake the throne. He told them he wanted to be certain his transformation was complete, while in truth he wanted to relive his old conquests while still free from responsibility. With a new eyepatch to ensure he was completely unrecognizable, Fergus took his shirtless practice sessions to the main courtyard, where his youthful muscles glistened in the sweat and sunlight. Word of a strange and handsome swordsman quickly spread, and by his second day outside Fergus found himself the primary attraction for a crowd of noblewomen. When asked he claimed to be a young, up-and-coming adventurer and son of a lesser house, a distant relative of Fergus spending time in the palace as he searched for his next quest. He also related the exciting tale of how he'd lost his eye single-handedly fending off a horde of bandits. The story had its intended effect. For the next several days the conqueror once again had his pick of the most comely ladies available, all eager to bed this handsome and slightly dangerous young lord. And for the first time in years, Fergus' libido and equipment were more than up to the task. It seemed his wish had been a rousing success, and he was certain the changes would soon cease and he could retake his throne. But for now the Fair One's magic continued its work. While Fergus' scar tissue was already gone, his rough skin began to smooth, tanning slightly as it became even more supple and youthful. Fergus' nose, which he'd always considered too big, seemed to be shrinking. In fact his whole face seemed to be becoming more defined, trading his rugged looks for something more regal and statuesque. More befitting of a king, he decided. His whiskers seemed to be growing slower as well, and he'd only had to shave twice since making his wish. The most distracting change was an itching under his bad eye, which persisted for an entire day. At first Fergus was annoyed, but when he took his patch off that night he looked in the mirror and saw a milky white orb where completely ruined tissue should be. It was blind and useless, but he knew it wouldn't remain so for long. The itching stopped halfway through the next day, but Fergus dared not remove his eyepatch until the evening's conquest, a petitely pretty maid, had left. But when the time came he saw a perfectly formed eye looking back at him. The only surprise was how it was deep shade of green, not Fergus' usual faded blue. He didn't care for the color, but comforted himself with how his newfound heterochromia would retain the exotic look of his eyepatch without the ugly scar hiding beneath. Regardless, the problem didn't last. The next morning flecks of green started appearing in his good eye as well, and by night only specks of blue remained. The following afternoon Fergus saw the world through a pair of piercing emeralds. He was surprised that the world apparently considered green eyes the height of masculine beauty; Fergus himself felt they better represented a fetching young woman than a mighty warlord. Fergus didn't want to continue wearing his eyepatch, but wasn't keen on explaining his suddenly perfect vision and eye color to his admirers in the palace, either. So the rejuvenated king decided it was time to test his newfound youth in the city proper. He told his advisors he would be gone for the next few days and, ignoring their protests, gathered a short blade and a small sack of coins before heading out. The city's common women proved every bit as enticing as its noble ladies, and Fergus spent the next several days sleeping around the city's finest inns. He conquered barmaids, cooks, merchants and even a particularly pretty young adventurer, still new enough to the trade to be unscarred. Fergus felt better than he had since being crowned a king, and even found himself considering the adventuress' offer to join her on the road. He might have, too, except he kept getting softer. Over those few days his skin gained a silky texture while his body hair became faint and wispy. Even his muscle mass seemed to be shifting from bulky to fit, still present but less pronounced. At the same time his lips thickened, his cheekbones became more pronounced and his eyes seemed larger. His hair had started growing quickly, and soon it was several inches down his back, while his shaving razor remained forgotten in his pack, unused since he'd left the palace. At first Fergus attributed the changing tastes of modern youth. In his day the idea of a rough, brooding adventurer had set any woman's heart on fire. The world was a bit tamer now, in no small part due to his work, so perhaps they now preferred dashing, roguish types, more adept at stealing from nobles than braving dungeons. He'd worked with a few thieves in the old days, and they certainly never had difficulty with the fairer sex, even then. All in all, it was a small price. Then Fergus realized his penis was shrinking. It was the young adventuress that pointed it out. He'd returned to her bed several times during his excursion, and on what was to be his last visit she commented on the difference in a rather lewd and embarrassing manner. Fergus had noticed it too, but had been attributing it to his overall leaner frame. If a woman could tell, though, that was a real cause for concern. In addition to being smaller it was smoother, perhaps too smooth. Its slight bumps, wrinkles and veins running across the length were all but gone, and it was almost perfectly even in texture. Fergus could swear the head was turning a lighter shade of pink. His scrotum wasn't fairing much better. It was also getting smooth, and its sparse hairs were all but gone. Fergus continued prowling the city regardless. Smaller genatalia or no, he knew how to bring pleasure to his conquests. By this point he'd started staying at smaller, seedier inns, where his smooth skin and softening features were particularly successful with girls used to the company of rough laborers. A flash of the blade was enough to ward off any thugs who thought this obviously wealthy, slightly effeminate man was out of his element. Fergus was enjoying his time among the lower classes, sleeping with the sort of women he hadn't seen in years. Then one night, just before a moment of passion, his equipment simply stopped working. Embarrassed, he quickly shooed the serving girl out of his room, but try as he might he couldn't get it back up again. In a blind panic Fergus dressed, gathered his things and ran, returning to his room in the castle that very night. He considered telling his advisors what had happened, but decided against it. Even his court wizard would be of no use against elven magic. He put on a brave face, ignored their surprise at his softer form, then commanded that he not be bothered until further notice. Fergus had always preferred to deal with personal problems alone. He'd overcome curses through sheer willpower and defeated powerful foes through unexpected methods of attack. He knew his wish was extracting its price, but he would not give up easily. He would counteract it, and decided the best way to fight the effects would be to defy them. If the wish's price was to strip him of his virility, he would emphasize it. The following afternoon he picked up his two-handed sword and returned to the indoor practice space. It felt heavier than usual, and in less than twenty minutes Fergus was too tired to continue. He wasn't feeling old again, nor did he feel weak. His muscles simply weren't strong enough to continue swinging the weapon, and even lifting it took serious effort. But just because he couldn't practice with his heavy blade didn't mean he had to give up the sword altogether. He switched to the smaller, one- handed weapon he'd been carrying in the city and continued practicing forms and footwork until night arrived, the sweat pouring down his bare, hairless chest. Days passed, and Fergus wasn't certain if his attempts at maintaining a manly ritual were helping. He couldn't remember the last time he'd needed to shave. His body remained taut, but the definition of his muscles was mostly gone. Worse, his pectorals were starting to become flabby despite all the exercise. He wasn't losing any height, but that seemed small consolation. Fergus couldn't bring himself to look in the mirror for fear of what he would see, but stubbornly refused let the changes take his body unopposed. For several days more Fergus practiced the sword endlessly, stopping only to rest. He continued practicing even as it became obvious his butt wasn't slimming and tightening with the rest of his body but rather expanding, as were his hips. He continued practicing as his center of gravity shifted slightly but constantly, his posture slowly adjusting to keep up. His feet and hands grew smaller. His arms slimmed. His face felt different when he wiped off the sweat. His nipples darkened and became larger as the flab on his chest grew. His penis continued shrinking and his scrotum pulled up against his body. Everything was changing, but Fergus refused to give in. Then, towards the end of practice one evening, the jiggling on his chest had grown great enough that even Fergus, the stubborn king and mighty conqueror, could no longer deny what was happening. Taking a deep breath, he stripped completely naked and forced himself to look in the mirror. The view confirmed what Fergus had feared: he was becoming a woman. He was growing breasts. He'd known that, for all his attempts at denial, but seeing them in the mirror, already well-developed if still small, made it worse. His torso looked so tiny, yet his waist was noticeably pinched inward. His thighs had expanded with his hips, while his legs seemed longer somehow, more prominent, and more shapely. The hair on his head was thick and reached halfway down his back. All his body hair was gone, except for a new, thicker patch that was forming on his scrotum. The sack had stretched and recessed into a long mound, soft and smooth and bulging beneath its stubble, his testicles somewhere within. Fergus' penis was skinny and no more than three inches, and the whole even length was colored a deep, undifferentiated pink. Fergus dressed and dared another look. Even clothed, he looked female. Attractive, in a boyish sort of way. But it was clear Fergus was leaving boyhood behind. Those enticing green eyes were already topped by thin, arched eyebrows. His lips were full, his cheekbones were distinct, and his nose was small and slightly upturned. The regal appearance he had noted so many days ago had taken a distinctly feminine turn. The acknowledgment angered the king, which gave him the energy to continue. He may look like a girl, but he still had his manhood, and he still had a chance. The next day he donned left his shirt on as he practiced forms with renewed vigor, slashing at invisible foes, basking in the manliness of combat, imagining the glory of conquest. It helped for two days, but by then his breasts were too large to be disguised by a shirt. He tied them against his chest, but two days more and binding only made them less obvious, not hidden. Fergus tried keeping them confined anyway, but did away with the attempt after a single practice session. He reasoned that acknowledging his bosom was counter to his attempts to reverse the magic, and so he returned to practicing shirtless, letting his mounds bounce wild and free as he adjusted his swordplay to fit his shifting form. Several days more and there was nothing distinguishably male about the person practicing swordplay. Those breasts were large yet proportional to their tall, lithe frame. The palms of those slim, otherwise soft hands were tough, but unmarked by a warrior's callouses. Those long, well- turned legs danced as their owner went through the motions of swordplay. A dark brown ponytail swung in concert with the movement, while green eyes sparkled as their owner visualized an endless parade of enemies and lush lips curled in a snarl, the highlights on a face to make a painter weep with inspiration. The voice that shouted epithets as each foe fell was still somewhat deep but distinctly female. Fergus' remaining comfort was the pink nub that had been his penis, still present if less than an inch long. Then one long, sleepless and sweaty night, his male genitalia made its final ascent. The sensation as the conqueror's testicles wormed their way inside was uncomfortable. The sensation lasted several hours, yet it felt surprisingly, perhaps insultingly, quick. Fergus swore he could feel the moment his balls nestled into their new homes inside his womanly hips, reborn as ovaries. As this happened the mound of his former scrotum split with a painful pinch, and the incredibly sensitive nub that had been his penis shriveled even more, enclosing itself in the newly formed cleft. Soon after Fergus' testicles completed their ascent he felt incredible painful cramps echo deep in his pelvis, causing him to moan, curl up and grab at his crotch. He wasn't sure how long the pain lasted, but when it finally faded a moist warmness immediately invaded. The sensation was familiar yet alien, and it called out to him, promised his respite from his troubles, however brief. Fergus' arms straightened at his sides as he refused to acknowledge the thought. He knew exactly what had happened, what it wanted. What he wanted. It would have been very easy and soothing to give in, but it was a testament to the king's iron will, or perhaps his foolishness, that he did not acquiesce. It was a long time before finally sleep came. The next morning Fergus instinctively knew his wish had run its course. He considered crying for the first time since childhood, but fought back against the helplessness. He may have a new body, but he still had his old mind, and could still deal with his problem in his own way. Donning a loose gown and his signet ring, Fergus went to find his advisors. Their eyes went wide when the ravishing young woman confronting them claimed to be their king, showing them his ring. They had prepared for the worst when Fergus hadn't contacted them for more than a week, but none had expected this. Fergus gave them a killing look, then explained what had happened, and what he had in mind. The advisors were obviously taking in Fergus' new appearance even as they listened to his plan. Still, they immediately went to fulfill his orders, and so he refrained from reprimanding them. It could wait until after he'd dealt with the elf. The summoning had to wait until midnight, and so Fergus lost himself in sword practice. As usual he did so topless, only realizing the repercussions when his court wizard opened the door to the practice room, froze for several seconds, then slammed the door behind him. He refused to reenter until he was certain Fergus was decent. Even then Fergus noticed the obvious bulge in the red faced man's pants as they discussed the final preparations. Eventually darkness fell, and Fergus once again stood in front of the huge mirror in the tower. He knew he hadn't lost any height, but the mirror seemed enormous, far larger than the last time he'd called upon that foul elf. For a moment he felt apprehensive, but then he focused on the indignity, the betrayal, the sheer rage he felt of having his wish, given in the bonds of honor, twisted to turn him into a woman. No, not even a woman. A girl. He gathered his righteous anger, and looked into the mirror. Staring back was a stunningly beautiful young lady, just entering the prime of life. The sneer on Fergus' lips did little to detract from their sultry perfection, and the fury in his eyes made them simmer enticingly. Here was a face that was truly pretty when angry. Not even Fergus' most shapeless tunic could disguise the heavy breasts beneath, generous enough to draw the eye but not so large they detracted from his regal bearing. Like his face they were framed by hair that flowed over his shoulders and partway down his torso, magnificent and voluminous even when completely unkempt. The transformation had left all of Fergus' pants too large, and rather than bear the indignity of borrowing a maid's skirt he'd elected to wear wooly, form-fitting undergarments. Even that unflattering attire became attractive with those elegant legs defining its contours, but at least he didn't have to wear what he still considered the other gender's clothing. Altogether, the sight sickened Fergus. His body was female, weak. The sword sheathed at his wide hip was far smaller than the two-handed weapon he preferred, and even that small blade looked out of place. It was the kind of body he would have slain dragons to bed, not the kind of body he wanted to wear. He was a conqueror, a great hero, a mighty king. He should be the penetrator, not the penetrated. Focusing on his anger, he repeated the True Name of the Fair One who'd cursed him. Once again the reflection in the mirror took the form of the elf lord, the change somewhat more dramatic as it went from clearly female to inhumanly male. The creature's arms were spread high and wide as it stepped out of the mirror. "Such a marvelous voice! The sirens themselves must be jealous," he said, his wide, too-white grin returning. "I watched the enchantment unfold, but I must say the effects are even more dramatic in person. I hope your wish was everything you hoped it would be!" "Silence, elf! You know this isn't what I wanted. You made me woman," Fergus said, anger cutting through his alto voice. He looked down and lifted his breasts. "These tits belong on a prostitute, not a damned king. You promised a wish, and granted a curse!" The elf sighed as he lowered his arms. His smile faded as he spoke. "I warned you, fair mortal, that such a great wish would come with a great cost. But you have done well for yourself, as these things go. You kept your mind and your health, and are in an excellent position to enjoy the fruits of your new form. I fear any curse is of your own creation." "Enjoy? My tool for enjoyment is gone, you fey bastard!" Fergus spit. "How can you think I've done well?" "The form you now wear was the subconscious human ideal at the moment of your wish. I normally find humans brutish, and even I must admit you possess a certain primitive allure. It's such pity you specified you should remain human. I imagine you would have made a truly beautiful and terrible Lady in our court. Our lessers would have learned to tremble at your passing. But you remained mortal, and humans are far more easily ruled than the Fair Ones." "I was a fine ruler before your 'gift,' elf. But I did not become so by being a fool. You said you could change the results of my wish, and I will admit I am willing to consider your offer. What is your price?" The Fair One's smile returned. "You are truly wise, fair mortal! I cannot change your wish, but I believe I can make its results more appealing. This magic would be my doing, and I will bear the price. All I ask in return is you call upon me at the end of your days, that we may speak one final time." "And how would you make this body appeal, elf?" Fergus eyed the creature suspiciously. His smile didn't falter. "That is not for you to know. The magic must be mine alone, if I am to bear the price. I do not expect you to trust me, but if your wish's price was so unbearable, perhaps you should consider my offer. It is rare that I perform magic on a mortal's behalf." Fergus' gut churned. The elf had been true to his word, in the sense that he'd granted the wish owed. If any being could make his new form bearable, it was this one. Yet was it worth being mired even deeper in fey magic? And what would happen at that last meeting, hopefully many years from now? Fergus thought about his body, how it repulsed him. He thought about living day-to-day knowing he was female, having men stare at his chest with lust, the disgusting way he would have to pleasure himself from now on. It wasn't a clear decision, but he made his choice. "Work your enchantment, then leave," Fergus said. He tried to sound confident, but his voice cracked in its nervousness. "I will see you again at the appointed time, and not a moment before." "Worry not, you will know when the time is right," the Fair One said, closing his eyes. A moment later they reopened. "It is done. I wish you the best of luck, Lady Fergus. I shall watch your renewed life with great interest, and eagerly await our next meeting." As the creature stepped back into the mirror, Fergus wondered what he did. She didn't feel any different, and certainly wasn't any less upset by the change. She suspected it was another fey trick, some cruel joke at her expense. Grunting in anger, she spat on the mirror. No matter. If her promised meeting was to be at the end of her life, she had decades to prepare. In the meantime she would rule her kingdom as a proud, strong woman, out of spite if nothing else. She'd make the most of what she had. Just because she was pretty didn't mean she had to be demure. Fergus drew herself up and glared at her reflection. The result was satisfying. Those emerald eyes were radiant, but Fergus' fiery soul still burned within. That face was lovely, but its striking demeanor demanded loyalty. Yes, her gorgeous countenance could be just as imposing as it was enticing, if used correctly. Fergus' scowl became a smile as she imagined all the ways she could make it clear she was a woman to be obeyed. As much as she hated it, Fergus had to admit there were benefits to this new form. After all, she was young again, and any man in the kingdom would leap at the opportunity to share her bed. The thought of conquering a strapping young lad in her private chambers eased her anger, at least a little bit... ----- A week later Fergus' retainers returned, the most beautiful woman the kingdom had ever seen in tow. She proclaimed herself Queen Evelyn, daughter of the great hero Fergus and a lady of the Fair Ones' court. She had been smuggled away from the palace shortly after her birth to avoid her mother's wrath, and was raised deep in the wilds by a hidden society of warrior women. Knowing his time was short, King Fergus had returned to the tribe in secret. At first Evelyn refused to believe this old man was her father, and would not abandon her people. To prove his words he swore to help her slay a mighty demon that was plaguing the tribe. He remained true to his word, but was mortally wounded while dealing the killing blow. As Fergus died in her arms, Evelyn realized this mighty warrior was truly her father. Thus she accepted her duty and returned to claim her birthright, promising to be as loyal to the people of this land as she was to those who raised her. So began legend of Evelyn, the Conquering Queen. Despite her loveliness and seeming fragility she took strongly after her father, and was a mistress of weapons, a brilliant commander, and a harsh but fair ruler in her own right. She was a force of personality who led her kingdom in a glorious period of expansion, with many surrounding fiefdoms and formerly untamed lands falling under her rule. It was also said, in whispered words, that Queen Evelyn took countless lovers over the years, always from the most attractive young men in the kingdom. She allegedly cared nothing for rank or wealth, just beauty, and it became a common joke that every handsome stable boy and nobleman alike knew the way to the queen's bedroom from anywhere in the realm, no matter how large it grew. Queen Evelyn ruled for decades, eventually growing as old as her father had been. One morning her body was found in bed, her death declared natural. Though she never married and bore no children, a handsome general, allegedly one of her many lovers, took the throne as she had decreed. The queen was gone, but her influence was not forgotten. Perhaps that is why the rumor that Queen Evelyn never truly died persists. A maid claimed she saw her, by then an old if still elegant woman, on the very the night of her supposed death. Evelyn was gazing into a disused mirror in a far corner of the palace, seemingly deep in thought. Then she whispered something unknown, and a hand stretched out of the mirror and stroked her face. The maid swore that the elderly queen instantly became young again in that moment. Then the youthful Evelyn briefly turned and looked at the maid. The queen's face possessed an unearthly, almost painful beauty, visible even through the darkness, a beauty beyond even her most flattering portraits. Evelyn smiled and stared for several seconds, her teeth bright in the darkness, then turned back to the mirror, took the hand that was offered, and stepped through. As for the maid, she soon found herself retired and living in the country, but not before her story spread. Theories on what she saw differ. Some claim King Fergus himself returned from the afterlife to escort his daughter to the other side. Others say the queen's mother finally returned to finally exact her revenge. A select few quietly believe it was yet another of the Fair Ones, come to fulfill the terms of some ancient family bargain. Regardless of the teller, all stories agree: though the Conquering Queen may be gone, her memory will never fade.