Wee Yin

Wee Yin was named Wee, for though mighty, she was small of stature and Yin, for she was female. The indefatigable Wee Yin had the peculiarity of having an intense distaste for any that were shorter than her and though she could vanquish foes many times her size, she made it a point to crush underfoot any who dared to be smaller than she. To be fair, she did allow them to leave her presence instead of being pummelled though to be just, she did not inform them of their transgression so many were left married to the dust in all their sad innocence.

It must be said that Wee Yin was a nomadic creature. Most of the gods were not. And especially the other Chinese-Scottish ones for as we know, most gods were somewhat traditional and none more than the Chinese, and as for the Scots, well, travelling’s not cheap, is it! And though it was quite clear that it was part of her deep nature it is also quite possible that some of her insistence on constant movement came from her decades held as a prisoner by the terrifying Man-Breast of Klona.

Ever since then it was difficult to tie the wee imp down (except through the judicious use of tricky ropes and knots from far away Nippon).

She tended to roam in a curious fashion of frenetic tumbling moves consisting of a series of tightly bound somersaults interspersed with prodigious leaps taking her hundreds of metres long and hundreds high and she would arc back down into more somersaults and then a leap and so forth. This would go on for hours at a time. In this way she would make her way through the land and of course would pass through the ancestral holdings of the other gods most of whom would simply find her a small annoyance, a scant few an affront, and some who would find her a pleasant diversion from their increasingly mundane existence. They enjoyed the palaver, the sharing of news she brought from her other visits, and you might hear the news whether you wished to or not for she was no mean gumflapper.

A little must be said about the speech of the Wee Yin. Though not uncommonly coarse, the Wee Yin was reputed to have one of the least modulated mouths in the land. Not only would she speak of most anything but her curses were both frequent and extraordinary. Though the gods had no real conventions concerning the use of words, she was a little more colorful than most and sometimes, even while doing her tumbling travel, imprecations most foul could be heard flying off from her rolling form. And at certain times, small plants would wither and low flying birds lose consciousness for a few seconds if too near the blue stream. It has been suggested that if the Wee Yin chose, this would be more than just attitude but even a power of some sort.

 

Alabama Carleton

Alabama Carleton was a mortal who thought she was a goddess. She tried to sleep her way up but was only successful on two occasions. Once with Lip Droop, a god so abysmally stupid that his very stupidity was a source of awe. The experience was less than earth shaking since his idiocy extended into even the matters of congress, and coupled with her almost equal inanity, the beast with two backs was transformed into something more akin to squids out of water; lots of dampish thrashing about and gasping but little loveliness or grace in the result. The other time was when Corn Boy, a rural fertility deity, in the throes of a particularly fearsome besotted binge mistook her for a ewe and gave her a thrumping though even through his stumbling thrash felt that she was more a bad dream than a good fuck. It was rumoured that he cried out tenderly “Ewe!!” then loudly ” You?!” and finally in abject disgust “Eeeeeyou!!”

Since then she had tried again and again to bed an immortal but word spread that though the gods in general were not averse to a little fun with the quick, she was several deep steps below self gratification.

Once she burst in on the Godless Romantic while he was sleeping but being a light sleeper and particularly allergic to nonsense, he leaped up and on seeing her, automatically discounted her existence upon which she started to fade and though she had but a brain the size of a mid-sized lentil, she did sense the peril and scuttled away before she was entirely undone.

 

The Yuan-Och

There have always been arguments over whether the Wee Yin’s tribe were the Yuan-Och or as some claimed the Och-Yuan. When the various village elders gathered to hammer this out, it soon degenerated into an argument over whether the debate itself should rightly be called the Yuan-Och-Yuan debate or the Och-Yuan-Och debate. Being a fiery bunch, the debate left the arena of words and entered the field of arms, and bruises and scrapes were the order of the day. And all that really came of it was an annual “raining of the blows” between the followers of the two camps.

But what of Wee Yin? Where did she stand on the issue? Nowhere, it seems. In all the records, not once is there a mention of the dispute found in her words. This is a little surprising since one thing that is indisputable about Wee Yin is her contentious nature and her willingness to express it. This was not restricted to assaulting those who impugned her but as often to those who thought they were being kind. To call her “cute as a button” would cause the gates of hell to open. She was a comely and compact thing and in many languages cute would be a way to describe her but not ever within the range of her senses or her quick fist.

 

Sirah the Ungainly

She is an odd thing, being highly energetic though unfocused and overly effervescent. She subsists entirely on what are known as twitterberries, the eating of which will render the diner sleepless, frenetic and unfortunately, quite mindless to boot. Loss of speech is not one of the effects of the twitterberries though an aroused interest in anything going on is.

The Sirah is not obviously dangerous. She can strike no killing or maiming blows but she can over time wear an opponent down through the sheer assault of her chaotic never ceasing chatter and the darting of her glistening avian eyes back and forth, and the little seemingly inconsequential digs of her little beak (for yes she has one) and the the little pokes of the skinny ends of her fat fingers. More than a few have underestimated the peril of engaging the Pitiless Pecker.

 

The Godless Romantic

He was close to a thousand years old as compared to Wee Yin‘s scant 400 years or so but they did get on like a house on fire, that is to say, their future was uncertain but somehow seemed to continue nevertheless. The Godless Romantic was a bit conflicted in that, though he didn’t believe in the supernatural, that, in essence, meant he didn’t believe either in himself or most of those he was close to. Generally however, he thought, these days too much stock was placed in being consistent about things.

He liked to think of himself as a sensible sort and never quite came to terms with the fact that he’d been around for so long. Sometimes he would catch sight of himself in a stream and say to himself that he didn’t look a day over 700. Whatever. He preferred the company of the younger gods not for their youth so much as the fact that they were still exploring the world and all too many of his contemporaries had settled into a kind of immobility, often talking of the old songs, the old places, the old feelings.

He was quite fond of the obstreperous Wee Yin and couldn’t imagine trundling about without her despite the fact that much of his life had been spent in relative isolation. For truth, he didn’t care all that much of most others, gods or mortals. But somehow, the diminutive Scottish-Chinese firebrand had caught his eye as well as other less visible parts of his anatomy.

And while most of the world experienced Wee Yin as a holy terror, or at best, a benign whirligig, the Godless Romantic found her exhilarating, and despite occasionally being exasperated at her frequent absences, in the main, she was central to his amused immortality on his endlessly stretching godless plain. And though this is not the time, it will be revealed, the adventures of GR when his even temperament was roused to a most unholy and unreasonable furor and chaos when the Wee Yin was in danger. Though, it must also be said that the Wee Yin was rarely in the sort of straits that would require a Godless Romantic to interfere (much to his chagrin). She was a most capable dervish and if she did call on the Romantic it was more often to loose him onto a unsuspecting innocent that had merely looked at her askance.

Perhaps, it was best summed up in his own words when he said “Wee Yin? She makes me feel like a god.” Or perhaps, more to the point, was when referring to Wee Yin’s inimitable and peculiarly calming murmurs and other wordless emanations he said he liked to spend his life in the space between her sighs, though the more cynical would characterise this as a Freudian lisp.

And how was GR a god? What were his unique attributes? Other than his utter obtuseness when it came to his alphabetically synomynous other, the Grim Reaper, it was his paradoxical ability, given his disbelief in most things, to affect outcomes by the sheer dint of his will. He could with not even a click of his typically unshod heels or without one hand clapping decide the fate of a conflict by his empathetic endorsement of one or his denial of the puissance of the other. In short, he was a particularly effective cheerleader (or were he in so disposed an enervator) of the gods. His belief could tilt the odds.

And it was due to this that the Wee Yin was near invulnerable if he was but barely aware of her travails. The glint she brought to his hoary eye, the spring she put in his millenial step, the twist and ache she inspired in his ancient but ageless loins, was amply repaid by his certainty in her triumph over all odds.

 

TaleThree

The time has come, OverLongBeard said, to speak not of one of the many perils encountered by the Wee Yin but of another sort of adventure, a gaze into the abyss of passion fulfilled and denied, a reverie of sweat, the clash of godwants and gland driven meanders through earthy tumbles of mind and limbs entwined, of the meeting and first days of the wee one with the Godless Romantic.

And a murmur rose in the crowd, a low tremor with an insistent quaverish undertow broken with the sounds of buttocks shifting and squeezing together, of rough hands scraping up and down forearms. The people loved the heroic tales but from time to time they enjoyed this other distraction, the stories of dark places and wetness, of rude ingress, of gods brought low by lust.

Though the Wee Yin and the Godless Romantic are now as arrows in a quiver, one striking if the other falls short, it was not always so. Though having tasted passion in his early years and pleasant enough companionships since, nothing had stirred him for some time and though he felt amused enough in his wanders through the land and his neverending studies of any and all things, he had come to see himself as a lizard on a rock, his blood slow, the centuries beginining to weigh on him and the settling of a melancholy into his eternal bones.

The Wee Yin was centuries younger but despite her youth (for she was only a few hundred years old) and despite the inherent glee that dwelt within her as sap within a tree, she was in the midst of a decade long doldrum of the spirit. She too was alone and while she sensed her discomfort to be more fleeting than the dour expectations of GR, she was not a happy camper.

It was by chance that the two were both at a mead fueled gathering of the Green Clan at the one of the Wee Yin’s favourite rest stops, the Cell and Bastion (on the banks of the Okervil). They were all there and it was one their typical nights with a cacophany of drunken prose filling the smoky tavern. It was a rough hewn space of middling size, the beams soaked with ale, the floor ankle deep in leaves and dust, but it was home of a sorts. Light fought its way in through smeared windows and more times than not made it little more than half way into the room. Books were piled to the rafters along the walls, underfoot as well, and all the clan seemed to be there that night in full croak, verse in the air purple and thick. The only person not reading other than our two heroes was Kat-theOdd who was danced on a great oaken table in the middle. The Kat was a slender twirligig of a thing, and she danced amidst the massed orators. And the few gods that were there were amused with her spirit as they often were with other mortals (the quick they called them, for the best of them burned bright in their short traipse of living).

In the corner was the incongruous Alabama Carleton, ignored as always by all there. She preened and muttered to herself but without a book for she was incapable of deciphering any written language and on occasion even lost the ability to speak. However, she was drawn to any gathering in the illusion that without exception they were held in her honour and despite all evidence to the contrary remained quite steadfast in this belief.

It seemed at one moment to be just another gathering when the Godless Romantic espied the Wee Yin absorbed in watching the dance, her hands clapping in time and a wide grin stretched across her dirt smudged face and because she could not dance herself was content with the occasional somersault and whoop and he was suddenly struck dumb with lust for he saw not a diminutive balled up folk hero but a figure encircled with runes of auric fires that swirled and drew him like a moth.

And when he saw her, he knew at once that she was the sun to his lizard. He felt his ichor quicken in her presence and despite his experience was afraid for he knew that his comfortable ennui was in peril. He had been long enough in his langour that it was second nature to him and to abandon it was to board blind passage over a strange ocean.

As he stared at her bright sillouette, she was desire made flesh to him, her breasts and belly untouched by him but in his spirit already familiar, he could taste her from afar and as his consciousness fled before the flood of her scent and sweat, and she felt his need wrapping about her like a tongue though he had still not moved, she turned to him, and for her too the room flew asunder, the world shattered into coptic dust under her feet, and it was just the two of them stumbling toward the door like dromedaries sighting an oasis after weeks crossing the dunes.

As they fell into the night air and each other, wordless, and lust struck, they flew into the woods nearby, and sought their succor. As they devoured each other, the Wee Yin felt her body getting larger and larger and though at first she thought it was an illusion it was not, for it was the Godless Romantic’s sudden and total belief in her being which transformed her into almost twice her usual diminutive self.

As they caught their breath, hours later, lying in the midst of the large clearing where previously there was none, for their passions had flattened trees both great and small, and pressed the underbrush into a soft sweet smelling bed, they knew that despite few words had passed between them, it was as certain as seasons that they would soon be thrashing again in perfect derangement.

 

TaleTwo

“A week has passed and we are gathered here again,” said OverlongBeard, “and who would have known that Wee Yin’s escape from the poultrish Sirah The Ungainly would be such a temporary respite that before she had quite gained her senses she was in the clutch of yet another demon.”

But before the teller could continue his tale he tottered unsteady, his eyes red and streaming even to those far away. Was it the recent travails of the Wee Yin or thoughts of the future peril that caused him to waver so? No. Rather it was something much more ordinary. In the front, right below where Overlongbeard stood, sat the well-named Crapsplatter.

One of the few pleasures of the village was the Shitkicking Festival. This was held on the third day following the first frost when all the feces (animal for the most part but some of it more disturbingly familiar) had frozen to a bootable consistency. Street vendors would appear, tables of wares laid out under bright canopies, musicians, jugglers, and puppeteers, and all centred about the contest of who could kick the hard turds the farthest. It was all in good fun but as with anything there were always those who put a little too much stock into it. People like Crapsplatter (and if truth be known, only Crapsplatter). He got so fired up about the festival that he would practise for hours on end, and unfortunately, to practice before the day, meant practicing on the less than ready, the oh so splattable soft shits of warmer climes. And though looks aren’t everything, aromas most certainly are.

Crapsplatter’s path through the village could be mapped for hours afterword by nose alone. When you have the brown smear in every crevasse of your gherkin, in all the folds of your skin, matted in your hair and eyelashes, encrusted about your boots, there’s bound to be a tad of smell. As this sort of situation arose year after tiresome year, the villagers had the solution at hand. Leaning against a nearby hut were a dozen or so stanchions about ten feet long. A few sturdy yeoman grabbed the posts and prodded the hunched over Crapsplatter until he shuffled off to the sides where the wind wouldn’t carry his message, and the crowd could almost pretend he wasn’t there.

Overlongbeard’s eyes began to clear; his balance came back; he seemed a new man. He began.

“As the Wee Yin tottered down the path still trying to find her balance, the twitterberries’ effect lessened but still coursing through her to some effect, she wandered with her eyes mostly shut to concentrate on regaining her bearings. Her mind was still in a sleepy whirl and her sight, even when her lids weren’t down, was somewhat murky, and all her senses were dampened as if she were wrapped in cotton wool. As she wandered in this muted state, it seemed, all of a sudden, that she had come up against a wall. And then the wall seemed all about her.

Opening up her eyes she saw blackness around with just a touch of open sky and one great eye above, an eye she recognized from long ago, and around it all an unmistakable odour. “Oh Sweet Jesus, its that cunt.”

Now it must be said, that cunt had two very distinct and separate meanings for our dear heroine. One was the present one, that of an evil disparaging other to be avoided (which she enunciated harshly, the final consonant almost a spit), and the other, a blessed body part (pronounced much the same way but with through the hint of a wicked grin). For the Wee Yin had an acceptance and love of almost all body parts, and in fact, despite her use of the term as derogatory, she harboured a special love for this particular nest of the body and truth be known it was a common shared interest of hers and the Godless Romantic’s.

But to return to her predicament. Who was this fearsome cunt? None other than the monstrous PrakIndira. The Prakindira’s fat and yet amazingly prehensile toes were wrapped around the body of the Wee Yin and the wrap was so high and unforgiving that it was no surprise that it was at first mistaken for an unyielding great wall. The base of each toe was tightly pressed together but each of the disgusting and matter encrusted digits were attempting ingress into the Wee Yin’s every orifice. One was pressing at her lips, another between her legs, one making good progress in between the fabled buttocks, and though these were revolting, none were particularly perilous, or a new experience for the travelled Wee Yin, but one wayward digit was prodding into and beginning to widen her most intimate of depressions, her navel.

The Wee Yin can withstand many assaults, and though slightly ticklish at times, has only one untouchable spot, only one place on her body that contact will cause her to shrivel and cry. That place is the belly button. A minor assault on this nexus of Achilles is the stuff of nightmares for the normally plucky one, and an assault of such determination and degradation was no small descent into hell.

So when the Prakindira’s fat and broken nailed digit pressed against her hollow, the Wee Yin screamed. And even through her scream and her smothered state she felt each of the prods pressing deeper into her body, stretching even her natural flexibility to what would surely be a breaking point for though the ends of the dirty digits were almost dainty they widened without delay into knuckles as wide around as the Wee Yin’s thighs And realizing the peril of her position, and despite her grogginess, called upon her most innermost resources and issued her fearsome battle cry…”oh fuck me up the ass!”, and this not only gave her some needed strength but called into play one of her lesser known resources, the gift of copious breastsweat. The Wee Yin could selectively produce great volumes of fluid from the surface of her teats. What was once a slightly embarrassing peculiarity during a rather interesting but irrelevant adolescence had with dedication and focus become one more arrow in her quiver.

When the breastsweat was summoned, this gave her an overwhelming slickness which caused the toes of the Prakindira to slip and falter. With one great effort, the Wee Yin tightened her body into as narrow a form as she could and rotated sideways; the pressure of the Prakindra’s skin did the rest and, like a spewed watermelon seed or perhaps more like a ping pong ball jettisoned from between the shapely tan thighs of a lovely lass in faraway Siam, flew out of the great foot, bounced off one fat shin and then off into the woods, and right into the tumble leap tumble of her motoring.

If you would have been there to witness the escape of the Wee Yin, you would have seen the most astonishing sight. Against the black mountain of the hulking Prakindira, the dark matte of her broken only by the shrubberies growing in the creases of her back, this black mountain howling in frustration at the loss of this morsel, and against that backdrop, the spiralling figure of the Wee Yin with the breast sweat flying off her, looking somewhat like the flying fish that sailors remember in their drunken dreams, the water flying off her, and this water in the last light of the day forming small rainbows about her compact form.

OverLongBeard sighed as he paused, the vision of the luminous Wee Yin still filling his soul. Until the next time, friends, until TaleThree.

 

TaleOne

One of the places that the Wee Yin went tumbling through harbored the Sirah, yes, the avi-bovian Sirah The Ungainly yet Birdlike. And when Wee Yin came caterwauling through the Sirah’s bailiwick, this perked her up to a shrill screech of activity.

This was a foe most terrible for one of Wee Yin’s bent. Wee Yin did not countenance empty banter or roundabout ways, both of which the Sirah was most proficient in. The Sirah also relished instilling doubt and insecurity in others. In this case, she pestered the little Wee Yin with the knowledge that she not only had know the Godless Romantic first, and for much longer, and that she knew him in ways that the Wee Yin didn’t. Though the WeeYin did on occasion attempt to be civil, it was not something that she was ever very concerned about and before she knew it she had simply retorted in a direct yet poignant manner..”yeah but you didn’t fuck him, did you?”.

This did not quite have the desired effect of causing the Sirah to flee but rather had her, the Sirah, offering the Wee Yin fruits and berries, special knowledge of the surroundings, access to amenities. And the Wee Yin knew, though food was something difficult to turn down, that the Sirah’s advances were somehow injurious to her. And before she knew it, she had eaten a few of the fruits, a Trojan course, which amongst the sweet harvest harbored not a few twitterberries which caused her great distress partly for her constitution did not countenance the speedy orbs but also because she began feeling an uneasy kinship with the detestable Sirah.

As the Sirah was a ground dwelling foul, she had a burrow. It was a deep and dark place littered with the bones of many a creature who had either ventured within or been taken down by the jittery one. The Wee Yin shivered as she was taken below, enclosed in the wings of the Sirah who never ceased pressing ever more twitterberries into the Wee Yin’s mouth. The little one’s mind seemed to be receding from her in ever more frenetic and yet ever weaker waves into a terrible jagged spiral of sleepy insanity.

The Sirah saw Wee Yin was but a fragment of her usual self and placed her large hand over her face. She pressed harder and Wee Yin could no longer breathe and because of the state she was in this didn’t matter as it should. However some small part of her mind began to struggle against this ignominious end. She could not succumb to this absurd creature! But what to do. Instinct took over. One lesser known fact about the Wee Yin is that though many of her parts are indeed wee, one of her parts, her mouth, is not. Though seemingly normal in appearance, it can expand and surround much larger objects not unlike a snake. And”, here the OverlongBeard looked about fearfully, ” just in case the Godless Romantic is in the near, this is not meant in any way to suggest that the Wee Yin herself is like a snake.”

Even without thinking about it, her mouth began to open and as the first bits of saliva began to coat the surface of her lips and the Sirah’s clammy hand, the hand began to fill into her mouth and it seemed as though the hand which was almost the size of her head would simply fill all of space and she would indeed die. But it was not to be. Her mouth widened and the hand slipped further and further into her mouth until it sat firmly in there up to the wrist. The sudden rush of oxygen into her nose revived her a little and battling the soporific inanity that seemed to be her mind, she concentrated on the present. As she did, she realized what in god’s name was in her mouth and her complete and utter revulsion caused her to spew out the Sirah’s hand with such force that the Sirah in all her monstrous entirety was flung ass over teakettle a league distant.

Shaking her head and still somewhat under the thrall of the twitterberries, Wee Yin managed to leap out of the burrow and hie from that awful place. As she trundled along, she ate bits of whatever she could find to remove that taste from her mouth and to hopefully allay the continuing influence of the bane in her veins.

It would not be the last of the Sirah, and thankfully it was not the last of our Wee Yin for there are more adventures ahead, more tales to tell. Until next gathering, until Tale Two,” said OverlongBeard, and left the circle.

 

Prelude to the Tales

The villagers gathered round as it had been promised that this night OverlongBeard would speak of Wee Yin, one of the more curious members of the Yuan-Och, the hundred and four strong clan of Chinese-Scottish folk heroes.

He babbled on as was his wont with preambles and backstory and various asides about the nature of the Yuan-Och, of the land in which they floundered and the times in which they eked.

“But enough of these things of no interest”, the people said almost as one, “it is Wee Yin we are here for. What of her battles with the most evil Marissa The Inconsistent, of her travails with Sirah The Ungainly and birdlike, and her friendship with Litovec The Dark but dislike of his twin Litovec The Light.”

“Patience, I will speak of all these things,” said Overlongbeard, “but you must let me set the stage a little, ease you into the tale, as it were”.

“Ease this!”, shouted out the Bootlick Ormon rubbing his maimed hand between his legs “Yes, ease this..”, the crowd took up the cry and alternated between the Bootlick’s motion and revealing half their backsides, of which it should be noted, that few were worthy of public attention though suffering the many stunted or mottled rears might be considered worth the too short contemplation of the few that were sweet and inviting even while protruding in intended insult.

“Alright, alright, I will get right to it then” said the elder while averting his gaze from the multifarious assault of skin from so many.

The holder of memories waited until the cacophony of the rebuttoning of bodkins and cummerbunds, the replacing of pants divots and the shuffling of chaps and culottes(for the group was no small collective of variation on lower body wear) interspersed with errant farts and wheezes died down. “And let it not be said that I failed to mention her everwhile but rarely seen companion, the Godless Romantic (or as she sometimes referred to him: the Fucking Sap) or her longtime nemesis PrakIndira who even in her earliest of incarnations, even as a pixie like little one year old bundle of joy, Wee Yin could only with lip acurl refer to as “that cunt”, and though at the time it seemed excessive, the later growth in both stature and evil caused her appellation to be quite appropriate. Prakindira at her zenith was as large as a mountain, with a similar sloth and intractitude, and beware any who ventured within the reach of either her monstrous arms or her twitching toes.

But enough of these things…onto Tale One.