The New World
Copyright© 2024 by Dark Apostle
Chapter 25: The Fenrir
Fan Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 25: The Fenrir - The story follows James Smith, a man who dies and finds himself in a surreal afterlife courtroom, where his life is judged as "zero sum"—neither good nor evil, just utterly average. Dissatisfied with being consigned to eternal mediocrity, he manipulates the cosmic bureaucracy into granting him a second chance in a new world, where he is reincarnated as a child with his memories intact and perks... - edited by my lovely Steven.
Caution: This Fan Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Ma/ft Mult Coercion NonConsensual Reluctant Slavery Lesbian BiSexual Heterosexual Fan Fiction Farming High Fantasy Rags To Riches Restart Alternate History DoOver Extra Sensory Perception Body Swap Furry Magic Incest Mother Sister Politics Royalty Violence
The tavern was done.
Finally.
James ran his hand over the polished wood of the bar, feeling the tight grain of the polished oak before it got sticky with spilled booze and sweat. A magical bar finish, the only one in town, following his suggestion to the mage, Bartholomew. Tomorrow was the best part, the official grand opening with the local lord in attendance. James had something special planned for tomorrow. He’d sent Fel out to hunt, the great wolf vanishing into the forest with a low growl. Subotai had been tasked with gathering a crew—skilled men with sharp knives—to cut and prepare the meat. The plan is to serve snake venom with just a pinch of the poison stirred into the sauce for that slow-building, throat-scorching heat that made men sweat and curse and come back for more. James smiled, thin and sharp.
Just two months ago, he stood in the dim, cavernous main hall of the tavern that would one day become his, boots scuffing across the scarred oak planks still reeking of filth and spilled ale. Sunlight stabbed through the high slit windows, cutting harsh shadows across the blackened, rough-hewn beams overhead. Iron lanterns dangled from rusted chains, their glass cracked in places, waiting to be lit and to throw greasy yellow light over the long trestle tables that stretched the length of the main room. The bar squatted against the far wall: thick walnut, gouged and stained from years of hard use, brass taps already tarnished, shelves crammed with mismatched tankards and poorly labeled dark bottles.
The building was so poorly maintained that he was surprised that it stood. The patrons came for one reason—cheap beer. The tavern survived on cheap beer with no frills. Not even a workingman’s bar, more a waystation on poverty’s road to death. The patrons had little to spend, and James knew he needed to upgrade the tavern to attract people with coins to spare. That meant something new and different.
But now, once they stepped inside, the real magic waited. This was James’s pride and joy, the part he’d bled for. He’d dragged every half-remembered scrap of info about bars, breweries, cellars, and modern taprooms out of his head and hammered it into this place. Weeks of sketches, arguments with the guild over space and fire codes, three different revisions just for ceiling height and beam placement.
Christine had sat with him night after night, pointing out structural and operational flaws with quiet patience. Jacky had been ... less subtle. Strutting around the half-finished tavern with her tits out half the time, barking ideas—”More headspace on the fermenters, dumbass, you want Sierra Nevada head, not some piss-weak local swill!”—while James tried to focus on the plans and mostly just stared. He never complained. He loved watching her tits bounce when she got excited, loved the way she owned the room without a shred of embarrassment.
The bar gleamed now—dark reclaimed oak, polished till it reflected lantern light like black glass. Shelves behind it glowed with rune-chilled bottles, the copper still bubbled softly, pipes drawing clean spring water on their own. Down in the deep-dug cellar, geothermal wards and cooling crystals kept perfect lagering temps. The fireplace was the crown jewel—rebuilt four times until it worked right. Stone hearth, smokeless burn, alchemical logs that never quite turned to ash. Every so often, it spat colored flames—blue, green, red—shaping into quick illusions: howling wolves, rearing bears, foaming mugs.
The door banged open. James turned, a grin splitting his face. He strode over and raised his hand. Bartholomew grabbed it in a hard clasp, the two men pulling into a rough hug.
“James.”
“Bartholomew.”
“This place is looking amazing,” Bartholomew said with a wide grin, eyes sweeping the hall.
“I couldn’t have done it without you,” James said. “Drinks and food are always on the house for you.”
“On the house?”
“You don’t pay, ever.”
Bartholomew flushed, cheeks going a tint, and laughed. “I did what you paid me for, James.”
“Truth be told, yes, but you did the best work I’ve ever seen,” James shrugged. “And I’ve seen magic.”
“I do quality work, like the carpenters and masons you hired. If we do shitty work, no one will hire us.”
“Amen,” James nodded. “Even so, the offer is there. Any time you want to get hammered, you’re welcome here. Plus, Fel speaks highly of you.”
“Aw,” Bartholomew did blush this time. It wasn’t every day you got compliments from a legendary beast that could level the town if he thought someone was fucking with his food source.
“Can you give me a tour?”
“Of course,” James said. “I gotta say, these barrels are fucking ingenious.”
“I followed your specifications,” Bartholomew grinned. “I had never considered that magic could be used like you requested. I learnt a lot working on this project.
James walked behind the bar and nodded to Christine, who was bustling about giving last-minute instructions to the staff. Since the staff consisted of his now freed slaves, it was gratifying to him that they were able to help. Their actions justified his faith in them and were a payback for his trust.
He laid a hand on one of the massive oak casks. They stood in a row like silent sentinels, banded in iron, each rune-carved lid glowing faintly with magic. Bartholomew had etched the symbols—precise, angular lines that shimmered when the light hit them right. The runes kept the contents at exact temperatures: one cask locked at near-freezing for the crisp lagers, another at steady cool for ales that needed to breathe slowly, a third hovering just above blood-warm for the spiced meads that burned going down. James took a gamble that drinks that were different from the room temperature beer that was the staple of the tavern before him would find an appreciative audience.
Old-world solutions for new-world tech—runes drawn from half-remembered books and whispered spells, fused with the blacksmith’s hammer and the cooper’s skill. No ice houses, no enchanted chill-stones that cracked after a season. Just reliable, brutal efficiency. Tap one wrong and the contents stayed perfect for months; tap it right and the beer poured cold and clear, foam rising thick.
James tapped a barrel with his knuckles. A low, resonant hum answered, the runes pulsing once like a heartbeat—faint blue light flickering under the oak like veins under skin. “You’ll save me a fortune in spoiled stock and a headache from angry drunks.”
Bartholomew leaned against the bar, wiping callused hands on his apron. “Yeah, I never thought to use magic to keep food cold.”
James nodded, tracing a finger along one of the etched symbols. “Magic has its uses, like my fridges.”
“Never heard that word before now,” the mage laughed, deep and rough. “You do say some of the oddest things.”
James met his eyes for a beat. “Tongue of the slavers.”
Bartholomew’s grin faltered just a fraction—enough to show he wasn’t buying it completely. The mage had an inkling there was more going on: the strange phrases, the knowledge that didn’t belong in this world, the way James moved like he’d seen battles on a scale Bartholomew could only guess at. But James paid well—coin on time, every coin accounted for—and he was always generous with the profits. A fat bonus after the job, a cask of the good stuff sent home to the family, a quiet word that opened doors in town. If James didn’t want to say where the phrases came from or how he knew that runes could work that way, Bartholomew wasn’t going to ask. Some secrets were worth more when left buried.
The two laughed anyway, the sound easy in the almost empty hall. James reached under the bar, pulled two tankards, and poured from the chilled cask. Foam rose thick and white, the beer dark amber, carrying the sharp bite of hops and malt. He slid one across the polished wood. Bartholomew took it, sniffed once—deep, appreciative—then sipped. His eyes widened. He groaned, low and satisfied, tilted the tankard back, and downed it in one long, unbroken pull. The empty clunked on the bar. He sat there a moment, burped loudly enough to rattle the hanging lanterns, and sighed like a man who’d just been released from chains.
Despite the fact that his size meant it took a lot to get him drunk, James was more liberal with his own tankard. He nursed the first swallow, letting the cold bite slide down his throat. He and Subotai had tested that limit one night anyway. They’d started with ale, moved to mead, then to the venom-laced fire-whiskey the apothecaries brewed expressively for him. James had woken up sixty miles away, sprawled in a ditch beside a river he didn’t recognize, head pounding, mouth tasting of copper and regret. To this day, he still didn’t know how he’d ended up there—whether he’d walked, ridden, or been carried by some drunken impulse. Subotai had laughed for a week, claiming James had sung bawdy songs to passing wolves.
Bartholomew wiped foam from his mustache. “Good stuff. Cold as a witch’s tit.”
The mage turned as Jacky walked into the room, grinning. James grinned back. “Jacky.”
“James,” she said, eyes raking over his chest, lingering on the way his shirt clung to sweat-damp muscle. She sighed, low and appreciative. “You’re looking horny today.”
“I’m horny every day,” he twitched, cock already thickening against his trousers. “But I’m trying to be on my best behaviour.”